Dear Lar-rah,

Thank you so much for the tickets to TRYST. I have been deeply mired in my theater addiction as well as this really strange tendency to write linear narrative as of recently/late. Booooo! The show cured me of both these ailments . . . killed two birds ‘cuz I am really stoned.

In light of you not being able to go, I invited Jack Daniels™ only to realize the restraining order has not expired. Kat de Sade and I have a date to see Julia Bond strip at Scandals on Saturday. I am trying to coerce Tara, who I hit in the head with a beer can, to go see THE CATARACT with me on Friday (NYT’s review is total crap by the way). And this evening I have to get turned away from Press Night at FESTEN because I failed to perform fellatio on the right House Manager . . . Rats! I dig that Dogma-Cum-Theater stuff. Maybe I’ll go see DEGENERACY . . . I heard Vicky’s in a harness. Naaaah.

Sooooo I decided to invite my recently widowed friend Daniel Safer, who is also credited with the choreography for TRYST. Note the ungainly waltz, the huge-two-step . . . this being Dan’s signature style mind you. Upon entry to the Pomade The-ah-tah, I saw the Great Glaudini and Peter of the French Wood. Peter was online for the box office rocking a slice of thin-crust NYC ‘Zah . . . the kind big mama raised me on . . . hmmmm piz-zah . . . Oh, I also saw some kids from ThaRow including Ian “I swear I was up for that part, man” Kahn and Thom Caruso, who was shocked to see that I was still alive. You’re not the only one . . . but don’t worry, homie . . . I won’t tell anyone yer gey. I mean I’m gay but that dude is geeeeeeeey.

Margot Harley was seated at the edge of my row, with a very attractive date I might add. Oh Margot, if only I had listened to you in high school when you told me to get out of the theater. I wish I had heeded your abrasive yet prophetic advice! I know now that you were trying to save me. You trying to save me from this show!!!!!!

I sat next to some sycophant claiming to be tight with Ameila-what’s her-nuts. It’s a Two-Hander (theater jargon for a show with lots of people in it) in which she plays opposite this fine chiseled beefcake who couldn’t act his way out of a marijuana possession charge with Peter Tosh as the arresting officer let alone a period piece which refers to Edgware Road as if it were some undiscovered dirt road in a quaint village filled with plastic white people. If it weren’t for the pseudo-“Jack the Ripper”-black-Goth setting, I would have thought we were in Candyland.

Luckily we came prepared. I coughed to cover Dan filling my Vitamin Water with Johnny Walker. Very junior high. I know. But hey, it works! We didn’t wake the people in front of us or disturb the Teutonic twat translating the play for her non-English speaking boyfriend. Nor, it should be duely noted, did the play’s direction. Totally benign. The set did this cool garage door thing and then they had this three-way mirror that doubled as a brink oven . . . hmmm . . . thin crust pizza . . .

Should’ve grabbed a slice at Intermission but got distracted by the long line to the men’s bathroom (what???). And yes, I had to put a stop to this whole stupid quitting smoking thing . . . love me or kill me. Please.

Bob and Peter were nowhere to be found. Smart.

My head was comfortably numb as it fell aloft Dan’s shoulder for a ‘lil post-interval nappy nap. I awoke just in time to see Amelia naked. Dan saw her in OUR COUNTRY’S GOOD when he was like twelve. Honey, I hope my country looks that good when I’m your age. You know, Daddy likes a little Crisco in the can. And Mr. Kahn, I would have loved to see you rock it. C’mon and let me rock it. I feel for you. I think I love you.

You are spared my rant on the UT reading series at New Dramatists but not my link to Schnitzengruben:

http://www.killerclips.com/

And if you’re in Austin (or have friends there… hint… hint…) go see Ryan’s Hotel Room thingy:

http://www.salvagevanguard.org/

Next up (maybe) is the DC CDP Round-up. And I’m going to Hot-Lanta this weekend. Me and Big Boi are gonna hop the underground smellroad to Stankonia. So hide your hos and moonshine. We’re in hot pursuit. Coo coo coo!

Love~
Ivan, Man of Bells