I admit it, since I got the Facebook account, I have a tendency to post short, blurby updates on my life over there, and leave this space annoyingly blank. Which really kind of defeats the purpose of journalling, doesn't it?
Because I completely neglected to mention the wonder that was Cabaret
, and that's the kind of thing I'm going to want to remember 20 years from now.
When I first heard that the American Repertory Theater was doing Cabaret
this season, my interest was piqued. When I heard that Dresden Doll Amanda Palmer would be starring - as the Emcee, no less - I was sold. And so, my flirtation with the ART, begun during Sleep No More's
epic run, transformed into season's tickets, with the upgrade that gives you really great seats. I'll get back to those in a minute.
Before the show, while we were waiting in line, idly chatting and watching the living statue who'd set herself up just off to the side of where we were standing, there was shouting from across the street. It was a man, down on the ground, shouting for help and telling people to call 911; he claimed he'd been hit, although no one had seen it. There wasn't anyone standing within hitting range of him when he started screaming, and the consensus among those in the line seemed to be that this was some kind of performance art, perhaps to underline our ability to look the other way when unpleasant things seemed to be occurring. "I hope this is performance art," I said to my companions, "because otherwise this is a catastrophic failure of humanity."
A few minutes later, the Cambridge police rolled up on their bicycles. One rode over to ask us if we'd seen anything. No one had. "We weren't sure if it was for real," said the guy in line behind us. "This corner's a little heavy with performance art. We don't even know if you're for real."
"I'm wearing a uniform."
"You can get those online."
The bike cops resolved the issue, and the man got into his SUV and drove off. Several minutes after that, a cop car rolled up, and two police officers got out, looking confused. Eventually one trundled over to the line.
"We got a report about a man yelling for help."
After being told that the bike cops took care of it, he chatted with the club's doormen, then gathered up his partner, got back in the car and drove off. I'm still not sure whether the man who was yelling for help was for real.
Anyway, back to the really great seats, know that when I say "really great seats," what I mean is front row tables at
the Kit Kat Klub, seated immediately next to the person who seemed to be (judging from the attention paid to him by the Emcee) that evenings VIP. Not only were we close enough to the action, Amanda Palmer plunked herself down in the seat immediately beside me for a brief moment during one musical number, and later fed me a delicious little hunk of pineapple. We were absolutely absorbed into the setting, much like Sleep No More
(although naturally with less intensity, because I'm having a hard time imagining how anything else could be that intense). And then at the end of the night, we were spat back out onto the streets, having witnessed something that managed to be both awesome and awful at the same time. I can't describe it further, except to say that the overall effect was corrosive, hideous, and beautiful.
We spent the walk back to the car processing the experience. And I've had the music stuck in my head ever since. Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome...