If You're in SLC, Go See This Play
And then call me, because - DAMN, if I didn’t live 800 miles away.
Since reading the Salt Lake Tribune’s article for ‘Fat Pig’, I’ve been kicking myself for ever having moved away. Forget the new job, new city, new life – I could be watching some quality theater RIGHT NOW.
Granted, I am a little bit biased because eBay’s own dear Stacy is the LEAD, but also? This play sounds complicated and kick ass and *gasp* controversial. In Salt Lake City. I know, you’re shocked. Anybody who claims Salt Lake City is boring just isn’t paying any attention.
From the Salt Lake Tribune: If you’re a woman with genes like Stacey Utley-Bernhardt’s and you want to work in theater, you’ll play what’s euphemistically referred to as “character roles.”
”You’re the drunk maid, the nerd or the evil stepmom. That’s how you get jobs as a plus-size actor,” Utley-Bernhardt says after a costume-fitting session trying on Torrid lingerie just days before her first onstage bedroom scene.
Utley-Bernhardt landed the lead role of the girlfriend, Helen, in a play where – you gotta love playwright Neil LaBute for this – all of the play’s bite is exposed in its title: “Fat Pig.” Pygmalion Productions’ regional premiere opens Thursday (Sept. 28 ~jules) and runs through Oct. 14.
I actually just heard of this guy. With the recent release of The Wicker Man, (he wrote the screenplay) WitchVox had a lot to say about his reinterpretation of the classic film - mostly how he has a lot of issues with women. He kinda sounded like a dick. But what do I know? I haven’t seen either movie.
It’s this further description of Stacey’s play that makes me wonder if there’s a little more to Mr. LaBute, and I wish I could go to see for myself. Maybe he’s got something to say that requires a little more thinking, or at least an evening’s worth of consideration:
“Fat Pig” is just the latest salvo in the mean-spirited battle of the sexes raging in the prolific writer’s work. But thanks to the character of Helen’s boyfriend, Tom, a role created by “Entourage’s” Jeremy Piven, it’s hard to know just who is the play’s biggest pig. “By contrast to plus-sized Helen, Tom isn’t so much a will-o’-the-wisp as a wuss of the will,” wrote John Lahr in The New Yorker.
Yet it’s because LaÂBute continually sparks controversy for his investigations of misogyny – or possibly misanthropy – that his creation of such a plum role, a romantic lead, for plus-sized female actors seems incongruous or at least deliciously ironic. “Often, oddly enough,” the writer says, “the ingenue part for both genders is the least interesting.”
Yet for all the revolutionary nature of the big-hearted role of Helen, what makes “Fat Pig” so subversive, so striking, is that the play offers no feel-good “Vagina Monologues” explorations of fat liberation or other feminist-friendly themes. Instead, in classic LaBute style, the drama unfolds against the backdrop of corporate America, which makes the relationship story seem more politically important and less confessional. Tom’s colleagues, Jeannie and Carter, act as stand-ins for the audience, their caustic comments dismissing Helen and all fat people, voicing the kind of bigotry that people often think but rarely say.
My lazy head hasn’t been asked to process any serious thespian action beyond the Endless Adventures of Meretwit and McDreamy for, oh, 3 years now, and I think it’s this part of our brains that shrivel up and die that explain the crap-assery that is 7th Heaven.
Someone’s watching it.
There’s tv, and then there’s theatre. God knows I love my tv. He even knows how much I’d love Tivo. God certainly knows how much I’ve tried convincing Travis how much less tv I’d actually watch if we HAD Tivo. But does he believe me? Noooooooo. There is no Tivo at my house.
There is, instead Trav’s newest Magic Wand, a la’ Sharper Image . A single miracle of technology that enables us to manage all the other technology crammed into our media cabinet. With a single remote, Trav can manage the tv, the receiver, the cablebox AND the DVD player. (Can you hear the harps? The singing? La-laaa-LAAA! Halleluja!!)
My husband, the tv genius. Me? I’m the dork who screws it all up just trying to change the channel.
Jules: “How do I scroll through the guide?!”
Travis: “What did you do?”
Jules: “I hit ‘guide’ and then down on the left thingy. And then the screen went black. So then I hit the ‘mode’ button. A couple of times. And then I got pissed so I turned off the receiver, because if I can’t SEE it, I certainly don’t want to HEAR it.”
Travis: “What on earth are you TALKING ABOUT?! None of that makes ANY SENSE!!”
See Trav? GOD KNOWS.
You don’t have to deal with remotes in live theater. You just have to show up and turn your brain on. Maybe dress up a little while you’re at it.
Maybe I should do that more often.
Dear God, Make it Stop
On Monday I spent two hours at my local Target trying to find a birthday card for my father. TWO. HOURS. The experience left me with two conclusions:
Conclusion #1: There is a huge card market out there for families of divorce
I don’t know why no-one’s gotten on this. Create a line of cards that acknowledge events without conveying false sentiments of brimming love or wishes for success and a company could make a KILLING.
I just couldn’t find a card that says, “Happy Birthday. Thanks for being a good dad when I was growing up, but I have no idea who the hell you are now.” Or, “On your birthday, may all your wishes come true. Except for your lawsuit against Mom.”
The simplest one I found displayed a 3-D paper cake and read, “Your cake.” on the front. Inside it continued, “Have it. Eat it. Enjoy it. Happy Birthday.” It was very pretty and I liked it, except every time I read it in my mind it went like this, “Your cake. Have it. Eat it. Choke on it. Happy Birthday.”
In the end I went for a splashy-colored card that showed a beer mug with candles coming out the top, and read “Think outside the cake”.
Conclusion #2 Never go shopping without my Sharper Image sound soother
I love this thing beyond all other possessions because when I was working, I could click on the beautiful white noise of the ocean, the waterfalls, the rainforest or ten other variations in order drown out the endless yammering of my coworkers talking about their dogs, their dogs’ birthday parties, their dogs’ psycho-traumas, their dogs Days of Our Lives all. day. long.
Standing in Target or any public place in Utah, one is literally surrounded by hordes of children at all times. Screaming children. Crying children. OBNOXIOUS children. And no matter where you go, you can’t get away. Leave one kid freaking out in the shoe section and run into another just five feet away. Flee to the book nook and find four new mothers leading a newborn wailing troupe.
They howl and whine and carry on for god knows how long because they’re at it when they come into hearing range and still at it when they’re wheeled out. Mommy saying all the while, “Now, Timmy, it isn’t nice to yell.”
30 minutes of this and I’m dying to smack the first person within reach.
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Maximum-Strength Tylenol: $5.50
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Non-committal birthday card: $3.75
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Not having to take the “my children hate me” guilt-trip: priceless
Road to Yellowstone, Pt. 1
Early this month, Travis and I packed up and drove to Yellowstone. Only 8 hours from Salt Lake City, we’d talked about going since we moved here. Six. years. ago. Given Trav’s family’s fondness for pretty much anything involving tent spikes, Nalgene bottles and hiking boots, it was something of a mystery as to why we hadn’t gone yet.
It might have a little to do with the fact that the closest my family gets to wilderness is the Holiday Inn. That and the Adams Annual 4th of July Jemez Valley Picnic, which consists of driving an hour and a half into the middle of New Mexico where we serve a four-course lunch next to the river and stop by my Great Uncle’s house to gab, watch TV and shoot arrows across the interstate.
But it was my babe’s 30th birthday this June, so we decided to have a big-ass party in a big-ass park. We had friends from Seattle, Jerry and Steph, meeting us there and all the animals and hiking we could handle. We had junk food and poker chips and alcohol above .3%.
But best of all, we had rooms at Lake Yellowstone Hotel.
4:30 AM, the alarm clock goes off. I don’t remember what the hell we were doing last night besides laundry and…laundry, but it definitely wasn’t PACKING. Apparently, it is physically impossible for either of us to throw some freaking clothes in a bag and get our asses into bed BEFORE 2 AM the night of a trip.
Jules: …mmpf?
*CLICK*
Jules: …zzzz…
Travis: …scchnaaauuuzz…
5:00 AM, alarm clock, part deux. Chunga & Mister’s morning show blares to life, screaming the “The Muppet Show” theme song and a severe weather warning into our cozy, comfortable, DARK bedroom.
Jules: …zzzz…shut it!
*CLICK*
Travis: Ready to go?
Jules: …to la-la land, maybe.
5:45 AM, the alarm clock. AGAIN. In a last ditch effort to keep my eyes OPEN this time, I reach out from under our comforter for the remote and turn on the Weather Channel.
Travis: What’s the forecast?
Jules: Rain.
Travis: For here?
Jules: For EVERYWHERE. Everything between Seattle, us and…whatever’s in North Dakota…is supposed to get pounded. All. Week.
Travis: That’s ok, I’m sure it won’t be that bad.
7:00 AM, our bag and the mini fridge have been tossed in the trunk, packed to the hilt with all the essentials for surviving the elements. Warm clothes, check. Full tank of gas, check. Video camera, poker set, Frappachinos…check, check, check. Loading duties complete, Trav calls out from the garage door.
Travis: Are you ready?!
Jules: Do you want your heavy jacket?
Travis: Oh yeah. Grab that.
Jules: What about your Indiana Jones hat?
Travis: Got it.
Jules: Does the cat have his collar on?
Travis: I don’t know.
Jules: Where is the cat?
Travis: I don’t know!
Jules: What CDs do you want?
Travis: We GOTTA GO!
7:30 AM, after a second and third pre-flight check, our little Mazda Tribute hits the nearest northbound off ramp into the madhouse known as Mormon Motoring. We are immediately set upon by BLINDING RAIN.
Jules: The HELL?!
Travis: Welcome to my world.
Jules: It’s like this every morning?!
Travis: Except for the rain? Yeah.
Jules: Are these people psychotic or just…
Travis: Idiots?
Jules: Seriously! That guy just cut off five lanes of traffic CROSSING THE ENTIRE JUNCTION and only missed the split by about a foot and a half. There’s been about 15 different signs for it – does he need a lamp and a magnifying glass?
Travis: Only if he’s looking for his butt. Oh, sorry. I mean his “bum”.
Jules: Hee.
8:15 AM, Petering along I-15 between a Wal-Mart semi and the Partridge Family wagon train, Trav and I listen for traffic reports. Chunga and Mister go off on a 20 minute rant about a local entrepreneur who was chased down by an actual posse. As intellectually stimulating as I find listening to a man named “Chunga” discuss proper gun etiquette and the finer points of the Utah mindset, at the moment, I’m finding it much more interesting to investigate the insides of my eyelids.
Jules: zzzzz…
9:30 AM, speeding along the highway to nowhere, somewhere between Limbo and Idaho.
Travis: What are you doing?
Jules: …long division. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m SLEEP…are we still in Utah?
Travis: Nope. We’re in Idaho – getting close to Pocatello. We’ll be out of the network soon. Speaking of which, I should give Jerry a heads up.
Jules: THIS is Idaho? It’s so…green. And…pretty.
Travis: What did you think it would be like? [He looks down from driving to dial Jerry’s number.]
Jules: I guess I just imagined the map of Idaho, completely colored brown. Plus, it’s next to Wyoming. Driving through Wyoming was as dead and boring as HELL.
Travis: [Looking at me not unlike my 5th grade social studies teacher, peering over the edge of the red-inked tragedy of my latest exam.] Wyoming is a TOTALLY DIFFERENT STATE! And we only saw the bottom half. It’s not ALL like that!
Jules: It was mind-numbing. NEVER TAKE ME THERE AGAIN.
Travis: Hello? Jerry! DUDE! We’re in IDAHO…uh, we should be in Pocatello in like, an hour. So when do you think you guys will get to the hotel? 2-ish? Yeah, we shouldn’t be much longer than that – probably 3:30. Dinner reservations? Yeah, that sounds good – what time…CRAP!
Jules: We just went out of network?
Travis: We just went out of network.
10:30 AM, Pocatello. We pull into Emery’s Café, an older restaurant just across the street from the college.
Jules: There’s a COLLEGE here?
Travis: Yeah. You didn’t know that?
Jules: You are talking to the girl whose mental image of Idaho is a big cardboard cutout under which grow enough potatoes to feed the world. I just wonder what kind of selection process someone went through to arrive at Pocatello, y’know?
“Where should I go to college? Havard? Too hard. UCLA? Too expensive. Baylor? Too Texas. Where can I go that will has absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to go? I know! Pocatello, Idaho!”
Travis: Oh I see. So you picked New Mexico State University because of its sophisticated cultural scene and nationally renowned professional programs. It had nothing to do with in-state tuition.
Jules: Shut up.
11:30 AM, Idaho Falls. In the midst of yet another wave of heavy rain, we almost miss the junction. However, my Out-Of-Utah-Alcohol radar apparently still works, because it takes all of five seconds to spot the Budweiser plant.
Jules: Hey LOOK! It’s a Budweiser factory!
Travis: WHERE?
Jules: Right there! We have got to get a picture of THIS. Pull over! Pull over!
*CLICK*
Travis: That is so cool. We should take the tour.
Jules: Wouldn’t that be awesome if it was like a Willy Wonka wonderland – except on beer, instead of acid?
*CLICK*
Travis: You mean candy.
Jules: No, I mean acid. Whoever wrote that mental freakshow was CLEARLY on acid, or using candy as a METAPHOR for acid. Cuz dude, that shit just ain’t right.
Travis: Have you even READ Willy Wonka?
Jules: Are you kidding? CrackMan Gene Wilder and his creepy oompa loompas have scarred me for life. If I read the book, I think I’d have freak-ass nightmares of a chocolate bunny sitting on my chest and beating my creme-filled head with a giant candy cane or something.
*CLICK*
12 PM, The rain has turned to hail. Golf ball hail from hell. It beats on the roof like the hooves of Satan’s little helpers dancing at a Bat Mitzvah. Four long minutes later, we get a slight reprieve. Driving by the “Tornado Preparedness Store” and “Rain for Rent” shops, we now find ourselves plowing through a FREAKISH WALL OF TORRENTIAL RAIN.
Jules: [Starting to get a little freaked out, I try to think of a diplomatic way to say, “Look, I’m not trying to tell you how to drive or anything, but this is straight up crazy rain, and it’s freaking me out.] Do you think we should stop for a few minutes?
Travis: It’s so thick that I think someone could hit us if we stop. I want to get through the front – then things will get better. Mostly, I don’t want to hydroplane.
Jules: Good plan. I like that plan.
Travis: And we definitely don’t want to do it in this, ‘cuz we’re top-heavy and we’ll flip for sure.
Jules: [Immediately picturing our little Mazda spinning across the interstate, stopping to flip and bounce through the pretty, rain soaked fields of Idaho like a two-ton Spalding, mashing itself into a compacted, junkyard brick. I think to myself:]
I SO did not need to know that.
To be continued…
