Highlights from an eventful week.
By Hannah Wallace
We celebrated national “Entertain a Plumber” day on Monday by having a good-humored serviceman pull a handful of coins out of our garbage disposal. (Apparently someone needs to explain to Mr. Chatterbox the difference between Coke machines and kitchen sinks.) We didn’t even want the disposal to work; we were just tired of cleaning up a sinkful of drain vomit every time we ran the dishwasher. Now we can rinse our dishes with impunity and get change for a dollar.
In a world where Cliff Roles is God, hell doesn’t seem like such a bad option. At least, that’s one way to describe the setup in Jenny Beres’ If the Devil Could Fall In Love, which opened at the Players Thursday. Two things about Beres stand out: One, her dialogue wrecks the grade curve for wannabe witty playwrights—here or anywhere. And two, her three plays so far employ three very different but equally edgy and unusual topics (pedophilia, religion and dementia…with a stripper). During intermission, I ran into the Asolo’s dramaturge, who was equally praiseful (and it’s her job to know good plays). I have to say, I kind of hate that the best I can do here is recognize quality instead of create it myself, but I wouldn’t go on like this if I didn’t think it was something special.
I will say, though (because I’m bitter), that Devil could use some tightening up. For all the genius of the premise, the dialogue runs away with the show a bit, and the plot would benefit from a more succinct presentation. (Can’t say as how body mics helped the cause, though I’m assured that’s not a regular Players practice for straight plays.)
And then I got pulled over Thursday night, but that’s not why I’m going to jail. Mrs. Harrible lassoed…er, nominated me to participate in the MDA’s jailbird lunch in August. Until then, I have to raise money for bail—and I’m looking at you people to help me out. When I got the call, for a brief moment I naively thought I’d been nominated as a standout executive; instead Mrs. Harrible just wanted a cellmate.
Oh, and the traffic stop was because I had a headlight out. One of these days the Seafoam Monster is going to get me into some serious trouble.
Ma suits up for hockey practice Friday night. I’ll be sure to post pictures in a few days; for now, here are some shots of her rehearsal skate last weekend. She’s never ice skated without toe picks before, but I have faith she’s gonna be a real bruiser. In all seriousness, I’m psyched to hit the ice with her. Wonderful enough to do something as fun and violent as play hockey; better still to share it with someone you love.
CCB and I are hosting yet another yard sale on Saturday—this time to benefit the Ms. Conduct hockey team. The good news is, it’s another chance to clear some of the crap out of our garage, and this time we’ll have a few extra hands helping out. The bad news is, I’m afraid all the items we’ve collected from the team will wind up adding to our collection of Stuff We Don’t Want. But it’s yet another way of keeping us away from the television on a summer day, and for that I’m grateful.