Friends, I try. I live in a city known for its thriving arts scene, and I want to be the type of person who takes full advantage of the availability of theater, concerts, museums, et al. And usually it works out in my favor.Who doesn’t love seeing a production of Shakespeare or gazing upon the wonder of a curated art show? But sometimes you end up staring down the business end of a nearly nude man’s…part, with nothing but a thin layer of Hanes cotton between you and it.
There’s really nothing to describe the awkwardness of unintended afternoon wood springing to life and
staring you down while you’re trying to enjoy a nice afternoon of black-clad people playing Scrabble and pretending to cuddle an animatronic spider, but the most bizarre thing about it was that I had no idea if it was an unconscious reaction to the room temperature and the weird sense of being stared at while in one’s skivvies, or if it was somehow intentional and the guy’s character was supposed to be deeply turned on by his arachnid buddy.
Whatever the reason I will say that I don’t think my distraction took away from my interpretation of the show. If anything, it salvaged an afternoon of watching painful gyrations and stilted dialogue that I can only assume was the result of the playwright’s fleeting memories of their worst acid trip. But it did provide me with a valuable lesson.
Never sit in the front row.