What are we supposed to say?

Working backwards, let me say the performance went over very well. Most appearances get planned maybe ssix months to a year in advance. Many of my appearances have been for medical health professionals, nurses, midwives and doctors. This was one of those.

My appearance at this conference in Warrensville Heights this past Friday was arranged by Carrie C. - the original Nurse Angel. She is the first nurse I portray in the show (as opposed to the resident and midwife, who were present when we got the news) the one who breezes in like a whirlwind, rattles off a list of awful decisions we need to make, and then breezes out again.

Her role is sometimes misunderstood. She's not meant to come off as callous, but she did have the unevniable job of telling us everything we needed to know and what we needed to think about. I like to think she is presented as efficient, direct and compassionate - in less than thirty seconds.

She was present for the performance. She brought her mom. Toni and I love Carrie.

THE FIRST QUESTION

I could tell the performance had gone well, because there was applause, and a lot of crying. And honestly, I was surprised. It is always difficult to reconnect with this play after a long break. Seven months, in this case. Afterwards someone remarked on how I can remember all those lines. I said it's easier than memorizing a play, because it's my story, I can make stuff up if I want to (more on that later.)

Anyway, I was surprised. The performance was in one of those big, corporate dining facilities, with state-of-the-art sound and video. Last year, both performances in London and even the one if Chicago were marred by hours of tech beforehand where Kelly and I were just trying to figure out some of the most basic stuff. Something was not compatible, and either the sound or PowerPoint would not work until maybe fifteen minutes before curtain.

For the first time since 2003 Nick was on the case. He has merged the sound into the PowerPoint (the way it always should have been, I guess) and our tech on Thursday lasted about five minutes. I was able to waltz into the space a scant thirty minutes befor the show on Friday.

However, as is usually the case in such facilities, it's lights up the whole time. Which means I can see everyone. And it's not a happy happy show. People look sad. Or maybe even bored, it happens. Or ... hostile. I've encountered that before. Feeling insecure already, I simply couldn't tell how the show was going over. There are funny parts, and usually that's my only gauge. If they laugh when they are supposed to, then I know they are with me.

Very few laughs. There was one table, down left, that seemed to have everyone under the age of thirty at it. They laughed. They were my anchor when I thought I was truly sucking, I looked at them.

Apparently this was all in my head, however (and there's a good reason for that, wait for it) maybe I had simply forgotten the difference between the medical practitioner audience and the bereaved parents audience. The bereaved parents - they laugh. Because they know where the jokes are. Heck, sometimes they know when the jokes are coming.

One day, however, I do need to get down to business and write that FAQ for after the performance. I like the Q&A that follows, but we could save some time if I headed off some of the questions beforehand. Because, as sure as an actor is going to be asked, "how do you memorize all those lines," the first question a nurse is going to ask is this:

"What are we supposed to say?"

One time, a few years ago, it was truly aggressive. I opened the floor to questions, there was an icy silence (which was a neat trick, as it was about ninety degrees in the room) and then someone said, "Well, you told us everything we've ever done wrong, what are we supposed to say?"

That's not what I got on Friday. What was asked was concerned and direct - but it was the same question. I truly believe I answer that question in the course of the play, though I am very interested in how readers of this blog would answer that question; "What are we supposed to say?"

WHAT I GOT WRONG - or - THE PLAY WITHOUT ANOTHER BABY

Here's the thing. I work very hard to get this story back up to speed after a long break. But it's very hard. I get surprised sometimes by things that I have forgotten, things that are second-nature. And sometimes I feel I have done it so many times I have locked up a little, and that I am missing out on an opportunity here, to let the play grow with repetition.

And I thought I was doing all right. And sometimes I miss something, like when I didn't mention that my brother lives in London in the first sentence of that scene - I just said it a moment later, where it made sense to include that information. That was odd, but no one could tell.

But then there's the second "Julie" scene, where she calls to apologize for the first phone call. It was all right. I bobbled a line, forgot where I was a little bit, which is odd, that scene is usually solid. But I thought I got it out right. Just felt strange.

Very strange. And as I hung up the phone it occured to me (no, wait, that song comes later) but as I hung up I thought, what is the point of that scene? She just called to apologize? That's it? That felt a little flat ... and I put the phone back in its cradle, and I think, SH*T! I didn't say she was pregnant!

So I spend most of the rest scene flying on automatic, trying to say my lines at the same time I am trying to figure out exactly how much I have destroyed this performance. It took about a minute to realize (this is while I am playing one of the more difficult scenes for me in the entire play) it will just come up at Christmas, it will be a surprise then, but no less significant, and that's all that can be done about it. Can't go back, must move forward.

"Two households, both alike in Verona, in fair ... I'll come in again."

TOOTING YOUR OWN HORN

This past weekend we were in Athens, and checked out a package of short subjects at the Athens Video + Film Festival. Some were good, some were not. The worst piece was The Girls of Elizabeth Street (the promo mats claim it was inspired by Truffant's "Les Mistons" but who gives a f*ck) which wasn't merely pedestrian and poorly made, but was prefaced by a rolling list of all the places it had won awards and all the numerous festivals it had been accepted to.

We just watched as the list went on and on, and I couldn't help but saying out loud, "Well. It better be good."

I don't know what bothered me more. The fact that it was set in 1976 and yet the kid had Star Wars figures, or the fact that there was narration AND numerous title cards, or the fact that the filmmaker had absolutely nothing original or interesting to say about being a pre-adolescent boy. None of these things would have bothered me nearly as much, however, if it hadn't been prefaced by a list of major awards.

Which is how I was feeling right before I went on, when Carrie graciously mentioned to the audience that I HATE THIS had been recongized by the Plain Dealer, the New York Times and the Ohio Society of Professional Journalists.

Well. It better be good.

And so I stepped out, feeling like I had set myself up for mediocrity. And I neglected to mention Julie was pregnant.

I have more to say about this, much more. But it's taken forty-five minutes to get this much out. Excuse me if I sound churlish. As performances of I HATE THIS go, it went very well, all around. Everyone was extremely kind, and I did give them (mostly) the same performance everyone gets. I believe this is more than I have ever said about what goes on in my brain when putting on one of these shows, and I am simply hoping it doesn't reflect too poorly on what I'm doing.

And, oh yeah - "What are we supposed to say?"