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.
