This just in: FLEET WEEK, the musical penned by Sean, Mac and Jordana, won Best Musical in the New York Fringe Festival 2005. Over 1600 people went to see it, even in the hastily-set-up show on Saturday, 1500 of which do not even know any of us. That, my friends, is an incredible feat, especially given that they wrote FW as an act of revenge, since their equally awesome show “Lucretia Jones” was snubbed last year. We were so excited that we dropped shit on the floor in Venice, CA, three-thousand miles away.
Which begs the question to a select few out there: why the hell didn’t you go? Since I’m not really involved, I can be the asshole, much like the party-giver who realizes – after a great throwdown – that several of his best friends hadn’t bothered to attend.
Here’s the thing about experiences: if you don’t have them, you don’t have them. That play went up six times, and that will probably be it; the specificity of the event will never be replicated. You can TiVo a show, you can re-read a book, but there are some things – like live theater – that exist entirely within the construct of Buddhist ephemera.
I’m calling all of you out, and I’m calling myself out too. Once you have a kid, your energy level for any exertion outside shoveling food into your own mouth dwindles to a trickle. You have to FORCE yourself to stay with the flow of culture and the exchange of ideas, and you must always err on the side of adventure. Yeah, yeah, I know, “easy for me to say” and all that crap, but that’s just the river in Egypt makin’ you squawk.
Dearest friends, I am thousands of miles away from you right now. Eventually I’m going have another big party, or perhaps someone else will bother. If you don’t come, you will be, in the words of one commenter describing me during one of my C-list celebrity sermons, a giant, quivering, pink, pearly pussy.
I’ve ranted to you before about this and I am far from perfect, but your life is not a goddamn dress rehearsal. When you get ass cancer or when half your body doesn’t move anymore, or you’re stuck at Fuckwood Springs Elderly Shitbox Centre barfing away the last of your existence, you’re going to bloody well wished you saw FLEET WEEK.