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Stories from a man who fails to meet media expectations of what it means to be gay:
white, frivolous, over sexed yet sexless, shrill, single, stylish, a clown, unimportant, et al.
Wednesday 04/30/2003
The art of getting banged on the head with overly large beaded clutch purses.
The husband just happens to be that particular species of fag known as a show queen, so it is perhaps not too surprising that we saw Elaine Stritch in Elaine Strich at Liberty last Friday night. Before John, I knew very little about musicals and Broadway. I did have an unnatural fondness for Gene Kelly movies when I was a kid, but somehow this aberrant quirk did not transcend into an all-abiding love of show tunes.
Nearly thirteen years of hearing John's music choices playing in the background have changed that somewhat. Before John (B.J.?) if anyone had asked me who Sondheim was, I would have answered who? Over a decades worth of musical osmosis and I would now answer that Sondheim is you know, that Broadway guy. Of course, that particular answer is just my being a smart ass, since I do know a couple of odd facts, such as his penchant for dark stories and his love of insanely involved tongue twisting lyrics. I would even be able to rattle off a few of his shows. So perhaps John has had some sort of positive influence over me over the years.
None of this really matters in any way other than it is somehow supposed to be a long winded way of writing that although I knew I was not going to hate the show, I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed it. Elaine Stritch is hugely talented and a gifted storyteller. She is a master at controlling her audience. A cute story about the wisdom of her falling for Rock Hudson, and she had everyone roaring with laughter. A rendition of HER song from Company, and the theater was filled with applause and adoration.
In real life, this is where folks have said that of course the audience loved her; the place was probably stuffed to overflowing with men of that certain persuasion. In truth, it wasn't. There were a lot of us, but gay men did not make up the majority of the audience. That task went to crowds of somewhat older het couples and gangs of people with disposable incomes.
It looked as if the first row of seats or so had been removed from the theater to make room for an orchestra, so sections of the left and right aisles had been filled in with seats. Because of this effort for the Ahmanson to not loose any revenue, it was a bit hard to get to and from your seat. The actor John something or another from Babe was in our row, but he managed to get to his seat with maiming anyone. Unfortunately, not everyone was that capable. Mayhem was the rule that night. An older man stepped on my feet, and a woman banged the back of my head with her purse. The footstomper apologized, but I don't think that the head whacker was aware of the damage she was inflicting with her bead encrusted clutch thing.
Visually, a fifty something man in our row was assaulting the crowd with his horrible toupee. A raccoon wandering to the top his head and dying would have looked better. I realize that there are self esteem and body image issues involved, but if you are going bald, please, please, never go the toup' route and if you must do so, spend some money on the dang thing. This is one item where it does not pay to go bargain hunting. The stereotype would be that this man was some poor clueless straight fellow, but sadly, considering the rings on his right hand, and his older (?) male companion, I think he was part of the tribe.
During intermission, John and I made our way outside to catch up with some friends of his. After the hellos and introductions, we talked about how good the show was, as they quickly sucked down on their cigarettes like rabid addicts. One of the fellows mentioned that Ms. Stritch should do more Sondheim, because there is never enough Sondheim. A statement that surprisingly was not the gayest thing said that night.
You know, I really want a gay men's chorus somewhere to do a review called There is never enough Sondheim, or maybe, There ain't no such thing as too much Sondheim. I would not want to actually attend, but it would give me the happys to know that such a thing existed.
On a final and nonmusical related note, I was telling Kristen about my day at California Adventure. I went into a bit more details with her about the cornrolled blond white folks there that day. How I had to stand in line behind them and look at their sunburned scalps and such, which lead to my mentioning standing behind a red faced sunburned white teenage boy in psuedo gangster gear. He had on some gangster rap star t-shirt, and wore his pants very, very low, giving everyone a clear and an unwanted view of his skinny ass clad in Target brand underwear. He was trying to be cool, or whatever kids these days would call cool, but his corn fed midwestern looks hampered his efforts. Well, that and the fact that he was in line with his parents watch Aladdin.
More later,
nico
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