Hosting

Originally performed at Stranger Stories on

Thursday, November 21st.

The theme was "Hosting."

When you’re affiliated with theater, people ask

you to do all sorts of things you have no business

doing.

I’ve been an actor since I was eight-years-old,

a writer since I was twenty-four, and a bigmouth

since birth.

Somehow, in the eyes of others, this has qualified

me over the years to serve as an auctioneer, a

dog show commentator, a spokesperson for a

chain of bakeries, and--more times than I can

count--a host.

I love hosting.  What I lack as an actor, writer, and

overall artist, I make up for in semi-false cheeriness

and the pure adrenaline that comes from driving an

evening forward, knowing I’m the only thing standing

between the Annual Save the Giant Starfish gala

going smoothly or descending into oceanic-themed

chaos.

And my favorite kind of event to host is--without a

doubt--talent shows.

I love talent shows.

A few years ago, a woman in the audience at one

of my shows approached me to ask if I would host

a talent show at her place of work.  I said “Yes”

without a moment’s hesitation.

“Oh wonderful,” she exclaimed, “The residents will

be thrilled.”

Hearing the word “residents” gave me pause, and

like any real artist, it was only then that I realized I

had agreed to something without any details at all

simply because it sounded like people would give

me attention.

“Residents?”

“Yes,” she said, “I work at a nursing home.”

Reader, I almost evaporated on the spot.

When I said I love talent shows, I neglected to

mention that I love the part where the talented

people perform.  The corporate lawyers belting

Bon Jovi and the six-year-old tap dancers being

shoved onstage by their mothers and the comedian

doing twenty minutes on how expensive the coffee

at Starbucks is all inspire kindness in me, but they

also make every skin cell on my body recoil in

symbiotic embarrassment.

Please don’t misunderstand me.  I’m not looking

down on these people.  As someone who would

undoubtedly lose in any kind of competition--talent

or otherwise, I marvel at those who can get up

onstage and say “Here’s something I feel I do well.

  Please tell me if I’m wrong and do it in front of an

audience.”

Usually you get a handful of misguided people

whenever you emcee such an evening, but you

grit your teeth and try to look supportive the way

you would when one of your friends gets bangs

after the age of thirty.

This time around, I was not going to be so lucky.

A nursing home talent show?

I’d probably grind my teeth down to the gums

before the second rendition of “Begin the Beguine.”

Still, I had agreed to do it.

I had made a commitment.

My word is bond.

Plus, they were paying me.

The day of the competition I arrived at the home

promptly at 5pm, an hour before the show was to

begin.  I would learn that when it comes to assisted

living, an eight o’clock curtain is more like a six

o’clock flickering of the community room

fluorescents.

I checked in with the woman who had enlisted me,

and after she went over the evening’s line-up, I

walked in front of a surprisingly large crowd of

octogenarians--many of whom were already

sleeping--and introduced myself.

“WHAT?” one person yelled from the very front

row, “WHO IS THIS?  WHO ARE YOU?

WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

Now, I’ve dealt with hecklers before, but never

one so philosophical.

Luckily for me, there were workers strategically

placed throughout the room to handle things

like this.  One approached the heckler--a frail

woman propped up in a chair who looked as

though in her youth she might have been an

Israeli soldier--and explained that we were

having a talent show and this young man

(Young!  Oh my god!  Bless your heart. 

I’ll be here every week.) was the host.

“DO I HAVE TO STAY,” the heckler asked.

Truthfully I think the same thing whenever I

have to go see Twelfth Night, but I have the

decency not to say it aloud.

The show got underway.  We had six acts

competing, although “competing” is a bit of

a misnomer, because all of them were going

to get prizes.  The awards ranged from free

cards at bingo night to a miniature slot

machine (didn’t know they made those

anymore) to some playing cards (third place)

to a book about the saints (fourth place)

rosary beads (fifth place) and a book on how

to play poker (sixth place).  What I learned

from this is that older people really enjoy

Christianity and gambling, which has to be a

pretty conflicted existence, if you ask me.

The winner was going to be judged based on

audience applause, and if the ovation I

received when I started the show was any

indication, these contestants were going to

have to work hard for the money--or their

rosaries, in this case.

Up first was a pianist named Lucille who

played a lovely rendition of Gerswhin’s

“Summertime.”  I found the whole thing

enchanting and, for a moment, I entertained

the idea that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad

after all, but then Lucille added her own

vocal accompaniment at a volume that would

have made Def Leppard cover their ears. 

In the show, “Summertime” is a sweet little lullaby

sung to a child by its mother. When Lucille sang

it, it was as though she was trying to rouse

somebody from a coma.

After Lucille was Anthony, a man straight out of

a 1950’s soap commercial, complete with a bow

tie and a mustache, who proceeded to tell

every bad joke you’ve ever heard in your life. 

These weren’t just dad jokes. They were

great-granddad jokes. He also told six consecutive

gay jokes, looking at me after each one to make

sure I wasn’t upset with him. I just smiled back,

willing to let anything slide provided it helped get

this whole thing over with, but Anthony was still

so self-conscious that every time one of those

jokes would come up, his voice would drop to

almost a whisper, and the heckler in the front row

would yell--

“WAIT, WHAT DID THE PRIEST DO IN THE

LIFEBOAT?”

After Anthony things went from awkward to--

I wonder what would happen if I just jumped through

a window like Buster Keaton.  Would they like that?

Would their joy at seeing me covered in broken glass

like one of their childhood stars buy me time to

get away?

We had a woman demonstrate how to hula hoop

who appeared to never have hula hoop-ed in her

entire life.  Then there was the lady named Muriel

who got up, told a story about her nephew who

can’t find a nice girl because women work outside

the home now, and pretty soon, we’re all going

to be married to robots.

(I still kick myself for not writing that story down

so I can use it as a monologue.)

Following Muriel was a man named Walter who

did several magic tricks that were all pretty impressive

considering after each one he would look out at the

crowd and say-with total sincerity--

“Now how the hell did I just do that?”

What better way for a magician to keep his illusions

a secret than to forget them as soon as they’re done. 

It’s a great concept if you think about it, and I gathered

Walter was going to be a shoo-in for first place,

especially when he pulled a quarter from behind the ear

of a man in the third row.  All of a sudden, the audience

came alive--in some cases, literally--cheering as though

Walter had just announced caramel candies were under

all their chairs.

Before I tell you about the last performer, I feel it’s

important that I make the following few points as

clearly as possible:

None of what I’m telling you is meant to mock the

elderly.  I truly believe that every single human being

on earth is pretty awful if you look at them the right

way, and that’s the insight I try to provide with everything

I write.  I could just have easily told you about the

time I judged a fifth-grade spelling bee and silently

criticized one child for bursting into tears just because

he couldn’t spell “optician.”  Tears were streaming

down his face--a face with glasses on it, I might add--

and the irony was almost too much for me.

I would also like to point out that while I’m as cynical

as the next homosexual, I truly believe in the majesty

and spontaneity of theater--wherever it may occur. 

That goes for everything where people assemble and

give their time and study to another person.

So I was only mildly surprised when the final performer

of the night took the stage--an eighty-four year-old

whippersnapper named Bernadette--and sang the

most beautiful version of “I’ll Be Seeing You” I’ve ever

heard.  Granted, it’s a song that reminds me of my

grandmother, so it wouldn’t take much, but as soon

as Bernadette got to “I’ll be looking at the moon…”

I got to sniffling.  The rest of the crowd wasn’t far

behind.  I snuck a peek at the heckler in the front row,

and even she was wiping her nose with one of the

million tissues she appeared to have stuffed in the

plastic bag on her lap.

The audience joined in with her on the final chorus,

and while a standing o’ is always nice, getting the

crowd to sing along with you has got to be infinitely

more satisfying.

When Bernadette was done, she took a small bow,

and returned to her folding chair in the back row. 

I walked to the front of the room, tears still lingering

in the corner of my eyes, and said, “Wow, how

about that, huh?”

The heckler, her voice wavering with emotion,

yelled back--

“OH BOY.  NOT THIS GUY AGAIN.”