Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Week 38 - The World Series Inside My Head
October 23-25, 2003 (this one R for language)
What a weekend – I had performances Friday and Saturday night, then Dad came to town for Game 6 of the World Series at Yankee Stadium. Joining us from Princeton was David Baumgarten, who was as happy to get the extra ticket as a college student can be without weed.
It was a great experience – we loved the hotdogs, and Dad and Dave B weren’t too disappointed that the Yankees lost (both being avid Cubs fans) but the telling moment was when Dad leaned over and said (I’m paraphrasing) “They’re not hitting for sh*t.”
In that moment, I felt I could relate with the doomed Yankees, having been the subject of an artistic K myself two days prior. Let me explain.
Having bragged shamelessly in my last electronic missive to the masses, you may assume that I approached dress rehearsal last Thursday with a certain amount of confidence, bordering on arrogance, well within spitting distance of diva-dom. I took an early early lunch from work at 9:45 a.m. – went to the space – did a scene we had done 35 times – and totally blew it . I was all over the place. It is a horrible moment, to be on stage, to know it is your turn to speak, and to have NO EARTHLY CLUE what you’re supposed to say. It is heart-stoppingly dreadful, a cold sweat, ice-water in your veins moment, and I don’t wish it on anybody.
OK, maybe Brendan Fraser and the guy who wrote Bridges of Madison County, but certainly no one I LIKE.
Anyway, they put our piece first because it was, supposedly, well-rehearsed. I had talked the director into giving me the ‘star part’. I had talked the producer into putting our piece first because it would be a strong start for the evening. In short, I gotten everything I had asked for, which was to be the point man for the whole evening. “Put me front and center,” I said. “I can handle it.”
I wish. Instead I foundered like a deer in the headlights. I finally got to do the piece for an audience and I totally choked. I was clueless, lost, utterly petrified. So I started chattering. I skipped all over the first two pages, and kept babbling until I found my spot.
Afterwards, a guy tells me, ‘That was FUNNY, dude!” and I decided he must be drunk.
I walked back to work thinking – how can this possibly be worth my time? I work all day, then use every moment of my free time memorizing these stupid lines. Nights, weekends, even on my way to and from work, I am listening to the lines on headphones. Then I have to take an early lunch break to do this dress rehearsal, run across town to f*ck the performance all up, then run back to the office and weather the withering stares from all my co-workers who think I’m getting special treatment for being allowed to take a long lunch once a month to pursue my DREAM, motherf*ckers. GO GET A HOBBY!
So I sit there back at work and stew in the situation I have created, and the baseball comparisons begin.
When the Cubs Pitcher said, after they lost to the Marlins, “What just happened was, I choked” I couldn’t believe it. How could this guy choke? He’s been pitching professionally for how long? He’s used to the crowds, the pressure, the lights, the cameras, the fans.
Now I know how this guy could choke. He was pitching for the first trip to the world series in 58 years. I’m sitting here all worked up over a one time show that is going to be seen by, at most, a hundred people, who if I’m terribly awful probably won’t even remember to tell their friends about how this one guy was particularly bad. In any case, after a week they will have forgotten my name. I’m probably a dick for thinking anybody will care.
Anyway, I choked, which was bad, but I also choked in what should have been, for a professional actor, a no-pressure situation. Having, as I do, the sensitivity of a delicate little wuss, afterwards, I called my director right up and apologized for blowing it. To his credit, the director told me not to worry, that I did just fine, that all the anguish I was feeling did not show on my face – that I did a great job of keeping it together and he hardly noticed (which, whether it’s true or not, is a great thing to say to an actor who’s wigging out on you). I chose to believe that he was telling me the truth, because A, he hadn’t lied to me yet, and B, even if he was lying, he was right. It was over, I had to go on to the next thing.
In life, as in baseball, your options are always:
A) dwell on it
B) repeat the mistake (horribly humiliating, but sometimes inevitable)
C) find a new way to do it better – hit a home run when everybody (including you) thinks you’re going to strike out.
So late that Thursday night I’m replaying the scene in my head, still cursing myself, my lack of preparation, and I run over the scene 20-30 times. I know the words inside and out.
Friday after work, I have two hours to kill – I run the lines. I run the lines in the bathroom, on the subway, in the dressing room. Five minutes before the show starts, I’m running lines. One minute before the show starts, I’m running lines.
The show starts. I run onstage. I never blink. I homer. I wish I played for the Cubs. ¶ 7:03 PM
What a weekend – I had performances Friday and Saturday night, then Dad came to town for Game 6 of the World Series at Yankee Stadium. Joining us from Princeton was David Baumgarten, who was as happy to get the extra ticket as a college student can be without weed.
It was a great experience – we loved the hotdogs, and Dad and Dave B weren’t too disappointed that the Yankees lost (both being avid Cubs fans) but the telling moment was when Dad leaned over and said (I’m paraphrasing) “They’re not hitting for sh*t.”
In that moment, I felt I could relate with the doomed Yankees, having been the subject of an artistic K myself two days prior. Let me explain.
Having bragged shamelessly in my last electronic missive to the masses, you may assume that I approached dress rehearsal last Thursday with a certain amount of confidence, bordering on arrogance, well within spitting distance of diva-dom. I took an early early lunch from work at 9:45 a.m. – went to the space – did a scene we had done 35 times – and totally blew it . I was all over the place. It is a horrible moment, to be on stage, to know it is your turn to speak, and to have NO EARTHLY CLUE what you’re supposed to say. It is heart-stoppingly dreadful, a cold sweat, ice-water in your veins moment, and I don’t wish it on anybody.
OK, maybe Brendan Fraser and the guy who wrote Bridges of Madison County, but certainly no one I LIKE.
Anyway, they put our piece first because it was, supposedly, well-rehearsed. I had talked the director into giving me the ‘star part’. I had talked the producer into putting our piece first because it would be a strong start for the evening. In short, I gotten everything I had asked for, which was to be the point man for the whole evening. “Put me front and center,” I said. “I can handle it.”
I wish. Instead I foundered like a deer in the headlights. I finally got to do the piece for an audience and I totally choked. I was clueless, lost, utterly petrified. So I started chattering. I skipped all over the first two pages, and kept babbling until I found my spot.
Afterwards, a guy tells me, ‘That was FUNNY, dude!” and I decided he must be drunk.
I walked back to work thinking – how can this possibly be worth my time? I work all day, then use every moment of my free time memorizing these stupid lines. Nights, weekends, even on my way to and from work, I am listening to the lines on headphones. Then I have to take an early lunch break to do this dress rehearsal, run across town to f*ck the performance all up, then run back to the office and weather the withering stares from all my co-workers who think I’m getting special treatment for being allowed to take a long lunch once a month to pursue my DREAM, motherf*ckers. GO GET A HOBBY!
So I sit there back at work and stew in the situation I have created, and the baseball comparisons begin.
When the Cubs Pitcher said, after they lost to the Marlins, “What just happened was, I choked” I couldn’t believe it. How could this guy choke? He’s been pitching professionally for how long? He’s used to the crowds, the pressure, the lights, the cameras, the fans.
Now I know how this guy could choke. He was pitching for the first trip to the world series in 58 years. I’m sitting here all worked up over a one time show that is going to be seen by, at most, a hundred people, who if I’m terribly awful probably won’t even remember to tell their friends about how this one guy was particularly bad. In any case, after a week they will have forgotten my name. I’m probably a dick for thinking anybody will care.
Anyway, I choked, which was bad, but I also choked in what should have been, for a professional actor, a no-pressure situation. Having, as I do, the sensitivity of a delicate little wuss, afterwards, I called my director right up and apologized for blowing it. To his credit, the director told me not to worry, that I did just fine, that all the anguish I was feeling did not show on my face – that I did a great job of keeping it together and he hardly noticed (which, whether it’s true or not, is a great thing to say to an actor who’s wigging out on you). I chose to believe that he was telling me the truth, because A, he hadn’t lied to me yet, and B, even if he was lying, he was right. It was over, I had to go on to the next thing.
In life, as in baseball, your options are always:
A) dwell on it
B) repeat the mistake (horribly humiliating, but sometimes inevitable)
C) find a new way to do it better – hit a home run when everybody (including you) thinks you’re going to strike out.
So late that Thursday night I’m replaying the scene in my head, still cursing myself, my lack of preparation, and I run over the scene 20-30 times. I know the words inside and out.
Friday after work, I have two hours to kill – I run the lines. I run the lines in the bathroom, on the subway, in the dressing room. Five minutes before the show starts, I’m running lines. One minute before the show starts, I’m running lines.
The show starts. I run onstage. I never blink. I homer. I wish I played for the Cubs. ¶ 7:03 PM
