The deal was that some of the inmates would play the crazy people in the play. The mob. Like it would be therapy for them, and fifty bucks apiece for us. It’s set in the French Revolution and I guess I was so convincing that these method-acting crazies started coming out of the wings and harassing me! They were talking building a guillotine! That’s how convincing I was. The mob literally chased me off the stage and out of the auditorium, trashing the place along the way, thank God! That allowed me to beat them to my car. In high heels! The cops thought I was a drag queen! They wanted to charge me for inciting a riot! What did all the mayhem cost? Our fifty bucks! You can imagine how popular I was with my peers. But it couldn’t be helped. Whatever role I play I give it my all. I can proudly say that. Anyway, that’s how bad it is out there for us actors. It’s all revivals and musicals. Stratford even! You know what the latest thing is? Musicals about dead country and western performers. You know, Hank Williams, Johnny Cash. A band and a singer. No plot, a little dialogue and one hurting song after another. That’s the formula. You could almost hear the cheering when Waylon Jennings kicked it. Fresh material!   People who should be imprisoned in Dollywood or Branson flock to these things. But like I say, the stage is a vipers nest of narcissism. And a lot of them are Brits. God knows what dreary northern industrial wasteland they hail from. Or Brit wannabes with their fake accents. They say it raises your perceived IQ by fifty points. Not for me it doesn’t. Say, is your accent genuine?

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