Okay, sorry folks for being out of touch for a bit. I abandoned temporarily my little mood piece for the fact that life went sideways for awhile. Not bad sideways. Just “have to watch my footing” sideways. And then in the midst, inspiration for another project hit. And I just decided there were only so many segments I could divide my brain into. I’m not totally through the brier patch. But I’m poking my head out for a second to say “hi.”
And offer a brief epigram on the show I saw at Theatre 3 last night. I had volunteered at the PAC in the afternoon, and it was a nice moment to go to T3 and not have to give 12-year-olds the bug eye because they are doing that thing that 12-year-olds do where they act 22 one minute and 2 the next (and really boys, your testicles have to drop before you can call me a bitch, so quit yer whispering). Anyhoodle. I got to sit and be entertained. Which the show was. Very entertaining. Okay, some moments were painfully hokey. But on the whole, their 33 Variations was funny, moving, thoughtful. Entertaining.
But let me say this. About 6 times (mainly when the male nurse character was facing away from me), I wondered if those were his jeans or if they were from the costume shop. Because if they were, he should burn them. Immediately. Awful. Just awful. And it would be impolite to burn borrowed jeans. But if they were his, he needed to dispose of them like the up his butt, poorly fitting, no, really, egregiously fitting, monstrosities they were. Stake them. Rip them to shreds. Burn them. Eyesores. I kept thinking, “Did they not have a 3-way mirror? Does he not have a friend who will tell him these things? This guy must be straight, because there is no way a gay man would have bought those pants. And if his significant other allowed him to buy those jeans, he needs to get into relationship counseling. Stat. Because anyone who’d let you buy those pants is not planning to have sex with you any time in the near future. Those jeans are orgasm killers.” Honestly, I can say this is one time in which theater in the round was a real detriment to my enjoyment. And he was a tallish guy with long legs. How can you screw that up? I mean logistically how, as in I would have thought it was impossible; and morally, how, how could you do that to me? Just foul. And to do that when there are people like me in the audience who will invariably check out a guy's ass (just for, you know, statistical purposes), and to perpetrate that crime against nature. Ugh.
Well, that’s the news from here. Or a snippet of the news. I’ll be back to my series, hopefully, soon.
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3 comments:
Oh, Julie, welcome back!! Missed you and your writings so much.
We who sew are always checking out people's asses grimacing at some, smiling at others. It is the most difficult area to fit on a woman ---but a man--should be easy as you said.
Thanks, Glo!
Don't I know it on finding the right pants for a girl's derriere. But, really. I was just embarrassed for that actor. It's one thing to be distracted by someone's butt being that good. It's totally another thing when it's just that bad. What is a director for if not to correct these things?
Guess the director was no Howard Hughes. Too vague a reference? (or too long ago?)
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