T. GAMBLE: Finding the plot to ‘The Grasshopper’

This past holiday season, my family went to see “The Nutcracker” performed at the Fox Theatre to celebrate my mother’s December birthday. It is safe to say I did not schedule this event, as I know about as much about ballet as I know about Mandarin Chinese. The Princess girl and 12-year-old Hurricane boy went along for the festivities.

There are many places in the world in which a 12-year-old boy should not be taken. He should not go to a strip club, liquor store or casino, and, I would say, add any ballet to this list. Taking the Hurricane boy to the ballet is like wearing a Members Only jacket to the Academy awards.

I can’t really say he was taken to the ballet — kidnapped might be a more appropriate word. He protested vehemently, even begging to sit on the sidewalk while we went inside The Fox Theatre. I started to give him a cup and let him. If he begged for money like he begged not to go, I bet he could have rounded up at least 15 or 20 dollars.

My father was not exactly jumping up and down with joy himself concerning the prospects of spending a Sunday afternoon at the ballet. To add fuel to the fire, a friend and I told him the show would last about five hours. We told him this over lunch and very soon he exclaimed he should have gone ahead and scheduled a heart procedure for that particular Sunday, as he would enjoy it more and it would not last as long.

He then said, “I never would have agreed to go if I knew I was going to have to go to ‘The Grasshopper.’” Yes, to my Father, the show is, and was, named “The Grasshopper.” To tell the truth, for all I know it may have been named that for me, too.

At intermission, the Hurricane looked at me and said, “Well, Dad, I learned something new today. Ballet is now officially the most boring thing I have ever seen.”

I did not respond, as I was asleep, leaning up against some woman I did not know.

You see, the problem with ballet is that it exists in a secret world of its own. The “ballet people” know this world, but the rest of us simpletons don’t know a thing. At intermission, my father, the namesake for the Hurricane boy and expert by now on “The Grasshopper,” asked me, “Does this thing have a plot?”

Well, considering they do not speak one word the entire time, I really don’t know.

The “ballet people,” of course, know what every move and twirl signifies. They know when to politely clap and when to really clap. They know when to chuckle and when to roar with laughter, although I don’t think they actually ever use a word like chuckle.

I sat there like I was in a foreign country, smiling when smiled at and laughing when everyone else laughed. For all I know, they were doing the dance of the South Georgia redneck fool and laughing at my Members Only jacket.

One thing I did notice, although God knows I tried not to, was those poor guys in the dancing tights really had on tights. I see where they got the name from. They could have danced naked and shown less. They must have been given pain killers or something to cram everything up that tight. Maybe that’s how they got them to jump and leap and dance around so. If I was in that outfit, having my manhood assaulted, I’d probably jump around, too.

Oh, well, the women all loved it, including the Princess girl, although I had to take her to therapy after seeing all the male dancers in their tights.

Maybe that’s really why women love ballet to begin with. Who knows? I really just don’t understand “The Grasshopper.”

Email columnist T. gamble at [email protected].