![]() Alcohol Consumption + Anticipation of Seeing Some Cock = Very Dangerous Women. Territorial creatures, they had already chosen the seat as their own. ![]() I’m glad they had a good time, but in their spirited state, they thought nothing of literally pushing my companion out of the seat he was about to sit in. Thoroughly intoxicated in order to face the confrontation of seeing a real live penis with their friends, I’ve never been among a more boisterous audience outside of a stadium. The demographic is aimed squarely at straight women over 35, who swarm in en masse, via group sales, for the penultimate Ladies’ Night Out (second to Chippendale’s, which I imagine is a similar atmosphere), and have, by either instruction or instinct, had at least one more margarita than usual. More fascinating than the stage antics was the audience itself. Why waste money on something as frivolous as a director? The blame must be directed at Foster Entertainment, the producers of the show, who are reputable and should know better but apparently, this is nothing more than a gravy train: promise them penises and the audiences will come. Thus, the benefit of the doubt must be given to the performers, who can’t direct themselves and don’t know that they are presenting themselves as utter amateurs. It seemed as if it had been staged without a director.Ī closer look at the program credits reveals the problem - there is, in fact, no director. Aside from the “dick tricks” themselves, there is a shocking and unforgiveable lack of imagination in the proceedings. Although they are extremely comfortable in their nudity, which I find admirable, and they can stretch their dicks and balls with a ferocity that could be considered enviable, their stage presence is more akin to kids putting on a show in the basement for the neighbors. It gives one pause to think of what a B- or C-team would have been like. The performers are supposedly an “A-team” among the many trained “puppeteers” that now inhabit the planet. ![]() Certainly it couldn’t have lasted this long and played in so many cities and countries if it was little more than a hastily-produced cheap thrill, right? I knew this going in - it is, after all, the main attraction -but for some reason, I was expecting a sense of showmanship, a sense of theatrics, even a bit of artistry. In the off chance that you’ve never heard of it, Puppetry of the Penis is a couple of guys who perform nude onstage to demonstrate the so-called “ancient art of genital origami,” stretching and twisting their junk into mildly amusing contortions sort of like shadow puppets, only with genitalia and without the shadows. If ever it once was theater, I cannot say, but what it either has now become or, perhaps, has always been, is a crass display of sophomoric hijinks. Silly me since it had played, among other venues, at the Edinburgh Theater Festival as well as Off-Broadway for a respectable run in New York, I had this strange idea that, whatever else it was, it would be first and foremost theater. More gratifying was the crowd warmer, local comic Patti Vasquez, a pregnant party girl who joked with a warm, easy charm about being drunk in women’s restrooms, her Irish-Mexican heritage, and the differences between men and women.I never knew that I was a prude until I attended Puppetry of the Penis at The Jewel Box inside Las Vegas’s Erotic Heritage Museum. The last dick trick, however, must be one of the more bizarre images ever on a Chicago stage: Morley stretches his genitals into a Windsurfer-like sail, jumps on a skateboard wreathed in fog, and flies across the stage propelled by a portable fan. The show’s charm quickly shrivels–50 minutes is a long time to watch balloon-animal tricks even when they’re done with someone’s genitals, especially if they’re accompanied by limp patter. There are even some “aThe cast rotates, but the night I attended the performers were Simon Morley–one of the show’s creators, who surveyed the crowd with a jaded carny stare–and Daniel Lewry, a puppyish goofball. Two naked Australian men, initially garbed in Elvis-inspired capes, stretch and twist their testicles, scrotums, and penises into shapes with a high gross-out or flinch factor: a hairy tongue, a hamburger in a bun, an Olympic torch complete with flame. ![]() These “penis installations” are less theater or performance art than crass sideshow spectacle. Puppetry of the Penis, at the Lakeshore Theater. Get your UnGala tickets: A museum takeover and art party celebrating the Reader's 50ish anniversary Close
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