Mad Atoms

To insure a place to eat, sleep, shower, and shit, I work customer service at a playhouse. Which means I spend a good part of my life taking crap from dissatisfied, rich, old people. For how much criticism they give us, it took me a while to figure out if the elderly even enjoyed coming to the theater. My conclusion is that they do, but only for this reason: Something Tangible to Complain About.

As we enter further into the Internet Age, old people find themselves surrounded by a decreasing amount of things they can see, touch and understand. MP3s, torrents, CGI, wi-fi—every year the world becomes more confusing for the elderly in ways which elude their comprehension. Thank God then for the dramatic arts, where the basics have remained the same since Greeks were crapping out of robes. An entire playhouse gives the elderly a slew of things they understand enough to complain about, from deathly cold A/Cs, dangerously sharp edges on the restroom signs, to the “rude smirk that hussy usher gave me.”

As the senses fade, old people need constant evidence that they are in fact still among the living. Attending group events allows the elderly to pool information and decide whether the world they deal with is one experienced outside their own pruned up head.

For instance, if Gerdie goes to the theater and discovers an audience made up of childhood dolls and dead husbands, she’ll know that she has left the mortal realm. Might meet John McCain.

Hey you never know, dude’s getting up there. Trolling for Octogenari-tang.

The wine is flowing, you’re sporting the suit you voted for Grover Cleveland in, and suddenly that 80 year old, looks a boinkable 70. What do you think intermissions are for? Getting wrinkle-nasty, that’s what for. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve walked in on a pair of old people having sex in a bathroom stall, I’d have enough money to buy back all the food I’ve thrown up from walking in on old people having sex in bathroom stalls. Ah, the circle of life.