Orgy of Tolerance or Great, Now My Clothes Smell Like Smoke.

i just posted my review on the On the Boards blog posing it as a response to Ben Zamora's review. for your convenience, i will repeat myself here:

the company was upset that i kissed her. she was beautiful - glossy magazine beautiful, fragile, fey. her blue eyes matched her large blue beaded necklace that somehow went with her maroon mumu that complemented her blond hair. she was a psychic dressed like a caricature of a physic. 

upon my return to the theater, i found her friends, her company, sitting in the second row, an air of malice about them. not ones to confront, i discovered they took their anger out on me in a more tangible, property damaging, just-wait-till-she-gets-back manner. upon the stage, my oversized canoe looking suitcase was littered with trash, soggy and soiled with Coca Cola. my property, my things, pristine and cherished, left unattended, had been intentionally ruined. and that is when i uncharacteristically lost my shit.

 

i pulled a rifle on the would be ring leader, some brunette wearing her contempt on her face like a fancy lotion. i yanked her out of her seat, pushed her to the ground and with the gun held to her head, let every ounce of rage i didnt know i had rain upon her now trembling body in an unfettered downpour. this went on for an uninterrupted amount of time, during which the still observer part of me became consciously aware of this woman's raw fear, her helplessness, the utter futility/stupidity of what the moving active part of me was doing. i stopped abruptly. 'i'm sorry,' i told her, lifting the gun away from her teary face, 'this isn't helping.' the theater was silent save for the echos of her sobs. 

had i not taken the time to write this dream down soon after waking, my memory of it, my impression of it, much like that of the performance, would have been forgotten, buried under the footsteps of my waking life.

peacelove,

ilvs 

*********

now, the only other point of contention i have is: 

dear hot belgian dancer, 

instead of imposing yourself all over a fancy old bicycle, you should have done so all over a fancy automobile. we are a car culture. americans hate bicycles. we run them over. if you're gonna throw a glossy, euro chic, cultural critique at us about our own selves, you should at least get the details down.

muchas gracias,

ilvs