As I was saying.
July 26, 2006
It's a curious paradox, as they say in the Fantastiks. When I go to any kind of theatrical event, I'm always picturing myself somehow being called onto the stage ("Is there anyone here who knows all the lines?" "You betcha!") Once astride the footlights (?) I quickly demonstrate to the rapt audience that they're witnessing the second coming of Ruby Keeler in Forty Second Street. (Which is a most peculiarly mixed metaphor when you think about it . . . the whole idea of Ruby Keeler as the Messiah is kind of chilling, notwithstanding the fact that it would establish tapdancing as a religious sacrament in the New, New Testament). My daydream then goes onto the next day, when the headline in Variety reads: "Man In Audience Boffo at Box Office!"
[Of course, one of the great difficulties I've always had is that I edit my own fantasies. . . and the above fantasy only leads me to wonder about the inconsistency of creating a box office stir, since this particular story doesn't promise any kind of recurring part -- and even if it did, by the time the show would have been over, the box office would be closed. This is why I try not to fantasize about good things too much. . . it only leads to a heightened awareness that really amazingly wonderful outcomes are like an oasis on the other side of a mine field.]
Anyhow, the paradox is this: Even as I like picturing myself up there on the stage, I'm absolutely involvaphobic of people from the production who ask audience members to come up onto a stage. It's just like having waiters sing Happy Birthday to you in a crowded restaurant (note to good friends: please, don't arrange for this).
So, the other day we went to this off-Broadway production. And there was an instrumentalist producing before-the-play entertainment. And he wandered out into the audience, playing his guitar loudly. I was sitting on the aisle seat. (Note to my grandmother, who I like to think is currently playing gin rummy someplace in Heaven: See, Mommer? I sit on aisle seats and always check to see where the exits are.) And the guy playing his guitar stops in front of me. I try not to make eye contact. He plays a little more loudly. I look at my fingernails, as though something interesting may have grown beneath them in the last few minutes. He speaks to me, in an unavoidable fashion. I look up. Trapped! "Why don't you scat with me?" he asks.
"Scat?"
"Yeah, scat with me. Come on. It'll be fun."
"No thanks," say I, ever polite, "I'm not really the scat type."
"Yeah, man. You can do it."
But I can't. I say something about not being "scatological." I think this is a not-so-funny riposte. He thinks I'm speaking another language. Nobody hears anyhow, because the guitar playing is so loud. Frankly, I'm not sure what scatting is, except for some memories of Scatman Crothers from various talk shows late in his life, and even more vague memories of how he could do this fun kind of musical riffing. Or Danny Kaye, who I believe did scat. And Bing Crosby. Alright, alright, I can hear you now (actually I can't, but you knew that), I do sort of know what scatting is. Or at least what it was when movies and tv were in black and white. But I have no idea in the world of how to do it. I suggest to him that I'm disinclined to have anything much to do with guitarists. He doesn't hear me. Nobody else does either. Finally, it's clear to him that he should take "no thank you" for an answer.
Whereupon this guitar player, whom I am sure is a swell guy, and whom I would probably like in real life, decides to turn from me to the person on my left, who happens to be my wife, Katherine. Inasmuch as I had proven myself "no fun at all," which wouldn't surprise many of the people who think they know me pretty well, I wouldn't have thought that this young musician would immediately turn to Mrs. No Thank You. But he does.
I need to back up a little here. While, I'm unhappy with waiters who sing happy birthday to you, Katherine -- who is genuinely one of the most even tempered souls in the world -- would like to see them all sent to some kind of Devil's Island for wait staff ("Hi, my name is Jeffry and I'll be in life-long pain for you tonight.")
She was not so pleasant with this fellow, which brought me some pleasure. But she gritted her teeth, and sort of scatted in her way for him, only to have him milk the audience for applause for her, which -- trust me on this -- did not make things much better.
The rest of the evening was far more pleasant.
It's a curious paradox, as they say in the Fantastiks. When I go to any kind of theatrical event, I'm always picturing myself somehow being called onto the stage ("Is there anyone here who knows all the lines?" "You betcha!") Once astride the footlights (?) I quickly demonstrate to the rapt audience that they're witnessing the second coming of Ruby Keeler in Forty Second Street. (Which is a most peculiarly mixed metaphor when you think about it . . . the whole idea of Ruby Keeler as the Messiah is kind of chilling, notwithstanding the fact that it would establish tapdancing as a religious sacrament in the New, New Testament). My daydream then goes onto the next day, when the headline in Variety reads: "Man In Audience Boffo at Box Office!"
[Of course, one of the great difficulties I've always had is that I edit my own fantasies. . . and the above fantasy only leads me to wonder about the inconsistency of creating a box office stir, since this particular story doesn't promise any kind of recurring part -- and even if it did, by the time the show would have been over, the box office would be closed. This is why I try not to fantasize about good things too much. . . it only leads to a heightened awareness that really amazingly wonderful outcomes are like an oasis on the other side of a mine field.]
Anyhow, the paradox is this: Even as I like picturing myself up there on the stage, I'm absolutely involvaphobic of people from the production who ask audience members to come up onto a stage. It's just like having waiters sing Happy Birthday to you in a crowded restaurant (note to good friends: please, don't arrange for this).
So, the other day we went to this off-Broadway production. And there was an instrumentalist producing before-the-play entertainment. And he wandered out into the audience, playing his guitar loudly. I was sitting on the aisle seat. (Note to my grandmother, who I like to think is currently playing gin rummy someplace in Heaven: See, Mommer? I sit on aisle seats and always check to see where the exits are.) And the guy playing his guitar stops in front of me. I try not to make eye contact. He plays a little more loudly. I look at my fingernails, as though something interesting may have grown beneath them in the last few minutes. He speaks to me, in an unavoidable fashion. I look up. Trapped! "Why don't you scat with me?" he asks.
"Scat?"
"Yeah, scat with me. Come on. It'll be fun."
"No thanks," say I, ever polite, "I'm not really the scat type."
"Yeah, man. You can do it."
But I can't. I say something about not being "scatological." I think this is a not-so-funny riposte. He thinks I'm speaking another language. Nobody hears anyhow, because the guitar playing is so loud. Frankly, I'm not sure what scatting is, except for some memories of Scatman Crothers from various talk shows late in his life, and even more vague memories of how he could do this fun kind of musical riffing. Or Danny Kaye, who I believe did scat. And Bing Crosby. Alright, alright, I can hear you now (actually I can't, but you knew that), I do sort of know what scatting is. Or at least what it was when movies and tv were in black and white. But I have no idea in the world of how to do it. I suggest to him that I'm disinclined to have anything much to do with guitarists. He doesn't hear me. Nobody else does either. Finally, it's clear to him that he should take "no thank you" for an answer.
Whereupon this guitar player, whom I am sure is a swell guy, and whom I would probably like in real life, decides to turn from me to the person on my left, who happens to be my wife, Katherine. Inasmuch as I had proven myself "no fun at all," which wouldn't surprise many of the people who think they know me pretty well, I wouldn't have thought that this young musician would immediately turn to Mrs. No Thank You. But he does.
I need to back up a little here. While, I'm unhappy with waiters who sing happy birthday to you, Katherine -- who is genuinely one of the most even tempered souls in the world -- would like to see them all sent to some kind of Devil's Island for wait staff ("Hi, my name is Jeffry and I'll be in life-long pain for you tonight.")
She was not so pleasant with this fellow, which brought me some pleasure. But she gritted her teeth, and sort of scatted in her way for him, only to have him milk the audience for applause for her, which -- trust me on this -- did not make things much better.
The rest of the evening was far more pleasant.
posted by Ben's Dad | 4:34 PM
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