Mike Myke was one of those indescribably charming gossip whores who gives drama geeks a bad name. Though he wasn’t particularly handsome, nice, talented, or smart, he somehow managed to get almost anyone to do exactly what he wanted. That, alone, could be seductive. He also gave a kick-ass audition, I’ll give him that.

I remember he had a huge head. Physically. It was like a moon. Maybe what people thought was magnetism was actually the gravitational pull of his head.

Anyway.

He would ask very personal questions upon meeting someone, giving him/her the impression that he was interested in knowing “the person inside,” but what he was really doing was gathering ammunition to later use in making nasty jokes behind his new BFF’s back. He would assume a deer-in-the-headlights look when approaching a “friend” for advice, then turn around and do whatever the fuck he wanted, usually trashing the friend who advised him against it. I saw him socially victimize enough people for me to conclude that one would have to be daft to trust him, so he and I were never very close.

Despite the fact that I knew he was basically a walking roofie with a tenor voice and an allegiance with Satan, he and I did get along. I was young, and Mike Myke could be a lot of fun. Even though he was rough and grabby, and would act like it was my fault if I pulled away from him pressing his creepy self against me and grunting in my ear, he was spontaneous and energetic, and made people dance and laugh. We were constantly in rehearsal together for one show or another, so there wasn’t much time for animosity. We were buddies.

Somehow, Myke managed to rope me into doing two of the worst shows in existence, both of which he wrote, directed, and starred in, like some kind of self-loathing Clint Eastwood of questionable sexual identity. I have to give him a bit of credit, because he put a lot of work into the shows, especially considering he was only sixteen and seventeen, but they were SO BAD.

Granted, I haven’t seen every stage production ever made, but I’d bet money that somewhere in hell, the shows in question are numbers one and two on a VH-1 countdown for “Most Poorly Conceived Rock Musicals of All Time.”

I knew that when I was in them, and I support it to this day.

The first was “City of Dreams,” a sort of “Fame” meets “Flashdance” meets my own personal nightmare, in which a bunch of wide-eyed kids moved to the Big, Bad Apple to MAKE IT! Featuring the music of The Doors, Don Henley, Burt Bacharach, and Irene Cara, among others.

Yeah, I know.

Synopsis:

Actor Boy, Actress Girl, and Dancer Girl move to New York. All become friends. Actor Boy and Actress Girl fall in love. All three characters MAKE IT BIG! Actress Girl says “I HAVE CANCER,” and the illness quickly takes its toll as Actress Girl dons a do-rag (indicating hair loss) and lounges fatally on a sofa, in utter defeat. Actress dies, but not before managing to join all main characters in a rousing chorus of “That’s What Friends Are For.”

Hilarity does not ensue. Not intentionally.

Take, for example, the horrible (but retrospectively funny) role of Gramma Kay.

Gramma Kay, one of the supporting characters, was a homeless woman who assumedly lived ON THE PARK BENCH outside the main characters’ apartment complex. Whenever they passed, they’d sit down with her to talk about their stupid white kid troubles, and hear her espouse her urban homeless wisdom. The very concept was stupid enough to make my brain bleed.

I think my friend Sarah, who was guilted into playing Gramma Kay, put it best when she asked Mike Myke, “If they love Gramma Kay so much, why don’t they invite her inside for a fucking sandwich?”

Gramma Kay was probably one of the most offensive and ignorantly thought-out characters to ever grace the American stage. She was obviously created with a black character in mind, by which I mean that her lines were liberally sprinkled with “chile” and “Gramma Kay thinks,” and she generally sounded like a retarded character from a Zora Neale Hurston novel.

Every other homeless character in the show was menacing and desperate. Gramma Kay was sassy sunshine and roses. Apparently, the rough living didn’t bother her none. Shitty life and shitty weather might befall rough-sleepers in other cities, but not in the CITY OF DREAMS!

Thing was, her character was obviously created by a suburban white kid. I grew up in a small, homogeneous New England city, where black people may as well never have been invented.

My role? Oh, I played the Dancer Girl’s teacher and mentor. The casting conversation went as follows:

Myke: I want you to play Madame Gray, the dance teacher.
Me: Shouldn’t dance teachers know how to dance?
Myke: Maybe. So?
Me: Myke. I don’t dance.
Myke: Oh, yeah. [Cue Idea Light Bulb of Doom] Well, Madame Gray did! Before … THE ACCIDENT!

So, my character was given a cane, and there were some lines thrown in to my one scene (thank God there was only one) alluding to how I worshipped the Lord of the Dance before … The Accident.

It sucked.

I had to sing “What a Feelin’” from “Flashdance.” That sucked, too.

I could probably still karaoke the hell out of that song, but you’d have to buy me a shitload of drinks, first.

And oh, the behind-the-scenes drama!

Most memorable was that the choreographer, who was once Mike’s Myke’s best friend, quit the week before the show. He still had a couple of big numbers to choreograph, but became tired of the utter chaos that was our rehearsal/production schedule, and was sick to death of being discounted by Herr Director, so he left in the middle of rehearsal. I loved him for that.

Thus ended their friendship, and probably their unspoken, forbidden love for one another. Now, I’m not making light of the coming-out process, which must be very painful and confusing when a person is in high school, (or any time,) but hey. Myke and the choreographer spent hours debating which member of EnVogue was the hottest, while inventing their own routine to “Free Your Mind.” Come on.

For the record, the choreographer, who came out a year later, was an ex-boyfriend of mine.

This show wanted SO badly to be “Fame.” We even sang the Body Electric at the curtain call.

NEXT!

Despite my better judgment, the following year, when I was seventeen, I agreed to do a second hell-sent “rock” musical with Mike Myke.

I won’t write much about this one, because the other recap was lengthy enough, and I’m getting sleepy.

Anyway, as if it wasn’t bad enough to be in a wannabe “Fame” written/starring/directed by a boy who’d never stepped foot out of Smalltown, USA, I agreed to be yet another of Myke’s shows, a wannabe “The Godfather.”

Oh, lord.

In this “Omerta”, I played the Italian mother of two mobster brothers who ended up dueling to the death. I’m honestly not sure how much more awful this was than “City of Dreams,” because I maintained my distance as much as possible. I don’t even remember which of my onstage sons died, but I’m willing to bet it wasn’t Mike Myke.

The (paraphrased) casting conversation for “Omerta: The Code of Silence” was as follows:

Myke: I want you to play the Italian Mama!
Me: Myke. I’m already in a show.
Myke: It’s not a huge part, but it’s important, and I immediately thought of you.
Me: I’m an Italian mama?? [Thinking: “But I’m a tiny, skinny, Irish chick.” Which I was, at the time. I'm still Irish. Not as skinny.]
Myke: You can be! You’ll use an accent, and we’ll age you with makeup.
Me: A very small part? Okay.
Myke: Yay! And as Mama Leone, you’ll sing “Anthony’s Song” by Billy Joel!
Me: Are you serious?
Myke: Yeah! It’ll be AWESO-
Me: That song?
Myke: Yeah!
Me: No.
Myke: But your son’s name is “Anthon –“
Me: No.
Myke: But …
Me: Nuh-uh.

I’ll do a lot for my friends, even if they’re just “buddies.” Singing “And he’s trading in his Chevy for a Cadillac-ac-ac-ac-ac-ac” in front of any audience is not one of them. Never has been.

So, fuck me, I played Mama Leone. I used the accent. I sprayed my hair black with gray streaks. I was super-skinny and pale. I attended as few rehearsals as possible. I didn’t tell anyone that I was in this show. The two people who knew about it, my best friend and her boyfriend, told me I was “cute.” Bless them.

It was awful.

I remember it opening with the lead character emerging from the shadows to sing “Eye of the Tiger,” a song most often remembered for it’s place in “The Karate Kid.” Because when people think of the mafia and “Omerta: The Code of Silence”, (by the way, WHAT THE FUCK?), they obviously make the connection to a prepubescent Ralph Macchio in a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. And when people think of Myke, they think of early 1980s New Jersey machismo. Obviously.

[Ed. Note: I have since been reminded that "Eye of the Tiger" was from "Rocky III," not "The Karate Kid." But, didn't it make you a little bit happy to read the phrase "early 1980s New Jersey machismo?" Thought so.]

I remember there being a moll character, a former singing street-urchin with a gorgeous (really, this young actress had a GORGEOUS) voice, who somehow brought about the conclusive fraternal massacre. I don’t remember how.

I remember hosting the cast party, where I saw Mike Myke trying to flirt with my then 46-year-old MOTHER.

Okay, so my mom is petite and cute. She is also the person who taught me to distrust the brainless, mouth-breathing, predatory kind of charm that Myke exuded.

While Myke tried to dance with her, my mom’s face was Martha Stewart proper. Her body language was “Get the fuck away from me and my daughter, you horrible kid.”

That was the clincher for me. Thanks, Mom.

The reason this all occurred to me:

One would think that after a bit of professional experience, an actor might be able to avoid performing in bad productions. Not so.

This past Friday, my friends and I saw an awful production of what I know to be a great play. My friend, a member of the cast, comp'ed us the tickets. He was very good. Unfortunately, he only had about ten minutes onstage. Good thing it was free.

The only way anyone could have saved this production would have been to go back in time to smother the Artistic Director in his crib.

I was without my DeLorean.

I haven't seen acting that bad since high school. Maybe it was sponsored by the National Parkinson's Society, what with all the unnecessary goddamned stuttering and trembling. I think the lead actor attended the Dennis Quaid School of Acting, where students are taught that emotion is best registered by how constipated you look.

The End.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

---

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

---

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

---

««« Chicago Blogs Webring »»»

---

email:

---

words © luvabeans, 2003 - 2004