Electrolicious

Last night’s Salon of Shame was perhaps our worst/best sold out show ever. By my estimations, there were over 100 people in line when the doors opened at 6:30, and by 6:45 there were another 100 or so snaked down the block. And then even more people showed up.

Theatre Off Jackson only holds 160 people, so obviously there were a lot of disappointed folks (I don’t think anyone in the above photo got in) which for some reason I always take personally. Here I thought our move to the International District would help things calm down a little. It felt like we were fiiiiiinally starting to reach some sort of equilibrium with supply and demand. But with a show that was virtually sold out before the doors even opened? Yeesh.

Several frustrated line-waiters suggested that we do pre-sale tickets. Yeah, we tried that and it was a different kind of disaster, with people buying up huge blocks of tickets and then not showing up. And when we told people that unclaimed tickets would be released 10 minutes before the show started so that we could let wait list folks in, there was always the person who showed up 8 minutes before the show started, freaking out because they were just looking for parking! They were just stuck in traffic! How dare we release their tickets exactly when we said we would!? This is about the point when we said “FUCK IT!” and went back to doing admission at the door only.

Despite this, we may have to go back to doing pre-sale tickets again. We’re strategizing with the folks from Theatre Off Jackson to figure out the best way to make it work. Paper tickets instead of will call? Refunds for the folks who show up late and forfeit their tickets? I don’t know … I’m a writer! Not a house manager!

But all logistics aside, it was a great freaking show. I think my favorite reading of the night was Will here, who read from his first year in Bible College. His diaries recounted his fretting over being “so fleshly!” and tallies of guilty masturbations. Then there was Ben reading from his unicorn diary about how he wished he was a woman. Specifically, a lesbian. And how could I forget Cynthia, Vanilla Ice and Mary Anderson fan, as well as an expert at identifying tomboy fashion.

I read from eighth grade, when I was a massive bitch who listed her friends in order and then noted their biggest faults, including things like “oaf, strange” and “perfect, which is kind of annoying.”

And also, just because it’s beautifully written and made me feel all happy, an excerpt from a happy audience member’s blog:

Picture this: you are in a little theater, about 125 seats, another 25 people sitting / standing / what have you all around. There are black curtains, a black painted floor for a stage down below about six or seven levels of rows of seats, a microphone, a spotlight, and you. You hold, in your hands, some form of diary, maybe a little frayed old notebook, maybe with a unicorn on the front, maybe not. And you begin to read. And you cringe. And we cringe. And if it’s really shame-worthy, you can barely speak these poetic words that once held every ounce of truth you thought you knew, and we are applauding and crying all at once. You bow. We revel in the fact that we are not alone in our utter, total, complete shame. And we all burst out into the nighttime, relieved. Under fake-city backdrops, light-up laughing bull neon window signs, and real gaslight anthems.

The total and complete exaltation of laughter, the joy of release, the bonding of the cringe - this is what we’re here for. All of us, lined up around the block an hour before almost, with the promise of everything that stage and that spotlight and our worn, faded pages hold for us. As a girl put it in the bathroom, it may very well be one of the greatest and most favorite things she’s done since moving to Seattle. One of - yes. I will wholeheartedly agree.