Last night was date night for my little E and I.
The happiest night of the week, right?
Last night one of the activities scheduled was something I laughingly referred to as "charity work for my fiancee" to a workmate.
It was the one, the only, Les Miserables. I bought tickets to this SOLD OUT theatre EVENT months ago so that there wasn't 6 weeks of long faces moping around the house.
It started off with a hell of a bang at THE BEST FRENCH RESTAURANT IN TOWN, Le St. Tropez. Amazing! (and I hate the French!). An apropos amuse bouche for the main event: Les Miserables.
Sitting in our seats, eagerly awaiting 3 hours of full-on, laugh-riot, French Revolutionary madness, we cooed at each other and made lovey-dovey eyes. And just as the lights started to dim, and some French peasants entered marching in time with the music, a soft male voice from behind us asked, with urgency:
M- "This isn't a musical, is it?"
Too late, pal.
He didn't need the answer; his sigh had already been drown out by Jean Valjean singing about washing away his sins with sweat.
If some dude has never heard of Les Mis:The Musical--one of the longest-running Broadway musicals, which already spent innumerable curtain calls in Toronto at the Royal Alex--then he deserves his fate without pity.
No. Don't pity him. He's already dead.