My Blog

Observations from a Starbucks, #1

Yesterday, after going 0 for 3 at auditions, I sat in a Starbucks, killing time for 2 hours.  All I had was a pen, some Sudokus, and a iced venti skim no whip white mocha.  However, I was entertained the whole time I was there by observing and silently interacting with the other Starbucks patrons and the passersby.  Today, having actually gotten seen at an audition but still with time to kill, I sit in a Starbucks (this time actually having lunch), but planning to pass the time as a fly on the wall.

Hopefully, I’ll do more of these, as my loser-dom progresses, and also because each Starbucks is different.  Even though you can find them on every other corner, the location matters, not to mention the time of day.  Yesterday’s was my personal favorite spot on the corner of 52^nd and 8^th around 2:30 pm on a matinee day.  Today, I sit on Broadway, between 51^st and 52^nd between 11:30 am and 12:45 pm.  We’ll see how this goes.  I can already tell the size of this spot is going to hinder proper observation (read: eavesdropping), but the long windows will aid in people-watching aspect.

(Sidebar: I should have done this yesterday when I was semi-flirting with a guy I’d seen at auditions, while we were simultaneously being weirded and grossed out by the woman sitting at the table between us who alternated between guffawing at Stephen Colbert episodes on her computer and hacking up a lung.)

So far the most exciting thing I’ve seen is two musicians kiss goodbye with their instruments strapped to their backs for easy transport.

The man next to me went outside to take a picture of his daughter through the glass.  If her drink had been positioned differently, it would have made for a decent ad for Dannon Light & Fit smoothies.  Otherwise, it just looked silly…and the pre-teen couldn’t have cared less one way or the other.

A girl in a Diet Pepsi shirt offered a can of soda to two people on the street, who refused it, before coming in to use the bathroom.  I wonder what the deal with Diet Pepsi is?  Are they doing a new promotion of it or something?  (P.S. – She either threw out or left the can in the bathroom.)  Oh, they must be, since there are more Pepsi people handing cans out across the street. (More came in.  The promotion is just to make sure people know it’s better than Diet Coke.  Done and one, as far as I’m concerned.)

Can man-pri pants be cuffed?  Maybe the question is should man-pris be cuffed?  Does that make them less or more gay?  In the case of the boy in the stripped shirt that walked by, the answer is more.

And Laura Bell Bundy just walked past me.  I think it’ll be good to end this session on that note.  That, and my limo’s outside.  Oh, shit, it’s not for me.  That’s okay.  The driver’s not cute.  Meanwhile, hottie count: 4.

(This was a sad entry.  I hope they get better than this.)

Jet Blue...or How I Am My Mother's Son

It's 4:45am, Pacific Time.  I should be asleep after being up for over 24 hours (with about an hour or so nap) and four time zones.  But I wanted to get this out before I slept. We were set to fly out of JFK on Jet Blue at 9:10am.  I was already planning on staying at Rocky's last night to cut down on the driving time, and we were going to pick up Trey on the way to JFK.  Of course, "February Fury" or the "Nor'easter of 2007" started to put a damper on that.  So, due to inclement weather, Rocky and I set off for Jersey City at 5am and planned to do well under the speed limit on the way.  Surprisingly, all went well as far as that goes...until we got lost in Jersey City and spent longer trying to find Trey's apartment than it took us to drive from Rocky's.  (That I blame on Mapquest and my decision to skip directions when I recognize roads further down the directions instead of actually going step-by-step.) Once Trey was in the car, we set for the airport.  Again, surprisingly easy.  We got there with plenty of time to spare.  The rental car drop off went well (albeit slightly more expensive than the first quote, but still cheaper and more pleasant than a cab ride from Newark Airport).  We got on the safest Air Train ride we could possibly have been on when storm troopers with large guns got on right before us.  At the Jet Blue terminal, things gradually started getting worse.  It started, simply enough, when we were told that there was no Burger King in the terminal, after Trey started getting our hopes up for a greasy sausage croissanwich.  Then we were told at baggage check that, as of that time, they stopped boarding all flights.  Okay, terrific. Trey and I got in line at Aunt Butchies (yes, you read that correctly), to get the closest thing to our fattening breakfast that we could fine.  The two girls who worked there were so rude and so slow, they had a line going down the terminal, gave attitude to people getting specialty coffees (don't work there if you don't want to make the damn coffee), and would wait until after you ordered your sandwich to let you know that the mysterious person working in the "kitchen" was on a break.  Since both our company manager and her assistant were already on the west coast for our layoff, I was recruited, with the promise of alcohol, to do a head count, to make sure no child is left behind.  Fine, I can do that.  About twenty minutes before boarding, I get a call from Maria who doesn't have the confirmation number for her cello's seat.  (Oh, right, for those of you who don't know, the cello gets its own seat on the planes.  Isn't that nice?  On the bus, it's wrapped in an egg crate and the bungee corded into a dog bed in the front of the bus.  I wish I were making this up.)  I hadn't saved our confirmation numbers to my computer, so I was frantically trying to get an internet connection, but then decided to take the equally frustrating route...calling my mother, having her sign on to my e-mail, and walking her through getting me the phone numbers.  A note on Terry O'Connell - she is a dear, sweet woman and I love her to death...but she is the least technologically advanced person you will ever meet.  However, she has been making progess, since she learned how to text message on her phone...which surprised me since I'm still not sure she knows how to check voicemail.  Anyway, because of her leap in the wonderful world of e-mailing, I thought she'd be able to help.  And she did, thank God!!, and the cello was safe (again, thank God!!). Get to the gate - our flight is delayed.  Fine, we'll go with it.  We set up camp in a nice corner of the terminal and wait...as the hours slowly pass by.  We watch the weather start to get worse.  Flights keep getting delayed and then later flights are getting cancelled, but earlier flights are still delayed, indefinitely.  Thankfully, everyone who's supposed to be there is there, and we wait. And wait. We notice that, despite the cancellations and crowding of the terminals, people seem to, overall, be in good spirits.  Not counting us, who kinda adopted a "not my problem, we'll see what happens" attitude, people coming to the counters were getting good answers from the employees and accepting them, because what else can they do?  At this point, I'm impressed with some of the Jet Blue employees and how they're handling things. And we wait some more. Our flight was supposed to leave at 9:10.  It's around 2:30 when things start to get interesting.  (Hang on to your hats.) Jennifer was flying Delta out of LaGuardia because of an audition she wanted to stay later for.  Her flight gets cancelled.  She calls me to see if our flight, though delayed, is closed or not, because she still has a seat on our flight.  I check, it's not, she can still claim her seat if she's there more than a half an hour before boarding, I tell her to come to JFK, because we ain't goin' no where.  Rock on.  3:30 or so, Jennifer gets there.  We both feel like rock stars because I got all of our group members together, and she makes a flight while getting a refund from Delta for the other one.  Woo-hoo.  I swear to you, I hug Jennifer and tell her I'm happy that she's here...our flight gets cancelled.  Well, now, all Hell breaks loose. My simple job of being head counter now becomes, "How do we get 17 people (and a cello!) to Oakland, California?"  Nicole's in the air, so she's unavailable.  I call Kristin, and we brainstorm a couple ideas, and decide for us to get on standby for the next flight.  Terrific.  I get in line, discuss the 4:20 flight with the guy at the desk, who tells me that there are already 40 people on the standby list ahead of us, so we probably won't all get on there at the same time.  Fine.  However, just because our person makes it on the flight, doesn't mean our luggage will.  Not fine.  I get out of line, and then am told by Kristin, who has spoken to our producer as well, that I should take what they can give us.  Better for us to be in California than our luggage.  Great.  (PS - No one in our group is in favor of this plan, mostly because we want our clothes which we've packed for a couple months, and also things are in suicases that we kinda need, for example, Ed's saxophone.  Yes, the saxophone you can check, but not the cello.)  Back in line I go, and get 18 passes for standby, mostly out of good faith to show the producers I tried, never expecting us to get on. And we wait again.  Nicole has landed by this point, and she is working with our travel agency (who I also got on the case) to get us on other flights with Jet Blue or other airlines). By this point, the terminal is pretty chaotic.  People are cranky, no longer polite, and the employees don't know what to do with themselves.  (Those girls from Aunt Butchies, when I passed by, seemed fairly frantic at the amount of people they were dealing with.  Serves you right, bitches!) Meanwhile, our luggage, which hadn't been claimed, because what were we going to do with it?, is sitting in piles down at baggage claim.  Our substitute trombone player, Matthew, seemed to think there was a rhyme and reason to the piles, but Sarah completely disagreed.  The fact was, it was all out in the open for anyone to come and take.  Teriffic.  Terrific. I get flight information from Nicole, and our group is getting split up.  About half of us are on a 9:40 flight to Sacramento, and other half are on the same flight we're going standby for (which, again, had been significantly delayed).  We're told by Nicole to go to a desk and get our new boarding passes printed out, since we are confirmed on these flights by our travel agency, and, when doing that, ask the people at the desk what's being done about our luggage. Everything happened so fast at this point.  We went to our boarding gate, and tried to get our passes printed, but the guy manning our gate stepped away.  The service line was a good two and a half hours long, so they weren't going to help.  The only thing we could do was push our way through and talk to our Jet Blue employee in the sweater vest to help us. He stuck to his guns that they weren't calling standby yet and wouldn't listen when I said we were confirmed on the flight.  When he took a name to check us, he said, "You haven't checked in yet", and I said, "That's what we're trying to do."  He said he was dealing with boarding proceedures and couldn't check us in.  This, my friends, is when I became the spawn of Terry O'Connell - not the techonologically lacking one, but the one that has no patience when dealing with stupid people and gets LIVID!  Those of you know me know I hate confrontation, and will usually get trampled on like a door mat.  NOT TODAY, MY FRIENDS!!  I was tired and cranky, and pissed because I was doing a job that was not mine to begin with, and I wanted to get to California! Service employers, beware: give your employees a name tag and I will use it, preferably at a high volume in the middle of a crowded terminal.  Once our sweater-vested friend said he couldn't check us in, I said, "Please check us in, OLIVER.  Why can't you, please, check us in, OLIVER?" which, I was told later, seemed to scare him.  He said he was going to need a superviser to do it, to which I promptly raised my voice in the direction of the service line and screamed, over a croweded terminal, "CAN WE GET A SUPERVISER OVER HERE TO HELP US, PLEASE?  IS THERE A SUPERVISER WHO CAN HELP US CHECK IN AT THIS GATE, PLEASE?"  It didn't work in the sense that a superviser came over, but someone at the service desk looked my way, and I cut a two and a half hour line of people, barged my way to the front, apologized to the man she was helping for my being rude and told the girl at the desk what was going on. This frustrated me more because she wasn't listening to what I was telling her.  She asked how come we weren't checked in; "we were trying to".  How did you get past security without a boarding pass? "We have boarding passes from our earlier flights and standby ones for this one."  So you're riding standby.  "No, now we're confirmed on this flight."  How did you check in? "We're trying to check in now."  How weren't you able to check in? "We've been in the terminal since 7am."  And so on and so on. I gave her all our boarding passes and she managed to check us in, with about a minute to spare.  Not only did I cut the two hour line, but we bumped past the 40 people on standby at this flight as well.  An old man stood next to me, bitching about us, saying we "better be legitimate.  Just because you raise your voice doesn't mean things should get done for you."  If I wasn't afraid the wrath I would have unleashed on him would have sent him and his pushy wife into an early-ish grave, I would have told him where he could stick one of those idling airplanes outside. We were the last 8 people on the plane.  I am now thoroughly exhausted, and I sat down, hearing now only whimpering children around me...but there was a scared little dog on the plane, too.  At this point, I couldn't complain.  However, I should have, when we sat on the plane for about three hours longer, while we de-iced or waited for other planes to.  I will say though, that the children were very well behaved, considering they were on the plane for 9 hours total.  If I was their ages, I would have been cranky and uncomfortable, too.  Hell, I was, and if it was socially acceptable for a 25-year-old man to cry that audibly, you can bet your ass I would have, too.  It was actually a pretty good flight, after a bumpy beginning and a panic attack in the middle.  I was sitting between two very enjoyable women, and the stewardess told me my screwdriver was on the house.  :-) Meanwhile, because I know you're curious about the loose ends of the story... The flight to Sacramento got cancelled, which contained both of our female leads, our second male lead, one of our dance captains, and three orchestra members.  We might not have a show tomorrow after all, since that male lead doesn't have an understudy and the new one isn't rehearsed.  And our luggage didn't make it to Oakland, but maybe we'll see it tomorrow.  So, we're down all those company members, our luggage...and a cello!  They're all in New York, still.

Blame Canada

Blame Canada

I realize I haven't given a "For those of us following along at home..." blog like I promised while I've been on the road, but I feel that my little excursion into Canada on this leg of my (what's turning out to be a very limited) tour warranted one. We left West Point, NY (which was a story unto itself, and one I'd love to tell people about, when I can't post things that I'm not supposed to let people in the show see) at a rather early time so that we could have some time at the border in case it was necessary, but it wasn't supposed to be that long of a drive into Kitchener.  We did our morning drive, stopped to pee, more driving, had lunch, started on that afternoon leg of the drive, and we put on Love, Actually on the bus.  We got to the Canadian border, and Nicole, our company manager, went in to present our passports and whatnot. An hour goes by.  Love, Actually has finished, and Hook had begun, when a rathered miffed Nicole comes back and takes our replacement bass player (our third) off the bus and brings him into customs/immigration/mountee central. Another hour goes by.  Robin Williams is just about to discover his happy thoughts, when Nicole and our bass player return to the bus...and we're instructed that we have to turn back!  Yes, that's right.  We got rejected at the Canadian border because our bass player was not a desireable entry (or re-entry, when that time comes...I was confused).  We were instructed that, in order for us to get into Canada, we were to leave him in the U.S.  So, we went back to Buffalo, and took the ride in silence...except for Nicole trying to arrange a hotel and/or transportation for our bass player, and every musician was trying to figure out a last minute sub for our week/four show engagement in Ontario.  (Meanwhile, we watched in silence as Julia Roberts broke her house and a crocodile ate Dustin Hoffman.) Who knows what screaming happened on the bus once we pulled up to a mall in Buffalo, and we were all released "as quickly as possible from the bus" so that we can find food and they could, I'm assuming, dispose of the body. Our re-entry to Canada went pretty smoothly.  We were asked to vacate the bus to make sure we didn't have any stowaways.  They didn't check for "contraband", but they did ask us if we had any mace or pepper spray.  I didn't realize they were asking because we weren't allowed to bring it into the country.  I thought maybe they needed to borrow some.  Who knew? Once we finally got into Canada at 10:45pm (that was more than 12 hours since we left West Point), I met up with my new friend Thomas who I hung out with and we watched The Daily Show for a little bit.  It's funny to watch a show that mocks our government with a Canadian, because while we shake our heads and say our government sucks, they watch us, laugh harder, and think we're really fucked.  So, for the record everyone, no matter how much we laugh at Canada, they are, actually, getting the last laugh, and have been since November, 2000.  Something to think about. So, whatever, Kitchener is fine.  The show goes well.  Blah blah blah. The next day, we have a Golden Day (performance and travel free).  Some of us decide to take in a movie.  Apparently, though, Canada doesn't believe in multiplexes where they show more than one or two movies simultaneously...and some don't even open until 6pm.  Luckily, we did find a small, independent movie house (ish) that had a 1pm showing of The History Boys, so we hoped a bus for that one.  Well, the bus ride itself was interesting, purely for the crazy man on the bus who wanted to give us his take on the American government.  Oh, goodie.  Yeah, that was fun.  Then we get to the movie theatre and they don't take credit cards.  So for those of us who were trying to avoid getting any Canadian currency had to suck it up...but Michael and my ATM cards were rejected from the small convenience store ATM across the street.  Good times.  Luckily, people were nice enough to pay for us.  However, this showing of The History Boys was a "Movies for Mommies" matinee.  That means, that in a dark theatre, there were going to be babies!  Like BABIES.  STROLLERS lined the hallway outside the theatre.  For those of you who don't know, but TJ hates children, especially crying ones!  That was so not happening.  Thank whatever is good and holy that there was also a showing of The Queen at 1 as well.  (Sidebar: It's amazing.  Helen Mirren is wonderful!) The ride back to the hotel was fine.  A few of us went to the gym across the street.  After the gym, Michael, Rocky, and I went to an all-you-can-eat sushi place.  This was great!  Because it was all you can drink sodas (I'm sorry...it's pop), and all you can eat salads and desserts, too.  The rolls weren't as diverse as the ones at Jared and my sushi place on Lexington, but you definitely can get your money's worth, especially with the hot entree selection as well (also included).  And the best part is, it was twenty Canadian dollars for the whole thing.  That's, like, $8.50!  I'm kidding.  $8.57.  We decided to head back to the movies for the later showing of The History Boys (also very good and worth seeing - but I wish I had seen the stage show).  After that, the same gays who karaoked in Panama City (Andy, Andrew, Saum, Will, and myself) decided to hit up the gay bar three blocks from our hotel.  (This would be the same gay bar that was only open one of the three nights we were in town.  Of course.  Why would it be open more than that?)  The bar itself was very nice.  Big and really cute.  But no one told us Wednesday is country night in Kitchener!  I'm glad I like country music and the DJ liked us and took all our requests.  However, and I mean no disrespect to my Lesbianic friends, but the girls don't know how to pour drinks.  I had three gin and tonics and was SOBER!  Mostly because it was a tonic with a gin splash.  Luckily, four drinks (I bought one for Andrew) was only $20...and we now know how much that is! The interesting thing about this gay bar, also, was the drag queen, Miss Drew.  Miss Drew was...how should I say this?....HOT!  Now, I don't mean "hot" in the Paris Hilton sense of the word, nor do I mean it to mean "fierce".  I mean, she had an amazing body!!!  No tits, but a great stomach and unreal legs!  This was the first drag queen that I ever wanted to see dressed as a man, because I'm sure he would have been HOT!  And also unusual, she was the only drag queen that acknowledged that she had a penis , made reference to it, and kept mentioning the duct tape.  (Ouch.) So far, Canada is interesting and we're here for three more days.  I type this as I sit in my (rather kick-ass!) hotel room in Brampton, where Miss Drew warned us not to drink the water or we'll get the Canadian equivalent of Montezouma's Revenge.  I guess that would be The Queen's Retaliation....I don't know.  We do get to hit Toronto tomorrow, and then up to a show in North Bay, to a land where I don't think homosexuals exist.  Fantastic! Blame Canada, indeed, my friends!

My Hour at Ripley-Greer

I went to an audition this afternoon, and, while I was there, I felt like I must have invaded some theatre queen's wet dream.

First of all, the studio at Ripley-Greer across from where I was had Christina Aguillera's "Ain't No Other Man" blasting from it, and every thin, leggy, dancer girl between the ages of 18 and 36 were in their workin' it in fairly skimpy dance attire...like they do.  I figured that this was some NBA dance audition or something of the sort.

At some point, however, this guy (who I swear I've seen at the gym) comes out.  I'm pacing before the audition (like I do), and hear him make a phone call.  And I hear, yadda yadda yadda "It's Andrew Lippa."  I've never seen Andrew Lippa before, so I had no idea what he looks like.  Now, I do.  And had I had a pen handy, I could've written down his phone number.

He goes back in the room, and then the dancer girls file out, sweaty messes.  Who follows them out?  Jerry Mitchell.  He talks to these two guys who are sitting outside the studio window, and then proceeds to do a fairly G rated pole dance in the door frame while singing Xtina's song.  He asks these guys (who he knows, I hope), "Is my lap dance getting you excited?"  (He may have used another word, like "erect" or something - I was so amazed at what was going on that I didn't fully pay attention.)

Now that I see Jerry Mitchell's involved, I pay a little closer attention to what's going on, and there's a sign on the door that says Peep Show, which apparently (according to my Broadway insider, David Villella) is an attempt to bring Broadway Bares to an actual stage for a run.  Inside the room was Jerry's partner in crime, Denis Jones, so that makes me think that could be the case.  I didn't know the other boys in the room, but I assume they are Broadway boys.

So, anyway, that was my fun at Ripley-Greer.  Hope y'all are having a good day.

American Idol

Yes, my friends, I auditioned for American Idol.  I know, some of you have judgement about the show and probably think I'm ridiculous for trying, but I did it anyway.  And it was, actually, a good experience, even if I'm not going to be super famous (or ridiculed) right away.

Quinn and I decided to put up or shut up and go and do it.  Tryouts haven't been in the NYC area in a while, so this was going to be our chance (even though I was willing to camp out on the streets of Boston or something, too).  We debated what time to go, since registration started at 6am on Saturday morning, and would go continuously until 8am on Monday morning.  At the time when we decided to meet up at 4:30 in the morning in East Rutherford, NJ, we wouldn't know if this was a dumb idea or not.  All we knew was...that's damn early!!  My MILLIE castmate Rob was also going to meet us there.

After a movie night in Astoria (Noises Off, Mean Girls, ziti, and chocolate covered strawberries...mmmm!), I got 20 minutes of sleep (literally), before I took off to Jersey at 3:30, not knowing really how long it was going to take or what was to await me there.  Just before I leave my apartment, Rob calls and says he's already there, having left ridiculously early from Long Island.  I hadn't even had my coffee yet!  Meanwhile, there's something unsettling about driving through Manhattan at 3:30am, watching people come out of bars to end their Friday night, and knowing that my Saturday is just beginning!

I manage to find my way to Continental Airlines Arena just fine, considering I left my directions in my apartment next to the computer.  However, because I'd never been there before and the signs weren't very clear, I made the wrong turn on the way to the parking lot and ended up back on Rt. 3 going back towards Manhattan.  It took me forever to find a U-turn, and I ended up driving past a 4 car accident that was so bad, the cars were beyond totalled and spread out over three lanes of traffic for about a quarter of a mile.

Okay, I park and manage to find Rob, who is secure behind a yellow barricade, close to the end of the first line with roughly 400 people in front of him (from 3:30am, mind you).  He was going to let me in, but I didn't want to start a riot or get ejected from the competition before it began, so I humbly moved to the second line, where there was easily 2000 people between me and Rob (at 4:30am!!).

Quinn got there about 15 minutes later, which was as close to "I'll be there at 4:30" as I'll get with her sometimes.  (There's something about my curly haired best friends born in the first four days of August and punctuality....I don't understand it.)  We settled in for a LONG wait...which we stood for.  We had a blanket, but spreading it out on a driveway didn't seem too enjoyable...even though it didn't stop the people in front of us from full-on napping on the ground.  And they were out cold!

Finally, the sun came up, and 6am approached...and we didn't start the registration.  They didn't start the registration until about 7:05.   Since I'm chauffering some cast members from NYC to Long Island for MILLIE (see bulletin board post for show and ticket information) and we had rehearsal that day, I needed to be back in Queens by 8:30 to pick them up, meaning I had to be on the road by 8am at the latest.  For those of you doing math, I was about 2500 people into the line and had to be done in an hour to make it back to Astoria.  Fat chance, you say!  And I agreed with you.  I was getting all antsy and frustrated, even though Quinn and I agreed to meet back there after my rehearsal to try again, if we didn't get registered, but the line was so beyond long at this point where even that seemed like an impossibility to get registered.  I'll be damned if I wasn't registered, wrist banded, and back in my car, leaving the parking lot by 8:03 (I checked the clock).

The rest of the weekend passed nicely.  I got to spend some time with Quinn (for a belated birthday) and then she stayed in my apartment so we could be ready for Monday.

Rob had planned to drive in with us, so initially he was going to meet us in Queens at 2 and we would take off shortly thereafter.  Luckily those plans changed after Rob did a little research and found out the tickets we received at registration put us in a seat, so we'd just be lining up to sit down.  We still got there early, around 4:30 (again), and still had a ton of people in front of us.  I managed to run into someone from Wagner College who I met when Muhlenberg hosted ACDFA.  Other than that, I was surprised that I didn't know anyone else.  I thought I'd run into a few people I knew.  But, no.  Odd.

Getting there early may not have made an improvement on my seat in the stadium, but it did get me on camera a little.  Now, granted, I was standing on the side of the line, getting fawned over by the press, like this guy in a full on Navy uniform.  (Bitter?  Maybe a little.)  But when the herded us, concentration camp style, from one line to the next, we were informed that we were going to be in the New York opening shot.  So, come December, when you're watching, I'm wearing a pink button down shirt.  You shouldn't be able to miss me!  After going through several shots ("Welcome to the Big Apple!",  "Welcome to New York!", "American Idol starts now!", "Pick me, Simon!"), we were finally able to go inside the arena...which was so great because I had to pee so damn bad by this point!!!!

Now, on the information sheet we were given at registration, we were informed that Barry Manilow's "I Can't Smile Without You" was going to be the theme song of New York City.  Why?  Who the hell knows?  I downloaded the song for my iPod the night before, thinking that was the only chance I was going to have to learn it.  Oh, no, that's a big ole lie.  I discovered that one of the levels of Hell is being trapped in the middle of a section of a sports stadium surrounded by good and bad singers (not to mention men who are younger and prettier than me) while a Barry Manilow song is pumped through the speaker system on a continuous loop!  Yeah, that got real old real quick.  Luckily, the camera loved our section, so it may be worth it in the end.  Again, pink shirt, holding hands with Quinn...standing next to a guy who was clearly not a Fanilow.

Once the audition started, it went pretty quickly.  For those who are curious, what they do is set up about 14 tables across the arena floor, behind which is some level of a producer and then a production assistant.  You stand in front of the table in groups of 4.  They go down the row, "Sing.  Thank you.  Sing.  Thank you", and so on.  You get about 10-20 seconds and they tell you to make it count.  After which you either get a "golden ticket" to move on, or they clip your water park-eque wrist bracelet and send you out Gate D.  Where I was sitting, I couldn't hear much, since the contestants were facing the other direction, but occassionally the crowd they were facing would applaud certain people.  I started getting a little dismayed when they were being really picky about who they were and weren't taking.  They emptied an entire section and a half before they even took the first person.  And even the people who were intentionally trying to make good television, regardless of their voice, were being sent home.

Okay, so I get called up, and Quinn and I are in the same group to sing in front of a woman who kind of reminded me of Yvette, from Unidentified.  We're standing behind the group in front of us, catching the tail end of some girl singing, and then the last guy in that group went and he was really good.  But no one from in front of us was asked to stay.  We stepped forward, and Quinn went first singing Alanis Morrisette's "Secret Song" and sounded very good!  By this point, I had second guessed my song about four times, and I decided to go with "Stickwitu" by the Pussycat Dolls.  (Don't judge me; I have a good cut of it that I think sounds really good on my voice.  :-P)  The guy next to me kinda croaked out a version of Bon Jovi's "Always", and I have no idea what the girl at the end did, because I couldn't hear her, even though she was standing in front of me.  When we were done, the producer called us forward and said, "Some really nice voices, but not really what we're looking for this season.  Thank you" which she didn't say to the other group, so that was nice.  Still didn't stop us from getting our wristbands cut and being sent out to hang our heads to the producers waiting outside Gate D.  From the beginning I said I was going to sing Matchbox 20's "Real World" and I should've stuck with it!!  Dammit!

So, the entire process was over as of 10:30am on Monday morning.  All that time waiting for 10 seconds of time in front of the producer.  (sigh)  Just like any other audition in the business.  Except, this time, I have to wait a year for it to come around again.  And I'm going to try again.  This was a good experience, like I said.  And I still have a huge song list that I want to sing on national television.  :-)

(The cherry on top of the whole thing was that Rob's car has been misplaced in Queens.  When we got back, it wasn't where he thought he parked it, and we spent the rest of Monday driving up and down avenues and streets in Queens, until my eyes were so tired that I couldn't chauffer him around anymore.  It's either been towed or stolen...but we're still not sure which.  All I know is that I have to speak to a representatve from Progressive to verify that Rob was, in fact, with me all day on Monday.  Terrific.)

Birthday in the Park for Teej

For the record, my birthday is not a national holiday.  Most of the time, I just consider it another day in my life.  Sure, I've done the more note-able birthdays (i.e. driving around until all hours of the night on the 17th; drinking and Atlantic City for the 21st)...but some I don't care about.  (I hid from my 22nd birthday in Buffalo.)  I'm content with a quiet evening with friends and just carrying on as if the day isn't important.

Apparently, for my 25th, my mother and my best friends wouldn't hear of that.

A week or so before my birthday, I was informed that plans were taken care of, and I wasn't allowed to protest, complain, or question...and I had to dress swanky.  I pretty much violated all of the requirements for my birthday, by saying I didn't want a big deal and asking questions (like, God forbid I ask, "am I meeting you somewhere or are you picking me up from work?").  Even my choice of outfit was bad, because, though I thought I looked good, I needed a tie.  "Swanky", to me, doesn't mean semi-formal!  Right, Mr. Carriere?

Birthday surprise #1 - Jared, Meg, and Dana met me at Wall St...and we got in a limo!  Yes, that's right, there was a limo waiting outside 48 Wall for me.  Eat that, Corporate America!  The lowly temp receptionist got in a limo!!  Frankly, the only way to travel.  I didn't even mind that we were in traffic in the Financial District and the West Side Highway.  We took it all the way up to Central Park and then did a loop through there on the way to dinner.  It was really an amazing drive...but it would've been nicer had they let me pick up joggers from the limo!  I'm just saying.

Birthday surprise #2 - Dinner turned out to be at Tavern on the Green.  This is the second time I'd been there but the first time that it was for my occasion.  (I had to share the first time with Allison...she was getting married, after all.)  We were seated in the pastel, mismatched-chandelier dinning room, where we had really great food!! 

Birthday surprises #3-7 - Lisa, Krista, Matt, Marie, and Ran all came!!

Birthday surprises #8 & 9 - Quinn and Dino came all the way up from Toms River to have dinner with us!!  It's always weird when friends from home meet friends from school (or new friends in Matt and Ran's case), but once the Muhlenberg reminiscence passed and we started talking about neutral topics like the Food Network and Golden Girls, it was all good!

The day turned out to be really great, topped off with all of the great birthday messages I got throughout the day. (Jasper - hysterical!!)

Now, I know I should just look at this as a positive thing and be happy with how my birthday went, and since I'm turning 25 for the next three years, this is the last of the celebrations for a while.  But here are my issues.

First of all, I said "no presents" to my friends this year, because I can't afford to get anyone presents for their birthdays, and I don't want to feel guilty because they got me something.  I'm a very generous person when I have money, and I wish I could be again...but a struggling actor in NYC is lucky to have money for food.

Second, I've been really unhappy with the progress I'm making as my life is going on, and I feel like the birthday is the marker for yet another year that is somewhat wasted as I'm traveling through.  I'm nowhere near where I want to be with my life and my career, and I hate these mocking mile-markers on the way.  That's why I try to pretend they're not there.

And finally, this whole birthday outing was funded by my mother.  I'm very lucky to have a mom as supportive and caring and generous as she is!!  I'm well aware of that, and I appreciate it beyond words.  But she really does too much for me.  She still supports me so much, that I feel like beyond that...I'm taking advantage.  She has said that she likes doing it because, since I'm an only child, she has nothing else and "life's too short".  However, seeing as how I'm not even able to take care of myself, what am I going to do in the event that something happens to Mom?  I don't have the money or stability in my own life to take care of her.  I'd rather she saved the money for herself just in case.  I'd feel better knowing she's taken care of, since I just don't know how I'm going to do it on my own.  You all know I worry about everything - I'd rather not worry about her, too!

Not just A DANCER'S LIFE

Shows open and shows close.  Some close more quickly than others, and some weren't going to be around long to begin with.  Chita Rivera's A DANCER'S LIFE was a limited run, that ended up not doing well ticket-wise, so it's closing on Sunday.  If you have not seen it yet and have the extra cash to spare, get a ticket at TKTS and go.  I spent $54.25 for a great seat (with the exception of someone's big head who got in the way of my downstage center) and had an amazing time.

But the reason I'm writing this here and not in my review section is because this is more than a review.  This was a life-changing experience. 

At first you think how lucky you are to be witnessing Chita, a Broadway legend, live and in person, doing her greatest hits, essentially, directly in front of you.  The woman has been around for decades and has pins in her legs (a fact she admitted) and maybe she doesn't have the vocal strength and breath support for some of those notes, but she was still kicking her leg up higher than dancers a third her age and charming the crowd like a seasoned professional.  Terrence McNally molded her memories into a seamless autobiography, with a great mix of humor, reminiscence, gossip, and talent.  To be able to witness her actually singing the songs that made her a name was breathtaking.  (Sentimental theatre queen favorite: watching her sing "Nowadays" with an empty spotlight honoring Gwen Verdon.  Send goosebumps down your spine favorite: after two false-starts, nailing the opening phrases of "A Boy Like That" - holy fuck!!)

(P.S. - One of the only criticisms I have is that she never should've sung "Somewhere".  a) Poor girl doesn't have the voice for it, and b) it made the WEST SIDE STORY section cheesy.)

Anyway, the reason I left this show with tears in my eyes is she spoke to me.  I left that theatre wanting to be a better performer.  I've kinda given up pretending to be a dancer (it was nice while it lasted), but I have never been so inspired to get out and make something of myself in a field that I want to belong so badly.  I want to experience what she's gone through.  I know the times have changed and performers are a dime a dozen now, but there's still a chance to make your mark and be known for you!  She talked about learning from her teachers, the leads, her co-stars, her lovers, her directors and choreographers... I want that!  But most of all, I want to prove to myself that I can do it. 

I may not be able to have my own show at the Schoenfeld Theatre someday, but Chita made me believe that I can.  And so what that it cost me $55 to see her?  I've paid more than quadruple that to have professionals tell me that I can make it, whether or not they believe it.  Chita, who doesn't know me, touched my heart and desire, and allowed me to live through her and let me see where I can be in 50 years.  And "in 50 years, or so, it's gonna change, ya know?"  It may not always be heaven nowadays, but maybe someday.

Adventures of a Cater Waiter

Considering I was dumb on Thursday night and stayed awake until 5am with my wife Jared to watch old episodes of Will & Grace, I was dragging at work on Friday.  The last thing I should've done on Saturday was wake up at 5:30am for a catering call time at 7, but I need the money, so I made the sacrifice. 

I already knew this was going to be a test of my patience to go to the Belmont Race Track for a long day (7am-6:30pm) for $11 an hour.  But I owed this catering company a job, since they made a mistake and paid me for one I never did.  This was a Guilt-Be-Gone job. 

When I got there, I could see the disorganization, because our company was told 8:15 check-in at the clubhouses but they told us in our orientation "We were expecting you at 8 o'clock."  Off to a great start.  And we were split up to three different places, not to mention we were short staffed by about 9.

I saw a little ray of sunshine when I was told it was just going to be alcohol service (open bar) and buffet food.  We were just responsible for bringing drinks and busing tables.  Easy, right?  Incorrect. 

The management started letting people in 45 minutes before we were ready.  My back station was short one bus person (and the poor guy who was doing it was also given tables to handle as well) and short one bartender.  Okay, in the grand scheme of things, this isn't quite so bad.  But this was the small little snowball, just waiting to roll down the hill and clean up everything in its path, a la any Loony Toons cartoon.

Because there was just one bus person working in the back, when our bus tray disappeared, it was gone for a good couple minutes.  Of course, during the time it's gone is when all the dishes show up.  We were encouraged to bring our own dishes to the service area, which I don't mind doing...when it's not a mile and a half from my station.  But it was a serious trek to get to the area, and then, because Belmont clearly wasn't prepared for the volume of people (even though they do this every year), they weren't up on the sanitation end of things.  I wish I was kidding when I said there where plates piling up in plastic bins and bags upon bags of garbage stacked in a stairwell, not to mention the gross muddy slush type stuff on the floor, in addition to the liquid disposal bin that the Creature from the Black Lagoon wouldn't even live in, yet, from the looks of things, something might have been living in it.  The KICKER though, which I am appalled to even admit, was that the silverware ran out ridiculously early in the day, but it wasn't getting cleaned fast enough, if at all.  We were given a bucket of warm water and a rag and instructed to wipe utensils off!  Can you fucking believe that?!  I did it once, was disgusted with myself, and  flat-out refused to do it again.

Considering alcohol was really the only responsibility, you'd think they would've been more up on their alcohol supply, especially since Grey Goose was the exclusive supplier of vodka as a sponsor.  (As far as I'm concerned, that should've been a Grey Goose truck outside ready, if they're going to be THE vodka of the Belmont Stakes.)  There were three bars in our clubhouse and 4 everywhere else in the building.  They came dangerously close to running out at every bar, to the point where I was a little snot and said something to the bitch of a party planner when she took three of the last five bottles from my bar.  (She and I never kissed and made up, but all seemed to blow over.)

Meanwhile, because my bartender was all alone, his non-English speaking bar back was attempting to help out.  Jason, the bartender, told him to speak with pouring drinks that didn't need to be mixed, but apparently that got lost in translation.  You'd think he would've been okay pouring drinks for the waitstaff that spoke Spanish as a first language, but he was messing up their orders, too.  I wish I could've learned what vodka is in Spanish, because saying "vodka" translates to "Jack".  I almost had to physically stop him from pouring Jack Daniels where vodka should've gone.  To help Jason out, we started pouring our own beer, champagne, water, and juice, since he needed to devote his time to cleaning up his assistant's mistakes.

When all is said and done, the bright side turned out to be that I left with over $100 in cash in my pockets.  I had some owners at my tables.  One natty dresser in a great gray suit won $2.3 million on ONE RACE.  The girl he came with and her friend basically cleared out our champagne supply and his friend kept asking for Grey Goose on the rocks, with a splash of tonic and a lemon twist.  I made sure their drinks were full as often as I could, and I pretty much got $20 each from them at the end of the party.  (With a multi-million dollar purse, you'd think it would've been more, but I am plenty happy with the extra cash.)

That was my Saturday adventure as a cater waiter.  Since it's an extra bit of income, and usually worthy of a story, more will come, I'm sure.

Guilt B Gone!

Pedestrians

This entry has been a long time coming, but I didn't want to bitch too much in my new blog.  But it is time.

Believe it or not, this lazy ass actually likes to walk...provided the weather's nice and it's not too far.  But I do not believe that pedestrians are always entitled to the right of way, mainly because there are some walkers who deserve to get hit, either by a car or the back of my hand.  As a New Yorker now, I see both kinds.

Take, for example, the pedestrians who hold up traffic because they see a 2.4 second opening in traffic and think they can make it to the next curb before the car comes.  I understand dashing in an opening, that's fine.  But not this person.  He/She strolls across, taking his/her sweet time, and then has the nerve to get pissed at drivers who honk at them.

The variation on this theme are the people who don't cross the street when there is clearly time to do so.  Let's be honest, the blinking Don't Walk signs are just suggestions.  Anyone with a good stride can definitely make it across the street.  (This is a particularly sensitive issue because I have a good stride, and my mother is this pet peeve personified.  One of these days, I'm going to leave her on the curb and keep on crossing.)  Also, if you are one of these people that chooses to yield to the blinking Don't Walk signs, do not stop in the way of those power walkers like myself.

Along the same lines, just don't stop directly in the middle of the sidewalks, and if you're coming out of a bank/building/phone booth/bus/subway exit, merge properly into the walking lanes.  Don't be so engrossed in your wallet/purse/shopping bag/Whopper with cheese that you can't keep with the flow of traffic.  I'm not innocent of this.  There are times when I was still learning my way, that I got all sorts of confused when I came onto the street and realized I didn't know where I was going.  After having dirty looks thrown at you and being bumped into and cursed at enough, you learn to merge and go, and improvise if you end up going the wrong way.

Thus leads me to the tourist pedestrians.  As any one who's lived in the city long enough knows, we've just lead the summer tourist season not long ago only to be faced with the holiday tourist season.  These are the worst times of the year to expertly navigate the sidewalks when you have people stopping in the middle of the walkways to look up.  Yes, this is a gorgeous city with magnificent buildings and eye-catching billboards and whatnot.  If you're here long enough, you tend to forget those facts.  But move to the sides, please, so people can pass you, or, in the words of a former castmate of mine, "Get out of my city!"

How would an entry like this be complete if I didn't mention the selfish walkers?  By this, I mean: those who veer and don't know how to walk in a straight line; those who walk right at you, even though the entire sidewalk is full; and, my personal favorite, the Carrie-Samantha-Charlotte-Miranda wannabes, who think they live in an episode of Sex & the City and walk next to each other in a group the whole way, expecting no one to break their line.  (Bitches, those extras are paid to get outta the way.) 

I like walking, I do.  But work with me here!

I can't afford a taxi.

Commercials

Because rare is the actor that works in NYC as just a performer, I have a day job for when I'm not auditioning.  I work for an office suite on Wall St., which takes up three floors and houses about thirty companies within its walls (and about twenty more within its phone lines).  I sit at a desk on the middle of the three floors, which is the main reception area.  Each floor has a "cafe" - an area which has the complimentary coffee machines, refridgerators, iMac computer, and TV, which is set on either CNBC or CNN.  It is this TV setting which is my bone of contention.

Because it's set on the same channel for the 8 3/4 hours that I sit at my desk, I hear the same commercials all the time.  ALL THE TIME!  Usually, I don't even know what the commercials are for, but I can recognize the songs from them, some to the point where I can even cue certain sound effects to start at the correct times in the jingle.

Now, I'm going to give you my top three favorites.  (And by "favorites", I mean the songs that make me grateful for when the phone rings and I have a momentary distraction from the notion of bashing my skull in with the handset.)

In third place, there's a UPS commercial that has a recognizable tune behind it.  It's the commercial advertising small business' international capabilities with UPS, which has the foreign delivery guy kicking a child's soccer ball around before going into the store.  I hear that one all the time.

Coming in second is the commercial I can only identify as Singin' in the Rain with the elephant.  I know I've actually seen this commercial, because it has a bunch of animals standing on each other's back up into the clouds...but I couldn't tell you what it was about.  I can tell you is that it plays "Singin' in the Rain" about ten times a day!  (And cue elephant trumpet...and go.)

And the winner for the most annoying commercial on CNBC is...the one with "Funkytown" as its song.  It's not even the "Won't you take me to Funkytown?" part.  It's the "Gotta move on" part, with  "Talk about it, talk about it, talk about..." being the only recognizable words, and this commercial, literally, plays every 5 minutes.  If I never, ever hear "Funkytown" again, it'll be too soon.  This commercial is this year's Cadillac (or Oldsmobile) commercial with "Dream On" as the song.  (You know, the one with the woman looking at the car surrounded by candles with "Dream on.  Dream on.  Dream on.  Dream on.  DREAM ON!  DREAM ON!" going on and on in the background.  Trust me, you've probably seen it, and some of you are nodding your head right now, understanding what I'm saying.)

I realize the only way to get your goods and services to the masses is by advertising, but I would love to give these people money to never EVER play these things again!!

Honorable mention: I was just reminded of whatever commercial it is where some guy screams for a taxi.  "Taxi.  TAX-I!"

Kill me.