Reviewing theater on The Morning After is ruining my life.

     Saturday night, I saw Jade Esteban Estrada in "Chek It, Baby," a one-man gay cabaret which fancifully interprets the great Russian playwright Anton Chekhov’s four masterpieces, "The Seagull," "Uncle Vanya," "The Three Sisters," and "The Cherry Orchard," through the lens of a one-man gay cabaret.

     It was the big opener to the 2008 Twin Cities Chekhov Festival, a heroic theater weekend at the Byrant-Lake Bowl, featuring sixteen theater companies “breathing new life into the work of Anton Chekhov through inspired interpretations, inventive adaptations and original multi-disciplinary performance.”

     Okay, I really don’t have anything against Estrada, whom the Topeka Capitol-Journal calls “one of the finest American solo theatre artists of the twenty-first century.” And I don’t have anything against the other souls sitting in the Bryant-Lake Bowl’s theater space, all of whom, based on where and when they laughed during the show, must have been huge Chekhov freaks, and most of whom, based on my extensive eavesdropping, spoke fluent Russian. No, I’m just feeling sorry for myself for going to experimental gay cabaret with millions of inside Chekhov jokes—and getting most of them.

     What the hell is happening to me? Estrada came out to this techno music, making these surreal hand gestures, with his hair waxed into three dramatic spikes, a face full of clown makeup, flashing this gigantic grin. It was like somebody crushed a handful of Adderall into John Leguizamo’s applesauce. He started out by doing a skit that re-set Chekhov’s "The Three Sisters" on a "Maury"-esque daytime talk show. I laughed at Natasha as an entitled lower-class striver because people like her are actually on "Maury" all the time. Answering Maury’s inquisition about her cuckolding of Andrei with that specific brand of daytime defiance, “Well, if my husband doesn’t care, I don’t see how it’s any of your business.” It was genuinely funny. His evangelical interpretation of "The Cherry Orchard" had its moments and his coup de grace, in which he casts extras for a Hollywood version of "The Seagull" (starring Charo as Nena: “I am a seagull. Coochie, coochie!”), well, it was ridiculous and funny (if not ridiculously funny).

     So yeah, I enjoyed "Chek It, Baby." And I am profoundly disturbed by this.

     It’s pretty clear there is nobody with whom I will ever really share a po-mo appreciation of Chekhov. I refuse to go combat boot, pierce-my-face, theater-class-loony like half the crowd in there, and unlike the other half, I’m not ready for my wild old Rooskie phase yet, either. I mean, I get it. Chekhov doesn’t have the appeal of an indie band. Or an Oscar-nominated movie. Or a great new restaurant. I am going to end up deranged, laughing maniacally to myself at (Estrada’s) John McCain-as-Lopakhin during late-night experimental theater festivals.

     One tear.

     But, wait a minute. Check it out: of all the great nineteenth-century Russian writers,  Chekhov is the most relatable to somebody that saw "There Will Be Blood," just bought the new Vampire Weekend, and loves the cauliflower fritters at the 112. Because Chekhov still works in a world where you can run across your ex-girlfriend on Comedy Central. He’s been there before. He would’ve laughed at me—because he laughed at himself, even when it sucked. He wrote about dating artists, and he wrote about lazy writers, not to mention selfish mothers, jackass supervisors, and absentminded siblings, all people who surround us still. His characters are real—realer than Shakespeare’s by far—and ready for today’s stage, even if it’s late-night, one-man gay cabaret at the Bryant-Lake Bowl.

     So please don’t keep making me do this by myself. Chek is worth it. Please.

©2008 Minneapolis-St. Paul Magazine