Yesterday, I attended an early morning performance of Joseph and the Technicolor Dream Coat that was put on by our local high school. As one who is highly trained in the arts (I tried out for an Oscar Mayer Weiner Commercial at the tender age of five. If I’m still not referred to as “that weird child who pretended she was a hot dog the entire time” then I obviously did not do my job), I expect certain standards when attending such performances, and although there were things to my liking (the bathrooms were spotless and the flushing adequate enough to hide, say, an accidental passing of gas), there were also things that I feel necessary to point out in this critique.
1. The child next to me kept stepping on my Uggs. I don’t know if know what Uggs are, but they are ugly shoes that make other women jealous of me. It has something to do with the chemical make up of the wool.
2. The lighting was too low to wear eye liner. I don’t generally wear eye liner because I am not a lady of the night, but I imagine if a lady of the night were in attendance, she would feel quite alienated.
3. The people on stage seemed to be teenagers which personally offends me since I was born in the eighties. And can’t pull off bangs.
4. There was a loud noise, music I believe, that kept drowning out my cries for popcorn.
5. The woman at the door handing out programs was most rude and kept blatantly ignoring my line of questioning pertaining to her relationship with my Uncle Chuck from Fort Lauderdale. She kept insisting that she knows no “Chuck” and saying ludicrous things like, “Please stop touching my bra strap and asking if the underwire is comfortable.” Excuse me m’am, but not all of us have time to online shop and I can’t help that Dr. Pepper was put in my bottle as a baby, which as everyone knows, makes you more tactile and acceptable to short stints in the local jail.
6. The program was written in Lucida Sans. I don’t need to explain further.
7. When I stood in line with the cast at the end of the performance in the arts center’s foyer to shake hands with the audience, I was given a few passive aggressive glances by the woman child who played the pharaoh. She had bangs and wasn’t born in the eighties. My hate was palpable.
8. My car wouldn’t start when I returned to the parking lot. This wasn’t necessarily the performance’s fault, but one could argue that it wasn’t not its fault either. So there.
Truth be told, I do not recall the actual performance of the actors on stage due to their general lack of being born in the eighties and the riveting game of candy crush on my phone. I would go further in depth and describe the general ambiance of the play with more detail (the ceiling was void of water stains but it did resemble the bumpy terrain of my Aunt Jean’s chin), but alas, I have to write my Uncle Chuck and let him know that I finally found the whore, Carol, who stole his Beatles collection.
Until next time,
Ericka Clay, Local High School Play Reviewer
PLAY RATING: 2 1/2 baby bottles of Dr. Pepper