They Eat Their Own

I’ve noticed this bizarre phenomenon lately: theatre reviewers don’t write reviews anymore.

 They review other critics’ reviews.

 Which are then reviewed by more critics.

 And personally, I am ALL for this new development!

 A critic’s ego is ALWAYS more interesting than a boring, turgid play!

 I mean, come on: a PLAY?

 Who even SEES those things anymore?

 I WRITE them, and even I think they’re boring!

 I actually read somewhere that - if waterboarding didn’t break them - Guantanamo prisoners were actually forced to sit through a seven-hour production of Our Town, starring Keanu Reeves and Bo Derek.

 Directed by Barbara Bush.

 And, frankly, while we all deny it: there is NOTHING more entertaining than a bloody, ruthless, crucifying review.

 As long as it’s not about us.

 So, if someone’s going to get ripped to shreds, let it be the critics!

 Let ‘em eat each other!

 It’s their nature, after all.

 Telling a critic to stop being mean is like telling a piranha not to snack between meals.

 It’s just who they ARE!

 Let them be free!

 And now that there are blogs, reviewers can say just about ANYTHING:

 Lies, personal attacks, slanderous garbage, conspiracy theories, butt jokes.

 It’s a blog: you can say whatever you want, and call it “edgy”!

And seriously: there is nothing easier than writing in a blog.
 Nothing.

 It's comparatively one of the easiest things I've ever done, actually.

 All you need is about 15 minutes of spare time.

 And a mean streak.

 You know what is much harder than writing a blog?

 Writing a play.

 Or acting in a play.

 Or directing a play.

  Or designing a play.

  Or founding a theatre company.


 Actually, making waffles is a lot more difficult than having/maintaining/writing in a blog.


And, yes, I do mean the frozen kind.

 Don't let anyone persuade you otherwise.


With blogging, you can have NO ethical standards at all, and STILL get free tickets!


And if someone doesn’t like it, there’s no one to complain to!

And if someone DOES have the nerve to complain, shut off the “Comments” and just sit back and relax in the vast peacefulness of your cyber tower.

Besides, actors and artists can’t say shit about their own reviews, or really ANY review: a response would just be seen as “sour grapes”.

And empower the critic even more.

And the best critics (and by “best”, I mean the cruelest) know this oh-so-well. It’s totally awesome!!!!

I should know, because the last time I wrote about critics on this thing, I was savagely, viciously attacked by one of them for months.

Ironically, my initial post was about how savage and vicious some critics can be.

So, at least it proved my point…

But, full disclosure: I am totally fine with it.

Really.

Because to me, he isn’t a critic.

He’s my pooky-bear.

(pause)

That’s what I used to call him, anyway.

(silence)

It was years ago.

(music.  light shift.)

I was a long-haired, bare-foot actor living on hopes and dreams.

He was a burgeoning singer/mime.

But then he got bitten by the critic bug.

It tore us apart.

The break-up was bad.

He poisoned my goldfish and smashed my Hummel collection.

Some people turn to pills and booze to forget.

He turned to blogging and donuts (I hear the endorphin rush is similar…)

He never did lose the weight...

I did that to him.

So,

in a way,

I guess I deserve it.

Pooky, if you’re out there, I want you to know:

There’s still a part of me that cares for you.

I know it’s been years,

And I’m married now,

and you’ve moved on.

But I will always remember those late nights

When we would drink a six pack of Zima

Smoke come crack

And you would play “Barb’ry Allen” on your pan flute

Until the wee hours.

And we’d hold each other at night

When the darkness seemed ready to pounce and devour us.

I’ll never forget that

and

I hope you don’t either.



Love, or something like it,



 Honeypants.




 (Fade to black)


 

Note: any resemblance to persons living or dead in this piece of fiction is PURELY coincidental.