Feh!

Frank Rich's current affairs column in the New York Times this past Sunday was pegged on Thornton Wilder's famous play, "Our Town," and the fact that the number of productions of it, both amateur and professional, has doubled since 2005. In this time of economic chaos and great stress, Americans, it seems, have a longing to return to Grover's Corners, N.H., the pleasant little town where nothing ever happens.

I hate to be the incurable cynic and negative old fart among dewy-eyed idealists -- I really mean that -- ruining everybody's good time. But I've never understood what it is about this play or its population of boring, aggressively conventional citizens that people like. Is it popular because most people can relate to it?

I can relate to boredom and mediocrity too, but I've always found watching or reading this turkey to be about as interesting as watching paint dry. I hated it when I read it in high school, even though our teacher, Mrs. Marshall, loved it. And she was one of the best teachers I ever had. And then, when the shoe was on the other foot and I was the high school English teacher, I was forced by curriculum requirements to return to Grover's Corners, during spring quarter when all my little ones were squirming in anticipation of being released from bondage for the summer. On top of that, my students, or many of them, had reading problems, and a remarkable absence of thespian ability. Getting through the mundane banalities of Wilder's celebration of I-don't-know-what in that class was like having a root canal.

It could be that I'm just not smart or soulful enough to be able to glimpse the profound in the ordinary. But any definition or understanding of human nature I ever acquired has been based on the contemplation of unique extremity, such as the study of big-time homicidal maniacs like Hitler and Stalin, world-class perverts like Caligula and the Marquis de Sade, or impossible saints like M.K. Gandhi and Rev. M.L. King. There are also writers whose ability to inspire derives from their reaction to extremity -- Viktor Frankl, who found life's meaning through suffering and almost dying during the Holocaust; Emily Bronte, for whom the tortures of betrayed love and lethal heartbreak opened a window into that portion of the soul which is beyond good and evil.

Meanwhile life goes on in Grover's Corners. At least I assume it does. I really can't be sure, 'cause I'm outta there.