Teatro ZinZanni

My mother was a world traveler. Ask her about any country or region of the world and chances are that she had been there. She traveled by plane, train, bus, cruise ship, camel and elephant. She was never keen about bicycles or skis because she said that elegant ladies should never fall on their faces. It was her goal in life to see and do as much as she could possibly cram into her remaining years and, as much as possible, she wanted to share the experiences with her family.

I believe that on one of her travels to Paris, mom visited the Folies Bergère which since 1869 has been a live theater for comic operettas, cabaret, and burlesque shows. You may say that I am falsely comparing, but this is what I believe the Teatro ZinZanni circus and dinner theater at the Seattle Center closely resembled and what made their shows so popular. It has been described as the Moulin Rouge meets Cirque du Soleil. (Wiki)

One mode of travel that mom used, was a local bus tour group which catered to senior excursions. On their schedule of evening tours was a dinner show at Teatro ZinZanni which mom thought would be a great activity to share with her children, so she bought six tickets for her family and their spouses. Not knowing a thing about the show, I agreed to participate for the evening of bus riding with seniors and a free circus dinner theater. What could go wrong?

I should take a moment here to point out that taking a stubborn redneck to an avant-garde show of this type will almost certainly be a disaster.

As we exited the bus and entered the building there was a gift shop which featured all styles of cabaret outfits. Many staff members milled about welcoming guests to the show. They were dressed in costumes of the Cabaret. It seemed like fun — like the Medieval Times dinner show where the staff are dressed as knights who ride horses in a center stadium and you are served your meal without utensils and eat greasy roast game hens with your fingers. Little did I know that the Teatro staff milling amongst the guests were spies.

Our group was ushered into the theater. The seating and tables were on multiple levels as well as on the main floor next to the small center stage. The room was dimly lit with fabric draperies and banners flowing everywhere. There was also evidence of acrobat equipment high over the center stage. As we sat around our table, wait staff came, taking each order from the limited menu. When the dinner orders in the house had been taken, the room went dark and the show began…

Out from behind the center curtain emerged our emcee, a rather robust man in drag. Following him, or her, was the rest of the cast dressed in their cabaret costumes.

I shot a glance over at my mother who was giggling. The only thing that I could think was, “WHAT THE HECK! What did you get us into now, mom?”

The show was as much scripted as it was improv. It had a storyline. One interesting aspect of the show was at a certain point in the dialog a character would say a key word, such as “salad,” and suddenly from all sides of the theater, the waiters would come dancing in with trays of our salads and we would start that course. The “key word” also brought out the main course and later the dessert.

While the guests ate, the storyline continued. Acrobats performed death defying feats of skill over the center stage and singers came out in elaborate dress to perform songs. My radar caught on right away that the emcee was in drag. What I did not realize, and my wife explained to me later, was that some of the other women in the cast were not really women at all. I found it extremely uncomfortable that the emcee would travel into the audience and find some poor male guest who was sitting with his wife and weave him into the story line. It made me wonder how many shows they picked on the wrong guy who instead of playing along, punched the emcee in the face and walked out. I cringed watching the poor guys he was picking on because the spotlight was only on the two of them as he improvised.

This is where the spies came into play. They moved amongst the guests before the show finding the perfect men to set up. It was not just by chance. And so… three quarters of the way through the show, after the main course but before dessert, the story line took a nasty turn for the worst and the drag queen emcee started once again into the audience chatting with the guests at their tables and moving closer and closer to my table of eight. I could feel the heat of the spotlight lamps.

I put my face in my hands, and I remember thinking, “Not me! Not me!” I also believe that while my face was buried in my hands, everyone in our bus tour group was pointing directly at me, and mouthing, “take him.” Seconds later I felt his/her hands rubbing the top of my head and my shoulders as he said to the audience, “Well, here’s a keeper.” With that, he took my hand and led me to the stage where I became part of the story line. Cheryl has reminded me often, that the audience enjoyed how uncomfortable I was feeling.

In the story line, the King had lost his lover and the emcee, who was his chief aide, was to search the kingdom for a new one.

The trauma is still real today. He asked me my name. Somehow Marty from Ferndale became Marsha from Fernburg. Then, because I was not dressed appropriately for a king, an elegant hoop dress was brought out which I was placed in. What can only be described as a Carmen Miranda headdress was placed on my head and because I obviously wasn’t lovely enough, a palace maiden came to the stage with a tray of makeup to rouge my cheeks and give me bright red lips.

Then came the point I guess, where I decided the damage was done and the night could not get much worse. If you cannot beat them, join them so to speak. Much to the delight and surprise of the cast, I decided to improvise too and play the part. I was given a fan and taught how to dance a Minuet.  Lastly, the drag queen emcee gave me a big lipstick kiss on the forehead and to the applause of the audience, escorted me from the theater still in my dress. Once in the lounge, the actors wanted to make sure the painful memory lasted forever.  Thanking me immensely for not punching them, they took a group picture.

It was surprising to me that as the theater was emptying, cast and audience members alike came up and thanked me for being a good sport. I climbed into the front of the bus and sat in my seat. People from the theater walking to their cars would look up into the bus, see me, and wave.

It was an uncomfortably long ride home on the tour bus. I could not help but think that I was set up because of the giggling going on around me.

There are bucket lists. Things that people want to experience before they die.  I do not think that this experience was on mine. Then, there is the answer you must come up with when your grandkids ask you, “Grandpa, what’s the scariest, most horrible thing you have done in your life that you would never try again?”

I would ponder the question a moment and then reply, “Well, let me tell you about the night in Seattle when I became Marsha from Fernburg.”

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