We sat down and she asked, "Is this supposed to be experimental theatre?"
"No," I said, "I don't think we really do that in Geneva. And look around you..." We scanned the sea of grey heads behind us - not exactly an experimental theatre kind of audience. So we settled into our seats and the show started... with what we like to call "interpretive dance," complete with masks and music you would never listen to on purpose. And it went south from there.
Okay, it was my idea to go. I sent the email saying it would be fun. I organized the tickets. But I hadn't counted on four British actors unable to speak in an American accent but intent on learning - before our very eyes, if they had to. I didn't count on a script designed, it seems, for people who have trouble following the subtle twists and turns of "Friends". My favorite part came fairly early on.
The Fireman (and you should know that, in the future, Firemen will no longer be putting out fires - they will be the ones responsible for burning books, which are a danger to society) has collected the books and is about to burn them. He has sprinkled them with kerosene, and put them into a large metal container.
Now any of you who remember Science Nathan's story about the green flame will understand that, at this point, I became pretty optimistic about this being the greatest theatre performance of my life. Fire? On stage? Hello - come to papa!
But instead of reaching for a match, the Fireman picked up a spot light with a red filter on it, and shone that into the container.
"Oooohhhh," he said, "it's sooooooo hot. They're burning up in there. Yep, they sure are on fire."
He mopped imaginary sweat from his brow. Or, now that I think about it, it was probably real sweat. I mean, if I had to deliver those lines with a straight face I would sure not be in my comfort zone any more.
And of course, these lines, like all others throughout the performance, were delivered at full volume. You've got to be sure the people in the back can hear, you see, and that's best done by making everything equally loud. If I had a debilitating fear of subtlety, this may well be the one play I could watch over and over with threat of discomfort. They hit us over the head with everything they had. Thankfully, they didn't have much.
So, I'm sorry. I'll try to pick better next time. And bring snacks.
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3 comments:
Oh my God. Did He ever create the funniest sarcasm in your brain. You are too much. I showed your sunset picture to my friend Marni last night and "repentance" caught my eye... so I hit it... and dang. It was so funny I read it again this morning to Barb at work and she loved it. All I have to tell her now is "I found another one on that blog" and she gets up and comes over to my desk to hear it.
Thanks, and that touches on a bit of a nerve. I have been thinking lately that I am really, really short of funny posts. Don't get me wrong... I like deep stuff and I really enjoy putting up pictures, but I found myself wondering today if I could force funny. I may just give it a shot.
Now that I think about it, though, the most frightening part of this is that I think this is the only post about repentance that I have. Hmmmm.....
Well... you were funny today in your Friday rant... I read that to Barb and she laughed (so did I).
My latest funny story is of my airport adventures on that Vancouver weekend. But it sounds better when I tell it than write it. You might be working on your personal hygiene tasks before I finish. But here goes.
First: I went to the bloody wrong airport. For the first and hopefully only time in my life. Since when do Canada flights leave from San Jose instead of SFO? Since never. I got there, handed over my boarding pass, and the lady tells me I'm at the wrong airport. I freaked. "What can I do? What can YOU do?" She said, well, you're already checked in, so go get a cab and good luck.
Do you know anything about rush hour traffic in the San Francisco Bay Area? On the dreaded Highway 101 between San Francisco and Silicon Valley? Yeah, luck is what you need, alright. The only things in our favor were God and the carpool lane. And my plane was taking off in exactly one hour. Normally it's an hour drive, forget checking in.
So I got a cab, explained the dire situation, and told that guy, "you gotta drive like you've never driven before, and I'm gonna sit here and pray!" Which I did. I prayed all the way, in desperate authority, that the road would open before us, that no cops would come, that I would get on that plane on time, and when I saw the worst road rager in my entire life, I prayed he wouldn't cause an accident or hurt us, and I even called 911 on the dude. I'm no freeway traitor, but at that level of insane driving, the guy needed to be ratted on for his own safety.
Amazingly, we got there in 40 minutes. A miracle. I ran. I dumped out all the liquid birthday gifts in my bag (sniff!) and ran through the check. I had 10 minutes before the flight was to leave. I discovered it was 10 minutes late and hadn't even boarded. Wow. Thank you, God... I called my sister to tell her of the change in airports, and some guy heard me admitting my dumb mistake. He looked at me like I was a world-class idiot. Why thank you. I certainly feel like one. But I also made it nonetheless, so there.
For the return: I was at the airport early, everything's cool, I've done the YVR at least 25 times, no sweat. Takes less than 20 minutes to get to the gate, so I stopped for coffee, fixed my hair, strolled around comparing prices on maple syrup and enjoyed life.
Except that I'm somehow not getting to the gate. What's this concourse C, and D, and freaking E? Where is freaking concourse E? I've never seen concourse E. It's Olympic expansion or something, and I'm supposed to follow these obscure American flag symbols on random temporary walls and hanging signs and trees and on dogs and stuff, like a scavenger hunt, hoping it will somehow lead me to my country. I'm going through a maze of little halls, it's Alice and the rabbit hole of doors and tunnels. What the heck.
It's getting late. I'm walking faster. I go through an extra security check, where the guard is all snide at me and makes me throw out my coffee for no reason, then asks me sweetly if I finished it. Sometimes I really hate being an American in Vancouver. I tell him just as sweetly, "of course not!" and move on. I go through another rabbit maze of doors. Another official decides he's the gracious king and I'm the meanest person on earth, citizen of the Great Selfish Satan, and should be treated accordingly. I even go through yet another passport check with the same creepy girl who purposefully scared the crap outta me when I shakily got on my first flight home from Vancouver after 9/11. I had been so aghast at her shameless emotional torturing that I had wanted to scream at the time. But I hadn't seen her since. I'm loving this. She still has hate in her eyes. My stomach's churning. I pray to bless and forgive her and then keep running.
Finally just minutes before the flight, I get to gate. It's so far back, it's in Washington State. The gate attendant is standing in the middle of the walkway waiting for me and calls me by name. Thank God. I cry out to her, "what, do they hate us or something, putting us way back here?!" She bursts out laughing and nods her head in sympathy. Bless her heart. It's true, I tell you. I can just hear the Olympic planners talking about expanding the airport. "So, eh, we'll add a couple of concourses, right? And we'll make the Americans get confused and lost and walk the farthest, you know?" (snicker snicker)
I get on the plane and every attendant knows my name. They can even pronounce it right. I'm a celebrity. My glory train moves to the back of the plane, where they show me to my seat, show me where they saved space for my bag, tell the world that I'm safely on the plane... wow. Next thing you know, they're going to break out in applause. From the scum of the earth to the celebrated last passenger through a door kindly held open, it was quite an hour. I almost expected the pilot to come down the aisle and shake my hand for finding the plane and getting past three Yankee-haters. Frankly, I think I deserved the congratulations for my perseverance. It was harder than the 10k race the day before. But for some funny reason, nobody else had this problem....
Ok, so I'm not Heather, but she's always there for your inspiration. Let's go read her blog instead. She'll restore your punchiness. Or you could watch the key scene in Bruce Almighty (so satisfying when you feel wronged, I think I'll watch it tonight) or the latest release of Veggie Tales. Maybe they'll have another hysterical quote like "Hold me, Bob..." (which video was THAT?!)
Happy weekend...
the anonymous peanut gallery
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