The Sound of One Man Clapping
Confession: I am that annoying, low self-control boor at a play or movie constantly nudging his wife and snark-whispering while the room rocks with laughter (which is why she sits two seats away whenever possible). And yes, I also tend to snort and sneer as the hoi polloi unanimously sniffle over a hackneyed Hallmark-moment.
Call me anhedonic, unentertainable, a snob—I will proudly claim any of these honorifics. In a perfect world, I’d be alone in an empty theater, with no one gagging on fake-buttered popcorn or giggling at pratfalls within five nautical miles of me.
Well, I must have been chanting to the right graven images of late, as I recently found myself the one and audience member in a warehouse/performance space in downtown Los Angeles—and not because the rest of the city was stuck in traffic or getting their bliss on in a kabala/Pilates class. My fellow Angelenos couldn’t to, for I was the evening’s only invited guest.
