With grapefruit-size holes in the floppy soles of my shoes, I’ll admit that the rain all day literally dampened my enthusiasm for seeing Steve’s play. But wearing two pair of socks with old breadbags between them, I trudged through the downpour and BARTed into the city.
From Pathetic Life #20
Wednesday, January 24, 1996
And the stupidity of BART is astounding. It’s a 70-mile electric train set, much of it running underground, but with long stretches of track on or above the surface too — and they didn’t take the esoteric concept of rainfall into account when it was designed and built.
Whenever it rains, the trains have to slow down, and wires inevitably get splashed and short out. When it’s heavy rain like today, there might as well be no schedule at all.
Usually it’s half an hour by BART from my place to the city, but today we idled for 18 minutes at Ashby Station, and 23 minutes at MacArthur Station. They explained the delay in an announcement you couldn’t hear, garbled and muffled by the inaudible PA system.
♦ ♦ ♦
I’d planned on arriving early enough to grab a few fast-food hamburgers before the play, but instead I got to Theater Rhinoceros soaking wet and grumpy, about five minutes after the show had started. Once inside, though, after quietly seating myself toward the front, the play grabbed me quickly.
Out Calls Only is a comedic drama about male hookers, call boys accustomed to having the settings and situations of their business encounters defined by their clients. It’s a revelation to them (and to us) when a paid encounter evolves into something more than the mercenary position.
It was too dark in the seating section to take notes, so I can’t quote any lines, but there are lots of laughs on the way to a romantic ending. It’s all sexy, moving, and over too soon.
Usually I’m a movie guy, because plays are so damned expensive, and whoa, it’s a whole ‘nother experience to be sitting in the second row, fifteen feet from the stage. The theater is small, so everything is right there, close enough that the actors seem to be looking right into your eyes.
I could see the color of their eyes. Also, one man had a large mole on the side of his penis.
As promised by Steve, there’s plenty of dick in this play. It’s not really a musical, though. There are several songs, but instead of being belted out like “76 Trombones” they’re mostly background music for a few moments between scenes.
Dicks all over the place, though. Everyone in the cast disrobes, and it’s an all-male cast. Haven’t seen so many penises in one place since high school gym class.
Tonight was the last undress rehearsal; the play opens on Friday, and if it’s still playing by the time this zine lands in your mailbox, Doug says you ought to buy two tickets and take your sweetie. Or take me. I’d love to see it again, but due to my ongoing bankruptcy and the theater’s $12
minimum ticket price, that’s not happening unless you want to see all those dicks plus pay my way.
Please, help support the arts. My voice mail is 415/487-████.
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.
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