On a cool and rainy evening, still suffering post-election stress, Milton and I ventured out to see an off-Broadway play with a two hour and forty-five minute run-time including intermission. Following the advice of the old adage claiming a picture is worth a thousand words, posted below is our illustrated review.
Even though we agreed with the fundamental message of the play, which views this nation with a very jaundiced eye, it was peppered with sit-com style jokes that conflicted with the allegedly important drama that left us feeling detached since few of the characters were remotely believable. How many straight guys in New York would tolerate their live-in girlfriend carrying on an open affair with a lesbian in Boston for two years before getting teary and asking her to make a choice? I know the Straight Guys in My Orbit would likely ask these questions:
Straight Guys in My Orbit: Is the girlfriend hot? Any chance of a three-way?
She was attractive, but zero chance of a three-way.
I know that lesbians operate by a different set of rules, but some of us equate bisexual with bad news and bisexual living with a guy as total nightmare. This smitten lesbian character was extremely sexy, sane and smart … an unrealistic trinity, but I did enjoy the fantasy. Milton added, “I liked her boots.” The third scene between the two women was flooded with an ocean of cringe-inducing hysterical crying that was so over the top ridiculous, if we did not have dead center seats, we would have trampled each other jetting for the exit.
The guy sitting next to me did not return after intermission, prompting Milton to remark, “I envy him.” Milton was particularly annoyed with the use of news event video montage in-between scenes. He thought the sole purpose of this device was to distract us from the stagehands that were moving furniture. When this travesty concluded, Milton noted that it seemed to have several endings. I thought that the playwright could not decide which one to choose so she worked in a few. I would have killed all the characters to ensure no possible chance of a sequel.
As we left in a crowd of fellow disgruntled theatergoers I heard a woman remark:
Remarking Woman: That scene was particularly terrible.
Me: Did you hear what that woman just said, “That scene was particularly terrible”?
Milton: What scene was she referring to?
Me: I don’t know. Pick a scene.
Milton: For the $40 we blew on tickets, I wish we’d spent the night drinking and talking about the election. This weekend, I swear I’m going to do nothing but write every cliché I’ve ever heard in my life and call it a play. It can’t be any worse than this.
That threat made me cackle like a loon, until I reached my subway stop, for that was a sobering experience. I discovered my stop was closed. Deeming the precipitation not umbrella-worthy, I trudged six blocks in a cool mist that completely fogged my glasses. Visually impaired, I entered the next subway station with my hair inflated into a giant cloud of frizz. It was easily a foot wide on either side giving me the appearance of a latter day Larry Fine on hair steroids.