Profiterole in a Box

Disclaimer: This post has been sponsored by an outside party, BUT I do most everything on the cheap and sometimes write about those events, so what's the difference really.

Last night I took my girlfriend Ms. Rinita B. to the Soho Playhouse for a complimentary viewing of Life in a Marital Institution. The playhouse itself is unassuming and quaint in that it is tiny as hell, yet still is able to shrink everything down by 20% and snuggly fit a stage and bar inside the narrow confines of the former colonial mansion of the former Huron Club, which probably was a meeting place for upper crust men to gather and talk about clubbing Hurons.

My bladder was filled with grape soda, so I made a quick stop into the bathroom, whose outside door lead to another wood plank door marked with yellow and black caution tape and the words "THIS DOOR MUST REMAIN CLOSED." Obviously, I had to yank at the door since the message was so appealing and I saw no other space for a toilet. I pulled at the door to no avail, while waiting for a pirate with one wooden leg to emerge from behind the outhouse door, picking his teeth and discarding his lacy white hand towel at my feet and letting me know "It's all yours." Instead, a blond-haired woman in a black cocktail dress walked in and stared at us pulling at the little death trap and laughed "Are you high," as she walked through the mirror, which turned out to be the cut out entryway leading to the bathroom stalls that so seamlessly melded with the wallpaper I still hesitated to move inside even though I was half way through.

As I stepped out of the bathroom and Narnia, I peered into blue lit bar that was packed with middle aged couples and seemed to extend beyond the dimensions of the building. I didn't step inside since it so closely resembled Stanley Kubrick's Gold Room, I feared I might hack Rinita with an axe mid-scene.

Back upstairs, a quick glance at performer/writer James Braly's biography portended the NPR-style light-hearted chuckles that allude to razor-sharp wit, but dull at the last moment in fear that it might cut you. The unfortunate title of the monologue conjured up the cliched heterosexual yuppie couple angst that could be found in the book "Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus."

BUT I am not a judger; even though I gleaned this from his Jerry Seinfeld-like press picture and the way the hang nail fell on my right pinkie, I should let him speak for himself.

Within the first minutes of the monologue, Braly interwove the story of his dying sister with his relationship with his wife. The scenes effortlessly moving back and forth with a change of lighting on the silver grate back drop. There were stories involving potential placental mastication, deathbed marriages and a soon-to-be brother in-law named Uncle Yuck Yuck (or something as atmospherically disparaging). The outrageous tales in themselves seemed to aim for a high guffaw factor with its hyperbole too apparent. However, the wackiness outlined the prosaic details and decisions made within the institution.

One of the most engaging accounts involved his fascination with a French woman where he recounted the pull between this temptation and loyalty to his wife. He thoroughly narrated the process with simplicity and subtle humor. He never once had to whack her on the head with a frying pan to keep the audience engaged.

At times, Braly delivered his stories with a literal tongue-in cheek, amused by his own wit, which detracted from the presentation. The second coming of Spalding Gray, he may be not, but the show is enjoyable for those that would like to see NPR come to life every now and then.