We of the 5th Avenue Theatre do hereby resolve to outlaw wobbly sets, poorly executed Sondheim, and any musical featuring red-headed moppets (sayonara, The Prince & the Pauper).
We, Nick Garrison and Lauren Weedman (back for, respectively, Empty Space's Valley of the Dolls and the 14/48 Festival at Consolidated Works), resolve to selflessly relinquish our successful out-of-town performing careers and return to our roles as the two most uniquely comic wizards of the Emerald City.
We, the audience members offering suggestions at improv shows, resolve to rent the entire Farrelly Brothers oeuvre (beginning with Dumb and Dumber) to work the illicit thrill of scatological humor out of our systems.
We, the beleaguered organizers of the Fringe Festival, resolve to take it like a man when a certain jackass reviewer once again savages us for theater experiences that amount to two weeks of bamboo splinters shoved slowly under his fingernails. We will consider including "Get out of jail free" cards with each five-play pass, allowing the holder at least one midshow exit from any given aesthetic torment.
We at the Paramount Theatre will examine two crucial men's room concepts: 1) Sinks are meant to function without uncontrollable torrents of scalding hot water; and 2) No male, except in extreme cases of drunkenness and/or lechery, enjoys urinating three inches away from the stranger next to him.
We, all the tap-dancing, rock 'n' rolling, "urban twist"-ing Christmas Carol productions, resolve to accept the fact that ACT holds all the Scrooge cards, and vow to move past Dickens into any one of the five million other yuletide stories begging to be turned into seasonal cash cows (Truman Capote's A Christmas Memory, anyone?).
I, the guy in the audience who sits behind you during a show murmuring meaningful "ah"s at moments of dramatic revelation, resolve to save it for the wanky cafe conversation I'll be foisting on my date later that evening.
We, the Seattle audiences, resolve to allow ourselves only ONE standing ovation this year.
We, Seattle's theater critics, resolve to stop hugging ourselves.