Candy-coated hair

Last night Jeremy and Katy and I found ourselves wearing ponchos indoors, soon to be sprayed with red corn-syrup blood, doused with water guns, and squirted with fake semen. What sort of event was this? It was not an animal sacrifice (though that may have been more relaxing, given the cap gun held to my head throughout the evening), nor was it some sort of complex mating ritual (at least as far as I could tell, though the full bar may have lent itself to such).

No. It was Point Break Live.

Oh, yes. Point Break Live. Where they squirt you with water when they're 'surfing,' where the dead presidents rampage throughout the audience demanding fake money they gave you at the door, and the homo-erotic undertones of the original film were more than exaggerated on stage, as the surfers groped each other with excitement after each 'rad tube.' The director of the movie was there to play Tyler's part as well as to direct the staging ('Stunt double! Go fight for Keanu!' Then the double enters the fracas, a girl swinging punches on his behalf). Keanu's part, Johnny Utah, was picked from the audience, and the guy read from cue cards to 'authenticate the rawness of a Keanu performance.' It was impeccably done. Keanu himself would've been jealous of this guy's ability to capture him, one delayed sentence after another. 'Right, braaaaaa?'

As we crowded out of the theater after, arms and faces and hair sticky with fake blood, you could see alarm on passing pedestrians. The guy at the crepe trailer was unnaturally fast at serving us, and a passing police car slowed to a crawl as we crossed the street. Fellow theater-goer's are hollering on the street, "Duuuuude! You want me so bad it's like ACID in your MOUTH."

Last night was the show's last night in San Francisco, otherwise I would I recommend this to EVERYbody. And if it's coming to your city, you really must go see it. VAYA CON DIOS!