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(Continued from PLAY TIME)
In the many long, drawn-out pages of this blog, I’ve written about my childhood obsession with the theater. From the wistful, yet slightly delusional way I drone on and on about it, you might think that I attended Juilliard and was in the original Broadway cast of ANNIE, THE WIZ, BEATLEMANIA, and GODSPELL. Believe me, as a child, the closest I ever came to the Broadway stage were the nosebleed seats in the farthest reaches of the mezzanine. Despite being so far, yet so incredibly close to my Broadway dreams, I sat in my tacky velvet seat with my mother-of-pearl opera glasses glued to my face hungrily taking in every breathtaking site and sound. (By the way, if your 8 year old son insists on bringing mother-of-pearl opera glasses to the theater, I foresee fabric swatches, peroxide, floral centerpieces or figure skating in your not-so-distant future – if you catch my drift.)
Now, you may be tempted to think that after my family’s sojourn to the Garden of Eden of American culture, New York City, I would return to our shitty suburban tract house saddened by my unfulfilled Broadway aspirations. On the contrary, I returned energized and more determined than ever to make my melodramatic dreams a reality. However, when one resides in the cultural dust bowl of suburbia, the theatrical pickings are extremely slim. One has to take what one can get.
In the year proceeding my electrifying performance in Joyce Kilmer Elementary School’s CANDIDE, I had won the role of country bumpkin Available Jones, a minor but pivotal character in the school play L’IL ABNER. For weeks I enthusiastically rehearsed my lines. I also purged the grotesque Philadelphia accent that had come to pepper my everyday speech and attempted to adopt the pitch, cadence, and intonation of Jethro Bodine, the Appalachian stud-muffin from THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES. Despite my best efforts to emulate Jethro, I sounded more like Elly May. I prayed that my undying passion for the role and finely honed theatrical instincts would more than compensate for my girlish affectations and queerish lisp.
My mother, who at the time had developed a manic knitting fetish, took small notice of my acting preparations. Each night as I recited my lines in the living room, she would open a bottle of Blue Nun wine, smoke her Virginia Slims cigarettes, get fucked up, and furiously turn out overwrought wool sweaters that scratched and itched when placed upon the body. I will always remember the kind words of encouragement she drunkenly bestowed upon me opening night. “I would wish you good luck, but I know you’ll fuck this up anyway.”
(To Be Continued)
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