I Live for Cast Parties.
The cast party that was held, as they often are, in a sloping journey from The Old Fitzroy tavern to the Budgie Jar late last December for the play I had written, was a typical refelection of the scores of cast parties I have attended since deep childhood. The stage has few rewards for those on or behind it. So the piss up at the end of a season is always worth tying on, at least for that one last sweep of the eraser on the blackboard of life, before coming to in the daylight of unemployement.
My first cast party I woke up. The proximity of females during the amateur production of Wind In the Willows had been unsettling enough for private school Ferret Number Nine, I had befriended few ceptin the guy on the piano and a Fieldmouse. But at the party everything changed, Moley and Ratty got it on. Washerwomen got their tits out. The pianist handed me my first hard liquor. I was never the same again. All the egocentric tensions of theatre, all the stupid rules get overtaken by emotion, grass and the notion that we're all only a basketful of oranges away from a whore's proffession. People disappear stage left into dark corners: Since we may never see each other again, fancy a, you know, shag?
Shit spills out over the punch and things fall into a predicatbly delicious and hedonistic pattern:
If two actors were going steady when the play started, this is the night it will end in a blistering screaming match.
If two actors have started making the beast during the production, this is the night they will show everyone just what kind of beast they've been shaping.
People who got free tickets to the last show in order to come to the party will tell you how important you are.
People who had to pay to see a closing performance full of tomfoolery and in-jokes will rightly claim bewilderment.
The cast square will stay later than they ever have before and will ask the female lead loudly to return home with him to his bedsit.
You will agree to write evryone a part in the next thrilling chapter of your literary career, tomorrow.
The musical director will remind you you owe him several years worth of hard liquor.
You will lose the rest of the night with a girl who hated you from something else, but seems to have wrestled her devils at least for another beer.
You will hug people too many times.
The tequila will mix with the tears as you scream your lineage to Shakespeare into the Taylor Square morning.
My first cast party I woke up. The proximity of females during the amateur production of Wind In the Willows had been unsettling enough for private school Ferret Number Nine, I had befriended few ceptin the guy on the piano and a Fieldmouse. But at the party everything changed, Moley and Ratty got it on. Washerwomen got their tits out. The pianist handed me my first hard liquor. I was never the same again. All the egocentric tensions of theatre, all the stupid rules get overtaken by emotion, grass and the notion that we're all only a basketful of oranges away from a whore's proffession. People disappear stage left into dark corners: Since we may never see each other again, fancy a, you know, shag?
Shit spills out over the punch and things fall into a predicatbly delicious and hedonistic pattern:
If two actors were going steady when the play started, this is the night it will end in a blistering screaming match.
If two actors have started making the beast during the production, this is the night they will show everyone just what kind of beast they've been shaping.
People who got free tickets to the last show in order to come to the party will tell you how important you are.
People who had to pay to see a closing performance full of tomfoolery and in-jokes will rightly claim bewilderment.
The cast square will stay later than they ever have before and will ask the female lead loudly to return home with him to his bedsit.
You will agree to write evryone a part in the next thrilling chapter of your literary career, tomorrow.
The musical director will remind you you owe him several years worth of hard liquor.
You will lose the rest of the night with a girl who hated you from something else, but seems to have wrestled her devils at least for another beer.
You will hug people too many times.
The tequila will mix with the tears as you scream your lineage to Shakespeare into the Taylor Square morning.
posted by tms at 1:38 AM
1 Comments:
What? You mean our cast parties weren't totally unique and unlike any in the history of mixing thespians, free booze and a whole lot of in-jokes that the people who came for the bump-out and the free booze never get but laugh the loudest anyway.
I'm in the early stages of a co-op myself - not as cast, thank god! - and it's so interesting watching the cast and crew size each other up in advance for cast party "favours". Nice to know some things are universal!
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