Hunters, We Hunt

Be my Venus, baby.

On the cultural docket for this weekend: happy hour with my running club (a less-organized variation of the Hash House Harriers, we, too, are a drinking club with a running problem), watching Singing In The Rain with my two best friends (yes), and, with any luck, dragging my mother and my, ahem, boyfriend to see Frank Theater‘s production of Venus. Neither mother nor boyfriend is a seasoned theatergoer. My mom’s most exotic performing arts experience is probably Cosi Fan Tutte. And, well, as for the boyfriend, let’s just say that his favorite house in town is The Brave New Workshop. (For the record: I enjoy The Brave New Workshop very much as well. Especially Caleb McEwen, who I regard as a genius!)

In any case, I’m not sure that Venus’ big, round rump will be an amusement for the mother, but I’m pretty sure it will be for the boyfriend. (I predict how difficult it will be for him to “be in his body” and respond naturally to Venus’ anatomy–especially if he’s seated next to mom!) Oh, but did I mention that this play is quite sad?

I’m so glad Frank is having this love affair with Parks! All that cursing! All that pissed-off, third-wave feminist angst! I spoon it all up! Their productions of The America Play and Fucking A are both theater experiences that burned into my memory. Especially catchy was, in A, the hunters who haunted around singing their cute, lil’ hunters’ creed. As I remember it: “Hunters / We hunt / But we don’t eat what we catch / Because that would be a little much / Dontcha think?” (It was, of course, camped-up somewhat Minnesota-style.)