My weekend updates come two days late. I have so much weekend that it crashes into me when I step on the brakes.
Friday I went with a friend to see Dave C. in a revival of Superman: The Musical (from the folks who brought you Bye-Bye Birdie and Annie). It’s fun and silly and over the top in the ways that only a 60s musical can be. The authors hit on a conceit that it took years for modern comic books to find – that the only way to challenge a man who can’t be hurt by anything is to play on his human side. Dave C. had the strongest and clearest voice of any of the cast, but they were all entertaining.
Then I stopped in at Phoenix Landing for Katie H’s birthday. I can never go there without feeling that I have to keep an eye out to make sure any female friends aren’t molested – though Friday’s crop of females included three jiu-jitsu instructors – and it usually keeps me from having an absolute blast. However, all my caution went for naught on Friday, as someone took the unexpected step of detonating a stink bomb a little after midnight. Some frequently asked questions.
Q: A stink bomb? Are you sure?
Q: Could it have been a natural gas leak?
A: Possibly, but I discount that because (A) not even natural gas smells that bad and (B) the staff didn’t seem in any hurry to get us out.
Q: Could it have been a really bad “human odor”?
A: As bad as that is, that smell tends to disseminate pretty quickly. This was too concentrated.
A wall of people surged to the exit in a fairly orderly fashion, cuing me to exit as well. I’m still glad I got to wish Katie a happy birthday and dance for a little bit.
On Saturday, after accidentally punching someone in the mouth during jiu-jitsu class, I went to Rachel’s for a surprise birthday party. I get remarkably neurotic around any complex enterprise – anything where presentation or the Grand Gesture become a big deal – so I channeled my neuroses into something useful by sitting in the living room on lookout. Bob Holt seemed genuinely surprised.
What followed was one of those incredibly laid back parties with 6 to 10 people in a living room, hovering comfortably between happy and silly drunk, swapping stories about childhood with no pressure or expectation. We talked about cable access TV, embarrassing high school moments, and professional football:
Serpico: Lawrence Taylor, greatest linebacker in the NFL …
Professor: Until Ray Lewis.
Serpico: Right, right. I suppose to reach that pinnacle of performance, you do have to either do cocaine or murder a man.
Professor: You have to do something to reach that level where killing a small white man holding a football feels right.
On Sunday I returned to tabletop gaming with a bang, hosting a game of Mutants and Masterminds in the new apartment. Fraley, Carubia, O’Keefe and Serpico showed up to roll d20s and save Boston from the combined efforts of Derek Jacobi and a pile of cockroaches.
Later that evening, I saw some folks playing Rock Band at Orleans in Davis Square. Now I must play Rock Band.