Re-Views, Theater Farts, Unsolicited Solicitations

Not So “Delicate Dis-Balance” of SirGay’s Salty Balls

Last weekend I had quite an event. My friends took me to see a show on Broadway. Oh my goodness, I thought, I am going to see a Broadway show. Like a good boy (in my case a man, I am not trying to kid anyone anymore) I put my fancy pants and went.

Damn it, I knew I needed to have a drink beforehand…

I sensed that there was something wrong with the show as soon as it started. After twenty minutes into the “action,” for some reason, I wanted to storm onto the stage and scream at everyone, like, and what is wrong with all of you people here? But then I realized, I was surrounded by rich white people and the exit was way too far.

Well, darlings, even though I had only thirty five cents in my pocket, I remembered that I am white too, so I blended in. My whiteness saved me from being looked at, like, and what the f*ck are you doing here watching white people talk on a couch for three hours and… oh my gog… they were drinking too.

As soon as I saw by whom I was surrounded, I put my tailbone on my seat, sat on it and patiently watched the whole damn show. I just kept thinking, my friends spent their two day’s paycheck just to have me with them, so I better behave or the next time… well there would be no next time for my tailbone on any Broadway theater’s cushioned seat if I don’t behave.

Being a true (emphasis on “true”) theater artist I kept thinking, is this what you need to put on stage if you want to be on Broadway? I thought that you need to sleep with somebody there to get a part, or… or, wait, is this what you do to get a part in Hollywood? I always mix these two. The feeling that grabbed me by my balls was not the most pleasant. (Disclaimer: SirGay’s more detailed descriptions of events involving his balls, Broadway theater seats and what not were edited out, we decided not to dilute real problems with such descriptions) I just kept thinking, what is it I am watching now? Watching a show that had a bunch of rich white people drinking around a couch and having all these drunk conversations about their, so called, “problems” was kinda… I don’t know… I just don’t know. I kept looking at the audience and the huge chandelier on the stage which probably cost more than five or six shows to mount Off-Broadway, an amount which could pay full salaries to everyone involved with these Off-Broadway shows and still have some leftovers for some Off-Off-Broadway performance to make. The chandelier mesmerized me and then something else happened… (The description about SirGay’s salty sweat dripping down his crotch was edited out. Yes, it involved his balls.)

There is a reason why I want to avoid naming actors involved in the production. Yep, like a real Broadway show there were big names attached to this show. Why have they agreed to be in this production? I don’t know. I didn’t have time to ask them that. I was too busy with my own important busyness of being appalled. I just kept thinking, would the show have the same amount of people sitting in the audience if the show would have been made with less known actors? I asked my friends, if they would see the same show if not for these stars? My friends almost in unison said, no. I knew it. It was another conspiracy against me and my art. (Where do I put my smiley face?)

What bothered me in this show was the absence of enlightenment and inspiration. Pff, no. What bothered me was that the show was built by the rich, for the rich, with the rich actors. And it was, of course, about rich people’s “problems,” like, why can’t I sleep in my room while there are at least fifteen other rooms available in the house? God damn it, I’d take any of them, as long as I don’t pay the rent. Absurd? Ummm… I don’t think they (meaning rich) thought it was absurd. You might say, maybe that was the point of the show, to show how absurd it is to be rich and not to be able to sleep in your room. Ummm… that can’t be true, but then you see the audience of predominantly white and no doubt rich and then you go, and who the f*ck if not white and rich can afford to buy tickets to Broadway shows today? Damn it. How the heck was I excluded from this VIP club? (I think I want to hug my pillow and cry myself to sleep now.)

When you see the audience of old white people in a Broadway theater, that nobody can afford to rent, with the stars, who have as much money as these people in the audience, talk and talk and talk about nothing, you might start thinking that you were abducted and were made to sit and listen how “bad” these rich people have. How absolutely terrifying it is not to know where the coffee beans are in the house, because you’ve never made a cup of coffee yourself before. I kept thinking, maybe at some point actors were going to go into a song or into something more absurd and the set would suddenly change into… well, more exciting than this piece of rich people’s house full of expensive chandeliers and furniture. I kept thinking and why the f*ck am I watching these white rich people drink expensive drinks in their expensive house when I, ze Plastikoff himself, cannot afford the cheapest Port anymore, why? And then it donned on me, I was there to see how Broadway really works. If you are not in the club of these one percent people who own everything, don’t even think to dream to have anything on Broadway. But if that is the supposed dream, I want to wake up. This terrified me more than the last year’s ass contest started by Kim Kay, yes, that’s how you supposed to say, Kim Kay.

Somewhere by the end of act two I started feeling nauseous. I could not take it anymore. The status quo of a poor artist “surviving” in the city was so obvious to me that I… wait, what did I do? Oh, I went to see act three. I understood that my nausea was also provoked by my (description about the state of sweaty balls was edited out).

Suddenly I saw Mr. Albee sitting on his couch and getting drunk to the point of oblivion and saying (maybe to himself), oh you want a play about rich people for rich people? Okay, I am going to give you that. Let me write something while I am still drunk. The play would make no sense to most of poor (who needs them on Broadway anyway?), but would absolutely tickle rich people’s egos. You see, they would say, there is a show on Broadway about us. See how important our problems are. These other (meaning poor) people will never understand what it means to be this filthy rich when you literally can start drinking whenever you like and just keep drinking, because there is nothing else more dramatic to do. And why don’t they (meaning poor) understand how hard our lives are? Thankfully we know how to squeeze fresh orange juice for an early morning drink. Screw you all, I am having a screwdriver now…

I am afraid my dear darlings that after this review I might be banned from all Broadway theaters, because how do I dare to say anything bad about rich people’s entertainment and even more, about white rich people’s entertainment, which only they are entitled to enjoy. You know what, my darlings, there is nothing for me to lose. I am going to sacrifice myself for the humanity. See how selfless and heroic Serge Plastikoff is? You haven’t heard from him for such a long time and now he is ready to put his well white being on the chopping block for you. You might want to ask me, what was happening with you our dearest SirGay? Why weren’t you sharing your wisdom with us for such a long time? Darlings, I was on a break, on a break from all these things that matter to you. I went to Broadway to find that it is so broad, this so called Broadway, that there is no place for anybody who is not rich there.

I feel like I need to put some lemon juice on my balls and spray it with pepper spray now. But talking about spraying my (edited)… so tha-dha for tonight. There is nothing else I want to tell you today.

Theater Farts

To Crêpe or not to Crêpe or the Art of Baking Theater. Now What? A Cooking Segment?

Okay my Dear Darlings, Muffin (what?) of mine. It’s a late Sunday night or should I say an early Monday morning. I haven’t had my glass (or two, or three) of my favorite Port and the letter “t” is stuck on my keyboard. God, I am hungry! What a duck? Quack, quack!

You might ask, what’s up with all that “t” business hap’nin’ here? And I’d say, it’s never about the “t” it’s always about that damn Port. I don’t remember why I was not able to get it. Was it that I woke up too late and the liquor store was closed or was it that I had literally one dollar in my wallet when I got there? Hmmm, in any case, I am sober now and I might be not as funny as I think I am when I’m drunk. Oh yeah, definitely, this sentence, right there, would be a killer (who the ef says things like that?). I just need to hold that glass of sweetness in my haaand… Ughrr, now I need to pretend that I am drunk? How will I be able to find an excuse for my offensive diarrhea and theater farts? And I believe there will be a few folks that might say, hm-hm, you, Mister Plastikoff, are banned from theater society because of your foul mouth (god, they know that I’ve been drinking). I would say to that, you, so and so, very important theater person, must have some of that Port I just had and you will see. Life will show you how gray can become bright red and that will be just because you might be kissing some pavement after those delightful drinks you had just a few moments ago. Now see, I am not that evil anymore (smiley face).

Since my good friend tractor (about him a little bit later) woke me up early this morning (yeah, I started writing this in the morning, can you believe it?) with his laud bangs into the pavement right outside my windows, reminding me that I still live in New York City, as if saying, how dare I sleep past 8AM when everyone is rushing but nobody knows exactly where, I decided to use this time, disturbed from my three and a half hours of sleep, and write. If my friend tractor doesn’t care about my sanity and bangs the pavement like some kind of lunatic who escaped from an asylum after a weekend of partying with his buddies, I will not care about Monday too and talk about… food. Yes, that’s right, about food and theater at this early hour. A little confused? Don’t be! You probably slept enough!

I realized that it helps to be awaken by the City’s tractor this early in the morning, especially if you want to write a critique or a review about something artsy. It really doesn’t matter what you write about. You need to be affected by an uncomfortable thought that just would not leave your head till you put it on a piece of paper, or, in this case, in the oblivion of pixilated something that my mind refuses to understand at this hour. Today, it happens so, I am going to talk about crêpes, pancakes and blintzes and… theater, of course. Go figure why. Maybe I am hungry or maybe I am just plainly disturbed by the loud bangs outside my windows or maybe my downstairs neighbors are cooking something that got me into thinking, why do researchers “find” that early birds are happier than the night owls? But I digress. This might become a series of “early-with-no-sleep” blog entries into my slogosphere that everyone is so eager to never read. That’s right, I get this sarcastic on myself (and my writing) time to time, especially when I am disturbed by my friend tractor’s banging this early in the morning.

Well, as you already, perhaps, and most likely got it, this night owl of yours is very disturbed by these early birds digging something outside my windows on this gloriously nice morning (ha, just look at this, a nice weather again!). If not these early, happy birds digging some holes in the pavement, I wouldn’t be telling you about things I am just about to tell you. Bang!

My friend tractor decided to shut up and move away as if sensing my hand’s movement toward my, supposedly angry, pen. My dead end street became the quiet street I always knew again.

As if pretending that I am some kind of cook this morning I am going to talk about crêpes, pancakes and blintzes and compare them, that’s right, to theater and performing arts.

Let me just get a little bit more comfortable in my chair that has sensed quite a few farts of mine. Ups, I meant… oh never mind “arts,”“farts” it all rhymes and I get confused sometimes. When you’re finished reading, just call it an “f” word, if you wish. I am leaving it open for interpretations. I have no idea what that means though, but just remember the key words – tractor, Monday morning and farting loud sounds outside my windows.

Let me just pretend that I, for a few moments, become the lovely Julia Child who said: “Find something you’re passionate about and keep tremendously interested in it.” Paraphrasing her I would say: learn to find differences between crêpes, pancakes and blintzes and apply these differences to your art.

(In the voice of Julia Child) “…no one is born a great cook, one learns by doing.” So what are these differences between crêpes, pancakes and blintzes? They all are made from the same ingredients: flour, milk and eggs and are baked on fire. But why do they have different names then?

Back at my parents’ house, in the native land of mine, we had a great tradition, to eat blintzes every Sunday morning. This tradition was not really a “tradition” as per se. It was born from our love to blintzes or pancakes, as Americans would say, or crêpes, if you feel like speaking French all of a sudden. An amazing thing about that tradition was that we never knew what kind of blintzes we were going to have one or another Sunday. My mother was very creative about them and would change things around while making them. One Sunday we might eat blintzes the original way: plain with sour cream and homemade preserves on top. Another Sunday we might get blintzes stuffed with farmer’s cheese, apples or even meat. Sometimes the type of blintzes depended on the harvest we were colleting from the fields or ingredients my mom would find in our fridge. Blintzes and my mother’s mood were also sometimes interconnected. The flour based blintzes would become potato blintzes if my mom, of course, felt that she had more time on hands to work on those potatoes. If she just made fresh cheese from our home made sour milk, our blintzes would turn into tasty gooey-cheese filled delights. The quality and flavor of those blintzes depended on the ingredients that were purely grown on our farm. Blintzes were so rich nutritionally that we, after eating them, would have energy for the whole day. Considering that we usually had blintzes on a Sunday, we would eat leftovers throughout the day with no complaints whatsoever.

I know I know you want me to get to the point faster. It is a little too long winded for the New York type of speed reading, one might say. But bear with me, that’s exactly why it is the way it is.

Forwarding a few years to the point when I was introduced to American pancakes for the first time, I was amazed that in America to make pancakes you needed only one ingredient, a box with a premixed stuff. I just needed to add some water and voila I had fluffy brown pancakes on my plate in almost no time. Pretty soon I forgot my old ways of making my blintzes and was baking pancakes in no time from boxes bought in supermarkets.

Forwarding a few years to now, just recently I was invited to have some food at a crêperie. The name sounded very exotic and expensive. We ordered crêpes with cheese. The price was quite steep so I expected something very special to come on my plate. To my surprise I was presented with blintzes with cheese my mom used to bake at home and since I knew how much one spends making them, I was looking at my bill in awe and disbelieve as if somebody wanted to rob me in the bright day light.

So let’s talk about theater and performing arts now. What do crêpes, pancakes and blintzes have in common with it? We have a few sayings in my mother land that describe somebody’s work using blintzes as a reference. When somebody is making a lot of work and is concentrating in quantity rather than quality we say: “he’s baking (stuff) fast like blintzes.” When somebody is unsuccessful in making something, we say: “he burned his blintzes.” And when somebody is very generous, successful and in other ways extravagant with their work and effort, we say: “he baked a cake instead of a pancake.” Well maybe the last one I made it up myself just to prove a point I am going to discuss next.

Living and creating in New York City have its own cons and pros. The City is big and it is in a constant demand of everything. You don’t need to travel anywhere to be able to see and experience the world and its cultures. The world comes to you and explodes in your face with all possible colors. You say, “great!” and I agree with you. New York City is changing every minute. It is much easier to bring a finished product than produce the product in the wilderness of super-talented and great people in New York. But let me explain something here. To be able to survive in New York City is an art form in itself. Nobody got a “how-to” book for how to actually create art in the City. That’s why this line “if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere” rings so powerful and true.

Here you can find every type of theater: from sparkly Broadway to dungeons-filled-with-fake-blood-splashing independent performances. It is very easy to lose yourself in the jungle of all this madness. The selection is huge and sometimes you might feel like you are in a big supermarket surrounded by all these sparkly packages that contain something that you want to try. It is endless. There are literally not enough days in a year to see all the shows in New York City. You might decide to buy an experience or a few regardless of the price though. After opening “a package” suddenly you might realize that what came out of it is filled with fluff and artificiality. Mui expensivo and no bueno.

I am not a big fan of big Broadway shows. I don’t know why but I find watching a cabaret or burlesque show more exciting and inspiring than, let’s say, watching the Spiderman on Broadway. I am here not to say that one show is better than the other, no. I’m here to draw some tendencies and make notes for myself.

Even though I find Broadway shows fluffy-out-of-a-box-full-of-artificiality I should also add that I like pancakes too. Yes, it might not always taste like real pancakes and you might need to put a lot of syrup and butter on top of them, but it is what it is, and it’s usually called pancakes.

Here is Broadway and there is independent theater too, where artists shed blood and flesh to be able to perform in front of a handful of people. There is certain “sickness” going around in these circles. A tendency to make a lot and cheep art and not to give the time needed for this art to grow and to be more flavorful is present. There are too many pancakes made and a lot of them are burned.

There are a few people who disregard the pace of the City and allow themselves to give that precious time for their art to mature. These artists usually leave New York City for a few days or months in need to collect the energy and ingredients for their pancakes, ups, I mean art. Their recipes are exquisite, natural and very “organic.” It’s always a huge pleasure to see a show created by an auteur or a group of people who say “no” to artificiality and are giving their time to grow their art naturally.

What I see in New York is that a lot of talented people and their art suffer just because they take shortcuts using too many gimmicks. Their pancakes become chemistry filled cookies or something you could use to kill people instead of giving them the needed juices to energize their being.

Coming from a theater tradition where directors spend almost a year, if not more, developing and putting a show on the stage, to me, it seems, that this “cookie making machine,” like, let’s say, Fringe Festival, is quite drastically foreign. Of course there are some good things about the festival, but I truly believe that an artist needs to give enough time and energy for their art to blossom. There is no need to make everyone run like headless chicken picking up stuff on the way out after performances. Why run like some lunatics from a mad house as if the mad house is just about to explode. The only thing that is not exploding there is the quality of work produced during those runs.

Yeah, one might say, but there are so many theater groups in that festival, there is no time for more elaborate shows. This is an excuse that never ever should come up. This making of all these half-ass-baked shows hurts everyone in this business. An audience member who catches a show like that will think twice about spending their time and money on another show in any theater.

But there are other problems. Let’s take a look at Broadway shows. “Spiderman’s” being on Broadway is the epitome of all clichés that are put in one place to get an audience member to pay for the show. Somebody very thoughtfully developed ingredients to make this show a “success.” There are so many scandalous stories that follow this show that one could write a whole book on how to make a show without making it… Oh wait, there is a show… Oh never mind, just add some water…

Producers spend tremendous amounts of money to make those artificial ingredients. They put it in a box, attach some sparkly ribbon and voila – ze show! It is sad for me to admit, but I have absolutely no interest in seeing “Spiderman” on Broadway ever, so let me leave this box of mix for pancakes on the shelf and move on to shows that need my and your attentions.

It is always an event in my mother land (of course in my mother land, where else?), when somebody releases a show, almost any show. Creators spent at least six months or more on it growing their own natural ingredients that need time to ripe. The blintzes made from these ingredients are full of nutritious goods. There are quite a few burned blitzes too and I am generalizing a lot again, but for my comparison I like when I say, blintzes are tastier at the party you weren’t invited to.

Just a few days ago I read a blog entry by a director whose show was in the Fringe Festival. She was sharing her experience and what she learned from being there. She gave me all the answers to why I am not interested in the Fringe, even though that’s a platform for a lot of unknown artist to be discovered. Do we need to be discovered to be successful in this business? I don’t quite understand why artists have to be put in extremes. The quality is what I am looking for in a show, but it seems that Fringe is more involved in baking as many pancakes as possible “to feed the crowds.” Every half baked show I experienced makes me think twice if I want to spend my money on another one. Who can I trust when even reviews are bias, because someone is being paid to review a show in a “good light,” putting that sparkly cellophane on a substance that is… well you decide yourself what.

Now how about those crêpes, you ask? Do you have a recipe?

Here it is. To have an expensive and successful show you need:

1. A star that would bring audiences

2. A venue that is in the City and is very expensive and hard to get

3. Reviews that would be smashingly great and most importantly in New York Times

4. It is almost always better if the show has a foreign name attached to it

Now mix it all up and you’ll get the overpriced crêpes.

P.S. Thank you very much! Gone to feed my chicken.