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I never got a chance to see Spalding Gray live, exactly, and though I've seen all his movies I'm sure they're not the same. His persona was not always likable but that was what made his stories real and valuable: he was making himself entertaining, of course, but didn't seem to be prettying himself up. As one who has spent many hours and even been paid for telling stories about myself, I have always tried to do the same.
I had a chance to see him perform once. He was going to do a show-- I think it was "The Slippery Slope--" at UC Santa Cruz when I was an undergrad there. But I had already signed up to stage manage a show, and it turned out that my little environmental theatre production (environmental as in part of the environment, not as in politically) was scheduled opposite his show in the main theatre. I was disappointed, but I figured I'd have other chances to see him.
A character gets shot at the end of my play, so I had to mix up a large bowl of stage blood (Karo syrup, red food coloring, yellow food coloring, and one drop of blue food coloring) every night. I was in the communal backstage lounge when I heard a familiar voice. But the words it spoke were anything but.
"Somebody stole my pants," it said.
I turned around. The gray-haired man talking into the pay phone in the corner, who had come in so quietly that I hadn't even noticed him, was Spalding Gray. And sure enough, he was wearing a pressed shirt and shoes, but no pants. The shirt was long enough that the effect was not obscene but merely bizarre, like a surrealist painting.
"Right out of the dressing room," he continued glumly. "No, they didn't take the shirt. Just the pants."
It didn't seem the time to declare myself his biggest fan. Besides, I had a set to dress and actors to give times to. I took my blood and myself out of the room. I never learned whether he found his pants, borrowed a pair, or relied on the desk to hide his pantless state from the audience.
I never did see him live. But I did experience a Spalding Gray moment. I've always wondered if he ever considered putting the pants theft and the tiny Jewish woman stirring a bowl of blood into a monologue, and rejected it as just too weird.
http://www.salon.com/ent/wire/2004/03/08/spalding/index.html
I had a chance to see him perform once. He was going to do a show-- I think it was "The Slippery Slope--" at UC Santa Cruz when I was an undergrad there. But I had already signed up to stage manage a show, and it turned out that my little environmental theatre production (environmental as in part of the environment, not as in politically) was scheduled opposite his show in the main theatre. I was disappointed, but I figured I'd have other chances to see him.
A character gets shot at the end of my play, so I had to mix up a large bowl of stage blood (Karo syrup, red food coloring, yellow food coloring, and one drop of blue food coloring) every night. I was in the communal backstage lounge when I heard a familiar voice. But the words it spoke were anything but.
"Somebody stole my pants," it said.
I turned around. The gray-haired man talking into the pay phone in the corner, who had come in so quietly that I hadn't even noticed him, was Spalding Gray. And sure enough, he was wearing a pressed shirt and shoes, but no pants. The shirt was long enough that the effect was not obscene but merely bizarre, like a surrealist painting.
"Right out of the dressing room," he continued glumly. "No, they didn't take the shirt. Just the pants."
It didn't seem the time to declare myself his biggest fan. Besides, I had a set to dress and actors to give times to. I took my blood and myself out of the room. I never learned whether he found his pants, borrowed a pair, or relied on the desk to hide his pantless state from the audience.
I never did see him live. But I did experience a Spalding Gray moment. I've always wondered if he ever considered putting the pants theft and the tiny Jewish woman stirring a bowl of blood into a monologue, and rejected it as just too weird.
http://www.salon.com/ent/wire/2004/03/08/spalding/index.html