11/28/02 - 01:04
Room 121, Gresham Hyde Park Hotel, London

Tuesday night we went to see our play. It was "The History of America, Abrigded" and was put on by three Americans who are part of a troupe called The Reduced Shakespeare Company (and who, to their credit, have been living in London for like 10 years). We saw it at The Criterion theatre in Picadilly (it's literally right outside one of the entrances to the Picadilly tube station). It's a cool theatre; it's underground. The Criterion, by the way, was England's first gaslamp theatre and consequently England's first air conditioned building (they had to vent the carbon monoxide from buring all that natural gas). It was a good show, and I almost missed it.

I was feeling awful that night (just unspecified gastronomic issues; the smell of fried food sort of kept putting me off) and wasn't really up to going to a play. Tracy and I had some time to kill since we thought the play started at 7, when it really started at 8 (and we had taken a cab since we thought we were late). We ducked into a place called Tiger Tiger. It was a meat market, London style. That meant that nobody paid any attention to us (except for that British national pastime "Stare at the Non-Hip Tourists"), which was fine by me. I just wanted to sit where it was warm. I had this Bad Mood settle over me about an hour before we had to leave for the play and sitting was a good thing at that point. While we were there I mentioned to Tracy that I hoped the show wasn't interactive at all since I was feeling more like I had to throw up than be expressive in a large crowd. She said she tought there was some interaction, but she didn't know how much. We figured we'd be fine.

We got to the theatre and found out seats: row A, numbers 12 and 13. That's literally front and center. Nothing to worry about. Plenty of people to choose from, and I can always beg off any public shenanigans. The only problems I had rolling around in my head was that I'd have to look up a lot. Then the stage manager came over and started talking to me.

She said (I think, she had quite the accent and it was kind of loud in the theatre since it was comprised mostly of Americans) that there was a slide projector under my seat and asked if I wouldn't mind being involved in the play. I asked what I had to do, she replied that all I had to do was watch out for when "somone" on stage asked if anyone had a projector, I was to raise my hand and say that I did. And then reach underneath and hand it over, of course. She said that they might ask me something, or that I might have to get involved in some way, and if I could give it a go then I'd then I'd be a sport. Or words to that effect.

I made little gurlging noises for a couple seconds and nothing really came out of my mouth. I was afraid to even burp since I though vomit might come out, and now I had to talk to a the stage manager about interacting with the cast of the play? Now I might have to talk to members of the cast, in front of everyone? Sheer panic set in, because I *knew* that I'd have an uncontrollable gastric urge right at that very minute. I mean, I was surveying exits when I first came in and sat down, wondering if I could climb over people and get to a toilet between the time heaves just started and when they started getting serious about exposing my stomach contents to air. You can hold it for a bit, and you can feel them coming, but a false alarm would ruin the play for a lot of people. (It's a peculiarity of my psyche that I never have to go to the bathroom unless I can't. I never have to throw up unless there's no contingency arranged which would allow me to do so. I'm as regular as clockwork until the only toilet is the nastiest one imaginable. I never have to sneeze loudly until I'm at a crowded table with a mouth full of food. Happens all the time, and I've learned to hold in various urges and fluids with more than a little vigor. Ask Tess about my secret super powers. She can atest to my powers of "incorporation".) Anyway, I mewed around for a bit and she started getting concerned; it was a full house and we'd have to switch seats unless I was game. I realized this eventually and agreed to give up the projector (with, I thought, as little fanfare as I could muster).

As if to cheer me up, as she was leaving she said, with much cheer-up-ness, "Look up now, love... It's your West End debut!". I didn't understand the last part of what she said and just sort of kept on with the gaping mouth sea bass imitation. The word "debut" came out as "DAY-byoo", with a heavy, drawn-out first syllable about three times longer lasting than the second. And I wasn't aware, at that very moment in time, that I was in the West End. I know where the West End is, and I know what it is, and I know we were seeing a play there (although I thought of it more as being in Picadilly Circus, since the theatre is right across the street from all the famous lights), but I didn't connect my having to stand up in front of everyone and throw up as happening in London's West End. But this is how these things happen.

I asked her to repeat what she had said, she leaned in close, and I caught the words. Mostly. It was my debut. I was still trying to decphier the "West End" part, which I asked Tess about (using my best imitation of the stage manager, just in case). Tracy said "Honey, we're in the West End now". All I could say was "Oh". I was thinking of projectile vomiting in front of 500 people and the resulting tube ride home.

I spent the first 30 minutes of the show watching for them to ask for the projector. I figured I'd miss my cueand the only people that would see me throw up was the guy sitting next to me and Tracy. Then I realized that they would probably make a stink about it and I wouldn't have to worry. They did exactly that. Right about in the middle (before the intermission) they did a little skit where they wanted to show people a photographic retrospective of the early 20th century. They set up the screen, and put a little can on stage to set the projector on, then looked around at each other and asked who brought the projector. They scratched their heads and finally looked out towards the audience saying, "Did anyone think to bring a projector with them?" I waited for a couple seconds and then put my hand up.

They did the predictable "Oh great!" and "What luck someone thought to bring a projector..." and such. So I reached underneath my seat and handed it over saying, "Well, I thought this would come in handy". I don't know why I said it, it was like a natural reaction. In fact, I didn't even recall saying it until Tracy said it was a nice ad lib; it just sort of came out. They worked it in, saying how right that was, etc, etc and each one shook my hand (they all had sweaty hands, in case you were curious). When they were shaking my hand, I said "Hey, no trouble" and "You're welcome" and such. To one guy I said "Rock on" and he chuckled and said in this weird Kevin Kline voice "Rock on? Very well... Rock on!" It was pretty funny (to me at least).

The only thing that bothered me was that for some reason I didn't stand up when I gave them the projector. I was glued to my seat and the poor guys had to bend over very far to get the projector and shake hands. It's my nature not to get up in front of everyone during a show. I'm just not mentally wired to obstruct people's views. It all worked though and they set up their gag.

(There never was a slide show. One guy put the projector on the can and then one of them grabbed the cord looking for a place to pug it in. The wound up dragging the unit off the can and it hit the floor, breaking into pieces. I remembered thinking that there was loose things on it when I grabbed it, and I wondered if maybe I had kicked it or something.)

That wasn't my only West End acting moment, however. After the intermission, they stopped the play and asked the audience if anyone had any questions at that point, that it was time for them to clear anything up, go back over anything they glossed over, etc. It was a time for them to do a little ad lib of their own. So after about 30 seconds of nobody in the audience saying anything, I figured since I was already part of the show, I might as well pipe up.

I raised my hand and said "So can you explain to me why it is that if we can send a man to the moon, we can't send a man to the moon?" They looked around and such and weren't real sure what I was talking about, so I said "We sent men to the moon in the 60's but now we've forgotten how to build a rocket. We don't know how to send a man to the moon anymore. Why is that?" One of them said "Well, why would we? There's nothing up there anyway..." and it was pretty funny. Then they all looked at me and one guy said, "But you don't believe that any of that happened, do you?" I figured I play along and said "Well, I know the score, it's all fake. It was all filmed on some Hollywood sound stage. I've seen Capricorn One". They had no idea what I meant and looked at each shaking their heads. I pointed an accusing finger at them and said "You call yourselves geeks and you haven't seen Capricorn One?" (See, the program had bios for everyone and one guy had Star Wars stuff in it, another had some sci-fi thing, so I figured they would know what I meant.) One guy said he knew that REM song and started humming it. I said something like "Oh, singing REM, now that's offsides..." They eventually said there's no reason to go to the moon anymore and then called me a wag and moved on. Someone else asked when vomen were given the vote, and they didn't know (I was guessing 1922, but a British lady in the upper balcony said "It was 1920.") Another fellow then asked something else and the show went on. Someone has to be the first person to speak up I guess.

Anyway, that was my West End stage acting debut. One more thing to tick off the list.