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Two hours before the crazy xylophones even start banging away, the man at the box office says that the Maria Bamford show is "pretty much sold out," as he spits out two tickets to The Studio. Back row, up on the side of the mezzanine. Down in the pit, with the chairs at the tables all taken to with drinks, rows of seats are on a toilet break. Holes here and there seriously rubbing doubtful gasps on the claim at capacity.
Nothing spectacular announces the performance, outside the booming voice, standard fare. Maria Bamford is a woman with an amazingly wild head of hair. So much so that at times it's not even certain if there is even a face underneath it all. Thoughts quickly taken outside with the rabid dog as her lips and eyes poke out at intervals and clears the way for certain characters from within.
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