And to Think I Missed the 'Golden Girls' Marathon...

Eddie Izzard, Seattle, Paramount Theatre Review: Grrrrrrr.

I can't remember the last time I walked out of a show, and I have never before tonight had the misfortune of needing to walk out of a show I had been excited to see, but Eddie Izzard's performance, at least of the Seattle leg, in his 'Stripped' tour, was ghastly. Izzard normally does a lot of improv over a basic plan or outline. Here, it was as though there were no bullet points, no prior planning whatsoever, so there was nothing to improv about other than lazy references to past routines. Moreover, while it was indeed Eddie Izzard on the marquee, Eddie Izzard that I came to see, it was for Eddie Izzard performing comedy that I bought the tickets.

I realize this tour has had at times a grueling schedule, and that he has been on the road a long time. That means that the 'no bullet points' thing is not true; what is true is that instead he has had the same outline for too long, and he's sick of it, and it shows. It may have all been as brilliant as his past stuff when he started doing it months ago, but it felt like since he knew the funny bits too well he didn't bother getting to that point for the audience, as though we, too, should already know by what amusingly convoluted logic he was going to take us from Noah to ducks running the world. And since we knew, he didn't have to do the routine; he could just hint at it, and we would humor him, since he is Eddie Izzard doing Eddie Izzard.

But 'Eddie Izzard' isn't the funny bit, nor are inane and exhausting digressions or incoherent murmurings or referring obliquely to previous successful humor. The funny bit is Eddie Izzard being funny, integrating that rambling and making the journey to the point more entertaining than the point itself. In the same way I would feel cheated to have seen Charlie Parker or Edith Piaf come onstage and just 'be' Charlie Parker or Edith Piaf, it felt like Izzard was attempting little beyond pointing to himself and insisting, 'What? I'm effing Eddie Izzard! That's funny! I'm funny! Therefore my just being here should be good enough for you!' He had all the mannerisms of Eddie Izzard, all the energy, and the diction was spot on; what was lacking was the show.

Whatever. We had tasty Chinese food and good company in the International District after. And until I dropped a lipstick on my beige skirt and had to change in the car, I even looked undeniably 'summery.'

Woes which Hope thinks infinite

Dating is hell. Strike that: dating is an unappealing and tedious proposition from which few emerge fully intact, and Internet dating is hell.

I'm well past being concerned about whether it is some weakness in me which I should be compelled to abhor and exorcise that makes me imagine I might like to be in love. I have come to accept that I am a human, and thus a primate and a mammal, and that makes it perfectly excusable that I should at times want to be near others of my species, or even to form especial bonds with some. I've stepped down off the ego-stretching machine I had initially bought for a weak-willed and insecure boyfriend and admitted that in a previously unimaginable number of respects I'm just like everybody else.

So I shouldn't feel bad about wanting to couple, partner, bond, reproduce, marry, or whatever. Just because something is prosaic doesn't mean you shouldn't ever do it: I can eat lasagne from time to time and still remain exceptional -- can't I? Just because I own pointy boots doesn't mean I read women's magazines -- right? A few average habitudes does not an average person make. Well, necessarily, at any rate, I tell myself: there is cause there for caution.

And beyond that, one has to be reasonable, as well. If I can manage to accept that my desire for an exceptional, fulfilling, challenging, sublime and transcendent connection to/relationship with someone else does not inherently condemn me to a life of mediocrity in every possible arena, then I have to be reasonable and accept as well that there are steps I should take to find this. I am as likely to be stricken by a romantic coup de foudre while redecorating my apartment again or making a nice paella for Kirkland arrivistes as I am to be pulled over for driving while confident.

Which leaves me few options other than dating. I thoroughly despise being 'hit on' while out. If I want to have a glass of wine by myself and bring along a portable Proust, it is not a plaintive and desperate invitation to discussions of literary theory or why Americans cannot enjoy Loire reds. Given my predilection for answering such come-ons with monosyllables when possible (as with 'Good book?' as a shudderingly convenient example) and with the unbecomingly catty 'I'm not here to make new friends' when not, I cannot depend on Chance to render unto me the Übermensch I so richly deserve.

This leaves friends of friends, friends of relatives, friends of clients, friends of students, and friends of fellow volunteers. Scratch all of them, because whether anything does or does not work, it's far too tangly and I like my things silky. I do rely on referrals, connections, goodwill and guanxi in other areas, and tremendously value the imprimatur of a trusted friend on almost anything. But not as regards his good friend Joe.