And now you’re gonna get it.
I mean all right already. In recent weeks I’ve lodged several complaints – well, good-natur’d enough complaints, but still – about the devolving content of this blog. In the main, the demurrers mention one or all of the following:
1. Too much stuff about theater in general.
2. Too much stuff about PCS specifically.
3. Not enough about you (you meaning ME).
As my friend Kim put it so crowcrastinaciously, “I signed up for pu pu, and I’m only get the won tons.”
Okay. Seems to me I may be forgiven for going on about JAW; it occupied nearly every minute of my waking consciousness for at least a month before it opened, and then, well. And also….why not admit it, the Festival was convenient for me, content-wise. It’s embarrassing to go on about oneself! It feels self-aggrandizing. No matter what I say or how I couch it, what I hear myself saying is best expressed by a song from Richard O’Brien and Jim Sharma’s underrated film Shock Treatment:
Deep in the heart of me
I love every part of me
All I can see in me
Is danger and destiny
I pray every day to me
And here’s what I say to me
This is the me of me
Me me me.
Now: I wouldn’t mind so much if I could manage to be as bracingly forthright as Josh Friedman’s blog, i find your lack of faith disturbing. Or if I could achieve the camera’s eye of Art Scatter, or the camera obscura effect of Splattworks. How can I live up to the perspicacity of Parabasis, the carnivalesque abandon of Bamboo Nation, the clinical eroticism of Roissy in DC or Jeffrey Jones’ erudition. I aspire to all the above, in different ways, but NooooOOOOOoooooo. I got nothing here, people. Just me. Me-meaning-me.
So here goes nothing.