After a long week spent digging out from the Great Snowpocalypse of 2013, my wife and I desperately needed a break and a laugh, so this weekend we made a road trip see the touring production of Monty Python's "Spamalot."
Sitting in the theater and watching the audience file in, we calculated that it was about a 60/40 split between fellow hard-core Python fans (of all ages, even youngsters, I was delighted to see) and clueless season-ticket holders who had no idea what they were about to watch.
This was confirmed when the very nice elderly couple who sat down next to us starting thumbing through their programs, the first page of which is comprised largely of the same faux-pidgin Swedish as the opening credits in "The Holy Grail." The rest of the printed program was equally nonsensical and irreverent, and utterly befuddling to someone not familiar with the Python sensibility, or lack thereof.
A few confused minutes later, the husband leaned over to my wife and asked (and I'm not making this up) "Is this play really about Spam?"
It was a long evening for that poor couple.
We, on the other hand, had a ball. If you're a Python fan and you haven't yet seen "Spamalot" I would highly recommend it.
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