Southern tale will suck you back into the Vortex
The Vortex is back with the South again, as politely Machiavellian as ever.
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The Vortex is back with the South again, as politely Machiavellian as ever.
An extraordinary amount has been written on what happens after death, despite the fact that no one in a position to write about it has actually experienced it.
Forget murder, the journey even to this place was adventure enough.
You need to give people what they want in ways they don’t expect.
Dear cast and crew of “I Considered Smiling,” The Desert Rose Playhouse and everyone:
“Firebugs” When a play’s got too much metaphorical gasoline, it burns itself down. Such is the case with “Firebugs.”
Albuquerque is slowly becoming a big deal.
If you want to see something like you’ve never seen before, go to Blackout.
“Call me Ishmael.”
There aren’t many happy stories about the South. They’re all dark and brooding, about murky family secrets and slow deaths, suffocating honor and tradition. And if there’s love, it’s always the wrong kind of love.
“Theater is always dying,” said Pulitzer prize winning playwright David Mamet. In Albuquerque, this seems to exist as a perpetual freefall in orbit of the final death, which is, perhaps, why theater people find the whole thing so appealing.
“Same Time, Next Year” by Bernard Slade is a different, feel-good kind of adultery. The set and premise are simple: A man and woman meet in a Californian seaside cottage for extramarital sex and conversation one day a year for 24 years.
I never responded well to authority.
Simply put, see this show. I cannot state it anymore plainly.
Its satire is overwhelmingly absurd, poking fun at the Bush administration’s methods and policies its explanations and justifications for warring on the world and law in large.
Daily Lobo: How long have you been going to UNM?