Blogging the Fringe

Travel Notes: Homecoming

2007-08-31T19:20:00.000+01:00

Sleep

In a brave effort to not inconvenience anyone except for myself (self-martyrdom: what’s the point unless you tell people about it?), I decided to sleepover at New York’s JFK airport and catch my flight westward ho! the following morning. Misery loves company, and I found comfort in other travelers, similarly arranged like castaways, orphans, and post-traumatic victims in every corner of terminal 4. The devil’s playthings, kids if you insist, spent the entire night alternating between shrieking and yelling; a morning investigation of the premises uncovered a regrettably convenient gaming area, ironically designated as the “Fun Zone.”

I drifted in and out of consciousness, quite literally between a rock and a hard place. It was the most uncomfortable night of my life, at least since the time I accidentally dragged my friend to an Evangelist Haunted House (have you ever seen the Holy Spirit?). Still, sleeping on a slab of concrete can be an elucidating experience. For one, cramping pain made me aware of muscle groups I never even knew I had. The following morning I decided to self-medicate with the world’s most expensive banana ($1.07) because I figured that perhaps this most recent extraction will override my other, more corporeal, senses. After all, it’s mind over body…and I’m convinced that the fruit was O-R-G-A-N-I-C (so totally worth it!).

Pins

In line with me was an ordinary 20-something girl with an ordinary black purse that housed an eye-catching pin. In red, bold letters, it brightly read: “I suck cock.”

Needless to say, it launched me into the most thoughtful reverie…What motivates someone to get a pin like that?

Is it a proud declaration of what she likes to do? A sardonic comment on what women are expected to do? An advertisement of what she will do, in place of the popular (but so 1950’s) “Am fertile and ready” tees?

Her boyfriend was with her, and I marked the affectionate placement of his left hand. Maybe the pin was a gift from him? Was he attempting to encourage her to expand her bedroom repertoire? A reward for having done exactly that (like those buttons you get for having finished a Vermonster)? Could it have been intended as a bragging message to other boyfriends (“don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?”)?

I couldn’t help myself (no surprise there) and actually ended up tapping the girl on her (ordinary) shoulder and inquiring about the nature of the pin’s obviously cryptic message. Unfortunately, she did not seem to understand the question and merely giggled whimsically in its direction. I would have (for the sake of the truth!) been tempted to ask again, but at that very moment the line advanced, and we were forever separated to different ticketing agents.

There are some things we were never meant to know.

There should be a Twilight Zone episode about this.

Signs

If you find yourself in an airport and a line that says “check-in” you might see a sign at the front of that line instructing you that “check-in” for domestic flights is only 30 minutes prior to the flight. One would think that the two signs were related, that the instructions are clear...

DO NOT BE DECEIVED!!!

This sign is apparently a mirage cleverly designed to make you miss your flight while you leisurely eat your croissant, only to realize at the next to last minute that your flight has just been called for final boarding. You race to get through security without your panicked sweaty face arousing suspicion and force the airplane to wait while security gives you an extra forceful pat-down. Dodging critical glances from the clever skeptics that have already boarded, and sharing sympathetic “hurry!” exclamations with your fellow duped sprinters, you will spend the majority part of your layover on hold waiting to argue with dark-side-of-the-force Northwest agents about the idiocy of putting up misleading signs.

"It was perfectly clear that we meant that you should be at the GATE 30 minutes prior to your flight."

Learn from my mistakes, trust no one

America for Me

2007-08-30T23:57:00.000+01:00

I'm leaving, leaving, gone from Edinburgh. It would have been a tearful parting if it were not for the fact that my eyes were too bloodshot tired to bother to cry at 6 am. I spent the morning frantically rushing around trying to find my passport instead of reminiscing (I was very sly in hiding it in the last place I looked). In the movie version of my life, the departure would have been marked by a montage scene of all of the “good times”, and after kissing my wayward lover adieu, I would have said a more Gaelic goodbye to proud Scotland (whose somber grey stone likewise did not shed a tear for me). All this would have been set to a beautifully sorrowful Lord-of-the-Rings soudntrack (as the camera zoomed over and through the landscape).

After almost a month away, I am feeling particularly patriotic and miss the comfort of saying “fries” and having people know what I mean.

America for Me
by Henry Van Dyke

’Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down Among the famous places and cities of renown, To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of their kings — But now I think I’ve had enough of antiquated things.

So it’s home again, and home again, America for me! My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be, In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Oh, London is a man’s town, there’s power in the air; And Paris is a woman’s town, with flowers in the hair; And it’s sweet to dream in Venice, and it’s great to study Rome; But when it comes to living... there is no place like home.

I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled; I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled; But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way!

I know that Europe’s wonderful, yet something seems to lack: The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back. But the glory of the Present is to make our Future free — We love our land for what she is and what she is to be.

Oh, it’s home again, and home again, America for me! I want a ship that’s westward bound to plough the rolling sea To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Ths is the way the world ends

2007-08-28T15:38:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was the last day of the Fringe Festival, and though some of the shows are running longer in hopes of squeezing out an overlooked pound, most are packing up and leaving town. Unguarded drum sets and stage equipment is sprinkled on the streets and watching some packing efforts is akin to that gag with too many clowns in too small a car. Churches, bathrooms and student drill halls are emerging out of this shanty town of theater venues and the Fringe Shop hangs a "sale" sign in the window. Banners are being collapsed down, posters stripped, and High Street has opened again to its regularly scheduled traffic.

Tourists are also leaving in waves, and slowly from around the corners, emerge the locals who have been patiently waiting to prove their loving consistency to Edinburgh.

I know it’s a belated realization, but the city is a wealth of amusement without the tacky tartan tourist traps and, dare I say it? Even without the festival.

From Edinburgh Castle (the focal point of the city around which everything else merely sprawls like so much volcanic ash…Scotland’s answer to the Acropolis), Holyrood Palace, Arthur’s Seat, hide-and-seek in Ikea, the Zoo, Sheep’s Heid, graveyard tours, pub crawls, coffee shops that sing their connection to Harry Potter, University Fresher’s week around the corner, and “so much more” being the only cliché capable of freeing me from a seemingly endless list.

For me however, with only another day of wonderfully aimless wandering, my summer seems to end here.

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

University of Edinburgh Residence Hall

THEATER REVIEW- WitTank: A Different Kettle of Fish

2007-08-27T17:26:00.000+01:00

This 5-person Durham University sketch comedy troupe is brimming with talent, originality, and a “best of” show that has already separated the wheat from the shaft (umm...chaff).

The skits resembled live-action comic strips, with the last frame joke delivering fantastic one-line punches right on the funny bone. The show operates on a machine-gun delivery: rapid fire with the few dud scenes quickly forgotten in the transition to a new set-up. The sketches were absurd, contrived, burlesque, and easily some of the freshest material I have ever seen. Some of the highlights involved talking beers, pain medication, death row inmates, and a song about the dangers of haircutting.

There were, admittedly, a handful of dour looking members in the audience after the show, “Was that supposed to be funny?” one peevishly asked. WitTank, despite the raves of its most rampant fans, is not a “one size fits all” prescription for humour. It does not necessarily cater to those looking for incisive social commentary, political jokes, and routines on dating, terrorism, or anything that would be described as “challenging.” But if you’re looking for some sharp unadulterated silliness, this definitely beats waiting for your friends to get funny.

And that’s my bottom line: see WitTank. They’re funnier than your friends.

My favourite headline calls the incident a “Wee Problem”

2007-08-27T13:24:00.000+01:00

Dan Blackner, known to his friends and co-workers as “The Demon Dwarf” in the Circus of Horrors here at the Fringe Festival, was recently hospitalized for gluing a vacuum cleaner to his most private of privates.

The main part of his performance involved dragging the vacuum cleaner across the stage with his member, but when the prop broke before the show, silly Dan attempted to quickly repair the problem without waiting for the glue to properly dry.

More information can be found here.

I foresee a national speaking tour in high schools across the country warning teens about the dangers of interchangeable parts, damn you Eli Whitney!

Number Games

2007-08-26T20:58:00.000+01:00

Five shows I just made-up, but now want to see performed at the Fringe:

A lonely hooker gets a pet crab who turns out to be the reincarnation Shakespeare. He does not approve of her night job and they fight bitterly until she gets tired of debating her morals and cooks him.

A scowling kid doesn’t believe his mother when she tells him that his face is bound to stay that way. When he gets sick, she feels badly for lying. At some point, there is a picnic, a bear, and a horribly contorted permanent freeze-frame of a scream.

A condensed version of the Trojan War in which everyone is a gay, tap dancing chicken.

Scientists find out that copious amounts of alcohol actually do make you smarter and everyone is forced to apologize for having doubted me.

A theatrical cross between Ten Things I Hate About You and Snakes on a Plane.

Four common ways in which people try to get you to part with money:

Shame

“Tippers make better lovers”

Guilt

“Homeless with two hungry kids”

Humor

“Out-of-work Ninja”

Camaraderie

“I’m just like you…except that you have money”

Three things that clearly deserve their very own festival:

Ice Cream

Is Dipping Dots really the Ice Cream of the future? Do they survey fish when they make Phish Food? Do they know that the word is spelled wrong? Is it supposed to be an acronym? What’s up with astronaut ice cream?

Mullets

If it’s all business in the front and party in the back, what happens when mullets turn sideways? Is the illusion ruined? How does the community feel about their commonly mocked position in pop-culture reference?

Carnies

.

I want to know who the bearded woman is dating

Two Scottish proverbs I plan to insert into future conversations:

A hungry man smells meat far.

Ye'll sleep yer brains inta train oil.

One fabulous perk to seeing theater by yourself:

You will always get a great seat, even if you’re late. This is because many couples are uncomfortable sitting directly next to other couples and they usually leave a seat in between. To them, casual shoulder-to-shoulder closeness feels dangerously like swinging. But don’t worry--- since everybody loves a threesome, that third row center seat is all yours.

While some people count sheep, I prefer to get a little bit more creative with my number games. Does anyone else have ideas for lists?

Mo Money Mo Problems

2007-08-26T20:17:00.000+01:00

A long, long time ago, in the days when all marriages were happy, kids respected their elders, and students walked to school uphill both ways, Fringe tickets were dirt cheap. One could see any show for less than 3 quid; even with a schedule of 6 shows in one day, festival goers would still have enough money left over for some color-me-bland fish ’n’ chips. But with women’s rights, the advent of hip-hop, and decreasing family values… things have changed (and not for the better, please reference the failed back-to-the-kitchen movement).

Ticket prices have been climbing steadily for the past couple of years, and average prices now hover around £8-£10 pounds, with many shows even soaring to the £15 pound range. The days of reasonable affordability, theater “sampling,” and fringe overdose, seems to have been replaced with conservative penny pinching selectivity. Couple that with the decreasing value of the American dollar (currently at 2.183 dollars/pound), and many theater lovers have been forced to sell their kidneys and/or children on E-bay (the latter being a nicer way of saying “mini-kidneys”).

There are some rebels who operate on the outdated flower-child notion of “free.” Peter Buckley Hill’s Free Fringe and the competing Laughing Horse Free Festival, both offer tens of dozens of shows at no charge (the very definition of “free”) in 10 different venues across the city. Last year the two promoters had joined forces, but this year split due to highly controversial (and well publicized) acrimony. See? Divorce, everyone’s doing it.

The problem is a complex multilayered little onion which is the only ingredient used to cook up shows like “Che Guevara on the Fringe” (out of oppression comes art) and their routine of reminiscing, forecasting and enthusiastically offering a very modest proposal like, say, a violent revolution?

The problems, debated vigorously in pubs across the city, are as follows:

Too big

The festival offers an absurd amount of shows (2,050) and has now outgrown its capacity to fill seats. The theatergoing population is thinned out to below breaking-even numbers by the sheer amount of options.

Too expensive

Tickets are dear enough to be “out-of-reach” for many theatergoers, but often times, it’s not the performers who are pocketing the money. Venues, with their own profit margin agenda, are charging up front booking fees which desperate companies are trying to recoup in ticket prices. No one is sure who is duping whom, and every bushy tailed amateur is told the fabled fairytale of how Edinburgh is paved with five-star reviews made out of gold…Scotland’s “capital” is the place to make it.

Too commercial

The Smirnoff sponsored Underbelly is one example of the Evil Empire (note how they try to legitimize their street-cred by insisting that their walls are "dilapidated" and "crumbling") . It has expanded from 2000 to three venues, 140 shows, and their ‘McFringe’ approach to making money (::gasp::) is problematic for smaller venues that are, in the cliché story of corner mom ‘n’ pop shops, slowly pushed out of business. The other type of commercialization involves the types of show that the Fringe is hosting. With big-name draws like Ricky Gervais charging £37.50 for his show at the thousand-seat Castle, first-time theater companies and performers are marginalized out of the very festival that had promised to give them a chance.

THEATER REVIEW- Che Guevara on the Fringe - Evonne Keron Strikes Back

2007-08-26T19:30:00.000+01:00

“Che Guevera on the Fringe: Evonne Keron strikes back” is a strange brew offering and one of the 320 or so odd shows part of the Free Festival/Fringe movement. Though 90% of the free program is typically composed of start-up-stand-ups, this particular three-man (and one was a woman) variety show is a staple of the fringe. Already in its third year incarnation, it combines adapted musical numbers from Evita, video footage, and sci-fi absurdity to mock the rising costs and commercialization of the Fringe. We, the audience were proudly thrifty (or rather, not so proudly poor, comrade), and most crowded onto the stained bar-room floor with an insider’s glee (Look, look, we’re part of the movement!). What was at best a delivery on the program’s promise of a “half-arsed” plotline, the jokes were enthusiastically flat, though played to people who were already in the mood to laugh at the insane shtick and by those who themselves couldn’t stop cracking up. Wigs, dresses, Darth Vader mask, fake beards, traveling through space by twirling, death by flyering, liberally sprinkled in with Marxist commentary and Ricky Gervais jabs.

The best part of the show was far and away the walking tour that followed the indoor performance, when everyone rowdily piled out of the Green Room, and onto the streets around Cowgate. Led by comedian Kieran Butler on megaphone and Austin Low flanking the back with a red Che flag, the tour included colourful fringe-politics commentary and a series of dance exercise which you can see in the above video; we are practicing sting-like-a-butterfly footwork while expressing the cynical eye-opening disappointment that the Fringe is for some poor tourists and even poorer tourists, “this-is-not-what-I-thought-it-would-be!” Judging by our ragged crew of hippies, it was preaching to the choir.

We actually took the gag to a ticket line in which we united in a chorus of “What do we want? Free tickets! When do we want them? Now” only to be met with unsympathetic blinking and blank expressions (perhaps the clone army stories are true?).

More "undercover" pictures from both the show and the revolution are here.

Storyboard

2007-08-25T19:55:00.000+01:00

Parking violations are taken pretty seriously during the festival.

If you study the following pictures carefully, you can probably use your imagination for the accompanying swearing, yelling, and hair-tearing.

On the bright side, it's a great way to encourage the use of public transportation and walking.

Singing for your Supper

2007-08-25T19:04:00.000+01:00

If Napoleon Dynamite and that kid from Superbad decided to start a two man ukulele band that both practiced, and rocked out, on the streets of Edinburgh, it would look a little something like the above video.

Among the performers and flyers of the Royal Mile, this little bit of homegrown fun is irresistibly campy. I pass them almost every day, but this time decided to stop and realized that the little button on the side of my camera is for “record.”

Enthusiastically singing Dr. Hook’s classic “On the Cover of Rolling Stone,” these two ne’er-do-wells prove that not all musicians are getting laid…

…sometimes, it’s just about the music, man.

On a side note, I was so impressed with myself for "discovering" the ability to create moving pictures that I started jumping and giggling in what could have been misinterpreted as girlish enthusiasm and hot-to-trot fever.

The truth is out: I’m a sucker for the ukulele.

Tina Turner and Turnips

2007-08-24T16:22:00.000+01:00

I was at the Big Value Comedy I was at the Big Value Comedy Show last night and during the intermission, the audience was asked to write down their impromptu answers to the question:

“What is the difference between Tina Turner and a Turnip?”

The funniest answer would win the coveted prize: a free beer.

Here were the ones that were read out loud:

“Tina Turner has breasts.” (Submitted by the 12 year old in the front row)

“One looks like they’ve just been dug up from the ground, and the other is a turnip.”

“I don’t know, but I wiped my cock on this paper.”

“I would pay more money for a turnip.”

Mine was hilarious, but like many other misunderstood jokes that were made a little “too soon”, this one was also loudly booed:

“A turnip never refuses a good ‘beet’ing.”

eh? eh? ::nudge, nudge::

Maybe they just didn’t get it?

Here was the champion answer:

“The turnip is a tuber grown in temperate climates, 1-6 cm in length, and is often mistaken for a vegetable. And by the way, Tina Turner is a singer.”

How very droll.

After returning home bitter and 3 pounds poorer (having paid for my own beer), I spent more time than I would care to admit online researching tubers, turnips and generally trying to invalidate the winning joke.

My every day is a learning experience.

How is your internship?

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

2007-08-24T14:18:00.001+01:00

I don't claim to have captured the "essence" of Edinburgh, but I did take a bunch of low-quality digital photographs.

I will keep adding more albums to this site regularly, so if you’re interested (why wouldn't you be?), definitely check back.

Let me know if you have any requests for seeing specific pictures (cobbled streets, Scottish dogs, dark beers, broken bikes) while I'm here!

Local Lingo

2007-08-24T13:56:00.000+01:00

Some colorful useful phrases I am trying to pick up on....

Suspenders: women’s pantyhose garters
Garters: men’s sock garters
Braces: suspenders
Nobs: twats, idiots
Total Tip: Utter mess
Chatting up: Flirting (I figured out this one all by myself)
Chuffed: Pleasantly surprised, pleased
Major Session: Drinking...a lot
Pissed: Drunk
Pulling: Hooking up

Pulling (being pulled, having pulled) can range the spectrum from a simple kiss to the kind of poetry they make explicit movies about. The word itself, pulled, implies a pre-existing resistance, which of course the young Don Juan or Siren must overcome through the sheer force of their sexual magnetism. It is a deliciously ambiguous notion, which connotes either triumphant conquest or false modesty.

The American version, hooking-up, is culturally speaking a more neutral concept. It is an activity people do together (hook-up), without the necessary designation of one of the individuals having been “hooked”. Nobody loses the struggle and still, everybody wins.

Sometimes I have nothing more to write, but want to get you into the habbit of checking by actually clicking "Continue Reading"

Pretty sneaky, huh?

Typecast

2007-08-24T13:34:00.000+01:00

While out of the country, try to avoid:

Self-righteous ex-patriots:

These are typically University students who think that they’ve somehow managed to solve all of the world’s ills by studying abroad, shopping at thrift stores, and figuring out how many generations they have to trace their family lineage back to count themselves European.

Self-loathing Americans:

American tourists with maple leaf luggage patches.

(I think they're afraid of what the BBC calls anti-American racism)

People who have actually bought the “Bush is Wanker” t-shirts:

Proceeds go straight toward Al-Qaeda training camps.

Anyone who has ever seen “Are you Smarter than a 5th Grader?”

Despite its completely representative sample size population and scientifically valid testing, it is not an undercover exposé on American retardation. These “jokesters” will mock you with brain-twister questions like, “Do you even know where Mexico is?” The only defense is to grin and bear it, “No idea, but the giant turd I left in your bathroom looks a little bit like Chile.”

Bathroom Humor is soooooo international.

Football Fans

No, you stupid ugly American! NOT the kind where boys throw an oddly shaped pig and hide their homoerotic tendencies, but REAL football. It is the great, elegant, all-consuming ballet of spirit, passion, and testosterone-induced head butting. While you only figure out how to pat ass, we give head! And now you have adopted washed-out pretty-boy David Beckham. Bah and good riddance. We needed him almost as a spice rack needs Posh.

Politics: War by other means

2007-08-24T13:31:00.000+01:00

Discussing politics in the United States is dangerous enough. Exchanges are often peppered with the equivalents of conversation landmines like:

“Yes, but what about the rights of the fetus?” or
“Everything will be better once Obama is elected” or
“I always say: ‘give unto Caesar.’”

You’re either dealing with:

a one-issue-voter,
the man Obama brought back from the dead or
a Jehovah’s Witness.

I don't actually know which one of these is worst.

Mine dodging depends on early detection of the warning signs, look for:

pieces of debris or blood stains (not exactly the ‘red badge of courage’)
a clammy color with residues of dirt (dead giveaway),
or showing up at your door with a Bible (why is never a pizza?).

It’s difficult, but there are at least techniques, methods of quick extraction, and those sporadic moments of intelligent insights that make the effort of engagement worthwhile. Ironically clarity usually comes at 3 am, with your new best friends, half-a-wine-bottle-in, day of exams; however you prove too radical for your obtuse Physics professor who does not appreciate the slightly slurred perspective on the inevitable tragedy of the two-party system (“They respond with an equal but opposite reaction!”)

I had to go abroad to discover my appreciation for red-blooded-blue-collared-white-America political discourse, because being reasonable about politics in the UK has thus far been mission impossible.

People hear the American accent and they immediately assume that you want to play devil’s advocate to their good-guy appeals to stop the Iraq war (two words: cheap gas), torturing prisoners at Guantanamo Bay (everyone needs a hobby), and eating all those hamburgers (I can taste the cow’s soul). They wonder out loud if everyone you know is obese, afraid of gay marriage, and the proud owner of an SUV with a Jesus-fish label. When will they realize that those particular groups of individuals don’t own passports? They’re smart enough to know that Europe is too thin, gay, and secular to warrant a visit.

All of a sudden complete moderates find themselves getting defensive and despite my best attempts at self-control, I assume a thick-skinned fourth-of-July patriotism. Being American is like having a little brother that is, admittedly, an occasional screw-up, but one that nevertheless only the immediate family should have the right to abuse.

All Downhill From Here--- Overheard in Edinburgh, Part 3

2007-08-24T13:28:00.000+01:00

Taking Precautions

Two teenage friends are crossing the pedestrian crosswalk on a red light.

Guy 1: Hey mate, let’s hurry it up…

Guy 2: Relax, don’t worry.

He gestures to the woman in front of them, also crossing the street in a wheelchair.

Guy 2: They won’t run us over if we’re with a chair!

Guy 1: I guess that makes sense.

Woman in Wheelchair: (under her breath) Really? How do you think I got the chair in the first place?

The two guys jog the rest of the way across.

There’s no place like home

Performer male: Three weeks of non-stop mania…I’m so fucking tired.

Performer female: I know what you mean.

Performer male: I just want…well, I want to go home and wank-off in my own bed again.

Performer female: Excuse me?

Performer male: Or your bed. I mean, I don’t care.

Sinking It

2007-08-21T15:28:00.000+01:00

The British people are only deceptively middle-of-the-road rationalists; underneath that veil of modernity lays the soul of archaic passion, of aggressive extremes.

“How do you know that?” You ask.

“Show us your evidence!” You demand.

I admire your skepticism.

The answer, dear Watson, is in the common yet underhand sink.

Though the world has long since invented combination faucets, miraculously able to streamline water and adjust its temperature even to the most whimsical of preferences, the British know better. They routinely scoff the idea as if it were another customary attempt to undermine the metric system.

The traditional UK contraption runs with only temperatures G-d fearing citizens need: cold and burn.

Your hands must navigate very quickly between the two and school kids everywhere learn some very important lessons:

Math: proportions of this much cold + that much burn = I might be able to wash my face

History: compromises are never painless procedures

Negotiation: on one hand cold, on the other hand burn

Persistence: two hands will serve one master

Humility: Who really needs to wash up anyway?

THEATER REVIEW- Xenu is Loose!!

2007-08-20T18:00:00.001+01:00

“Xenu is Loose! Cower puny Humans as the Dark Prince of the Galactic Federation rains Atomic Death once more upon your Pitiful Planet - The Musical!”

The best part of this show is a straight toss-up between its title, and the moments in which I anticipated the lights dimming…a joyful interval in which I imagined all of the wonderful jokes and songs a show with such a great title might include. Unfortunately, even cheeseball humour and mockery can be botched, a skill only comparable to that of my high school cafeteria--- which was the first to discover a way to ruin even cartons of pre-packaged milk (maybe I should turn this into a play?). The entire show lacked the energy, dialogue, humour, musical talent (huge loss, considering it was a musical) and all-out enthusiasm of classic B-movie favourites. I laughed regularly out of self-pity and at the two plain-clothes guitarists on either end of the stage; they were ridiculous bookends for the elaborate laser-tag game that unfolded.

This show is ridiculously fun to be indignant about and has created a sort of bond among all of its victims. Check out hilarious audience reviews here ....one even describes the experience as‘out of time, out of place, out of tune mind rape’!

THEATER REVIEW- Crave

2007-08-20T16:47:00.000+01:00

Four characters in various stages of nervous desperation and breakdown speak past each other in emotional spurts for 45 minutes, which felt like walking in on somebody else's two-hour therapy session (how much are we paying for this again?). I might have been tired going in, but I was utterly exhausted on the way out. The staging was Spartan and consisted of primarily shuffling chairs and crossing from one side of the floor to the other, in what was a grateful attempt at variety from misery. Sarah Kane’s script has been largely praised for its depth and resonance (it is with this play that she lost faith in love), but though the performances were heartfelt, the script may deserve a different adaptation or perhaps just a level of maturity and appreciation for the expressionist modern-theatre that I have yet to attain. Other reviews point out that if you were bored, then you have missed the point of the lyrical rhythm of the interwoven dialogues…in my defence, this was exactly the kind of rhythm that lulled me into sedation.

This is a sad moment in my life; I now know that I will never be truly high-brow.

Still, my personal takeaway high was the monologue on love in the middle of the piece, it was stand-alone beautiful (actor Edward Rice was killer). The show was received by a mixed audience, this is one you’ll either love, hate, or learn to grudgingly appreciate … with time, perspective, and a shot of espresso, I did exactly that.

denied "Denied"

2007-08-19T22:56:00.001+01:00

The controversial show "Denied" exploring Islamic fundamentalism, terrorism, and the nature of fear, has been recently cancelled for the rest of its Fringe run.

I was the only one who came in today with an issued ticket and was the last to be informed of the mysterious “falling-out” between two of the cast members.

This only serves to reinforce a long held belief: some of the biggest dramas are off the stage, not on.

If anyone has any details, I am curious....

(the better part of me of course regrets having missed the show and hopes that all is well).

A French Soul

2007-08-19T22:35:00.000+01:00

"Do you know what happens last night?"

My adorably French flatmate looks at me with a conspirator’s whisper.

“The new American girl, she has many DVD and we decide to watch, and then…”

A dramatic pause and a theatrical hand flourish.

“In the middle of the film….she gets on floor and starts to do…THE ABDOMINALS!”

I must look confused.

“Yes the abdominals! You know… up and down and up, her knees to her elbows…and you know, then when she finish, she sits there for 30 minutes, breathing like this: Whooo! Whooo! Whooo!”

There is a very serious exhibit of loud mock panting, while I discreetly suppress an urge to laugh.

“How we watch anything but her? Is just so rude…. This is American way?”

I guessed that for some it was common practice.

“But why you never do this?”

I shrug.

“I will tell you why exactly: Is because you are not so rude. You may have American eating habits,"

Now triumphant...

"But still a French soul!”

A Nuerotic Late-Night Ode to Love (in a less poetic form than the title unfairly implies)

2007-08-19T00:52:00.000+01:00

I fall in love on a regular basis, sometimes as much as twice in one hour, and often more, when the occasion justly calls for it. I fall in romantic love, platonic love, puppy love, and unrequited love---which, damn Cowley, is the actually the least vain. There is also let’s-poke-each-other-on-facebook love, carry-your-photo-in-my-wallet love, and all the 1,283 types of love the French claim to have invented.

I don’t consider it fickle so much as excessively passionate; the tendency stems not from a foolish inconsistency, but a penchant for turning people into blank canvasses for my overactive imagination.

I am a love-artist!

Some might claim that this is all anorexic love---that I am stretching the concept so thin, that it loses all meaning, all potency, the exclusion on which the foundation is based….

But, I do not starve my love...

The truth is that I don’t want to be limited and caged by the one-life-to-live dictum.

And I have found a loophole: I choose to love all of the possibilities of all of the lives I will never live and all of the people who that me, might love.

How utterly juicy is that?!

THEATER REVIEW- Play on Words

2007-08-18T23:44:00.000+01:00

‘Play on Words’ is often funny, occasionally frustratingly reductive, and always clever. This well-paced piece (a compliment that deserves its own sentence) follows playwright Fred and his goofball partner Eddie, as they recreate the episodic fragments of his relationship with a now missing Jen. The actors excel in a dramatic and professional performance, punctuated by the script’s ability to draw humor from the mundane in verbal tangents reminiscent of Abbott and Costello's “Who’s on first?” routine.

I really enjoyed the concept behind the flashback storytelling (literally unpacking memories like so many cardboard boxes), but wished that the resolution had been more of an expansion of Fred’s tunnel-vision, instead of just an unexpected twist (the classic “6th Sense” revelation). The momentum of every scene is deftly transitioned into the next; it is a commendably well-paced narrative.

Fred’s manic-depressive behavior drives away his two most important relationships, until he is alone, untethered in the spotlight on the expanse of the dark stage. It seems that at the center of the play is just a flawed, stressed, neurotic man apologizing for his variable behavior (mainly nervous breakdowns), vowing that things will be different, and hoping that they will actually go back to the way they were. Though this final imagery is indeed emotionally striking, it fails to deliver any resounding message or truth (perhaps this is where words, images, and script fail)? It is in this way that the play does not transmit the tenderness of “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” which in contrast draws its strength from the relationship at its core and uses the dialogue as window dressing, not buttresses. Additionally, Fred’s ultimate regret is discredited by his need for a psychiatric intervention; I was unsure of whom to fault with his unraveling, but the lesson could not have been simply “chill out man and keep your girlfriend,” could it?

Thought it bears the connotation of a patronizing high-five (slugger), I mean it most sincerely when I call this young company both a recorded success and an overflow of potential. I am so impressed (read: jealous) by their drive, talent….and you should check them out yourselves here.

Halfway Mark

2007-08-18T17:19:00.000+01:00

Edinburgh seems out-of-sorts today. The people handing out flyers have a grim sense of desperation in their eyes, while we, the viewing public, have made a game out of artful dodging and hanging permanently snide expression that says “Don’t you dare give me another one of those frikken flyers…I DO NOT RECYCLE.” Most people here are now red-eyed from a state of constant exhaustion and they only perk up long enough to trade hard guy stories on who is getting less sleep.

It might have been the steady sheets of grey rain (there is nothing sadder than a wet clown), or the universal effects of a Friday night hangover (what doesn’t kill you…), or perhaps this is the inevitable Fringe Burnout that accompanies the halfway point between start and finish.

I am trying to come up with a diagnostic list of qualifications for the official "Fringe Burnout" condition. So far, my checklist includes the following:

Your feet have developed calluses that a professional fire-walker would envy

There is a mountain of paper on your bed of all the Fringe shows you will never seen

You have forgotten what sleeping feels like, but you think it must be nice and are vaguely sure that it has something to do with all of those flyers on your…what do you call that thing again?

Nothing comes to mind when people ask for recommendations since all of the shows have now bled into one long, never-ending production entitled “The Red Rampant Rabbit Who Craved Lord Xenu in his Awkward Jihad against Fathers, Daughters and Purple Players: the Musical Cabaret”

You seem to run into the same 6 people over and over again, unfortunately you cannot remember their names and the nature of your relationship…You are also wearing somebody else’s socks and wonder if these things are related

Your dreams are in Scottish

Busy as a Bee

2007-08-17T15:18:00.000+01:00

When your new acquaintance tells you that they’re easily offended, it’s best to not to allow yourself to slip into a conversation in which you describe their work (astronomy) as glorified navel gazing. It would also be prudent to not continue the rant by calling space exploration a waste of your taxes, which should instead be going into something practical like affordable housing and getting the American currency back on top of world market exchange rates.

In my defense, it is because I have read “War of the Worlds” and am genuinely afraid that the aliens don’t like us.

Later, we went to a place called “The Hive” in which the dress code was strictly oversized black concert tees, ripped jeans, and high tops. The waggle bee dance was replaced by aggressive head banging in which the trick was to bend over far enough at the waist to swing your long hair without cleaning the beer-stained floor but still maintaining appropriately communicative angst. It was gloriously ritualistic and I was caught up by the anthropological gold I had discovered. Unfortunately, I was dragged away before finding out whether or not I could do as the Romans; good thing too, otherwise I would have probably ended up with a migraine and my own recreation of Amy Wineouse’s beehive.

I also had the pleasure of seeing Chris McCausland’s free standup routine at the Laughing Horse. He is the UK’s only blind comic and is quite comfortable joking about it, without making it a central theme of the show. He is likable, directs most of his humor at himself, and breaks the ice with a mock-serious warning about how much he hates smilers. Chris’s humor is quiet,sometimes slower than preferable, but well-woven into a routine that actually manages to keep its self-referential wit relevant.

From the Mouths of Babes

2007-08-17T14:07:00.001+01:00

Consumer Economics

Little Girl: Mommy, why are people drawing on the street?
Mother: Because they can’t afford paper.
Little Girl: But mommy, why are they collecting the money?
Mother: To buy more chalk.

A Fringe Performer in the Making

Little Boy: Biddy Biddy Bummmmm….Boo!
Father: What are you doing?
Little Boy: Practicing.

Science of Sleep

Little Girl: Can we go see that ugly monster’s show?
Father: I’m afraid you won’t be able to sleep afterward.
Little Girl: But I had no trouble sleeping yesterday during the show you and Mommy picked out!

THEATER REVIEW- The Rover

2007-08-16T20:25:00.001+01:00

The Rover, first produced in 1677, was rediscovered by the modern theater in the 1980’s. Since then, its author, Aphra Behn, has enjoyed (as much as one can enjoy things from over 300 years of top-soil) the modest notoriety that comes with being one of England’s first female writers. Her admirers include hip feminists with degrees in English literature, and she has apparently earned her place as the queen of amatory fiction, a predecessor to Romance novels (the sparse criterion for the genre being that they deal with love and are written for women by women). I believe that evolution has been kind to the amour; at least now stories chronicling the task of “shackling-the-notorious-playboy-to-your marriage-bed-through-nothing-but-the-use-of-your-womanly-good-looks-and-wit” does not involve several callously dismissible attempts at rape in the plot. My aversion to such “charming” scenes of the wild-child rover’s manly aggression, is clearly more modern than would have been advisable for the ideal reception of the script.

“The Rover” himself is a bawdy sailor named Willmore (played with a goodly amount of devil-may-care by Tom Hunter), out on the town cavorting with his friends. Among the party is the steadfast (a notable rarity) and unlucky Captain Belivile; his lady love, Florinda, is bound by the will of her forceful brother to marry another. Willmore is no slacker and in the short matter of two nights manages to seduce both Florinda’s sister, Hellena, and Angelica, a high priced courtesan. Mistaken identities cavort with broken vows in this fast-paced 90 minutes condensation of the original, which has lost nothing but its crippling dependency on patience in the adaptation. The dialogue is witty ("How the devil came you so drunk?” “How the devil came you so sober?"), but it is scarcely Shakespearian verse. A lighthearted comedy with a starkly gendered dichotomy that personally makes me resent the playful “all’s well that ends well” of which the entire time period reeks. At the same time, I am well aware at how the play could have been read in a very different light; at some point the unlucky fool Blunt vows to take his anger at one woman on all their wretched kind, and perhaps (after several more drinks and lessons in revisionist history) I can be taught to see that this is where Behn meant to suggest that stereotypes are wrong. All in all, amusing but underwhelming, perhaps I just can’t appreciate the good ol’ days as much as I should?

Reservoir Dogs by The Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre

2007-08-16T19:26:00.001+01:00

These lovable Scottish socks are performing at the Edinburgh Festival, check them out at the Gilded Balloon.

There is something so timelessly irresistible about sock puppets. Maybe it's because we've all made them? Personally mine never sounded this good and quite honestly, spent a lot of time shaking hands with my feet (which betray my puppetry ambitions by going very cold, very quickly...especially when deprived of their cotton warmers).

THEATER REVIEW- Attempt 3.4

2007-08-16T18:26:00.001+01:00

Attempt 3.4 is one of those shows more accurately termed an experience; critic Tom Powell at Broadway Baby aptly describes it as more of a “live art installation rather than theatre.” The cast lays out the ambitious and mystifying intent of constructing “the city” in 60 minutes. The posters describe the four as the “architects of the apocalypse” and I’m waiting for something mildly religious and the poster of a fireman makes me think that it will have a feel-good message about the nobility of the human spirit….not quite.

From the first step of demarcating the square outlines of their performance space, the cast extends an invitation to the audience to participate in the commencing abstraction. The rest of the show is an emotional drive-by through the chaotic, personal, emotional, sensitive, lovable, laughable, and pathetic. Imagine if you took a box of magnetic poetry, scattered the words on the ground, and spent the rest of the day picking up the pieces out-loud; every strand and loose thought is either the beginning of a Nicole Krauss novel, or just a stand-alone quirky statement of how a poodle’s diet gets their hair so curly (spaghetti). Particularly potent are the themes of needing another’s attention (a voyeuristic window crush is abandoned), to being invisible in our trembling secrets.

In the square there is form, rules, and in this, a meaningful freedom of creativity and raw expression that Raz-mataz failed in achieving through their contrastingly shapeless production.

THEATER REVIEW- Tara Flynn: Not Now

2007-08-15T16:40:00.000+01:00

Tara Flynn is part of a rare breed of comedians. Her jokes, like her tone, are warm, friendly, are NOT MEAN-SPIRITED. The routine is conversational story-telling and draws liberally from her Irish background and family. The entire hour is shockingly devoid of cheap shots at sex, bathrooms, or how much she hates _________ (fill in the blank with blatantly offensive cultural icon).

Her stories evoked more amusement than belly-laughter and I was much more interested in her witty contrasts of the new and the old, rather than simple teary-eyed nostalgia for the past. I wanted to hear more about her experiences dating as a middle-aged woman, but that may have been more of my own curiosity for a one-woman rendition of coupling, than a true criticism of the show. She spent too much time meeting the audience and dissecting an early cracker commercial, but overall I left the show feeling as PB&J satisfied…not the most mature or complicated meal, but strangely comforting.

The Jazz Bar

2007-08-15T15:56:00.000+01:00

Last night we went to the The Jazz Bar on Chamber Street. The red lighting was appropriately swank, the crowd dapper (I played "I spy" for fedoras, vests, and a Spanish Nancy Sinatra). I was having a great time even before the joyful discovery of abandoned birthday cupcakes on the bar (complete with chocolate musical notes adorning their red-glazed keys).

We managed to hoard an impressive number of candles on our small table and Richard, the man behind me explained his brilliant idea of how to make a cat float,

"You know how cats always land on their feet?"

"Right?"

"And how buttered toast always lands the buttered side down?"

"Oookay..."

"Well, it's easy, see? You butter the cat on his back, attach a knife to his tail, and teach him to modify the amount of butter in order to raise or lower his position mid-air."

"That is insane."

"No. That is a great way to make him a butter hunter."

"What?"

"A better hunter."

"You said 'butter'"

"Oh."

We missed the main show of the Tony Monaco Organ Trio, but got to hear the Ohio native on his Hammond B3 in the late night jam session. Tony Monaco is a genius; the instrument wailed, moaned, and jazzed something beautiful underneath his skilled hands. Even more exciting was watching his face: mouth open, mustache dancing, skin beaming, eyes squint shut or open, winking and grinning like a kid-caught-in-the-candy-dish when he extended his solos for the pleased “ahey-yeah!” of the crowd.

Musicians are blessed with the ability to speak in universal languages no matter where they go, and the open jam featured among others Italian Giuseppe on the guitar, Scottish Alan on the slide-trombone, another American, Willy, on vocals…an entire UN convention of jazz. “You understand me man!” Willy nodded, smiling across all his 32, at Tony.

THEATER REVIEW- Man Across the Way

2007-08-15T15:16:00.000+01:00

Man Across the Way is a tense drama about two police officers conducting surveillance of the nameless “man across the way.” When Fraser’s wife is hospitalized after a London bus is bombed, he becomes inexplicably convinced that the man they have been watching is responsible---and subsequently both he and his partner decide to take matters into their own hands. The most frightening character in the play is this partner, Dougie, whose own violent tendencies are rationalized as a do-gooder’s-puppy-like effort to rid the world of evil. His willingness to not question the man’s guilt evokes the haunting echo of the pawn’s complicity “ours is not to wonder why.”

Though the script is excellently acted and staged by the four-person cast, it gives the impression of being incomplete. The strained relationship between husband and wife lends a good balance to the surveillance scenes and is cleverly connected by a line about staring at something until it disappears, but is unfortunately never extended. While the man-across-the-way is an understandably one-dimensional character (what do we really know about those we watch at a distance?), it is Fraser himself who is an inexcusable emotional blackbox (his wife puts up with it, the audience should not be similarly treated). I understand the stylistic choices to be sparse, but the holes in rising action were products of underwritten intentions and desires.

THEATER REVIEW- Toulson & Harvey

2007-08-14T14:58:00.000+01:00

Toulson & Harvey is the perhaps obviously named duo consisting of, count them, one: Luke Toulson and two: Steven Harvey. The show took the format of sketches inaccurately tracing their imaginative and absurd relationship: “how we met,” “our first show,” and the winsome “time you were really drunk” (my headings, not theirs). On top of the pair being adorable and having really great hair, the act was energetic, funny, and if not earth shatteringly original (What is this double act you speak of?!), then still done really well. The pair had a great onstage rapport and should hire out as the embodiment of those two goofy and talented friends you want at every gathering.

You will note that I have officially sunk to finding it perfectly appropriate to pay for friends.

It was an enjoyable hour and on my deathbed it won’t be on the list of “time I would like refunded.”

Dear Parents---An Open Letter

2007-08-13T21:15:00.000+01:00

Dear Parents,

I’m truly sorry that in a fit of tequila-sunrise passion you and your mate failed to protect yourselves from breeding, but I don’t see why I should be forced to bear (or even see) the burden of your mistake(s).

Yes, yes, I know that YOU wouldn’t call them “mistakes” and profess to adore the hell-spawns we kindly refer to as your children and yet, how do I put this gently? There has to be some way of saying this tactfully? You see…well….the rest of decent society is barely restraining their hands from wrenching your entire family from both the seats of the theater, and the land of the living.

As a parent you may have noticed (and unfairly taken advantage of) the privileged position that you are inexplicably afforded. Mothers feel like a previously-used-womb gives them otherworldly insight into foreign policy and war, while proud fathers will talk your ear off on the mediocre accomplishments of their genetic progenies. I have no idea why the call it “procreation”…I for one, am squarely against it.

Surely, you may have a LEGAL right to parade the un-ripened nincompoops around the city streets (don’t blame me if they trip over my feet), but please show some MORAL self-respect when you decide to take them into places of commerce.

Now, I’m as liberal as the next bloke…my taxes are happily paid toward the state school systems. I consider “education” a convenient political façade for my gleeful sponsorship of what is essentially a mass daytime child-storage-unit. I like to be able to know that the hours of 8 am – 4 pm are relatively child-free, that the sounds of slurping or pre-teen bulimia won’t accompany my morning latté. I think we should go beyond this first step. I propose that all children are placed into locked boxes or other semi-permeable containers until age 18, and even then, their release should only occur on a reviewed case-by-case basis.

If I buy a ticket to a play or movie, here’s what I’m NOT doing:

Buying a ticket to a fantastic show called: “Watch me breastfeed my teething toddler without even the token show of covering my engorged bosom while you pretend to not notice. Watch me spend the rest of the show massaging aforementioned bosom, and complain loudly that it’s sore and there may even be bite marks around the nipples.”
Hoping to sit awkwardly through a comedy routine that would make Jenna Jameson blush, surrounded by eight year olds not only getting all the jokes, but also cracking their tiny, oversized little heads up. I’m unable to enjoy anything because I feel like a pedophile by association with the kind of “upbringing” you must be doling out at home. If you and your children want to watch dirty movies and tell each other perverted sex jokes, that’s your business entirely, just don’t do it in front of me, behind me, or anywhere where I am still haunted by their youthful squeals of pleasure.
Planning on missing out on essential parts of the production because your mentally-stunted offspring keeps asking questions about the plot narrative, and you think that NOW would be the PERFECT time to explain the concept of rising action, vengeance, ideological disputes, and the word “protagonist”. However, you leave out the equally relevant theory of “shut-the-hell-up,” so I may just have to do it myself. Also, I know that you may now be trained to ignore you crying baby, but the rest of us are NOT DEAF. Get up and take that child out of the theater. NOW.
Looking for a free back massage provided by a kicking and giggling 6 year-old with restless-leg. It seems that this was the reason why Ritalin was invented? You however, seem to not appreciate my advice.

So parents, here are your options, choose carefully:

Take your kids to kids’ shows. These are like dog parks; everyone who shows up is in a similar position and understands that sometimes the animals need to run free. Kids Shows are clearly marked and thus easily avoidable.
Buy a box.
Prepare for the repercussions. If your tyke screams, kicks, chews, whines, bellows, farts, or breastfeeds out of order and you decide that now is a good time to play the “ignoring the problem until it goes away” game, you should also a) back off while I spank your child, b) line up to get yours next. Everyone knows that a little discipline goes a long way.

Most sincerely,

Peeved Audience Member

THEATER REVIEW- Skolka

2007-08-13T20:27:00.001+01:00

Rarely, if ever, have I felt this embarrassed watching a performance. This show was a shrill high-pitched- over-the-top- rendition of every negative Russian mail-order-slut stereotype. The three young actresses were painfully earnest in their attempts to portray emotion through screaming. The plot was a loose storytelling of how each of the women came to find herself filling out a profile for an online dating site; their idealistic embrace of the cliché promises of a rich prince inside a white Mercedes.

Each story is tainted by the love of a lying, cheating, sexually abusive man, and of course it seems only natural that their efforts of escape are through more of the same. Though there was an attempt to give this show gravity through scenes of sexual exploitation and family rejection, they were rushed and represented the untapped potential of the subject matter. The gyrations of their miming were less provocative than pointless; atrocious accents served only to top off already sufficiently obnoxious caricatures.

It is an interesting topic, one that deserves to be explored in a more meaningful way.

Positive reviews online lead this humble blogger to suspect that someone was promised extra borscht.

Meal Deal

2007-08-13T20:24:00.000+01:00

While the rest of the world goes on a diet and tightens its equator, I have spent my days discovering the answer to the age-old question:

Can you REALLY make an entire meal out of four jam and cream donuts?

Answer: Yes, but only if they’re 45p each.

Piemaker (38 South Bridge) assures me that with every bite I add not only to my waistline, but to history. Their sign tells of Romans who packed their snacks in conch shells; these were, of course, the first lunch boxes.

The First Critic

2007-08-11T18:54:00.000+01:00

I am so tired of hearing critics blasted as vermin. From the often lauded “those who can’t, criticize” to the dismissive sniffs of “artists” who see critics as mere weeds in the beautiful garden of self-expression.

Critics are those who have failed in literature and art.
Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881) British politician and author.

Criticism is a study by which men grow important and formidable at very small expense. He whom nature has made weak, and idleness keeps ignorant, may yet support his vanity by the name of a critic.
Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) British author.

---------------------------------------------------------
1:1 In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
1:2 And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
1:3 And God said, Let there be light: and there was light
1:4 And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness....
1:31 And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.
---------------------------------------------------------

Did you catch that?

AND IT WAS GOOD. AND IT WAS VERY GOOD.

Well, there it is. In nothing less than the authority of the Bible.

The first critic was G-d himself!

It seems the first criticism was wisely that of self-appraisal. There is no genesis, creation, without its subsequent critique. And so it is now, as when the world was still new, that all criticism is first and foremost rooted in introspection---even in criticism we are striving to reach for that spark of artistic creation.

I am much more aligned with the view of Henry James, than Disraeli or Johnson,

To criticize is to appreciate, to appropriate, to take intellectual possession, to establish in fine a relation with the criticized thing and to make it one's own.
Henry James(1843-1916) American author.

The point is not to tell the "unwashed masses" what to think or believe, but instead the best critics seek to convey the personal experience of a piece of art, be it theater, dance, or fresco. One should remember that every piece of art is a communication that is incomplete without an audience to receive it.

Obviously, I am not yet a critic (or at least not a good one), but to be able to effectively put one's reaction into words, is as noble an aspiration as any other. Meanwhile, I do not believe there is such a thing as an "unworthy critic." The best advice I ever received came in the form of validiation from Thelma, a stalwart of the profession many times over, she looked at me after we found ourselves together during an early venue showcase, and simply said:

"You are entitled to your opinion."

She was firmly unblinking....and you know what? I believe her.

After all, everyone is.

Swing-and-a-miss! (or reasons why I am not a superstar comedian)

2007-08-11T18:48:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, one of the members of “Jihad the Musical” came into the office of the venue where I was in the corner, squirreled away, gorging myself on their open-access Wi-Fi.

Someone asked why the show had been cancelled earlier that evening, and the man replied that two of the cast had been an unfortunate car accident and were now recovering in the hospital. He assured the worried faces that the actors were fine and the performance would be as-scheduled tomorrow night.

Previously unnoticed, I of course felt compelled to pipe up with,

“Will it be staged here or at the hospital?”

“Excuse me?”

I awkwardly repeated my question to blank faces.

There was another long pause.

Everyone looked around confused….It seemed that my “humor” was too obscure to even be thought insensitive.

“Right, thanks.” The man smiled genially, nodded to the rest of the room sympathetically and left.

Everyone looked mildly uncomfortable as they eased back into their work.

I mumbled some excuse about no longer being able to receive the connection and made my humble exit trying my best not to genuflect apologetically.

I do not think it is a coincidence that both kowtowing and bowing (a root of the Middle English word “bowen” suspiciously resembling “bovine”) all relate to the glum, uninteresting and hardly hilarious cow. The Chinese Calendar was wrong, I am not a tiger.

An Indecent Proposal

2007-08-10T16:20:00.000+01:00

The young stars of Laine-Johnson Production of the vivid IRA drama “Borstal Boy” strolled with cheeky purpose down the Royal Mile handing out their, equally cheeky, flyers.

“Would you like to see us naked?” they winked as they targeted potential audience members. “How about you? Would you like to see ME naked?”

“Not too young!” one hissed as they passed a group of preteen girls, and they deftly sidestepped to swarm a blushing matron who clutched the advert with a schoolgirl’s pride.

Nothing like a little male nudity to put the spring back in one’s step.

This is by far one of the best methods of advertisement that I have seen.

Painting the Town

2007-08-10T14:28:00.000+01:00

My flat mate and I went out tonight and did what was a whirlwind tour of almost every club, pub, and hole-in-the-wall down Victoria Street, Cowgatehead, Grassmarket, and George IV Bridge. Since my accomplice actually has a job, our adventures clustered around the "early" hours after midnight; apparently in Edinburgh-time, 12-2 am is just foreplay.

We met:

* Javis, a smartly dressed, cigarette-rolling Greek prince seeking a UK wife

* Dave, a Scottish bloke with an affected Canadian accent (well-traveled, eh?). He elbowed me, tripped over my foot and then refused to buy me a drink (maybe I’m just old fashioned?)

* An Indian wit out on the town with his girlfriend (allegedly) and who butted-in inopportunely during a conversation on straight men who seek out gay attention with the strangely relevant, “we do what we like”

* Seamus Thackaberry (a perfectly picturesque name!) and his gang from the Irish Parnassus Arts Group. They performed at the Fringe Festival last year, and have come back this time as audience members. They assured me that I have a standing invitation to drink with them in Dublin (and little do they know that I am already planning on taking them up on that invitation). The group tried to override my protests and convince me that there were not that many redheads in Ireland….but I think that this was either reverse psychology or a cruel joke. Despite their best efforts, I still cling to the truth: everyone in Ireland is a redhead, has a leprechaun, and only wears green.

I learned that:

* Cobblestones are invitations for twisted ankles and broken heels

* Smoking gives you something practical to do with your hands, air-piano simply does not have the same effect

* Children are always the most faithful audience for a parent's memories; their vested interest is that your stories are also their histories

* There are a lot of stage-artists in Edinburgh, actors, comedians and dancers…but EVERYONE else is a musician. I have never met so many musicians in my life. While Americans are busy trying to figure out which day the music actually died, everyone in Scotland has decided to start a band.

Playing the Part- rambling on roles

2007-08-09T19:17:00.000+01:00

We have all witnessed introductions. Strangers meeting, shaking hands, indulging the throwaway weather chatter after which inevitably is asked the rather profound, “Who are you?” or the more delicate “What do you do?”

As proper social custom dictates, we are to reinterpret the questions as entirely mundane; “Lawyer, Pharmacist, Sales Associate are more appropriate answers than “I am a fragile, jealous, and cold-heartedly ambitious individual; I cry at Bach, love to eat fish with peanut butter, and once betrayed the only person I have ever loved.”

Even despite themselves, the proper answers are strangely revealing in that they symbolize the shared class-based understanding that we actually are our chosen professions. In the modern age, when the discovery of communal-living has allegedly freed us from the constrains of mere survival, established specialization as a means to obtain leisure time, and given individuals the chance to be…themselves…in that earned time-off, it is here that we find ourselves still caught up in less-than modern classifications.

Perhaps I have missed the point and it is only now that the enlightened view that "you are your job" can truly be accurate. With men (and women) given the flexibility to reach beyond their stars and actually decide their own vocation, why not then make judgements of the characters types and personalities who would make those specific choices? A capitalist craves order, a police officer creates it, and a painter may spend his life defying both; the things we do for money become the face we show the world, and that, in turn, is the only identity the world reflects back upon us.

Among all of these are a handful of professions which we place above the common milieu of jobs…they are seen as callings: doctor, pastor (reverend), judge, professor, mother (mom) and father (dad). For these roles (and there must be more I am leaving out), the individuals lose themselves completely, names become titles (in a way Mr. and Ms. never could) and they are expected to act like and in fact, BE doctors, pastors, mothers, in every aspect of their lives---even outside of the formal engagements of the 9-5. Imagine a doctor on vacation who declines to treat a woman passed out on the beach chair next to his...it is more than just immoral or the omission of a not-so-good Samaritan, it is an immediate nullification of their status as a doctor.

I was shocked to learn that my parents were not always called “mom” and “dad.” We were in a department store when I got swept away momentarily by the crowd and shrilled out “Mooooooooooom” to supposedly locate that one person to whom the term referred, only to be greeted by a whole crowd of women who turned around to call back (before recognizing that my face was not their own). There was a feeling of sustained possession that arose from my newfound grasp of the name that was actually a role. She was MY mother, and he was MY father, and the doctor belonged to all of us, as did the pastor and the professor, and the judge. It is our collective sense of entitlement to the services provided by these characters that creates the overwhelming force of the role.

My parents never called me “daughter,” (though I suppose that in some cultures they could have), I was always afforded the privilege of a name of my own. I thinkit may be because I never chose to be a daughter; one’s identity, after all, is still an act of self-formation. I find it interesting that my mom and dad still prefer these titles to their given names. They feel that it binds us together as a family unit, and I am the lynchpin on which their names, their very beings exist. Modern families are centered around the children to whom much is given, little expected, and for whom more is suppressed. Though they do not say it, being a mother and father gives my parents proscribed purpose---a job that still needs to be done, though I am long out of the house and swaddling clothes.

A man, in his time, plays many parts, but there are some that define our careers, our lives, and through which we are forever typecast.

Sometimes I think about what it means to be a writer, an actor, a critic…and what it would take to change the preceding article to “the.”

Better be Licensed

2007-08-09T14:57:00.001+01:00

I passed a licensed sex shop this morning. It assured me of its accreditation with a large lettered banner in the painted blue window of its otherwise ordinary looking shop. I wondered about what was inside…but more than that, I found myself imagining the trappings of an unlicensed sex shop.

Perhaps it would be in the form of a travelling salesman in a large black trench coat. He would undoubtedly wear a fedora tight over a sweat-stained brow (fear of being caught as unlicensed, you see) and he would gesture you into a dark alley to display the flavoured condoms inside his jacket, the colourful dildos up his sleeve. When the ill-begotten condom breaks or the dildo explodes (and either way you lose your figure), your family would seek retribution in the form of a hired gun from the unlicensed artillery conman the next block over. And the streets would pour with blood and illicit sex toys until the authorities are forced to quarantine the entire city and remove it from the maps of men.

Years from now, when the barbed wire grows gentle, someone would stumble in to the now quiet streets and find the entire sorrowful tale written out on tapes of naked judgemental woman caught in an eternal “oh!”

THEATER REVIEW- The Pornographer's Diaries

2007-08-09T14:20:00.001+01:00

When a man gets his dream job at his favourite porn magazine, Bling!, he sadly discovers that all that glitters is not gold…or that is at least the tagline for what is essentially a bare-boned-15-minute-comedy-routine, turned theatre. In defence of the show (perhaps just the actors?), it was done well for what it was, BUT that is not saying much. The shock-value of cunt-fuck-dick banter only holds up for so long before the joke wears thin and the audience begins to look around for something more like plot development, character growth, or transformation. While porn movies can get away without any of the aforementioned, they also do not tout themselves as feature-length art projects; I neither got-off on, nor got into, the show.

My favourite (to use the word lightly) moment came during a debate between a feminist and the protagonist on the arguably exploitative nature of the porn industry. It was an interesting discussion and one that even bordered on depth, if only it could have been dramatized instead of flung away as another “all women are cunts---one way or another” gag.

THEATER REVIEW- Prodigal Daughter

2007-08-08T22:31:00.000+01:00

Prodigal Daughter is the story of a Korean woman, who was sent to live in the United States as a child, returning to her native land and family upon the death of her father. The play follows her attempts to navigate a way through the social posturing of what is “appropriate” emotion, connect with the mother and sister she left behind, and discover the secrets behind her estrangement.

The story is set in the reconciliation of the Korean War and the American army occupation, which is portrayed by a decorated Yankee general who is hiding a perverted secret of his own. The themes that Prodigal Daughter strives to explore (cultural identities, sacrifice, desperation, regret) are all very ambitious, both the actors and writer should be commended for having made the effort. The Women of Asia Theatre Company Australia is proud of its race-blind casting policies and models its commitment to breaking through stereotypes in all aspects of its work.

The result, though worth watching, is somewhat fragmented. The main character --and the linchpin of the show, seems to have unclear investment in either her life in America or Korea. Her anger and resentment at having been given up is never fully addressed and too many scenes are wasted to illustrate her fish-out-of-Korean-waters status.

Additionally, her relationship with her mother and sister is confusing because moral-jabs replace catch-up and mutual discovery, which should only be expected after a 30+ year absence. In the end, I craved a more satisfying confrontation between strong wills and desires—unfortunately, I had no idea what those were; everything was intentional but somehow lacked intent.

Word Play

2007-08-08T21:20:00.001+01:00

I am cursed to not only with the traditional pain of thinking of comebacks too late, but also witty things that “I could have said to be funny” will hit me, only after the relevant situation has disappeared from view. This sad burden is one that keeps me from achieving my full potential as a funny, delightful, beloved, party-favorite individual that I know is somewhere inside.

But then I remember, at all hours of the day and night, that I am now the proud owner of a blog! It is a way to turn back time and relive the glory days that could have been, but never were:

Scene: Man in full-body bread costume sitting down exhausted, sipping a coke.

I should have said: “Oh hey, you look absolutely toasted!”

He would have: laughed.
I would have: smiled.
We would have: been blissfully sandwiched together.

Scene: Eight year-old with blue eye shadow, ruby red lips, powdering her nose.

I should have said: "When I was your age, I was making believe, not up."

She would have: been confused.
I would have: looked patronizingly critical.
We would have: been separated by the equally be-decked mother bear.

THEATER REVIEW- Tales Out of School - A Retired Teacher Lets it all Out

2007-08-08T21:15:00.000+01:00

I am sure that Gareth Calway was a wonderful teacher for all of his 27 years, perhaps he even wrote a very touching book of poetry and stories (a medium he calls "verse poetry") inspired by that experience, but then I would much rather see this one-man-act toned down and eased into either a relaxed story-telling or book-reading-affair. There is obviously a rich breadth of character and scenarios that could have been drawn upon, but instead the audience is treated only to a sea of similes in which the half-limericks flounder.

The staged readings are broken up by ridiculous performances of the bewigged teacher enthusiastically playing air-guitar to classic rock school-related themes. The message of the show is spelled out only in the last 6 or so lines of the performance, and it is a blunt instrument of elucidation on what a more “pure” teaching moment really is.

THEATER REVIEW- The Ordinaries ... in an awkward silence

2007-08-08T20:42:00.000+01:00

When the white-faced-black-eyed Ordinaries, mother, father, daughter, sons, emerged squirming from inside of their centerpiece couch, I was sure that Beetlejuice was coming next. I squirmed in my seat dreading the nonsensical clowning, farcical humor and forced laughs. Instead, I was touched by the dark story of a family desperate to hide their skeletons in the cupboard, along with their daughter, Sarah, growing up too soon—played silent by a puppet and her puppeteer.

The real becomes the absurd in an effective way of illuminating the absurd within the real: striving to be normal literally becomes a contest with the neighbors; “putting your best face forward” is an actual family exercise in smiling; and the psychological profile of each caricature is delivered in beautiful, lyrical prose.

It is a creative way of storytelling, through the eyes of her brother, as witness, and the audience as jury in this tragic playhouse of parts

Song of Myself

2007-08-08T16:40:00.000+01:00

Again, personal details have been demanded. I’m supposed to put the “human touch” (intuitively, I suppose that would be mine?) on the Fringe, and thus far, I have been failing. It seems that proper Blogging, unlike other forms of masturbatory pleasures, is not as easy as they look.

For Scot’s Sake

I have met several true-blue Scots (who I have been incorrectly referring to as “Scotlanders”). To me, they sound incomprehensibly like pirates, and every time I try to mimic their accent, I end up brandishing my arm and squinting at an invisible parrot. It’s a very odd look and I hope that people dismiss it as individual adult-retardation instead of blanketing their assumptions across all Americans. If you apply to Scottish university and are outright dismissed, you may either blame me or the 2004 election.

Last night, I popped into a local pub to find people fiddling, impromptu whistling (on what looked like a glorified recorder) and clapping along while guzzling such amounts of booze that would put even the sweetest fraternity brother to shame and under-the-table. I am convinced that Scots, like Russians, are nursed on 80-proof formula or have a complex series of livers which target any ill-effects of liquor into a speech-impediment that has, like the goiter elsewhere, become a symbol of nationalistic pride.

I say all this, of course, in vain attempts to feign indifference to Scotsmen who are a thousand times more appealing than American males; if only for the slight language barrier, which gives me the freedom to imagine all sorts of compliments in-between the gulps and pauses in conversation. I smile, giggle, mentally pick out wallpaper--- no doubt increasing the appearance of lunacy.

I live in such self-absorbed romanticism, that I often mistake daftness for depth having read one-too many descriptions of the quiet-but-silent types who are made of the rock, connected to the earth, and whose lion hearts cannot find expression in the tongues of men (think Tristan in “Legends of the Fall”, and yeah, I know he is Brad Pitt as an American Cowboy, but the point remains---I also didn’t want to admit that Braveheart was the only other reference I could make).

THEATER REVIEW- Angel and the Woodcutter

2007-08-08T16:20:00.001+01:00

This is one of the best shows, dance or otherwise, that I have ever seen. I was on my feet pounding furiously into my hands and was surprised that among the whole-heartedly enthusiastic audience, there was only a handful that followed suit (I blame British reserve). The show was heartbreaking, beautiful, uplifting, and the energy with which every minute was packed, was breathtaking (and exhausting). The Korean Cho-in Theatre Company speaks volumes without ever uttering a word.

The story follows a family through both peace and war, and excels at choreographing moments of tenderness between the different relationships as they evolve. A lighthearted beginning breaks into a more serious narration. The expressions on the performer’s faces were pantomime and operatic and the language of movement and dance was universal. I think that this is a must-see for all-festival attendees. Even if this is not your typical bag, it's on my list of things that people should be forced to love (can you believe that I'm not a fundementalist?)

I have a friend majoring in dance performance, and I am always called-out for not quite appreciating the craft---no more. Yesterday I was awash with it.

THEATER REVIEW- The Atheist

2007-08-08T15:17:00.000+01:00

The Atheist was another fantastic, smartly written, one-man show. I was nothing short of spellbound the entire time without interrupting myself to yawn, mix’n’match (where imagine the genetic byproducts of the most unlikely couples), or discreetly check the time. This is an especially commendable achievement given the sparse set and did I mention, one man? It was a powerfully delivered performance, clean, moving, and though the character was something of a villain, he was a lovable one (or perhaps I’m just that twisted? I mean, I secretly crushed on Judas in Corpus Christi). Augustine takes us through his humble upbringing, delusions of grandeur, motivation, triumph, and the very familiar game of placing if-then wagers with fate on moral decisions. I want theater to dramatize reality by amplifying it, and afterwards I found myself wishing that there was more to regret, a more despicable shame in Augustine’s life…I wanted to squirm in my seat, to be pushed, challenged, and more than just simply entertained.

Surprisingly under-attended, a sparse audience for what should have been a much more popular show.

Admittedly, I went for the title alone (“There are others? This I must see!”), but I was actually relieved that the discussion of the spiritual was reserved and subtle. Flawed also in its abrupt cop-out ending, which did not fit in with who the created role and broke my willing-suspension before I was ready to let go.

On James Campbell and Being Cool

2007-08-08T14:49:00.000+01:00

The greatest thing about the Fringe Festival, is that you’re right in the very thick of all of the artists you have just seen onstage in the bathroom, on the streets, pubs, clubs, and all the rest of the biggest little city in the world (sorry Reno). I had a chance to briefly meet James Campbell, the author of Coffee yesterday and have to confess to being at least superficially impressed by his particular brand of cool.

In my mind all cheerleaders should be blonde, all politicians crooked, and all playwrights should darkly pace outside the theater while talking into their cell phones, drinking white wine, and smoking. For beginners, legitimacy might also be increased if one periodically rubs their temple, as if in pain from either a migraine or a deep, tortured, soul. If James had been on an advertisement selling Camel Cigarettes, I would already have black lung disease.

I also believe that anything said with a British accent is entirely more intellectual. My sole ambition (will be contradicted in the near-to-immediate future) is to learn how to passably fake it. Some form of Anglo-idolization has been present throughout American history. Though textbooks do not speak on the subject, there must have been people on the shores of Boston in 1773 who resented the waste of all that jolly good tea.

THEATER REVIEW- Raz-mataz

2007-08-08T14:37:00.000+01:00

After Raz-mataz, I feel like I have seen it all. It was a show I had heard people walked out of, “provocative” I reasoned. It was a show people regretted having seen, “narrow-minded” I defended. Can you imagine pure, pointlessness? A chaos of costume changes, jumping, screaming, drumming, a mess of streamers, and just to kick the audience when they’re already down? Mad prancing of a pantomime horse. In the end, I just left feeling awed that someone had managed to pull this together, hire stage-hands, schedule a venue, advertise at the fringe festival and even bring in a nightly audience.

If I was to fling shit around, I would just be routinely locked away or removed from among the judgment of the more civilized folk. What these young actors do is publicly mock our willingness to waste time, see art, and just watch people---doing something---doing anything. Two of the people in line with me were seeing it for the second time. How desperate we are to be shocked, to be disgusted, to feel. I am curious beyond words as to what the actors/writers/directors were thinking…and beyond that left strangely aroused. So all in all, a masochist’s dream.

There are no stars to give. This was beyond stars.

For those of you who did sadly did not grow up with either Star Trek or formal education, this is a black hole….because that’s where one hour of my life went, and I have no idea where that is.

I Can’t Cook (or reasons why I will die of malnutrition)

2007-08-07T11:24:00.003+01:00

Some readers (yes, there is more than one) have asked that I give more personal details about my fabulous life abroad. Suggested topics included questions about my meals and the Scottish cuisine. Since I have vowed to hold nothing back, the below confessions may disturb and trouble. Fair warning for the weak of heart or stomach is now given: Read no further or continue at your own risk.

Restaurants: I do not eat out because I cannot afford it. No one buys my food because I look entirely too well-fed.

Well-Fed: A term that favors quantity over quality. Very misleading.

I go to grocery stores.

Here is an exact list of what I buy:

Nutella
Nutella
Bread
Cheese
Pasta
Tomato sauce
Jam
Bananas (other fruits if cheaper)
Turkey Slices

The main ingredient of nearly 80% of my meals is Nutella, which is why in order of importance it is listed first…and twice. These ingredients have several things in common: they are cheap, easy if not completely painless to prepare (read: take out of bag), and the best part? Any combination of the ingredients can be consumed together. It’s like buying an all-black wardrobe; you never have to look at what you put on (in).

Away from the defrosting abilities of my parents and the oven-hot (nevermore mocked) meals of the college dining hall, I am weak, helpless and lost. I now have that recurring daydream in which one is able to resurrect and eat past meals in the present day. I think about all of the good things I have eaten in the last decade or two, how much more I would relish them the second time around…”you don’t know what you’ve got, till it’s gone”---isn’t that what they sing? I make lists of days I would particularly select to re-eat, if I was forced to choose only a week or less out of my life. I am ridiculously jealous of my past self.

I think about the matrix and whether or not I would sell Neo for a juicy steak.

Sometimes I think that I would.

I wake up in a cold sweat convinced that the Machines have betrayed me and not given me the promised steak.

I decide to be loyal to the revolution until I find a better way to insure my meat.

Sometimes when I come “home” to the flat where I am staying, I entertain the idle hope that the flat mates (whom I just met and barely know) will have cooked me dinner. Perhaps they made too much of something impossible to refrigerate, or better yet they have noticed my poor diet, held a meeting on the subject, taken pity, taken up collection, and are now resolved to trade off days playing chef. I will protest only enough to be courteous: Don’t worry about me, you dears. I will be fine! This is perfectly healthy. I am merely roughing it for a couple of weeks…well….no, I don’t want to offend you, and…yes seeing as how you’ve already made all this food….oh, alright, if you’re going to twist my arm!

I have planned out these exchanges so meticulously that I am downright peevish when the kitchen is empty. It is how I know that this is the real world: it is a place where no one cooks for me…it is a place I do not like.

Here is my own cooking guide, it’s not exactly Betty Crocker, but you can now eat vicariously, just like me, right in your very own home:

ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER:

* Not recommended for children, those with prior health issues should consult a doctor.

Melty Cheese Sandwich

Ingredients: Bread, Cheese

Slice Cheese and put on bread (cover completely). Place bread on plate. Microwave plate for 30-45 seconds as needed. Do not let cool, eat quickly and enjoy.

Variations: Add tomato sauce, turkey, banana, or nutella to step two.

Carb Sandwich

Ingredients: Pasta, tomato sauce, bread

Prepare undercooked pasta and place onto bread. Pour on pasta sauce and squeeze shut with second piece of bread. Microwave 1 minute.

Use cheese if desired.

Banana Magic

This meal is called “banana magic” because after I have finished all the necessary preparations, you can hardly taste the banana. How does she do it?

Ingredients: Banana, Nutella

Spread Nutella on Banana. Eat banana while adding more nutella before and after every bite. Use either a spoon, knife, or finger to spread. Keep eating nutella, even when there are no more bananas.

Variations: Banana can be replaced with anything cheap. Nutella is a magical spread that makes nearly everything edible.

Reasons why I don’t cook:

It’s selfish: I think I have read too much Arthur Miller and become Puritan through osmosis. I just can’t justify putting time, energy, thought, or planning into a meal solely for myself. If there was anyone else who either depended or expected on the food I provided, it is quite possible that I would be able to muster more energy to make a proper meal out of the hurried stuffing. I don’t like myself enough to truly enjoy the luxury of eating alone. I have this image of movies where the newly divorced prepares dinner slowly, lights candles, turns on music, and relishes the newfound freedom of being alone. I have my strongest doubts that this scene is repeated nightly. In fact, I would think that the recently divorced compose nearly a quarter of Nutella’s annual sales figures. That is not to say that everyone not being closely monitored would likewise “let themselves go” or that Nutella is the first step toward general degradation and living in your own unwashed, unshaven, filth. I am merely pointing out that it is harder to care about what you consume alone.

I’m entirely too hungry: By the time I realize that I should eat, I have already reached a state of hunger. In this slightly delirious frame of mind, it seems preposterous to slow down and actually cook something. At the same time, once I am finished eating, I cannot remember what all the fuss was about. I convince myself that I have more or less permanently satiated myself and that cooking anything now (in the hopes of perhaps merely re-heating tomorrow) is utterly pointless. Food is for mortals, I am a creature of the mind, the finely tuned intellect, what need have we for food? And after all--- cooking is so selfish.

R.L. Stine: Do you remember those “Goosebumps” books? They used to be stocked mile high across a shelf right near the entrance of my childhood supermarket. Every time I went in with my parents, I would immediately abandon them and lose myself in the tales of the crypt keepers, newly dead, and all sorts of other nail-biting pleasures. This is why I never learned how to properly grocery shop. While other kids learned by mimicking their elders, I never got the hang of buying food with a meal in mind. Again with the wardrobe metaphor, it is not enough to buy a shirt---one has to match it with something to make an outfit. This is why when you make an independent purchase it is called “piecemeal.” You can’t eat it.

When I played “House” we always ordered take-out. I never assumed that chicken grew pre-packaged in the grocery stores…I was simply convinced that it actually appeared fully cooked in my fridge. These are not the complaints of a spoiled, petulant ninny. I am more than capable of doing my own laundry, paying my bills, arranging my own travel and am entirely self-sufficient except for this tiny, minor oversight in my upbringing.

So there you have it.

If we really are what we eat, then I have just confessed the contents of my soul, and much more than I had intended.

Please let me know if you have any further questions; I will attempt to do justice to their answers.

THEATER REVIEW- Arcadia

2007-08-06T20:52:00.001+01:00

In line to at the Bedlam Theatre to see “Arcadia,” admiring with a weary air the chatter of literally European intellectuals, I admitted to no one that I had not read Tom Stoppard’s play. In fact, I had not even heard of this British playwright. I slid into my hat, and tried to think of how to best look inconspicuous. “This one!” I was already planning on answering, if anyone had the frustrating friendliness to ask me about my favorite Stoppard production.

It turns out however, that I had long been a fan of Tom Stoppard. My reputation of being at least minimally pop-cultured was redeemed by Wikipedia, my faithful friend. Stoppard, as the more attentive types will have already recognized, has written over 24 plays, among them “Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead” and the screenplay for “Shakespeare in Love.”

I loved the show. It was Victorian, and modern, and slid between the two time periods with the satisfaction of fitting together a particularly difficult puzzle. The dialogue was exquisitely heady, erudite, over-the-top and instead of damning the playwright, left me wanting to comb the script with a dictionary (in public, so as to further nurture my vanity---though perhaps a dictionary would give the wrong impression, albeit the correct one). It reminded me of Pride and Prejudice, Proof, If These Walls Could Talk and the previews for What the Bleep Do We Know? I left the theater with admiration and thrill in my heart, I wish I had not seen it alone, so that I could turn to them and just grin. There was kissing, and romance, and clever condensations of the cosmos into pithy threads weaving the characters into a neat continuous “it’s all been done for the first time before” equation.

I wish I had not given out four star reviews, so that I could give it out once more. This production is definitely a worthy main stage production, an easy favorite, if not necessarily typical fringe.

* For the sake of accuracy and truth in reporting: Stoppard co-wrote "Shakespeare in Love" with Marc Norman.

** Also in literature, Arcadia (a Greek City) is often referenced as the ideal countryside, where the simplicity of the pastoral life reigns supreme. In this play, it references the Victorian manor before the hired gardener seeks to modernize the place by creating rustic ruins in the place of the classic order; of course this occurs in parallel to the death of the enlightenment and probably insinuates a lot of other things that should be discussed over cappuccinos.

Oh the Places You Sit

2007-08-06T19:46:00.001+01:00

It is always a good idea to be aware of one’s environment:

Democrats should be able to instinctively bite their tongues when they land among the rich, Bush fans would do well to hide their “support the troops” tattoos in VA hospital, and abortion-clinic bombers might want to wash blood off their hands before reaching for the holy Eucharist every Sunday…

With that in mind, people who play footsie in restaurants (or even worse, start in with their hands) should probably request a window not directly next to the large floor length window overlooking a busy cross street.

I looked away from their sly no-one-knows-what-we’re doing expressions, for modesty’s sake, but would venture to guess that the rowdy couple did not stay for dessert.

THEATER REVIEW- The Improverts

2007-08-06T00:53:00.000+01:00

The Improverts were a rowdy band delivering typical audience-inspired improvisational comedy that can be found as mainstays in local comedy clubs across either the US or the UK. They played games a la “Whose line is it anyway?” including favorites like murder, news anchor, and story telling. For some reason I had assumed that the name was suggestive of a more perverted act and was disappointed by the relatively obvious broad-stroked humor. Overall, it was a good crowd, energetic, rave-like music and lights, and a general party atmosphere in what was a sold-out show.

Things I should have brought to Scotland

2007-08-06T00:51:00.000+01:00

Galoshes:

Have I mentioned already that this is a rainy country? Everyone knows that Scotland was built precisely beneath one of the most active rain clouds in the world. I’m surprised that they don’t call it the “rainforest.”

A Crew:

This might, like a hitchhiker’s towel, be a good rule of thumb to bring everywhere you go, not just Edinburgh. It seems that almost everyone here is in a show, and thus in a cast, and thus in a crew. I'm jealous.

Firstly it shows everyone that you have friends, which in turn makes everyone want to be your friend, since you so obviously have great qualities that others find desirable, then why shouldn’t they?

Incidentally it is this very deduction that makes married men and women more attractive than the single ones. Many studies have shown that the type of individual who actually pursues an Already Coupled Person (ACP), tends to be less confident than their peers and in constant need of having their opinion on everything, including romance, confirmed. These types are also very prone to experience early hair loss, expose themselves to their neighbors (“Does it look alright? Are you sure?”), buy pre-furbished homes and death by nihilism.

Earplugs:

I might be going slowly insane, but I swear I can hear the sweet tones of the bagpipe almost everywhere I go; it is downright haunting. I wouldn’t be so paranoid if it didn’t appear that no one else is bothered by it—in fact, there is no sign that they’ve even heard anything. Perhaps, like a bird’s immunity to Asian Bird Flue, Scottish Bagpipe Demons do not haunt natives.

Overheard in Edinburgh

2007-08-06T00:35:00.000+01:00

Two men at a bar, watching women primp in a corner mirror.

Man 1: What kind of women do you think take the longest time with the glass?

Man 2: The prettiest, they love looking at themselves nearly as much as we do.

Man 1: Ay, or the ugliest... for they have more to imagine.

Eating Alone

2007-08-06T00:28:00.000+01:00

I once got some advice on eating alone from B-movie "Hope Floats", whose only light-at-end-of-predictable-soap-opera-tunnel was Harry Connick Jr. playing the role of a Stetson wearing carpenter... he was, umm...good with his hands...

Anyway, the trick is apparently to look mysterious. Not sketchy, or creepy, or like a cold war spy who hasn’t been told that Berlin fell, but “mysterious” in the most alluring sense. Confused? You’re in good company. Neither I nor Cher’s mother in “Moonstruck” (the always classy Olympia Dukakis) have it figured out either.

I think the truth of the matter is simple: you have to be beautiful. That way, no one wonders why you’re alone. You’re alone so that no one blocks the view as we stare and envy, as you cut tiny well-proportioned bites of lettuce and place them delicately between your collagen enhanced lips.

Fat people are alone because no one can afford to feed them.

Ugly people are alone because no one wants to ruin their own appetite.

And everyone else is alone because they fall into one of these two categories.

Obviously that’s the way it works.

However, I believe I’ve found a temporary solution to the eating-alone-dilemma:

Gauze.

It’s so easy, I wonder why others haven’t caught on?

Applied liberally to one’s head, it’s the perfect cover (4 or 5 times around should do the trick) and without saying a word, one is then able to convey the appropriate message: “I’m eating alone because I have amnesia. I can’t remember who I was supposed to meet for breakfast/lunch/dinner. Or where. Even thinking about my past is painful…ow! My head!” at this point, you may rub your forehead gently, looking slightly pained. Make sure to not overdo it, a little bit of rubbing goes a long way.

At least that’s what grandma always said.

All the World's a Stage- Opening Night

2007-08-05T18:15:00.000+01:00

Today was the formal opening of the Fringe Festival, though preview shows have been playing all week. You cannot possibly imagine the glorious mayhem, flurry, and electricity in every cobbled alleyway across the city. Full headed alligators, vengeful brides, French playboys, bawdy pirates, 1920’s flappers, boys in short skirts and loooooooong jackets….everyone here is dressed for Tim Burton’s Halloween Town, fools everyone and it’s a fool’s paradise.

To talk about performers one has to talk in EXTREMES. They are the most, least, greatest, bestest, loudest, people in the world. And here, in the backroom, castle nook spaces, one has as much of an opportunity to see their show as to pass them toilet paper underneath a graffitied stall.

I have never been anywhere more decidedly cool, everything pulsates alive, friendly and all of it is underlined by the already Euro-trash-grunge-thrift that already distinguishes Edinburgh from your everything but especially your average American metropolitan.

THEATER REVIEW- Rose Gets Shot

2007-08-05T12:28:00.000+01:00

Rose Gets Shot is a highly stylized piece of “who dunnit?” theater noir. Set in a brothel, everyone is suspect when the Madame, Rose, goes missing. Detective Buchanan is determined to discover the truth, as he paces the “winding streets” and a voiceover rings out the contents of his troubled mind, “Who was she? What was she doing? Who wanted her shot? And mostly, who wanted to shoot her?”

Comical in the way it is dead serious, it was fun to watch, though entirely devoid of the deeper thematic undertones the playwright alleged to intend.

THEATER REVIEW- Mouse

2007-08-05T10:54:00.000+01:00

Paul Trussel is the extremely talented actor starring in his own one-man show, "Mouse."

The character is a unassuming megalomaniac, in other words an IT professional (think Steve Buscemi and Dwight Schrute) named Procter, who confirms our worst fears about the know-it-alls who not-so-humbly smooth out our computer glitches. For some time now, Procter has been quietly and systematically intercepting e-mail correspondences between a loathed co-worker, Wayne, and his own object of obsessive desire, the woman in the green dress.

Now, with life-and-death hanging in the balance, Procter must decide how to use his moment center-stage.

Trussel is a master storyteller and his elastic expressions capture every delightfully neurotic twist of this unconventional black comedy.

THEATER REVIEW- Greedy

2007-08-05T09:14:00.000+01:00

I obviously have a weakness for sketch comedy. Like the “News Revue” show I reviewed last night, “Greedy” is another 4-person team and likewise, they are not amateurs (I am still mentally scarred from the shit I had to laugh at to keep my friends friendly in high school).

In my mind, the two cannot escape comparison.

Not nearly as offensive as the Revue, this humor was much more situational than political (or musical). The performances while running the gambit of topics, take special delight in the rich material provided by dating, love and T-rex (yes, you read correctly). “Greedy” spent a lot more time laying the scene for the joke, and though I was laughing the whole time, I also (gratefully) had time to breathe.

THEATER REVIEW- Just So!

2007-08-05T08:33:00.000+01:00

“Just So!” is a wonderfully colorful musical about growing up, finding your wings, and always asking why. Based on Rudyard Kipling’s beloved book of animal short stories (one I always meant to read having been almost-inspired by an obscure reference in “Matilda”), it falls on the heels of other musical adaptations, especially Dr. Seuss’s Horton Hears a Who (which I thought was “hoot” for the longest time).

The young elephant child, along with the saucy Kolokolo bird, must find and stop the crab Pau Amma (whose off-stage voice most closely resembles “Fat Bastard”). He has grown to such enormous proportions that his underwater movements are flooding the land with sea. The young, talented cast is composed of recent art-school graduates and they are genuine triple-threats; their energy will delight audiences of old ages, though parents with especially young children should be warned that the nearly 90 minute show has no intermissions.

THEATER REVIEW- Tapestry

2007-08-05T05:54:00.000+01:00

Tapestry is series of vignettes and monologues (mostly the latter) that seek to span the childlike wonder at the beauty of stars, to first love, being jealous, thrill-seeking, experimenting, defying authority, and that nagging need to belong. It pushes no new boundaries, though the angry swearing accompanying every other scene change did help to keep me awake (it was a late show).

They were well written pieces, but with little to bind them together other than poetic beatnik about human emotion spanning the blink of eye, the tick before the tock, the so on and so forth…a very convenient way to create unity among vignettes, but much less whimsical or creative than say, Ray Bradbury’s “Illustrated Man.”

The kaleidoscope effect was a “this is our youth hear us roar” frustration. Every now and then it reassures me to see that teen angst did not die in the 60’s.

We're all a little strange...

2007-08-04T12:25:00.000+01:00

It has taken me up to now to figure out that people saying "cheers" mean "thank you" and not just getting ready to drink.

I helped someone move something today and kept scowling as he "cheered" me along.

What the hell did he have to be so happy about?

Older and wiser, I now know better than to try to teach manners in a country that invented them.

THEATER REVIEW- Armchair Renaissance Man

2007-08-04T11:18:00.000+01:00

Stephen Carlin is a bumbling, dishevelled stand up comedian. There are few American comedians that would get away with his amount of stuttering unease, but as a genuine Scotsman he seems to be not only forgiven, but exactly the kind of guy you’d find extremely funny at 4 am at the bar. He graciously performs at the Fringe out of a toilet-less tent, which he credits to last year’s fussiness as to the quality of the venue’s facilities.

Carlin uses his time to educate his audience through a PowerPoint on how to become a more cultural human being. Littered with obscure references to aging pop-stars and top five lists on how they should die, the presentation was slightly shabby, but nevertheless likable. The jokes are predominantly one-liners and too much time is spent referencing the joke after the punch-line, which nearly takes away the “punch”. Overall, there is very little exposition, self-debasement, or the type of lengthy thematic story-telling that I have come to expect from stand-up routines.

Still, as an armchair philosopher, Carlin does have a few gem observations; my favorite was a chart on the relationship between a musician’s age of death and his percent of allotted credibility.

THEATER REVIEW- Coffee

2007-08-04T10:22:00.000+01:00

Awkwardness is too often used broadly and without proper homage to the different degrees and types. Sometimes awkwardness is separated by shades of uncomfortable blushing, amount of pointless fumbling, or perhaps the texture of its silences. James Campbell’s delightful one-act play indulges itself in all of these ranges of awkward moments…and even invents some new ones.

Coffee is charming, clever, and woven deftly by its praiseworthy simplicity and comedic timing. The launching concept is fairly unoriginal: two strangers meet and exchange quips when they share an early morning coffee. One is an ambitious career woman (Isabelle Adam) arrived entirely too early for her “breakfast meeting,” the other is an enigmatic stranger with a nut allergy (Misha Crosbt). But, though “boy meets girl” is a cliché, it turns out to be endearing when done well.

Both actors were excellent; Adam’s has especially mastered the subtleties of the craft that make her character convincing between lines of dialogue without launching the role as mere caricature. Comedy performances often miss the potential in a straight-delivery, while opting for the absurd; Coffee strikes a nice balance between improbable and utterly believable. The humor is amplified by the sparse dialogue, allowing each planted image a chance to take root; when asked whether it is all, or merely some, types of nuts that cause his anaphylactic shock, Crosbt’s character admits a hesitation to “play Russian Roulette with a bag of mixed nuts.”

My only recommendation would be to tighten the script by eliminating the clumsy and excessive attempts to inflate the character with additional third dimensional depth. One example of this was a never explained referenced to a dead muse that brought a quick flare of anger to the stage which appeared out-of-place among the rest of the lighthearted material. If this emotional outburst had a point other than showing the actor’s range, it was sadly lost on me.

THEATER REVIEW- News Revue 2007

2007-08-04T09:26:00.000+01:00

A long running favorite of veteran Fringers, I was informed by the people behind me that this was the only show they had made an annual tradition out of scheduling ahead. Energetic and talented, the versatile four-person-cast gives a fantastic performance mocking recent news stories through satirical songs (“all the lonely people” as a cyber-dating manifesto) and skits. Every scene was kept short and most hit a chord with the nearly-sold-out audience that agreeably chortled and jeered at most every joke.

Nearly half of the humor was targeted at Americans, and these elicited the largest laughs; George Bush’s stupidity, the Iraq War, and even Paris Hilton (sodomized) behind bars!---nothing was sacred. Between Israel, Whales, and the year 1973, there is something for everyone in this variety show. The one-line puns served filler among scene-changes and were particularly pointed, keeping the pace break-neck. There was no time to be offended or shocked--- only tickled at the audacity of the equal-opportunity ridicule (“experts report that pedophilia and childhood obesity are inversely related… because no one wants to fuck a fatty”).

Immortality

2007-08-03T21:31:00.000+01:00

I sometimes worry that starving artists will actually starve.

Some of them look so skinny, fragile, and when they look up at you with big eyes and plead for you to PLEASE come to their show, well it’s all you can do to look away and pretend that you have somewhere to go. Luckily, I have just spent some time in New York and am an expert in looking confused (though telling people you only carry credit cards is no longer an effective deterrent).

Since it is quite windy, I am always grateful that starving artists are often clinging on to hundreds of flyers and programs, to keep from air-lifting away.

Perhaps it is not actual starvation that I want to prevent all self-proclaimed artist from experiencing, but a crueler realization that they are something less than talented. I admire the kind of bravery, steel nerves, conviction, fancy, and impracticality that it takes to perform at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I want to shield them all with illusions of huge tickets sales, sold out crowds and endless applause. I want to buy distribute books about artists only recognized posthumously and give everyone the extended opportunity to dream of immortality.

Sexual Healing

2007-08-03T14:56:00.000+01:00

I was idly flipping through July issue of “Look” magazine, the UK’s fashion/gossip-rag version of People and Allure, when my eyes stopped on the most alarming exposé: “Sexual Anorexia: The Secret New Epidemic.”

Young women in their 20’s across Britain are declining, and even taking measures to avoid, sex. Described as a “worrying new trend,” sexual anorexia apparently afflicts 72% of all women with sexual problems and who knows how many more uncounted are out there on the streets…not getting the help they need. Think about them the next time you take it, in, for granted.

Dr. Patrick Carnes is the brave pioneer who discovered, named, and has now, bless him, generous written a book to educate the world about this atrocious disorder. Though nothing was written about Mrs. Patrick Carnes, I am sure that she is as grateful to her husband as the rest of us are. Poor women, she probably thought there was something wrong with the marriage, instead of just with her head. It must be frightening to think that your own mind and body can betray your TRUE feelings. Everything screams “no, no, no” sex, but you are simply disordered, starved for sex, so hungry for it…what you really mean is “yes, yes, yes.”

Why isn’t the popular media covering this? I see nothing on CNN, FOX or BBC. Do you think it’s a conspiracy orchestrated by gay men who want women out of the picture? Is it contagious? Can the “not tonight” disorder leap the pond and afflict hearty, up-for-anything, American women? I think the question on everyone’s mind is whether or not Posh Spice is a carrier?

This is serious! I mean, did you already know about sexual anorexia? Are they teaching the signs of it in schools? I want my daughter, and my neighbor’s daughter, and all the girls across the world to know how to treat dreadful cases of “I don’t want to have sex” disease. Personally, I think the first step is a positive attitude: there’s no such thing as “I can’t” only “I won’t.”

If that doesn’t work, some psychiatric medications can be even more convincing.

In fact, I want to know how early we can start making diagnoses. I am convinced that we would cut the number of young skateboarders, loiterers, and masturbators by half, if only their girlfriends weren’t all so terribly afflicted. In my day, young women knew the meaning of “responsibility”! I really fear that this generation, will be the last.

Joelle Beauchamp, 26, from East London is a recovering sexual anorexic. Her story made me want to cry. After she broke up with her boyfriend, she didn’t want to have sex with the men who asked her out on dates. Finally, she confessed what was (not) happening to a close friend. This is a direct quote from Joelle on that conversation, as featured in “Look” magazine:

“She suggested that I just have sex for fun at first, to ease myself into it. I knew she was right and I had to break the cycle, so finally, I managed to sleep with someone after a few dates. Physically, it was great, but I felt emotionally detached the whole time, and afterwards I had to get out and go somewhere to be alone…”

May we all have such good friends as Joelle. That friend knew how to spot prudish excuses and stepped right in to set her friend straight. Sexual anorexia apologetics often take the form of:

“I’m just not attracted to him.”

“We have nothing in common.”

“He has ‘the Clap’”

If you hear any of your friends using these lines, it is a clear sign of disturbance and may even mean the worst. Intervene yourself when possible, remember that your friend trusts and values your opinion, but admit when you’re in over your head and a trained professional needs to be called in for consultation.

I am so glad that I have come to the United Kingdom, read this article, learned about sexual anorexia disorder, and dedicated myself to fighting its effects; because after all, without a good fuck, none of us would be here today.

Welcome to Edinburgh (and hold on to your hat)!

2007-08-02T17:06:00.000+01:00

The Edinburgh Fringe Festival is the 61 year old bastard child of the city’s “official” International Festival. Hoping to rebuild post-WWII Europe through arts and culture, the festival attracted uninvited artistic talent hoping to benefit from the crowds. The name is attributed to Scottish playwright Robert Kemp who in 1948 observed the beginning birth pangs, “Round the fringe of official Festival drama, there seems to be more private enterprise than before … I am afraid some of us are not going to be at home during the evenings!”

The Edinburgh Fringe is the largest arts lollapalooza in the world. For three weeks every August since 1947, companies, individuals, and productions from around the world gather at venues across the city to perform in musicals, comedies, dramas, children’s shows, adult only shows, and spectacles of all nature. It is a grab-bag of delight and like Harry Potter Bertie Bott’s jelly beans, one never knows if you’ve just bought tickets to Green Apple or Earwax. This year’s Fringe has 2,050 shows, 250 venues, 18,626 performers and will generate more then last year’s £75 million for the Scottish economy.

At first glance, Edinburgh may appear grey, bleak, and abreast with scarves (punctuated by the occasional boa) in what should rightly be the dog-days of summer. Paper-thin summer dresses giggle from their suitcase and mock my inability to pack---I kick myself both in punishment and to harness the warming powers of friction. New Hampshire natives and Dartmouth students alike may sympathize with the humble gratitude that accompanies sunshine. I feel betrayed by my delusion of a Scottish tropical paradise; I had apparently drawn the wrong conclusions about a country where even the men wear skirts, I now know it’s not just the breeze they’re after.

Except for the occasional curses that still litter my thoughts on Scotland’s weather, I have developed a serious crush on this city. Like a coy lover in the early stages of a romance, Edinburgh has only shown me its best sides. The city is a carnival of color and as I roam its stoned streets, my neck swivels from astronauts, to opera-singing strumpets, to men in rabbit suits, and even the occasional near-nudist. Everyone is singing their own praises, pushing a rushed program into your hands, and promising that your life will never be the same, the critics gave it 4 stars, you won’t regret it, oh won’t you come?

Rating System

2007-08-02T10:57:00.000+01:00

Stars are staples of any review.

Though it seems entirely arbitrary to codify my feelings in terms of four heavenly bodies, I cannot think of any alternative that will justify the breaking of such a long-standing tradition…and I assure you, I have tried:

Thumbs are even more limited given that I only have two of them (assigning any more than two, up or down, to plays would be downright disingenuous);

Purple plums are obscure and may be mistaken for a rip-off from rottentomatoes.com (though everyone knows the two are entirely different things);

And percents seem impractical because of the confusion of what a passing mark would be….I have lived entirely too long under American grade-inflation and do not want to inflict my understanding that a B (80-89%) is for “Bad” on readers.

Instead I will stick with dependable, stalwart stars. They have been kid-tested, mother-approved, and the bottom line is that I am just not that creative.

THEATER REVIEW- Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players: The Complicated Life

2007-08-02T10:00:00.000+01:00

In bright tights, sparkling face paint, hoop earrings, and a modest brown suit fed-exed exclusively from the 1970’s, the Trachtenburg family could easily find a home in any one of Wes Anderson’s films. Mom Tina, dad Jason, and their 14-year old daughter Rachel tour America collecting discarded slideshows; these pictures are then set to perky pop-rock ditties that lightheartedly describe, mock, and commemorate the average Joe’s and Jane’s of Middle America (also the name of their CD).

The absurdity in the everyday photographs (brushing one’s teeth, barbequing, going hunting, sitting on the couch) is accented by its larger-than-life display and accompanying soundtrack. The lyrics avoid being preachy instead opting for the childishly obvious, “Won’t you try some of my barbeque? This is what happens when you’ve had a few....Look at me! Look at me! Look at meeee!” Tina is in charge of the projector, Jason sings and plays the piano, and Rachel accompanies her father on the drums and smiles at the audience. In between sets, Jason rambles. His classically awkward musings expound on everything from a conviction that one day most top-ten bands will be slideshow bands, to a guarantee that the audience is allowed to waste his time after the show. Some of the technical difficulties in this early staging will hopefully be worked out throughout the run of the festival--- but even with the sound and projector problems, the on-stage dynamics make obvious that the family is just as amused with each other as we are.

The billing describes the set as a “real situation comedy, literally and figuratively” taking place in their apartment. “Are they for real?” I heard someone whisper behind me during the show, “They just can’t be real!”

The Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players is a three-ring circus of self-referential voyeurism, and though I liked the show, I had trouble figuring out exactly what or who was on display.

THEATER REVIEW- Famished

2007-08-02T09:30:00.000+01:00

Famished is a British, musical zombie farce, in which the undead walk the streets of London, but everyone still makes it back in time for tea. The characters are intentionally ridiculous: two evil geniuses bent on conquering the world a la “Pinky and the Brain,” a colonel with an enormous mustache, his fickle daughter, and an overly-devoted wife. The songs are passably entertaining (“Why can’t the English teach their empire how to kneel?”) though admittedly flat, no one here is putting out a solo CD anytime soon. I would have enjoyed the entire production more if a) I knew someone in the show or b) the performers were young enough to humor with enthusiastic applause. Overall a decent though amateurish effort, one I will probably forget by morning.