Or other R words. I believe way back in April or May whenever I posted my last blog that I still had around 49 more to do before the end of the year? Well here’s to 48, bitches! Oh, will I finish the goal before the end of the year? No. No, I won’t. But that was before and that blog has died and this new one is rising from the ashes like a phoenix. There’s also a possibility it could be directly related to me currently having another crappy mustache that I keep saying I will shave and don’t and wonder why I don’t every single night before I go to bed. It could very well be possible that all of my creative justices are fueled specifically only by mustache hair follicles and the longer I let them the grow, the more inspired I become.
So what’s the new change you ask? The Revival? The Renewal? The Rambunctious new beginning? Well, let’s just say it’s my attempt to become a world-class theatre critic. After trying and failing for many weeks to win a single Broadway lottery to see a cheaper version of a play or musical I’d seen years before, I gave up, I broke. I said, “Self, maybe it’s time to just start finding cheap deals or hell, paying full price for a show you want to see because you sure as hell aren’t getting these cheap tickets because you’re unlucky and you suck.” It was a strange pep talk, but it worked. In the last week, I’ve seen what? 3 shows? A play, a musical, another musical. And doesn’t the world deserve to hear my thoughts on all of those? Do you really expect the reviewers who go into restaurants and award Michelin stars are actual chefs? To be honest, I have no idea, and they very well could be chefs and that would render my comment moot. You know a way I found to get cheap Broadway tickets? By joining the Theatre’s Guild. Of course, to do that, you have to have written a play and had it performed or something like that. Easy, I say! Haven’t I spoken about writing a musical for hundreds of years and have nothing to show for it? Of course I have! And you know what inspires that? Watching a musical with songs by The GoGos that takes place in the 1600s and then it makes me think lots of boring thoughts that no one cares about so I don’t actually discuss them out loud but I’m bringing this blog back to write down my thoughts and pretend like three people are reading them. Plus, you’d have such thoughtful commentary like “Why is this giant man sitting next to me? Why couldn’t he trade places with his wife?”, except for that would go on for another paragraph of comments. Or “Is that beard on Michael Cera just that scraggly or did they just glue random hair on his face? Is that what my facial hair would look like? Why do either of us think facial hair works?”. Are you getting that from your NYTimes culture section? You probably aren’t. Again, I’m going in with a lot of assumptions about what other top-shelf critics like myself are saying because for one, I do not read them and for two, I am not going to read them and for three, I don’t want them to be jealous of my better reviewing skills. I’m so good in that I can hardly tell you the difference between a 9.0 play and a 10.0 musical and you know I’m unable to discern any difference between a leading man or woman and their understudy.
All I can say is this. Will I write something about a play that I saw a week ago that I did nod off a little in for the first act and will I write this critique with no notes taken and without looking up the names of characters or even refreshing my own brain with a plot summary? I will. I won’t give it a score because I think that’s just tacky, it’s not about the score, it’s about the words themselves. I will give a review of the experience, of my own interpretations of what the playwright was trying to say and I’ll assume that my interpretation is as right if not more write than the author themselves. I can promise you all of this. Who is the you I am speaking to? I do not know but I imagine there are ones of you, followed by tens, followed by thousands when I become the respected critic I know I can be. Oh, and don’t worry. The musical is still happening. When? That doesn’t matter. What is it about? Who cares. Do I know anything about music? Absolutely not. Just be on the lookout for my thoughts on The Waverly Gallery, Head Over Heels, and the Book of Mormon coming soon. I even bequeathed myself my own Christmas gift that I’ll be attending this weekend in Dear Evan Hansen. That will be an interesting one because seeing as how I avoided all plot details and songs within it for almost a year, if that one lets me down, I may given up this newfound career entirely. That won’t happen though. Because the world of theatre needs a man like me. Because when we think creative arts, we always think that we need more straight white males to offer their input (Yes, of course this is sarcasm). And I am answering the call. So it goes.