::A CABARET, OLD CHUM::
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."