I’m getting a little concerned. My body is actively beginning to fail me, my legs are barely keeping me staggering, and maybe there really is something to this ‘sleep derprivation’ blather. Thank god I’m perfectly willing to sacrifice my health for your art, or I’d have been in bed ages ago.
As it stands (or sits teetering on the edge) my bed is currently maddeningly close. If I could just wrap this one up I’ll have it made because, tomorrow? I get to SLEEP FUCKING IN. Oh, long and forgotten dream, it’ll be like reaching the proverbial oasis in the desert.
But I still have to get there, and she’s been a long haul already, dear friends. Dragging my ass out of bed to work this morning was deadly…the oversized Red Bull I had for breakfast managed to keep me mobile, but the constant influx of energy drinks and coffee this week is starting to disinntegrate my stomach lining like some internal, personalized Sarlacc pit. And hey, you know what I didn’t need while overtired, shaky, dizzy,and working around open flame and bubbling hot oil..? A fucking EARTHQUAKE, that’s what. I mean seriously, Mother Nature, save that shit for the closing night party, willya? I’m having enough trouble staying vertical already.
Finally escaped from the kitchen, had some coffee and comix as I desperately started counting down the hours until I could finally get to sleep, then headed on over to the Fringe. And yes, it would be a full 4-count of shows tonite, regardless of my pathetic state (the medical definition is ‘so tired I want to die’). I’m still feeling pretty guilty about missing a show on tuesday.
So in I hobbled to Arts Court Theatre, to catch the 6pm of Ken ‘the God’ Godmere’s autobiographical IT’S JUST A STAGE, and maybe it really is the lack of sleep, but god damn, did that charming gent just build a whole stage right in front of me?? It’s a pretty awesome gimmick, and very good, heartfelt show. Ken clearly knows his stages, and he even sets this show up for a sequel (so maybe a better businessman than he lets on, too). I don’t really know much about the local improv scene, mind you, so some of the bits were over my head…but he also made me more interested to find out. So, a good sign.
Still standing, I battled off the the pretty cool Velvet Room in the Market (after a quick hot dog from Sasha’s…I needed SOME sort of fuel if I was gonna make it), for Pat Devine’s road memoir BREAKING DOWN IN AMERICA. Very reminiscent of Barry Smith (that’s a compliment) in his multimedia retelling of his misadventures trying to cross the country in what a car so dilapidated it almost looked homemade. Despite the room being oversized for his needs, Pat pulled the show off with charm, telling some pretty funny roadstories along the way. He too leaves his show open for another installment, so here’s hoping we see the genial chap back again sooner.
There was no time to lose, though…I could practically hear the rapid fire death screams of my brain cells, and was fading fast. I ignored the budding raindrops and returned to arts Court, this time for BILLY STUTTER: AN IRISH PLAY. A nice ensemble piece set in I’m-not-exactly-sure when, or maybe on some alternate reality called Irishland, where stereotypes are playfully and lovingly embraced. Teling the story of an all-too silent Boxer and his unrequited love for the beauty across the cemetary from him (Dana Fradkin doing a crackerjack job, and I’m not just saying that because she’s the cuteness (which she is)), STUTTER is a really good, funny piece. Almost too funny for it’s own good in a couple of scenes…one or two moments you weren’t sure if they wanted you laughing or gasping. But still definitely worth seeing.
Had an hour to kill before my last show, so I stumbled to the courtyard for a beer that my body most certainly did NOT need. But I got to chat with two of the showmen I’d seen that nite, Pat Devine and Ken Godmere, so THAT was awesome. And I managed not to get too drenched when it started pouring again…I only had as far at the library to dash, for the small mercy that was my last show of the evening…and what a show. One of my most anticipated (you come all the way from frickin’ Japan, you bet I’m seeing your show), A DAY IN THE LIFE OF MISS HICCUP by Shoshinz did not disappoint. Quite frankly, the delightfully oddbal title character had us all in the palm of her dainty, gloved hand from the moment she teetered out onto the stage. The story showcases one day, or maybe the entire life..? Of the endearing Miss.H, as she goes therough her routine set to a curious score of songs and sounds, that our heroine plays off of with comic timing that must be seen to be believed. Anyone in the audience posessing a human soul was easily charmed by what they saw, and I wish this show grand success. This is the kind of thing you go to Fringe for…utter, brilliant madness the likes of which you would never have otherwise imagined.
The rain was still pounding when I got out, so I took a shred of mercy on my withered husk and skipped the beer tent (sacrilege!), hailed a cab and headed homeward for the final, agonizing stretch. And agonizing it was, oh my friends…my cabbie got lost, my computer had crashed, and the only browser that will connect to the internet anymore crashes if I try to import text. Which is why, after I wrote this review last night I posted it on my Facebook page, crashed for a few hours, and now I’m back up again all-too early at 10 to manually retype the whole fucking thing into WordPress. Why? Shit, I dunno…I’m going with oxygen deprivation at this point. But here it is (unless something ELSE goes…I’m not finishing that thought), please do enjoy, I’m going back to bed.
See you (fully rested this time, so be ready) at the Fringe, your old pal,