one act

Last night I went to a performance of eight original one-act plays in two acts (we saw four, went out into the lobby, ate sticky, melted Junior Mints, then wandered back in for four more).

My friend, Bob, drove. His wife didn't want to miss something that was on TV last night and I wanted to catch the one-acts and so did schmoopie, so we three went together. We got there really early because Bob is obsessed with not being late. He bounced around the lobby glad-handing all his friends and introduced me to people as his new wife. That was fun. Then he gleefully hit the concession stand and bought three boxes of Junior Mints because his wife wasn't there to intervene. He calls Nancy "the food Nazi." Bob is 70.

Anyway, out of eight one-acts, two were bearable. The others were tedious, not well-written and some of the acting so wooden or shrill and dreadful it made me want to laugh out loud but of course, that would be wrong, so I refrained.

Bob napped occasionally. When the really bad ones concluded, he would slap his hands together once then lay them back in his lap. More like the killing a mosquito action then a stingy, begrudging clap to acknowledge an insufferable performance. This was more like a "NEXT!" clap.

Bob leaned over and whispered that the Junior Mints were making his hands sticky so I suggested he tilt his head and pour them into his mouth. He tried it and started to make loud gagging noises. Not like he was choking, but more like dry heave sounds. Then he got up and left. When he came back he said he figured he would go wash his hands because they were still sticky.