One Angry Gin Soaked Muse (to go, please)

When I was nine Mama and Daddy insisted that they take me to a dinner theatre production of The Sound of Music.  They were excited as our table was directly in front of the stage.  We never had front row seats to any event, until this particular evening.  Between courses, and musical numbers, I developed a migraine.  As Maria sang A Few of My Favorite Things, I launched what remained of my partially digested fried cheese sticks from my gut onto the stage.  Kurt and Gretl were really unhappy.  Maria, the only professional, continued to ignore the acidic fumes, and sang on.  I swore I would never return to dinner theatre again.  Not because I was humiliated, but because Mama said that dinner theatre was the Alcatraz for actors.  "It's just a life sentence of showing your ass to strangers who are more interested in their marinated crab claws than the hard working people that are right in front of them.  It's just a pathetic life.  So very, very sad." This from a woman who would spend her remaining days fixed to a love seat, riveted by the intricate puzzles of Wheel of Fortune.

Twenty one years later (in 2001) I was gorgeously thin, in love, and all Americans were enjoying air travel without being molested by the F.A.A., or any other terrorist organization.  I was comfortable in skin tight clothing, I had a man by my side, and no one was rubbing themselves down in flammable personal lubricant hoping to ignite their linens and the airliner they were flying in.  It was a good year until that August when the romance died, and I began binge eating Triscuits and aerosol cheese.  That was usually followed with a random sample of the Taco Bell menu.  Then I would drink gin and tonics until I couldn't hold my head up, and the cycle would repeat every seven days.  It was like going to church.  

In the midst of heartache it became clear that I needed a distraction, or I was going to need an intervention.  What I needed was a creative outlet!  Well, any activity that didn't involve gin would do.  The only benefits of gin are a great mood, and bizarre interpretive dance; however, it will not help you embrace the muse.  In fact, it just makes the muse angry.  At least my muse anyway.  I never said I was Billie Holiday.

Under the advice of some fine, respectable bi-sexuals, I decided to take an acting class.  Bi-sexuals are always so willing to explore options.  It was a class specifically tailored for writers who were interested in producing their own one-man shows.  Given my narcissistic nature, it was perfect.  The instructor was an intense, brilliant woman who was highly respected in the theatre community, and had spent some time writing for Saturday Night Live.  She was a tough, East Coast gal who would tell you that you were full of shit, and then make you eat it.  I had to be near her.

The class cost hundreds of dollars, but when you're writing checks while drinking gin...you just don't care about such things as a car payment or eating.  The latter I needed to quit funding anyway, so I signed the check, and by late September I was rubbing shoulders with nine other tortured, bankrupt souls.  We would have two months to complete our project.

By November our first drafts were completed, and the entire city of Seattle was invited to see our performances.  Our little theatre was filled to capacity.  Every one of the 75 seats.  By night's end, I had received a standing ovation, and was ready to leave my life as an office manager, and pursue the spotlight. The decision was finalized when my instructor asked, "Where did that come from?  You were brilliant!"

That same evening I was approached by the one and only Julie Prosciutto.  Not her real name, of course. That was her stage name.  Julie had seen my performance, and offered  me a chance of a lifetime.  At least that's what she thought.  She wanted me to host her cabaret act at the Pink Door, a local Italian restaurant known for promoting "unique" talent.  Talent can be such a loose term.

I didn't know that Ms. Prosciutto had been performing at the Pink Door since Reagan was in office.  She was better known for wearing a toaster on her head while singing Mambo Italiano, than for being a serious performer.  I was also unaware that she trolled acting classes on a regular basis searching for new talent that she could manipulate and extort.  She was like Madonna to my Justin Timberlake.  By the by, those are not direct comparisons.  I'm creative, not stupid.


I thought I was on the right track.  Here I was, just minutes after showing my own ass to the masses, and I was being offered a gig.  Granted, a non-paying-soul-sucking-you'll-have-to-dress-in-a-broom-closet kind of gig, but I was doing it.  It never occurred to me that I had just signed up to do dinner theatre.  Mama would be brutally disappointed.

Initially, Julie proposed that I would serve as the opening act.  In exchange, she would serve as my mentor, and my emotional tormentor.  She described her show as a hybrid of Ella Fitzgerald and Carol Burnett, but it was more like the bastard son of Cher and Charles Manson.  She wore bizarre, poorly made costumes, and favored a character by the name of Vinnie.  An aging, obese, stereotypical Italian man who made pedophile jokes, sang Frank Sinatra tunes, and farted on stage.  Isn't this what everyone wants to see while enjoying a fine Chianti and pasta bolognese?

The following is an excerpt from the show:
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen.  My name is Robert, and I will be your host this evening.  So, a few bits about myself...I am originally from Mississippi.  I come from your typical, eccentric Southern family.  In fact, I recently returned from Mississippi.  It was a true joy to see my family again, especially my Mama.  She's really embraced life as she's entered her sixties.  She has this new hobby called...narcotics, which seems to have done wonders for her attitude.  I think she said it best the last time she was frisked, "I am a Southern woman, and I do as I please.  The only man I answer to is Jesus.  Jesus Christ!"  I love that she's found drugs and religion; which means she has a moral compass, she just doesn't know where she put it.  Mama is also so much more spontaneous.  She's really become a free spirit.  She loves running stop signs, slapping the grandchildren around, and eating copious amounts of tapioca pudding.  Of course this sounds exciting and decadent, but it has led to a tremendous weight gain; which makes it difficult to shoot up, because you can't quite get to the veins in your feet as easily."

A few weeks of performing, and I was exhausted.  Matters weren't helped any when Julie's diva emerged.  The boiling point occurred the night I had the crowd at the Pink Door on their feet, dancing around the restaurant, and laughing at everything that came out of my mouth. It was exhilarating, and I assumed Julie would be pleased.  So, with our tip jar filled to capacity, I went "backstage" for my post-show critique.  This was a nightly event where Julie would wax poetic about her talent, and belittle mine.  I should mention that when I refer to backstage I'm referring to the restaurant manager's office.  Did I mention that I got dressed in a broom closet? Julie was starting to strip out of her fat suit.  At the time, she was still wearing the bald wig.  I didn't care, I just had an amazing evening, but I failed to notice how upset she was.

     "Listen, you can't go out there and be some bigger than life character.  This is my show!  I'm the star!" she raved.
     "Okay."  I said calmly, and started backing my way towards the door.  A screaming woman in a fleshy colored fat suit, and a bald wig would give anyone cause to seek the nearest exit.
     "You're here to help me, not yourself!" she was ranting and pacing.  She appeared to be looking for something.  My back was to the door.  I gripped the doorknob.
     "You had no right to do that!"
     "But you told me you wanted me to entertain the crowd while you changed for the next act..."  I defended.
     "I never told you to take my spotlight!  You took it, and you fucked it.  You fucked it!  You fucked it!  You fucked it!"
     She was escalating, and the bald wig was giving way to her curly black hair.  I had worked in brain injury six years earlier.  I could ignore and re-direct, or I could attempt to restrain her until she could be sedated.  I chose the former given that the only way to sedate her would be to hit her with the bottle of red table wine that she was nursing.
     "I don't think this is going to work.  You and your funny ways, and those ridiculous stories about that mother of yours.  It's all a bit much."
     "My funny ways?  What the hell does that mean?" I was shocked at her lack of creativity.  Surely, she could find something other than my homosexuality to target.
     "Oh, just shut-up!  Just shut-up, shut-up, shut-up!" she screamed as she put her fingers in her ears. 
     "Don't tell me to shut-up you worn out old hag!"  I screamed.  She was stunned.  She looked at me as if this was an unprovoked attack.  I continued, "I'm out there busting my balls every week trying to breathe some life into this corpse of a show, and you're concerned about your damn spotlight?  Y'know, I'm done.  I'm done with the tantrums, and I'm certainly done with that damn toaster on your head!"  I turned to face the door and walked out, slamming the door as I left.  I stood just outside, caught my breath, and walked back in.  Her back was to me, and she was struggling with the bald wig, "And by the way (she jumped at the sound of my voice)...if you have to tell people you're the star, you aint much of one, and probably never will be."  As I left, the piano player (Craig) clapped for me.  I told him to eat my ass. 

I ran into Julie about two years later.  I was shopping downtown when she rounded the corner ahead of me.  She was sporting a full length, puss print, faux fur.  Her black hair spiraled off her head, and she had more make-up on than would ever be deemed appropriate for daytime.  She reeked of stale cigarette smoke, blue cheese dressing, and Liz Claiborne perfume.
     "Good day, Ms. Prosciutto"  I was surprised at my politeness.
     She stopped, and said, "Oh, hello."  She extended her hand as if I should kiss it.  I just looked at her.  She was offended.
     "How are you?"  I asked.
     "What was your name again...Bobby was it?"
     "No.  It isn't Bobby."
     "Oh, that's right!  Now I remember you.  You're from the Pink Door!  Oh, the Pink Door!"  She began to laugh hysterically, tossing her dyed, black hair about looking perfectly demented.      "Can you believe those ridiculous things you did?"
     "Oh, yes...I remember clearly just how ridiculous it all was."  I said dryly. 
     "Well, I'm doing jazz now.  Strictly straight jazz.  I've literally just returned from a show in Turkey.  I just adore the Orient."
     "The Orient?  I had no idea people still referred to that part of the world as the Orient.  How novel."  I said sarcastically.
She ignored me, "Well what are you doing these days?"
For a moment I thought I should tell her the truth.  Tell her that I was still a creative, brilliant individual despite being an office manager, but she wasn't worthy of the truth.  So, I lied.
     "Well, I just landed a freelance gig with Details magazine, and last month I signed a book deal with Simon & Schuster.  Oh, and NBC is considering optioning one of my short stories for a sitcom, and on top of it all I could very well be moving to New York!  (dramatic pause) So...straight Jazz, huh?  How's that workin' for ya?"