If all the world’s a stage, where exactly IS the green room?

   More apologies are in order before this posting begins.

   With Uncle Fun still holed up at The Fortress of Funitude, and Sparky busy taking notes during our rehearsals for The Best Audience Ever, the regular roster of posters for this blog has been otherwise occupied. Most of my time in between rehearsals has been taken up trying to figure out what Sparky’s notes actually say (much less mean), so I’m afraid that contact with the outside world has been somewhat in abeyance of late. I’d like to redress the situation by giving the floor to one of the two characters in The Best Audience Ever, which debuts three weeks from today at the Cook Theater during the IndyFringe festival (you can tell I’m pressed for time—I’m not even bothering to conceal the essential unsubtlety of this shameless plug). This recent letter from Dr. Henry Irving Stunch, professor of Audienceology and Director-General of the Centre for Advanced Researches on Theatricality, may shed some light on the tone and tenor, if not the specific content, of our upcoming show. (CAUTION: What follows should not be construed to be anything close to verifiable fact, except in the sense of maintaining the truth of the fictional world of a theatrical text.)

Dear Mr. Coosings,  

   Thank you for allowing me to make use of your web-based log to inform the general public about the institution which makes a show like The Best Audience Ever possible, and maybe even necessary. The Centre for Advanced Researches on Theatricality is a worldwide organization dedicated to investigating the interactions between performers, audience members, theatre support staff, hangers-on, obsessed fans, and officers of the court (when restraining orders are called for).  Through a series of formal, informal, and occasionally slapdash research paradigms, we aim to give the world a clearer sense of what it means to watch somebody doing something, to be watched while doing something, and whether we couldn’t all just watch ourselves and save a bit of time.

   Here is just a sample of the work currently being done under The Centre’s auspices:

-An in-depth study, in field and laboratory settings, of all aspects of Making Scenes in Restaurants (our key finding thus far: the sentence “ ‘Well-done’ does not mean ‘burnt to a crisp’!”  must be delivered in three distinct sections, each one a semi-tone higher than the last, for maximum effect).

-A draft resolution for a Universal Declaration of the Rights of Assistant Stage Managers, to be tabled at the U.N. General Assembly in the spring of 2013.

-Workshops and staged readings of a collectively-created work-in-progress which uses the dramaturgical techniques and devices of Sophocles to re-examine one of the great personalities of 20^th-century stage and screen, entitled Oedipus Rex Harrison (soon to be adapted into a musical, under the working title of My Fair Laius).

-Ongoing researches into how old a cultural reference can be before it makes a joke bomb as badly as that last one probably did.

-A month-long retreat to determine the potential significance of fly-fishing to a deeper understanding of the works of Shakespeare (our Assistant Director had a research grant and a rented cabin, and found a way of putting them together).

-Recruitment of contributors for the upcoming fourth volume of The Encyclopedia of Sight Gags in Radio Theatre (from “Lips, Edgar Bergen’s, moving during ventriloquism” to “Polar Bear in Jack Benny’s Vault”).

-Final preparations for an upcoming multidisciplinary conference to discuss and share findings on the relative contributions to modern choreography and dance styles made by Martha Graham, Alvin Ailey, and the Keystone Kops.

   This, of course, is but an infinitesimal fraction of the wide range of activities undertaken by the Centre for Advanced Researches on Theatricality on a daily (sometimes an almost-weekly) basis. I can’t find the rest of what I was going to put in, under all these piles of submissions and back-dated invoices on my desk, and I have to re-park my car before it gets another ticket, so it’ll have to do for now.

   Hope this helps. Write if you get work.

   Yours sincerely,

Henry Irving Stunch

Director-General, Centre for Advanced Researches on Theatricality

Professor emeritus, William Hartnell School of Alternatives to Dialogue Memorisation

James Lipton will have to interview someone else this week…

Salutations, sweat-soaked masses:

   The recent spate of sweltering heat that has descended upon most of North America has sent me into seclusion in the less-Hades-like environment of the Fortress of Funitude. My little prologue to this latest posting having been duly posted by Carrier pigeon (the capitalization is not a typo…the F. of F. is cooled by birds who learned some of the tricks of the climate control trade by living in a disused air conditioner factory, and have trained themselves to beat their wings in round-the-clock shifts), I leave the rest to Sparky, who has been assisting Mr. and Mrs. Cousins with their rehearsals for The Best Audience Ever (it’s less than a month to opening night, Indianapolis Fringe Festival patrons—familiarize yourselves with the route from Mass Ave. to the Cook Theater).

Uncle Fun

Howdy, junkies’a thespianism:

In my capassity as a assistant stage manidger fer Mister an’ Missus Kuzzens (there ain’t no ackchewal stage manidger, but they dint wanna overburden me with too much r’sponsibilutty…“I despair of the prospects” wuz th’ exact words used), I’ve bin inishyatud inta some’a th’ myst’ries’a th’ theeatrickul art. Most of it’s still about as clear as mud at midnight durin’ an eclipse, but real-live theetur-type actin’ mostly seems ta hafta do with three things basickully.

Th’ first’a these is sumpin’ called “motivashun”. This I get somewhat. Back in th’ day, it wuz easy ta figger a actor’s motivashun. Bein’ a actor increased yer chances’a marryin’ Elizibuth Taylur.

Take that, Stanislavsky.

Now that boat has sailed acrost th’ River’a Sticks, it ain’t so cut an’ dried. B’tween you, me, an’ th’ doorpost, I find all this “motivashun” stuff confusin’. Actors allus gotta know why it is ya did anything, even b’fore ya done it. Most times, I dunno I DONE somethin’ ‘til after I done it, much less why. Even when someone else explains it ta me, th’ explunashun don’t allus stick inside my head fer long. All’s I’m really sure about alla this here is one thing: turns out what ya don’t wanna explain yer motivashun with if yer a real live actin’-type actor is by sayin’ “cuz it got a laff”. Seems ta work fer th’ audeeyunce okay most times, but I’ve bin told in no uncertun terms that’s b’side th’ point. Like f’rinstance, it’s a real no-no ta use gettin’ laffs as motivashun in yer hi-class dramas, like fer exampull in yer Shakespeer sillyillaquees, most’a which’d go over a lot better if ya opened ‘em with a joke er two.

A kangaroo hops into a bar, and says to the bartender, “Is this a dagger I see before me?”

The bartender says, “Don’t confuse me with YOUR hallucinations; I’m imagining I’m looking at a kangaroo right now.”

Now, ain’t that better, honestly?

But, as if motivashun ain’t enuf ta make yer head spin, a lotta what goes inta actin’ in real live theetur plays with talkin’ an’ everythin’ is all wrapped up in what’s called “emoshunal mem’ry”. Basickully, this means ya gotta be able ta remember on cue th’ saddest ever really sad thing that ya remember bein’ sad about. In th’ case’a actors, it’s usually th’ first time they found out there ain’t no money in actin’ nohow fer most’a them. Apparently, in theetur, they allus wancha ta be sad fer some reezin. Guess happy people don’t take up actin’ in th’ first place. Er mebbe they jus’ figger they ain’t gonna be happy long, when they find out how tough it is ta make a livin’ at it.

Now, if ya kin manage ta keep yer motivashun an yer emoshunal mem’ry frum trippin’ over one another, ya still got another thing ta worry ‘bout when ya act, which is sumpin’ called “makin’ it true”. Turns out “true” is diffrunt if yer a actor than it is fer everyone else, ‘cuz yer “truth” involves pretendin’ ta be someone else, who’s prob’ly a made-up unreal fickhunal someone else ta boot. What actors really mean when they talk ‘bout bein’ “true” is “bein true ta th’ moment”. This one is atchilly easy ta unnerstand, if ya know any actors whatsoever. All ya hafta do is use yer emoshunal mem’ry an’ imagine askin’ a actor ta do sumpin’ fer ya when ya really need it, such as ta lend ya five bucks er ta move some heavy furnichur. Whutcha find out is th’ truth’a th’ moment when they promis’d ta lend ya th’ five bucks er move th’ furnichur is a whole other diffurn’t kinda truth altogether frum the truth’a th’ moment when it’s time fer ‘em ta do it.

So that’s all I’ve learnt so far about how ta be a actor, so I prolly ain’t ready fer Broadway fer at least another year. Mebbe I’ll go be a playwright instead…it looks a whole lot easier. All ya gotta do is know all th’ stuff that actors hate ta do, an’ make ‘em do it.

Sparky

P.S. If ya click th’ link an’ lissen, you’ll get a rough idea’a whut doin’ a rehursull with Mister Kuzzens is sorta like:

"Happy Professionals"--a radio sketch about...well, radio sketches, I guess.



Into each life, a little something-or-other must fall…

Hello to one and all, particularly those of one and all of you in England:

   It is to those of you in the latter category that this message is principally destined. Today (it’ll be tomorrow your time at the earliest when you read this, but no matter) is St. Swithin’s Day, one of the grand folkloric observances in this or any calendar. For those of our readers who reside on the side of the Atlantic away from the flow of the Gulf Stream, St. Swithin’s day is basically Groundhog Day, without the groundhog, and five-and-a-half months later. Standing in for the weather woodchuck (who at this time of year has enough to keep him occupied, what with chucking all the wood that he could) on July 15 is a 10^th-century bishop and fresh-air fiend whose stipulation that he be buried among the elements (this was easier in those days, since before the creation of the periodic table, there were a whole lot fewer elements) has led to a tradition concerning meteorological prognostication. It is held that, should it rain on July 15, St. Swithin (or his appointed agents and/or deputies) will see to it that the next 40 days are similarly soggy. Leaving aside the fact that nearly six weeks’ worth of consecutive 24-hour periods with at least some precipitation constitutes a minor drought by English standards, I thought it might interest all of you to know about a few of the traditions that have coalesced around the feast days of assorted other saints:

St. Minge’s Day (September 19, except during leap years whose final two digits are divisible by 7):

Legend has it that if you find any odd number of loose paper clips among your personal effects on this day, you can expect a piece of mail from a distant relative addressed to someplace you haven’t lived in five years to be delivered to one of your neighbours.

St. Bergnargle’s Day (June 25; also June 14 and July 6 in Russia, Belarus, Ukraine and other countries formerly on the Julian calendar, where they know they were 11 days out at some time in the past, but can never remember in which direction, and aren’t taking any chances on missing out):

If, on this day, a merchant honours an expired coupon for more than seventy-five cents off any non-perishable item you purchase, that item will go on a ‘no coupons’ sale for at least a dollar-fifty less than that within the week.

St. Pancreas’ Day (May 11, except between the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn, when it is celebrated every fifth Friday during yachting season):

If you are seen in public eating sweetbreads, kidneys, tongue, or tripe, a stranger will kiss the first fool he or she sees between the hours of 9:03 and 9:17 PM (Eastern Daylight Saving Time), provided this occurs within 500 yards of an unpaved shoulder beside a drainage ditch.

St. Higginbotham’s Day (the closest even-numbered Tuesday to March 24):

If the exact hue of either dawn or sunset can be described as ‘viridian’ for a period of 37 minutes (on aggregate), the trombone will be proclaimed the national instrument of Ireland.

St. Saint of Saint’s Day (the patron saint of bureaucracy, said to have been inspired in a dream by the archangel Michael to invent the process of doing things in triplicate; celebrated on the official deadline for filing tax returns in whatever country one happens to be in):

If anyone in a staffing, classification, or human resources department signs an inter-office memo by dotting an ‘i’ with a smiley face or a heart, job interviews and hiring practices will take on a distinct tone of flippancy for the next six months.

St. Spatters’ Day (any day that looks good for getting a suntan on a warehouse roof, provided it’s a Saturday in August not too close to Labour Day):

No matter what happens on this day, trends in postmodern visual art will continue to be largely incomprehensible.

   This, of course, is but a small sampling. Given the number of saints to be honoured during the course of any given year, the ramifications of every possible occurrence and/or action at any given time are positively endless. Daunting proposition, really, when you think about it. It’s probably better we don’t, and all just go to bed early.

Uncle Fun

All the glamour you can stand, plus $176 a day (after deductions)

Hello, one and all:        

   The Cousins household is one step closer to freedom from its recent technological purgatory, with the purchase of a brand-spanking-new desktop computer. Acting in a temporary capacity as the voice of reason, I recommended that they let the experts at the store set up the new system, rather than accepting Sparky’s gracious but somewhat marrow-chilling offer to create, and I paraphrase, “something that could grab the Space Shuttle by remote control and make it do loop-the-loops around Jupiter” from materiel he fished out of the recycling bins behind a few local apartment buildings. (The damage to property in the vicinity caused by the peregrinations of CyberSparky, though thankfully untraceable thus far, is already in a monetary range just this side of astronomical.) Until Mr. and Mrs. Cousins take possession of the new computer in the middle of this week, here’s a transcription I made of some thoughts the ‘Mr.’ of the pair made to me concerning one of his many paid part-time avocations.

Uncle Fun

   You may or may not already know that, from time to time, I take on a little extra work doing a little extra work. By that, I mean that I accept odd jobs as what is euphemistically known in the film and television industry as a ‘background performer’. This involves a lot of staying in the background, and very little in the way of actual performing. Mostly, what it involves is finding ways to keep from going absolutely, certifiably stir-crazy while waiting in a holding area for them to use you. The hours (and they will be hours) between the time you sign in with a production assistant and the time they actually shepherd you towards the set can make an eternity slowly turning on a spit in Hell seem like a peppy, fun-filled time unless you find some way to occupy your mind. Usually, catching up on a backlog of course reading or scratching out a draft of an upcoming assignment does it for me, but every now and then, I feel the need to let my thoughts wander as far as possible away from a here and now that’s a lot more ‘here’ and a lot more ‘now’ than anyone who hasn’t committed a major felony ought to experience. Yesterday was one of those times. While on remand in the tombs of Extras Holding, I asked myself some searching questions about the nature of Truth. Specifically, I asked myself, “What, above all else, do I know to be true about working as a film and TV extra?” The list I came up with is certainly not exhaustive, nor is it absolute. These things, however, I do know from personal experience to be true:

1.    If you’re early for your set call, they won’t need you until much, much later.

2.    If you’re late, they’ll need you right away.

3.    You will need a haircut.

    This will happen whether or not you’ve just had your hair cut. It will also happen no matter how recently you’ve done work on the same project. I have been subjected to multiple re-shearings during a single 36-hour period, while playing the same background role, each time having a different style held in place by ‘hair product’ inflicted on my follicles, apparently for the sole purpose of making the camera, lighting and sound crews fall on the floor laughing at the mere sight of me. Yesterday’s enforced depilation transformed the pleasant, Scrooge McDuck-like flanges of curl that habitually pop up around my ears into something more appropriate for the Sub-Mariner.



4.    Whatever pants you bring as wardrobe, the wardrobe department will like the ones you’re wearing better.

    Yesterday was no exception. My grubby Haggar corduroys were deemed more appropriate business apparel than several pairs of pants from three-piece suits, which didn’t even rate a second look.

5.  At least one of your fellow extras will be a jailhouse lawyer.

     This august individual will loudly offer opinions, at length if you’re lucky, and non-stop if you aren’t, all of which can be grouped under at least one of the following three headings: 1) how circumstances other than sheer lack of talent have prevented them from becoming the next Laurence Olivier or Katharine Hepburn; 2) How the entire film industry could be improved, from top to bottom, by tomorrow; 3) Why Caddyshack, Meatballs, or any movie in the Naked Gun trilogy represents the pinnacle of cinematic art and artistry.

6.  If the casting agent says that the director asked for you specifically, you will sit around all day, sign for your pay and be sent home, without ever appearing on camera.

     This one never fails.

   I don’t mean to sound like I’m complaining (I never do about anything, but no-one ever buys that story). I look upon each of these gigs as a kind of paid vacation. It’s like going on a package tour: you see about as much of genuine interest, and you get to know enough about a group of people to know that you don’t want to know any more in particular about any of them. The best part is that you get to spend the night at home, in your own bed, safe in the knowledge that your health insurance will take care of anything that happens to you as a result of the catered on-set meals.

We are experiencing technological difficulties...please stand by...

(As usual, I take no responsibility for what follows.—Uncle Fun)

Those’a you as has bin followin’ this here blog lately has no doubt noticed that there ain’t bin much blog ta follow lately, on ackount’a compyootur problums. You’ll all be glad ta know that I myself personally have bin hard at work on a solushun. My first attempt ta rescue Mister Kuzzens’ compyootur frum Boot-up Hill, usin’ old calculator parts an’ a toaster oven, wuz whut we call in th’ R-an’-D bizness a necessary experiment, an’ wuz not properly appreciated fur th’ useful prototype it wuz.  It very nearly almost worked, b’fore th’ electrickul fire started. Some time ta reflect on th’ flaws’a that design has led me ta develop a far more supeeriyur alternative, as well as providin’ me with th’ stuff ta make it outta, in th’ tool shed I wuz locked in while I wuz reflectin’.  The fact that whut I came up with is better is proof-positived by th’ fact that th’ first thing my new creeyashun did wuz ta unlock th’ shed fer me. It unlocked it mostly by bashin’ down th’ door, but means an’ ends is all th’ same ta me, ‘cuz it wuz getting’ stuffy in there.  An’ so, without further ado, er even further adon’t, I present ta you that marvel of th’ microchip age, my identickul twin android replickant…CyberSparky—!

***initiating greeting sequence***

***greeting sequence complete***

***initiating explanatory text***

i am CyberSparky the marvel of the microchip age

i have been constructed to serve humans by performing the following tasks

***task list begins***

-word processing

(i can do 40 words per minute on a manual typewriter; 60 on an electric one, with almost no mistakes in every other sentence)

-e-mail

(i will stand by one of the free computers at the public library and repel intruders until you are ready to use it)

-home entertainment

(i have 40,000,000 songs in my memory, which i can sing to the tune of “pop goes the weasel” or “she’ll be comin’ round the mountain”, or, if you prefer, both )

-news feeds

(give me the price of a daily paper, plus $1.50 for delivery and handling, and i will get it for you)

-gps

(same protocol as above: for “daily paper” substitute “world atlas”; for “$1.50” substitute “$27.75”)

-making coffee, tea and other hot beverages

     (my hard drive is powered by a steam turbine)

-home renovation

(removal of unwanted doors, window panes, and non-load-bearing walls; other tasks awaiting programming)

-financial services

(using a modification of my “home renovation” program, i can access the coin receptacles in most vending machines, public telephones, and parking meters)

-tax preparation

(by taking your return directly to your local taxation office and initiating “home renovation” program on your auditor until you get a refund)

-advice and personal counselling

(my advice is that you all should get a CyberSparky, and pay its creator handsomely for the privilege of doing so)

CyberSparky is the perfect addition to any home

CyberSparky makes an ideal Christmas gift

CyberSparky is the one thing you cannot do without

CyberSparky

                     CyberSparky

                                           CyberSparky

***ERROR***

***SYSTEM FAILURE***

***executing immediate shutdown***

***shutting down***

Okay, so mebbe there’s one er two bugs left in it yet. I’d like ta see th’ folks in Silicon Valley do any better with whut they’d find inna backyard tool shed.

Sparky