Interpretive dancing at the Shakespeare Theater

So I reconnected with a long-lost cousin this past weekend (yes, yes, I know, all of us Indians are related and we only have two degrees of separation as opposed to six for white people). Anyways, she decided that we should go check out some interpretive dance show at the Shakespeare Theater. I'm always up for stuff like this, so I said yes. And then realized that I had double-booked my Saturday (again). I had a football (soccer) game to watch at the stadium. So I went with my buddy to watch my team - the absolutely hapless DC United get thrashed again - this time the most awesome play they managed was when Benny Olson was fouled hard, and as the ref was handing out a yellow card to the offending player, good old Benny decides to kick the ball in the players face, earning him an immediate (an absolutely well deserved) red card, which means automatic ejection. This got us all happy, but of course, with a man disadvantage, we got our asses handed to us. This manner of losing is seemingly constant in all United games.

So I'd been jumping up and down and yelling with the group for three hours, and I realized I had precious little time to get back to the theater, so I rushed back after chugging my ($7.50!!!) Harp. I made it in time, but not soon enough, so I found that while my cousin got herself awesome orchestra tickets, I was stuck in the nose-bleeds. Which was fine, or so I thought, because I could blend in with the riff-raff.

Turns out no one who goes to see interpretive dance on a Saturday night is riff-raff. The women are all dressed like ostriches that have dived into fruit bowls and then ran through a GAP store to pick up mannequins for dates. I mean, I showed up in my soccer jersey, all out of breath and sweaty and beery, and I was huffing and puffing and I ran into this foyer, and then I saw the people. As I was processing the sight of thousand-dollar outfits and swept back hair and cuff links, they caught wind of an admittedly semi-drunk yogi. Champagne flutes stopped mid-clink, gloved hands went to grasp throats, cowlicks went unswept-back, there was a collective gasp, and things generally came to a somewhat shuddering and unceremonious halt.

I made the best I could of the situation, gave a cheerful wave, pointed to my jersey, and said something about United sucking. My cousin, bless her heart, stepped up and ushered my to a corner and gave me the ticket she had bought for me. Most people went back to what they were doing, and so I kept a low profile, and went in to see the show (which started a good half hour late). There are a bunch of things that I would like to point out about the whole getup, now that I've had the time to think about it:

1. The seats have as much space as economy seats on a Southwest flight from DC to NYC. If you are anything more than waif-like, you better get used to your neighbors elbow in your groin and your knees blocking the bottom half of your vision.

2. They rise really steeply, so I hope you don't suffer from vertigo. If you do get waves of vertigo induced nausea, fortunately you can bite into your knee caps (they're right there, hovering below your chin), which helps.

3. Funny people show up for shows. The lady sitting in front of me was blind. I don't know maybe she was listening to the footfalls during the interpretive dance show. She sure looked like she was having a swell time. There was also this dude who was given to moderately loud flatulence. I mean, they weren't thunderous, but they were noticeable, especially because they kept coming in fits and starts (he must have been trying to hold it in). No, fortunately, no bite. Only bark.

4. The dance part of the show was a let-down. They made a big deal about how it was all "late-night" and "18 and above", and so I was expecting some serious avant-garde shit, you know, like naked women (yeah...). So when they announced the first piece and say that "people will be dancing in the flesh" (I'm not making that up), I was thinking "Oh god, please no naked fat men. Please, make them hot women." I wanted to see me some boobies.

And then out walked these three girls (so far so good) dressed in gowns (positive development - they're easy to take off), and they executed some writhing moves on stage. I was starting to get a little impatient, but then they stared disrobing. I think everyone sat up a little straighter (riff-raff or hoity-toity, we're all the same), and then the robes came off to reveal....

...
...
...

SKIN COLORED TIGHTS.

SKIN. COLORED. TIGHTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There was a palpable sense of dismay that swept through the seats. I mean, what the fuck. You've GOT to be kidding me. Come ON Shakespeare. If you're making me pay to see some bullshit interpretive dance, and then you get me all tingly and excited by telling me there are going to be naked people, then GIVE ME NAKED PEOPLE!!!! I am not here to see some bullshit dance moves by people who weren't good enough to make it into a real dance troupe to some bullshit music mixed by some jock who was too unhip to mix at the local club. You know what I interpreted it as? Fully clothed people who had forgotten their latest dose of phenobarbital. You know, I really like artsy stuff. I do. But I want people to be honest. If its going to be people in tights, tell me its going to be people in tights. Also, if it's going to be interpretive, don't make us do ALL the interpreting, OK? Give us a hint here or there. Some skinny dude prancing around the stage in his pajamas is exactly that - a skinny dude prancing around the stage in his pajamas. The people were obviously in great shape and had decent talent and training, why not put them to better use?

5. The stuff in between the pieces was pretty good. Awesome poetry, very funny (and really sexually charged. The lady next to me kept going "Oh boy. Ooh boy. OOOH boy." until I wanted to hit her. But she was huge and already had an elbow right by my testicles, so I desisted.)

So overall, it was an eventful evening. Worth doing. Just dress up a bit. The ostriches are few and far between (there was some hyperbole up there I'll admit), and they generally make giant fools of themselves. You're there for the art, not to show off your Blahniks. Oh and also, if someone tells you their dancers are going to dance in the flesh, ask for a conditional refund.