A Dramatic Turn for the Worse

Can you believe people paid 10 grand to see Gene act? Neither can he

When I naively agreed to perform in a comedy-drama for charity, I was unaware of the peculiar sort of pressure I would be under: It turned out that some people were paying as much as $10,000 for a seat. ( I like to think of myself as a sophisticated and knowledgeable patron of the arts, but the only seat for which I would pay $10,000 would be the one attached to Salma Hayek.)

I didn't learn about the pricey seats until opening night, and here is how I learned it: I drove up to the theater and parked in a section reserved for the performers. An elegant lady approached and asked if I was going to be onstage. I realized she was doing her best to avoid looking at my car but was not entirely succeeding -- the sort of thing that happens when you try to hand over cash to a homeless person without noticing the hygiene of his trousers. My car is 15 years old and is nearly indistinguishable from an industrial trash receptacle.

This woman was quite pleasant and polite, if rawther formal. I imagined her name to be something like "Pinky." I realized my error when she was summoned away by her husband, who resembled Neville Chamberlain, only more dignified. Her real name was "Bitsy."

That is when I inquired about the seat prices, and learned the terrifying truth.

I was already a little nervous, ever since receiving the script. The fact is, I always secretly wanted to be an actor, but reluctantly abandoned this career path because I have no acting talent, and physically resemble a polyp, and have a terrible voice. My voice is nasal and high-pitched. I sound like a mosquito.

To recapitulate, I am (1) ugly and (2) have a bad voice, so I was unnerved when I received the script and discovered that I would be performing in scenes with (1) George Stephanopoulos, the international heartthrob, and (2) Kojo Nnamdi, the voice of God. (If you are not a habitue of National Public Radio, Kojo Nnamdi makes James Earl Jones sound like Tweety Bird.)

This was a highly uncharacteristic production for Washington's venerable Arena Stage, in the sense that it sucked. That was sort of the idea, it turns out. None of the performers actually knew his or her lines. We read from scripts. Everyone was playing himself -- the plot involved senators and congressmen, and the kidnapping of pundits and media types -- and, apparently, mess-ups would only add to the fun. Bitsy would be laughing at us!

This is an annual event, so I asked an Arena Stage person what was the worst mess-up from years past. She said that one year someone answered a phone before it rang, which didn't seem all that terrible to me. I asked if anyone had ever, like, thrown up onstage from nervousness. She said no, but she said it in a way that led me to understand that if I wished to explore that form of artistic expression, management wouldn't mind at all.

Backstage was a madhouse. I admit I was a little awed by the celebs who were there, and at one point I told Stephanopoulos I was a fan of his show, which definitely would have been true if I had ever actually seen his show. A few minutes later, we found ourselves waiting for our cue. Our cue was to be the theme song from "Charlie's Angels," a show with which I was unfamiliar. When some music was played, I asked George if that was from "Charlie's Angels."

"No," he said. "Actually, that's the theme to my show."

The performance went off pretty well, considering. No one barfed or answered a phone that didn't ring, and more than $200,000 was raised to fund a theater arts program for inner-city kids. It was a real feel-good evening, a state of mind that continued even after the show, when I met a woman who complimented me profusely on my performance and said she reads my column all the time. She even mentioned two columns in particular. Both were by Dave Barry.

Gene Weingarten's e-mail address is weingarten@washpost.com.

Chat with him online Tuesdays at noon at www.washingtonpost.com.