Talk about a paradox (Enter a musical interlude from “Pirates of Penzance” here). Mime’s are supposed to be (usually) silent actors mimicking the life, fantasy (or drug induced stupor), social change and politics of the world around them with a gesture and rarely saying a word... if at all. Silent satirists who illustrate what they (and everyone else) sees, thinks and feels but can’t find the words (or guts) to say anything about, some are funny, some are heart wrenching, many are just plain silly or stupid. Sometimes they might lend themselves as the straight man to the Court Jester in a subtle “gotcha” moment (If you happened to be in France or the early Greek Senate).
I’ve been known to sit quietly and observe what’s going on around me tucking the experiences into my over filled filing cabinet of a brain or writing them down in my journal, which is the safer of the two “ brains” these days but let’s be honest here…I’m rarely silent. I’m the distant, sometimes (OK many times) arrogant, seemingly aloof, person who when asked a direct question will give you a direct answer regardless of how offensive it may be to the inquisitor but rarely offer an opinion out of the blue to hear the sound of my own voice. A voice I’m not overly fond of. My voice has been compared to Morgan Freeman…on helium. This would, one may think, make for a potentially good recipe as a mime…but let’s examine this all a little further.
Yoda decided to “retire” having grown weary of carrying the multitude of things required of me to venture out into the world. That and some of his antics have made him “Persona Non Grata” in many places these days. So I have been in search of a new muse to blame for some of my own foibles and have been auditioning several of late.
Every time I go to a doctor these days a new malady is discovered followed by new tests and then referrals to yet another person with initials behind their last name. More tests are done, surgery options to, hopefully, correct whatever the problem is gets discussed and then a new brace of some kind is added to the offended body part. I am becoming Iron Man one piece at a time. I wear more body armor to bed or walk in than most SWAT teams and NFL linemen wear all day. Consequently Iron Man was my first thought. Tony Stark and I have a lot in common (minus the money, cars, house, hair etc.) but Stark likes to blow his own horn as much as possible. I’m not wired that way and don’t (or won’t) blow anything (or anyone) so it’s not a perfect fit…so the search continued.
Recently Wendi and I went in search for a Halloween costume for me to wear at an upcoming event we host. I’ve often been reminded that I bear a frighteningly familial similarity to “Uncle Fester” so that might be the perfect costume to obtain. After all of the blank stares and the “Who?” questions from the young sales staff when I couldn’t find one in any of the places…I gave up. I decided to just go as myself, which according to my wife is scary enough.
I have, of late, grown fond of French Sailor Shirts. Those horizontal striped, boat necked, three-quarter or long sleeved things that just scream comfort for me. So I put one of those and a pair of black slacks on, fished one of eight or ten beret’s I have (I’ve got just as many hats as I do shoes…which is more than most women so that’s a lot) and we headed out the door. Many people thought I was wearing a “French Artist” costume…I was too embarrassed to say it wasn’t. One person looked at me and started laughing and said all I needed was white face and suspenders (which I do have…don’t ask…some parts of the eighties never seem to go away) and I could have been a mime.
The light went on in my head. “HMMMMMMMMM…a Talking Mime…I can say all kinds of bombastic shit and blame it on the white faced guy…I think I like this idea!” I thought to myself.
So RIP Yoda…the evil Mime is on its way here.
