Sunday, April 21, 2024


The title of this post describes the theatre to many severe prudes. Which, of course, is one hundred percent accurate. Far be it from me to disagree with the vocal critics of Euripedes, Phrynichus the son of Polyphradmon, and Achaeus of Syracuse. Primarily because ancient Greek is not my ticky, and I must therefore assume that they were all ruddy perverts, otherwise they would have written in modern American English.
Like Shakespeare.

One of the people I met recently was named Regan. The same as King Lear's daughter, who was cruel and ruthless. A bloodthirsty venomous powerhungry bitch. No, I didn't ask her if there were any similarities, as I did not wish to wake the psychopath within.

Given the nature of my job I must make smalltalk, at which I am rather decent. But the spectrum of people is rather varied, and some of them are batshit crazy.

For sheer self-preservation, the small talk can only go so far.

Marin is a warm environment for axe murderers.

Supportive. Comforting.
One of the people I see there periodically is, presently, unmarried and undating. His type for the last three likely prospects of which I am aware seems to be women engaged in alternative medicine and yoga who are dangerously neurotic.
It's a very Marin kind of thing.

At some point I expect to read about him in the papers.

I am a sensible man, and consequently don't date in Marin. I actually don't date at all, which is neither here nor there -- there are few broad-spectrum female food and crappy novel fans among my acquiantances, and none are on the list -- but especially not in Marin.
I've read 'The Serial', by Cyra McFadden. It's quite a cautionary tale.
Accurate and frighteningly true to life.

Someone I know ended up hitched to a woman more staggeringly loopy than him.
It was a match made in either San Rafael or Kentfield.
Most of his marbles are now missing.
Miserable Marinite.

There are reasons I live in San Francisco.
Trust me. Reasons.
Not Marin.

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