The Actor's Nightmare

You know that dream? It's the final exam, you haven't studied, and there's only two minutes left? Around the classroom, everyone else is casually scribbling away? And you're not wearing any pants? An unpleasant feeling. Except maybe for the not-wearing-pants part.

We're talking, of course, about anxiety dreams. And it may interest you to know that performers have their own variation of this dream, called, logically enough, the "actor's nightmare." In this dream, it's opening night, the curtain is about to rise, you are the lead, and not only have you not rehearsed, you've never even read the play! And you're probably not wearing any pants.

One doesn't have to be Freud to understand the source of such dreams. Performance anxiety is a fixture in cultures worldwide. As has been mentioned before in this space, the fear of public speaking is more common than the fear of death, and the most overwhelming aspect of this fear is that one gets up in front of an audience and is exposed as a charlatan, as a fake, as woefully unprepared.

Come back with us now to summer 1988. We had just returned to New York from Syracuse University, where we had been studying in the Drama Department. We had decided that we did not wish to continue studying acting, but, since we lived in the theater capital of the world, we thought we would take a shot and go on auditions. Somehow, defying everything we had ever heard from our drama teachers--words like "fundamental lack of talent" may have been uttered--we were successful in our first attempt. We tried out for, and were accepted into, the ensemble of the 13th Street Repertory Company--an established Off-off Broadway theater, the kind of hole-in-the-wall joint probably once used to house a sweatshop where Lithuanian immigrants labored secretively to produce horseshoes at the turn of the century, but which had since found second life and a measure of respectability as a place of culture. There, a steady stream of aspiring actors trod its boards, and there bohemian scribblers watched as their dramatic worlds came to life. And we joined this troupe in its production of a work of massive socio-psychological import, a world-altering cri de coeur, a dramaturgical Molotov cocktail hurled at the feet of bourgeois society!

The work in question? "The Rose That Refused to Bloom"!

Did we mention that we were cast in the Children's Theater Ensemble? We might have skipped that part. Still, a gig's a gig, and we were pleased to know that we would soon be entering the theatrical garden where. . . well, where a rose was refusing to bloom.

Actually "soon to be entering" is a bit imprecise.

See, the production was already running, but the director was looking to recast with fresh blood. There were three male roles in the show: the Snail, the Caterpillar, and the Boy (a role you might say we were born to play). We were sort of cast as the Caterpillar--kind of the male lead, actually--"sort of" because we were actually assigned to be the Caterpillar's understudy.

We like to tell ourselves that there are roles less impressive than "understudy to a Caterpillar," but thus far, we've found little evidence of that assertion. Still, it is how George Clooney got his start. . . .

Anyway, we were actually cast as the understudy to all THREE male parts, and we were also assured that we would have the opportunity to play the Caterpillar. We were even given a date some three weeks in the future when we would make our debut. So we weren't complaining too much. We went about learning the role and circled our calendar for the big day.

Now, a few days before what we were privately referring to as "The Day That Would Alter the Course of Theater History," we received a call from Woody, the first-string Caterpillar. He had been offered another "better" gig (???), and he was wondering if we would be willing to step into the role permanently. Well, what could we say? Everything was falling into place!

Saturday:

Barely able to contain our excitement, we arrived at the theater nearly three hours before curtain. We were sitting around, going over the script, thinking about what new and interesting depths we would plumb in the character of Alfred C. Pillars. The Third. Not too much later, the lady who was playing the "Sun" came in. She said, "Hey, Solipsist" (just go with it!), "you're playing the Caterpillar today?"

"Well, in fact," we replied, struggling to remain humble, "not only are we playing the Caterpillar today, but we are actually taking over the role permanently!"

"Oh, congratulations! You'll be great!"

"Thank you!"

"So," she went on, "who's playing the Snail?"

"What?"

"Who's playing the Snail?"

"Well, isn't Gene playing the Snail, like always?"

"No, Gene's not here today."

"Oh, uh, well, then JB must be playing the Snail." (JB played the Boy, and in previous productions, the Snail and Boy would be played by the same actor.)

"No, JB isn't going to be here today, either."

"Well, then. . . Who. . .? How. . . ?"

Then the Sun fixed me with her solar gaze and said, "Well, aren't you the understudy for all three roles?"

You may have noticed in this recounting the utter absence of anything resembling rehearsal. The Director, you see, was basically on his way out and had barely any time to rehearse the replacement cast, to say nothing of the understudy. Our "rehearsal," in fact, had consisted of watching the play a couple of times. And, in fairness, we had been so wrapped up in living the part of the Caterpillar that we had neglected to, y'know, learn the other two roles.

Back to Saturday:

"Uh, well, yes, we are the understudy for all three roles, but. . . Can that even WORK?"

We scrambled through our script and, after ascertaining that none of the male characters are ever on stage at the same time, we figured it COULD be done. We looked at the clock: Two hours to learn two roles. We could do this!

The Rose walked in a few minutes later:

"Hi, Solipsist. So you're playing the Caterpillar today?"

"Well, in fact, not only are we playing the Caterpillar today, but we are actually taking over the role permanently, only we just found out that Gene and JB aren't going to be here today, so we have to learn the Snail and the Boy really fast, so can't really talk, memorizing."

The Bee buzzed in a few minutes later:

"Hi, Solipsist. So you're playing the Caterpillar today?"

"WellinfactnotonlyareweplayingtheCaterpillartodaybutweareactuallytakingovertherolepermanently, onlywejustfoundoutthatGeneandJBaren'tgoingtobeheretodaysowehavetolearntheSnailandtheBoy reallyfastsocan'treallytalkmemorizing."

By the time the Daisy Twins showed up, we were. . . in a less than optimal mindspace:

"Yes. . .not just. . . Permanently! Gene, JB. . .not. . . Ack! Must learn. . . Can't talk. . . Memorizing."

Understand, on top of our not knowing our lines, we were about to attempt something that no one had ever attempted before: playing all three roles. This was scaling Mount Everest! This was a moonshot! This was a first term, African-American Senator with a funny name being elected President! THIS WAS NOT POSSIBLE! We'd say we were running around like a chicken with its head cut off, but headless chickens have more dignity.

Well, of course, it all worked out. With support from an incredibly patient cast and some unavoidable improvisation, the show went off relatively flawlessly. Indeed, my mother, who had come to see our New York debut and was expecting to see us only as the Caterpillar, assumed it was all some sort of diabolical plot on our part: "What, did you have somebody tied up backstage?"

We suppose we should conclude this narrative with some major life lesson: perhaps something about facing your deepest fears--we lived the "actor's nightmare" and came out OK on the other end. But we think the more important lesson here is, just because you're asked to understudy a Caterpillar, you should always--ALWAYS--prepare to be a snail.

News You Can Use? II

First, some "News You Can Use":

Beware: Airline fares are on the rise. If you're waiting to book your holiday travel, don't! As the holidays approach, major carriers are raising seat prices daily.

Personally, we assumed this was how the airline industry always worked, but apparently last year, in the midst of the economic meltdown, many airlines actually cut prices. Consumers who were expecting the same thing this year are in for some rude surprises.

So, if you're planning a trip for Thanksgiving or Christmas, book now! And if anyone wants to join the crew here at Solipsist HQ for the holidays, we'll throw an extra 'dillo on the barbie for you.

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Now, "News We Can't Imagine You Can Use and So We Wonder What It's Doing on the Front Page of The New York Times"

An article on the front page of the Times tells the story of Pat Bond, a middle-aged woman whose son Nathan Halbach is battling cancer. What makes the story interesting is that Nathan's father is a Father--that is, a Roman Catholic priest. He and Bond had an affair over twenty years ago, and Nathan was the result ("A Mother, a Sick Son and His Father, the Priest").

Bond reached a settlement with the Franciscan order of which the priest, the Rev. Henry Willenborg, was a member--essentially, a child support agreement. In exchange for Bond's signature on a confidentiality agreement, the Franciscans agreed to pay a few hundred dollars a month until Nathan turned 18. (Bond received the money in a lump sum after Nathan was born.) Subsequently, the Franciscans also helped Bond pay for Nathan's college tuition, and, in his illness, they also agreed to pay 50% of any "extraordinary" medical costs. After a dispute over some funds that she felt she was owed, though, Pat Bond went public with her story.

A few questions:

1) Why is this news--front page news, no less? Granted, it is notable that a Roman Catholic priest engaged in sex with someone who was not a pre-pubescent boy. But aside from the Thorn Birds titillation, does anyone really care?

2) We get the feeling that the writer expects us to be shocked--shocked!--by the callousness of the Franciscan order: How dare they not take proper care of this cancer-stricken lad, the fruit of one of its member's randy loins. But how much are they supposed to do? (They are, after all, a mendicant order.) From everything we read in the article, it seems the Franciscans did everything they agreed to do--and, frankly, more. Nothing in the original agreement, for example, required the Franciscans to help pay college tuition, but they did--in addition to half the tuition, they agreed to provide $586 a month until Nathan turned 21. And even though Nathan was over 18, they continued to contribute to his medical care.

What Willenborg did was undeniably sleazy and unethical. But we can hardly accuse the Franciscans of being deadbeat dads.

WOS Update (A Brief Post)

Funny story, true story.

(OK, maybe: Sad story, true story. You decide.)

WOS is a "gamer." She's been playing video games since well before we met, and her latest enthusiasm is the wildly popular MMORPGMPORRGGMP (WOS, when do I stop?)--whatever, it's "World of Warcraft." Indeed, if any Sloppists are fans of the game, feel free to "group" with WOS: She goes by "Maklu" or "Spincycle" on the Shadowsong server. (There's a sentence we never could have anticipated typing. Or understanding.) Just greet her with a "Hail, mage WOS." That's the password.

So anyway, yesterday, we were sitting around whittling soap, and WOS was WOW-ing. Suddenly, she bursts into hysterical laughter:

WOS: BWAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA! BWAAAAA-HA-HA-HA!

SOLIPSIST: What? What's funny?

WOS: BWAAAAAAA-HA-HA! Oh, God. . . Oh, God. . . Hahahahahahahaha. . . .

SOLIPSIST: (Chuckling now, too) What? Come on, what's so funny?

WOS: Oh! Oh, God. . . .OK. . . . This friend of mine? Hehehe. . . . He's. . .Oh!. . .He's a Mage? And he. . . he. . . .Hahahahahhaha

SOLIPSIST: Yeah? He what?

WOS: He. . .HE GAVE HIMSELF A WARLOCK NAME! BWAAA-HA-HA-HA!

SOLIPSIST: . . .?

WOS: (Looks at SOLIPSIST) Ahahaha. . . ha.. . .heh. . .Oh. Um. . . . BWAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen: We married a nerd.

Bonus Coverage

Ah, Sloppists, the perils of technology! The router here at Solipsist HQ kacked out today. We think an armadilla nibbled through the antenna outside. In the meantime, we've managed to jury-rig a connection using tweezers and Q-tips, but we're not sure how long she'll hold together, Fingers crossed!

So, some news commentary:

"U.S. Pay Czar Tries Again to Trim AIG Bonuses"

The headline says it all, but we were struck by one minor factoid. Apparently, an audit found that several bonuses went to "unessential people," including, "a $7,700 bonus for a kitchen assistant, a $7,000 bonus for a mailroom assistant and $700 for a file administrator." The insinuation was that these bonuses were somehow especially ludicrous, given the "unessentialness" of the recipients.

Frankly, though, we here at the Solipsist have no fundamental objection to a file administrator getting $700 or a kitchen assistant getting $7,700. We're honestly surprised that kitchen assistant get such sizable bonuses, but good for them!

Let's face it, one of the main objections to the AIG bonuses was that taxpayer money went to the people who brought the country to the brink of financial ruin. We suspect, however, that it was not kitchen assistants making wild bets on subprime mortgages; indeed, they were more likely to be the one taking out said mortgages, and we suspect they were among the first to lose their jobs when the bottom fell out.

We hope, frankly, that if the pay czar claws back bonuses, he finds it in his heart to stop clawing before he hits the mailroom.

Fighting the Power

Last week, at an academic conference, the Solipsist sat in on a presentation by a professor who had done research on the role of the brain in learning.

That doesn't sound right. ANYhoo. . . .

He spoke about things like the importance of sleep. Apparently, in order to truly learn anything, humans need a minimum of six UNINTERRUPTED hours of sleep. During the first two hours, the brain downloads information gathered throughout the course of the day. The middle two hours are devoted to categorization; in fact, one theory of dreams is that they are the brain's attempt to make sense of the day's various and sundry pieces of data: Since our brains like to categorize, they make strange "connections" between disparate events in an attempt to synthesize information, resulting in odd juxtapositions like squirels riding motorcycles. In the final two hours, the brain actually "rehearses" the new information.

What this means for people like the Solipsist who has, literally, not gotten six hours of uninterrupted sleep for as long as he can remember is troubling to say the least.

One of the more interesting points the speaker made was that emotions play a major role in learning. Specifically, we learn things better if we have an emotional reaction to them. So, for example, a literature teacher might begin a discussion of Hamlet by getting students to think about a time when they had to make an important decision and were unable to act decisively. By triggering an emotional memory, the teacher makes the students more receptive to the work at hand.

But what's a basic writing teacher supposed to do when he has to engage students about grammar? How visceral an impact can subject-verb agreement have?

We wrestled with this question as we prepared to begin a unit on verbs. Suddenly, we had an epiphany:

"OK, everybody, why do you need to know about subject-verb agreement?"

"Why DO we need to know about subject-verb agreement, Mr. S.?"

"We asked you first!"

"Yo, Mr. S., how come you keep callin' yourself 'we'?"

"Don't change the subject. So, come on, why do you have to know about grammar and run-on sentences and subject-verb agreement?"

"Because it's important."

"Why?"

"So that you can understand what we're saying."

"Oh, come on. That's not true. Look, if one of you came in to class and said, 'Mr. S., I be really tired, today,' do you really think we wouldn't know what you meant?"

"No."

"So why do you need to know this stuff?"

"So that you can understand what we're saying."

(Solipsist smacks his forehead with his hand and grumbles.) "Guess again."

"'Cause we just have to know."

"Why?"

"So that we pass the test."

"Close. But that's incidental."

Finally, a woman sitting in the back row spoke up with what we're sure she considered a smart-alecky answer: "So that you can get grant money."

"Wait! Yes, stop. What do you mean?"

"Well, like, if you're applying for a grant or somethin', you need to be writing correctly otherwise no one'll give you any money."

"Why not?"

"Well, because they'll think you're ignorant."

Success!

"Yes, because THEY'll think you're ignorant. Understand this, folks, good grammar has very little to do with the ability to be understood. Ninety-nine percent of what you say is perfectly clear, whether you're using completely correct grammar or not. But the main reason--the MAIN reason--why you need to use correct grammar is because the people who run the world expect it. It's politics, people. It's power. And if you want to seize the power, you'd better be able to use the weapons of the powerful. Fair? Maybe not. But the only way you're ever going to have the power to change the system is to beat the system at its own game."

Hey, righteous indignation is an emotion, right?

Oops

Of course, we meant 'longitude.'

Yesterday, we wrote, "It seems that there are effectively no population centers that fall between the lines of latitude corresponding to one hour earlier than GMT." The problem, though, is that NO population centers fall between those lines of latitude because there ARE no such lines of latitude; or, rather, EVERY latitudinal line passes through that time zonal patch of geography. One crosses time zones by moving longitudinally.

Image from geographyalltheway.com

And why did none of you catch this?

We were standing in the shower this morning when we realized our error.

(Digression: Some sing, some engage in self-abuse; we think about our previous blog posts. What else would you expect from the Solipsist? EOD)

We faced a quandary, though: Should we go back and edit the post before some sharp-eyed Sloppist discovered the error? Apparently, we needn't have worried. But it does bring up some interesting questions about the nature of truth in the internet age.

When facts can simply disappear, how can one be sure about what constitutes truth?

This is not a new question, of course. A Philosophy 101 thought experiment poses the question: If you place a chair in a room, then leave the room and close the door, how can you prove that the chair continues to exist? Or, even more mind-trippy, if you were placed on this earth only one minute ago, and all your memories were simply planted in your mind, how would you know?

By going back and changing "latitude" to"longitude," or by going to Wikipedia and adding our autobiography to the entry on "Solipsism," we would in some small but real (though virtual) way fundamentally (if temporarily) alter the nature of truth. Would we be any better than Stalinist sycophants airbrushing Vyacheslav Molotov out of official photographs?

It's all very "Matrix." Take the red pill.

Meantime, Back at the Solipsist. Plus, "I'll Take Nobel Prize Winners Nobody's Ever Heard of for $1,000, Alex."

Plinky prompts:

"You just got a magic tree! What does it grow?"

"Animal face-off: In a fight between a 14-year-old and a goat, who would win?"

"If you had an unlimited supply of Lego, what would you build?"

OK, we made up that last one. But what's really fascinating is that we did NOT make up the other two. The "magic tree" question is today's. And, yes, that middle question was an actual Plinky prompt, too. We would truly love to hear the thought process behind that one.

It is an interesting question. Sadly, though, a definitive answer would probably run afoul of any number of statutes against child endangerment. Or cruelty to goats.

Oh, by the way: Money and a really sweet shed.

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While awaiting the call from the Nobel committee, we found ourselves watching the clock, wondering what time the polls closed in Oslo. This got us thinking about time zones.

Consider: As we write this, it is 4:08 pm Pacific Standard Time (e.g., California). It is 7:08 pm Eastern Standard Time (e.g., New York), and it is 12:09 am Monday in London. (Oslo, by the way is one hour ahead of London.) But what about that five hour "hole" between New York and London? It occurred to us that this covers the lines of latitude in the Atlantic Ocean. So, at this moment (4:12 pm, PST), it is 10:12 pm for absolutely no one. All right, maybe there are some ships at sea, but they're probably synced up with Greenwich Mean Time (GMT), currently 11:14 pm. It seems that there are effectively no population centers that fall between the lines of latitude corresponding to one hour earlier than GMT.

We hereby claim possession of that time zone. We have completed today's post at 10:35 pm, Solipsist Meantime (sic).

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As a sort of follow-up to our post on President Obama's winning of the Nobel Peace Prize--and because we know Sloppists enjoy funny names--we thought we would provide a brief list of some of the more obscure Nobel laureates.

Theodor Mommsen (Literature, 1902)

Bjornstjerne Bjornson (Literature, 1903)

Tobias Asser (Peace, 1911)

Fridtjof Nansen (Peace, 1922)

George H. Whipple (Medicine, 1934)

Frans Eemil Sillanpaa (Literature, 1939)

Polykarp Kusch (Physics, 1955)

Sir Cyril Hinshelwood (Chemistry, 1956)

Salvatore Quasimodo (Literature, 1959)

Tjalling C. Koopmans (Economics, 1975)

Klaus von Klitzing (Physics, 1985)

Imre Kertesz (Literature, 2002)

(Yes, the Solipsist is officially out of ideas.)