Curtain Call!

Oh dear. Well, it is my strange privilege to be writing to you from the city’s jail. Old Geraldine was involved in a rather regrettable…accident…a few days ago, and…well…I am lucky to be writing to you at all!

Normally, news on such a tragedy as the events that occurred at City Hall Tuesday afternoon would be conveyed to you in a special Stringphone report of some sort, but as I have been reporting on the Church of the Anointed Corpse’s Improv Troupes for the past few months, it only seemed appropriate to the editorial staff that I communicate the travesty myself.

It all started with my improv-review outfit. 

See, many years ago, as a fledgling beat reporter documenting the theatrical heart of our city—its northern borough—I adopted a special wardrobe to help get me ‘in the mood’ for certain events! 

For straight plays, I wore a scarf, beret, charcoal grey trousers and jacket. For musicals, a big hat with bow and a teal taffeta trapeze with big yellow buttons (my favorite!). For stand-up comedy, a Benedictine habit, tonsure bald-cap, and clogs with bells on the heel (always gets a laugh!). And for improv shows, my many-patterned, multi-colored blazer and pencil skirt with dangly earrings.

I had always thought of each outfit as a delightful way to ease into the headspace of a given performance…never had I thought the colors of my improv-review attire would make me a good candidate for a living sacrifice! The embarrassment rouges my cheeks even now!

I arrived at City Hall in the aforementioned costume and waited eagerly for the performance to start at 3:47p.m., just as was stated at the Milton Playhouse performance of Derelict Resurrection and Her Many Boons. 

I was standing in the courtyard before the hall, worrying about how empty it felt, when, at around 3:45, the yard suddenly began to fill with walkers from all directions, taking positions, it seemed, at precisely 3:46p.m.

With notebook in hand, I watched as they streamed in, even noting Mayor Underacher descending from City Hall’s main steps in a crown and old-timey king’s cape (red velvet with a dalmatian-patterned fringe!).

Then, the fellow with the reflective sunglasses arrived, pushing the old man in the wheelchair from the last show (whom I presume now to be his father) and taking a position in the courtyard’s central circle.

At 3:47, the event began, with Mr. Sunglasses going on and on about how the time had come for us to shed our flesh-sack forms and enter the coin-purse of the universe in a pure-essence form bestowed upon us by the golden constellations of an unseen superreality. There were a few laughs here and there, to be sure, but I was mostly confused!

Then, finally, he called for the crowd to select a sacrifice from among its number—one who ‘demonstrated the vibrance of the universe and would fit well into the multicolored gemsets of its priceless diadem.’

I looked around, wondering who I might select to fit such a description (of course I wanted to participate in the show, odd though it may be, ‘tis a sign of respect!), when suddenly I felt countless hands upon my jacket, poking and brushing at its many vibrant patterns. 

The troupe had selected me!

I approached Mr. Sunglasses and his dear father, thrilled to be chosen for what I surely thought was an improv game! Mr. Sunglasses looked me square in the eye (at least, as far as I could tell, for I could only see my own toothy grin in the mirror of his 70s-style shades) and asked me, quite firmly, how I was feeling.

Thinking I had been set up for a joke, and quite selfishly hoping to impress them with my knowledge of their comedic repertoire, I responded thusly:

“Well, I’m quite p-lathed to meet you!”

Referencing, of course, the unusual (but in retrospect, quite complexly comical) monologue Mr. Sunglasses had given months ago at The Infinite Absconded’s show at the Greenwood Community Center, in which he relayed how his mother was killed in an industrial lathe accident when he was seven (a kneeslapper if I ever heard one!).

He asked me to confirm what I said, and I repeated it, expecting a laugh, a smile of recognition, anything to get the party going!

Instead, Mr. Sunglasses began sputtering, then moaning, then weeping uncontrollably, his wheelchair-ridden father doing the same. I watched on, confused, as Mr. Sunglasses fell onto the ground and his jacket flew open, revealing an odd, wiry-sort of vest filled with beeping sounds and plinky lights and timer displays worn underneath (which I presumed at the time to be squibs for some sort of act, but now understand to be a little more sinister).

As Mr. Sunglasses’s tears streamed down the courtyard’s many cement pathways, I watched as the rest of the courtyard crowd began to do the same—even Mayor Underacher—falling to the ground and weeping. I stood, confused, looking on and taking notes in my notebook as I tried to piece together the potential comedy here. 

Finally, a passing deputy of Sheriff Inglesnap’s arrived from the City Hall, having noted the commotion on the courtyard and finally, upon seeing the squib-vest (not a squib-vest!) on Mr. Sunglasses, he began screaming violently for everyone to get down! Still confused (as everyone was already on the ground crying) I replied asking: what for? Was the deputy part of the show?

Before I knew it, Mayor Underacher was crawling to me amid the wail, and he stood, removed his cape and crown, and placed them upon me.

Still unsure of the punchline, I felt quite pleased to have received so much attention! And merely stood smiling like a goof and cracking my own improvisational jokes over the next 12 minutes as three helicopters, four armored vans, a bomb squad, and three volunteer firefighters arrived on scene to defuse the situation (more specifically, the not-a-squib-vest and a few other mysterious devices found on the persons of many crowd members).

Given my unique attire, however, the authorities are still confused as to my involvement in the whole affair, and I struggle even now to convince them (or myself!) that I was not an active participant in their…mission.

See, I loved their performances, found myself laughing at every joke, and even encouraged my readers to attend their shows! So the lines of this ‘participatory theatre’ experience have, indeed, become quite blurred for old Geraldine.

I don’t believe myself to be a member of their troupes—or the church that ran them—by any means. But I do find myself…every once in a while, feeling the weight of the crown upon my head even when it is not there. Seeing…the glinting jewels of a great, universal coin purse of which we are all a part. Considering the strange weight of my flesh upon my bones…and wondering how they might be freed redeemed purchased for their true worth…

But these are all questions for another time! Oh ho!

Most likely simply a result of my extended isolation in this rather drab and dreary city jail cell. I do look forward to leaving the jail sometime soon, as I’ve heard that there is a new revival of Knuckletoes McGee coming to Mom’s Attic Theatre in June, and I simply would not miss it for the world!

For all the money in the world! For all the money is the world! Five dollars is the world! Mennica Warszawska shall not contain the effigy the Ag999 effigy shall not be contained

Note for Editor:

It looks like my pen slipped—Horace could you please be sure to remove that last line or two? For some reason I can’t bring myself to scratch them out. Toodles!

-GW

The Church of the Infinite Absconded has a stranglehold on our little city’s improvisational theatre scene—and my funny bone!

In previous months, I’ve reviewed the eye-wateringly funny antics of The Infinite Absconded and The Pingy Pop Players (Eighth Vivisection of Guan Yu). Both of these troupes put on tremendous, fun-for-all-ages frolics that nourished this critic’s soul.

It wasn’t until this week that I saw the third of these sister companies, Derelict Resurrection and Her Many Boons, performing their show: Penultimate Suffering as the Vessel In Which Our Wretched Bodies Are Redeemed at the Milton Playhouse, and might I say, it did not disappoint!

As you may recall, most of the Anointed Corpse acts involve some sort of monologue from a fellow in reflective sunglasses (whom I wouldn’t call the funniest of the bunch—a little too conceptual!), so I was surprised to see this act begin with a monologue from an unfamiliar old man, wheeled out in a chair. 

He began going on (quite apathetically) about the depravity of the modern world, the coming glory of his son, the prophet, and about how potential redemption would be actualized through the spilling of great amounts of blood at the seat of our small king—such talk might shake the average theatre-goer, but old Geraldine is no pup! I’ve seen plenty of avant-garde theatre and am rarely unsettled by such unusual content, so I held out hope that the expert funnymen at the Anointed Corpse still had a little rubber chicken or whoopie cushion up their sleeve.

Low and behold, I was rewarded! Approximately half an hour into the old man’s tirade, a pie! Flying in from stage left, smacking flavorless cream into his unusually shaped wrinkles and sagging jowls! Thus began an on-stage pie battle involving a dozen or more cast members, underscored by the blaring, frenetic tones of Boots Randolph’s ever-beloved Yakety Sax at an appropriately ear-splitting volume.

And the fun didn’t stop! Countless members of the audience suddenly stood and began shouting out foreign language battle cries (a rare Cantonesian dialect, mayhaps?), pulling until-then unseen pies from beneath their chairs, and flinging them in all directions!

The high-brow theatre critic in me wishes she could say she left herself some decorum, but in truth, I joined in the goopy crossfire, giggling with glee! I cannot imagine how I must have looked, dripping with cream in my multi-patterned improv-review blazer and skirt, but if you weren’t already laughing at the inspired timing of the Derelict Resurrection company, I’m sure the sight of me would have had you wheezing!

After many, many pies were thrown by folks of all ages and kinds (I think I even saw Mayor Underacher swimming in a pool of confection!) the saxophone suddenly cut out, replaced by a loud recitation:

June 1, 3:47 p.m. All shall witness the life made flesh at the seat of our small king.

Which repeated a few times. Many of the audience members—especially those who were first to throw their pies—seemed thrilled by this announcement, holding each other and weeping, so excited they were!

I presume this date to indicate some sort of flash-mob style performance, and given the way Mayor Underacher was wearing a crown and talking so eagerly after the show with the old wheelchair man (whom I was glad to see uninjured, given the astonishing velocity of the first pie), I have a theory this mysterious next performance might take place at City Hall!

In any event, I do hope it is another show, as all of the Church of the Anointed Corpse’s improv troupes have suspended their other shows indefinitely—I’m simply pining for another of their hilarious acts. If you weren’t able to make it to any of the recent performances, I hope you’ll join me on the 1st at the Hall—I’ll be wearing my trademark improv-review blazer and pencil skirt, sans goop, this time!

-GW

Long has it been. Approximately 37 years, 8 months, and 15 days ago, I published my last review. In the decades that passed, I begrudgingly yet dutifully attended my weekly viewings. Movies, plays, musicals, concerts, dances, performance art pieces, buskers, huskers, the occasional sporting event, and on one occasion, a goat staring contest. Yet nothing moved me. Having written for our humble paper for roughly 42 years, 9 months, 3 weeks, and 6 days, I thought I had seen it all. Every performance simply harkened another. Nothing new, everything derivative. About 1 week, 4 days, 7 hours, and 32 minutes ago, it happened. 

There I was, sitting on a creaky, white, plastic, cracking, chipped, stained, and mysteriously damp folding chair that smelled of mold, mildew, stale bread, and a dash of pineapple, surrounded by similar chairs occupied by other patrons, the main differences of our chairs being the shape of the stains, the placement of the cracks, different chipped spots, and strangely other fruit scents (I made sure to give each chair a long, thorough, mindful, and intentional sniff). We were scattered around a medium sized room with a small stage at one end that had a door leading to an adjacent, slightly smaller room that contained a dented, bent, scratched, visibly wet, metal table. A chair, similarly damaged, upon which sat a motionless man who, surrounded by 12 other men, all motionless, arced behind the man in the chair, all of whom were facing the window through which all of this was visible. Around 8:04:31 PM EST, the lights in the slightly larger room, in which us patrons sat, dimmed, signaling the start of the performance as the leftmost man, from the point of the audience, slowly, steadily, and patiently reached into his slightly bulging pocket, and pulled out what looked to be a small, white, twist dial kitchen timer, which he twisted to 37 minutes, and slammed the timer down onto the metal table. As the timer hit the table, the man in the chair, having materialized a piece of white printer paper and a red ink pen, began writing. 

Over the next 37 minutes, the scene went as follows; our man in the chair writes frantically, sweating profusely, with the faint scratch of the weary pen echoing through the otherwise silent rooms, while the 12 men standing behind him stood completely motionless, hardly seeming to even breathe, with the patrons, of which there were roundly 19 adults, including myself (11 male and 8 female) and 1 small child, a young boy looking to be 8 or 9 years of age, at which point I thought it weird a child of such an age attending this performance as all of the men in the adjacent room were stripped down to their briefs, yet he seemed unaccompanied and undisturbed so I did not press the issue as the man in the chair continued to scribble away until 32 minutes had passed and only 5 minutes remained on the timer at which point the man in the chair jolted to a stand and hurried to a copier in the corner that I had noticed earlier (figuring it to be leftover from whomever had occupied this space previously, it being a space that regularly rotates renters for short stents, often office workers and occasionally performers, as is the case tonight) where our man who was previously in the chair made 22 copies, 12 of these copies he passed to his fellow men in the room, keeping the original for himself, and they all moved in unsettling unison for the door, opening it at the exact moment the kitchen timer dinged, the men pouring out of the room, all carrying a handful of what had been copied, handing a copy to each patron before returning to the stage, in a silent, fluid, and continuous movement that left me feeling vaguely queasy, nauseous, dizzy, and uncomfortable to the point I almost did not notice the child was no longer seated 5 feet to my left and 7 feet in front of that point (being roughly 8.602 feet to my diagonal front left) before the blackout accompanied by a cacophany of noise, light returning and sounds ending as abruptly as they had begun, the small stage now blocked by a large, blank, white screen, the dull hum of a projector slowly growing as it beeps and kicks to life, shining that typical, blue rectangle on the screen briefly before cutting to black where a hazy image begins to form, and I realize, I am almost entirely alone in the audience, with only one other chair, upon which one of the female patron sits calmly (as if she expected these rapid and extreme changes) so I look to the paper I had been handed, hoping for more information, yet all I see is poor, haphazard, and sratchy penmenship writing out what seems to be a story, beginning with the tell tale "Once upon a time", and I look around me once more, jarred to see those same words sprawled across the screen, and the story begins as is written on the paper, the apparated patrons and all 13 men all playing a part of the story on the screen, all in miraculously quick made costumes, and I can't help but feel I have a part to play before this is all over, yet I cannot bring myself to skip to the end of the story before it is told, enthralled with what is happening on screen as the story unfolds, much to my enjoyment, trepidation, apprehension, excitement, and foreboding, many scenes filled with anticipation and action accompanied by the most incredible effects I have ever witnessed, happening as written, flowing on and on until, as the story draws to the close, the screen rips down the middle, another blackout, another symphony of sounds, the lights return and that young boy sits on a bed that had not been present previously, seated between myself and the female patron, and I suddenly recognize my part in the story, which I played expertly, much to my own shock, moved by the story in such a manner that my performance so naturally flowed, aided by the female patron and the young boy, and then it was over, without bows, without credits, without applause, we all filter out of the door through which we entered, feeling changed, feeling different, without speaking, in fact, no words were spoken during the previous 2 hours and 41 minutes, even during my part of the performance somehow, the chicken scratched copy still clutched tightly in my hand, I wander home to write, searching the whole way for the words to summarize the story, yet none come and I realize, as I am putting the key into the lock of my third floor apartment, I have all the words I need in the palm of my hand, so I copy the story here, exactly as written by our man in the chair:

“Once upon a time. There was a boy who was born. He seemed to be normal. But as he grew up. He seemed to be different. He could do things other people couldnt. He could move really heavy things. Or move things without touching them. He was much smarter than everyone. He was different. One day. He was at school. And he heard something. Something falling out of the sky. And he caught it with his mind and just held it. It was really heavy and he was straining. So he put whatever it was gently on the ground. It turns out that it was a bomb. It was meant to destroy the entire town. But he saved it. Everyone was afraid to touch it or move it. So he picked it up with his mind. And threw it. Threw it as far as he could. It flew so so far away that it flew out into space and it floated away. Everyone was happy and relieved. But everyone now knew that he had powers. So he had to move because people are annoying. So he moved to a new town. He has been there for a few months when one day. He hears a gunshot and he caught the bullet. Right before it hit him in the back of the head. He threw the bullet back where it came from. Much faster than it being shot out of a gun. And it hit the sniper right in the shoulder. Taking off the snipers arm. The boy got up and started running. He was being targeted. Someone wanted him dead. So he ran and ran. He ran so fast that within 15 minutes. He was at the next town over. He found somebody who owned an underground bunker and he paid the man to let him stay there. And so he started living in the underground bunker. It was going fine until one day he stepped out of the bunker and heard a gunshot from inside the house. He ran in the house and saw somebody climbing out the window. He also saw the guy who owned the bunker lying dead on the floor. He grabbed the man climbing out the window and threw him against the wall with his mind. He controlled the guy to take the gun and shoot himself. And it happened. Then the boy realized that he wasnt safe and niether was anyone wround him. So he started running again. But when he was out on the street he heard a bomb falling out of the sky. And so he ran for the bunker. He made it to the bunker and climbed in just before the bomb hit. He got down underground as the bomb went off. Totally leveling the town. Everyone in the town died but him. He stayed in the underground bunker because he reached out with his mind and saw that there were people walking through to make sure he was dead. Luckily they passed over the bunker. He waited another three days before leaving. He left and ran for hours non stop. He went around villiages. Hiding in the mountains. One day he found a cave. And in the cave was a huge lab where there were these scientists who were expirementing on people. These people could do some weird things. Just like him. He also saw all these soldiers. Wearing the same uniforms as the one who he made shoot himself. He also saw thw sniper with a metal skeleton arm. He decided he needed to get rid of all of this. So he reached way out into space and found the bomb he threw earlier and brought it back. Pulling it closer and closer and then he pulled it into the cave with so much force that it killed many people before it even exploded. It exploded and totally destroyed the mountain. He was launched out of the mountain. Somehow with only just a few burns and he was thrown really far. He was unconsciouss. But as he was flying. He woke up and caught himself just before he hit the ground and died. Then this giant metal ball fell out of the sky and landed right next to him. The metal ball slowly started to retract like an armadillo shell. And inside was the sniper. They saw each other. And immediately broke out into a fight. It was huge. In the end. The boy was broken terribly and bleeding a lot. He was on his knees. And as the sniper advanced on him to kill him. The boy grabbed the sniper with his mind. Lifted him up. And tore him in half. The sniper died. Then the boy fell to his side and passed out. He woke up the next week in the hospital. When he opened his eyes. He saw his parents there. Standing there. And when they noticed he was awake. They called for the nurse and she rushed in. They asked what happened and he told them everything about that strange time. And everyone thought he was crazy. So they explained what really happened. He was in a horrible car wreck and hit his head and went into a coma. They didnt think he would make it through but he fought through and stayed alive. He won the fight to live.”  

Even in the mere act of copying word for word, all that was written by our man in the chair, I find myself without the proper words to describe my experience. The evening after the performance, I returned to the little building for rent on the corner of Crandan Circle and Spillow Drive, only to find the sight of several office workers, doing various activities office work, using the very same copier as was used the night before, yet I find myself more shaken than ever before, as I wonder whether or not this is just another performance, the thought bouncing around my head the whole way home. Once again, I am struck, as I insert my shiny little key into the scratched deadbolt lock on my rusty apartment door, with a thought so severe, what if everything is just a performance? 

Perhaps we are all simply part of a large and unending performance, meant to play a role. Some of us may know our role right away, others may not know until it is just the right time. Should this be the last review I ever write, I want to leave you with this; may you find the role you are meant to play, may you find your co-stars, and when you do, play your role to the fullest. 

-MI

My last review detailed the exceptional new addition to our community theatre scene in the form of The Infinite Absconded, an experimental (but hilarious!) improv group begun by the Church of the Anointed Corpse on Bleakly Street.

That was a tremendous show, fun for the whole family, so I was quite excited to try out a show by their sister troupe, The Pingy Pop Players (Eighth Vivisection of Guan Yu) at Charlie’s Karaoke Bar! Their act, titled Golden Constellation of the Fileted Sacrifice Rendered Holy by the Hand of Our Father, had me laughing nearly nonstop! 

If you read my prior review of The Infinite Absconded’s show, you won’t be surprised that the Pingy Pop Players featured plenty of pantomimed slapstick humor, expertly crafted character accents, and more than one razor-sharp wit!

You also won’t be surprised to hear that, just between the balloon-filled-with-feathers game and the pantomimed pogo stick musical chairs game, the audience was blessed by yet another monologue from a skinny fellow in reflective sunglasses. Where, last time, the fellow detailed an unfortunate incident regarding his mother (dearly departed) and an industrial lathe at a bicycle factory when he was seven, this monologue was more lighthearted and intimate.

The fellow in the reflective sunglasses—in between some oddly timed but nonetheless witty knock-knock jokes—explained to all of us how each of our respective souls was part of a cosmic, golden constellation, whose value was known only to the coin purse of the universe, and which could not be redeemed without the willing hand of a holy father to pluck us from our impotence and place us in the wealth of the eternally divine.

I wasn’t sure about all that, but I quite liked one of the knock-knock jokes, which, for your entertainment, I’ll reproduce as follows:

Holy Father: “Knock knock!”

Audience: “Whose There?”

Holy Father: “Guan!”

Audience: “Guan Who?”

Holy Father: “Guan Yu!”

What rhyming!

Of course, there is much more to be experienced at Charlie’s Karaoke Bar than I can explain here, but suffice it to say, I’m of the opinion that everyone should go and see it, if they are able! And feel free to invite your friends, your neighbors, your associates and all! Prices are dirt cheap (with all proceeds, I have learned, going to the Church of the Anointed Corpse) and you’ll find yourself utterly locked in for hours of good old-fashioned fun when you attend.

Shows continue at Charlie’s on 3rd Avenue every Friday night at 7p.m.. Tickets are $15/adult, $8/child, and seniors, first responders, and women who have had a mammogram in the last week get in free! (I just love these humorous medical discounts!)

I have also confirmed that the 50% off rates for members, donors, and ‘willing lambs’ of the Church of the Anointed Corpse are still valid every other weekend for all shows related to the church, including those of the aforementioned Infinite Absconded and Derelict Resurrection and Her Many Boons, whom I hope to review quite soon!

-GW

The theatre is alive again! 

Long have I hoped for a reprieve from the constantly existential, ever-droll and always somber plays that have plagued the northern borough for the last six years. 

Ever since 2017’s Knuckletoes McGee—the laugh-out-loud story of a surgeon whose hands are actually feet—I have been bum out of luck in the search for a truly knee-slapping experience.

No longer!

Our town’s newest improv troupe, The Infinite Absconded, have brought us a truly entertaining chemistry of laughs in their latest show: My Mother Lies Desicated Within the Grey-Bodied Urn of My Memory, which features all the must-have classics of improvisatory theatre:

• Party Quirks

• At Least One Spit Take

• Jokes About Texting

• Trump Impersonations

• 3(!) Dildo Helmets

• An X Factor: Pigeoneering from a Licensed Pigeoneer!

• Audience Participation

As with all improv shows, it took a few games for the audience (including myself) to enter the rhythm of this particular troupe’s comedic cadence, but once things were rolling, boy were they rolling! 

Highlights included a party quirks game where one of the participants was actually Frankenstein’s Monster (riotous!) a scene set in a coffee shop where Donald Trump came on the tv (very funny!) and a dildo-helmet pigeoneering act featuring 13 audience members and a live rabbit that must be seen to be believed, and which I struggle even now to fully understand.

That last one was quite funny, but I also believe I may have been laughing out of genuine discomfort, if not fear for my own safety. Still, what a wonderful time!

Where the title for the act came from, I do not know, though it is likely the brainchild of the fellow in the reflective sunglasses who came out before the show to deliver a riveting monologue about losing his own mother in an industrial lathe accident when he was seven. A bit of an unusual amuse bouche for such an act, but there was something experimental about the whole thing, to be sure, and I can’t say everything didn’t come together!

If you, like me, find yourself enjoying the work of The Infinite Absconded, do look into their sister troupes, somehow all related to the nearby Church of The Annointed Corpse on Bleakly Street, though I’ve yet to figure out if they’re all an outreach branch or something. Probably just another tax evasion scheme, ha ha!

The sister acts include Derelict Resurrection and Her Many Boons, who specialize in toilet humor and general ribaldry at the Milton Playhouse, and The Pingy Pop Players (Eighth Vivisection of Guan Yu), who host Whose Line Is It Anyway-style games every Thursday night at Charlie’s Karaoke Bar on 3rd Avenue.

Matinee shows for My Mother Lies Desicated continue every other Tuesday from 12 to 1:15p.m. at the Greenwood Community Center and are otherwise held on Saturdays and Sundays from 5 to 8:30p.m. at Mom’s Attic Theatre on Devich Avenue. $15/adult*, $8/child, and seniors, first responders, and men who have had a colonoscopy in the last week get in free! Ha! 

*See also 50% off rates for ‘members, donors, or “willing lambs” of the Church of the Annointed Corpse’ every other weekend, as per their poster*

-GW