For the Moment

Theaters are warm, fuzzy, happy places, and I am partial to the odd excursion to them. Not that your mate Tony prides himself on great stores of dramatic knowledge; few mental cogs are engaged in the Gubba grey matter by play talk. But you've got to have some conversational material for Saturday morning beyond the carroty looking stain on your trousers.

In such an enlightened vein, my English accomplice (an expert in matters thespian) and I trekked through the wilds of Brattle Street to see some play called Medea. By a Greek apparently, and a rather old one--or so I was led to believe.

Obviously the inconvenience of recreating old monuments in the theatre had bedeviled the set designer who had opted for a collage of old transistors and fence wiring. It's all avant-garde, you see, and dreadfully modish. I must admit, I marvelled at the array of newspaper clippings on the floor, and was in the middle of reading one particular item--about the demise of the pet hamster--when my escort forcibly removed me into our seats, muttering about the shame of it all.

Everyone was dressed in dark tones, and the BBC World Service T-shirt I sported just didn't seem to fit the mood. Meanwhile my lissome friend glided through a sample of her theatrical network, whilst I was left to read the program. This done about 20 times, the lights started to dim, and that flustering thrill of the unexpected quieted us.

Ah, but the flesh is always so weak when the spirit is willing. My cerebral loins were girded into play mode--I thought I knew them all, that Miller, this Bard, Mr. Pinter--but my big toe clamored for a rewarding scratch. My bladder squealed with the agony of Colombian coffee, and the buttocks murmured about the iniquity of the sitting posture. Stomach wanted popcorn, hair demanded combing, and the mind wandered into esoterica. Fight it Gubba, said I, and I did. All resources were summoned onto the stage and bodily rebellion was quashed.

Fortunately so, for I would have hated to squander the delights of Medea. Really brave of these Harvard thespians to tell a story about infanticide and make it into bravura cabaret. Rhythmic dancing heralded the beginning, sturdy men waddled onto stage with oh-so-low booming voices, and the dancers and performers artfully tripped over most of the set. Of course, there were the contemporary references of great import. You know the sort--men are shits, women are great, long live the individual. And then in the orgiastic confusion of the ending, Medea ascended in a spaceship, following a compelling rendition of children screaming as they died. Theater is wonderful.

Then to the post-premiere party. Effusive compliments on the play, how I hadn't laughed as much since Peter Cook narrated his horse race, were poorly received. Obviously such a cavalry charge of farce must exhaust even the healthiest performers. They stared glumly on. Give them an award, you mere mortals of Cambridge, and kiss their feet. They were wonderful.

Student drama is a veritable institution. It ranks in the pantheon of other student activities, where the entire roller-coaster of the world diminishes into insignificance against the `student production.' We can, but we won't, talk of student journalism (dreadful), sports, films, politics and music. Such an elysian delight to arrive fresh-faced from high school and pick and choose among multiple student personae. In my college in Oxford, the educational habitation of Oscar Wilde, the penchant for extreme effeminacy and decadence was the mask of many arrivals. Why not waltz with youthful freedom amidst such variety, and try out all the masks?

Play the Blue Danube, maestro. Would you dance with me, bass-guitar strumming god, or would you share some sherry, theatrical guru and 'art' director? Tonight I shall parade with a columnist (a brief affair, no doubt), while tomorrow I will idly chatter with a great philosopher, and write poetry when I return from the dance hall. And what harm can be done by such a life of dance? None, because one day the hall will have finished with your charms, and will cast you upon the mucky sidewalk of reality, where no golden slippers are lingering.

Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. Go to events in Adams House in drag, and delight in extravagant striptease. Sing along to Madonna songs: Boys, wear those brassieres with pride; girls, damage those male oppressors with your cod-pieces. Don't let the solemnity of the outside world steel your heart when you can avoid it with such impunity.

Puritans may damn hedonism, but there is no other principle more suited to the life of youth. Yet there is a cautionary note, to be directed at all aspiring student greats. The glamour to be reaped is but a temporary one, born in a small community of willing star-seekers. It is a cardinal sin to assume an air of conceit in such an environment, for this is not your authentic self you are putting on display, but a mere moment of show beneath which little distinguishes you from the common herd.

However brilliant you are, the salient moment of death is unavoidable. And with death comes forgetfulness by others, even complete amnesia if you're unlucky. Hedonism is a wonderful principle, just until the time when you start taking your own adventures a little bit too seriously. These people cluster around campus, these short-sighted nothings who cannot see beyond the tail of reputation behind them and the promise of greatness before. Such souls are not to be admired, but pitied, for they fail to understand that we live and die, that we depend on others, that their achievements are as ephemeral as the autumn squirrel's nut store.

So let them come to you, these bearers of their own wonders, and when they sneer, just laugh very loud. As they delve into mires of pretense, observe the opaque glasses they cannot remove from their eyes. You can't take them seriously. Never take them seriously.