Dead Moors and Sleeping Fish . . .

Perhaps it was the other way around. Anyway. Friday evening qualified as one of the best of my life. Bennett, Katy, Theresa, and myself went downtown to see Othello at the Shakespeare Theatre Company on 7th Street NW. Theresa's mom works for the educational arm of the company and hooked us up with complimentary tickets. Thank you Ms. Koucheravy, wherever you are. My seat was in the seventh row just to the right of center stage. My eye level was the actor's knee level. It was near perfect. I was so close that I could see Avery Brooks breathing when he was supposed to be dead.

I knew nothing about the play beyond a two sentence plot summary. I was blown away totally and completely. Patrick Page's Iago was the most evil bastard I have ever seen. The rest of the cast was equally great. When they returned to take their bows and bask in a well-deserved standing ovation, I remained in my seat trying to sort out the whole splendid experience so that I could commit it more fully to memory. To steal a thought from Kate's blog, "I have never been more moved by a work of literature." (Thanks again to TK & Mom.)

After the play, we roamed Chinatown looking for--what else?--Chinese food. Kate and Theresa looked for the perfect place; Bennett and I just looked for a place. We finally opted for subterrainian Chinese at the Big Wong. The fish tank in the foyer was filled with something that looked like red snapper. Some weren't moving. Kate said they were dead. I said they were just taking a nap. We sat down and ordered. The only other table in the place was a group of Chinese men sharing a huge bowl of soup. The television in the corner displayed pretty postcard images with tons of Chinese characters at the bottom of the screen. I don't know what the hell it was--maybe Karaoke. The food came quickly enough. Pork, Chicken, and Shrimp, everything tasted the same. Mmmm MSG, it is mo' fine.

Making our way back to Metro Center to catch the train home, we had the typical conversation that four English major geeks might have. We talked about books, poets, and such. When I mentioned Anna Karinina, my beloved Theresa blurted out "She gets hit by a train." Great, I have five hundred pages left and I now know it ends.

Anyway, I forgive her. Who can long hold a grudge on such a grand evening?