So tonight The Lovely Rhonda and I attended a stage production beloved the world over which, for reasons of wishing to avoid unnecessary stern correspondence from copyright infringement attorneys, I’ll refer to here as “Liverpants.”
Once, long ago when we were young and I was far more foolish than I am now, I confessed (possibly in a drunken whisper, although I can neither explain, confirm, or deny this) that should a polished stage production featuring sprightly Caucasians jigging around in short costumes to vaguely Celtic music ever come to town, I could possibly be interested in attending. Thus technically only one of us was really attending voluntarily, although TLR pointed out that she does these things for me because she loves me and wants to be happy.
Should the opportunity present itself again, however, she will be staying home on account of that one time in the first half of the show where she rested her head on my shoulder briefly and whispered, “I am dying inside.”
Featuring as it did a great deal of ominous narration about the sun and the moon and the various things the sun and the moon meant to the hapless primitive villagers of the unnamed lands alluded to therein, I was prepared for a lot of woo-woo New Age crap, and to be sure there was a bit of it, but pretty soon we were all settling in for what we all came for: white people tap dancing in the most repressed way possible, i.e. without moving anything above and including the pelvis. This was punctuated by musical numbers occasionally featuring, unfortunately, a soprano saxophone which thanks to a certain curly haired guy popular in the mid-1980’s is pretty much the kiss of easy listening death to the American audience. Nonetheless we all soldiered on.
It went as one might expect, with nicely syncopated lines of fit young dancers tippity-tapping their way across the stage so effortlessly that I wanted to take off one of my orthopedic shoes and lob it at them in old-lady irritation. At one point they brought out a couple of black guys and had a somewhat comedic dance-off between them and a trio of Irish guys.
I could picture the auditions: “Can ye merely throw your ankle above your head without bending anything, and does this velvet bodice fit ye?”
I did get scolded briefly by a Nice but Firm Usher Lady who informed me that Photography Is Strictly Forbidden despite the fact that I have taken probably a hundred photos in this very auditorium. The offending photo, displayed here for your viewing pleasure, was of a friend who happened to be seated directly below us in the box seats.
It was a good show despite the soprano sax and the mean lady who scolded me, and TLR dying inside, and the only other things I have to say are that I saw a guy in the lobby wearing flip-flops even though it’s in the 30’s tonight, plus also we park near the stage entrance so we often mill through the performers as they leave the building so we saw a lot of the dancers and dear God are they thin. I supposed if you’re going to regularly throw your leg over your own shoulder you’d better be. We wanted to make conversation: “Is it true you can lick the back of your own knee? Asking for a friend.”