Brotherhood of Man?

I walked out of Chelsea Studios after an audition today, and here's what I saw: Busy street, bunches of people walking fast. A raggedy, (I'm assuming) homeless, African American man, who had scored a half-smoked cigarette off of the ground. He had no way to light it. A white man in an expensive suit walked by, yapping loudly and importantly on an iPhone, with a lit cigarette in his hand. The first guy flagged the second guy down by waving the used cigarette in the air (with some desperation, I might add). The second guy didn't hesitate for a second, pulled over, got his lighter, lit the cigarette (shouting into his phone the whole time), and walked away. They both went back to their business, like it never happened. No words were exchanged.

I didn't know whether my heart should feel full or empty.

xoxo

Another Audition Saga: Waterproof Mascara, Perhaps?

So Ryan and I had callbacks the other day for a great show at a great regional theatre, which shall go unnamed to protect the poor heroine of my tragic tale, just in case she stumbles on this blog one day.  We were called back to sing and read scenes from this particular show, which was made very clear to us by the casting people when they gave us all the info we needed.  The girls called back for my role were also asked to prepare a specific song on guitar.  Cool right?  Right.  It was great. 

So we're there waiting, along with a bunch of other Ryan-looking boys and Chelsea-looking girls with guitars, and I start chatting with one of the girls.  Turns out she didn't read the callback instructions right, and prepared a random guitar song, rather than the one from the show.  Well, she was off and running.  You could see the terror on her face during the conversation, and shortly after, she was called into the room.

She spends about 3 minutes in the room, comes out, and loud and clear says, "I forgot all the music I practiced on my guitar!"  The room went silent, and everybody turned to stare.  She walked over to her bag, knelt down to get her stuff, and all of a sudden, starts sobbing.  LOUDLY.  Everyone was watching and completely quiet, and here's this crazy girl, bawling out in public, in front of God and everyone (including the audition monitor!), with absolutely no shame.  So what do you do?  You don't just let this poor girl next to you cry away without consoling her, right?  So I got sucked in.  Here's how the convo went:

Me:  "Are you okay, honey?"
Her:  "NO!  (sob sob) I worked really hard on this and they didn't even let me sing anything from the show and I didn't know what song (sob sob) they wanted on the guitar and Iiiiiaaaauuuuugggghhhh..."
Me:  "I know, it sucks, but there are a million auditions next week, and the week after, and the week after that."
Her:  "I know but I worrrrrrrked so HHHHAAAARRRRD! (SOB SOB)"
*Cue two fat black mascara tears, one out of each eye, rolling down her face to her chin.  She let them stay there.*
Me:  "It's okay, you just gotta forget about it and move on."
Helpful guy next to me: "Yeah, don't let it get to you."
*Note that this is really a translation for "Get over it, crazy.  Pull it together and go take a bubble bath."*

So I go to get this hot mess some tissue so she can at least cry in dignity without mascara on her face.  I do that, come back, she thanks me, and marches directly over to the monitor's table.  Inside I was screaming "NOOOOOO!!!!!"  But now I can admit that I sort of wanted to watch the fireworks at this point.  So she gives the whole spiel to the monitor (who couldn't care less), comes back, goes over again and complains some more, comes back, packs up her stuff, and before leaving, goes to the monitor one last time:  "Will you (sob sob sob) tell them (wipe tear, sob) what I said?!?!?" 

I don't know what the monitor replied, but what I do know is that Little Miss Mascara will never, ever work at this unmentioned regional theatre -- EVER.

Keep it together, kids.  And if you can't keep it together, maaaaaybe consider a career change.  Just saying.

xoxo

Zipcar

Zipcar's having a contest to win a free ZipTrip and a foldie bike.  Ryan reeeeeally wants a foldie bike, so I figured I'd try to win it for mah mayun.  They're asking people to plan a trip involving the car and the bike, and write an email in, so that's what I did.  And here's what I wrote:

So my boyfriend had this excellent idea.  We were sitting on the A train, heading home after a long day of auditions -- we're both NYC actors, and this particular day was a doozie.  (Doozy?  Doozee?  Doosie?  Whatever.)  We had both been thinking that we need a little refresher, a day out of town, or just a break from the gnarliness of the city.  ANYway, there's a stop on the A (42nd, to be exact) where my Blackberry gets service for about two seconds, and it was fated that I should get your sweet little Zipcar email just at that moment, inviting us to plan the perfect trip for a Zipcar and a folding Montague Bike.  Um, HELLO?!  He's been wanting a folding bike forever, and we love Zipping.  We were stoked.

After a few admittedly lame ideas not even worth recapping, Ryan hit on this:  "What if you just drove me upstate and dropped me off and left?"  Well when ya put it like that, it doesn't sound so great, but the refined version is much better, and here she is:  We take a spring drive to upstate NY for a couple of hours on a sunny day when the leaves are starting to pop out, pick a cool spot, and stop.  Ryan pops the Boston bike out of the trunk and we say goodbye.  He toodles off to explore, and I find a SPA for a couple of hours!  Seriously?  How perfect is this?  I'm thinking a mani, pedi, and a facial should give my sweetie enough time to tire out.  So freshly primped, I'll pick him up, pop the bike back in the trunk, and off to home on our merry way we'll go.

Tell me that doesn't sound great.  I mean, the only way it could be better would be if Zipcar sponsored the spa visit...  (Insert sly smile here.)

xoxo

Tales from a Dominican Gym

So I go to Jay's Big Gym.  That's literally the name.  It's me and about 100 burly Dominican men.  Strange things happen there.  Yesterday, I was on the elliptical, and this woman walked up to her locker right in front of my machine.  She opened it, took out rolls and rolls of bubble wrap, turned and asked me in broken English if I had seen a cell phone, put the bubble wrap back in her locker, and left.

I mean, your guess is as good as mine on the bubble wrap.

xoxo

You're Not Fooling Anybody...

So there was an audition this morning (Saturday...  gah.) for Fiddler, and it was at Pearl Studios.  I was in the restroom (TMI, I know, but it's pertinent information) and I hear the door open, the sound of clickety-clack heels walking toward the sink, and then the sound of the ridiculously loud hand dryer turn on.  (You know, one of those new crazy turbo blow-your-skin-right-offa-your-hands thingies.)  And then, over the sound of the dryer, the clickety-clacker starts SINGING HER AUDITION SONG.  Are you serious?!?  You came into the bathroom to turn on the dryer so you could vocalize?  I've said it before and I'll say it again:  auditions are so weird.

And in related news, Alicia Silverstone was the absolute MOST in Time Stands Still.  WORK!

xoxo

Audish

So we're back in NY, and we don't have jobs, which means we're on the audition bandwagon. I sang at my first audish back in the city this morning, and I felt pretty good about it, all things considered. It's approximately hurricane weather outside, which always makes things difficult (especially when you're supposed to look your fiercest)(fiercest?...sure, it's a word), but my little 100 yen Japanese umbrella and I did just fine.

But here's the thing about auditions. They're more a mindgame than anything. You know, there are the monitors who are really nice, but like to toy with the auditioners by making sassy little comments. There are the lines and the waiting, which, even though far better than the non-eq waiting game, are a little demeaning and just give you time to psych yourself out. There are the primpers, who never stop looking at the mirror; the warmer-uppers, who feel comfortable with fully vocalizing in a room full of other singers refraining from doing the same; the loud-talkers, who want you to know all their business and their entire resume. It's gnarly.

But for me, the sanity-keepers are the one or two other "normal" girls who are usually there too, whose eyes you accidentally catch when one of the weirdos does something wierd, and who share a secret little grin with you before going back to being strangers.

It's a crazy life.

xoxo