Hey! Art DOES Imitate Life
  • Ian Goodrich
  • Hey! Art DOES Imitate Life
It would have been nice to have some kind of program, or set list, or someone to tell the audience who the fuck we were watching at any given moment. I say this mostly because the first act of the evening's program was so painful, I’d like to know who to blame.

Okay. Breath.

I’m not exactly in the right mind to be writing this: I’ve had three hours of sleep since I left The Works this morning sometime around 2 am—just after pop n’ lock Jack n’ the Box and his Go Go dancers turned the stage into some weird nightmare version of Studio 54.

I was intoxicated. It had been necessary. I may have also been shouting because I only discovered I had earplugs in well after I’d left the auditorium. The earplugs were also necessary.

Let me piece together what I (will allow myself to) remember, after the Jump.

Let’s see... The audience was young and very pretty. I do remember that, because I’m not young or pretty and was therefore suffering acute anxiety combined with lust—which always leads me to shame. This makes me want to drink more; the idea being that my shameful anxious lust can be somehow masked by drunkenness. I know from experience this rarely works, but damn if I don’t keep trying.

As we were seated, I remember how surprised I was at the size of the audience. I had no idea that Woolly Mammoth was so popular with the young. But what would I know about that, really.

Then, the lights dimmed. The screen roared to life with images of waves in reverse (Ooooooo) and I was nearly instantaneously deafened by synthesizer music. Which was problematic because I couldn't really hear the mysterious voice that's supposed to set up the entire untitled performance, let's call it Beach Blanket Obscure-o.

With a pacing that could be described as mollusk-like, the story follows our heroes, a mumble-core Frankie and Annette, who are having a generally lousy time at the beach. That can often happen when you take too many Quaaludes, which our pair obviously has—pausing their way through dialogue like:

MCA: I've just had a sinking feeling


MCF: Yes


MCA: You too?



Being down in the dumps, the duo decide they'll do some incredibly slow beach combing until they stumble upon a decorated carafe (or “bottle” if you're low class). After this, they talk to each other slowly some more, decorate their Yurt with some boxes, watch some televisions, and awake the carafe Genie who, in short order, wraps mumble-core Frankie's head in gauze.

The End.

I remember, after this spectacle, I rushed to get another cocktail. Back in the auditorium it appeared much of the audience had left and Woolly Mammoth had taken the stage. I could tell it was really the dance troupe for whom the evening had been named because I recognized them from their Ten Tiny Dances piece. There's not much more to say about the longer program they performed, called She is Ourselves, than I already said in my Tiny Dances wrap up. The biggest surprise of the evening came when it was revealed the audience hadn't left, they'd merely been hiding backstage. They were, in fact, dancers. Which explained the young and pretty part.

At any rate, it was enjoyable, and God bless 'em for being the next generation of contemporary performers. I look forward to seeing them in the future. However, when the performance ended (after 1 am) and I realized there was more to come, I was so disheartened I had to get another drink.

Aaand we're back at Studio 54. I couldn't stay for long. I just... couldn't. Next thing I knew, I was taking my long walk home with a chorizo burrito, just happy to be moving towards a brief layover in my bed.