My First Agent Auditions

Today I signed up for my first audition in the city.  I "bit the bullet" as they say.  And let me tell you, everything they say about getting there an hour and a half before your call time and waiting around in a line of masses of squirmy people?  It's all true.  I mean I'd heard it, and I kind of believed it.  But I couldn't quite get my head around the thought that so many people would turn up at eight in the morning to audition for one to two minutes before two agents.  Stupid, right?  Oh yes.

I arrived at the Equity offices for an 8:30 sign up at 8:10, and had quite a bit of difficulty finding the back of the line as it wound around every wall of the Equity lobby.  Most of these people were quiet and in themselves, but there were enough of them carrying on loud conversations for (what seemed to be) the benefit of everyone else in the room, and one person in particular was performing a very loud performance piece about casting directors and how he never gets cast as Jewish because he doesn't have curly hair and a big nose and how racist that is.

I've always been really sensitive to my environment, so I buried my head in a book in order to keep other people's manic energies away.  I have enough neuroses of my own, thank you very much, and I don't need anyone else's.   Eventually the line started to move, and I worried I wasn't going to get a spot.  There were only fifty audition slots available, and after those were gone there were alternate spots up for grabs, but there's no guarantee that an alternate will get to perform.

I cursed myself for not realizing that the auditions weren't until 7PM, so for the early morning sign up I didn't have to print up and staple my resumes, didn't have to iron my clothes, didn't even have to shower.  I could have leapt out of bed humped it to the 2 Train and been pretty much guaranteed.  But, it's all part of the learning curve, and everybody has to start somewhere.  Right?

By the time I got to the front all the slots were gone.  So I signed up as the fifth alternate.  The monitor explained that it just meant I had to be there at the beginning of the audition and wait for someone to be late, or not show for their appointment, or slip in if the auditioners are running early.  She confided that the first alternates almost always get in as she works very hard to make it so, and so I will be there tonight, with my history of the creation of Wonder Woman, and hopefully I will get this experience under my belt.  On the 23rd I go in for my first musical audition, so I'll be able to check another box, and can be happy that I'm doing what I came out here to do.  Trying my damnedest.  I feel pretty good about my prospects, and though the odds of actually getting representation from this are low, it has caused me to find a new comedic monologue that I'm really pleased with, so the next time I have to go up with a monologue, I'll be that much more secure.

More later...

Celine Dion's Greatest Moment

Celine Dion.  She ain't exactly my fave. She takes herself way too seriously, doesn't seem to legitimately feel the emotions tied to the songs she sings, and she's gaudy in nearly every way possible.  And yet,this?

Celine Dion sprawled out on a lit floor crooning Memory in full cat regalia?  I can't not love it.  She spins, she leaps, she sinks dramatically to the floor, she belts the shit out of this song, and she commits FULL OUT people.  It feels so risky and weird, and there is absolutely no trace of irony in her performance.  None.  Nil.  Not an iota.

Watch it and see if you don't love it as much as I do.

Alice: 150 Years of Wonderland

One of the things that makes New York such an amazing city is the fact that at any moment you can get your eyes on the most amazing artifacts of our cultural history.  It's mind blowing to think of some of the things that are just a subway trip away.  One of those artifacts was on display at The Morgan Library in their exhibit on Alice and her crazy trip through Wonderland.

Kirk and I were able to catch the closing day of the exhibit, Alice: 150 Years Of Wonderland.  It feels like EVERYONE is doing an exhibition.  Back in Austin there was one at the Harry Ransom Center, and there's one that just opened up at the Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center.  This one, however, was likely the best, as the pieces on display were incredible.

The crowds were large when we arrived, and by the time we left the line was out the door.  It was a surprisingly small room, and essentially, to see the exhibit everyone had to line up and tour the perimeter, for everything was placed up against the walls.  Of course you had to deal with some museum assholes who don't care to follow the system and make themselves as large as humanly possible while looking at the exhibit, or stand as close to it as they can so no one else can get in.  This behavior really chaps my hide, but...I was able to contain my annoyance, largely due to the pieces, and the fascinating info about them.

There was a copy of the first edition (of which there are only about twenty in existence because the illustrator objected to the print quality of his illustrations) as well as many original color illustrations, one of Lewis Carroll's diaries, photos he had take of Alice Liddell (more on that later, as it feels impossible to talk about Dodgson/Carroll without discussing his child portraits or other possible improprieties.

As for the illustrations, it was amazing how small they were.  They were 4 inches by 4, at the most, and so incredibly detailed.  It's pretty astounding, even when you consider that penmanship and drawing was a huge obsession with the Victorian English.  There was a sample of a letter written by Alice at age seven, and it is a work of art.  So precise, so careful, and studied.

Now, before I get to this amazing artifact I mentioned earlier, it's important to put it in the context of the creation of Wonderland and how it all came about.  

Charles Dodgson was a don at Christ Church, Oxford, and became friends with the new dean, Henry Liddell, his wife, and his three daughters, one of whom was named Alice.  It became a routine that he and his colleague at the college would take the girls out for little excursions on the river in a rowboat, and Charles would tell them stories.  One day, Charles told a story about Alice tumbling down a rabbit hole to a strange underground land, and Alice, who was around ten at the time, enjoyed the story so much that at the end of the day she asked Mr. Dodgson to write it down for her.  

He went home, made a rough outline, expanded upon the story, illustrated it, and eventually presented it to her.  It was titled Alice's Adventures Underground and would be the prototype for the first edition of the story we know as Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. What he created, complete with his illustrations that would become the model for many of Tenniel's, was on display at the Morgan Library, and I had to read the description several times before I was able to trust that I was in front of Alice's personal copy, the very first version of the story ever, which prior to this exhibit had not left the British Museum in thirty years.

Now, about the little girl portraits... Charles was a photographer, and he used little girls as subjects quite a bit, and would occasionally shoot them in scant dress.  But it was all done with complete knowledge of the little girls parents.  He would write to them and request they arrive in as little clothing possible.  And no one was concerned.  It wasn't considered remotely possible that they would be viewed as sexual objects (in spite of the implications of the Little Red Riding Hood story).  And if this is the case, is it possible that Dodgson/Carroll was just shooting the beauty of children?  I guess.  Is the other possible as well?  Yes.  Will we ever know what was going on in his head?  It's unlikely.  Can we condemn him on the evidence provided?  Again, I'm not sure.

But I do fall into the camp that, as we do not know for sure, we can appreciate and enjoy the art as a separate entity from the artist.  And I can take a small amount of satisfaction in the fact that I'm more of an Oz fan anyway.  

Small Promises

It's been a day of polarities.  It was my first run through of my new program for classes, portraying a historical character for the Transit Museum, and in spite of all my fears and worries (or perhaps because of them, at least in small part... I'm still not over the idea of fear being useful as a motivator, no matter how persuasive Elizabeth Gilbert may be) I did not blank out in the middle of the twenty-five minute presentation.  Everyone seemed to really enjoy it, and the educators and leaders were effusive in their praise of the story telling session.  Was it perfect?  No.  But it was successful, and the first performance down of many.

After it was finished, I was surprised that the need was so strong in me for celebration.  I needed some kind of commemoration of the day, and so I joined some of the other employees at The Shake Shack for burgers.  Mine was a mushroom burger, as I'm still going strong in my plan of not eating pork or beef, even though I'm not quite ready to give up chicken, and it was delicious.

But then... I picked up my reproductions of my head shots, and in spite of being pleased by that step in the right direction (I haven't had an audition since my first), the evening settled into a strange kind of melancholy.

Maybe it's the realization that I can't, and never will be able to make New Yorkers do exactly as I want.

•    There will always be the ocassional nimrod who stops suddenly in the midst of a group of people crossing the street.
•    There will always be the lady who spreads out on the subway when she could easily scoot over and let someone (namely me) take a seat next to her.
•    And there will always be people who snake in front of me in line at the Duane Reade.

Likewise there will always be someone who doesn't follow the rules as I see them.  And if I were smart I would realize that I can follow the rules closely as is my need and yet I don't have to be attached to others doing the same.  I don't need to judge them or let them taint my day because they don't realize that they are heading up the stairs on the wrong side, blindly pushing into on-coming traffic.  Why does that seem so difficult to do?  Why does it feel like the option is follow the rules and secretly seethe over those who don't or... buy into the mayhem of a world where everyone does their own thing, which would entail my dancing in the streets against the pedestrian traffic lights, shoving my way onto the subway before letting passengers step off.  Why must it always be one or the other?

Maybe it's that things aren't moving as quickly as I like, and I still need another job in order to make ends meet and that I haven't been as diligent in the search for work (either day job or auditions) as I should.  And it may also be the fact that for the past couple of days I've shrugged off writing, promising to do it "later".  

Maybe it's that my social life has not developed to it's fullest yet, and you can't fill up your dance card on the back of a few friends.  

Maybe it's all of those.  And of course, a solution is apparent, at least on some levels.  Baby steps.  

1. Call a friend
2. Write on my current project for fifteen minutes
3. Gather the info on those temp agencies I was referred to and plug them into the computer for easy usage later
4. Apply to one job tonight.
5. Go through the audition calls for ten minutes.  

So, that's what I have promised to do.  I wandered the streets of downtown Brooklyn for awhile, looking in at the shops for something to cure my ills, but when it comes down to it, the solution is as easy and as difficult as that.  Do something.  The thing that my mind is wheedling you to do.  Even if I only do it for a small amount of time.

Here's to keeping small promises.

Binge Watching For Halloween: Murder She Wrote

When October rolls around I find myself, like everyone else, wanting to celebrate and soak in all things spooky, mysterious and frightening.  However, while I love being scared-- Silence of The Lambs, Vertigo, Paranormal Activity, Don't Be Afraid of The Dark, and An American Werewolf in London are just a few of my favorites--  "torture porn" like the Saw films, just ain't my thing, so I'm always hunting for the tamer specials and films of the season.  Since Jessica Fletcher is always wandering into a murder in her travails (over, and over, and over...) It makes sense that a few of them would be more on the spooky side. The following list of Murder She Wrote episodes is a perfect prescription for a crisp fall evening.  


(Quick Sidebar)
I watched the show with my mom from the very first episode (the two hour pilot The Murder of Sherlock Holmes) and I loved playing along with each episode trying out wit the writers to discover who the murderer was.  As a kid, I was almost always stumped, but as an adult, many of them are relatively easy to solve. That's fine with me though, as I watch just as much for the celebrity cameos, Jessica's colorful scarves and alternating glam collars, and to see what she will pull from her vast grab bag of quizzical expressions.   

Murder She Wrote, like The Love Boat and Fantasy Island before it, kept those aging actors working when few others would.  So if you want to see Van Johnson, Audrey Meadows, Vivian Blaine, or Anne Blythe, get yourself over to Netflix and binge away.







But back to those special episodes I promised:

Reflections of the Mind (season 2): features the previously mentioned Anne Blythe doing some terrifically watchable scenery chewing as a rich widow slowly being driven mad by the ghost of her dead husband.

Night of The Headless Horseman (season 3): involves a small town school teacher who has convinced his town that Jessica is his visiting mother.  There's a basic bastardized version of the Washington Irving story, and some delightfully bad acting by Barry Williams, aka Greg Brady, and Judy Landers (playing the chippy at the local tavern).

Fire Burn, Cauldron Bubble (season 5): is a riff on the themes covered in Arthur Miller's The Crucible.  No, it's not about the societal repression and scape goating during the McCarthy hearings, it's just got witches doing crazy things in the woods.  And, of course, Roddy McDowell who was certainly around when all that whizz was going down.

The Witch's Curse (season 8): This one I have yet to see yet, but doubtless it will be delightful.

Legacy of the Borby House (season 10): Ditto on this one in regards to viewing it, but it does have a great title.  BORBY!!!!!

Nan's Ghost Part 1 & 2 (season 12): This one I remember as one of my absolute favorites from when I was a wee dumpling of a thing.  And in it Jessica is off to Ireland to battle ghosts and banshies and things that go bump in the night.  

If, however, that's not enough, there are three episodes I want to point you to.  They feature the ladies of "Loretta's Beauty Parlor" and are three of the best.  Kathryn Grayson as Ideal Molloy is worth it alone, but all the girls at the parlor are great comedic actresses.   


Enjoy!  And feel free to let me know what you think of the episodes if you do end up checking them out.  Also, if you can think of any great Halloween specials and/or films to check out, I'd love to hear about them.

The Headless Horseman Needs A Head, Y'all

October has always been one of my favorite months.  The leaves as big as your face, the wind blowing in making everything colder than the "actual" temperature, the crispness, the apple cider and yes... the pumpkin spice.  PS:  When did loving all things pumpkin become the pinnacle of basic bitchiness?  Fuck off whoever said it first, and a miniature fuck off to all the sheep that are listening.  Pumpkins are awesome!!  So...I will drink my pumpkin spice latte from the totes adorbs Starbucks whilst I recline on my divan, munching on apple cider doughnuts (for all you Texans, this is a real big thing on the East Coast) and as I wait for Crimson Peak to hit theaters, I will enjoy this little tidbit of Halloween nostalgia.  It's performed by a man named Thurl Ravenscroft, no less.  (For all of you who gays who love your retro trivia, Thurly (my pet name for him) is not only the performer of this song, but the uncredited vocalist on You're A Mean One Mister Grinch, from How The Grinch Stole Christmas.  So for all of you who thought that you were so smart because you knew it was Boris Karloff, I hope it doesn't hurt too much to realize you were wrong.  I mean, if he could have really sung like this, don't you think he would have done it a teensy bit more often?  Skip to 1:08 if you aren't a fan of the DTV intro...

Speaking of DTV.  Why, oh why didn't I appreciate the Disney Channel when it was at it's most amazing?  Back when it aired programming based on the classic Disney content and not this bubblegum teeny bopper crap they churn out now?  (Kids!!!  Get off my lawn you nincompoops!  Why back in my day...) Seriously though, seeing that intro brought back so many memories of me sitting in the tv room of my house in my undies while watching that show in the wee hours.   Ahh, Childhood.