The Talk Every Kid Dreads (About Sondheim, Not Sex)

Son, sit down. It's time we had The Talk.

Not that one. You'll figure that one out from context clues and regret, same as I did. This is more important.

I'm talking about Stephen Sondheim.

You're going to hear things on the playground. Kids will tell you "Cats" is a real musical, that it counts, that it's fine to just like the one with the helicopter. Don't believe them. They don't know what they're talking about. They're children.

Here's the truth: a rhyme can also break your heart. "Send in the Clowns" isn't about clowns. Nothing in Sondheim is about what it's about. That's the first thing you need to understand, and it will ruin you for lesser art forever, and I'm sorry, but that's the deal.

Someday a girl — or a boy, or nobody, your call, I don't care, I just want you to be happy and correctly cast — will ask what your favorite show is. You will be tempted to say "Hamilton." Don't. Say "Sunday in the Park with George." Watch their face. If they don't flinch a little, at the beauty of it, that's useful information too.

You're going to want to skip ahead to "Company." Everyone does. Resist. Start with "Into the Woods," because you need to learn, early, that happily ever after is just Act One being polite.

I know this is a lot. I know you're twelve.

But someday you'll be at a piano bar, half a glass of Chardonnay in, and someone will start "Being Alive," and you'll understand every single thing I couldn't say to you directly.

That's the talk. Go finish your homework.

Distilled from New Yorker Humor