I finally have my first shitty review. Whew! I’ve been sweating this moment, wondering how it would feel. So how does it feel? It doesn’t, really. Partially because the play has gotten great reviews everywhere else it has played and partially because I don’t ever base my opinion of myself or my talent on what other people think. If I did that, I would have been reduced to the “smartass bitch” label a long time ago and not developed any other personality traits. I do take umbrage, however, with the reviewer thinking that a pro-choice play is just preaching to the choir.
You want provocative theater at a new-play festival? How about challenging the audience’s politically correct assumptions for once?
Hmmm. That’s the rub about writing about issues that are politically charged. Not everyone can remove their opinion about the “issue” from their thoughts about the piece. I probably couldn’t. Then again, I’m not a play-reviewer. I’m a play-writer. Oh, and not everyone who goes to the theatre is pro-choice. For instance, I don’t think that male reviewer is.
Moving on, I need to remember never to go to Jimmie’s Place (ice house in the Heights) alone to see James’ band. I prefer to see live music by myself because I actually want to listen to the music and not have a screaming conversation. So I don’t invite anyone to go with me (except Robert because I know he’ll watch the show). Yeah, so last night I’m sitting at a table by myself, writing some bullshit in my notebook and enjoying the wine I brought from home when a DRUNK guy came over to me. I stress DRUNK because he started the conversation like this, “I’m soooooo fucked up.” Winner line, huh? I look over at him with what I assume is a testicle-withering look because he jumps back a bit. I tell him why I’m there (to see the band of the guy I live with) and he leaves. Ahhhh, peace.
But only for about five minutes. Then he’s back. This time, he sits down opposite me and directly in my line of sight. So I scoot over and ignore him. He keeps reaching for my hand and saying shit like, “I just want to touch you.” Yeah, buddy. I want to touch you too. On your ass. With my foot. But I’m wearing flip-flops and don’t want to get any of his creepy frat goo on me, so I don’t kick him in the ass. I ignore him. He ended up sitting there at least 30 minutes, repeating the cycle of saying he was fucked up, that he wanted to touch me, could he kiss me, why won’t I look at him, etc. I never respond. He finally left as the band was taking a break, shocking, and continued to work the room. Even the drunk bar ho (I say that as if there were only one there last night – no way!) would only casually talk to him. Grodie.