Happy 4th of July! While I normally relish this cherished American holiday, I have to say the entire day was torturous. The only barbecue to which I found myself invited, was the slender-fingered Eric’s. Of course, he served nothing but ribs and pulled pork sandwiches, which after being subjected to the Easter hog, was absolutely repulsive to me. Moreover, I couldn’t drink away my lack of invitation to Ohranj’s cottage for the weekend, because I was obligated to attend my mother’s opening night, which, it must be noted was one of the most dreadful plays, I have ever had the displeasure of sitting through.
Imagine, if you will, everything that you hate about theatre nestled into one play, you will have fully realized exactly my mother’s play. First and foremost, the acting was absolutely painful to watch. I felt no clear emotion coming from anyone, save the one man my mother was so quick to judge as being melodramatic. At least I could tell what he was trying to portray. Everyone else was just a wash of emotion, hoping that something would translate. Secondly, the dialogue was horrifying. I swear they let anyone call proclaim “playwright” these days!
What I found to be most confounding was not that the play was long boring, had unrealistic dialogue, or that the storyline was muddied with anticlimactic minutia, but that someone actually thought that this would be an interesting play to produce! How could anyone have ever read this piece of garbage and decided that it was going to give their theatre a reputation of anything other than substandard? Am I the only one that understands in order to put anything on stage it must be at the very least something that people are going to want to see?
Lastly, and this a point of extreme importance, the play was three hours long and there was no way to excuse oneself to the bathroom without walking across the stage. I was forced to crawl through the stadium like seating and through a lovemaking scene to relieve my bladder as the only other option was to sit through the hideous play with soaked pants. When I went to the bathroom a second time, I heard someone groan at me as if I had a choice.
Afterwards, my mother asked us to accompany her to the opening party at the bar next door. I did my best to be polite but had almost nothing left in my gas tank, certainly not the kind of strength that was needed to feign delight and genuine marvel. I did the best I could to express to my mother that she was wonderful and then I disappeared before I could be pulled aside by anyone else involved in the production looking for praise and attention.
I guess I must simply come to grips with the fact that I’m living in a world that consists of mostly idiotic, mundane, complacent drones and that only a very select few can call themselves genius. This must be the frustration that overachievers call the anger of unfulfillment.