SAME BLYTH TIME, SAME BLYTH CHANNEL or, What Does it Take to Get Laid in This Town?

Sent: 16th July, 2008 11:48AM
To: Eric Coates, Artistic Director,
Blyth Festival,
Blyth, Ontario
From: Lisa Norton, Chair, S.W.O.B.

Dear Mr Coates,

I write you today on behalf of the Single Women of the Blyth Festival Company (S.W.O.B), in order to point out what we consider to be an unfair and blatant breach of contract.

We were promised action, Mister Coates. Nookie. A li'l sump'n sump'n, know 'm sayin? In one notable case, Sir, a single female member of the acting company was lured to work for you this season by promises that you would "find her a husband".

Where is this husband, Mister Coates? Where is the nookie, for that matter? The anonymous cornfield love? The spicy country sausage? It is noted that you have chosen to employ precisely ZERO single men at this season's Blyth Festival, while employing several (okay, two to four) unattached straight women. Is this your idea of a cruel joke, Sir? It is one thing to have this unfair ratio in effect; it is surely another, and far more malicious thing, to have actually promised otherwise - to have lured trusting, healthy young women to an out of the way town in order to leave them frustrated and lonely as you cackle away with delight in your corner office and go home each night to spoon your attractive wife.

Do not think we haven't tried to find the bright side of this, Mister Coates, the celibate cloud's silver lining, if you will. We have been handed lemons, and gamely tried for Lesbian Lemonade*, to no avail. One of us, at least, looked inward to one of her own number, making what may be considered some quality Lesbionic (part gay, part.....bionic) moves on a cute girl from wardrobe. On returning to work the day after these preliminary moves, what was our hardluck gal surprised to find out? You know the almost unbelievable - yet all too terribly true - answer, Mister Coates: she was informed that said cute wardrobe girl had resigned her position and suddenly left town.

Not only are we not provided men, but sapphic love is denied us in your horrible isolated world as well? As soon as we show some interest in a perhaps legitimate romantic possibility, long shot as it may be, that possibility is whisked out of town under cover of darkness?! How dare you, Mister Coates. How can you sleep at night? Oh, yes, we've been over that - you sleep very comfortably at night, arms around your attractive wife, coming back to work each day refreshed and happy, as all the while certain members of your company become more and more agitated and slowly go insane.

I hereby present some sad facts, you evil, evil man. They are not pretty, and we are not proud, but perhaps this will adequately illustrate the pain and suffering you have caused:

Exhibit A: A young woman stands on the steps of the Blyth Festival office, hovering dangerously close to returning the attentions of the drunken stranger across the street outside the Boot, that unyielding - and, it must be said, only - town watering-hole. He regales her with shouted pickup lines ranging from the typical ("Hey gorgeous, where youse goin'?) to the bizarre ("I'm the best Celt you'll ever cuddle!"). As she considers this last, thinking, Hell, it's something! And chances are he has a penis...., the drunkard's cell phone rings. He answers and commences a brief conversation, his side of which is: "Yup, still at the bar......Be home soon......Okay, love you too, babe." As our girl walks away, he yells, "Nice ass!", and she fights the impulse to run back and say, "Yeah? You really think so?"

A look at Exhibit B finds another of our young put-upon ladies alone in her kitchen late at night after an evening of drowning her sorrows at the Boot, and returning home inevitably alone. As she prepares a midnight snack, she finds herself standing over a pan of sizzling bacon and thinking how each piece looks like a lover curling around the others. Every rearrangement of the bacon in the pan, each touch of the spatula, reveals to her a new tableau of orgyaic delight, each more excruciating than the last. She knows it is ridiculous to dream of orgies when even one single man is not to be found, but she finds herself unable to look away from the hot, writhing little pork bodies as they cook away and entwine in increasingly obscene ways. She returns to work the next day, horribly burned from grease splatters, but, trooper that she is, does not complain.

Exhibit C: The Single Blyth woman who spends an inordinate proportion of her weekly pay at the local farmers' market so that she may catch a glimpse of the gorgeous Amish man who smiles and sells her meat. This same girl, I am sad to say, recently developed a fear of the radio. Every song, it seemed, was either the horny rejoice of someone who was getting some, or a lonely-hearted lament designed to remind her of her unsatisfied state. She became convinced that the radio was addressing her directly. A feeling that many desolate people share from time to time, this was easily sympathized with yet dismissed by other members of the S.W.O.B....until it was discovered that she had a point - yes, each song actually was about her. And the rest of us, too. Certain members of the committee suspect you, Eric Coates, of manipulating the airwaves, our ipods, and the recording industry at large.

This could go on and on, Mister Coates, but hopefully by now you will have seen the error of your ways.

Be warned that some members of the S.W.O.B. are of the disturbing opinion that the husband offered was you; that you have hatched a plan to prey upon these desperate young ladies and become the sole male member of the Blyth Theatre Festival/Cult, surrounded by pregnant theatre professionals, who will populate Huron County with an army of Coates's(s...s), whom we will raise as scenic painters, dramaturges, and most importantly, as wealthy patrons of the arts/militiamen.

But let us hope that is not true, and assume for now that you did not set out with malice in your heart. The 2004 Blyth season saw the beginning of many couples, several of which have blossomed into love and even marriage. The entire team of female stage managers that year found love with able-bodied, eligible crewmen. Perhaps this is what prompted you to boast of your skills as a matchmaker, to say that you have "a way with these things". To promise us lovers and husbands. Well, four years have passed since that magical year of romance, and we of the S.W.O.B are here to tell you that you may no longer rest on the very cold laurels of 2004. We want men, Mister Coates, and we want them now.

Also I would like the pretty girl from wardrobe back.

Sincerely,

Lisa Norton,
Chair,
Single Women of Blyth
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* Also a good band name