Double Decker Bus

by Alistair VanDerKämpf

The great Uta Hagen once said, “Once in awhile, there’s stuff that makes me say, ‘That’s what theatre’s about.’ It has to be a human event on the stage, and that doesn’t happen very often.”  Well, the Green Hills Assisted Living Players have once again missed that mark with their latest production of Starlight Express.

Placing resident curmudgeon Henry “Get Off My Lawn” Claypool in the role of Rusty, the little steam engine that could, is where director and Green Hills Activities Assistant Richard Phister-Kemball made his first wrong turn. The stoic and arthritic interpretation of the musical’s young dreamer not only detracts from the script’s intended pep and vivacity but also undermines its very premise. Every gesture, every expression, every creak of his bones seems to bespeak not so much “I think I can” but more like “Even if I could, why would I bother?”  At the very apex of the play’s climax, Mr. Claypool launched into a seven-minute coughing fit that seemed identical to the rest of his performance.  Were it not for a crew member’s rewinding of the karaoke track, no one would have noticed.

In casting the role of Pearl The Observation Car, one should consider more than just snappy looks.  For shame, Mr. Phister-Kemball!  While Kitty Etheridge has that Oil of Olay glow required by the role, her full onset dementia quite frankly derails the entire production.  Between breaking the fourth wall to pass out hard candies to several baffled theatergoers and insisting one patron was her “mommy”, our incontinent ingénue turned Andrew Lloyd Webber’s most perfect masterpiece into a dramaturgical travesty—putting the loco back in locomotive!

Perhaps the production’s greatest fault—and may I say there are many to choose from?—is the replacement of roller skates with wheelchairs.  While one expects a bit of reinterpretation in a revival, this is one step too far.

Your production, Mr. Phister-Kemball, is in no way the human event Ms. Hagen had envisioned for our grand American Theatre. You, sir, are no son of Dionysus! Consider this review an invitation to cease and desist from directing for the theatre altogether.  This bold yet humble craft requires a subtler hand, a wiser hand—not unlike the very hand that writes these very words.  Perhaps Green Hills Assisted Living personnel services will have to reevaluate its hiring practices the next time it posts an opportunity for the directorship of its spring musical.  Perhaps “management” will consider the quality of the candidates rather than simply deciding to go “in-house.”  And as for you, Mr. Phister-Kemball, I wish nothing less than for you to develop large boils on your insignificant genitals and have to lance them with a knitting needle.

For tickets or further information about the production, contact the front desk at Green Hills Assisted Living at (201) 891-1500.

Ned Hackenberry is a nationally syndicated advice-columnist who has been doling out common sense advice to the public for nearly three decades.  His periodic work with Fox News been awarded with a Frank G. Blumenthal Media Award for Excellence in Curmudgeonry.

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Q: Lately I’ve been feeling sad.  My Dad is always angry, and my mom is always running around trying to make things nice so he won’t yell.  I’m worried that I will grow up to be as angry as he is or as scared and unhappy as she is. Everyone at school seems the same: mean or afraid.  Are these the only options? When I go to bed at night, I can’t sleep.  When I close my eyes, I can feel a pulsing.  All through my whole body.  And all I can think about is the oil leak in the gulf.  All that oil pulsing out into the water.  All the fish that can’t see where they’re going.  All those pelicans that can’t fly.—Sixteen in Seattle

A: Kid, first of all, what is all this Candyland shit with your parents?  You get a job, and see how you like it. Second, you live all the way in Seattle.  What are you staying up nights for worrying about birds and shit in the Gulf of Mexico?  No wonder the kids in school are mean to you.  You’re probably walking around with your head up your ass.  Get some sleep.  Then maybe you won’t be the last kid picked for volleyball. And another thing: I don’t know why you people don’t see what is really going on here with this oil business.  It’s the Gulf of Mexico.  Mexico!  Sounds to me like it’s Mexico’s problem.  We’re not the ones going around naming gulfs after ourselves.  If we did that, oh no!  we’d be called imperialists.  If this country had any stones any more, we’d invade Mexico.  As I understand it, we got some other beef with these people as well.  Why not kill two pelicans with one stone.  This Hussein fellow we got in there now better stop being so goody-goody and tell these Mexico people to clean up their mess. Now, get some damn sleep, fruitcake!—Ned

Q: Ned, I’ve been a reader for some time now, and sometimes I think you can be really mean. —A Mom in Maryland

A: Shut the fuck up.—Ned

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During  the largely passive but potentially explosive exchange, the bros—donning slick, baggy gym shorts and multiple layered golf shirts—were observed arguing over their top ten beer brands, perfunctorily itching their crotches, flicking each others’ nips, and finally emitting the bro warrior howl: “Naaaaaaaaah, dude!” Near conflict arose when the emo soldier flipped his hair in response to one of the bros biting his thumb nail and spitting it across the room.  A palpable tension swelled throughout the establishment but quickly diffused as Margy delivered the bro’s order of Buffalo wings to go.

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AP - Paparazzi are not the only ones following Betty White these days. Detectives Francis Mullcagan and Sonia Ramirez of the L.A.P.D. have been trailing the Emmy-Award winning actress and comedian for the better part of a year. Police have long suspected foul play in the recent deaths of Estelle Getty, Bea Arthur, and Rue McClanahan. Until recently, police viewed White as a potential future target of the Golden Girl Slayer.  All that changed last Wednesday when the geriactress became the prime suspect.

Playing hooky from rehearsal for her new sitcom, Women Tell Dirty Jokes on a Porch Swing or whatever the shit it’s called, White was observed savagely eating a hot dog in a manner befitting a serial killer.  “I can just picture her making that face while strangling Maude.” said Detective Ramirez who snapped the picture of the incident.

Executive producer of Blah-Blah Something-Something Porch Swing, Sean Hayes expressed his disbelieve at the accusation but went on to say, “Betty’s character on the show is not a serial killer, and I for one have problems casting a serial killer in a non-serial killer role.  I just don’t think it can be legitimately pulled off regardless of talent.” He later added, “Do you know where she got the big wiener?”