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The agonies of being an ex-critic

The agonies of being an ex-critic

The problem with being an ex-critic is that I just can’t seem to appreciate any form of art these days without taking it apart, analyzing where it went wrong and generally getting all anal on it.

When I was in Florida, I accompanied Surlychick to go and see The Male Intellect: An oxymoron with the occasionally-mentioned Ford Austin.

Where everyone else in the auditorium seemed to see a witty, unusual take on the eternal battle of the sexes, I saw an over-written and somewhat cliched battle with nothing to say that countless stand-up comedians before them hadn’t said already (bit like this blog really). Plus it was a tad unfair – most of the ammunition was aimed squarely at the men, and only perhaps a couple of blanks at women and their inconsistencies. And we all know it takes two to tango.

Of course, mentioning all this to someone who’s just enjoyed themselves immensely is probably not the world’s best idea.

Tomorrow, why I now cringe so much at the three-act structure that I have to leave the auditorium half the time…


  • Arcane Thrust

    I sympathise; I now tend to leave the auditorium before I arrive, which is a sensible solution all round. Costs a fortune though.

  • Most of the ammunition should be aimed squarely at men. Put them against the wall and shoot them is what I say πŸ˜‰

  • Maybe they were banking on Captain Crotch and his WonderSchlong to delight and amuse. Not so much for the (straight) men πŸ˜‰

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