Tuesday, July 24, 2007

It Was Like Date Night or Something

I left work late yesterday, because our IT guy asked me to reboot our phone system. Five minutes after rebooting, when the phones were supposed to be all fine and dandy, every warning light/alarm on the server was blinking red and rapidly. Hm. Perhaps I did something wrong?

I called the IT guy. While we were on the phone, God Himself came down from the Heavens, touched the server, and Ka-POW! it was fixed. I ran home to pack an overnight bag and feed/water the Psychokitty.

I managed to get to the metro station at 6 and there was a train waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Finally, it departed and I managed to only be 15 minutes late. Fortunately, Y is always late. So, I got there before he did. I am trying to overcome my need for punctuality in a partner. It seems I will never find such a person, so I might as well make do. Just as I eventually learned that John's "I'm leaving the house now" actually meant "I'm thinking of leaving the house now, but really will be leaving in about 30-45 minutes," I will learn Y's time-definitions as well.

Anyway, we went to the Capital Fringe Festival's Cautionary Tales for Adults and the Adventures of Trixie Tickles:

Two mini-musicals with songs ranging from smoky cabaret to frothy pop. First, an unhinged librarian teaches several unsuspecting adults about the injustices of life. Next, a high-strung children's TV star learns valuable lessons of her own like, "being pretty is all that matters". Deliciously inappropriate and filled with guilty pleasures.

The music was fun; the lyrics were clever and, sometimes raunchy. The vocal abilities of the 5 players ranged from mediocre to meteoric. I laughed a lot and had a good time, but, after it all ended, I was left thinking "What was the point?" Not that there's anything wrong with a cotton candy mini-musical, but I had different expectations for a cotton candy mini-musical staged as part of a fringe festival. I expected something edgy, something that would keep my mind working long after the play ends. This didn't. Sure, having an adult playing a 5-year-old child sing "Don't be a mother-fucking cocksucker" is shocking, but *meh* South Park already broke that ground with "Uncle Fucker." So, like I said, fun, but -personally- I'd go spend my $15 on a ticket to something else. Maybe Faggot, which the WaPo reviewed:

This 35 -minute piece is clearly developmental -- a worthy function of the Fringe -- as local actor Sheldon A. Scott creates a handful of monologues around gay men in therapy (at least one court-ordered) ... The show sometimes feels contrived in its setup and stereotypical in its characters, but Scott does have a nose for the dramatic and an ear for speech. As much as anything, it's hampered by the ungainly pauses in Scott's hesitant performance.

After the play ended, Y and I walked down to Logan Tavern for dinner. Lo and behold, they had some new items on their menu! I had the vegetarian cheese tortellini in tomato cream sauce. Yummy. Y had some sort of dead cow, BUT it came with potatoes mashed with goat cheese [and they were amazing!]. LT also started (or have started since I was there last) selling wine by the Glass & a Half, which was the perfect amount for two to share (if one of the two is driving and the other of the two is not a raging alcoholic) ...

So maybe it wasn't *that* perfect.

We drove back to Y's house and went to bed. Fun times. Fun times.

I think it's going to be a busy rest of the week/weekend. My friend, Kristen, is in town from Washington for two weeks to train her replacement. I think we'll be doing happy hour on Friday and then a Harry Potter 5 matinee followed by dinner at Jaleo on Sunday. Plus, she wants to do Screen on the Green on Monday [1967's Wait Until Dark is playing]. Saturday, Y and I want to go see the Fringe Festival's The Arab-Israeli Cookbook. I think I'm going to need a week to recover.


  1. Bucko, as with prior Mr. Cooties, is chronically late. I have always been compulsively punctual. I've come to accept that punctuality is in my past, it simply won't happen again unless by happy chance.

  2. The Ex often called me "Twenty-minute Mushlette," because I always run twenty minutes late. He learned to adjust.

    Lack of punctuality does not always indicate a lack of caring. It's just harder for some of us to get going on time.