Mmmmojito

It figures. The moment I go from casually surfing the internet to actually writing in my blog, my dog appears wanting immediate attention. He's like a cat or something...

So last I night I finally went and saw Frozen, a play at the Citadel. My review for my Scene Study class is due on Monday, so I really did have to see _something_ and this one looked interesting. I had to pay full (student) price for the ticket, though, because when I called yesterday afternoon, they said they only had 10 seats left and so my chances of getting a rush ticket didn't look that good.

The play was so-so. It was about a guy who raped and murdered 7 girls over 21 years (and was caught trying to get number 8), the mother of one of the girls he killed, and a psychiatrist researching whether or not people with brain damage can be held responsible for their crimes. The actor who played the rapist did an excellent Welch accent. They had a dialect specialist working with the actors. The story was kind of lacking in thematic support, though. The mother went through an interesting journey to forgiving the rapist, and the rapist had neat ways of acknowledging what he'd done that kept him from being remorseful, but the psychiatrist, who was supposed to really carry the theme of the play, just didn't have enough to work with. There was a great deal of evidence that the abuse the rapist had suffered as a child had caused brain damage, and that this was the case with many violent offenders, but no explanation was given for the crime he chose. His dad beat him, so he raped and murdered 10-year-old girls. If you ask me, having the capacity to choose the crime means you have the capacity to stop yourself. There was too much focus on the neurological aspects rather than the psychological. Plus, the psychiatrist is supposed to be a foil for the rapist. While the rapist supposedly did what he did because he couldn't help himself, the psychiatrist slept with her colleague, a married man, two days before he died in a freak car accident. Since she knew what she was doing, hers was a crime of evil. I'm not sure whether this is supposed to reinforce the notion that the rapist is innocent or whether it's supposed to make us realize at the last moment that the psychiatrist's moral compass is fucked up and she shouldn't be trusted to judge this sort of thing. Bah.

In other news, my dad is making roast chicken tonight and my brother and Peter are coming over. You know, before my dad's hip replacement, he used to be almost scared of asking Chris and Lindsay to spend time with him, but since Chris spent so much time "babysitting" dad after his surgery, my parents do this family dinner thing a lot. Now, I like my brother just fine, quite a bit, actually, but I hate family dinners. With a firey, firey passion. So tense, so formal, and so all about the food. Gah. If my mom asks Chris how his love life is, I may drown myself in my gravy. If there isn't gravy, either because there was none made or because Chris drank it all, then I'll improvise. I'm flexible that way.

Until then, though, I think I'll read a magazine and pretend that I'm in Jamaica or Aruba or someplace else sunny, sandy and with an endless supply of _real_ mojitos. The kind made with fresh mint leaves and ground sugar cane. Oh, yes...