The Theater is Dangerous

I am speaking from experience.

And I don't mean dangerous like watching a woman who used to get money from the NEA smearing honey on her naked body (that was my 23rd birhday present, courtesy of Jeremy and Karen Finely).
I mean dangerous like having a critic sit next to you at a show, introduce herself, and then with an embarrassed laugh tell you that she wrote a "not entirely good review" about your show. Which you didn't even knew existed because you haven't read it. And now, the next day, you can't find this crazy review anywhere. The magazine she mentioned has a brand-new edition on the newsstands today, with no mention of your show. AND you didn't catch her name because it was super German and she said it so fast (even after the second time).

But I could care less about the review (not really). What was really awkward about the whole situation was that after this charming little exchange (my reply to this shocking introduction? "Oh, that's funny! Well, it's nice to meet you, in any case.") the show didn't start right away. I was left sitting-- with my heart pounding against my desire to be nonchalant-- in my seat next to this critic with no possible way of having a conversation, her apparent dislike of my choreography completely suffocating my meager supply of German-language wit.

Oh, yeah, and the show that night (when it FINALLY began) was beautiful in a cinematic, slow-moving way. Which gave me plenty of time to obsess between the meaningful and gorgeous changes in imagery.