So it's 9:15 a.m. on a Saturday, and I already cooked breakfast and am on my second load of laundry. How cool is that? What a feeling of accomplishment! I'm going to get my chores done AND still have most of my weekend free. Who knew? Can hardly wait to bundle up and face the great outdoors....
Last night's play, The Jew of Malta (by Christopher Marlowe), was a bit of a letdown. It's one of those self-consciously post-modern productions where they make anachronistic asides to the audience, exaggerate the characters to the point of caricature and the acting to the point of absurdity, and provide heavy-handed "modern" readings of archaic language for cheap laughs. I haven't read or seen the play before, but I feel quite confident that the friar who finds the 14-year-old girl Abigail dead does not, in the original, feel up her breasts as he prepares to cart off her corpse and then lie down and speak tenderly to the body after impulsively fucking it up the butt. It's just a hunch on my part, of course. You never know with these Elizabethan writers.
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