When auditioning for a play, perhaps it is wise to choose one in a language you actually can speak. Something from this planet, perhaps. But no — I decided to try out for a play that was performed entirely in the Star Trek language: "It's an Honorable Life," aka "It's a Wonderful Life" in Klingon.
It's an actual language, with words and rules. Because some fellow geeks can understand it, if you forget your lines you can't just make up stuff and grunt like someone trying to bring up a bolus of meat.
But not many people know it, because the practical and vocational opportunities to shout "M'FG gli'pARG!" at confused people are as rare as you might think.
Perhaps an armchair psychologist would say I decided to audition because I wanted to fail. This was daunting, after all. The whole "acting" thing. In front of strangers, no less.
But I signed up and went to the Mounds theater, where I was handed a form. There was a space for previous experience: year, play, role, venue. I wrote down my entire theatrical history: 1969, Boy, "Ah Wilderness," NDSU.
Too bad I hadn't brought along my notice from the Fargo Forum, which my mother had proudly clipped; I believe my performance was described as "convincing," meaning I, a boy, did a reasonable job of playing a boy.
I had momentarily forgotten about the role in the junior high play, where I was Cowboy No. 2. I think I did an excellent job of summing up the way lonely men find comfort in structure and the enforcement of societal norms when I said, "We could get up a posse."
Aside from that, though, nothing — beyond the theatricality of daily life. You know what I mean. We're all acting, a little. Granted, you never turn on the TV and see someone say, "And the Tony for best combination of rude gestures and incredulous expressions of the stupidity of humanity goes to Bob Johnson for his role in 'Cut Off by Another Car on 394!'" But we all follow a social script to keep society civil, or at least we should.
Anyway. Between signing up and going to the audition, a family obligation arose that made it difficult to appear in several of the presentations, something I announced as soon as I arrived. The director kindly explained that one of the prerequisites for acting in a show is, in fact, showing up. I saw his point. It's not as if you can pop open a laptop and Zoom your role.
I prevailed upon them to let me audition anyway, and they kindly agreed. I had to cold-read some absolute gibberish, and I quickly realized that it had been years — decades — since I had auditioned for anything.
Our early years are full of auditions. First dates are auditions. Job interviews are auditions. No one ever shakes your hand and says, "Congratulations, you got the job of being an adult, and you start on Monday," because adulthood is a title bestowed by rote. Your success depends on a hundred little moments of standing in front of someone and playing a part as best as you can.
Auditioning for the play was fun, and I left happy, with a new resolution. If I get a little lift from auditioning, I can audition for every possible play and tell them, "Oh, by the way, I'll be out of town for half the run."
If that sounds evasive and rather juvenile, well, remember: I was a very convincing boy.
