TEAM LAST CALL

I know what you’re thinking: “What about the hammer dulcimer? You can’t have a party without a hammer dulcimer!”

And you’re absolutely right, provided that you’re going to be partying with a bunch of theater people.

Ah, theater people, those dancing, prancing champions of the unitard! Those hand-waving, foot-stomping bearers of top-hat and cane, gallivanting about in a dream world where the spotlight never fades, where the curtain never falls, where every new emotion is an excuse to break into song! Tra-la-la!

My wife is an actress, which means that I’ve spent a disturbingly large portion of my life around theater people over the past few years. Time and time again I’ve found myself backstage after a show, backed into a corner by a dozen or so manic people kicking their legs into the air, waving their jazz hands in my face and singing songs about Chicago or New York or Gary, Indiana, their stage makeup caked to their faces, their bodies jiggling around in little black tights, their thin mustaches glistening with sweat. And those are just the women.

I usually think of myself as a reasonably tolerant person. Blacks, whites, gays, straights, even Creed fans – I believe that all people have a right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Unless those people root against the Eagles or are some kind of Nazi. Which is, of course, redundant.

But I really draw the line at theater people. Theater people should be herded together and shipped off to a desert island, where they could start their own country. They could call it the United Federation of Flamboyance, or maybe the Republic of Obnoxious Peoples. Their national anthem could be “There’s No Business Like Show Business,” and their flag could have a picture of a dozen or so men snapping their fingers and doing that crouch-walk.

One nation, under Robert Goulet, indefatigable, with feather boas and sequins for all.

My wife, fortunately, is a clear exception to the theater people rule, mostly because she’s missing the mutant chromosome that causes them to randomly launch into songs from “A Chorus Line” in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

But that doesn’t stop her from going to cast parties, and it doesn’t stop her from dragging me along with her when, given the choice, I would rather run through an alligator pit with nothing on but an all-beef speedo.

I know, I’m being a little dramatic. But then again, so is my wife! (Thanks, I’ll be here all week.)

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be on acid, go crash a cast party. It’s like going to a psychedelic circus where all the clowns are wearing “Phantom of the Opera” T-shirts and the big-top attraction is – that’s right – the theater people, who never fail to take advantage of a captive audience, even if that audience is made up of one grumpy husband. They never, ever – not even if you fake a seizure – stop performing.

I think my favorite cast party took place last winter at a relatively upscale eatery. My wife and I were scrunched into a table of 20 or so theater people and were enjoying some post-show cocktails and hors d’oeuvres when one of the cast members suddenly disappeared under the table. He popped up a few moments later and pulled out – this is way too good for me to make up – a real hammer dulcimer, plopping it nonchalantly on the table like a dinner napkin. He then proceeded to serenade the entire restaurant with a particularly piercing rendition of Crosby, Stills & Nash’s “Southern Cross.”

I was absolutely mortified. I tried to shrink down into my chair to avoid the accusing stares coming from the surrounding tables. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the playing stopped. The dulcimer player quietly slid his instrument back under the table, picked up his fork and, in the embarrassing silence, began eating. Just like that.

OK, I thought, that wasn’t so bad. That’s about the time that Gene, the gaunt photographer with a ponytail and black turtleneck, decided to pass around his portfolio. When the photos made their way to my end of the table, I studied them with curiosity. They were black and white shots, sort of blurry, with lots of strange orbs and blotches.

I picked up one of the photos and held it close to my face. Was that a turtle? Was it an arrangement of fruit? And that’s when I realized that the entire portfolio, every last shot in the book, was of Gene, naked as can be, from places you didn’t even think a camera could fit.

And why not? Why shouldn’t someone bring a book of naked self-portraits to a dinner party? Why shouldn’t someone hide a dulcimer under the table?
This is theater! Tra-la-la!

From the restaurant, the party moved to the house of one of the producers, a spacious house plastered with lots of theater memorabilia and, naturally, an entire room filled with bongos, acoustic guitars and Casio keyboards – the holy trinity of musical annoyance.

“Here, you play these!” yelled one theater person, shoving a pair of bongos into my hands. “Who knows the opening number from ‘Cats?’”

He might as well have asked, “Hey, who here has ever fantasized about making out with Orlando Bloom?” The entire ensemble flew out of their seats like they’d seen the ghost of Ethel Merman and began prancing around in circles like rabid woodland creatures, each desperately trying to out-obnoxious the other, and each one somehow succeeding.

There they were, 20 grown men and women, all flapping and hollering, all desperately trying to be the center of attention of an audience made up entirely of people trying to be the center of attention, people who no one but themselves will pay attention to in the first place.

Simple people, complicated situation.

The world of theater people is an ugly one. If you’re not in it, don’t join it. And if you ever get sucked in, well, you can hang out with me at the cast parties. I’ll be the one with a glass of wine the size of a Subaru. Tra-la-la!