After a long hiatus from acting, I have been lured back in to do another show. I started rehearsals on Tuesday, where we gathered for some basic blocking and initial scene work. And as I returned to the old routine, I remembered some of the reasons why I'd taken a break. It is because theater people are completely fucking ridiculous.

Now, don't get me wrong: I love the cast. I've worked with almost all of them before, and that happens to include my wife. They are fine folks, artistically committed to their crafts, and with talent to burn. They are also, however--just like me--mostly incomprehensible, opaque and risible. Why did I come back to work with such people--including my wife, whom I love dearly, but really, why? I don't know. It's too early to tell, really, and I frankly don't want to jinx the fact that so far I'm having a good time.

Despite the aforementioned ridiculousness et cetera--or, to use pithier term, horseshittedness--that pervades pretty much every aspect of acting and theater.

Actors maunder about over every possible nuance they can find. Last night, I wondered out loud, "Do you want two beats, then break, then another beat? And then go back in to her? Is it too much?" C., our director, managed somehow to take this absurd sentence completely seriously. "I think you can do three beats, then break." I fretted. "I don't know," I said. "Just hit all your moments," she replied. "I'll tell you if it's too much."

Go ahead and try and think about what the phrase "Just hit all your moments" could possibly mean. I'll wait. In fact, while I'm waiting, I'll go ahead and have a little think myself over the fact that at the time, it made perfect sense to me.

Minutes later, in the same discussion, we discussed a line, which referenced a waiter in that particular scene. The line indicated that the actor playing the waiter interrupted us: "He chirped and fluttered about them." The actor wondered: "So . . . how much flutter?" C. said, "You're interrupting them, but I don't want that much flutter." No word on whether or not she wanted some wow to go with that flutter. "And no chirping." We all nodded sagely. J., the actor, made a note in his script. I wondered if it was DON'T ACTUALLY CHIRP.

Later, C. told me during a break, "I know that none of the characters have a name in the show." (Without getting too much into it, the piece is a cabaret-ish sort of thing that is all derived from the writing of Dorothy Parker. So it's not your standard-issue dramatic thingama.) She continued, "But I think you should all have a name. I mean, that you know what your name is. Even if you don't tell me." I decided right away that this was one of those things that some actors spend a lot of time wrestling with, and also that I was none of those particular actors. "My name is Skot," I replied. "You name is Skot," she said. "So that's easy. Good!" Yes, well done, Skot! You know your name! Hopefully, I won't learn that my wife has decided that for the purposes of the show, she'd rather be thought of as "Skeeze Beasley." But she could if she wanted. That's the thing. Actors are really encouraged to be as ridiculous as possible.

(As are directors. Here's two of my favorite directorial hits from the past. Once, in an ensemble avant-garde piece in college, the director instructed us thusly: "All right. I want you all to enter . . . like mist." Got it. Enter like mist. None of us knew what the fuck he was talking about, but okay, we entered like mist. This evidently, to all of us, meant moving in a stealthy crouch while hissing. SSSS! We're mist! "STOP!" he cried after only a few seconds. We stopped, and he ran his hand through his liberal arts hair. "No, no." Pause. "More like blue mist."

Needless to say, we just crouched and hissed a little more, but bluely. Anyway, I always vacillate between that anecdote and this one for "favorite" status: he was also the guy who gave this stunningly evocative and stunningly unhelpful bit of impossible directorial criticism: "You're giving me October, and I'm looking for November." What can I say? I'm looking California and feeling Minnesota. I'll try and bring in a hint of picnic table and lose some of the calamine lotion. Purple monkey dishwasher! Pass it on.)

Later on in the rehearsal, C. instructed me, re: another scene, "Okay, here I want you to try touching her. Well, don't try. Touch her. But don't hold her! Maybe you could brush her hair out of her face." I deadpanned, "Oh, is she vomiting?" This is where even dumb humor fails theater people. C. said, with some concern, "Why do you think she's vomiting?" "I was kidding," I said. C. stared at me for a moment.

Probably for at least two beats. Maybe three. Tell me if that's too much.

Look, be honest. Am I giving you too much October?