My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover if Not Being a Dumb Ass Is the New Black, or a Culture-Up Manifesto (9 page)

After the final curtain call, I turn to her. “Apparently I have the ability to make shit happen just by mentioning it before the curtain goes up. Tonight? Naked. At the Marta Carrasco show? The watermelon. I’m a frigging psychic. Next time I’m totally going to worry in advance about people throwing five-dollar bills at me.”

“I was dying for you,” she admits. “When he stripped down, your eyes were saucers. You’ve got to admit though, since it was Pablo, it was
good
naked.”

“I’ll be honest, after Pablo turned into Senor SansHisPants and Carla went topless, I got real worried about seeing Dennehy in the buff. And, fine, I can’t argue that all the nudity didn’t make sense in the context of the story. The story was supposed to be raw, and what’s more raw than being completely nude onstage? I get it. I’m okay with it. Plus, we didn’t have any nonsensical dry-cleaning film moments.”

As we make our way to the cast party at Petterino’s next door, Stacey listens to me go on and on about how much I enjoyed the show. The set was spectacular and the acting was top-notch. I loved how the tension built and built and I appreciated the few comic moments in the beginning with Eben’s brothers. As I gush, Stacey nods encouragingly, but she doesn’t heap her own praises on the production.

Granted, some of what happened onstage puzzled me. I don’t quite get why the other sons shouted so much in the first scene (even though it was funny) or why the house was suspended by ropes,
⁸⁵
but I figure there are excellent, artistic reasons for these decisions, even if I’m not privy to them.

The party’s in a huge room filled with giant round tables, which means people are going to sit with us and likely expect to have conversations of the nonbanal variety. This makes the back of my neck start to sweat.

Oy, what am I going to say to sophisticated theater people?

Am I going to accidentally grill them on tonight’s
Bachelor
evictions? Or talk about all the bad weaves on this season’s
Rock of Love Bus
?
⁸⁶
Or am I going to bitch about how rude a handful of people were? And that doesn’t even begin to take into account where my mouth may go when I meet the actors. Will I bring up
Tommy Boy
? Or, worse, Pauly Shore? I feel like I’ve already painted myself into a corner, and we just got here.

While we’re getting refreshments, I tell Stacey, “I don’t trust myself not to sound like an asshole. I mean, I didn’t even realize I couldn’t eat popcorn during the show. What am I going to say to people?”

Stacey takes her drink and tips the bartender before turning to face me. “First of all, you’re being too hard on yourself. So what if you don’t know that much about live theater? Who cares? No one starts out an expert. So many people dismiss activities like this out of pocket, without ever having tried, but you’re here trying. People will appreciate you wanting to learn, I promise. Talk about why you’re here and explain your project. You may even meet someone who can help in your education.”

And she’s right, of course.

I have great conversations with all kinds of theater people—a costume designer, a director, scene builders, and a couple of choreographers. Each one encourages me to continue my pursuits. The consensus is they respect what I’m attempting, and one of the choreographers thinks I’d enjoy some of his productions.

What’s ironic is the costume designer is leaving the party shortly because she’s addicted to
Rock of Love
and hasn’t yet watched this week’s episode.

As our table clears, I tell Stacey, “I feel like my takeaway from tonight is that it’s okay to love shitty television, provided you make an effort to appreciate other kinds of entertainment.”

“Ultimately, it’s all about striking a balance,” she agrees. “Now you want to go upstairs and meet the cast?”

On our way out of the downstairs festivities, we stop and chat a dozen times to say hello to all of Stacey’s former cronies. No one could be nicer, but I’m not quite fully engaged because I’m on the lookout for the rude people. I don’t bump into any of them, which is probably for the best.

By the time we get up there, I’m feeling much surer of myself. Stacey introduces me to Brian Dennehy, and we have a brief but lovely conversation about the show and his performance. He’s so gracious that I don’t even start with the nervous talking. And when we shake hands, I have the wherewithal not to compliment him on his commitment to moisturizing, despite the fact that his hands are as smooth as a little girl’s. Progress, I say!

The thing is, I suspect my burgeoning confidence stems not from a growing sense of self or a shadow of familiarity with the world of professional theater but rather from a number of free glasses of sauvignon blanc.

When I meet Carla, I’m so moved by her having given the performance of a lifetime on one of the most prestigious stages in the world that it doesn’t even occur to me to bring up Pauly Shore or
Spy Kids
.

And yet I cannot add this interaction to the win column.

“Hi, I’m Jen. It’s so nice to meet you.” I’m rewarded with a friendly greeting and a sincere handshake. I’m also possibly blinded by my first real-life, thousand-watt, million-dollar, movie-star smile, and it triggers that weird little part of my brain to switch on. Uh-oh.

Now that I have her attention, do I tell her I’m a fan? Do I bring up that whole “artistic professional” thing and say that I’m an author? Do I mention my project?

No.

The only words I can find are about the wig she wore onstage.

“Hey!” I exclaim. “That wasn’t your real hair. It really looked like your real hair. Your hair is dark. I almost missed saying hi to you because you look different with your real hair.”

Hey, self, now might be a good time to shut up about her hair if you plan on being BFFs.

“That is your real hair, right? It’s way darker than I thought. I went dark now, too. Not as dark as you, though. Yours is superdark. Like, black. Inky black. Superblack. Tar black. But good, you know? I like it. Black is the new black, ha ha!”

If I shut up now, she might still want to have lunch every once in a while, even if we’re not besties. And yet something inside me presses me on.

“The dark is nice, but the wig was also nice. Didn’t your hair used to be the color of your wig? Yes! It totally did. You’ve had, like, ten different hair colors in stuff I’ve seen you in. You want me to name each of them?”

With that, I’ve officially exited the Potential Friend Zone and I’m careening quickly toward Stalker City. And that’s when the pseudointelligence kicks in.

“You know, you could kind of look at the play from your wig’s perspective. I mean, your do told a story. First it was all tight and rolled, and then it got sort of loose, and then it got all messy and then—”

Please, someone get me away from her before she calls the authorities. Seriously, I am fixed to this spot. I can’t move and I can’t shut up. Someone please throw PETA paint on me so I shut up! Help!

Fortunately, Stacey notices Carla’s making fraidy-cat-get-this-weirdo-away-from-me eyes, which neatly coincide with my what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-and-why-can’t-I-stop expression, so she interrupts to tell me it’s time to go. For good measure, Stacey yanks me away by my coat pocket, which is fortuitous because my paw, completely of its own volition, was starting to snake up in the direction of Carla’s hair.

So I end the night with a little bit more culture and a little bit more perspective and a little bit more knowledge.
⁸⁷

Best of all is that out of a whole theater full of people at this posh event, only one of them might believe I’m a dummy.

I’d definitely say that’s progress.

To: stacey_at_home

From: jen_at_home

Subject: S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y Night!

I’ve dined out on my theatergoing frequent-flier status all week.

“Oh, sorry, I’m busy that night with a premiere.”

“You wanted me to drop it off when? Nope, can’t. Theater tickets. You know how it is.”

“Listen, I’d love to, but I’ve got another opening night and cast party. I hope you understand.”

Okay, pretty much I’ve just said this stuff to Fletch, but still, it sounded cool. (The polite thing would have been for him to at least pretend to be impressed.)

See you at 6:00?

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Biggest Winner

I
’m all decked out in my theatergoing outfit and I’m on my way to tonight’s artistic endeavor. Stacey and I are in her car, headed to a play in the northern suburbs. I feel like quite the sophisticate, even though our glamorous après-theater plans include heading to the Four Moon Tavern for grilled cheese sandwiches.

“This is twice in one week I’ve stolen you away from your husband for an evening. Is he going to miss you?” Stacey asks. She steers her car expertly through the steadily falling snow. I’m helping her by occasionally punching the imaginary brakes on my side of the car and second-guessing her navigation.

Given tonight’s inclement weather, I’d have preferred to stay home, wrapped in blankets, quaffing hot chocolate, and parked in front of
Survivor
. Instead, we’re plowing through a wealthy suburb. With the abundance of snowcapped trees and adorable storefronts and antique streetlamps, this would resemble a Currier and Ives scene if it weren’t for all the Star-bucks.

“Are you kidding? He’s got the big TV all to himself for the whole night. No one’s going to make him watch anything in which roses are accepted or torches are extinguished or top models are sent packing for only showing Miss Tyra one look.
⁸⁸
I’m pretty sure his plans include his special-occasion small-batch bourbon and a German death metal concert video. He’s thrilled.”

Despite the weather, I’m glad for another opportunity to work toward my Jenaissance. I couldn’t have started this whole process of self-improvement at a more fortuitous time because I’ve got to get my fat mouth in check soon. It’s not just that people think I’m a jerk; that’s nothing new. But lately my thoughtless chatter has cost me serious cash. Case in point? The new television. We didn’t get it because we both wanted it or planned for it or, for that matter, even agreed on it. Nope, I kind of had to buy it for Fletch because I said something dumb.

My favorite indie book store, the Book Cellar,
⁸⁹
arranged a rock-and-roll book event, and my friend Jolene was in town to participate. She wrote a memoir about being a Goth girl in the eighties and how music helped her through a desperately dark time in her life. A few other authors were included—one woman who wrote a YA novel about how punk rock led her back to her mother and another guy with the best title ever—
Hairstyles of the Damned
. The last author at the event was Chris Connelly.

According to Fletch, if you
don’t
have the musical sensibilities of a strip club DJ, you’ll recognize his name. Should your memory need refreshing, Chris played with Ministry, RevCo,
⁹⁰
and Pigface, all of whom are famous for their groundbreaking work on the industrial music scene. Chris wrote a genuine life-of-an-alternative-rock-star memoir, which he read from at the event.

Jolene had to point Chris out to me at first because I was expecting a mohawked/dreadlocked/guy-linered thrash rocker all done up in leather and skinny jeans and anarchy patches. What I didn’t expect was an affable fellow with a haircut that could pass muster at any investment bank. He was clad in a green wool sweater and regular old loose-fit jeans and looked exactly like someone you’d ping for advice about whether organic heirloom tomatoes were in season if he was shopping beside you at Whole Foods. Seeing him messed with my preconceptions—I didn’t know you could
be
punk rock without
looking
punk rock.

I decided to ask Chris to sign a book for Fletch because he was in some of his all-time-favorite bands and Fletch has such respect for him. In fact, he credits Chris’s music for his own Renaissance.
⁹¹
Last summer, Fletch was drowning in job stress and drinking more than he should to compensate, and he wasn’t happy with his overall physical and mental state. Although he enjoyed working out, he’d yet to make it a habit. One morning, he woke up early and decided that instead of rolling over and going back to sleep, he’d get up and go to the gym. He’d put on his iPod and crank RevCo, and that would inspire him to push harder every time he hit the gym.

Now he gets up at four a.m. almost every day to lift weights before work. His dedication to his new lifestyle is an inspiration. He’s energized, he’s happy, and he’s lost a good twenty pounds. He looks and feels better now than he did in college. Cocktails are for special occasions because otherwise they mess up his workout schedule. I’m superproud of him and I only resent him a tiny bit for not starting the summer before when I was working on
Such a Pretty Fat
.
⁹²

Anyway, when it was my turn to get the book signed, I recognized the gravity of the situation and my nervous-talking thing took hold and my mouth hip-checked my decorum into the wall.

“Ohmigod, hi, Chris, hi!” I exclaimed, thrusting a copy of his book at him. “Can you make this out to Fletch? That’s my husband and I want this for him because he spends every morning at the gym with you! You’ve, like, totally turned his life around and he’s all healthy now because of your music, which frankly is a bit shouty for me, but that’s neither here nor there. Point is that every day at the ass crack of dawn he’s up and he’s got you on his iPod and he’s working away and . . .” And I kind of went on like this for another few minutes. I’d relay the entire conversation, but my shame at what happened next is making me blank out on the details.

Apparently while I was busy babbling—possibly
⁹³
spitting—at some point in my superspeedy diatribe I gave Chris the idea that Fletch was not listening to his music while huffing away all punk rock by lifting heavy iron bars but instead that his music was spurring Fletch on
in spin class.

Chris signed Fletch’s book wishing him the best of luck and to “Keep spinning.” And Chris is a rock star, so I didn’t want to correct him and tell him, “No, no, you got it wrong,” so now Fletch’s idol thinks he takes
spin class
and most likely walked away from our encounter wondering how the
hell
one spins to Pigface.

And then—then!—I asked to get a picture together and he sweetly obliged each of the fifteen times I demanded because the shots wouldn’t save because I’d filled up my BlackBerry’s memory by taking too damn many photos of my new dining room table, which I then inadvertently admitted out loud and Jolene had to take the photo with her camera because I was really starting to make him nervous.

To recap, Fletch’s icon believes: (a) he
spins
and (b) he’s married to an idiot with a predilection for fast-talking and table porn.

This would be the equivalent of Fletch telling Candace Bushnell I bought all my handbags at Kmart.

After that, I pretty much had no choice but to buy Fletch the new flat-screen TV he wanted for the media room. Granted, all of our money is pooled, but somehow he found victory in me writing the check.
⁹⁴
Fortunately, I had the wherewithal not to tell Chris that Fletch couldn’t come to the signing because he’d had a run-in with Thanksgiving leftovers that had turned; otherwise I’d have been on the hook for a surround-sound system, too.

For a while we drive in contented silence. Stacey’s paying strict attention to the slick roads while I’m lulled by the gentle back-and-forth motion of the windshield wipers. Stacey breaks the stillness by asking me, “How are you feeling about tonight? Are you still worried about talking to people at the cast party?”

“Actually, I’m kind of okay. I figured out what my problem is. It’s confidence.” I wag my finger at her before she can protest. “Bup, bup, before you disagree, I realize I’m always going on about my own self-confidence. I mean, we’ve established that we’re both girls who like ourselves and how we look and what we’re about. That’s not the issue. What’s going on here is
situational
confidence. I discovered I can only be confident in a situation if I’ve been in it before. I have trouble with firsts.”

“Since you’ve already been to a cast party, it’s old hat? No big deal?”

“Exactly. I can be my usual calm, cool, collected self now. It’s totally the Eliza Doolittle syndrome.”

Stacey clicks on her turn signal and we ease onto a side street. The tires crunch in the snow. “How do you figure?”

“The first time she had to talk like a lady in public, she was sharting herself. She was under pressure not just internally, but from Higgins and, at least tangentially, Pickering, too. But as soon as she got that initial conversation under her belt, it was easy-peasy. She’d done it before and knew what to expect, so she handled herself beautifully.”

“Except for the
‘move your bloomin’ arse!’
bit.”

I stare straight ahead. “Rome was not built in a day, Stacey.”

“So you’re good.”

“I am unflappable,” I agree.

“And what happens when you meet Vince Vaughn?”

“HOLY SHIT, IS VINCE GOING TO BE THERE?”

“No, just testing.” She flashes me a playful grin.

“Oh. Don’t do that to me. I just had, like, fourteen heart attacks. Otherwise, I’ll be the frigging Miles Davis of cool; just you wait. What are we seeing tonight anyway?”

“It’s called
Old Glory
. I honestly don’t know anything about it, except that it will be done well because we’re going to Writers’ Theatre,” she tells me. She pulls up to an intersection and yields to oncoming traffic.

“How do you know?” I ask.

Stacey takes her eyes off the road to glance at me. “Because we’re going to Writers’ Theatre.”

I reply, “So,
post hoc ergo propter hoc
?”

Stacey’s forehead scrunches. “What?”

“I don’t know; it just flew out.” I’ve been reading some smart stuff lately and I thought I used that right. I guess not.

She ignores my ham-fisted attempt at Latin. “All the plays performed at Writers’ Theatre are thought-provoking. These productions put a huge amount of value on words. There’s no theater in Chicago that’s as much about the writing. You’ll notice that the set’s simple and the cast’s small. They do it that way because it creates intimacy. Whatever the story is, it’s going to feel huge, and yet you’re going to feel like you’re a part of it.”

“How will it be different from
Desire Under the Elms
?” In my head, I’ve already painted all iterations of “theater” with the same brush. It never occurred to me that there may be nuances.

“
Desire
’s set probably cost three hundred thousand dollars. Tonight’s set may be a couple of old couches. Or, better example, picture your friend Carla Gugino’s wig. You were blown away by it, right?”

“I was mesmerized. Her wig was more real than her real hair.”

“And it probably set them back fifteen hundred dollars. Different theaters have different budgets and standards of production. I’ve been to shows in small theaters where the wigs came from someone’s grandma’s attic. Sometimes they’re so bad it’s hard not to laugh.”

“Which are better? Big shows or little ones?”

“Depends. Tell you what. We’ll take in a variety of productions at different venues so you can decide for yourself. There are almost two hundred theaters in and around Chicago.”

“Whoa.
That
sounds like a lot of work. Why don’t you just give me your educated opinion?” I suggest.

She smirks. “Or you could just put in the effort and decide for yourself.”

“You’re not going to let me be lazy, are you?”

She simply raises her brows in response.

We pull into a spot right in front of the theater, which is in an old North Shore mansion. “We’re here!” she says. “Do you want to walk up to the door, princess, or shall I carry you up on my back?”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” I mutter as I trudge through the snow and into the building. As we enter, I notice a number of posters hanging in the lobby describing our country’s failings in the war on terror. “Aw, shit, Stacey, did you bring me to a show that’s going to tell me how everything I believe is wrong?”

Stacey and I are on vastly different teams politically. We both respect each other enough that when we see a point differently, we discuss it rationally. We’ve never changed each other’s minds, but we can appreciate the perspective the other one brings. Also, we make a point not to rub anything in—I never insist she eat any of the cake I bake every year for Ronald Reagan’s birthday, and she only made me watch Maddow that one time because there was a segment she thought I’d like.
⁹⁵
With us, we have so much other stuff in common that there’s little reason to discuss our differences.

What’s ironic is politics is the one topic outside of reality television on which I’m well informed. Every week I listen to hours of talk radio and I read a ton of conservative magazines and blogs. Yet besides Fletch, almost none of my friends share my ideology, and I try not to include any political opinion on my own blog, so it’s rare that I ever get into the kind of discussion that proves I actually have a basis for my opinions.

“No! I swear! Even though it would be funny, I’d never do that!” She grabs a program and begins to scan the description. “See? It says right here:
‘No politics, just people.’
I promise if the show does somehow sneak in politics—”

“Or nudity,” I interject.

“If they sneak in politics or nudity, grilled cheeses are on me.”

“Deal.” We shake on it.

I’m immediately struck by how different this theater is from the Goodman. The space is tiny, with maybe a hundred seats. When I walked into the Goodman, I felt small and insignificant. I was one tiny cog in the giant wheel of audience. You could conduct an entire circus on that stage. The Goodman is cavernous and impossibly tall, whereas this place feels like an afterthought, or the end result of some kind of
Our Gang
hey-kids-let’s-put-on-a-show. I’m a tad surprised there’s no curtain made of stitched-together bandannas and old overalls.