My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover If Not Being A Dumb Ass Is the New Black, or, a Culture-Up Manifesto

by Jen Lancaster

  How can this be? I’m essentially a theater virgin and even I know this stuff is verboten. And this is opening night. You can’t just be some guy off the street and get tickets to opening night; they aren’t for sale. Opening night is by invitation only. You have to have a friend in the production or be a member of the media or be an actor yourself. Ergo, every single person in here should know better. They’re all theater veterans. None of these people should even dream of talking or chewing or texting because their family, friend, colleague, or client is part of the production. We should all be watching this play with our undivided attention. Yet here we are. This lack of common courtesy is astounding and disrespectful and marginalizes everything these poor actors are trying to accomplish.84

  Hey! I think I just had an epiphany about the importance of social graces!

  And yet before I can ponder it further, one of the actors strips naked onstage. I cast a sidelong glance at Stacey, who’s all squinty and shaking silently. I guarantee she won’t look at me for fear of laughing out loud.

  After the final curtain call, I turn to her. “Apparently I have the ability to make shit happen just by mentioning it before the curtain goes up. Tonight? Naked. At the Marta Carrasco show? The watermelon. I’m a frigging psychic. Next time I’m totally going to worry in advance about people throwing five-dollar bills at me.”

  “I was dying for you,” she admits. “When he stripped down, your eyes were saucers. You’ve got to admit though, since it was Pablo, it was good naked.”

  “I’ll be honest, after Pablo turned into Senor SansHisPants and Carla went topless, I got real worried about seeing Dennehy in the buff. And, fine, I can’t argue that all the nudity didn’t make sense in the context of the story. The story was supposed to be raw, and what’s more raw than being completely nude onstage? I get it. I’m okay with it. Plus, we didn’t have any nonsensical dry-cleaning film moments.”

  As we make our way to the cast party at Petterino’s next door, Stacey listens to me go on and on about how much I enjoyed the show. The set was spectacular and the acting was top-notch. I loved how the tension built and built and I appreciated the few comic moments in the beginning with Eben’s brothers. As I gush, Stacey nods encouragingly, but she doesn’t heap her own praises on the production.

  Granted, some of what happened onstage puzzled me. I don’t quite get why the other sons shouted so much in the first scene (even though it was funny) or why the house was suspended by ropes,85 but I figure there are excellent, artistic reasons for these decisions, even if I’m not privy to them.

  The party’s in a huge room filled with giant round tables, which means people are going to sit with us and likely expect to have conversations of the nonbanal variety. This makes the back of my neck start to sweat.

  Oy, what am I going to say to sophisticated theater people?

  Am I going to accidentally grill them on tonight’s Bachelor evictions? Or talk about all the bad weaves on this season’s Rock of Love Bus?86 Or am I going to bitch about how rude a handful of people were? And that doesn’t even begin to take into account where my mouth may go when I meet the actors. Will I bring up Tommy Boy? Or, worse, Pauly Shore? I feel like I’ve already painted myself into a corner, and we just got here.

  While we’re getting refreshments, I tell Stacey, “I don’t trust myself not to sound like an asshole. I mean, I didn’t even realize I couldn’t eat popcorn during the show. What am I going to say to people?”

  Stacey takes her drink and tips the bartender before turning to face me. “First of all, you’re being too hard on yourself. So what if you don’t know that much about live theater? Who cares? No one starts out an expert. So many people dismiss activities like this out of pocket, without ever having tried, but you’re here trying. People will appreciate you wanting to learn, I promise. Talk about why you’re here and explain your project. You may even meet someone who can help in your education.”

  And she’s right, of course.

  I have great conversations with all kinds of theater people—a costume designer, a director, scene builders, and a couple of choreographers. Each one encourages me to continue my pursuits. The consensus is they respect what I’m attempting, and one of the choreographers thinks I’d enjoy some of his productions.

  What’s ironic is the costume designer is leaving the party shortly because she’s addicted to Rock of Love and hasn’t yet watched this week’s episode.

  As our table clears, I tell Stacey, “I feel like my takeaway from tonight is that it’s okay to love shitty television, provided you make an effort to appreciate other kinds of entertainment.”

  “Ultimately, it’s all about striking a balance,” she agrees. “Now you want to go upstairs and meet the cast?”

  On our way out of the downstairs festivities, we stop and chat a dozen times to say hello to all of Stacey’s former cronies. No one could be nicer, but I’m not quite fully engaged because I’m on the lookout for the rude people. I don’t bump into any of them, which is probably for the best.

  By the time we get up there, I’m feeling much surer of myself. Stacey introduces me to Brian Dennehy, and we have a brief but lovely conversation about the show and his performance. He’s so gracious that I don’t even start with the nervous talking. And when we shake hands, I have the wherewithal not to compliment him on his commitment to moisturizing, despite the fact that his hands are as smooth as a little girl’s. Progress, I say!

  The thing is, I suspect my burgeoning confidence stems not from a growing sense of self or a shadow of familiarity with the world of professional theater but rather from a number of free glasses of sauvignon blanc.

  When I meet Carla, I’m so moved by her having given the performance of a lifetime on one of the most prestigious stages in the world that it doesn’t even occur to me to bring up Pauly Shore or Spy Kids.

  And yet I cannot add this interaction to the win column.

  “Hi, I’m Jen. It’s so nice to meet you.” I’m rewarded with a friendly greeting and a sincere handshake. I’m also possibly blinded by my first real-life, thousand-watt, million-dollar, movie-star smile, and it triggers that weird little part of my brain to switch on. Uh-oh.

  Now that I have her attention, do I tell her I’m a fan? Do I bring up that whole “artistic professional” thing and say that I’m an author? Do I mention my project?

  No.

  The only words I can find are about the wig she wore onstage.

  “Hey!” I exclaim. “That wasn’t your real hair. It really looked like your real hair. Your hair is dark. I almost missed saying hi to you because you look different with your real hair.”

  Hey, self, now might be a good time to shut up about her hair if you plan on being BFFs.

  “That is your real hair, right? It’s way darker than I thought. I went dark now, too. Not as dark as you, though. Yours is superdark. Like, black. Inky black. Superblack. Tar black. But good, you know? I like it. Black is the new black, ha ha!”

  If I shut up now, she might still want to have lunch every once in a while, even if we’re not besties. And yet something inside me presses me on.

  “The dark is nice, but the wig was also nice. Didn’t your hair used to be the color of your wig? Yes! It totally did. You’ve had, like, ten different hair colors in stuff I’ve seen you in. You want me to name each of them?”

  With that, I’ve officially exited the Potential Friend Zone and I’m careening quickly toward Stalker City. And that’s when the pseudointelligence kicks in.

  “You know, you could kind of look at the play from your wig’s perspective. I mean, your do told a story. First it was all tight and rolled, and then it got sort of loose, and then it got all messy and then—”

  Please, someone get me away from her before she calls the authorities. Seriously, I am fixed to this spot. I can’t move and I can’t shut up. Someone please throw PETA paint on me so I shut up! Help!

  Fortunately, Stacey notices Carla’s making fraidy-cat-get-this-weird
o-away-from-me eyes, which neatly coincide with my what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-and-why-can’t-I-stop expression, so she interrupts to tell me it’s time to go. For good measure, Stacey yanks me away by my coat pocket, which is fortuitous because my paw, completely of its own volition, was starting to snake up in the direction of Carla’s hair.

  So I end the night with a little bit more culture and a little bit more perspective and a little bit more knowledge.87

  Best of all is that out of a whole theater full of people at this posh event, only one of them might believe I’m a dummy.

  I’d definitely say that’s progress.

  To: stacey_at_home

  From: jen_at_home

  Subject: S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y Night!

  I’ve dined out on my theatergoing frequent-flier status all week.

  “Oh, sorry, I’m busy that night with a premiere.”

  “You wanted me to drop it off when? Nope, can’t. Theater tickets. You know how it is.”

  “Listen, I’d love to, but I’ve got another opening night and cast party. I hope you understand.”

  Okay, pretty much I’ve just said this stuff to Fletch, but still, it sounded cool. (The polite thing would have been for him to at least pretend to be impressed.)

  See you at 6:00?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Biggest Winner

  I’m all decked out in my theatergoing outfit and I’m on my way to tonight’s artistic endeavor. Stacey and I are in her car, headed to a play in the northern suburbs. I feel like quite the sophisticate, even though our glamorous après-theater plans include heading to the Four Moon Tavern for grilled cheese sandwiches.

  “This is twice in one week I’ve stolen you away from your husband for an evening. Is he going to miss you?” Stacey asks. She steers her car expertly through the steadily falling snow. I’m helping her by occasionally punching the imaginary brakes on my side of the car and second-guessing her navigation.

  Given tonight’s inclement weather, I’d have preferred to stay home, wrapped in blankets, quaffing hot chocolate, and parked in front of Survivor . Instead, we’re plowing through a wealthy suburb. With the abundance of snowcapped trees and adorable storefronts and antique streetlamps, this would resemble a Currier and Ives scene if it weren’t for all the Star-bucks.

  “Are you kidding? He’s got the big TV all to himself for the whole night. No one’s going to make him watch anything in which roses are accepted or torches are extinguished or top models are sent packing for only showing Miss Tyra one look.88 I’m pretty sure his plans include his special-occasion small-batch bourbon and a German death metal concert video. He’s thrilled.”

  Despite the weather, I’m glad for another opportunity to work toward my Jenaissance. I couldn’t have started this whole process of self-improvement at a more fortuitous time because I’ve got to get my fat mouth in check soon. It’s not just that people think I’m a jerk; that’s nothing new. But lately my thoughtless chatter has cost me serious cash. Case in point? The new television. We didn’t get it because we both wanted it or planned for it or, for that matter, even agreed on it. Nope, I kind of had to buy it for Fletch because I said something dumb.

  My favorite indie book store, the Book Cellar,89 arranged a rock-and-roll book event, and my friend Jolene was in town to participate. She wrote a memoir about being a Goth girl in the eighties and how music helped her through a desperately dark time in her life. A few other authors were included—one woman who wrote a YA novel about how punk rock led her back to her mother and another guy with the best title ever—Hairstyles of the Damned. The last author at the event was Chris Connelly.

  According to Fletch, if you don’t have the musical sensibilities of a strip club DJ, you’ll recognize his name. Should your memory need refreshing, Chris played with Ministry, RevCo,90 and Pigface, all of whom are famous for their groundbreaking work on the industrial music scene. Chris wrote a genuine life-of-an-alternative-rock-star memoir, which he read from at the event.

  Jolene had to point Chris out to me at first because I was expecting a mohawked/dreadlocked/guy-linered thrash rocker all done up in leather and skinny jeans and anarchy patches. What I didn’t expect was an affable fellow with a haircut that could pass muster at any investment bank. He was clad in a green wool sweater and regular old loose-fit jeans and looked exactly like someone you’d ping for advice about whether organic heirloom tomatoes were in season if he was shopping beside you at Whole Foods. Seeing him messed with my preconceptions—I didn’t know you could be punk rock without looking punk rock.

  I decided to ask Chris to sign a book for Fletch because he was in some of his all-time-favorite bands and Fletch has such respect for him. In fact, he credits Chris’s music for his own Renaissance.91 Last summer, Fletch was drowning in job stress and drinking more than he should to compensate, and he wasn’t happy with his overall physical and mental state. Although he enjoyed working out, he’d yet to make it a habit. One morning, he woke up early and decided that instead of rolling over and going back to sleep, he’d get up and go to the gym. He’d put on his iPod and crank RevCo, and that would inspire him to push harder every time he hit the gym.

  Now he gets up at four a.m. almost every day to lift weights before work. His dedication to his new lifestyle is an inspiration. He’s energized, he’s happy, and he’s lost a good twenty pounds. He looks and feels better now than he did in college. Cocktails are for special occasions because otherwise they mess up his workout schedule. I’m superproud of him and I only resent him a tiny bit for not starting the summer before when I was working on Such a Pretty Fat.92

  Anyway, when it was my turn to get the book signed, I recognized the gravity of the situation and my nervous-talking thing took hold and my mouth hip-checked my decorum into the wall.

  “Ohmigod, hi, Chris, hi!” I exclaimed, thrusting a copy of his book at him. “Can you make this out to Fletch? That’s my husband and I want this for him because he spends every morning at the gym with you! You’ve, like, totally turned his life around and he’s all healthy now because of your music, which frankly is a bit shouty for me, but that’s neither here nor there. Point is that every day at the ass crack of dawn he’s up and he’s got you on his iPod and he’s working away and . . .” And I kind of went on like this for another few minutes. I’d relay the entire conversation, but my shame at what happened next is making me blank out on the details.

  Apparently while I was busy babbling—possibly93 spitting—at some point in my superspeedy diatribe I gave Chris the idea that Fletch was not listening to his music while huffing away all punk rock by lifting heavy iron bars but instead that his music was spurring Fletch on in spin class.

  Chris signed Fletch’s book wishing him the best of luck and to “Keep spinning.” And Chris is a rock star, so I didn’t want to correct him and tell him, “No, no, you got it wrong,” so now Fletch’s idol thinks he takes spin class and most likely walked away from our encounter wondering how the hell one spins to Pigface.

  And then—then!—I asked to get a picture together and he sweetly obliged each of the fifteen times I demanded because the shots wouldn’t save because I’d filled up my BlackBerry’s memory by taking too damn many photos of my new dining room table, which I then inadvertently admitted out loud and Jolene had to take the photo with her camera because I was really starting to make him nervous.

  To recap, Fletch’s icon believes: (a) he spins and (b) he’s married to an idiot with a predilection for fast-talking and table porn.

  This would be the equivalent of Fletch telling Candace Bushnell I bought all my handbags at Kmart.

  After that, I pretty much had no choice but to buy Fletch the new flat-screen TV he wanted for the media room. Granted, all of our money is pooled, but somehow he found victory in me writing the check.94 Fortunately, I had the wherewithal not to tell Chris that Fletch couldn’t come to the signing because he’d had a run-in with Thanksgiving leftovers that had turned; otherwise I’d have been on the hook for a s
urround-sound system, too.

  For a while we drive in contented silence. Stacey’s paying strict attention to the slick roads while I’m lulled by the gentle back-and-forth motion of the windshield wipers. Stacey breaks the stillness by asking me, “How are you feeling about tonight? Are you still worried about talking to people at the cast party?”

  “Actually, I’m kind of okay. I figured out what my problem is. It’s confidence.” I wag my finger at her before she can protest. “Bup, bup, before you disagree, I realize I’m always going on about my own self-confidence. I mean, we’ve established that we’re both girls who like ourselves and how we look and what we’re about. That’s not the issue. What’s going on here is situational confidence. I discovered I can only be confident in a situation if I’ve been in it before. I have trouble with firsts.”

  “Since you’ve already been to a cast party, it’s old hat? No big deal?”

  “Exactly. I can be my usual calm, cool, collected self now. It’s totally the Eliza Doolittle syndrome.”

  Stacey clicks on her turn signal and we ease onto a side street. The tires crunch in the snow. “How do you figure?”

  “The first time she had to talk like a lady in public, she was sharting herself. She was under pressure not just internally, but from Higgins and, at least tangentially, Pickering, too. But as soon as she got that initial conversation under her belt, it was easy-peasy. She’d done it before and knew what to expect, so she handled herself beautifully.”

  “Except for the ‘move your bloomin’ arse!’ bit.”

  I stare straight ahead. “Rome was not built in a day, Stacey.”

  “So you’re good.”

  “I am unflappable,” I agree.