Wormlips Does Hollywood

A while back Brian asked me to perform at a Pacifica Radio Archives fundraiser on St. Paddy’s Day. I didn’t want to. He insisted. I haven’t danced since one broken foot and one screwed-up Achilles tendon ago. Plus, I’m not very good. I wish I was. And I wish I liked dancing in front of strangers, but I don’t, though I’ve done it a lot.

But at last we reached a compromise: I would teach a step to the audience. So I dusted off my ghillies and started practicing a few nights a week.

Not only am I out of shape but I couldn’t unearth the memory of reels gone by. Luckily, one night during practice with my dancing friend Karen, my muscles suddenly took over and there was the step, back in my feet if not my brain. Odd experience.

At last the fateful weekend rolled around. While waiting at the airport yesterday, I tried to teach myself how to use my new camera, with passengers as my victims.

The second I got to the hotel l I did like in the old days: turned the shower on hot to steam out travel wrinkles in my costume. I learned that trick after I melted my cape with an iron just before my first major competition.

I was lonely and feeling sorry for myself, which happens sometimes when I’m alone in hotels at night, so I went downstairs and bought a slab of chocolate cake. Then I went to Brian’s and David’s for arts and crafts.

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Today began with Web work at the Archives. An announcement came over KPFK’s loudspeaker: “Would the Black Jesus Hippie Freak please come to the producer’s office. Black Jesus Hippie Freak: please come to the producer’s office.” No one batted an eye; a day in the life at Pacifica.

After lunch with Oleg, he introduced me to his car and the contents of its trunk, including a book in Russian (because, as he’ll tell you, he’s an immigrant).

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As the afternoon progressed, I started to get nervous about tonight’s performance. The more anxious I became, the more irritated I got with myself: “Why are you so terrified about being in front of people when so it’s so easy for everyone else? How come they can do it and you can’t?” All afternoon my battle raged under the surface. Well, maybe not under the surface. I was asked at least once, “Are you ADHD?”

I pretended to be confident and worldly when I met Patrick Bristow, the director of tonight’s show, and Lynne Stewart, who played Miss Yvonne on Pee Wee’s Playhouse. That’s Brian in the background.

It was interesting to see how an improv show evolves. It’s quite different from its dance counterpart. At the Archives Patrick took me aside to dream up possible scenarios for my participation. Could I dance onto the stage? Could I teach people a sequence of steps leading to a grand finale? “Whatever you want me to do,” I finessed.

The event was held at the Groundlings Theater on Melrose, which I hadn’t heard of but which I now know is famous for its funny alumni like Phil Hartman, Paul Reubens, Lisa Kudrow, Jon Lovitz and a bunch of others.

Once at the theater, every time my stomach knotted I chanted, “this is fun this is fun this is fun.” I’m so tired of things being fun when they’re over. I want things to be fun a little before that, at least by the middle.

Oleg guided me to the stage so I could get used to it ahead of time. I was, in fact, as deranged as I looked.

I felt so unutterably cool when someone called, “Patrick needs you on the stage.” He gathered the cast and gave everyone a skeletal outline of what he had in mind — a taste, but not enough for them to sink their teeth into. He fine-tuned my part. “You’ll come through here and dance down to this area…” “Hey, I have an idea,” I offered. “How about we don’t waste time with me doing a solo dance. I could just walk on and get straight to the participatory part!” “Hmmm… that could work,” he agreed.

Backstage before the show I asked some of the others — all comedy veterans with whom I had no business sharing a dressing room or a bill — if they still get nervous before going on. “Every time” was the surprisingly unanimous answer.

Minutes before the start, my bit got moved to the first half, so I threw my dress on and whipped my legs around a little in preparation. Here, Brian and I consult shortly before our respective appearances:

As my moment approached, I stepped onto the floor of the stage, hiding behind the backdrop as instructed, listening to the comedians and their howling fans. “This-is-fun this-is-fun this-is-fun,” I feebly attempted. I made faces at myself in the little mirror there. I stepped back off the stage and did The Pony in the props room and then went back and waited quietly till called.

I am very proud of myself because in the end, Show-Off Ginna did a pretty good job of winning over Shy-Ginna. It helped that the spotlights were so bright that I couldn’t see faces in the audience, except the cast at my feet. I don’t know if I looked nervous or acted obnoxious or what, but I managed to have fun. And because I was having fun, my legs didn’t go all wobbly the way they always do when I’m scared, so I was able to leap pretty high. I could hear the audience cheering, which made me fly higher. And as I flew higher, I noticed they cheered even louder.

Everyone should have the chance to be cheered.

Inexplicably, I walked onto stage and immediately pointed out a run in my stocking, before getting to my job of teaching audience members a reel. I hopped around the stage with The Artist Formerly Known As Miss Yvonne. By audience acclaim, she displaced me as reigning champion. My little number closed the first half of the show. Patrick came right backstage and said, “You were wonderful! You danced beautifully, and you were so charming.” I looked around. “Me?”

When the actors came back, they also said nice things. And while I don’t for a second believe the nice things, they were wonderful to hear, and it was a relief to think that I didn’t embarrass myself, or the Archives.

I was so glad to be done that I immediately pulled my off costume to get into my regular party clothes. Unfortunately, poor Michael McDonald and Jeremy Rowley were standing behind me. “Oh, sorry.” They fled at the sight.

Here’s the cast:

Let me look up their names. Okay — left to right in the second photo: Me, Ted Michaels, Lynne Stewart, Jeremy Rowley, Patrick, Karen Maruyama, Mindy Sterling, Brian, Michael McDonald and the Potato Wench. If you do a show like this, you need a director like Patrick. He’s the one who made everything alright for me.

Oleg: Thanks for coming back to say congratulations. Why didn’t you bring flowers and champagne?

Brian: You don’t read this blog, but thanks for getting me to do this. It was great.

Maybe the most amazing moment was after the show when I saw Pooh, whom I’ve known since kindergarten. “I didn’t know you could dance,” she told me. “I’d expected you to look like — you know — an amateur. But you are so good. I can’t wait to tell Sally [classmate]. I’ve seen a lot of dancing in my life, and it’s very rare that I see someone who has magic on stage, and you have it. You should have been a dancer.” I was stunned. I’m not used to praise, particularly not like this. And to get it for Irish dance, which has meant so much to me all these years … and to get it from someone from my childhood, and someone for whom I have such admiration — it made me unbelievably happy. We reminisced about Mrs. Bell, our heavily perfumed modern dance teacher who’s the reason I always hated dancing.

Pooh also said I had good legs. Everyone else tells me they’re scrawny. Really: tonight was a Very Good Night.