The Greatest Comedy Duo Since Buster Keaton Looked into a Mirror

21 Feb

Omo talks to agents, managers, theater owners and straight-thinking folks of that ilk.

Oma talks to toddlers, oddly-dressed strangers, clouds, and sometimes to the voices in her head.

Omo secures their pay-rate, the theater, the tram tickets, the hotel rooms and all the nuts and bolts of offstage survival.

Oma drifts into wherever, whenever. She dances in the patch of moonlight that only she and newborn redheads can see.

Omo argues nickels and dimes, scrapes for every dollar and donut, and fights the good fight against every thieving, conniving, tight-fisted S.O.B. on the face of  this mother-lovin’ earth.

Oma listens to the secrets of the wind and ancient wisdom of the stars. She transforms it all into a visual poetry that turns the most hard- hearted, stogie-smoking stone-face  into a laughing-his-head-off, crying-his-eyes-out, leaping-to-his-feet lunatic.

Omo hasn’t had a sick day in twenty years.  He has a calendar in his head and a cash register in his soul. A professor’s brain in a peasant’s body.

Oma lives in a time long before the discovery of fire. She has tangoed on the moon and cartwheeled through the rings of Saturn. And yet her frame is so delicate that sometimes just the pressure of gravity can knock her off her feet for days. A horrific head-ache is just a sneeze away.  Sadness haunts her angelic antics.

So they leap frog their way through life.  One leads.  The other follows. But the conundrum is this: Which one is which?

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