Iridesce Sent

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Sunday, August 14, 2005

Today, I went to see my cousin Clint Carter in the Water Tower Theatre's production of "Cabaret." (Mini-review: It's good -- the Emcee is a woman! -- and you should go. Links to real reviews are here; Clint's the soft-focused one in the background of the top photo.)

The venue is excellent; it has a nice garden outside and some metal cabling strung between gridded eyehooks on the way up the stairs. It's a "No Tobacco Environment," which made me sigh, because I was really looking forward to some Skoal.

The median age of this Sunday matinee audience, I noticed as we waited for the seating to begin, was approximately 68. I wondered how the older folks would take to the rampant sexuality featured in the show.

About ten minutes into the musical, I smell the sour burned smell of marijuana.

No. Way. This is the Sunday matinee.

Of a musical.

I couldn't believe my olfaction... Well, I thought, at least they're not breaking the tobacco rule!

And an hour or so later, the click of a lighter behind me to the left, and a renewed source of diffusion lights up.

I ask my mom during intermission if she noticed it. "What? No."

"Okay. I'll poke you if I smell it again, and you tell me if I'm wrong."

Sure enough, about half an hour into the second part, I hear the lighter again, and the disconcerting odor floats over to us.

I reach over to pointedly poke my mom's ribcage. A few seconds later, she whispers, "Wow, you're right -- I can't believe this!"

The show ends, curtain calls and an ovation too, and we file out of the auditorium. Old men have problems making their way down the stairs. I hear the shuffling clack of foldable walkers being opened up for use.

"My theory," I posit as I turn to my mom, "is glaucoma."
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