In Which Your Humble Blogger follows the band, waving a parasol and singing, shouting, drinking, pressing hand to hand and… wait a minute… not that kind of second line.
In Which Your Humble Blogger warns Gentle Readers that not all the entries in this series will be long and interesting. Or long and boring. Or short and interesting.
In Which Your Humble Blogger had cleverly avoided reading any of the bits he wasn’t in, so much of the play came as a pleasant surprise. Well, not pleasant, exactly, but engrossing.
In Which Your Humble Blogger smites all his enemies with the stroke of the sword, and slaughter, and destruction, and slays of my foes seventy and five thousand, including some people who were just standing kinda near my enemies, an hundred and twenty and seven provinces, or maybe an hundred and twenty and eight, because in all the excitement I lost count.
In Which Your Humble Blogger hasn’t sent the Wisconsin protesters a pizza yet, but I think I’ll send this scarf I just finished that nobody here likes. Because it’s going to be cold.
In Which Your Humble Blogger finds a new Orson Scott Card book, and salivates in response, although also feels somewhat nauseated. Hm.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is dull, but somehow the dull thing still needs saying, particularly if any Gentle Reader doesn’t wade through Left Blogovia but does catch the drips of the main stream.
In Which Your Humble Blogger also did not get extra points for working the name of the town into the lyrics. Come to think of it, I’m not altogether sure what the name of the town was. But that probably happens a lot.
In Which Your Humble Blogger was prepared by an Arizona childhood to accept that YHB will not actually see all these great actors in great plays, and to be happy just to the Playbill delivery van making the drop-off at the stage door.
In Which Your Humble Blogger goes home again, even though everyone knows you can’t.