Shel Silverstein: Runny Babbit: A Billy Sook
Tboy's Christmas was a silly one.
The Pajama Game
Tboy's Christmas was a campy one.
James Ivory et al.: The Wild Party
Raquel Welch. No, really.
« September 2006 | Main | November 2006 »
I guess the early wave of wee bitty critters has passed, because the most recent batch at Tboy's front door were ... well, they weren't really critters so much as youngish teenagers. One of 'em had a handful of eggs, the little extortionist. I mean, a handful, too -- three eggs, like little grenades. And a spare in her left hand.
Tboy kinda liked that, actually. That's old school.
... what with the little program on his Treo posting that last item four times in a row. Most annoying to have to go back and delete. Someone should smack the people at TypePad.
Now, Tboy don't know nothin 'bout reviewin' no dance. He's not even sure he knows much about watchin' no dance.
But for some reason he decided that today would be a good day to take Septime Webre up on his invite to come see his new piece Oui/Non. Possibly because said piece features live vocals by Karen Akers. Or possibly because there will be men in tights.
Curtain has yet to go up, so Tboy has nothing to report just now.
Except that he feels like a slob, because apparently people *dress* for the ballet.
... and Orange Flower Water. Tboy was too scattered to do the shorties for you this week, but the full review is over here.
... are plentiful. See the City Paper roundup over here.
UPDATE: Henley points out that Tboy is an airhead, and that WSC's third and final pay-what preview is Monday, not Sunday. Tboy acknowledges that he is occasionally an airhead, and apologizes for any inconvenience.
... or at least a pause and a thought, if that's more your line, for the man who appeared to be fighting for his life tonight as the critics and the crowds queued up for the Cirque du Soleil opening.
He went down--heart attack, I'd guess--shortly before curtain, sprawled on the asphalt just outside one of the main entrances to the big top. I watched the EMTs try to revive him, hammering away at his chest as the hordes jostled their way, oblivious (or maybe, like me, trying not to gawk too intrusively), into the tent, and I've never felt quite so useless.
Someone told me at intermission that he died. I hope not, and if it's true I just ache for his family.
... sorry that Tboy has had no news for you. You've seen Wee Jane on the Folger fire, yes? Tboy hears there was a pile of shoes all melted in that loft, near where the costumes caught fire. (Was it a light bulb? Is that what Tboy heard?)
Meanwhile: The full review of Bluest Eye is here.
And we'll talk about Sarah Ruhl tomorrow.
Who/Where: Theater Alliance, H Street Playhouse
What (in 25 words): 
Toni Morrison's debut -- a mournful ode to a child's crippling self-hatred -- gets a lean adaptation (by Lydia Diamond) and a restrained production, courtesy David Muse.
Tboy liked:
He worries that:
The verdict: Lovely, but not transporting
Photo (Colin Hovde): Carleen Troy as Pecola Breedlove
I'll say.
And I live in this effing state why, exactly?
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