Tennessee Williams Broke My Heart

You son of a bitch, Tennessee Williams, you son of a bitch.

I saw a play today. You know, actors and a stage coming together in unison, all for the sake of a performance. It was The Glass Menagerie, written by Tennessee Williams close to over 60 years ago. And dammit if that bastard didn't reach his cold, dead hand out from beyond the grave and drag the emotional vulnerability right out of me. Well played, you devious playwright ghoul.

It's as though the play was doing it's darndest to get to me, poking me in the side and going "Come on, you pansy, you can't deny it. Let's face it, you weren't very manly in the first place. Gonna squirt a few, are you?" But the jokes on you, weird, disembodied personification of a play, I didn't squirt a few, or any for that matter. But, even though I wasn't even able to devote my full attention to the performance - I was word checking and editing the script for work, that's the reason I was seeing the play at all - and I could only see half the stage from where I was sitting, at the end I was still left sitting there, cursing death upon Mr Williams for putting a dint in my typically manly and stoic visage. Turns out he's a clever one though and died in 1989 as a pre-emptive strike.

I don't think I can be held responsible for any of this though. The play was carefully orchestrated to manipulate me, I'm sure of it. If you weave me the tale which, at its core, features a beautiful, yet painfully shy and reserved girl, completely - and unjustifiably - lacking in confidence, who also just happens to be a southern belle, then I'm doomed from the beginning. There's something about that accent, not even something I could accurately pinpoint, but something indefinably attractive about it. A girl with that voice could rob me blind and I'd be standing on a street corner, wearing a barrel and eating a piece of cardboard, before I realised it had happened. And even then, I'd probably be cool with it. So check next week's news for stories of me being robbed by a group of women posing as 1930s Southern Belles, and also write in your answers to the readers' question of "Why the hell didn't he see it coming?"

I have to give credit to the actress in the role, she was impressive, to say the least. As much was conveyed in looks and body language as with actual spoken words. By the end of it, after the one brief connection she makes with someone is just as quickly taken away, I was pretty much on the verge of jumping down of the balcony, punching some people in the face and going, "That's it, I'm taking you home". Luckily, seeing as I value my job and my clean arrest record, I managed to suppress that urge. For now...

So there you have it, I've given you all the ammunition you need to label me a big, fat sissy. But seriously, what's with the weight comments? You know I've got a better figure than you, so quit projecting. I've still got to see the show two more times over the weekend for the actual captioned performances, so by the end of the week I'll probably be watching Oprah, knitting some decorative cushion covers and adjusting to life with my newfound vagina. Ch-ch-ch-changes!