Tuesday, October 25
Pride Goeth Before Destruction, and a Pleasant Evening Before Picking Glass Shards Out of the Carpet
Forget to use it one day, use it the next.
Sunday night the Flying Karamazov Brothers were in town with their show "Life: A Guide for the Perplexed". It was the first time I'd seen 'em live. It was a fun piece about midlife crisis, which I enjoyed because, um, I'm a juggler.
When you juggle, even with very slight proficiency (I can do a lot of the standard 3-ball repertoire, got a few cigar box tricks, and I can sort of handle three clubs but I haven't practiced enough) mere technical brilliance is seldom that impressive. Yes, my jaw drops watching Sergei Ignatov handle eleven rings, but seeing someone do fairly simple tricks with panache is easily as satisfying, and the Brothers have that in spades. Roderick Kimball, who, without his beard, looks like a kid and played one part of the time, did a nice routine that rarely ventured beyond three. They worked in plenty of their patented four-man club passing, which included a fairly spectacular wipe-out that reduced it to two-man club passing at one point. The best routine of the night started with them seated at a table, and was more rhythmic than showy. In between there was plenty of music, bad puns, and some terrific choreography. I'm pretty sure that's the first time "terrific choreography" has appeared on this blog. I apologize for any unintended Google hits.
There were two problems. The sound was over the top for a fifteen-hundred seat theatre, and since we were sixth row center and the speakers were 35 feet over our heads it took some time before we understood everything that was said. And the crowd sucked.
It was like a dinner theatre crowd had gotten bad directions or something. I was probably in the 50th percentile based on age. Which there's nothing wrong with, of course, but the Brothers did not get the sort of enthusiasm they deserved, and the two Iraq and two Halliburton jokes were met with an audible intake of breath around us. There was a kid seated next to me, who'd been drug in by parents who couldn't risk leaving him home with his Playstation, who never applauded once. I hogged the armrest just to spite him.
Still, I got home in a wonderful mood, only to find that Larry, the Tax-Deductible Kitten, had managed to knock over and smash the lucky bamboo and its glass vase our neighbors gave us. My Poor Wife was nice enough not to remind me that she'd suggested locking him in his room before we left. She's slipping.
Of course I'd made the aesthetic decision to replace the river rock they'd originally rooted the stuff in with some lovely black/grey/red stuff the size of aquarium gravel, so I spent a good hour picking it up. Which seems to have had a slight effect on the David Brooks piece I wrote, because I forgot to point out he never mentioned the word "Iraq" nor the fact that the Mysteriously Disappearing Republican Agenda in the late '90s was right where it had been all decade, inside Bill Clinton's trousers.
And I forgot all about the picture. I wanted to post a short series of the Louis Wain cat paintings (see above) which used to be (maybe still are) used as an illustration of progressive psychosis despite the fact that the chronological arrangement was more-or-less fictitious. The point being that this time there's no mistake.