The Weir

It seems as if the theme of my weekend has been storytellers.

The Weir is a play that is currently going on at the black box. I am in unabashed love for this play. It has no plot but is surrounded by stories. And, of course, I cry during it all because it wouldn't be me if I didn't cry during a play that supports crying in its dialogue. I close my eyes and just have myself a good weep despite my usual goofy, snaggle-toothed grin.

I saw this play two times. With the help of my expertise pillow and program handing out skills I was able to see both times for free (thus supporting my one play per month quota). The second time I saw it imagine my shy surprise at being invited to Cha-cha's afterword with all of the fabulous actors I'd just spent an hour and forty five minutes oggling at. It's like you've just seen Independence Day and Will Smith invites you for coffee with the gang right after. Imagine me with Will Smith having coffee after seeing him not minutes before smash the head in a few aliens and save the world.

Alright, so perhaps this was on a bit of a smaller scale. But I tend to exagerate. I'm a storyteller myself, after all. I think the most suseptible person to my stories is me, unfortunately.

But digressing back to my outing with the cast, I've never been invited to do something like this before. I know this sounds a little petty, but as far as I can bloat my ego there has never been any reason for me to stay beyond the initial production, let alone be in any presence of something so community based as the cast and crew of a production of any sort. It would have been nice, though, if I'd been able to hear anything being said during our stint at Cha-cha's.

You must know something about Cha-cha's. It is a bar and restaurant with more than sketchy decorations. Your eyes lead unevenly to the staggered wickerish curtains. Foot width, meter long curtains...bits is what I'd call them...chunk themselves in a straight line separating the establishment in an incredibly awkward way with no seen logic about it. Some of the booth backs are rather frightening, looking like huge plush backboards to four postered beds. Their colors range from pea-green to yellowish and redish hues. It's like a rainbow of disasterous design choices.

But back to the conversations that I did not hear, not that they were pointed at me. And, to be honest, I've much prefer listening with bated breadth to various lines of wit and memory than having to produce them. You see, they had this band at Cha-cha's. Lot's of drums and symbals. Very nice. If it were outside.

I had a bit of a low point, though, when I realized that there was no one available at the table to support my appreciation for the female figure. There I was goggle eyed at some very attractive women that I could only see because, though it be cliche, there's no cliche like a good number of male actors are homosexual. And with no obvious lesbians there I figured I was on my own in spying a few very nice bodied women.

Which reminds me, laughing shrilly and singing, nay, yelling your friend's happy birthday song does not an attractive woman make. And no matter how many times you see women with over-gelled "wet" looking hair, it is never terribly attractive. Because she'd be very nice looking if I knew that I could get my fingers through her hair.

Oh, but I've been missing out on the best parts haven't I? Imagine going from seeing actors protraying patrons in a bar to sitting down with these actors in an actual bar portraying what one can only hope are themselves. As I said before, I couldn't hear head nor tail of what they were saying, but it was quite a treat. That sounds a bit too much like I was watching animals in their natural habitat, but I truly don't mean it to come off as such. I suppose I tend to get starstruck. Even though I know that people are people are people, if Sean Connery showed up at your doorstep I gaurantee you the last thing that would be running through your mind would be "Oh, he's just an average joe, then." Then again, if Sean Connery showed up at your doorstep there would be more interesting questions pondered, I suppose.

Anyway, to straight-jacket the subject back into my entry, everyone was so very...well normal. And I think that's fantastic. I wouldn't want Finbar to really be a rather snotty manchild, sacchrine sweet, bitter sort of person. In fact, Tony (who plays Finbar) has continued to prove the accolade that people who play the more obnoxious or evil characters are generally very sweet. And, perhaps, the only reason I pick out Tony is because he smiles like one of my favorite actors, Alan Cumming. I've seen Tony before somewhere, I think, before this play. And if I haven't I could just pretend I had. I could pretend I were part of the culture.

Who I'd like to thank, if I were to thank anyone, is Amy (who plays the only woman in the play) for being so very open with me despite my timidness to step into this sort of seemingly forbidden bond the actors all had. I could get lost in her fake Dublin lilt for days. It's one of those innocent little attractions where nothing will come out of it except the simple appreciation for one existing beside you in the world.

At any rate, I very much appreciate the invite and feel very priviledged to rub shoulders with those elite, and painfully normal, actors.

Go see The Weir.

Last weekend coming up!

Now!!!

currently: Cookie digesting

current piece of writing:
(from the journal I was scribbling on in the bar)

The only reason I EVER go to bars is when I'm invited. But the perk of this is the excuse I immediately get to have a cloudy memory of the event. I don't drink, but I can always blame the smoke. It's somehow satisfying to not have the responsibility of being part of a conversation, but having all the perks, thereof, of hearing it. Except for the insistent drumming, this might be very close to perfection.

Feb. 17, 2007
EMG 11:00-ish.