FIERCE ANTICIPATION: The Eric Sims Edition
a guest blogumn by Eric Sims
As I’m often known to exclaim with gratitude to the heavens: “I’m not Ryan Dixon!” However, what I am, is this week’s guest blogger (or “blogumnist” if I must use that abysmal term) Eric Sims. Ryan asked me to cover for him while he is on the lam, fleeing from a particularly dangerous stalker ex-girlfriend (sorry- was that a secret?) so, here goes nothing.
Whisper House at the Old Globe Theatre
That’s right bitches, it’s a play (ok, musical)! That’s what you get for letting a theatre guy fill in for the week. Pretty soon, I’ll be pontificating on the sanctity of the communal audience / actor relationship, and the crucial role to be played by The Theatre in the salvation of Western civilization. Then, you can feel free to track me down and beat me to death with a sock filled with dogshit. You’d be doing us all a favor.
Anyhow- Whisper House- music & lyrics by Duncan Sheik of Spring Awakening (and the unfortunate “Barely Breathing”) and book & lyrics by Kyle Jarrow of, well, a whole bunch of stuff, but, nearest to my heart- A Very Merry Unauthorized Children’s Scientology Pageant. The action takes place in a lighthouse in 1942 but all the songs are performed by a spectral rock band of ghosts who died at the turn of the century. It’s the kind of random and bizarre juxtaposition that made Spring Awakening so fucking cool and, I’m hoping that Jarrow’s gift for exploring the complex humanity, underlying absurdity, and improbable situations will make for an incredible evening of entertainment.
So- how much do I want to see this? So much that I actually bought tickets! Considering that I’ve been kicking around the LA theatre scene for the better part of the past decade and have been with Center Theatre Group for almost five years — that’s really saying something. I can safely say that I’ve spent more time thinking of polite ways to turn down comp offers for crappy shows than actually going to see theatre — let alone, paying for the privilege. But, Whisper House was one I couldn’t resist- so I bit the bullet, pulled out my wallet and actually shelled out my hard earned (and, believe me, working in the arts, it’s pretty damn hard-earned) money to go check it out. Of course, the fact that it’s part of a romantic holiday weekend get-away to beautiful San Diego should soften the blow if it happens to suck. That, and the bitter thrill of schadenfreude as I revel in the artistic failure of my esteemed colleagues. Still, I’ve got high hopes that it’s going to be great.
KINDA WANNA SEE
John Barrowman on Desperate Housewives
Let’s get this straight (underline “straight”)- I don’t like Desperate Housewives. I haven’t watched it since the first couple episodes sometime in the deep, dark days of the Bush administration. I’m pretty sure it’s about a bunch of vapid, skinny, over-privileged women who think the four food groups are Botox, collagen, cock and their index finger and spend their time scheming, screaming and screwing. No thanks. But, we’re talking about John Barrowman here. John fucking Barrowman! Captain Jack Harkness! My favorite Scottish-American British actor! The unkillable queen of time and space! The best chin in the business since Bruce Campbell! The man who kicked off the second season of Torchwood by fully making out with Spike (James Marsters) for ten minutes while kicking his ass! The mother-fucking Face of Boe! How can I not watch????
For those of you that are unfamiliar with the work of Sir Barrowman, I recommend you stop wasting your lives watching Two and a Half Men and check out Dr. Who and Torchwood. You’ll still be wasting your lives, but you’ll be better entertained and more pretentious.
So — I think this is one of those situations where my pride will prevent me from adding a shitbag show like Desperate Housewives to my DVR roster but my shameful man-crush on Cap’n Jack will send me to YouTube searching for clips late at night. I just hope he wears a trenchcoat and kills somebody- and maybe takes Teri Hatcher and Doug Savant up the poop-chute. That’s good television.
WOULDN’T GO IF YOU PAID ME
The East Coast
As a former resident of the frozen tundra that is upstate New York, there’s nothing more satisfying than reading about snowstorms back home. The more dramatic the better — 10 feet of snow, schools closed for weeks, roads in disarray, everyone cooped up in their house, playing Scrabble, waiting to see who’s going to grab the ax first and chase everyone out into the hedge-maze on the lawn — all fantastic stuff. The fact that my sister just sent me a picture of their house smothered in snow like a KFC biscuit in lumpy white gravy — as a “before” shot for the upcoming storm- filled me with giggling glee like a big, hairy schoolgirl (I didn’t wear the outfit). Let’s face it, the only real benefit of global climate change is that, until the tsunami comes and wipes us off the planet, we get to watch as our hometowns are smacked about by ever-more apocalyptic weather conditions while we bitch about a few days of rain here and the terrifying possibility that we may need to wear a sweater. And don’t start with me about the “fun” of winter-sports. If I wanted the thrill of sliding rapidly down a mountain, I’d buy a house in La Canada-Flintridge. After all, we may have mudslides, fires and earthquakes, but at least our children will never know the trauma of looking like doofuses in moonboots and mittens.
Alright, well, this was my attempt to cover for Ryan. While I can’t hope to be as erudite, I can certainly be more profane and hateful — and isn’t that a special kind of joy all its own?