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March 28th - Sadness and Complaint
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Or, the Rocky Horror Manifesto.
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I've been thinking a lot lately (especially last night) about what propels me to go to the Rocky Horror Picture Show every single week. (The link to our cast's page is on one of my pages, but I'm too lazy to look and see which one.)
I had an epiphany last night while at our show. There were maybe four people I could think of who I thought I might like to converse with at a non-surface, non-How-are-you, I'd-like-to-fuck-your-face level. Four people, as opposed to the at least fifteen of earlier Rocky days.
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That was then, this is shit.
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So yeah. Our cast has gone to hell in terms of the level of fun and frolic every week. We bring in dead audiences, compared to our past audiences, who were very much alive. I wonder what made everyone leave in the hubbub of past fun, but I can understand leaving now that being at Rocky is like being at a library. Well, maybe a children's library where some Kindergarten teacher is having a story circle.
The only justification I could think of for me actually being there at the show at least 2 or 3 weeks a month is not just nostalgia, but performance. Even though there is no give-and-take for me in that area, where I can say, "Wow! being up on stage in front of all those kids really makes me feel appreciated! All that applause!" Hardly. Nobody even blinks an eye at me up there any more.
Fucked up thing is, I don't care. I just love playing Janet. It's an escape...although the moment i step off that stage I am plunged headlong into the reality of my (and of Rocky itself's) sheer unimportance.
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And what does this movie lack?
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My search for meaning in the Rocky Horror phemonemon of West Los Angeles has ended, mainly because it exhausts and disheartens me. I'd probably be just as disheartened sitting alone in my apartment alone on a Saturday night, but not much. At the show, I am alone. At home, I am alone. I guess it just comes down to me accepting that fact and learning to live with it.
What I miss? Being a little girl in a big pond full of proud swimming sea bass. Having people who towered over me sweep me off my feet and spin me around. People who got off on tickling me. People for whom I was the novelty; Peggy Bundy mixed with the Angel of Death.
Now I am the old girl -- at 22, a sad, sad thing to be. It's now my job to be the party-thrower, the welcomer-in, the flirter. I have no idea how to go about doing this. My thing is watching people who act like hot shit (well, the ones who /are/ hot shit, anyway), not doing it myself. And what a shitty solution. Where's MY joy?
Shit, I need some love. Enough spewing bullshit for today. Love ya.
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Favourite Bullcrap
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