The Passion of the Cripple

I ventured out on Sunday for the first time in weeks. Perhaps you caught the coverage on TV. Dan spent half of Saturday chiseling the van out of the glacier that had swallowed it, and we headed into town in near-whiteout conditions.

We had good reason. Friends were treating us to a most excellent joint birthday present: Lypsinka's latest show, "The Passion of the Crawford." If you've never experienced Lypsinka, I encourage you to do so. She's in Wigstock (the full-length 1995 one) if you can't see her live. It's no substitute, but it's better than nothing. Her Web site is also quite entertaining.

For me, the show's highlight was repeated references to a "little cripple lady." I've often called myself Little Wheelchair Girl, but maybe it's time to grow up and be Little Cripple Lady.

The outing provided yet another unnecessary reminder that I'm an urban creature who's out of place in suburbia. At the theater and at dinner afterwards, I gaped like a tourist at the parade of people. The variety of ages and colors -- and especially the vibrancy -- is almost nonexistent out here, and I miss it intensely. Poor Little Cripple Lady, so bored in the 'burbs.