Live, from the land of lemons and incest

Well, that's a little unfair, I suppose, regarding the incest. But the lemons are accurate.

I was thinking back last night to the spring of 2001, when we performed Motti Lerner's Autumn. Does anyone else remember that wonderful Israeli debacle? It spawned some deliciously multilayered quotes (such as "I said ghetto fabulous, not ghetto ridiculous!"), gave me the chance to smack a few people across the face (acting or not? - always an interesting debate), and gave us cast members a family tree the likes of which has never again been seen (which complemented the theme of incest quite nicely), complete with a violent, pitchfork-induced death scene.

Or the final dress rehearsal (an hour before showtime) where no one could remember how the second act should start? How many costume changes did we go through in a 3-foot square space? Should it always be that hard to push a wheelchair up a ramp?

It's telling, though, that despite all the "drama," this show actually turned into a legitimate piece of theater. No one flubbed a line. We all managed to be onstage for our cues. No one came on stage either barefoot or naked. It's hard to avoid rising to the occasion when the Israeli Ambassador and Izhak Rabin's son are both attending your inaugural (and only) performance. I think I may even have managed to have a nervous breakdown - precipitating the aforementioned pitchfork murder - onstage (which was, incidentally, supposed to happen).

It's a little early in my life for nostalgia, I'll grant you, but it's amazing to me to be living in a place that I once had to conjour up in my imagination. So, hats off to Ephraim and Regina, and to their dysfunctional little piece of Zion. There's a little piece of me, regardless of my politics, that is still trying my damnedest to grow lemons.