Flower Pothed. Wig in a Box.

Flower pots are very pretty. They can be painted quaintly and set upon shelves. They can be broken and taken a a dramatic abstract picture of. They can be packed with dirt and be planted with seeds. They can be packed with fake dirt and planted with fake pansies.

Flower pots are dynamic. They can be big or small. They can be so large to fit a small tree or fern into. Or they can be so small to fit a Food City Mother's Day Cactus or Venus Flytrap into. Or they can just be flower pots. I'd rather them be just flower pots because I have a notorious black thumb known throughout the flower pot consortium.

I saw a play last night at the local Black Box Theatre. I think the best productions of any sort (be it movie or play or book) are those who encorporate a fantastic story around a universal, nearly cliched, theme. Find yourself within yourself, what you were looking for all the time. But dress it up in a stylish wig and fantastic costume changes in a German accent and a botched, reluctant SRS and you've got this manic search for something everyone wants regardless of their similarities to the character or situation.

Hedwig is one of my favorite productions. I own the movie, have watched the commentary, dream of owning a foam fanwig, drool over the idea of owning Wig In A Box, and pine over the main character with the geekish glee akin to cultivating a pocket protector in a plaid shirt breast pocket. I know that's old-fashion. I'm just not hip with the current batch of retro-geeks these days to offer a more applicable analogy.

And I will be leaving a comment at Mr. Joe's blog (the actor who will be playing Hedwig this weekend and next before the show ends) because I'm not a stalker. I'm a fan. I'm sure there's a difference.

currently: Hedhead

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