Last night I chaperoned my parents on a date to the Kennedy Center. For Christmas I bought them tickets to see “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” starring Kathleen Turner & Bill Irwin, who has already won a Tony for his role in the play. I bought a ticket for myself too.

Have you seen this play or the Liz Taylor/Richard Burton movie of it? Yikes! I read the reviews that said it was a “giddy vicious thrill ride” and a “bitter satire of marriage,” but honestly I had no idea how bitter and vicious.

Do you ever remember watching a movie with your parents and a make-out scene came on or there was a spate of cussing? Same awkward feeling. I know they’re grown ups and all, but it was no “Beauty & the Beast.” Well, maybe in a way…
At least I didn’t see it on a date. That could have been uncomfortable.

It did provide for an interesting conversation after the play. This is a story about mean, miserable wrecks. There are two couples: one realizes they are miserable and one has it brought to the surface by the other couple’s maliciousness. And the whole time they are getting progressively drunker. We decided that the message was something like this:

Happiness is only possible when you realize that happiness is not possible. Misery can be bonding. Love hurts. Something like that.

I’m sure the lobby bars did well on this play. I was wondering what the clusters of husbands were discussing while they waited for their wives in the bathroom during the intermissions.


There was an unusual distraction during the play. Apparently this particular play attracted an older crowd and it is winter. This combo of factors made for much audible, organic punctuation during the performance. One guy three rows in front of me repeatedly created one of these sounds. Honestly I’m not sure how, nor am I sure I want to. Was his dyspepsia temporary or chronic? I felt sorry for his wife. I was grateful I was far enough away that I did not detect any olfactory accompaniment. And the coughing! Was it the booze at intermission? I wanted to stand up and shout at one point, but what would I say?

I know that when I’m old I’ll probably be terrible and I’ll still go to whatever play I want and not care about the young women I annoy in the audience. Hopefully I’ll keep some Tums in my pocket.