I think I like this city

Nothing I ever create could be complete without some spooktacularly foreboding religious imagery.


Or without a little smirk to undermine it. Confessions by appointment? Let's see if I can squeeze one in if I bump up lunch at the Club...

St. Patrick's, ladies and gentlemen (New York's is bigger)

So here's what's up, I've seen a handful of shows since I've gotten to D.C., and I have to say I'm beginning to like this city more and more. There's a lot going on and it seems like there's a lot of opportunities. If my descriptions of what I've seen don't live up to that comment about liking the city, don't think much of it. I would compliment myself on having an astute, critical eye. Now allow me to tear into this shit.

The first thing I attended was a sit-in of a spacing rehearsal (when the actors are fit the blocking they've learned in a studio space onto the stage with the full set for the first time) at the National Shakespeare Company. The production was of The Alchemist by Ben Jonson. I found this opportunity through Terry's theater, and I assumed it would be attended by a few local actors interested in seeing a professional rehearsal - I cannot understand what else anyone might get out of attending one of these. To my surprise, however, the theater was packed with wealthy D.C. dilettantes. The people on my right were complaining about their seats, of all things. We're watching a slow, tedious rehearsal, not a performance, my lovelies. And those on my left were getting upset when actors missed certain brand new pieces of blocking. Believe me, it's not so easy keeping blocking in mind while reciting memorized classical text on a new set in front of 200 gawking porpoises. And, much to my wonderment, the voyeurs thought everything the director said was a joke. Before the first run, he asked the lead actor if it would be easier for him to enter if the sliding door was already open. The crowd went wild. Not a joke, crew. Brain-dead white collars aside, the experience was a good one and certainly made me want to see the production, unfortunately I'll be in NYC by the time it opens.

That same afternoon I went to see an adaptation of A Picture of Dorian Gray at the Roundhouse in Bethesda, which had been written up in several papers as being graphic, explicit, and crossing every line. It lived up to all of that. Much of it's graphic nature was effective, though some of the violence was over-the-top if not gimmicky. What really fell flat for me was the depiction of the portrait itself. Even early on, it's built up for half of a scene to be the artist's finest work, but when revealed to the audience, is little more than an apt depiction of Gray. Of the three subsequent reveals of the portrait as it ages grotesquely, one of them fires on all cylinders and is very effective but the others don't live up to the status granted them by the text.

Later that night I met a friend at a concert. He works at an old folks home now, which he loves because, as he puts it, "old folks don't have stress: all their deadlines are passed." The concert, unbeknown to me, was part of the Sonic Circuits Festival; a tour of sound artists that I would hesitate to call musicians, and perhaps they would too. The first duo made me want to die. The second act, one man, a keyboard, and a laptop, was more listenable, but I suspected he was just playing Minesweeper up there. The third group (and the last I saw) was a group called Health, from California, whose contagious and unflagging energy pulled me in despite their noise-rock sound, which is not my thing. In the end I had a very enjoyable time. Imagine Bjork singing backup for Metallica doing island covers of Animal Collective songs.

Finally, just this evening I went to see Black Pearl Sings! at Ford's Theater (where Lincoln was killed, yes that Ford's Theater), a show that should not have an exclamation mark, with a new friend, one of Terry's fellow apprentices, Rachel, who will forever remember me as the person who can astonishingly drink a 20 oz. pop in one sitting. The story was about a music historian in the 1930's trying to document old folk songs ("every time someone dies a library is destroyed," or something, she says. That probably shouldn't be in quotation marks. Oh, well. Sorry, playwright Frank Higgins) and finds a veritable gold mine in the incarcerated "Pearl" Johnson. Much of the dialogue was awkward: both characters talked a lot about what they wanted and laid exposition like floor tiles. However, both women gave exceptional performances and God damn can Tonya Perkins sing!

Music =
City by Billie the Vision & the Dancers
something by Health (check them on YouTube - seeing them is all the fun)
something by Faust (the headliners of Sonic Circuits, whom I missed)

Today, TBWCYL said to go without addictive substances and, while I did have coffee and soda, I refrained from crack, meth, heroin, and cocaine.

Rock over Atlanta, rock on Chicago
Beggin' Strips, Dogs don't know it's not bacon.