I was recently asked to be in a play. It’s been 6 years since I’ve been on a stage for anything besides an LNP gig, unless you count a speaking engagment for Martin Luther King Day at a high school in rural Arizona and a couple of anxiety dreams. So this was kind of a big deal.
And it was flattering. The play was a 10 minute one act in the Boston Theater Marathon, a fundraising event at which you can watch as many of the 50 plays as you like, with all ticket sales going to charity. I got the offer through my girlfriend, who is among other things, a fantastic actress. Her employer, who is particularly well placed in the Boston theater community, said that she had a part that was just perfect for me.
Perfect? For me? Why, then it must be a very good role.
Do you think that turned out to be true? Why don’t you read the stage directions that describe my character’s entrance and then decide:
ART enters. He is naked except for a thong and knee-high leather boots. He has an anarcho-punk look. Printed on his chest, in black marker and in big letters, is the word “ART”. He turns round and his back becomes visible to the audience. On it, in black marker, is written the word “FUCKS.”
Yes, it was nice to take a break from the world of sketch comedy and sink my teeth into some real acting. I relished the opportunity to rub elbows with the theater community proper. You could say that we do theater, or you could say that we do something in theaters.
When other actors would ask me what company I was with, I had some explaining to do. Unlike them, I didn’t work with one of the seemingly infinite amount of theater ensembles from Western Massachusetts with one word names. Nor did I support my theater addiction with a desk job in one of those mysterious fields like “development” or “consulting” that must absorb all those people who majored in communications.
When I explained that I was in a comedy group, I heard a range of bewildered responses as people tried to condescend to something they didn’t quite understand. It was like a shark trying to insult a school teacher.
In the end, I found myself grateful for getting the chance to perform for a couple hundred people in one of Boston’s most prestigious theaters, and for a good cause. I also found myself scraping the word “FUCKS” off my back with cold cream.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Saturday, May 12, 2007
My Vagina (Cream)
I recently visited a dermatologist for the first time since a short, Jamaican man named Dr. Virtue burned a mole of my chest at the age of thirteen. But that was a long time ago, and now my mom doesn’t set up doctor’s appointments for me anymore. I live in a world without Virtue.
I had one question for my new doctor that burned in my mind and sometimes on my upper thighs: how to avoid irritation and chafing in the… special zone. He recommended basic hygiene, regular dustings of baby powder, and, in the event of an incident, the application of an over the counter cream. This he scrawled in Aramaic on a post-it note sponsored by a corporation whose name seemed to combine an emotion and a kind of plastic.
When the pharmacist at CVS had finally deciphered the doctor’s recommendation, she paused for a moment, looked me over, and, I later realized, assessed my gender.
“What’s this for?”
I lowered my voice and leaned in close. “Irritation in the groin.”
“Follow me,” she said.
Then, in the middle of the store, she asked: “Again, what’s this for?”
“Groin irritation” I said at a regular volume, trying to look as casual as I do when buying condoms.
She led me to an aisle with a sign that said something like “Women’s Lovely Items.” There, between of tubes of Vagisil and Spring Rain, was my cream.
I had two options: applicator shaft or vaginal suppository. I turned to my guide, but she had already high tailed it back to the safety of her counter, probably assuming that I or someone I loved had a vagina.
When I read the label more carefully, I saw that it said “Do not use unless you have had a yeast infection on your vagina before.” With those two strikes against me, I called the doctor. The receptionist answered.
“What’s your question?”
“I have a question about the warning label on my medication.”
“What’s it say?”
I told her. A pregnant silence followed.
I waited patiently while she checked with the doctor, pretending the applicator was a slide whistle.
“He says it’s fine.”
The entire episode made me feel kind of lost. Gone was the dermatologist of my youth. My new doctor didn’t provide the sense of security of one hand picked by my mom. I learned that we, the recipients of health care, must look out for our own interests. Yes, in the end, you could say that Patients is a Virtue.
------------------
Aaron Kagan practices good hygeine.
I had one question for my new doctor that burned in my mind and sometimes on my upper thighs: how to avoid irritation and chafing in the… special zone. He recommended basic hygiene, regular dustings of baby powder, and, in the event of an incident, the application of an over the counter cream. This he scrawled in Aramaic on a post-it note sponsored by a corporation whose name seemed to combine an emotion and a kind of plastic.
When the pharmacist at CVS had finally deciphered the doctor’s recommendation, she paused for a moment, looked me over, and, I later realized, assessed my gender.
“What’s this for?”
I lowered my voice and leaned in close. “Irritation in the groin.”
“Follow me,” she said.
Then, in the middle of the store, she asked: “Again, what’s this for?”
“Groin irritation” I said at a regular volume, trying to look as casual as I do when buying condoms.
She led me to an aisle with a sign that said something like “Women’s Lovely Items.” There, between of tubes of Vagisil and Spring Rain, was my cream.
I had two options: applicator shaft or vaginal suppository. I turned to my guide, but she had already high tailed it back to the safety of her counter, probably assuming that I or someone I loved had a vagina.
When I read the label more carefully, I saw that it said “Do not use unless you have had a yeast infection on your vagina before.” With those two strikes against me, I called the doctor. The receptionist answered.
“What’s your question?”
“I have a question about the warning label on my medication.”
“What’s it say?”
I told her. A pregnant silence followed.
I waited patiently while she checked with the doctor, pretending the applicator was a slide whistle.
“He says it’s fine.”
The entire episode made me feel kind of lost. Gone was the dermatologist of my youth. My new doctor didn’t provide the sense of security of one hand picked by my mom. I learned that we, the recipients of health care, must look out for our own interests. Yes, in the end, you could say that Patients is a Virtue.
------------------
Aaron Kagan practices good hygeine.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Poetry In Motion
“I walk alone, absorbed in my fantastic play, —
Fencing with rhymes, which, parrying nimbly, back away;
Tripping on words, as on rough paving in the street,
Or bumping into verses I long had dreamed to meet.”
-C.B.
Charles Baudelaire roamed the streets of Paris as a flaneur, a wandering poet in search of what we might now call “soft news.” His spleen was enormous. He floated down les avenues awash in absinthe, in a cloud of opium, being rained on by hydrogen and oxygen. A self described combatant, he fenced with the city to win its rhymes. Cities contain fences. Therefore, he might have sometimes fenced with a fence.
Replace “stroll” with “drive”, “the city” with “I-90”, and “poetry” with “blog” and you’ll see that I am exactly the same as Charles Baudelaire. He fenced for poetry, I for funny jokes. We are as one, except that I haven’t written poems called “A Hideous Jewess Lay With Me” and “To She Who Is Too Gay.”
En guarde, America!
-C.B.
Charles Baudelaire roamed the streets of Paris as a flaneur, a wandering poet in search of what we might now call “soft news.” His spleen was enormous. He floated down les avenues awash in absinthe, in a cloud of opium, being rained on by hydrogen and oxygen. A self described combatant, he fenced with the city to win its rhymes. Cities contain fences. Therefore, he might have sometimes fenced with a fence.
Replace “stroll” with “drive”, “the city” with “I-90”, and “poetry” with “blog” and you’ll see that I am exactly the same as Charles Baudelaire. He fenced for poetry, I for funny jokes. We are as one, except that I haven’t written poems called “A Hideous Jewess Lay With Me” and “To She Who Is Too Gay.”
En guarde, America!
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