Wednesday, February 21

Busy as a bee.

I've been working schizophrenically on five different projects over the past two weeks, so I've been neglecting my poor, lonesome blog. (To say nothing of my podcast, which is wilting away in a corner of cyberspace somewhere -- Don't worry, podcast, I'm comin' for ya soon!)

It's funny: people actually read my blog. Folks kept asking why I hadn't written a new post in awhile, and so, in the midst of my five projects, it'd been in the back of my head to squeeze one in somehow. My blog suddenly became the object of a Sondheim lyric that kept looping through my brain:

The morning ends,
I think about you.
I talk to friends,
I think about you.

Well, to my blog and everyone out there, and to quote another Sondheim lyric: I'm still here.

I've just made up a new blogging rule. No more quoting Sondheim lyrics.

I'm excited because this Friday, I'm going to see Richard Foreman. Mr. Foreman is something of a legendary downtown theater director, a product of the avant-garde movement of the 60s and 70s. Basically, his shows are totally wacko and make no sense and are awesome.

I was sad last year, when I broke an 8-year streak of seeing all of Richard Foreman's plays since I'd been in New York. (He does one every year.) For no good reason at all I missed "ZOMBOID!" and so will forever have a hole in my avant-garde soul between "THE GODS ARE POUNDING MY HEAD! AKA LUMBERJACK MESSIAH" and this year's "WAKE UP MR. SLEEPY! YOUR UNCONCIOUS MIND IS DEAD!"

How do I love Richard Foreman? Let me name some ways.

The first show I saw, as a freshman at NYU, was called "Benita Canova," and involved women dressed as sexy schoolgirls singing "Bennnnnniiiiiiiiiittttaaaaa! Caaaannoooooooovvvvaaaa!" in an operatic sort of glissando as a man in a gorilla suit stomped around with a giant phallus.

Do I really need to give any more reason than that?

There's an actress named Juliana Francis who sometimes does Richard Foreman's plays, and when she does, they're the best. She totally gets it. My favorite was one where she was velcro-ing little stuffed animals to an airplane that had descended from the ceiling, but there was one little stuffed animal cat that wouldn't stick, so she whipped it and whispered, "Bad kitty."

Oh, and the airplane was being piloted by a decapitated baby doll.

Maybe you had to be there. But take it from me: seeing Richard Foreman's show every year is one of the great joys of living in New York.


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