Mopey Crankyface McMoperson

 

            I am generally a wildly good-natured and trusting person. I really do believe that everyone is, ultimately, a good person with the best intentions. This is almost certainly an attitude that’s going to get me murdered by a serial killer one day. But even before the inevitable end comes, this attitude causes me a lot of trouble. See, loving everyone sounds great, right? It sounds like the sort of thing that would make you happy and sunny all the time! Ahahahaha. No. So often, my general attitude toward the world is: “I LOVED you, I TRUSTED you, I saw your BEAUTY and your HUMANITY and your VALUE and your POTENTIAL, and you have SHIT ALL OVER my expectations. Well done, you.”

            There’s no cynic like a failed romantic, yeah?

            This is giving me a lot of trouble at university, actually. Many of the other people on my program are astonishingly disrespectful to instructors and other students, and there are a lot of students who are either insanely lazy or pretty unintelligent. I truly hate to be so harsh about it, but I am straight-up scandalized by the low quality of work that I see around me. We’re supposed to be at a university level, and I would’ve absolutely skewered any of my former students (all 14-17 years old) if they had tried to pass off this quality as acceptable. I’ve been skipping seminars a lot lately, because watching this nonsense makes my blood pressure skyrocket. I am, frankly, offended and demoralized by my fellow students. I trusted that we were all going into this program with good intentions, and now I feel personally let down.

            Of course, seminars are the only place where the instructors take attendance (they don’t for lectures) and this past week, one of my seminar leaders hauled me aside to point out that if I don’t cut this shit out, I might get put on probation by the university, which would in turn jeopardize my visa.

            I have been wrestling with this for several weeks now. I know university is, by design, supposed to suck. I didn’t walk into this expecting it to be enjoyable. My mother (always able to toe the line between “wise motivator” and “cranky misanthrope”) pointed out that the value of a university degree is less that it says anything about actual material you have learned, and more about your ability to put up with this sort of bullshit. She added that the less-motivated or –clever ones will probably wash out of the program after year one or in year two, so they might not be on top of me for all three years.

            I wish I could find a way to be funny or insightful about this, and maybe, after it’s all over, I will. In the meantime, it’s just making me cranky-squared, because class is an absolute misery and then I feel guilty about my fraying temper and my active dislike for so many people I barely know. It’s a tricky spot, chums. I’ll try to bring back the sunny attitude soon, I promise.

Why I'll Never Be An Adult

            OH MY GOD, y’all, is it possible to get pregnant from a musical? If it is, I’m in serious trouble because I’m almost definitely having Seussical’s baby. Yeah, the dorky little show is actually that good.

            Incidentally, our upcoming appearance on Jeremy Kyle is going to be fantastic. Seussical is going to be all, “You were cheating on me with Les Mis! How do I know that baby’s mine, eh?” and I’m going to be crying and screaming “It’s got FUR and STRIPES, of COURSE IT IS YOURS” and meanwhile Les Mis is picking up chairs that have been flung around the studio to build a furniture wall and mumbling in French to itself. Further digression: this is why I will never be a theatre critic. I am totally qualified, but at some point my editor would have to propose that I actually write something that makes sense to another human being while I lie on the floor screaming about pregnancy and Jeremy Kyle.

            Seriously, though: if you have the chance, go see this show. The venue is small and the staging is about as low-tech as it comes, but a ridiculously talented and energetic cast make for some of the most vibrant theatre I’ve seen in a while. Every one of them deserves kudos. Kirsty Marie Ayers is particularly outstanding and presh to death as Gertrude McFuzz, and David Hunter (whom you may remember from my last blog entry) is doing what he does best as Horton the Elephant – namely, he’s removing my heart from my breast and crushing it to a fine paste underneath his heel whilst being the most adorable thing in the West End. Also, on an even shallower note, special props to Natalie Green for having such a slammin’ bod that she even makes the Sour Kangaroo’s high-waisted wide-legged salmon-pink trousers look foxy.

            Unfortunately, I wound up sitting in the middle of a mostly-empty second row, and I felt like a total creeper. I dislike the feeling of being essentially in the actors’ laps; I’m a big fan of that fourth wall. Also, there were some minor issues with the microphones and the sound balance that were distracting in the moment, but should be fairly easy to solve. Neither snag hindered my enjoyment of the performance much, but I’d like to go back when they have some of the technical stuff smoothed out a little more.

I know the show is ostensibly kid stuff, but don’t be put off by that. Fun stuff doesn’t stop being fun just because you don’t need a booster seat at the theatre any more. Come on, I know you still sing Disney songs and have waffles for dinner when you think no one’s looking, right? (If the answer to that is “no,” you can just leave now. We don’t need your kind here.)

One final David Hunter-related note. (I promise this is not turning into a Fuck Yeah, David Hunter! blog. It’s relevant. Sort of.) Apparently my mother has found this blog! Hi, Mama, if you’re reading this.  Remember what happened the last time I saw one of Dave’s shows? If not, go refresh your memory with the second half of this entry. Anyway, TLC read that entry and phoned me, very concerned that I was developing a drinking problem.  I had to explain to her that I wasn’t drunk when the whole swearing-and-accidental-hitting thing went down. There is nothing like the shame of having to explain to your dear old mother that her only child doesn’t have a problem with drink – she has a problem with life. APPARENTLY.