Touch-a-touch-a-touch-a-touch-me!

[crazydiamondsue]

Observations from an ex-freaky girl on viewing the Rocky Horror Show.

 

 

FRANK-N-FURTER: There's no crime in giving yourself over to pleasure... AUDIENCE: There is in Oklahoma!

So finally got to see The Rocky Horror Show live (I don't count the time we read it in Play Production and I played Magenta) last night. Since "Dammit Janet" was our song for years (before my husband exchanged it for that god-awful-Bryan-Adams-Robin Hood-movie-song) we decided to make it an actual date-date (money-money was to be spent and a kiss-kiss was guaranteed.)

Our romantic dinner on the OKC canal never materialized, because by the time we fought over Mexican or Italian and made a choice, it was 7:15 and there was no way we were going to get seated, served and to the theatre by 8:00. So I won in the end, Mexican ala Taco Bell. The romance was thick in the air (or could have been hot sauce, who knows.)

We got to the theatre, got our 'participation bags' and were seated (in the back row, oh, woe-oh-oh at the late night...) and checked out the audience. Back in the day (1990-1991) when I was a semi-regular at midnight Rocky, I seem to recall a great deal more black, make-up, mousse and expressions of anarchy on the faces of my fellow Unconventional Conventionists. However, last night it was veritable sea of Old Navy with not a Salvation Army jacket in sight.

I was bummed, thinking that participation was going to be stilted and perfunctory. I need not have worried, however, because seated right in front of us was the essential to Rocky - two drunk gay men with homemade bags of toast and toilet paper. (In the spirit of friendship, I wish I could have told one of them that past a certian age - generously stated, 35 - wearing a ballcap makes you look less like JT and more like my dad getting ready to brushhog.)

The performances were quite good for local theatre. 'Janet' was a dead-ringer for Kelly Clarkson, right down to the over-belting. Frank wasn't hot, but he was amusing in a very Joan Crawford way. Rocky was hot in that "too many muscles" way.

At the act break, Eddie and I went to get a drink and a smoke. As we stood on the patio enjoying our Texas beer and our Carolina tobacco, we were jostled by three ladies who had obviously hit the cabaret more than once that evening. Apparently, there had been complaints from their seatmates to security that they were enjoying themselves a bit too vigorously. As I listened avidly to drama behind me I learned that:

1. They had seen Rocky like 80 times in the late 70s
2. They weren't fuckin' leavin' and the bitch next to them could fuck off and the security guard could get fucked and where's my fuckin' lighter? (This was punctuated by a slap on my left shoulder by what appeared to be a peeplet - not quite a midget, and I'm only 5'1", so - demanding a lighter.)
3. That the actors were doing a 'pretty good job' but *they* could do better and that it's never a good idea to make a play from a movie. Direct quote. Swear to God.

On his way to stub out our smokes, my husband had to squeeze between a group of well-groomed, tall, thin and neat men. One of them glanced at him as Eddie put out the cigarettes and I thought to myself, "Wait for it..." and I was not disappointed as Eddie turned to walk back to me to see the guy leisurely check out his ass. I gave the voyeur a wink and a nod that received an answering shrug and a grin and took my just-one-big-one husband back to the theatre.

As I sat in my plaid mini-skirt and diamond jewelry and watched the revival of one my many milestones on the road to Quirky, I took a brief moment to mourn the long ago 20-year-old Rocky virgin I had been. The chick in the black and cream pin-stripped jacket with satins cuffs (the pockets always full of rice) with her big, glittery hair and preponderance of eyeliner who drove to the theatre in a car plastered in Greenpeace and Amnesty International bumperstickers, the Cure blaring from the speakers.

But, I consoled myself in my white girl pain, beneath the Old Navy and the dusky pink lipgloss, the freaky theatre chick is still there. I mean, she's the one who lurves Spike, right? Surely, if I have grown up and I no longer dream it or be it, I'd be watching CSI, right? So I quickly shook off those feelings of batchick nostalgia, because I know that path leads to late night phone calls replete with sentences that begin with "Remember that one time...?" followed by a morning of smoker's cough.

Lost in time and lost in space and meaning.

 

Comments

[spikendru.livejournal.com]

They had seen Rocky like 80 times in the late 70s
134 paid admissions, here, before we were finally asked to be the "floor" show and got in free from then on!

That the actors were doing a 'pretty good job' but *they* could do better and that it's never a good idea to make a play from a movie. Direct quote. Swear to God.

Oh. My. Goddess. *gigglesnort* This is gonna be my quote of the day! "It's never a good idea to make a play from a movie!" And all those local theatre adaptations of Romeo and Juliet just can't hold a candle to that wonderful 1996 Baz Luhrmann movie!" (Although, I actually did like Luhrmann's interpretation.)

[crazydiamondsue.livejournal.com]

"And all those local theatre adaptations of Romeo and Juliet just can't hold a candle to that wonderful 1996 Baz Luhrmann movie!"

Snurfle. Choke. Color me amused.

Check out Karabair's Eternal Rome story, she's got a Lord Chamberlain's Men/TriStar reference that's classic.

http://www.livejournal.com/users/karabair/54406.html