One Thing Leads to Another
Coming up with a story every day for a blog can be a tricky business. People visit for the random surprises, not the same-old-same-old. Can I spin the same story, but with a twist, and get away with something new?
Hmmmmmmmm.
I haven’t talked much about my life-long interest in theater. Yet, from kindergarten until my mid-thirties (when I aged out of believably playing the ingenue), I walked the boards with schizophrenic regularity. And, no, I’ve never had the joy of playing a crazy character.
Maybe someday.
I have, however, been cast in the role of nurse more often than any other in my acting career. The last time it happened, my Mom joked that my acting skills must’ve really improved, because no one on earth is less nurse-like than I am in real life. Yet, I found myself slated to play the nurse in Margaret Edson‘s Pulitzer Prize-winning play “W;t,” a show that juxtaposes the metaphysical poetry of John Donne over the life of an academic who finds herself stricken with ovarian cancer. Every night, I walked away from that play gobsmacked, grateful to be a part of such a layered, nuanced piece of theater. To date, it is my favorite role.
That’s the serious part of the story.
We staged this riveting piece of live performance at the historic Dock Street Theatre, and it was my virgin experience with the place. With its dressing rooms set up rickety stairs leading to a dark corridor in a recess of the second floor, it didn’t make me very happy. I had numerous costume changes, and I’m naturally clumsy. No way was I running up and down those stairs for the sake of modesty. Like many performer types, I carved out a space for my costumes backstage and changed there, multiple times per night, in front of whoever happened to be around at the time.
It was generally okay. Most of the actors in the show were people I’d known forever. I already ‘knew’ them and they ‘knew’ me, if you know what I mean. I forgot about our intern, though, a cherub-faced twelve-year-old boy who was interested in being a techie and was working backstage to learn the ropes.
During the first dress rehearsal, I came offstage and ripped off my shirt on the way to my changing area, and no one even noticed. No one except the poor intern. He was traumatized. He walked back to the green room with eyes like saucers and his angelic mouth in a little ‘o’ and announced to everyone that he’d just seen me in my bra. Not knowing what to do, he hid himself from my bra-clad boobies for the rest of the dress rehearsal, afraid they might send lightening-bolt daggers into his innocent little eyeballs.
Would that other snickering man could learn from him.
Too Much is Just Enough: Same Story, Different Ways
Sooooo, the theme may be the long continuing story of the accidental peep show. Somehow our heroine Queen A continues to find herself in these peeping Tom situations. Sometimes it’s a bridge, sometimes a theater, other times a bike and a micro burst of wind.
MMMMMM, perhaps the theater dream is still alive…
http://www.lasvegaspeepshow.com/
I’m sure our “Accidental” Cootchie Mama would knock that pretender Holly Madsion right off her perch and have her running back to Hugh Hefner in no time.
Nah. Hugh prefers blondes.
Somehow, I do not think I gave the impression of an accidental nature on this one. It was intentional to change backstage, though not in a peepshow sort of way.
Again, the voyeur versus the exhibitionist. I do detect a trend and Lou says. Me thinks the “accidental” exposures are not so. Not that there is anything wrong with that!
Oh, and by the way, I’m back!!
I have wondered where you’ve been, but then I suspected the wilds of Edisto. I hope you had a lovely time.
I thought I told you, sorry, I was away at a conference in Charlotte. Had to go annoy some other folks for a while. You know, spread my love around.
I did not, however, expose myself to any of them.
I didn’t realize you were in Charlotte that whole time. I hope it was fun and educational, in a non-exposing yourself sort of way.
Ditto. Methinks there’s an exposure theme afoot.
I love Wit. Emma Thompson’s performance makes me weep like a baby every time.
It is a show I could watch a thousand times and never tire of it. Usually, when I’ve been in a play, I never, ever want to see it again.
Having been in productions from my early years, I’ve always thought that all dressing rooms are up rickety stairs or under the stage and all have a distinctly musty smell about them.
In my hometown, we used the old McDuffie Street High School Theater and the classrooms served as dressing rooms–Loehman’s style–one big room for everyone of the same gender. Then at the Dock Street, I did clomp up and down the stairs.
At the Garden Theater on King St. in 1974, the dressing rooms were horrid and even though it’s been forever, I still remember that they were under the stage. However, I was in 2 productions that year with the Charleston Opera Company and changed in those rooms…
The crazy part of all the bra showing is that one can see more on the beach or even in the grocery store when one lives at the beach.
When I did a show at the Garden (now an Urban Outfitters), the changing area was up a rickety stair there, too. I still go in there to pretend I can still see that grand theatrical space. I know they think I am weird, because I never buy anything.
Ha, you know that kid is probably singing “You light up my life” right now!
He’s probably 22 or 23 right now, and this is a distant, distant, distant memory.
Oh! Wait! What if the snickering dude WAS THE 12 YEAR OLD INTERN?
His snickering, while being entirely rude, graceless, and immature, may have masked the tension he felt as he was confronted with his dimly remembered past.
Yeah.
It’s all coming together.
Unless the twelve-year-old has aged with unfortunate speed, they were not the same person.
Ahh, well good. The 12 year old had exhibited better behavior and more tact; I’d hate to think he’d de-volved and become more immature!
That does happen with both sexes sometimes, though.
Same story, different ways. Hmmm. Sounds like my blog.
I hope we are still on for tomorrow. Boy, do I have some stories to tell…….