Anyone close to me has, in all likelihood, alluded to my sunny side up affliction.
The go-to is derision. Pru calls it "unicorn land," another prefers "Karen's world" (art nerds, can't you just see me from the back on that grassy hill like Christina?), several family members call it "the bubble," and, sure, they're mocking me, but the reality is lovely things happen there all the time.
Like an evening during the absolute dregs of October - today's the 29th, for crying out loud - spent on a screened porch in Church Hill, a porch lit by strings of tiny lights and a small lamp or two, with the night air as soft and comfortable as if we were about to tear September off the calendar rather than October.
An evening accompanied by the business of life going on around us - dogs being walked, sirens in the distance, headlights in the alley - as the five of us converse across the table in the golden glow of that porch, where everywhere you look, something pleasurable or interesting catches your eye.
A master class of a porch.
The kind of space ideal for Pru to share a memory. "That reminds me of 10th grade when I said 'semen' instead of 'stamen." Pause. "It was the male part of the plant, so at least I got that part right."
That prch can become a cozy game room when the visitor from Arizona, Burger, admits he's never played Cards Against Humanity during dinner at Belmont Food Shop (where an autumn terrine of squashes, celery root and carrot rocks my world and chocolate truffles are referred to by FabCon as "tip manipulators" because they work).
It's once the game's underway, after we explain that you choose your answer from the ten cards in your hand that we learn Burger has 12...and a stack splayed out under his chair for easy accessing. Political commentary follows.
Q: In today's newscast, Donald Trump made headlines when he denounced what?
My A: The Dewey Decimal system
Peanut Gallery: He would.
With big, comfortable wicker chairs with cushions, it's a most suitable place for long-winded ruminations on language.
When Beau tries to explain the appeal of Hannah Montana, it's by saying she was wholesome and had hi-jinks. Hi-jinks, a word that dotted the Eisenhower-era series we read as kids. Nancy Drew had hi-jinks, the Hardy Boys had hi-jinks.
This crowd could do a minimum of 10 minutes just on a word like that.
As proof, earlier on the porch, we'd gotten on the topic of unlikely building materials, a rabbit hole that began with bales of hay, moved on to used car tires and crashed and burned with 2-litre soda bottles.
Why, you ask, did such a fascinating environmental and architectural topic die that premature death? Because some people brought only the veneer of information to the table and once others of us began digging, they admitted to no further knowledge on the subject than the shred they'd already hurled into the fray.
Don't come to a conversational pit unless you can hold your own.
The porch is just dim enough on a Saturday night for indelicate admissions.
Q: In the new Disney Channel original movie, "Hannah Montana Struggles with what?
My A: A really nasty yeast infection
Beau: I'd watch that.
Pru: Who ARE you?
It's the first time on this practically perfect porch for the dry wit from Philly now languishing in the southwest, who after observing the bossy and bossed dynamic between the usual cast of characters, thinks he's got it all figured.
"Ooooh, I see, it's a dominatrix party!" He only wishes (fervently, too).
Tonight, Bootleg Shakespeare (cue "There's something happening here, What it is ain't exactly clear") was performance art (none of it as riveting or hilarious as a pants-less BC Maupin as Brutus and a kneeling Sara Heifetz as Portia having a, shall we say, intimate moment) allowing an impromptu party to kick off early.
If memory serves, I lectured a man on italics (they are to be read aloud more emphatically), Pru got poetic with Burger ("We can't make plans with your "ifs") and Beau used the third person to feed me verbiage for this post ("Who knew that Beau was a mouth dispenser virgin?" about never having squirted whipped cream or E-Z Cheese in his mouth).
Middle-aged hi-jinks, as fine a way as any to spend an October evening on a screened porch with a great aura. Kind of makes me want to sing a song about Nebraska.
Showing posts with label bootleg shakespeare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bootleg shakespeare. Show all posts
Sunday, October 30, 2016
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Righting the World's Wrongs
Sometimes the best date isn't even your own.
It's not like I had a date, unless you count my couple date, but he was a fantastic date, even if his devotion did lie elsewhere. He picked me up, took me to dinner, then a play, bought me a souvenir and ended the evening by taking me out for cocktails.
Sure, his actual date was there every step of the way, but I can live with that.
He'd never been to Secco, so that's where we started. He got a unique Secco experience because the restaurant wasn't crowded with a) women or b) west enders or c) really much of anyone at all. In my experience, this never happens.
I'd told him that the beauty of Secco was any wine by the glass (you know I started with bubbles, in this case the lovely Pinon Vouvray Brut "Petillant"), stellar small plates and an absolutely fabulous selection of cheeses and meats.
We covered all those bases, right down to ordering two separate cheese and meat plates.
The first ensured that we ordered the second, with wonderfully funky Roncal (cow), Red Witch (cow) and the divine Roquefort Societe "Bee" (sheep), jamon Serrano and Calabrese (I do so love my salamis, not matter what cancer they're going to give me) to start.
As creamy and stinky as the Roquefort was, my favorite part of it was its description, which I wouldn't mind having on my tombstone, not that I intend to be buried: classic, voluptuous and assertive, it rights the wrongs of the world in one bite.
I wouldn't mind being seen that way by the right person.
Then there was celery veloute soup (dreamy), fried chickpeas (he had to know), and smoked salmon spread (more black radishes and beet mostarda, please) to continue while we admired the staff's Halloween costumes.
They were so clever. One was all in sparkles and sequins (she was bubbly), another in shades of pink (hello, Rose) and a third in shades of burgundy (the red wine queen).
While awaiting the arrival of our second cheese and meat plate - more Roquefort, more Red Witch, VB & C ash rind "Bonne Bouche" (described as "looking like brains"), speck and Bresaola (yes, my choice again), we got on the subject of sailors crossing the equator.
It was my fault for mentioning having seen a student in a slutty sailor costume that in no way resembled an actual sailor. Hello, booty shorts are not the equivalent of bell bottoms, young lady.
Unbeknownst to me, there are traditions that mark a sailor's first trip across that magic line of latitude. You have to "kiss the baby" (the fattest sailor's belly), climb through the birth canal (a tunnel filled with garbage) and turn your clothes inside out.
Thank you, no. Good thing I never aspired to the sail the seas in the service of my country.
I got this information from the horse's mouth (Mr. Not-My-Date had been in the Navy and my friend had old black and white photographs of her grandfather doing the same) while sipping the gorgeous and fragrant Cherriere Pere vet Fils Sancerre.
Needless to say, the Secco virgin (his best line: "I'm not some ingenue from Ladysmith") was reveling in his food and wine options.
We left only because we had a curtain to make, dodging trick or treaters and tipsy parents on the way, at the VMFA for Quill Theater's annual Bootleg Shakespeare.
We weren't long in our reserved seats, not having had to stand in line for tickets (see what I mean about him being such a great date?) when we heard, "Without further nonsense, here's our director, Foster Solomon, " who told us to expect a '50s/'60s B-movie version of Macbeth complete with greasers and Elvis.
I was down for whatever happened, which included the three witches as a girl group, lots of New Jersey accents and white t-shirts, black leather jackets and Chuck Taylors. Macbeth had a magnificent black pompadour.
Much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery.
What I love about the Bootleg performances is their sense of spontaneity, hardly surprising given that they only have one day of rehearsal. But tonight's staging was pretty polished with loads of musical numbers interspersed in the Scottish play.
There's daggers in men's smiles.
There were knock knock jokes and a killer James Brown impersonator, but also some actors who just couldn't project far enough in a space the size of the Cheek Theater. Pelvises thrusted throughout and pop culture references were rampant.
It's always a safe bet that actors will forget their lines (most jogged their memory by calling "line!' but the funniest was "hit me!") and that the story will have modern-day additions, like when Macbeth says he's done the deed and Lady Macbeth throws off her robe to reveal a negligee, saying, "Tell me about it."
During intermission, my non-date even bought me a bootleg Shakespeare mug, if that gives you any idea how good he is at this.
The good news was that in the second act, Macbeth projected far better and was more easily heard than in the first. When Banquo gets killed, body parts came flying across the stage, cracking the audience up.
Thou art the best o' the cut throats.
Doo-wop and girl group songs dominated the play, including the "Monster Mash" (featuring everyone from a hilarious bride of Frankenstein to the Mummy to Wednesday from the Addams Family), and Aretha's "Think" with lyrics changed to sing about treason.
At one point, an actor called for a line and then a second time, sending the crowd into gales of laughter. "I can't hear it!" he said, laughing, too.
The final fight scene was set to "My Way," if that gives you any clue where this Macbeth was going.
After that tragedy, my non-date set out to take us out to meet his long-time friend (since third grade) and his wife for cocktails at the Rogue Gentlemen.
On the way, we stopped at a red light where three VCU students stood in costume. Rolling down the window, my friend pointed at the guy in glasses and a Hawaiian shirt.
"Hunter S. Thompson, right?" she asked.
"I knew someone would get it!" he said triumphantly while his pals - a fork and a banana- rolled their eyes. "I've read all his books!"
Sure you have, kid.
Once at the Gentlemen, we commandeered the corner of the bar, making do with four stools for five people and choosing our drinks from the Mad Lib books listing cocktails.
I chose the spicy and sweet (don't worry, I don't want that on my tombstone) Dracary, an Espolon-based gem with all kinds of ingredients, including toasted walnut orgeat, cream, egg white and dusted with cinnamon sugar.
When a Hall and Oates song came on, my friend blurted out that she'd seen them in 1993. "Don't y'all tell anyone that!" she said fiercely, but it wasn't long before my non-date admitted having seen Pat Benatar with his third grade buddy, so who's shaming whom?
Tasting each other's cocktails, we passed the time doing Mad Libs and reading them aloud, mainly because why have access to Mad Libs and not do them?
My non-date recalled fondly the first time I'd brought him here (sans his main squeeze) and said he'd preferred the Richard Gere drink menu of that time, not for its offerings, but for its theme.
"Maybe a Julia Roberts drink menu?" he suggested. Not likely, I explained to him, along with other important factoids he should already know by his age.
When a Whitney Houston song came on, the women reacted positively and the men acted superior, at least until "I Will Always Love You" began and then even they had to acknowledge the beauty of Dolly Parton's song.
All of a sudden, the song changed to something else entirely and the owner looked at the bartender askance. "You're fired, Paul!" he called from across the room. Paul kept on making drinks anyway.
I became unpopular when the subject of "The Princess Bride" came up because it's a movie I saw once and never bothered to see again, incidentally the same reaction the film got from Mr. Third Grade Friend's wife. We were summarily ridiculed for not appreciating this so-called classic.
Apparently, I am no longer getting cute shoes for Christmas, but a copy of the book from which the film was taken in order to show me the error of my ways. Buttercup who?
It was only after we'd each had a couple of cocktails and multiple Mad Libs had been completed with much innuendo that we realized how late it was and that we all had beds awaiting us. The good news was the extra hour of sleep tonight involves. Mine will be alone, of course.
Tell me about it. With any luck, eventually classic, voluptuous and assertive will get me otherwise.
It's not like I had a date, unless you count my couple date, but he was a fantastic date, even if his devotion did lie elsewhere. He picked me up, took me to dinner, then a play, bought me a souvenir and ended the evening by taking me out for cocktails.
Sure, his actual date was there every step of the way, but I can live with that.
He'd never been to Secco, so that's where we started. He got a unique Secco experience because the restaurant wasn't crowded with a) women or b) west enders or c) really much of anyone at all. In my experience, this never happens.
I'd told him that the beauty of Secco was any wine by the glass (you know I started with bubbles, in this case the lovely Pinon Vouvray Brut "Petillant"), stellar small plates and an absolutely fabulous selection of cheeses and meats.
We covered all those bases, right down to ordering two separate cheese and meat plates.
The first ensured that we ordered the second, with wonderfully funky Roncal (cow), Red Witch (cow) and the divine Roquefort Societe "Bee" (sheep), jamon Serrano and Calabrese (I do so love my salamis, not matter what cancer they're going to give me) to start.
As creamy and stinky as the Roquefort was, my favorite part of it was its description, which I wouldn't mind having on my tombstone, not that I intend to be buried: classic, voluptuous and assertive, it rights the wrongs of the world in one bite.
I wouldn't mind being seen that way by the right person.
Then there was celery veloute soup (dreamy), fried chickpeas (he had to know), and smoked salmon spread (more black radishes and beet mostarda, please) to continue while we admired the staff's Halloween costumes.
They were so clever. One was all in sparkles and sequins (she was bubbly), another in shades of pink (hello, Rose) and a third in shades of burgundy (the red wine queen).
While awaiting the arrival of our second cheese and meat plate - more Roquefort, more Red Witch, VB & C ash rind "Bonne Bouche" (described as "looking like brains"), speck and Bresaola (yes, my choice again), we got on the subject of sailors crossing the equator.
It was my fault for mentioning having seen a student in a slutty sailor costume that in no way resembled an actual sailor. Hello, booty shorts are not the equivalent of bell bottoms, young lady.
Unbeknownst to me, there are traditions that mark a sailor's first trip across that magic line of latitude. You have to "kiss the baby" (the fattest sailor's belly), climb through the birth canal (a tunnel filled with garbage) and turn your clothes inside out.
Thank you, no. Good thing I never aspired to the sail the seas in the service of my country.
I got this information from the horse's mouth (Mr. Not-My-Date had been in the Navy and my friend had old black and white photographs of her grandfather doing the same) while sipping the gorgeous and fragrant Cherriere Pere vet Fils Sancerre.
Needless to say, the Secco virgin (his best line: "I'm not some ingenue from Ladysmith") was reveling in his food and wine options.
We left only because we had a curtain to make, dodging trick or treaters and tipsy parents on the way, at the VMFA for Quill Theater's annual Bootleg Shakespeare.
We weren't long in our reserved seats, not having had to stand in line for tickets (see what I mean about him being such a great date?) when we heard, "Without further nonsense, here's our director, Foster Solomon, " who told us to expect a '50s/'60s B-movie version of Macbeth complete with greasers and Elvis.
I was down for whatever happened, which included the three witches as a girl group, lots of New Jersey accents and white t-shirts, black leather jackets and Chuck Taylors. Macbeth had a magnificent black pompadour.
Much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery.
What I love about the Bootleg performances is their sense of spontaneity, hardly surprising given that they only have one day of rehearsal. But tonight's staging was pretty polished with loads of musical numbers interspersed in the Scottish play.
There's daggers in men's smiles.
There were knock knock jokes and a killer James Brown impersonator, but also some actors who just couldn't project far enough in a space the size of the Cheek Theater. Pelvises thrusted throughout and pop culture references were rampant.
It's always a safe bet that actors will forget their lines (most jogged their memory by calling "line!' but the funniest was "hit me!") and that the story will have modern-day additions, like when Macbeth says he's done the deed and Lady Macbeth throws off her robe to reveal a negligee, saying, "Tell me about it."
During intermission, my non-date even bought me a bootleg Shakespeare mug, if that gives you any idea how good he is at this.
The good news was that in the second act, Macbeth projected far better and was more easily heard than in the first. When Banquo gets killed, body parts came flying across the stage, cracking the audience up.
Thou art the best o' the cut throats.
Doo-wop and girl group songs dominated the play, including the "Monster Mash" (featuring everyone from a hilarious bride of Frankenstein to the Mummy to Wednesday from the Addams Family), and Aretha's "Think" with lyrics changed to sing about treason.
At one point, an actor called for a line and then a second time, sending the crowd into gales of laughter. "I can't hear it!" he said, laughing, too.
The final fight scene was set to "My Way," if that gives you any clue where this Macbeth was going.
After that tragedy, my non-date set out to take us out to meet his long-time friend (since third grade) and his wife for cocktails at the Rogue Gentlemen.
On the way, we stopped at a red light where three VCU students stood in costume. Rolling down the window, my friend pointed at the guy in glasses and a Hawaiian shirt.
"Hunter S. Thompson, right?" she asked.
"I knew someone would get it!" he said triumphantly while his pals - a fork and a banana- rolled their eyes. "I've read all his books!"
Sure you have, kid.
Once at the Gentlemen, we commandeered the corner of the bar, making do with four stools for five people and choosing our drinks from the Mad Lib books listing cocktails.
I chose the spicy and sweet (don't worry, I don't want that on my tombstone) Dracary, an Espolon-based gem with all kinds of ingredients, including toasted walnut orgeat, cream, egg white and dusted with cinnamon sugar.
When a Hall and Oates song came on, my friend blurted out that she'd seen them in 1993. "Don't y'all tell anyone that!" she said fiercely, but it wasn't long before my non-date admitted having seen Pat Benatar with his third grade buddy, so who's shaming whom?
Tasting each other's cocktails, we passed the time doing Mad Libs and reading them aloud, mainly because why have access to Mad Libs and not do them?
My non-date recalled fondly the first time I'd brought him here (sans his main squeeze) and said he'd preferred the Richard Gere drink menu of that time, not for its offerings, but for its theme.
"Maybe a Julia Roberts drink menu?" he suggested. Not likely, I explained to him, along with other important factoids he should already know by his age.
When a Whitney Houston song came on, the women reacted positively and the men acted superior, at least until "I Will Always Love You" began and then even they had to acknowledge the beauty of Dolly Parton's song.
All of a sudden, the song changed to something else entirely and the owner looked at the bartender askance. "You're fired, Paul!" he called from across the room. Paul kept on making drinks anyway.
I became unpopular when the subject of "The Princess Bride" came up because it's a movie I saw once and never bothered to see again, incidentally the same reaction the film got from Mr. Third Grade Friend's wife. We were summarily ridiculed for not appreciating this so-called classic.
Apparently, I am no longer getting cute shoes for Christmas, but a copy of the book from which the film was taken in order to show me the error of my ways. Buttercup who?
It was only after we'd each had a couple of cocktails and multiple Mad Libs had been completed with much innuendo that we realized how late it was and that we all had beds awaiting us. The good news was the extra hour of sleep tonight involves. Mine will be alone, of course.
Tell me about it. With any luck, eventually classic, voluptuous and assertive will get me otherwise.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
I Love Long Life Better Than Figs
Bootleg: to make, distribute or sell illicit goods. Origin: late 19th century, from the smugglers' practice of concealing bottles in their boots.
Bootleg Shakespeare: annual production whereby actors learn their lines separately and only come together for one night to stage Shakespeare without rehearsal.
Scene: VMFA for the first time, meaning that instead of standing outdoors on a nasty evening to wait in line for tickets, would-be attendees waited in the comfort of heat and art.
I could get used to this.
Once tickets were handed out, everyone beat feet to Best Cafe to wine and dine until showtime. Both Pru and I opted for steaming bowls of beef stew and bread, the better to ward off the chill from tonight's wind and rain.
We joined George and Jo, two strangers who'd been in line behind us, at their table to eat and listen to Bardship Enterprise, an aptly named quartet playing music (Prince, Jackson 5, Bob Marley, Sublime) for our listening pleasure.
Between songs, George, a security guard at the museum, regaled us with tales of drunken debauchery during corporate parties and weddings at the museum. Imagine a couple pitching woo on the Rockefeller bed and you get an idea of the nerve exhibited while on state property.
It was only during our chit-chat that I learned that tonight we turn the clocks back. Woo-hoo, after the week I've had, I could sure use an extra hour.
Then it was on to the Leslie Cheek theater for "Antony and Cleopatra" directed by local favorite Foster Solomon.
"Twelve hours ago, this production did not exist," he explained from the stage. "If you know 'Antony and Cleopatra," you're going to be surprised. If you don't know 'Antony and Cleopatra," you're going to be surprised."
Sounded like a win/win to me.
The play opened with "As Time Goes By" performed by the show band onstage which went on to feature the vocal stylings of Rebecca Anne Muhleman in a bright red wig and Jacqueline O'Connor in a sassy blond wig on vocals doing Lady Gaga and Beyonce.
My full heart remains in use with you.
The always compelling (and quick) Joe Carlson played Antony, getting big laughs with lines such as, "Look here at this imaginary letter" and pulling out nothing.
The world and my great office will sometimes divide me from your bosom.
When he said that line, he stared directly into Octavia, his future wife's, chest.
Octavia is of a holy, cold and still conversation.
Of the 33 actors involved, I recognized many of them. I'm an unabashed fan of David Janosik who played Caesar for his diction and timing, Billy Christopher Maupin who played a white-faced soothsayer for his facility with language and comedic detail, and Kerry McGee for her elastic face and descriptive gestures.
And we are women's men.
I never tire of watching the nuances of an Adam Mincks character, Dean Knight can convey more with a glance or downturn of his mouth than some actors can with entire monologues and Dixon Cashwell was born to play a saucy eunuch.
During the big fight scene in Act II, a screen showed everything from Monty Python to space battles, while the real cast used plastic swords and pillows to fight onstage.
You knew very well that my heart was tied to your ship and that you would pull me along with you.
The delight of a bootleg performance is that even when you're watching a tragedy, humor bubbles up throughout, whether it's an actor calling for his line (and often making a joke of it in the process), missed cues ("Enter Caesar...Caesar?") or improvisation ("Trust no one with Caesar except that guy with the "P" name").
By the end, the lovers were dead and even Caesar had to soften a little acknowledging their love of each other, but not before the inimitable Susan Sanford had the audience in stitches as the asp supplier with a thick Scottish brogue. Hilarious.
After the cast took a well-deserved bow or two, Pru and I walked out discussing how the Bootleg Shakespeare production is always top-notch despite the lack of rehearsals and reliably funny because of the lack of rehearsals.
It was enough to make me drop everything I had in my wallet into the bucket on my way out.
And then, just because I'd found out we had an extra hour, we headed to the Sporty to hear our favorite '80s cover band who tonight were all about some southern rock.
Turning away from the bar after procuring my 1800, a guy asked me to dance before I'd even had a sip or found a place to roost. Sorry, sir, not yet.
Sipping and listening to the band, I exercised my best conversation, which was neither holy, cold or still.
Octavia, I'm not. All about bootleg and '80s covers, I absolutely am.
Bootleg Shakespeare: annual production whereby actors learn their lines separately and only come together for one night to stage Shakespeare without rehearsal.
Scene: VMFA for the first time, meaning that instead of standing outdoors on a nasty evening to wait in line for tickets, would-be attendees waited in the comfort of heat and art.
I could get used to this.
Once tickets were handed out, everyone beat feet to Best Cafe to wine and dine until showtime. Both Pru and I opted for steaming bowls of beef stew and bread, the better to ward off the chill from tonight's wind and rain.
We joined George and Jo, two strangers who'd been in line behind us, at their table to eat and listen to Bardship Enterprise, an aptly named quartet playing music (Prince, Jackson 5, Bob Marley, Sublime) for our listening pleasure.
Between songs, George, a security guard at the museum, regaled us with tales of drunken debauchery during corporate parties and weddings at the museum. Imagine a couple pitching woo on the Rockefeller bed and you get an idea of the nerve exhibited while on state property.
It was only during our chit-chat that I learned that tonight we turn the clocks back. Woo-hoo, after the week I've had, I could sure use an extra hour.
Then it was on to the Leslie Cheek theater for "Antony and Cleopatra" directed by local favorite Foster Solomon.
"Twelve hours ago, this production did not exist," he explained from the stage. "If you know 'Antony and Cleopatra," you're going to be surprised. If you don't know 'Antony and Cleopatra," you're going to be surprised."
Sounded like a win/win to me.
The play opened with "As Time Goes By" performed by the show band onstage which went on to feature the vocal stylings of Rebecca Anne Muhleman in a bright red wig and Jacqueline O'Connor in a sassy blond wig on vocals doing Lady Gaga and Beyonce.
My full heart remains in use with you.
The always compelling (and quick) Joe Carlson played Antony, getting big laughs with lines such as, "Look here at this imaginary letter" and pulling out nothing.
The world and my great office will sometimes divide me from your bosom.
When he said that line, he stared directly into Octavia, his future wife's, chest.
Octavia is of a holy, cold and still conversation.
Of the 33 actors involved, I recognized many of them. I'm an unabashed fan of David Janosik who played Caesar for his diction and timing, Billy Christopher Maupin who played a white-faced soothsayer for his facility with language and comedic detail, and Kerry McGee for her elastic face and descriptive gestures.
And we are women's men.
I never tire of watching the nuances of an Adam Mincks character, Dean Knight can convey more with a glance or downturn of his mouth than some actors can with entire monologues and Dixon Cashwell was born to play a saucy eunuch.
During the big fight scene in Act II, a screen showed everything from Monty Python to space battles, while the real cast used plastic swords and pillows to fight onstage.
You knew very well that my heart was tied to your ship and that you would pull me along with you.
The delight of a bootleg performance is that even when you're watching a tragedy, humor bubbles up throughout, whether it's an actor calling for his line (and often making a joke of it in the process), missed cues ("Enter Caesar...Caesar?") or improvisation ("Trust no one with Caesar except that guy with the "P" name").
By the end, the lovers were dead and even Caesar had to soften a little acknowledging their love of each other, but not before the inimitable Susan Sanford had the audience in stitches as the asp supplier with a thick Scottish brogue. Hilarious.
After the cast took a well-deserved bow or two, Pru and I walked out discussing how the Bootleg Shakespeare production is always top-notch despite the lack of rehearsals and reliably funny because of the lack of rehearsals.
It was enough to make me drop everything I had in my wallet into the bucket on my way out.
And then, just because I'd found out we had an extra hour, we headed to the Sporty to hear our favorite '80s cover band who tonight were all about some southern rock.
Turning away from the bar after procuring my 1800, a guy asked me to dance before I'd even had a sip or found a place to roost. Sorry, sir, not yet.
Sipping and listening to the band, I exercised my best conversation, which was neither holy, cold or still.
Octavia, I'm not. All about bootleg and '80s covers, I absolutely am.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Stirring Up the Lewdly-Inclined
With Bootleg Shakespeare, you gotta want it.
Meaning, you gotta be willing to eat a late lunch (3:45 at Garnett's, where I run into the guy who recently gave me a mix tape and thank him for his mix making) and stand in line for a good, long while.
Say, from 4:45 to 6:10 when Pru and I finally procure tickets and are free until the 7:30 curtain time.
Waiting for tickets, the head usher comes out in an ensemble that could stop traffic: leather lace-up pants, a vest, heels and a red, white and blue stars and stripes shirt he bought for his first concert back in the '70s. Naturally, I had to inquire what that show was and was told it was the Fifth Dimension at Franklin Street gym. He came *this* close to dancing with Marilyn McCoo, he said.
Whoa.
Another usher is dressed in silver lame pants with silver boots and lots of bling. It's a magnificently '70s ensemble. The man in line ahead of me eventually joins our conversation about the people butting in front of the line and later gives me a quizzical look and says, "You're the one who writes the blog, right?"
How the hell did you know that? "I figured it out," he claims. Yea, right.
Leaving the ticket line to kill time, we pass the waiting line, now well past Staples, and I hear someone call out to me, "Hey, beautiful!" As Pru and I discussed, those are words no woman ever tires of hearing.
Back inside, director James Ricks explains that the beauty of doing a play like "Pericles, Prince of Tyre" is that it's infrequently produced, thus there are no expectations. No ghosts of Richard Burton, as he explains it.
Just 17 actors, no rehearsals and absolute fun.
The bootleg production has a band and they begin the play by playing Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" with the entire cast dancing like Charlie Brown characters in the Christmas special.
Nick Aliff is immediately awesome as Antiochus, complete with Brando-like mumbled vowels and an incestuous relationship with his daughter, played by the lollipop-sucking, knee sock-wearing McLean Jesse. John Mincks' character is at once getting laughs as he continually loses a lens to his glasses.
Fittingly for bootleg, sailing ships are depicted with paper cut outs and sticks bobbing behind the backdrop. When Pericles lands on famine-starved Tarsus, he saves them with candy corn and bags of Cookout burgers.
Because of the lack of rehearsals and time to study lines, the evening is filled with actors calling, "Line!" as well as creative ways to bring dialog onstage: inside a breastplate, written on a palm, using a phone, reading off a "letter."
The French get skewered by Adam Mincks wearing a turtleneck, smoking a cigarette, saying "merdre!" and dancing like a '50s beatnik. Absolutely hysterical.
Led Zep is played between scenes, songs like "Black Dog," "Rock and Roll," and, for a moment, "Stairway to Heaven," before the cast revolts and shouts, "No 'Stairway to Heaven'!" Thaisa's suitors do a dance-off to determine who will win her hand while she (Grey Garrett) sips a juice box.
One of the most charming scenes involved baby Marina, held in the arms of the nurse and following Evan/Pericles side to side, watching him everywhere he moved.
During intermission, one lucky attendee won the raffle to play a pirate in the second act, hook, parrot and all.
Late in the play when John Mincks' character is trying to make a deal with McLean Jesse's, his shorts around his ankles, he repeatedly asked for his line until eventually letting prompter Kerrigan Sullivan read the entire passage. "All of that!" Mincks shouted with a flourish and walked off stage.
Yet again, the beauty of the bootleg.
He wasn't the only one feeling the fatigue of a long play and little rehearsal; eventually during Pericles' rough period, Evan said, "I am great with wine," when the line was really, "I am great with woe."
Wine, woe, potato, potah-to.
Because I'd never read or seen "Pericles" produced, it was a pleasure to watch the story unfold, never quite sure what might happen. Who knew there'd be so many presumed dead still alive? So much incest? So much attempted prostitution?
Few love to hear the sins they love to act.
I love to hear whatever the participants of bootleg Shakespeare want to act.
Line!
I am great with bawdy appreciation.
Meaning, you gotta be willing to eat a late lunch (3:45 at Garnett's, where I run into the guy who recently gave me a mix tape and thank him for his mix making) and stand in line for a good, long while.
Say, from 4:45 to 6:10 when Pru and I finally procure tickets and are free until the 7:30 curtain time.
Waiting for tickets, the head usher comes out in an ensemble that could stop traffic: leather lace-up pants, a vest, heels and a red, white and blue stars and stripes shirt he bought for his first concert back in the '70s. Naturally, I had to inquire what that show was and was told it was the Fifth Dimension at Franklin Street gym. He came *this* close to dancing with Marilyn McCoo, he said.
Whoa.
Another usher is dressed in silver lame pants with silver boots and lots of bling. It's a magnificently '70s ensemble. The man in line ahead of me eventually joins our conversation about the people butting in front of the line and later gives me a quizzical look and says, "You're the one who writes the blog, right?"
How the hell did you know that? "I figured it out," he claims. Yea, right.
Leaving the ticket line to kill time, we pass the waiting line, now well past Staples, and I hear someone call out to me, "Hey, beautiful!" As Pru and I discussed, those are words no woman ever tires of hearing.
Back inside, director James Ricks explains that the beauty of doing a play like "Pericles, Prince of Tyre" is that it's infrequently produced, thus there are no expectations. No ghosts of Richard Burton, as he explains it.
Just 17 actors, no rehearsals and absolute fun.
The bootleg production has a band and they begin the play by playing Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" with the entire cast dancing like Charlie Brown characters in the Christmas special.
Nick Aliff is immediately awesome as Antiochus, complete with Brando-like mumbled vowels and an incestuous relationship with his daughter, played by the lollipop-sucking, knee sock-wearing McLean Jesse. John Mincks' character is at once getting laughs as he continually loses a lens to his glasses.
Fittingly for bootleg, sailing ships are depicted with paper cut outs and sticks bobbing behind the backdrop. When Pericles lands on famine-starved Tarsus, he saves them with candy corn and bags of Cookout burgers.
Because of the lack of rehearsals and time to study lines, the evening is filled with actors calling, "Line!" as well as creative ways to bring dialog onstage: inside a breastplate, written on a palm, using a phone, reading off a "letter."
The French get skewered by Adam Mincks wearing a turtleneck, smoking a cigarette, saying "merdre!" and dancing like a '50s beatnik. Absolutely hysterical.
Led Zep is played between scenes, songs like "Black Dog," "Rock and Roll," and, for a moment, "Stairway to Heaven," before the cast revolts and shouts, "No 'Stairway to Heaven'!" Thaisa's suitors do a dance-off to determine who will win her hand while she (Grey Garrett) sips a juice box.
One of the most charming scenes involved baby Marina, held in the arms of the nurse and following Evan/Pericles side to side, watching him everywhere he moved.
During intermission, one lucky attendee won the raffle to play a pirate in the second act, hook, parrot and all.
Late in the play when John Mincks' character is trying to make a deal with McLean Jesse's, his shorts around his ankles, he repeatedly asked for his line until eventually letting prompter Kerrigan Sullivan read the entire passage. "All of that!" Mincks shouted with a flourish and walked off stage.
Yet again, the beauty of the bootleg.
He wasn't the only one feeling the fatigue of a long play and little rehearsal; eventually during Pericles' rough period, Evan said, "I am great with wine," when the line was really, "I am great with woe."
Wine, woe, potato, potah-to.
Because I'd never read or seen "Pericles" produced, it was a pleasure to watch the story unfold, never quite sure what might happen. Who knew there'd be so many presumed dead still alive? So much incest? So much attempted prostitution?
Few love to hear the sins they love to act.
I love to hear whatever the participants of bootleg Shakespeare want to act.
Line!
I am great with bawdy appreciation.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
With Witchcraft of His Wits
You gotta want it.
But if you do want it, you'll stand in line for an hour plus to get a ticket (having learned my lesson the first year when I got four people from the box office only to have them run out of tickets).
You'll grab slices of pizza from Tarrant's and eat them as you walk back, tickets in hand, to claim your seats and listen to the pre-show music. And if you want it, you'll devote four hours of your Saturday night to seeing it.
And that's when you'll know you're a Bootleg Shakespeare groupie. Tonight was my fourth attempt and my third success. And I did it all for Hamlet.
Henley Street's annual ode to the Bard always has the potential to be a major mess, yet never is. A month in advance, all the actors get their parts and scrips, which they study but don't rehearse. They come up with their own costumes and props, but still no rehearsal.
On the day of the show (beginning at an ungodly 7 a.m., an hour most of them surely never see), they spend the day blocking but not going through lines. So what the audience sees is as fresh as what the actors experience.
It's a recipe for disaster that inevitably proves the acting talent in this town with enough hilarity and inside jokes interspersed to keep everyone on their toes, both cast and crowd.
This year, it was at Virginia Rep (terribly convenient for me, a mere five blocks from home) instead of Barksdale, meaning way more seats available. The evening began with an announcement from Henley Street's Jacquie O, who enthused from the stage, "This year we turned no one away!"
That's what a fan wants to hear.
After a giveaway of a mug, two tickets to Henley Street's next production and a small ham (a "hamlet," get it?), we were informed that the only rule of Bootleg Shakespeare is no bad words. Naturally the onstage band begins by doing Radiohead's "Creep" and singing the lyric, "You're so f*cking special" just to clarify that f*ck is not a bad word.
Or, more likely, to demonstrate the attitude of a bootleg performance.
This "Hamlet" was done '90s-style, with disaffected youth, video games and the Pixies. Let's just say that Hamlet wore a Pogues t-shirt. Gertrude wore a pink suit, pillbox hat and white gloves. Poloniuswore a "Sticky Fingers" t-shirt.
Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence.
Henley Street's artistic director James Ricks (his hair dyed blond) played Hamlet in all his melancholy glory, whether stomping the stage in anger at his father's death or giving Ophelia the kiss-off speech.
At a bootleg show, actors often need to call for their lines (not having had any rehearsal) and it inevitably results in hysterical moments. Tonight, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, clad in trench coats and while picking up and moving each other, began calling for theirs, to great comic effect.
At one point, one ad-libbed, "We were supposed to bring a piece of paper and we didn't" to much laughter. Polonius appeared immediately after they left the stage, noting, "This business is well ended." Major applause.
He took me by the wrist and held me hard.
Another very funny scene came after Gertrude and Claudius had been informed that, "Your noble son is mad." Cue Hamlet in an untied red robe wearing goggles and swatting at the air. Passing by Gertrude, he casually says, "Hi, Mom!"
Soon after he's stuffing an entire banana in his mouth until he's unable to answer questions.
This is the very ecstasy of love.
Bootleg always uses modern touches to further the humor as when Polonius asks, "What do you read, my lord?" and Hamlet responds "Slanders, sir," holding up a copy of "Newsweek." When Rosencrantz and Guildenstern set out to do the king's bidding and see what's up with Hamlet, the three end up sitting on the edge of the stage smoking weed and playing video games
Hey, it was the '90s.
There is a kind of confession in your looks which your modesties have not craft enough to color.
Opehlia's descent into madness was well played by Audra Honaker who ends up looking like a cake-top decoration in full-skirted yellow tulle dress with pink belt and crazy eyes. When it came time for Hamlet's seminal speech, Ricks cracked wise, saying, "To be...line!"
He then exhorted the audience to read that speech with him and we did, first all together, then the women and then the men (giving a far inferior reading, I might add). Midway through that, Jacquie O. ran onstage in socks, pointing at her watch to move things along.
Soon after, when Hamlet decides to stage a play to show his uncle's guilt, he inquires about Polonius' acting experience. Frank Creasy brilliantly did his line with one minor addition, "I did, I played Julius Caesar," and then stepping forward and raising his eyebrows, he continued, "Coming this season to Henley Street Theater."
When the play within a play is being shown, an actor sits in a director's chair clearly labeled "Billy Christoper" no doubt a joke about the local director. The first act ended with the Pixies and the second act began with Ce-Lo's "Crazy," neither '90s songs yet both worked.
The first scene began while "Crazy" was still being sung with Hamlet shaving his own head. There's a moment we won't soon forget.
During the gravedigger's scene as he pulls up skulls, one is wearing a red clown's nose and Hamlet notes, "I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest." Playing in the background for this scene was Blood, Sweat and Tears' "And When I Die." Brilliant.
One thing very obvious this year was how infrequently actors called for lines compared to past years.
There's no value judgment to that statement because either way works for the audience.
But late in the play when John Mincks was playing a priest, he called for his line. When he clearly didn't remember, the prompter gave him more of it, eventually all of it.
"What she said," Mincks said in lieu of those lines and the audience roared. No question that best costume went to Phil Crosby in the role of Osric. He wore a splendid red velvet jacket, a bad wig and a foppish hat that only added to his very mannered line delivery.
He was a hoot.
But because something was rotten in Denmark, we had to end with a big fight scene, albeit one using foam noodles and plastic swords. At the end of the evening some three and a half hours later, the audience gave a standing ovation for the brave people who'd given us our annual dose of bootleg.
People like Deejay Gray who stepped in at the last minute and had only 24 hours to learn his lines. Even so, I'd have to say that he played a queen brilliantly. Likewise, when he and John Mincks played sailors, the camp was off the charts.
And naturally there was the big finish with local legend Scott Wichmann coming out in sunglasses and looking buff in fatigues to play Fortinbras at the end. The Bard said it best and all I can add is "amen."
What a piece of work is man.
Okay, I can add something else to that.
What a piece of work is man and woman...never more so than when combined to give us Bootleg Shakespeare.
Ay, there's the rub. I gotta have it.
But if you do want it, you'll stand in line for an hour plus to get a ticket (having learned my lesson the first year when I got four people from the box office only to have them run out of tickets).
You'll grab slices of pizza from Tarrant's and eat them as you walk back, tickets in hand, to claim your seats and listen to the pre-show music. And if you want it, you'll devote four hours of your Saturday night to seeing it.
And that's when you'll know you're a Bootleg Shakespeare groupie. Tonight was my fourth attempt and my third success. And I did it all for Hamlet.
Henley Street's annual ode to the Bard always has the potential to be a major mess, yet never is. A month in advance, all the actors get their parts and scrips, which they study but don't rehearse. They come up with their own costumes and props, but still no rehearsal.
On the day of the show (beginning at an ungodly 7 a.m., an hour most of them surely never see), they spend the day blocking but not going through lines. So what the audience sees is as fresh as what the actors experience.
It's a recipe for disaster that inevitably proves the acting talent in this town with enough hilarity and inside jokes interspersed to keep everyone on their toes, both cast and crowd.
This year, it was at Virginia Rep (terribly convenient for me, a mere five blocks from home) instead of Barksdale, meaning way more seats available. The evening began with an announcement from Henley Street's Jacquie O, who enthused from the stage, "This year we turned no one away!"
That's what a fan wants to hear.
After a giveaway of a mug, two tickets to Henley Street's next production and a small ham (a "hamlet," get it?), we were informed that the only rule of Bootleg Shakespeare is no bad words. Naturally the onstage band begins by doing Radiohead's "Creep" and singing the lyric, "You're so f*cking special" just to clarify that f*ck is not a bad word.
Or, more likely, to demonstrate the attitude of a bootleg performance.
This "Hamlet" was done '90s-style, with disaffected youth, video games and the Pixies. Let's just say that Hamlet wore a Pogues t-shirt. Gertrude wore a pink suit, pillbox hat and white gloves. Poloniuswore a "Sticky Fingers" t-shirt.
Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence.
Henley Street's artistic director James Ricks (his hair dyed blond) played Hamlet in all his melancholy glory, whether stomping the stage in anger at his father's death or giving Ophelia the kiss-off speech.
At a bootleg show, actors often need to call for their lines (not having had any rehearsal) and it inevitably results in hysterical moments. Tonight, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, clad in trench coats and while picking up and moving each other, began calling for theirs, to great comic effect.
At one point, one ad-libbed, "We were supposed to bring a piece of paper and we didn't" to much laughter. Polonius appeared immediately after they left the stage, noting, "This business is well ended." Major applause.
He took me by the wrist and held me hard.
Another very funny scene came after Gertrude and Claudius had been informed that, "Your noble son is mad." Cue Hamlet in an untied red robe wearing goggles and swatting at the air. Passing by Gertrude, he casually says, "Hi, Mom!"
Soon after he's stuffing an entire banana in his mouth until he's unable to answer questions.
This is the very ecstasy of love.
Bootleg always uses modern touches to further the humor as when Polonius asks, "What do you read, my lord?" and Hamlet responds "Slanders, sir," holding up a copy of "Newsweek." When Rosencrantz and Guildenstern set out to do the king's bidding and see what's up with Hamlet, the three end up sitting on the edge of the stage smoking weed and playing video games
Hey, it was the '90s.
There is a kind of confession in your looks which your modesties have not craft enough to color.
Opehlia's descent into madness was well played by Audra Honaker who ends up looking like a cake-top decoration in full-skirted yellow tulle dress with pink belt and crazy eyes. When it came time for Hamlet's seminal speech, Ricks cracked wise, saying, "To be...line!"
He then exhorted the audience to read that speech with him and we did, first all together, then the women and then the men (giving a far inferior reading, I might add). Midway through that, Jacquie O. ran onstage in socks, pointing at her watch to move things along.
Soon after, when Hamlet decides to stage a play to show his uncle's guilt, he inquires about Polonius' acting experience. Frank Creasy brilliantly did his line with one minor addition, "I did, I played Julius Caesar," and then stepping forward and raising his eyebrows, he continued, "Coming this season to Henley Street Theater."
When the play within a play is being shown, an actor sits in a director's chair clearly labeled "Billy Christoper" no doubt a joke about the local director. The first act ended with the Pixies and the second act began with Ce-Lo's "Crazy," neither '90s songs yet both worked.
The first scene began while "Crazy" was still being sung with Hamlet shaving his own head. There's a moment we won't soon forget.
During the gravedigger's scene as he pulls up skulls, one is wearing a red clown's nose and Hamlet notes, "I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest." Playing in the background for this scene was Blood, Sweat and Tears' "And When I Die." Brilliant.
One thing very obvious this year was how infrequently actors called for lines compared to past years.
There's no value judgment to that statement because either way works for the audience.
But late in the play when John Mincks was playing a priest, he called for his line. When he clearly didn't remember, the prompter gave him more of it, eventually all of it.
"What she said," Mincks said in lieu of those lines and the audience roared. No question that best costume went to Phil Crosby in the role of Osric. He wore a splendid red velvet jacket, a bad wig and a foppish hat that only added to his very mannered line delivery.
He was a hoot.
But because something was rotten in Denmark, we had to end with a big fight scene, albeit one using foam noodles and plastic swords. At the end of the evening some three and a half hours later, the audience gave a standing ovation for the brave people who'd given us our annual dose of bootleg.
People like Deejay Gray who stepped in at the last minute and had only 24 hours to learn his lines. Even so, I'd have to say that he played a queen brilliantly. Likewise, when he and John Mincks played sailors, the camp was off the charts.
And naturally there was the big finish with local legend Scott Wichmann coming out in sunglasses and looking buff in fatigues to play Fortinbras at the end. The Bard said it best and all I can add is "amen."
What a piece of work is man.
Okay, I can add something else to that.
What a piece of work is man and woman...never more so than when combined to give us Bootleg Shakespeare.
Ay, there's the rub. I gotta have it.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Beat It
It's not often I'm willing to wait in line for an hour and a quarter, but for Henley Street's Annual Bootleg Shakespeare, I do.
Happily and with my mouth running to my friend about the past few months of my life for entertainment, we stayed until we scored two fifth row seats before looking for a place to eat.
Given the limited time we had, we settled for a restaurant in the parking lot, Ledo's Pizza.
And there I had a bit of a cultural shock.
There were individual TVs at some of the tables. Not at the one we chose, you can be sure, but within view at a half dozen booths.
Please tell me this isn't the wave of the future.
Even the manager coming over to check on us and, seeing our glasses of red wine and white pizza with bacon, saying he was going to bring over the bottle of wine and get us drunk (we declined) couldn't compensate.
I'm sorry; a booth with a TV ensures no conversation and that's exactly what we saw. Silent people eating together without sharing a word.
Tragic.
Luckily, seeing "Troilus and Cressida" made up for it all.
The bootleg experience, with the actors bringing their own costumes and props and having no rehearsals except the day of the show, is one guaranteed to delight.
The actors experience things as the audience does and the results are always hilarious.
The evening always starts with a drawing and this year first prize was a basket with a plastic sword, a Cressida doll and a box of Trojans. Brilliant.
And this year, Henley had chosen a problem play, one I had never seen produced, so that was yet another exciting element.
It's a long play, too, but the energy of the actors kept things moving and there was enough comedy, bawdy and otherwise, around the tragedy and history to make the evening pass in a flash.
The story was mostly about the warring between the Trojans and Greeks but also about the doomed love affair of Troilus and Cressida.
To be wise and love
Exceeds man's might
Duh. So there's a truism as old as mankind.
Achilles, played by Joe Carlson, strutted around in his underwear and an open robe, lusting after men and powdering his privates.
Cynde Liffick played Agamemnon in a red shirt and black leather jacket, but it was her one sequined glove that made the costume.
She got a well-deserved round of applause for delivering the endless list of the the dead and wounded.
I always find that Adam Mincks, here as Aeneas, makes me laugh out loud and he did it many times tonight.
A scene where he handed a half-eaten apple to the old man Nestor and then kept checking on it with sly glances had the audience in stitches.
And the very old Nestor, played by Liz Blake-White, was the physical comedy of the play, moving slowly as if with great age and often being scooped up by another character to move her along.
Her line, "I'll hide my silver beard in a golden beaver," was met with outbursts of laughter from many.
Women are angels wooing.
As many times as I've seen Foster Solomon in a production, this was the first time I saw him play big and dumb.
It was, in fact, his big fight with Hector, played by Matt Hackman, that put the audience over the top.
Their staged fight segued into the dance moves for MJ's "Beat It" with the entire cast joining in. It was amazing just how well they pulled off the moves at a moment's notice, especially the big, dumb Ajax.
And his line about "The policy of those crafty, swearing rascals is not proved worth a blackberry...or maybe a Droid," showed his improvisational skills.
Being a punk version of Shakespeare, many actors wore T-shirts ("Survival Tonight Mandatory") and lip "piercings" that were removed for kissing scenes.
Cressida, played by Zoe Speas, was flawless in her belted body suit, ripped fishnets and spot-on delivery.
In a scene about her frustration over losing Troilus she ad-libbed about tearing out her "awesome" hair, a nod to her spiky and fashionable haircut.
It was little things like when Cressida left for Greece and Troilus came out in the next scene with an "X" over his heart.
A very sweet and touching statement.
Being a problem play, nothing was really resolved at the end. There were dead people, as usual, but no reunited lovers or unmasked characters.
Just like real life, I suppose.
Sigh.
We chose Fanhouse for a post-theater cocktail and walked into a mixologist extravaganza, not completely unusual there since Bobby Kruger runs the place, but even the guests were the talented sort tonight.
A high point of the night was when four of them combined resources to create one cocktail.
First one chose a gin, then Frangelico was added by another, then bitters by someone else and the final ingredients by the fourth.
They brainstormed on garnishes and toppings, but the final result was quite tasty, said the non-gin drinker (okay, me).
A group came in and order Jager bombs and as I saw Bobby making them, I asked if his soul was dying a little.
"Yea," he admitted, "But not as bad as if they'd asked for appletinis."
Everything is relative.
Or, as he pointed out, "We have competing demographics in here tonight."
Now that was some restaurant diplomacy.
A low point of the evening was when the volume on the sound system got turned up for R Kelly, making conversation impossible ("Everyone wants to hear R Kelly loud," Bobby insisted), until enough customers requested it be lowered.
But when the '80s arrived in the musical form of the Outfield's "Your Love," and the volume was again raised, there was much singing along and drumming on the bar.
I did neither, but to the observant type, my thoughts were all there.
They always are if you're paying attention.
There's language in her eye, her check, her lip
Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirit looks out
At every joint and motive of her body.
Happily and with my mouth running to my friend about the past few months of my life for entertainment, we stayed until we scored two fifth row seats before looking for a place to eat.
Given the limited time we had, we settled for a restaurant in the parking lot, Ledo's Pizza.
And there I had a bit of a cultural shock.
There were individual TVs at some of the tables. Not at the one we chose, you can be sure, but within view at a half dozen booths.
Please tell me this isn't the wave of the future.
Even the manager coming over to check on us and, seeing our glasses of red wine and white pizza with bacon, saying he was going to bring over the bottle of wine and get us drunk (we declined) couldn't compensate.
I'm sorry; a booth with a TV ensures no conversation and that's exactly what we saw. Silent people eating together without sharing a word.
Tragic.
Luckily, seeing "Troilus and Cressida" made up for it all.
The bootleg experience, with the actors bringing their own costumes and props and having no rehearsals except the day of the show, is one guaranteed to delight.
The actors experience things as the audience does and the results are always hilarious.
The evening always starts with a drawing and this year first prize was a basket with a plastic sword, a Cressida doll and a box of Trojans. Brilliant.
And this year, Henley had chosen a problem play, one I had never seen produced, so that was yet another exciting element.
It's a long play, too, but the energy of the actors kept things moving and there was enough comedy, bawdy and otherwise, around the tragedy and history to make the evening pass in a flash.
The story was mostly about the warring between the Trojans and Greeks but also about the doomed love affair of Troilus and Cressida.
To be wise and love
Exceeds man's might
Duh. So there's a truism as old as mankind.
Achilles, played by Joe Carlson, strutted around in his underwear and an open robe, lusting after men and powdering his privates.
Cynde Liffick played Agamemnon in a red shirt and black leather jacket, but it was her one sequined glove that made the costume.
She got a well-deserved round of applause for delivering the endless list of the the dead and wounded.
I always find that Adam Mincks, here as Aeneas, makes me laugh out loud and he did it many times tonight.
A scene where he handed a half-eaten apple to the old man Nestor and then kept checking on it with sly glances had the audience in stitches.
And the very old Nestor, played by Liz Blake-White, was the physical comedy of the play, moving slowly as if with great age and often being scooped up by another character to move her along.
Her line, "I'll hide my silver beard in a golden beaver," was met with outbursts of laughter from many.
Women are angels wooing.
As many times as I've seen Foster Solomon in a production, this was the first time I saw him play big and dumb.
It was, in fact, his big fight with Hector, played by Matt Hackman, that put the audience over the top.
Their staged fight segued into the dance moves for MJ's "Beat It" with the entire cast joining in. It was amazing just how well they pulled off the moves at a moment's notice, especially the big, dumb Ajax.
And his line about "The policy of those crafty, swearing rascals is not proved worth a blackberry...or maybe a Droid," showed his improvisational skills.
Being a punk version of Shakespeare, many actors wore T-shirts ("Survival Tonight Mandatory") and lip "piercings" that were removed for kissing scenes.
Cressida, played by Zoe Speas, was flawless in her belted body suit, ripped fishnets and spot-on delivery.
In a scene about her frustration over losing Troilus she ad-libbed about tearing out her "awesome" hair, a nod to her spiky and fashionable haircut.
It was little things like when Cressida left for Greece and Troilus came out in the next scene with an "X" over his heart.
A very sweet and touching statement.
Being a problem play, nothing was really resolved at the end. There were dead people, as usual, but no reunited lovers or unmasked characters.
Just like real life, I suppose.
Sigh.
We chose Fanhouse for a post-theater cocktail and walked into a mixologist extravaganza, not completely unusual there since Bobby Kruger runs the place, but even the guests were the talented sort tonight.
A high point of the night was when four of them combined resources to create one cocktail.
First one chose a gin, then Frangelico was added by another, then bitters by someone else and the final ingredients by the fourth.
They brainstormed on garnishes and toppings, but the final result was quite tasty, said the non-gin drinker (okay, me).
A group came in and order Jager bombs and as I saw Bobby making them, I asked if his soul was dying a little.
"Yea," he admitted, "But not as bad as if they'd asked for appletinis."
Everything is relative.
Or, as he pointed out, "We have competing demographics in here tonight."
Now that was some restaurant diplomacy.
A low point of the evening was when the volume on the sound system got turned up for R Kelly, making conversation impossible ("Everyone wants to hear R Kelly loud," Bobby insisted), until enough customers requested it be lowered.
But when the '80s arrived in the musical form of the Outfield's "Your Love," and the volume was again raised, there was much singing along and drumming on the bar.
I did neither, but to the observant type, my thoughts were all there.
They always are if you're paying attention.
There's language in her eye, her check, her lip
Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirit looks out
At every joint and motive of her body.
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