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Posts Tagged ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show’

My Halloween costume was apparently a premonition; of sorts.  We’ll get to that, but first things first.

On Saturday night, a few of us abandoned the district for the greener sprawls of Kensington, MD.  It was the last night of a stage production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Patrick was both stage manager and videographer.

rocky horror

We almost didn’t make it.  We were all 300% sure that we were going to a) die or b) live the actual movie as we stumbled across a creepy castle in the wilderness.  With Google Maps on a Blackberry and two iPhones, we found ourselves looking for a street that didn’t exist, in a dark parking lot, trapped on a no-outlet street and followed by a minivan.

Verdict?  Google: you know nothing about Kensington, MD.

Once we actually got there, though, it was good — seamless video integration and full commitment by the actors.  We proudly sauntered in with a respectable collective load of RHPS experience.  None of us were show-virgins, which was sweet because some productions will mark a Rocky Horror virgin for easy cast access during the performance and then our fate could’ve been in the hands of alien transvestites.

When the show was over, I couldn’t help but think a few things:

1. I would like some Firefly vodka — the beverage of champions.
2. We should buy all 22 chapters of R. Kelly’s Trapped in the Closet.
3. Haven’t seen that much simulated sex since the mansion-cult-orgy scenes in Eyes Wide Shut.
4. I wish I hadn’t watched all that sex while sitting near 8 year-old children.

Let’s talk about those last two, shall we?  Cool.

It was a lot of humping.  Everybody got humped.  Everybody humped somebody.  It was also a lot of groping.  Everybody got groped.  Everybody groped somebody.  I realized I would never be an actor.  To not “show and tell” what it feels like when your parts and accessories are being worked over like a project on a tool bench is a talent with which some people are, clearly, just born.

Given all of that, it was weird that we were sitting in the crowd with at least 4 children.  Children.  Not kids; I call peers “kids.”  I mean children; as in people who had very recently spent time in a womb.

Remember how Dave Chappelle would scream, “Better not bring your kids?”  Yeah.  Saturday night was like that.  Great entertainment, we laughed a lot, but you weren’t supposed to bring your children.

They were there, seated two rows in front of us, for all of the cursing, dry-banging, face-sitting and crotch exploration.  The only scene they missed was the beginning of the second act.  Apparently, their guardian knew what was coming and decided that the tossing of used condoms was the line he couldn’t cross while holding the hands of 8 year-olds.

And we’re four, liberally-minded kids.  But seeing them see all of that?  Made us feel like the FCC did when Janet Jackson’s breast appeared at the Super Bowl.  It made me feel like a natural Mormon, not just someone who played one on Halloween night.  Somebody guessed that maybe they weren’t kids but four Benjamin Buttons, because the idea of us sitting in the midst of not one but four reverse-livers was less creepy.

Miss Bianca joked that it should make for an awesome show and tell at school this week.  There will be seven levels of awkward when ‘lil Bobby comes in with the ball gag he found in his dad’s sock drawer and Susie uses arts and crafts time to make three clay figurines that are definitely not playing leapfrog.

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