Oh, I’m sooo excited, finally I get to see “Billy Elliot.”
Living in the south has its advantages, long summers, short winters, beautiful scenery, lovely beaches and nearly three fourths of the year very tolerable weather wise. There has been a downside, no theatre to speak of until recently, a cultural desert aside from some fairly decent community and collegiate theatre, but no real first run kind of stuff.
My beloved Durham got smart and built the DPAC, or Durham Performing Arts Center. I was so giddy that my friend Ray and I immediately purchased season tickets.
In season one there was a feast of shows, “Mamma Mia,” “Wicked,” and others, oh I had fallen in love again. Go figure....I love musical theatre.
Season two has a bit of a different flavor in its line up. “Billy Elliot,” Shrek,” and other features that might encourage the attendance of...
CHILDREN.
And...
THEIR PARENTS, folks who don’t realize that just because a show features children that the show is appropriate for children to sit and watch.
In season one, we sat way up high, but for season two, my friend Ray and I decided that we’d really treat ourselves and move down to orchestra level AND center section. We’re not complete snobs so we didn’t spring for way down center; more of a modest, self-congratulatory center.
Showtime.
Ahh, we’re early, we can settle in, read our programs and eagerly anticipate a good show.
Things went well until about two minutes into act one. Then from behind us a commotion, “Excuse me. Thank you, no um, move over one, that’s right, right there.”
“Here mommy?”
Yes, dear, there, do you want a treat now? I know you must be hungry.”
“What?” he chirps out in all but a roar.
“Do...you...want...a...treat...now? Or...do...you...want...to...wait...?” mommy answers in perfect theatrical diction.
“Now.”
Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp. “Mommy, what’s happening?” comes a mouth full question in a stage whisper.
“What’s that dear?”
“Mommy what’s happening?”
I’ve already had enough so I turn and I give the third grade teacher evil eye hoping that my dissatisfaction and powers of mind control will settle this situation down and bring the center section of the orchestra seating back to civilized dignity.
Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.
Those noises are like daggers through my heart.
Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.
If this continues I’m going to loose my mind.
Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.
Those sounds, they’ve invaded my head. I can no longer hear the singing on stage, I can no longer hear the dialogue, and I’m being consumed. My head is going to explode.
“Mommy what’s happening?”
“Billy is dancing dear. Would you like a soda dear? After all of that salt and sugar you must need something to wash it all down.”
“What mommy?”
“Shhhh, keep it down, would...you...like...a...drink?”
“Yes.”
Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp, glug, glug, glug.
Focus Michael, concentrate on the show. Let the antics behind you fade away. Focus, focus on the show. That’s it, breath, focus in, find your che.
Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.
Nertz, it is no use. Oh if only I could summon some super powers. Some eyes in the back of my head that shoot X-Rays that would evaporate the people behind me, not charitable I know, but oh would it be effective.
Perhaps I could summon Super Mike and maybe he’d gag mother and the infantile eating machine.
Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp, belch.
Maybe, my infantile eater will become so sugared up that he’ll bounce off the walls, brining a flurry of diligent ushers and usherettes to escort the eating machine out of the DPAC.
Perhaps the audience around them will become so fed up that they’ll grab pitch forks and run them out to the lobby and burn them at a stake as a mob of angry villagers might.
Nope, they stayed until the end, eating, slurping, chewing, belching, talking and picnicking so that all of us sitting near them could share their Billy Elliot experience and oh, the infantile eating machine, he could have cared less about the show but I was reduced to an emotional heap of protoplasm.
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