Raw, adjective: 10. not diluted, as alcoholic spirits: raw whiskey.
Shaun's show has been open here in SF all of ten days now, and while my bank account and liver and yoga practice are suffering considerably as a result, goddamn if I'm not loving the hell outta every moment of this little charmed month of theater gracing my life.
Seen the show three times already in those ten days and each time it gets richer, and more nuanced, and more jammin'. And the May days are blending into a mellow melody of write-read-launder-lunch-etc. followed by a bangin' yoga sesh at 4:30 just in time to run home and retox as I crank the tunes and shake a martini and put up my hair and bust out the costume jewelry and throw on something vaguely ridiculous and finish the last swig of that cocktail as the sun sets in the west window and then flash out the door to flag the cable car in the fading light and hop on and feel the whoosh in my hair as I look over the sunsetting city from Nob Hill and think my god I fucking love my life because here I am on a random weeknight having an excuse to trot out the baubles and wear too much lipstick and go see my old friend rock it onstage doing exactly what he always planned to do ten years ago and wow, listen to those horns getting richer and more dazzling each time around and wow, check out that gesture I didn't see the last time around and wow, always new faces and friends in the adjacent seats to share it anew, to freshen the jokes, from Chicago last night, sweet J, laughing, tippling, remembering, and now here's the second act, always more fun and buzzingly warm because of that quick intermission jaunt, and now here's that soaring finale and that heart-cracking curtain call and the stage door again and the exhausted radiant cast and then there's the swanky bar down the street and the normalcy and the stories and the chatter and the six new cast crushes and the seven new musical inspirations and the eight new promises to get back in the studio and
if life ain't grand