Exceptional

A high-stress I.T. position in New York City supporting two disorganized women for $18 an hour and a solemn vow that I won't audition or have any conflicts for the next six months?

Excuse me, but I am NOT some guy named Brandon from Baton Rouge! I'm the third in the proud line of the exceptional Fork siblings. And not one of us does things the traditional way.

Well, Forkette does. But there was a time when she didn't. You might not know this, but before she settled down, got married, had a kid, and got a dream cottage with a white picket fence, she was known by all as Dinah Carolina. That's right. The Dinah Carolina, the exceptional swing dance champion of the south. Now she's a nurse and can tell you what malady you're suffering from just by looking at you.

And Forko? My older brother? Forget about it! He's so dang exceptional he makes me look like--uhh--someone NOT talented. Like Betty Crocker. Everyone knows she doesn't make anything by scratch. It's all boxed mixes. So yeah. When I stand next to Forko, I start to look/smell a bit like suspiciously moist and delicious yellow cake with partially hydrogenated chocolate icing. Drill for oil? He does it. Play in three Irish bands? Check. Wed an equally exceptional girl from Europe and spirit her away to the States? He's done that too. (By the way, Forko, thanks for the generous gift card yesterday. Keep em comin')

Face it. Whether she likes it or not, my niece, Little Mab, just joined one of the more exceptional families on this hum-drum little globe. And despite my mother's best efforts to convince everyone we're a perfectly respectable, conventional trio of offspring, between Forkette's wild dancing days, Forko's Irish music and geological expertise, and my outlandish experiences as the family ne'er-do-well, this girl is in for some wild bedtime stories.

SO...

If I want to get in line at those hopeless cattle calls and sign up to be 178th on the alternate list, that's JUST what I'm gonna do! And no corporate biddies are gonna tell me other!

$18?? Are you KIDDING? This is NEW YORK, people! The McDonalds employees make, like, $28 an hour! Do they think I didn't learn a thing or two from my time at Eventual Practical Financial Services? I've already been paid $18 an hour to sit by a phone and twiddle my thumbs for three days. You make almost that doing "temp work"...and you don't even have to MOVE (or wear anything)!

And they want to pay me New York circus peanuts to do REAL work? HA! Don't make me laugh!!

Something better is coming. I'm desperate, but not hopeless. While my decision NOT to kowtow and take the first crappy thing that comes my way will probably make mumsie and daddums cringe, maybe my act of foolish defiance will teach them--no--the WORLD a little something about faith!

Something better is on the way. I know it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go to the gym and work on my exceptional abs for my off-off Broadway show while listening to some defiant, I'll-Show-'Em!-I'll-Show-'Em-All!-style tunes on my iPod.

Because that's just what exceptional people DO.

Snowstorm in New York...

...all flights cancelled. -Mort Guffman

Off-Off or Off?

I've done a couple of Google searches for our show and have been a little surprised by the results.

While I was under the impression that this theatre was considered Off-Off Broadway, TWO New York theatre ticket websites have us listed as OFF Broadway. And that's a big deal.

I can't make up my mind about this. Do I tell people I'm in an Off-Broadway show? When I leave Noo Yuck, do I update my resume to say "Naked Druid Lesbians from Brooklyn" was an Off-Broadway show?

What should I do? What would you do?

I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here

It's finally started to happen. I'm approaching the six-month mark and it's finally started to happen.

I kinda like living here.

I KNOW! I'm fully aware of the implications of the above statement.

"Wow. I'm in NEW YORK. NEW YORK! The Capital of PLANET EARTH! I love this City!"

That's when I step into a huge puddle and get grazed by a speeding SUV with a New Jersey license plate. Then I go to dropping F-Bombs like crazy and start missing my cat.

Oh yeah...I had a cat once...I think his name was Melba. Something like that, wasn't it? Gosh, I really miss him. I think.

The problem here is the whole split-focus thing. I don't remember if I posted about this already, but it bears repeating, especially for you wide-eyed little ones who are thinking about following me up here like some latter-day Pied Piper.

You come to the City to be an actor. There are opportunities here you simply don't find anywhere else. You walk into the lobby of the Museum of Natural History or the sanctuary of St. Thomas or down 42nd Street on a Wednesday night and think, "This is why NEW YORK." It's thrilling.

But then you remember you have to make rent. So you start courting temp agencies. And just when you get all excited about starting regular temp work, you remember you have six auditions next week. "Money or the Dream?" you think. "Money or the Dream?" You didn't come up to New York to become some corporate slave. You came up to act. So you tell the temp agency you're unavailable next week.

But then you remember you're running out of money. So you call and tell them you're available. Then you think, "But I didn't come up here to become some corporate slave!" You came up to act. So you tell the temp agency you're unavailable next week. But then you remember you're running out of money. So you call and tell them you're available.

It's exhausting. It's a little scary.

But still, I don't know that I'm ready to fulfill my mother's prediction that I'd move back home within the first year. I mean, I've got a lot of stuff in my bedroom. It'd be a real headache to move all that stuff. And besides, where would I go?

I finally know where to find the good deals on groceries.

I know how to avoid the sludge puddles on snowy days.

I know where you can go to get a really cheap but tasty plate of Thai food.

I know where you can find restaurants that serve only chocolate or peanut butter or grilled cheese sandwiches.

I know that if you need to go to the bathroom while you're out, just look for a Starbucks.

I know which churches are conservative and which are liberal apostates.

I know you don't go anywhere without a jacket and a pair of earplugs.

I know you carry a small umbrella with you at all times.

I know how the subway system works (or doesn't work if it's the weekend).

I know what it is to be afraid of snow and rain. I know how to be thankful for sunny days, dishwashers, washing machines, and large bathrooms.

Who knows what's going to happen in the next six months. Maybe I'll do what I always do and continue to wander just a little aimlessly through life and hope everything works out. Maybe I'll say, "Forget this. I want bags of money," and go back to school. Maybe I'll be mugged and left for dead. Maybe I'll become the Melba toast of Off-Off Broadway.

But whatever happens, my lease is for another six months. And until the blasted thing expires...

I think I'm gonna like it here.

Deep Breath

Okay. So maybe I overreacted just a scosh. I'm here at Yummy Thai about to dig in to my Sunday night dinner and suddenly...little else seems to matter.

Lawd knows what this week will bring. Hopefully some money.

I Have HAD It!

***MAJOR RANT ALERT***

Just in case I haven't made it ABUNDANTLY clear...

...Theatre is the same EVERYWHERE.

It's like how in The Grapes of Wrath, the family moves from the dustbowl to the "Promised Land" of California and discovers the hard way that life in California is still life. With all its hardships and people dying in the backseat of your depression-era pickup truck.

The director was here for our opening night. Haven't seen her since. What director doesn't stick around at LEAST through the first couple of shows on opening weekend?? It's not as if the paint was even dry. We had changed things the night before opening and even the day of opening there were new things. And instead of sticking around...off she goes! I understand she's pregnant (by her male husband, no less!) and she couldn't stick around after opening night because she was feeling "tired," but she's about two months preggers. What is she, bedridden?

Then there's the backstage talk. Before the show starts, the "ladies" of our cast sit around, belching (no, really!) and talking about the VILEST of things. I don't even want to HINT at what they talk about. I put my iPod in and block it out so I can get myself focused for the evening, but it seems like whenever I do that, one of our two addled stage managers comes in to give us our time call. And even though I shout, "THANK YOU, FIFTEEN!" they look at me and say, all sassy-like, "You know, I'm JUST not sure you can hear me with those things in your ears."

The two bumbling stage managers are really something. One comes in and says, "Guys, we're at 10 minutes to places." ("Thank you, ten!")

Then the other one comes in about a minute later--no, seriously--it happened twice last night--and says, "Actors, we're at fifteen." ("Thank you...fifteen?")

Then the "ladies" of the cast start talking about how our stage managers are the BEST stage managers they've ever had the pleasure of working with. They're so organized.

Organized, huh?

At fight call, one of the stage managers will shout, "Okay, go!" while a bunch of dingbats who aren't in the scene walk across the stage and before anybody is even in place to do the fight.

Last night I came into the theatre very calmly...I was going to be totally smiley and happy. Boy, that was a lost cause. The other stage manager came RUNNING into the dressing room with this INTENSE panicked energy and fairly shrieked, "The late-night play had a dress rehearsal last night and so I need you ALL to check your props on stage because I don't see any of them there!!!!1!"

I RUN onto the stage. She's RIGHT! None of our stuff is on the stage! PANIC! HORRORS!

Maybe because we all JUST got to the theatre and our props are still in that box next to our costumes. GoooooOOOOooood LAWD.

Later we got sassed at by one of the stage managers. Like, REALLY sassed at.

"We have got to hurry from now on because the late-night show needs to be in this space at 10:30. (cue the wide-eyed sass right abooooouuuuut....now) Right now we're finishing at 10:35 and we cannot do that. Yes, Forky? You have a question?"

"Yes. Didn't we hold the house ten minutes last night?"

"................yes. We did."

At intermission, the "ladies" continue talking about their private parts, but also--shoot me in the FACE--add to the mix how they think the show is going.

You who did junior high/high school...even some college shows know EXACTLY what I'm talking about.

"Oh my gosh! Act one totally blew chunks!"

"Oh, man. I am just SUCKING tonight!"

"This sucks! We're just sucking! We can't suck in act two!"

"Yeah! Lets say our lines faster!"

"Okay! Yeah, we've gotta say them faster. We're going to rock the house now!"

I'm telling you, guys. It's enough to make you gnaw off your leg. After five years of professional work, you'll hear that kind of talk from one or two people in the cast. But not EVERYBODY. No, when you're really doing this professionally, people talk less about how they THINK the show is going and just DO THE DANG SHOW.

Last night we got back in the theatre after intermish and, of the 14 people we started with, only 8 remained.

Well, the post-show conversation WAS interesting.

"Think about it, guys. Those people were OLD. They wouldn't APPRECIATE something like THIS."

"Yeah. They're obviously idiots from Omaha who should be seeing the Lion King instead."

It's amazing, guys. These "ladies" simply cannot understand why people would leave. I mean, not even taking into account the naked lesbian boobies, let's look at this: the cast is on stage the entire time. When we're not in the scene, we put on these druid robes and stand against the walls of the black box and make creepy moaning and humming sounds behind the audience. The director also mentioned she wanted us to interact with the audience so's to invite them into the world of the play, right?

Well, this girl in full druid garb and drool trickling down her mouth, DASHES up to these poor audience members, then stops and stares at them for five minutes. Another one sits down in an empty seat next to some patron, looking like she's taking a druidic smoke break. They harrass the audience in the opening number by shoving their boobs in the audiences faces, in the crowd scenes, they swat the audience's legs...it's invasive. It's uncomfortable for me to WITNESS this.

Then when you add some rather shocking lesbian sex scenes, well. All bets are off. Seriously. The show had better be REALLY TIGHT and I'd better have a compelling reason to stick around for act two because I do NOT want to sit here and receive more abuse at the hands of Naked Druid Lesbians from Brooklyn.

I think that's enough. I think you see now. Yes, we're off-off Broadway, a mere two blocks away from the actual street and three blocks from a Broadway house, but even so--

Theatre in New York is still theatre.

Weekend Update

It's a beautiful day today. I mean...dang.

Got a big update to do this afternoon. Hold your horses.