Broadway, Flip Flop style.
Ok, maybe the makeup was a bit distracting (it made the otherwise attractive actresses look old). And the accents a little forced (really, can a native Californian ever really pull off that east coast dialect?). Perhaps the theater felt like a vestige from 'Tola's 19th Century Health Resort Days (were those curtains made out of calico?). And even though I felt like I was sitting in a provincial theater, on the edge of the world, utterly isolated from civilization, as soon as the show started, I got sucked in.
In spite of it all, Duende Makes a Housecall was a delight. Maybe it was seeing my flamenco dance teacher do her thing. Her hands are so mesmerizing, fluid and stong, quick and graceful all at the same time. They wheeled and spun like magic tops released from gravity. They wove and swooped and stirred and circled. Or listening to her husband sing haunting, heart-breaking songs in spanish. Maybe it was sitting next to the N*ster screaming, starting and crying at all the right moments. Maybe it was the incredible live music and the intricate rhythms. The show boasted two flamenco guitarists, whose hands were a blur over the strings.
Afterwords, our little party relocated to Mr Toots, too late to hear the after show concert, but early enough to order tea and soak up the mellow 'Tola scene. The ladies I was with discussed their grown children, work and other respectable topis. I really didn't have much to contribute. When we left, three police cars and a fire truck and their accompanying crews where swarming over an old Mustang that was leaking gas into the lagoon. Some chemically-impaired men offered us chips as we ascended the hill to retrieve our cars. We ignored them.
Naked, Midnight House Decorating.
I think that is all I am going to say about that.