Last night I went to see Eddie Izzard, but I don't have any pictures. He wore a charcoal grey tailcoat with a red satin lining (he looked like an officer in the Confederate Army of Ringmasters), a charcoal grey t-shirt, and jeans that were codpiece-making tight (Holly Hunter voice: Dress to the right!). Flat black shoes, no nail polish or obvious makeup, light brown hair and a very neatly trimmed goatee. The set was done up to look like some sort of bible-movie prison, with stark limestone-yellow walls scratched with hashmarks and hieroglyphs, and a small high up window with a ginormous creepy eye peering through, which was funny because he spent a good bit of time explaining that he didn't believe in a bearded patriarchal god, just the power of individuals, and once you got beyond the god-part every major religion boiled down to don't do to others what you don't like having done to you. "Do you like being killed? No? Well, then, there you go."
I like the "do unto others" version better since it implies positive action but "don't do unto others" would be a good place to start. "Don't want your country invaded for oil? There you go." Anyway.
I had to watch him with one eye closed because I'm having some kind of double-vision thing–everything's fine for about five feet and then it looks like I'm seeing through badly-focussed binoculars. From what I've read in wikipedia (yes, I know, not to be trusted as a diagnostic tool) seeing double isn't so bad, blurry's the scary one, and my vision is clear as long as I look through one eye at a time. One of my eyes may have gone lazy (according to wikipedia), and the cure for that is to wear an eyepatch on the stronger eye to whup the weaker one back in shape, so if that's the diagnosis I will be saying Yar! a lot in future. I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow to see what the deal is.
We started the evening at a Cheesecake Factory at the mall across the street from the theater. I'd never been to one before, and it seemed like one of the nicer restaurants at Disney World (the one where you can meet the Beast and Lumiere on the bench outside at 10 and 2), with marble columns and plasteresque ceilings covered with olde worlde stencilling. The food was good, if priced for special occasions, and of course it's just a speedbump between you and the cheesecake anyway (mine was turtle cheesecake [Homer Simpson noises]).
So the drive down was fine, I went with Amy and K, both of whom can talk long and fast enough to make the cats hide their ears:
The bad part of that is any small noises I might make ("I…" "Um…" "Do you…") get whirled away like leaves in a stream, but the good part is that I can just sit back and watch the landscape roll past out of one eye, then the other eye. We met up with Amy's friend Rob for dinner, though, and that's where the rot sets in, because K flirts like a sledgehammer and never fails to add that she's on anti-psychotic drugs (just save that for the second meeting, that's all I'm saying. Boundries, please, have some.). Rob did ask me about my baking, since Amy has some pictures on her flickr account, and he was very attentive to my description of the strawberry clowns:
This took up 2.5 minutes of the entire dinner and as far as I know was our only direct conversation. After the dinner we had time to go through the mall and K dragged us through half a dozen clothes shops including Lame Bryant for me, thanks, because I really want to be shopping for fat polyester as a group activity, and I have to say, if you're having eye problems, stay out of Victoria's Secret: something about the boudoir lighting made me want to say Ow, with weeping. So while we're in Macy's K whispers to me "Do you like him?" meaning Rob, and I say "yes, he's nice," 'cause he was, and not meaning anything more by it, and she says "Do you want me to talk to him?" and I say "No! This isn't high school!" and I look over my shoulder and there he is, not standing next to me but certainly in less than shouting distance.
Death, please k. Thx.
Rob doesn't go to see Eddie Izzard with us and on the way home K starts chanting "I know someone who likes a boy…I know someone who likes a boy…" while she's lying down in the back seat because of her pinched nerve, and proceeds to pepper Amy with questions about Rob, whom Amy's known since high school (it seems like a Harry Met Sally thing) which certainly makes the trip go faster, or maybe makes Amy drive faster, as they hash him over (my opinion, not that I was asked: he's nice, he's cute, he's ten years younger than me and not inclined to drive to Athens, so it's all moot, really) and I watch the scenery go past out of one eye, then the other eye.
The merch booth at the concert was selling Cake…or Death? mugs, but the line at the end of the show was a mile long and I haven't been able to find them online. K called me this morning to say there were some on cafepress but they're fake, not the same at all.
Eddie Izzard, though, he was great.