The Final Bow, With Lasers

    It seems that, in the time since my “Compton Cookout: The Musical” column debuted last quarter, the real-live UCSD theater department (pardon, thee-tuhh) may have caught onto my whole “art heals pain” plan. (See “Real Art, Real Pain,” below. And get a load of that LGBT crochet magic.)

    It’s OK; I’m not jealous. This just means the final act in my winter-quarter irono-drama needs to blow the fucking roof off Galbraith Hall.

    As you probably don’t remember, I left the M.A. Fox piñata hanging from the rafters in Act Two — levied by dependable sidekick Penny Rue (that’s vice chancellor of student affairs, to you). They exist in a pool of light on the right third of the stage. One of Rue’s hands is holding the rope, the other an oversized bullhorn — into which she screams, “Done! Done! Done!”, her burgundy centipede mouth rippling in waves of heartsickness.

    That’s when a second pool of light blinks on, onto the next third of the stage. A group of giggling girls in skirts and berets are skipping there, using a length of green rope (what the hell kind of rope is green?) to play double Dutch. If the berets haven’t tipped you off, these are the vis-arts geniuses who got a little too creative with their scrap pile on the seventh floor on Geisel Library one fateful Tuesday.

    Now the second pool of light starts blinking, because everyone knows it’s not an art party without a strobe. But the girls soon grow bored, despite the cool slow-mo effects the rope is making in front of their fickle pupils, and take to the next pool over, where they begin to wind the rope around the chancellor like a lopsided Maypole.

    (This, of course, makes it difficult for whoever is playing Rue. Ever tried maintaining a sympathetic centipede mouth with a bullhorn in one hand and a baited fishing line in the other?)

    Seeing as the second pool of light now goes unmanned — a strobing party one at that — the hairy “ungrateful nigger” in the poncho runs back out to centerstage, this time struggling to drag one fat side of a refrigerator box along with him. It’s taller than he is, with “Compton lynching” written on it in Comic Sans — because, of course, that’s the mock-handwriting font of choice for all those still living in the “post-racist” utopia that is a kindergarten classroom. (You know, where the only person you’re prejudiced against is the fool who wiped snot on the Lincoln logs? Those were the days.) Poncho man finally lifts the king-sized scrap above his head with a grunt of satisfaction, yelling, “If you don’t read I’m-a read it in a couple of seconds!”

    This is where we’re going to need some ballerinas. They can be shitty ones, though. And all we’ll need to play A.S. President Utsav Gupta is another superstar piñata, silhouetted by a final pool of light on the far left, frozen in pirouette above a circle of chairs. The A.S. councilmembers, scattered around the podium, are wearing gray politician suits five sizes too big, back-alley negotiator hats that flop over their eyes and clown-sized dress shoes with ballerina tips. Extra black, for solidarity. They try to find their spots for a few minutes, but — thanks to the hats and square toes — end up a discombobulated swarm of “’scuse me” and “motion to find a chair” and “check your boner off my hipbone” and snaps (to make themselves known). Sort of like Marco Polo, if no one ever knew whose turn it was. Or how to swim. In the deep end.

    You’ve been very patient with me. Here is your reward: the grand finale. The rectangular snake of protestors returns from Act Two, still dressed all in black but for their orifices. The noose girls — who have been going all S&M on the M.A. Fox piñata — scamper off, and the angry block systematically begins to pummel the chancellor with a set of matching bats, chanting “We need to know!” at the bits of tissue paper that fly from her frail paper-mache skeleton. “Done! Done! Done!” shrieks Rue on the other end of the rope, her caterpillar mouth more of a sin wave on psychedelics by now.

    A small way into the beatdown, cash starts pouring from the Fox. (OK, that’s wishful thinking. In reality, all we found in the piñata was a feast of committees. What a shitty party.) That’s when Koala man gets an idea: He pulls a spare keyboard from his poncho and starts putting his best sloshball slugs into the Gupta version. Score! Pennies flow like pain. Peripheral members of the protest mob flood stage left, getting in wherever they fit in.

    Only one thing could truly put the shit in this storm, and it’s called March Forth. Hundreds of students, loaded in Strike Barbie accessories, rush the stage to shout “Gay!” “Broke!” “Bored!” “Ahhh!” until it all blends into one causeless roar. The strobe takes over the stage, the tech guy says “Fuck it” and spews his whole stock of lasers on that bitch, and the audience joins in for a game-ending dance party. Because that’s how this thing should go down. See you at Sun God, beautiful people.

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