A Brief Synopsis of Reparatory Dance Theater's recent performance. (And by brief, I mean 815 words)

Allow me to preface this particular tirade with this statement; there once was a time when I thought I had an appreciation, even a significant respect for modern art. I've visited the MoMA on several occasions, I have an expansive collection of books encompassing the lives of Friday Kahlo and Robert Rauschenberg and I would even go so far as to say that I "appreciate" Yoko Ono's foray into the world of experimental art. Unfortunately for modern art, however, a little thing called "creative dance" happened. If you're guessing I had the opportunity, nay the pleasure, of attending a Reparatory Dance Theater performance, your speculations are correct.

The opportunity to attend this performance came about when my mom told me that Brynna (the little girl that she tends) and Brynna's creative dance class had free tickets to a show on Thursday and she asked if I would like to join. Now, I'd like to consider myself a cultured, sophisticated twenty-something who embraces the opportunity to broaden their mind-frame, so, naturally, I accepted. (Of course, the only other competition this performance had was the ever daunting task of composing thirty thank you notes and, quite frankly, I'd rather make fun of theater goers, than my wedding gifts.) Much like ninety-seven percent of Utah's little girl population, I took dance classes growing up and I was curious as to what this realm of "creative" dance encompassed. I imagined it was something like modern dance which, although offbeat and somewhat detached, is always entertaining. Little did I know that "creative" dance is just a euphemism, or rather an excuse, for overgrown, melodramatic theater freaks to run around on stage in leotards.

SIDE-NOTE:

It's like this: I've often found that going to the theater is much like going to Baskin Robbins and this experience was no different. Allow me to expound. It's a Monday night and your mom suggests that you hold a Family Home Evening. Your family has done this twice in your fifteen year life and neither of them has gone well, but the prophet said to do it so you do (albeit begrudgingly). So, running out of time and with a lack of theological creativity, your dad says, "Let's go get ice cream." Great idea, Dad - I love ice cream. So, you sit in the back of your parent's mini-van and text your best friend who is hanging out with seniors and you're jealous because you're hanging out with your parents. Lame. Anyway, you get to Baskin Robbins and try to have an open mind. You look over all thirty-one flavors and think, "Well, maybe I could try Superman" or "I have never tried Moose Tracks," but after three minutes you remember you're hanging out with your parents and you just want Vanilla. From there, it all goes down hill. Your best friend keeps texting you about high-school hottie who wants to hold your hand and your mom starts talking about how much she loves The Carpenters and you remember you're Lactose Intolerant and soon enough. . . Get me out of here! You see, the RDT performance was much like that. No sooner than ten minutes after my arrival, a wannabe Professor Trelawney sits right next to me. She's sporting an orange acrylic poncho (most likely purchased during the poncho craze of 2003 - remember that?) and her long, unmanaged hair keeps touching my arm. The first number is more of an individual play than a scene and I remember the "Law and Order: SVU" marathon is on on TBS and, well . . . you can imagine what happened next; intermission and a quick escape.

END OF SIDE-NOTE

Just when I started to think that there was no hope for the rest of the evening, one of RTD's feature artists began a solo by the name of "Lady of the Lake" (no, I am not joking). The piece began with a clear tub filled with water in the center of the stage and the dancer began pirouetting and leaping around it. "Fantastic!" I thought, "Actual technique and ability!" Clearly, this dancer was classically trained and I, being a fan of classical ballet, was intrigued. Then, much like every other piece of creative dance, the choreography, along with my declining interest, faltered. The dancer, who was clothed in a white camisole and white panties, proceeded to submerse herself in the tub. Interesting idea, yes; however, as I mentioned before, she was wearing white. Now, if I had a "Y" chromosome and increased levels of Testosterone, I might be interested in this, but then I remembered that I don't even like seeing myself naked and that is the exact point when I decided to go home.

I suppose the moral of this un-necessarily long discourse is this: RTD, you can keep your art to yourself. I'll be in my bedroom reading Harry Potter.

Never take advice from an ex-convict who wears pant suits

For the first time in my life, I've fallen victim to one of life's great fallacies: taking advice from a celebrity. I've never really understood why someone would place any significant amount of trust in someone whom they've never met before and never will meet. I suppose if that person is Freud or Marx or any other individual with philosophical legitimacy, trusting their opinion would be a wise decision - it's the celebutards that I don't understand. Take Tyra Banks, for example. So, she got fat and defended her body on national television and suddenly she's up there with Gandhi and Mother Theresa? It seems like the qualifications to become a saint are more lenient than they once were.

Anyway, enough about about Tyra Banks. Today, I was tricked into ruining Andrea's Mother's Day. You see, Martha Stewart once told me that it was okay to put flowers in the freezer for three or four hours. What she failed to tell me, however, is that her definition of "okay" is synonymous with bad. Now, my mother's tulips are limp, soggy and simply unacceptable. Thanks, Martha. Thanks for the low quality bath towels AND the bad advice.