Who am I, where am I, what the hell am I doing?

I was once in a community theater production of Annie, and the director, trying to get her large & varied cast into character, suddenly wheeled on one young ingenue and said: WHO are you, WHERE are you and WHAT are you doing? The ingenue helpfully replied: "I'm Rhonda Jane, I'm in Town Theater, and we're rehearsing Annie."

I ask these questions of myself quite often, out of the necessity of reminding myself which life I happen to be in at the moment, and lately, which time zone and country.

We're back since Monday, and I've had a very full week. But there's a part of me that has post-show homesickness, and I look at my watch and think "it's curtain time in Dublin" and "I wonder what those kids from Indiana are doing."

I still have to write up a bunch of stuff for the Frommer's website, and I'd like to do it before it gets too stale in my mind. I curated my reading series, Drunken! Careening! Writers! last night, and was thrilled with the writers. I've gone through the copyedited files of my New York City book. I wrote a short play which was due to a festival today. I'm trying (unsuccessfully) to schedule our next meeting of the EAT Playwrights Circle. I have a play reading of a full-length next Saturday, May 30!

So it's not like I'm napping here. In fact, I would prefer a little time to cogitate, to simmer, to let things take root, but that's not going to happen. Fortunately, we've got the three-day weekend, and I'm determined to get to the end of my stay in Dublin before it's a week since we came home.

Ahem. (Or, a ham, as the case may be).

Saturday (May 17) was a good and bittersweet day. It was the last day of our show; Deb, our director, was coming in to see it, and whatever else she could in her 2 days in town. We'd coordinated via email to meet at the Mermaid Cafe at 1.

I'd arrived at the last hotel of my stay, The Morgan, which would host me for two nights. The Morgan, along with The Morrison (of the legendary bathroom) and The Clarence (owned by Bono, where I stayed in a suite last year), is considered one of the hippest hotels in Dublin (if not Europe). While my room was being prepared, I sat in the lobby and gazed out the front window where they seemed to be shooting a short film out on Temple Bar. A pretty woman walked down the street in front of The Morgan. She did it again. And again.
And soon my room was ready, and I went up in the Mona Lisa elevator (pictured at the top of this post). They'd put me in what they call an "apartment," that is a nice suite with a full kitchen and living room, the bedroom separated from the living area by a clear glass wall and doors with the word "DREAM" inscribed on them. We later opined that the words are there so people don't walk into the walls. I bet they still have to clean faceprints off of them.

The room faced the back, a blessing in a Temple Bar hotel. Staying in a Temple Bar hotel on the weekend is rather like staying on Bourbon St. in New Orleans any night of the week. You'd better have double- or triple-paned windows, or a room at the back.

I got settled in and headed out to the Mermaid Cafe, on Dame Street, just a few blocks from The Morgan. I realized I looked rumpled, because I was well into the "recycling" part of my wardrobe, which I had carefully rolled and packed, but never unpacked because I was staying in a different hotel every night. I like the Mermaid Cafe (and wrote about it last year). I said that if I lived in Dublin, it would be my Zuni, though Jamie pointed out that it doesn't have a full bar. It's awfully pretty, though, and has a great menu. The "stunningly fit" Hunter Gilmore decided he'd allow himself to eat more than fruit and vegetables at lunch; playing the part of a strung-out junkie, he'd been stricter about diet and exercise than Jillian Michaels. Hunter talked about the great meal he'd have when he didn't have to take off his shirt every night. I'd had my usual massive Irish breakfast a few hours before, and ordered the best seafood chowder I've had. Well, maybe as good in Provincetown, but it was very, very close. It was a good, fast lunch (because lots of us had tickets to matinees), and we savored the moment. I was the only one at the table who'd been able to catch any of the other shows, and I reported on them. This was the cast and Terra's rare chance to see another show, and they went through the program to decide which new friends to visit.

I was going off-campus, so to speak. I'd been seeing posters for a show called "Only an Apple," by Tom MacIntyre, directed by Selina Cartmell, at the Abbey, in their Peacock Theatre (the downstairs one that generally does new works). On their website, the play was described as follows:

"Only an Apple is a lusty and disquieting tale of an ailing playboy Taoiseach. On the brink of being overthrown by upstart Government Chief Whip McPhrunty, the Taoiseach must act fast. Enter surprise guests - Queen Elizabeth the First and Grace O’Malley. The brazen administrations of these fantasy creatures wreak havoc among the men. Are these women sexual playthings or more sinister messengers of fate." I knew that Taoiseach is the title used by the Irish Prime Minister, and that Grace O'Malley was a pirate (and not just because there was a terrible Broadway musical about her). I wanted to see a play that was Irish in Ireland. (There was a production of All My Sons on at the Olympia, but I wasn't going to see an Arthur Miller play in Ireland. If I'd had the time, I would also have gone to see Michael Collins, the musical). So I dashed across the Liffey, and found the Abbey easily. The Peacock space is, I'm sure, considered their "second" space at the Abbey, Ireland's National Theatre. (Why can't WE have a national theater, mommy? Mr. President? Can you do something about that, Mr. Landesman?) The Peacock is also a space a lot of Off-Broadway companies would cherish, and which would send any off-off company into paroxysms of unbelieving happiness. The set was shiny and well-built; huge portraits hung out on the walls, extending from the "reception room" on stage, past the edge of the stage, out into the house.

A young man in tails came out and made the cellphone announcement, welcoming us in Gaelic. He turned out to be one of the cast, in a non-speaking role. There were at least 2 or 3 guys who did nothing but come on and move things, and take them off, and join in the musical number (yes, there was a musical number). There were two actors who appeared in only one scene. A play with a cast larger than four and an actual set! Be still my heart!

The language was English, but it didn't fit my ear. When the butler spoke, I couldn't make out what he was saying. The Taoiseach himself had a grand accent that seemed like it must have been upper class. In addition to the language, the structure of the play was mysterious. It was like a dream, and characters entered and exited in clouds of smoke, doors and windows opened of their own accord, and wolfhounds, peacocks and horses prowled the grounds just outside the massive windows.

At the end of the first act, Queen Elizabeth and Grace O'Malley sang a song called "Pussy Drives the Train." Yes, THAT kind of pussy. As they sang, the other cast members emerged from the doors and windows, masked as peacocks or dogs, and performed intricate dance moves, singing along with the Queen and the Pirate.

At intermission, I bought a copy of the play, so I could read what had just happened.

I love that I can buy a copy of the play I am seeing (with everyone's bios and information about the designers) in the lobby. As I perused it for the finer points of the plot, I got some of the cultural references, and understood why the butler talked like that (he was from Cavan, apparently). I'd also looked up the reviews online, and they were mixed. The critics didn't understand a lot of it either, but I didn't care. The actors were flinging themselves about the stage as if their lives depended on it, and the design and directorial touches were enough to make me fan myself over their beauty. There was even a bit of snogging between Queen Elizabeth and Grace O'Malley, which was a pleasant lagniappe.

Afterward, my mind was a tumult of language and ideas, and I was almost glad I hadn't gone to see the play with anyone, so I could just think about it on the way back to the hotel. I laid down to nap, and even dreamed of it. I didn't hit a second matinee because I was planning on staying to see the cabaret after our show; four shows in a day would have been a record for me, but it'll have to wait until I am better rested.

So I made it to the Cobalt Cafe to find that we were sold out, which was great, but I might not be able to see the show, which was not. Deb had bought a ticket, as had Zeke, Jason's partner. So they got to sit down. I wedged myself in the back, and sat on a barstool. J. wasn't feeling well, and not up for standing for the length of the show, so he peeled off back to the hotel. The Fraulein started the evening off again, though she'd changed her act completely since the first night; she'd added a long monologue and "backstory" for her character, and I didn't think it worked. In fact, it was kind of a buzzkill. That's something I've seen performers do on occasion: they play something well, and it gets a good response, then they immediately do something different, instead of expanding on the parts that got a good reaction.

It's one thing to make wholesale changes from night to night if you're doing your own evening, but if you're fronting an evening of short work, you have to think how it will flow into the next piece, and what kind of energy you want people to take from the start of the evening.

The audience stayed with it, though it was a very quiet group. I saw Brian Merriman beforehand (he produced/appeared in the "Singing Out Six" cabaret act that followed the shorts Friday/Saturay). Brian told me he'd like us to perform "The Adventures of..." at the gala the next night: the entire play! I was touched, and thrilled. Hunter was also thrilled, as it meant he could start eating again a day early. (He leaves his shirt on for "The Adventures of...")

Deb and our cast hung around for the singing, and the Cobalt is a great space for cabaret. Brian complained of a bout with sinus and lung trouble, and said he'd asked several friends to join him: there was our buddy Rian, and some other guys (no program!) including one fellow, Eoin Cannon, who arrived late...he'd just finished his evening's performance in Michael Collins, in the lead role! That's him at the left. Mmmm. He sang a hysterical song called "Skanky Ho," which he delivered with a Broadway-level gleam and legit voice. Rian rocked us with selections from "Legally Blonde" and "Altar Boyz," (he is totally an Altar Boy). And so on and so on and scooby dooby dooby...

They closed with "Seasons of Love," and everyone sang along. And then it was off to the bar, at well after midnight, but the spirit was definitely willing, and the music at the Front Lounge was excellent, and Chris Weikel had found himself a devout fan who looooooooved Pig Tale, and we all had a fine time until they played, "Dueling Banjos," which Rian opined was so we'd all go away. And we did.

...until tomorrow, and the big gala.