Mid-crunch the attractive girl at the gym had wrapped her arm around my stomach and for a moment, confused by the softness and familiarity and longing for another touch from another woman living with the same desire 3000 miles away in a place where 200 year old homes are protected for historical value, I was disoriented, confused and for a brief moment threatened.

“What are you doing on Thursday night?” she asked.  Reminding me of the recent unraveling of my marriage, the subsequent redesign of the relationships with my three kids I quickly answered. 

“What do you have in mind?” I asked, not sure whether her invitation was a line or a rush of breathable air spoken with sincerity by another pretty girl to another lonely guy almost 50 in another gym in Los Angeles, Sherman Oaks – Studio City, where the haves and the have-nots meet somewhere in between silently eyeing each other.  The invisible divide of their respective career achievements lay in the grass like the tiger eyeing its prey.  (In Hollywood everyone has an angle).

“My mother’s having a showcase at her studio and I’d like you to come. There will be lots of important people there” she tells me without taking a breath.  “Producers and agents, writers… you know.”  She’s pitching I thought for a moment, then remembering she knows nothing about me – absolutely nothing, I accept her invitation. 

I’m not a social butterfly.  Since my separation I haven’t dated or sat in bars looking at other middle-aged women looking at me looking at them looking at me, but the prospect of an evening of theater and anonymity plus the attention of a young lady shed a ray of hope on an otherwise dismal existence and with a fist-pump and turning away to avoid any misunderstanding I left her on the crunch machine with instructions to isolate specifically her stomach which she had exposed to my surprised eyes - and grabbing it like a baker kneading bread - complained how self-loathing it made her feel.

 

Thursday night arrived.  After feeding Zoe, my precocious 13 year old and Max who at 5 is an exercise in patience, and as I lazily allowed the pasta to settle watching “Babe the Pig” my intentions teetered and I finally lifted myself out of my red leather chair and after some preliminary hygiene, hopped into the shower.  Allison (the girl from the gym) had told me to “wear something nice”.  I won’t here discuss my wardrobe.  It would be like talking about the plumbing.  There would be no useful point.  Let’s just say I was dressed in clean clothes and after flossing, brushing and rinsing my mouth from the half gallon jug with new and improved mouthwash and doused myself with just enough deodorant and cologne to make close quartered conversation not completely discomforting.  I was ready to go.

Kissing the kids goodnight, reminding Zoe to read to Max and to lock the door to my Brazilian prison cell after I go out the door, I left.  Still not sure of where I was going, or why.

On the way I called Marcy in Wellesley on the other side of this world.  I had avoided sharing my Thursday night plan with her but I had told her about the young lady at the gym who followed me around like a puppy dog and every time I glanced away from her she was conversing with another of the other 50 year olds. As I told her about the invitation, it occurred to me I was going because if I didn’t go I might be risking an embarrassing scene at the gym with a girl who seems a bit of a loon albeit a friendly, open book type… my favorite kind.  By going I would be given the chance to tell her how involved I am, romantically, and delicately douse what at least superficially appeared a harmless infatuation.

 

After parking my dented minivan I walked passed two dog-owners and there two angry pets barking ferociously at each other.  One, an Afghan barking (to kill) at a miniature French Poodle.  The two dogs posturing like two drag queens in a beauty salon. 

“My hair is longer and cleaner than your ratty mop,” roared the Afghan.  “Whatever”, growled the Poodle.  The dog-owners hid their faces, their cigarettes, and their little nylon poop bags while I passed through this little scene talking on my cel phone to Marcy, 3000 miles away, giving her a running commentary as I rushed to the showcase.

Making my way through the parking lot past “Casa Vega” a hallowed burrito stand with no windows, rumored to have been where Marlon Brando would order burritos by the dozen, I scanned the crowd looking for Allison, but all I saw was a sea of mostly young, mostly actor types absorbed in their scenes, cel phones, and cigarettes.  The girls all hot balancing acts on belligerently high heeled shoes and the guys in standard issue whiskers and tees, the ghost of Marlon Brando stuffing burritos across the street.  Inspiring.

After verifying with one of the actors where I was supposed to go, I introduced myself at the door as a friend of Allison the daughter of the “lady who runs this place”, who’s name I had no idea, but my watch said 8:30 and it was Thursday.  The girls at the door had a little argument over where I should sit.  From their row, I understood the first two rows were reserved for Hollywood dignitaries of the type who never show up, but being Allison’s guest (obviously) had some clout as I was permitted sit in the first two rows.

On the stage there were facimiles of a living room, home, bar, restaurant lit from two tracks of 100 watt light-bulbs.  Great music from 30 years ago blared from speakers as the 40 seats in this theater remained for the most part empty, except for myself, a guest of the daughter of the ‘lady who runs the place’, a striking 55 year old blonde who graciously introduced herself to me and feeling the privilege of a Prussian count I stood, stretching tall, allowing all that testosterone to flow from the top of my head to the tips of my Birkenstocks.  She was the story of this evening and this was the moment when I understood the strange hunger for attention that her daughter Allison had demonstrated.  She is Bobbie Chance and from the (very) small crowd of invitees including 3 famous directors, 2 famous writers 2 executive assistants to 2 other famous producers and 1 hugely important “mega” agent, I realized I had stumbled upon a rare opportunity to view an actor’s workshop - live.

Lights dimmed and flashed momentarily.  Someone turned down the music (thank g-d), and finally there was a stir.  Bobbie the blonde, like the starter at a dog race by sending the bunny impossibly distant from the anorexic greyhounds, called her actors to enter the stage area.  Actors now filed through the stands onto the tiny stage, strutting like street hookers.   For several minutes while my eyes adjusted to this unlikely sight words like aquarium and meat market and images of a live sex show I once saw in a Paris nightclub a long time ago all mixed with the excitement of a 14 year old boy making his way down from the bleachers to a front row seat at a Celtics/Knicks game in the old Boston Garden back in ’71.  It was electrifying.  Actors now stood wall to wall, animated, engaged, absorbed in their assignments, rehearsing.  For another moment it was an orchestra tuning up nonsensically before the symphony.  You might hear a French horn playing an entire phrase amidst the anarchy of the other instruments.  Here the occasional voice rose above all others.  There seemed to be a rotation whereby certain actors took lead over others, even during the warm up, all the while they vied for the attention of the darkened faces of the tiny select audience and me, just a guy with an open heart and a weakness for weakness.  This went on for 30 minutes or so and then Bobbie the charismatic coach, director, maestro of this 75 piece orchestra of human vessels took to center stage and after introducing with great fanfare the dignitaries, the acts began.

 

Conclusions.

Actors become actors so they can exchange bodily fluids with multiple partners of both sexes.  If an alien were to have sat in the showcase last night his impression of humanity would not be a positive one.  The scenes, while written with great artistry were all… without exception, brimming with anger and conflict and misanthropy.  The texts while performed exceptionally were all about discord, violence, misogyny, homophobia, and mostly gratuitous erotica bordering on pornography.  None of the scenes led towards happy ending.  No resolutions except perhaps in a scene of murder and suicide.  It seemed the “F” word has become a crutch for shy, young actors and writers alike attempting to grab.. to shout.. to shock.

Television has conditioned people into the belief that the lowest form of expression is necessarily the only form and while the event in it’s extraordinary scope was brilliantly executed the range of human interaction was a depressing reminder of how dumb we have all become.