Sometimes being a whore really pays off.
Oh and speaking of whoring, excuse me while I pimp myself out further and encourage you to visit my post over at Craftastrophe. I seem to have a gift for finding creepy dolls.
Back to the whore at hand…oh wait…that’s still me. I’d been going through a bit of a dry spell on the free ticket front. Sadly, that’s probably a good thing since my allegedly part time gig is currently sucking up over forty hours a week. (Seriously people, I think I’ve proven time and time again that I love Rocco for who he is. NOW is the time for him to admit he’s heir to the throne of a small but incredibly wealthy country somewhere in the Caribbean.)
Then, all at once, I rolled a Yahtzee on Broadway hookups. Yesterday, a matinee of Enron then a evening show of Everyday Rapture. Later today? I’m sneaking into Broadway Cares’ Easter Bonnet Competition. Seriously people, you’re just encouraging me to whore myself out even more. I wonder if the new bras have anything to do with the sudden rush of ticket hookups…
First, let me tell you about Enron. Having not read anything about the show, I was expecting “Enron: The Musical.” Instead what I saw was “Enron: A Mostly Straight Play with Occasional Music, Velociraptors, and a Really Strange Light Saber Dance Number.” Henceforth I will forever think of it as “Two Hours and Forty Minutes of What the FUCK Was That?”
I have never, EVER ducked out of a theater before a curtain call…until yesterday. I’m not proud of it, but I’m one hundred and eleventy percent sure it was the right decision. Well, the right decision for me at least. This morning I bothered to read up a bit on the production only to find out it got rave reviews in London.
(Note to self: the Brits must really love giant cartoon mouse heads on top of normal, suit wearing bodies. Further note to self: remember you love the Brits, El. Don’t judge them too harshly just because they loved this show. It’s not like they gave the world Rod Stewart or anything. *AHEM*)
At one point, I turned to my date and said, “Yeah, aren’t you glad you braved the pouring rain to see this?”
Her response? “Yes actually, because if you had tried to describe it to me I would have never believed you.”
Look, I love theater. I don’t want to say anything super harsh here. I’d rather not harp on how weird it was to have Marin Mazzie, clad in red spandex, riding onto the stage atop a cluster of suit-clad dancers with a spotlight wedged in her crotch to mimic a motorcycle while “Taking Care of Business” blared through the speakers. I’d prefer to gloss over the lengthy and pointless musical numbers all together, frankly. I’ll just keep it short and stick with the positives. Um…it was in a really pretty theater.
Fortunately Everyday Rapture, Sherie Rene Scott‘s almost one woman show, was a joy. “A young woman’s psycho-sexual-spiritual journey on the rocky path that separates her mostly Mennonite past from her mostly Manhattan future.” My two word review – Fuck Yeah.
Mrs. Scott recreates her childhood as a half Mennonite in Topeka (“the Kickapoo word for good place to dig for potatoes”) through anecdotal stories and pop songs…and the occasional expletive. It would seem her parents weren’t overly committed to the Mennonite lifestyle. “‘Raise your own fucking barn,’ my father would always say.” But still, that environment left her “torn between two lovers: Jesus and Judy.” She describes her inner struggle poignantly. “I think I was searching, searching, searching for a way to be one with God while a lot of other people clapped.”
That internal struggle also caused her to develop a surprisingly intense…let’s call it affection…for Mr. Rogers. I will never be able to look at my cardigan clad TV neighbor the same way again. Who knew those puppets had it so good. Yowza.
Being the music junkie that I am, I couldn’t help but get a tiny bit misty when she said, “Any song you live inside is a kind of hymn.” Sing it, sistah. Now THAT is a religion I could get behind. So long as we don’t call it a religion. Or have to give up Sunday mornings. Or my drinking habits. Or stop cursing. That’s just fucking crazy talk.
The moral of the story? If you’re faced with a choice between “Everyday Rapture” and “Two Hours and Forty Minutes of What the Fuck,” I suggest you chose the former.