Crying on Cue

Are any of you readers aspiring performance artists? I have news you can use.

She Who Oversees this site took my BFF Vivian Beauchamp off to a meeting about some new web venture. This leaves me with a blog post deadline to meet, on my own, with no help from you know who, and so--in lieu of something pithy and profound--I'll share some newfound wisdom with all aspiring actors out there.

Everyone around me seems to work harder at keeping me sober than I do. That's odd, isn't it? Our Creative Director (She Who Oversees) suggested I acquire a new skill set in order to focus on something other than etoh. And so, Vivi and I have embarked upon a career in theatre.

Legitimate theatre, mind you, not some creepy burlesque hidden in a concrete building.

Open auditions for legitimate and highly regarded venues were held last Saturday.
La Viv and I had prepared our two monologues, one funny and one depressing. This is to prove we have "range."

Friday morning, I began to feel a rising tide of panic. When in such dire emotional straits, I immediately turn to two sources of support:

1. The Bible
2. my sponsor Blade.

Having gotten John 3:16 out of the way, I hit speed dial, and connected with Blade. I explained about the auditions, my outfit, and the unrelenting paralysis of fright.

"What ya scared of?" Blade says.

"The dramatic recitation," I replied. "I'm going to choke."

"What do you need in this moment?" He sounded distracted. I heard beauty shop clientele yapping away in the background.

"I need to be able to cry on demand," I explained, in a very bleating sheep kind of tone. "Blade, I can't do it. I've got the comedic routine down pat [he grunted], but I cannot seem to summon up a tear for the heart-rending dramatic piece."

There was a pause. One could visualize Blade putting down his shears, giving his client the just one tiny second hand signal, and stepping to the shampoo room to focus.

"Let me see if I understand," he said. "You are saying that you cannot produce tears."

"That's right," I said.

"You need to be able to channel some kind of traumatic memory that will make you cry? On Saturday?" Then he went quiet, and this means he is busy assessing.

Wanting to be helpful, I threw in, "I even took a class, Blade. A crying on cue workshop and it didn't work. I must be dead inside."

"Just think about your childhood," he offered. "That certainly makes me cry."

"You know I've suppressed all that. I need a fresh memory, but nothing truly horrifying has happened lately. Thank God."

Just then Blade snapped his fingers. "Come to the salon right this very minute," he commanded. "If you can be here by 3:15, Sonia can fit you in!"

"For what?"

I could literally feel his eyes roll through the phone. In his most imperious voice, Blade intoned, "Baby Child, you don't need no acting class to cry on cue. You need a Brazilian Bikini Wax. Sonia is doing them half-price this week, and I'll knock off another 30 percent for your angst alone."

Long, long, pause. I had heard of this thing before, and did not feel good about it.

Blade snapped, "Well, come on."

"Uh, Blade, will it be terribly painful?"

"Of course," he hissed. "Isn't that what you want? To cry? And have a fresh bad memory?"

"Cry, yes," I said, "but not shriek like vermin caught in a bear trap."

"We'll stuff a rag in your mouth and you'll be fine." Then he hung up.

I received a most respectable callback the day after Open Auditions. Any future success in the performance media I owe to Blade, one of the great loves of my life, and 12 Step sponsor extraordinaire. (Oh, and Sonia.)

Respectfully submitted,
L'il Viv