So about five years ago I was on this boat, right? It was April 21, and the Society of St. George--gee, we sure seem to have a lot of saints' societies in New Orleans--was having their annual birthday party for Queen Elizabeth II. She was not expected to attend.
Anyway, we'd danced at the hotel ballroom, we'd paraded to the levee (dressed, as the custom, completely in white), we'd climbed onboard the steamboat Natchez, and we'd all made a bee-line for the bar. I grabbed by vodka/rocks/dirty, headed up to the top deck, sprawled out on a chair to enjoy the sunset, and was almost immediately besieged by some guy--tall and cute, but skinny.
So we're talking and he's kinda flirty, and we're chatting about stuff and things and junk, and we discover that we have a few friends in common, and then the subject changes. To art.
I'm not sure how it all came up. I guess it doesn't really matter. What's important is that things went wrong. Terribly wrong.
Basically, we started talking about the performing arts here in New Orleans, and I think I said something kinda like, "Jesus H. Christ, the goddamn theatre in New Orleans fucking sucks toilet sludge." Like I said, I can't remember exactly.
Well, Skinny Boy was having none of it and started listing off all the venues in town and all the stuff that was going on like Oklahoma and crap. Oklahoma. And I said, something like, "Honey, that's not theatre. That's a two-hour high-colonic for the Geritol set. Makes 'em think they're having an arts experience, but it's really just bad TV with a pulse."
"At least those actors and directors are doing something, man. They could be just, like, sitting around becoming alcoholics, you know."
"Yes, well, I suppose you have a point. But don't expect me to sit in on their public therapy session."
And basically he proceeded to tell me that I was some sort of theatre snob, and that all theatre is good theatre because people are doing something that comes from the heart, and I stopped his ass right there and set him straight: "Yes, I'm a freakin' theatre snob. There has to be an elite in theatre, just as there has to be an elite in other disciplines. Someone's gotta be at the helm, someone's gotta be in charge, someone's gotta say, 'For god's sake, Karen Finley, can't you do something a little different, just this once?!' Art depends on three things: (1) short attention spans, (2) big mouths, and (3) very big opinions."
I was kinda stunned by the vehemence of my reaction. I don't normally think of myself as a rude person--really I don't. But something in him, something dark and malevolent and steeped in patchouli and prone to group hugs and communes made me furious. I excused myself rather suddenly and--I swear it was such a movie moment--raced down to the main deck just in time to jump back on shore before the cruise up the Mississippi River began in earnest. Half a minute later and I'd have been trapped with the yutz for three more hours....
The performing arts in New Orleans have seen some progress since then. It's actually a very exciting time to be around, with no fewer than four monster-sized arts centers in the works. But I'm still sort of a snob.
I mean, who finds the pedestrian truly entertaining?
