I Don't Know

"Why is Astrov barking while walking backwards?"

I don't know.

"Why is Sonya portrayed as a child?"

I don't know.

What am I doing with my life? I don't know.

These questions, and others, have been occupying my synapses for the past few days. As my bronchial tubes constrict and ache from my annual mild case of bronchitis, and my head becomes light from stuffed sinuses and diminished air supplies, I find myself hating theater.

HATING THEATER.

Sometimes, in my worst moments, I fantasize about becoming a staffer for John Boehner and writing legislation that single-handedly destroys all arts funding in the US, decimating our cultural landscape and bringing our artistic BS to an end.

But then I come to my senses, and stay away from the theater.

Tonight, I could not come to my senses. Tonight I came to the theater and a bit of BS. "The best Vanya in Moscow." Great. I'm sure it was -- for the Russians. Again, no amount of plot synopses or play reading in English can really help you when Russian actors, speaking Russian, begin to howl like dogs at any given moment in a show. Sorrry ... no. I was lost, even though I knew what was going on.

It was visually beautiful -- with moments of self-indulgence that added time to the 3 hour show -- but, Vanya and others like it are getting old. All of Moscow seems to be swathed in black and white. Color is a rarity on the Muscovite stage ... or so it seems. Everything is pale, dulled, tarnished. I'm looking forward to HELLO, DOLLY! or Offenbach's THE BANDITS just for a splash of vibrance. With all this muddled light and vibrance ... I just don't know if I can endure much longer.

I **should** go to theater every night? Yeah ... right. I **should** have a frontal labotomy performed before that happens. From the palatte I've seen and the experiences I've had, I'm already on my way to zombie-ville. Any more, and I don't know ... I just might come after your brain.