Unzipped

Last weekend I played the psychologist in a scene called "Honeypot" from "A My Name is Alice":

The unexamined taboo of female lust is explored in "Honeypot," with a Billie Holiday-like blues singer wail[ing] that her "coffee is on the shelf/ And I'm gone half to grind it myself." Meanwhile, a literal-minded psychologist demands that she explain what her figurative language means. Even though there's not much ambiguity about his big "monkey wrench" and her "jellyroll," the blues singer is mortified and tongue-tied to acknowledge the clinical language for what she's yearning for, as if that were "health."

The punchline: When I finally get her to spring off into an operetta filled with clinically correct terms ("I'd like to experience sexual release concurrently with you, I'd prefer multiple orgasm, but the other kind will do . . . ") I tell her she's made wonderful progress and within five years should have the sex life of an average American woman. This sends her right back into the bluesonyms for a finale.

The show was good on Thursday, better on Friday, but completely over the top on Saturday. It degenerated from an arts event to a kind of upper-class frat party. For example: on Thursday and Friday the nude models emerged from the dressing room already painted - genetalia and nipples basically covered with paint, at least. On Saturday, they called for volunteers to strip and have the audience paint them. I walked by just when the emcee was asking a nearby female to paint a guy's balls. Okay, too much even for me. Later, they brought out the Mardi Gras beads. After a lot more wine had been consumed. You do the math.

As far as the rest of the exhibits - there were the good, the bad and the ugly. I may be a philistine, but I do not believe that the human body is beautiful no matter what. There are limits. And there are some things I just wish hadn't been put into the memory bank.