My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [46]
I reply, “So, post hoc ergo propter hoc?”
Stacey’s forehead scrunches. “What?”
“I don’t know; it just flew out.” I’ve been reading some smart stuff lately and I thought I used that right. I guess not.
She ignores my ham-fisted attempt at Latin. “All the plays performed at Writers’ Theatre are thought-provoking. These productions put a huge amount of value on words. There’s no theater in Chicago that’s as much about the writing. You’ll notice that the set’s simple and the cast’s small. They do it that way because it creates intimacy. Whatever the story is, it’s going to feel huge, and yet you’re going to feel like you’re a part of it.”
“How will it be different from Desire Under the Elms?” In my head, I’ve already painted all iterations of “theater” with the same brush. It never occurred to me that there may be nuances.
“Desire’s set probably cost three hundred thousand dollars. Tonight’s set may be a couple of old couches. Or, better example, picture your friend Carla Gugino’s wig. You were blown away by it, right?”
“I was mesmerized. Her wig was more real than her real hair.”
“And it probably set them back fifteen hundred dollars. Different theaters have different budgets and standards of production. I’ve been to shows in small theaters where the wigs came from someone’s grandma’s attic. Sometimes they’re so bad it’s hard not to laugh.”
“Which are better? Big shows or little ones?”
“Depends. Tell you what. We’ll take in a variety of productions at different venues so you can decide for yourself. There are almost two hundred theaters in and around Chicago.”
“Whoa. That sounds like a lot of work. Why don’t you just give me your educated opinion?” I suggest.
She smirks. “Or you could just put in the effort and decide for yourself.”
“You’re not going to let me be lazy, are you?”
She simply raises her brows in response.
We pull into a spot right in front of the theater, which is in an old North Shore mansion. “We’re here!” she says. “Do you want to walk up to the door, princess, or shall I carry you up on my back?”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” I mutter as I trudge through the snow and into the building. As we enter, I notice a number of posters hanging in the lobby describing our country’s failings in the war on terror. “Aw, shit, Stacey, did you bring me to a show that’s going to tell me how everything I believe is wrong?”
Stacey and I are on vastly different teams politically. We both respect each other enough that when we see a point differently, we discuss it rationally. We’ve never changed each other’s minds, but we can appreciate the perspective the other one brings. Also, we make a point not to rub anything in—I never insist she eat any of the cake I bake every year for Ronald Reagan’s birthday, and she only made me watch Maddow that one time because there was a segment she thought I’d like.95 With us, we have so much other stuff in common that there’s little reason to discuss our differences.
What’s ironic is politics is the one topic outside of reality television on which I’m well informed. Every week I listen to hours of talk radio and I read a ton of conservative magazines and blogs. Yet besides Fletch, almost none of my friends share my ideology, and I try not to include any political opinion on my own blog, so it’s rare that I ever get into the kind of discussion that proves I actually have a basis for my opinions.
“No! I swear! Even though it would be funny, I’d never do that!” She grabs a program and begins to scan the description. “See? It says right here: ‘No politics, just people.’ I promise if the show does somehow sneak in politics—”
“Or nudity,” I interject.
“If they sneak in politics or nudity, grilled cheeses are on me.”
“Deal.” We shake on it.
I’m immediately struck by how different this theater is from the Goodman. The space is tiny, with maybe a hundred seats. When I walked into the Goodman, I felt small and insignificant. I was one tiny cog in the giant wheel of audience. You could conduct an entire