6:20am Wake up randomly in midst of dream involving color yellow and cartoon badgers. Am happy because 1. enjoy hearing wave sound and 2. have an hour left of sleep. Fall back asleep.
7:20 Alarm rings. Leap from bed to bathroom as do not believe in snooze alarms.
7:25 Complete beauty routine. Involves vanillamint toothpaste, vanilla marshmallow day facial moisturizer, vanilla chai deodorant, and vanilla buttercream lotion. Wonder if it beauty routine involves too much vanilla. Wonder if Cosmo is, in fact, full of shit, and vanilla does not act as an aphrodisiac for the male species.
7:30 Select white sundress, brown leggings, brown cardigan, white flats. Half-assedly wrangle hair into tortoiseshell barette.
7:35 Steal tomatoes from garden. Yum, breakfast.
7:40 Set off for trainstation. Ipod shuffle - Vanessa Carlton, Ordinary Day.
7:45 Head nods withplatform buddy, Neighbor Dad With Blue Gym Bag. Unknown women on bench discuss how they would move their summer homes to Beverly Farms if it had a gourmet butcher with marinated meat.
7:49 Bell clangs, announcing train. Women coo over the cuteness of the bell. Neighbor Dad looks at them, rolls eyes at me. Feel smugly like a local.
7:52 Settle into seat, crack open Bitter is the New Black by Jen Lancaster. (Excellent. Buy it immediately.)
8:01 Beverly Depot. 567 frat-boys-turned-business-men between the ages of 26 and 36 all wearing khakis and a blue button down shirt (striped or checked or plain) get on. One of the 562 sits next to me. Turn towards wall and fall asleep. Terrified that my natural snuggling instincts will take over and I will wake up cuddling with Mr. Ex-Frat.
8:06 Salem. 432 Businesswomen in Ann Taylor Loft stretch pantsuits and sensible Aerosoles heels take up remaining spots.
8:33. North Station. In attempt not to cuddle with Mr. Ex-Frat have, while asleep, attempted to cuddle with train wall. Awake and try to extricate limbs from bizarre wall-hugging position.
8:40 Get on Orange Line at North Station.
8:50 Arrive Ruggles Station.
8:51 Miss bus. Wait at Bus Bay 5 with normal bus buddy, Hot Latina With Big Gold Hoop Earrings and Different Colored Polo Shirt Every Day. Read book.
9:00 Bus false alarm.
9:10 Get on bus. A different Surly Driver every day.
9:30 Exit bus outside Family Dollar on Columbia Street. Cross to CVS. Browse.
9:32 Spot actor from other tour in CVS. Hastily chuck Never Seduce a Rake behind shelf and pretend I was not at all reading the back cover.
9:40 Purchase two diet cherry cokes, two diet sunkists, and the third lipgloss this week (because Covergirl Baby Petal Natural Shine is soooo different from Maybelline Baby Girl Lip Plumping).
9:45 Successfully make it up 4 flights of stairs to rehearsal hall.
And thusly, my day begins.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
"You Have to Pile On a Whole Lotta Shit To Get Roses"
That little bon mot is courtesy of our Director. The Director spent most of his life on a ranch in Texas, has a flowing mane of grey hair and favors oxford shirts and jeans. He calls everybody darlin', is a veritable font of these country-sounding type inspirational metaphors and similes, owns a collapsible neoprene lunch bag of which he is inordinately proud (and into which his fiancee always packs cookies, much to his chagrin) and blames any mistakes on the brain cells he lost while touring with Conway Twitty in the 70s. He is a total sweetheart. And, in situations like this involving shit and roses, absolutely right.
Today was one of those days that started off auspiciously but quickly turned inauspicious: the kind of day when a newspaper delivery truck driver belts out "Moon River" as you cross the street, and when one of the sketchy slightly drunk at 9am denizens of our beloved rehearsal corner of Dorchester tells you you look pretty, but by the time you've hauled ass up four flights of stairs you realize that not only do you have a toothpaste stain on your baby blue ribbed tanktop but that everyone can see your polka dot bra right through said baby blue ribbed tanktop, and it is of course way too hot to cover up the situation with the jcrew navy cardigan. Sigh. Of course, I did what any normal girl would do and channeled Carrie Bradshaw circa season 3 and pretended it was totally intentional. ("Dayglo underwear! Look into it girlfriend!" I've seen way too much of that show.)
Anyway, the proverbial shit hit the fan right after I tried to wash out the toothpaste and only succeeded in making my bra more visible (and somehow not removing the toothpaste.) The Producer arrived to see a runthrough of the West Coast Tour's show, stayed only for the first miniplay (we're talking like 10, 15 minutes tops) and promptly fired one of the actors.
I know. Holy shit.
They replaced him with our House Manager. So we have no more House Manager, which is sad because we all really like him and we won't get someone new to run the sound (another fun House Manager duty) for a week, but that's really not a big deal. The big deal is (one) holy SHIT that sucks for the guy who got fired (who was, by the way, really nice) and (two) everyone is FREAKING OUT. It is really, really scary. Everyone was just really shaken up by it. And I'm not even going to get into how freaked out I am that our run for The Producer is this friday. So friends in New York, if you've missed me, I may be heading home sooner than we thought. Because the guy who was fired was a recent college grad/last-minute hire. Basically, a boob-less, blond-less me. I'm trying to be zen about it, que sera sera, you know but it's still...scary. I'm just going to work even harder than before, i.e. stop reading Cosmo when I'm offstage and try to look more productive. Like I'll stretch or something.
We did get to have naptime, however, as due to a combination of intense heat, exhaustion, and nerves, everyone was sort of useless. That 20 minute nap was quite refreshing, I must say.
Tonight I watched Step it Up 2: The Streets with the family I'm staying with, and that movie just totally proved our dear Director's axiom. Dee from the streets had to deal with all this shit like getting kicked out of dance school and the mean dance gang leader vandalizing her studio and overcoming the socioeconomic barrier betwixt her and her boo, but in the end, she busted some sweet sweet dance moves in the rain. And got the guy.
Shit to roses. Even in The Streets. I'm assuming the same applies for the mean streets of Dorchester, MA.
Today was one of those days that started off auspiciously but quickly turned inauspicious: the kind of day when a newspaper delivery truck driver belts out "Moon River" as you cross the street, and when one of the sketchy slightly drunk at 9am denizens of our beloved rehearsal corner of Dorchester tells you you look pretty, but by the time you've hauled ass up four flights of stairs you realize that not only do you have a toothpaste stain on your baby blue ribbed tanktop but that everyone can see your polka dot bra right through said baby blue ribbed tanktop, and it is of course way too hot to cover up the situation with the jcrew navy cardigan. Sigh. Of course, I did what any normal girl would do and channeled Carrie Bradshaw circa season 3 and pretended it was totally intentional. ("Dayglo underwear! Look into it girlfriend!" I've seen way too much of that show.)
Anyway, the proverbial shit hit the fan right after I tried to wash out the toothpaste and only succeeded in making my bra more visible (and somehow not removing the toothpaste.) The Producer arrived to see a runthrough of the West Coast Tour's show, stayed only for the first miniplay (we're talking like 10, 15 minutes tops) and promptly fired one of the actors.
I know. Holy shit.
They replaced him with our House Manager. So we have no more House Manager, which is sad because we all really like him and we won't get someone new to run the sound (another fun House Manager duty) for a week, but that's really not a big deal. The big deal is (one) holy SHIT that sucks for the guy who got fired (who was, by the way, really nice) and (two) everyone is FREAKING OUT. It is really, really scary. Everyone was just really shaken up by it. And I'm not even going to get into how freaked out I am that our run for The Producer is this friday. So friends in New York, if you've missed me, I may be heading home sooner than we thought. Because the guy who was fired was a recent college grad/last-minute hire. Basically, a boob-less, blond-less me. I'm trying to be zen about it, que sera sera, you know but it's still...scary. I'm just going to work even harder than before, i.e. stop reading Cosmo when I'm offstage and try to look more productive. Like I'll stretch or something.
We did get to have naptime, however, as due to a combination of intense heat, exhaustion, and nerves, everyone was sort of useless. That 20 minute nap was quite refreshing, I must say.
Tonight I watched Step it Up 2: The Streets with the family I'm staying with, and that movie just totally proved our dear Director's axiom. Dee from the streets had to deal with all this shit like getting kicked out of dance school and the mean dance gang leader vandalizing her studio and overcoming the socioeconomic barrier betwixt her and her boo, but in the end, she busted some sweet sweet dance moves in the rain. And got the guy.
Shit to roses. Even in The Streets. I'm assuming the same applies for the mean streets of Dorchester, MA.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
"We Need to Save Our Show From People Who Don't Know the Difference Between a Tony Award and Tony Hawk"
It's been more than 4 years since I was last in a musical - Meg, Damn Yankees, senior spring. (I did have a brief walk on role in The Tornado Ballet in The Wiz a few months after, but that really didn't count. I twirled around in a Tornado Dancer outfit. With gray and black fabric tied on my arms. Yeah...)
Highschool musical culture is it's own sort of thing, because unless you go to a FAME! school no one's that into it, or particularly good, and it's just a bunch of kids who are bad at sports bopping around in an auditorium. College musical culture I know nothing about because, well, I'm sorry Musical Players - I'm just gonna go ahead and plead the fifth here.
Now I've been suddenly thrown into this tribe of actors who are, overwhelmingly, musical people. And musical people are definitely a tribe. It's like they have this shared language that let's them communicate and identify with eachother on a separate plane. Everyone is a type, and types are identified by what show's you've done and what parts you've played. I've been trying to pass, but I don't think I'm pulling it of. Firstly, I had to get over my College-trained prejudices against musical people (as opposed to "serious" actors.) That wasn't so hard though. I mean I passed up a Moliere festival to see Dirty Dancing: The Musical. If that's not a sign of serious mental imbalance I don't know what is. Secondly, even the people who don't identify as "dancers" can still dance circles around me. I've been trying to fake it but I'm just not a mover like these people. Most importantly, the language of musical theatre people is discussions of shared experience, because there's a limited canon of musicals that are done over and over, and everyone's pretty much done the same stuff. A handful of highschool tales just doesn't cut it. And "hey, so, anybody else done any good plays about suicide lately? Child molestation? Rape? Murder? No?" doesn't provide a lot of material. When you spend an entire show sitting on a stool, there are fewer wacky hijinx. Musical stories are like war stories, in that everybody sort of gets it. Except a lot less scary than war stories, obviously. Although still painful, sometimes - one of the boys broke his leg rollerskating in "Once A Year Day" while playing Mr.Hassler in The Pajama Game.
Yes, he finished the show, broken leg and all. And he probably still danced better than me even with a broken leg stuck in a rollerskate.
Highschool musical culture is it's own sort of thing, because unless you go to a FAME! school no one's that into it, or particularly good, and it's just a bunch of kids who are bad at sports bopping around in an auditorium. College musical culture I know nothing about because, well, I'm sorry Musical Players - I'm just gonna go ahead and plead the fifth here.
Now I've been suddenly thrown into this tribe of actors who are, overwhelmingly, musical people. And musical people are definitely a tribe. It's like they have this shared language that let's them communicate and identify with eachother on a separate plane. Everyone is a type, and types are identified by what show's you've done and what parts you've played. I've been trying to pass, but I don't think I'm pulling it of. Firstly, I had to get over my College-trained prejudices against musical people (as opposed to "serious" actors.) That wasn't so hard though. I mean I passed up a Moliere festival to see Dirty Dancing: The Musical. If that's not a sign of serious mental imbalance I don't know what is. Secondly, even the people who don't identify as "dancers" can still dance circles around me. I've been trying to fake it but I'm just not a mover like these people. Most importantly, the language of musical theatre people is discussions of shared experience, because there's a limited canon of musicals that are done over and over, and everyone's pretty much done the same stuff. A handful of highschool tales just doesn't cut it. And "hey, so, anybody else done any good plays about suicide lately? Child molestation? Rape? Murder? No?" doesn't provide a lot of material. When you spend an entire show sitting on a stool, there are fewer wacky hijinx. Musical stories are like war stories, in that everybody sort of gets it. Except a lot less scary than war stories, obviously. Although still painful, sometimes - one of the boys broke his leg rollerskating in "Once A Year Day" while playing Mr.Hassler in The Pajama Game.
Yes, he finished the show, broken leg and all. And he probably still danced better than me even with a broken leg stuck in a rollerskate.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Beverly Farms, 90210
Well, as Beverly's go, there's a lot less drama in the Farms than the Hills. But that is definitely not a bad thing.
When people ask "Where are you?" I say "Boston," but technically I'm in Beverly Farms, MA. 42 minutes on the commuter rail out of North Station to a tiny little town right on the beach, where there's only one street with shops/restaurants/civilization, all of which close by 6, and the garbage cans are hidden under floral arrangements. It is cute as a button and I just love it. The house I'm staying in is somewhat whimsically called "Wandering Waves," and it is, in fact, right on the beach. Like I can see the waves crash from window on the beach. Yes, it's sort of a long commute, but it's the BEACH! I spent all last Sunday (my one day off) getting royally sunburned, lying out on my Bruins beach towel (yes, I have Boston pride now), pounding down diet cokes from the snack bar as I watched the local beach volleyball tournament.
How did I end up on an oceanfront property with a pool and a hot tub? (Yup.) Unbelievably nice friends of my parents from college are letting me stay here, in the guest suite of their house. I have my own bedroom and bathroom and little kitchen and everything. Well, actually, at the moment, I'm staying in the Son's room, because they have friends visiting from Singapore. Last week, we bid the Son farewell at a Lobster Bake party during which I was savaged by mosquitos but enjoyed myself thoroughly. He left for freshman orientation to study theatre tech. Unsurprisingly, I am currently surrounded by Star Wars memorabilia, anime action figures and tribal masks. So now it's the Mom, the Dad, the Daughter, the giant Sheepdog, and me. The Daughter is very sporty, but we get along surprisingly well. She's kinda confined to the couch following a soccer camp injury, and we've bonded over a shared love of Project Runway, the Lindsay Lohan oeuvre, odd Olympic events, and Mythbusters, which she introduced me to. (People blow stuff up, there's a little science, but a lot of it is about movies, and the Asian dude is awesome.) After a really, really long day at work, it's nice to come back to a real home, watch some Mythbusters, and cuddle with a giant fluffy dog.
I like being on the train platform at 7:49, hanging out with all the suburban commuter dads who are sort of bemused by my presence. I like that the guy at the Landmark News and Convience at North Station will get out my Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr Pepper before I even make it up to the register, saying "Gotcha a cold one, kid. Don't even try and reach back there with those short arms." There's something nice about routine.
And there's definitely something nice about an ocean view.
When people ask "Where are you?" I say "Boston," but technically I'm in Beverly Farms, MA. 42 minutes on the commuter rail out of North Station to a tiny little town right on the beach, where there's only one street with shops/restaurants/civilization, all of which close by 6, and the garbage cans are hidden under floral arrangements. It is cute as a button and I just love it. The house I'm staying in is somewhat whimsically called "Wandering Waves," and it is, in fact, right on the beach. Like I can see the waves crash from window on the beach. Yes, it's sort of a long commute, but it's the BEACH! I spent all last Sunday (my one day off) getting royally sunburned, lying out on my Bruins beach towel (yes, I have Boston pride now), pounding down diet cokes from the snack bar as I watched the local beach volleyball tournament.
How did I end up on an oceanfront property with a pool and a hot tub? (Yup.) Unbelievably nice friends of my parents from college are letting me stay here, in the guest suite of their house. I have my own bedroom and bathroom and little kitchen and everything. Well, actually, at the moment, I'm staying in the Son's room, because they have friends visiting from Singapore. Last week, we bid the Son farewell at a Lobster Bake party during which I was savaged by mosquitos but enjoyed myself thoroughly. He left for freshman orientation to study theatre tech. Unsurprisingly, I am currently surrounded by Star Wars memorabilia, anime action figures and tribal masks. So now it's the Mom, the Dad, the Daughter, the giant Sheepdog, and me. The Daughter is very sporty, but we get along surprisingly well. She's kinda confined to the couch following a soccer camp injury, and we've bonded over a shared love of Project Runway, the Lindsay Lohan oeuvre, odd Olympic events, and Mythbusters, which she introduced me to. (People blow stuff up, there's a little science, but a lot of it is about movies, and the Asian dude is awesome.) After a really, really long day at work, it's nice to come back to a real home, watch some Mythbusters, and cuddle with a giant fluffy dog.
I like being on the train platform at 7:49, hanging out with all the suburban commuter dads who are sort of bemused by my presence. I like that the guy at the Landmark News and Convience at North Station will get out my Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr Pepper before I even make it up to the register, saying "Gotcha a cold one, kid. Don't even try and reach back there with those short arms." There's something nice about routine.
And there's definitely something nice about an ocean view.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
License to Kill
Hopefully there will be no killing. Or maiming. But just to warn any of you who may be on the road in the Indiana area, I am now licensed to drive a 24 foot truck.
For serious.
We finished blocking Sleepy Hollow in a tidy 3 and half hours this morning. "Katrina! Brom! Keep it PG!" Whoops...giggle. Don't worry - by now I am very adept at identifying different types of castcrushes/showmances (I've had, what, a million, by this point) and this is definitely a Category 1, I-only-have-a-crush-on-you-when-we're-in-character situation, because although he's perfectly pleasant and I enjoy hanging out with him offstage, my heartstrings don't zing the way they do when he leaps over the fence in his knee breeches, swinging an animal pelt. (Sue me. I'm weird.) Category 1 castcrushes are totally harmless (really, they're technically charactercrushes) and in this situation (like in most) they just make the play better. They add a certain je-ne-said-quoi, but end as the curtain closes. Totally safe.
Now, a more dangerous situation: yours truly at the wheel of a TRUCK. Once the shattered pumpkin rolled accross the stage and the Headless Horseman vanished, the Other Actress, the House Manager and I were all sent to get our truck licenses. The Other Actress was born in Italy but raised in Santa Fe by her yoga teacher parents. She is tall, tan, curly-haired, freckly, and quick to laugh - she's a lot of fun. The House Manager looks a little like a short Jude Law if you kind of squint, and is CT-born football player turned actor whose dream is to work at Disney. I especially enjoy spending time with him because his first gig was in the Babes in Toyland Christmas Spectacular at Dollywood, and I LOOOOVE Dolly Parton. Look up "Dumb Blonde" - it's from Dolly's early years - so good. And the actor who plays my dear papa in Sleepy Hollow was in Best Little Whorehouse In Texas, so we've already had some good Dolly Parton singalongs. "And as for pimps! Pimps are somethin you don't need to get your daily bizness dooone." Anyway. I digress.
It took a subway and two buses to make it out past the airport to the Concentra Medical Center, where the required physical was taking place. The three of us settled down in the waiting room under a pile of paperwork for a long, long wait. I did get to hear all about House Manager's breakup with his Jehovah's Witness girlfriend, which was interesting, and watch some Medical TV, which included, among other things, a quiz on sunstroke and a recipe for heart healthy berry crumble. Finally they called my name: the nurse did height, weight, eye test, pulse, blood pressure and urine sample, then put me in a little room and told me to change into a hospital gown. I waited there, in the little room, alone, in my gown, for over an hour. I thought they forgot me, and kept poking my head out into the hall but didnt want to leave because, you know, of the open-back gown situation, but apparently, you just have to wait a really long time. 3 hours after the start of this whole situation, the doctor arrived. Guess what you have to do to be able to drive a big truck:
1. Breathe deep into stethoscope.
2. Touch toes, squat, stand on tippytoes, balance on heels.
3. Say "right" or "left" depending on which side of your periferal vision the Dr. wiggles his fingers.
4. Have reflexes
5. Pass the whisper test. Doctor stands across the room, whispers "extravaganza." You say, "EXTRAVAGANZA."
Done.
That's it. No driving, no special truck questions, none of that.
Well, I mean, I still need to buy an Ashton-Kutcher-style trucker hat, obviously. But aside from that, I'm totally set.
For serious.
We finished blocking Sleepy Hollow in a tidy 3 and half hours this morning. "Katrina! Brom! Keep it PG!" Whoops...giggle. Don't worry - by now I am very adept at identifying different types of castcrushes/showmances (I've had, what, a million, by this point) and this is definitely a Category 1, I-only-have-a-crush-on-you-when-we're-in-character situation, because although he's perfectly pleasant and I enjoy hanging out with him offstage, my heartstrings don't zing the way they do when he leaps over the fence in his knee breeches, swinging an animal pelt. (Sue me. I'm weird.) Category 1 castcrushes are totally harmless (really, they're technically charactercrushes) and in this situation (like in most) they just make the play better. They add a certain je-ne-said-quoi, but end as the curtain closes. Totally safe.
Now, a more dangerous situation: yours truly at the wheel of a TRUCK. Once the shattered pumpkin rolled accross the stage and the Headless Horseman vanished, the Other Actress, the House Manager and I were all sent to get our truck licenses. The Other Actress was born in Italy but raised in Santa Fe by her yoga teacher parents. She is tall, tan, curly-haired, freckly, and quick to laugh - she's a lot of fun. The House Manager looks a little like a short Jude Law if you kind of squint, and is CT-born football player turned actor whose dream is to work at Disney. I especially enjoy spending time with him because his first gig was in the Babes in Toyland Christmas Spectacular at Dollywood, and I LOOOOVE Dolly Parton. Look up "Dumb Blonde" - it's from Dolly's early years - so good. And the actor who plays my dear papa in Sleepy Hollow was in Best Little Whorehouse In Texas, so we've already had some good Dolly Parton singalongs. "And as for pimps! Pimps are somethin you don't need to get your daily bizness dooone." Anyway. I digress.
It took a subway and two buses to make it out past the airport to the Concentra Medical Center, where the required physical was taking place. The three of us settled down in the waiting room under a pile of paperwork for a long, long wait. I did get to hear all about House Manager's breakup with his Jehovah's Witness girlfriend, which was interesting, and watch some Medical TV, which included, among other things, a quiz on sunstroke and a recipe for heart healthy berry crumble. Finally they called my name: the nurse did height, weight, eye test, pulse, blood pressure and urine sample, then put me in a little room and told me to change into a hospital gown. I waited there, in the little room, alone, in my gown, for over an hour. I thought they forgot me, and kept poking my head out into the hall but didnt want to leave because, you know, of the open-back gown situation, but apparently, you just have to wait a really long time. 3 hours after the start of this whole situation, the doctor arrived. Guess what you have to do to be able to drive a big truck:
1. Breathe deep into stethoscope.
2. Touch toes, squat, stand on tippytoes, balance on heels.
3. Say "right" or "left" depending on which side of your periferal vision the Dr. wiggles his fingers.
4. Have reflexes
5. Pass the whisper test. Doctor stands across the room, whispers "extravaganza." You say, "EXTRAVAGANZA."
Done.
That's it. No driving, no special truck questions, none of that.
Well, I mean, I still need to buy an Ashton-Kutcher-style trucker hat, obviously. But aside from that, I'm totally set.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
How Do You Solve a Problem Like Katrina?
Actually, Katrina's not the problem. Today's problem was just a verrrry slow blocking of Sleepy Hollow, which I think frustrated everyone except for me, as I was having the time of my life waving my hanky around at all my rustic admirers. Frankly, I could have kept giggling and flirting and hanky waving all day. You probably didn't know that was a marketable skill set. But it is. Anyway, we're progressing slowly towards getting all the shows blocked.
The entire show (1 hour and 45 minutes of nonstop family fun) is composed of five mini-plays.
1. The Tell-Tale Heart: crazy man hacks up old man he rents room from, thinks he hears his dead heart beating, caught by inspector, bla bla bla. I'm not in it. Moving on.
2. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow: Gangly schoolmaster Ichabod Crane battles "roistering blade" Brom Bones for the heart of "country coquette" Katrina Von Tassel played (obviously) by moi, with lots of giggling. Headless Horseman enters, spookiness ensues. Today we blocked the Katrina-Brom courting scene, in which I am not impressed by his gift of a dead skunk. I have a teeny, tiny crush on Brom Bones. Obviously nothing that's going to make me rethink my I Will Never Again Become Romantically Entangled With An Actor Vow (Helpful acting tip: pursuing your onstage love interest offstage does NOT make you a method actor), but just enough to make being the "blooming object of his rough affections" a wee bit more enjoyable than it probably should be. I keep waiting too long to say "Stop pawing me like a bear!" and it's throwing the next sound cue off. Woopsie...
3. The Monkey's Paw: Turn of the Century England. Mysterious widow (moi) returns from India with cursed monkey's paw, brings doom to happy little family when they interfere with fate. I wear a big black hat and say things like "I WAAARN YOU OF THE CONSEQUENCES" in a deep scary voice.
4. The Necklace: Turn of the Century Paris. Bourgeois housewife (moi!) wants to be rich, gets invited to big fancy ball, borrows necklace from rich friend, loses it, plunges herself and hubby into terrible death and ruins their lives. Enjoyable, because I do a LOT of waltzing and wear a giant blue ballgown that would make Cinderella weep with envy. Seriously - it's gorgeous. Also, I love waltzing. Even though I get about a million posture note (shoulders down! shoulders back! chest out! on your toes!) because I am just not particularly elegant/graceful and they are trying their best to
5. The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County: In the Wild West, a gambler named Jim Smiley trains a frog to jump and bets on it, but is tricked by a clever stranger. I play a saloon girl, and then the lady frog (the jumping frog's love interest.) Yes, that's right, a frog. I have a saloon girl frog outfit. Like with giant frog feet and hands and everything.
The Producer made another appeareance this afternoon, to see Actor 3, who has finally arrived (yay! we are now a complete company! well minus the electrician, but she doesn't come until tech) and everything is now pretty much nailed down. Also, it seems like everyone's getting along really well in our crazy crew, at least for now.
Things may change when you put 3 actors, 2 actresses, a stage manager, a house manager and an electrician in a van for hours on end, but I'm feeling pretty optimistic.
The entire show (1 hour and 45 minutes of nonstop family fun) is composed of five mini-plays.
1. The Tell-Tale Heart: crazy man hacks up old man he rents room from, thinks he hears his dead heart beating, caught by inspector, bla bla bla. I'm not in it. Moving on.
2. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow: Gangly schoolmaster Ichabod Crane battles "roistering blade" Brom Bones for the heart of "country coquette" Katrina Von Tassel played (obviously) by moi, with lots of giggling. Headless Horseman enters, spookiness ensues. Today we blocked the Katrina-Brom courting scene, in which I am not impressed by his gift of a dead skunk. I have a teeny, tiny crush on Brom Bones. Obviously nothing that's going to make me rethink my I Will Never Again Become Romantically Entangled With An Actor Vow (Helpful acting tip: pursuing your onstage love interest offstage does NOT make you a method actor), but just enough to make being the "blooming object of his rough affections" a wee bit more enjoyable than it probably should be. I keep waiting too long to say "Stop pawing me like a bear!" and it's throwing the next sound cue off. Woopsie...
3. The Monkey's Paw: Turn of the Century England. Mysterious widow (moi) returns from India with cursed monkey's paw, brings doom to happy little family when they interfere with fate. I wear a big black hat and say things like "I WAAARN YOU OF THE CONSEQUENCES" in a deep scary voice.
4. The Necklace: Turn of the Century Paris. Bourgeois housewife (moi!) wants to be rich, gets invited to big fancy ball, borrows necklace from rich friend, loses it, plunges herself and hubby into terrible death and ruins their lives. Enjoyable, because I do a LOT of waltzing and wear a giant blue ballgown that would make Cinderella weep with envy. Seriously - it's gorgeous. Also, I love waltzing. Even though I get about a million posture note (shoulders down! shoulders back! chest out! on your toes!) because I am just not particularly elegant/graceful and they are trying their best to
5. The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County: In the Wild West, a gambler named Jim Smiley trains a frog to jump and bets on it, but is tricked by a clever stranger. I play a saloon girl, and then the lady frog (the jumping frog's love interest.) Yes, that's right, a frog. I have a saloon girl frog outfit. Like with giant frog feet and hands and everything.
The Producer made another appeareance this afternoon, to see Actor 3, who has finally arrived (yay! we are now a complete company! well minus the electrician, but she doesn't come until tech) and everything is now pretty much nailed down. Also, it seems like everyone's getting along really well in our crazy crew, at least for now.
Things may change when you put 3 actors, 2 actresses, a stage manager, a house manager and an electrician in a van for hours on end, but I'm feeling pretty optimistic.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Boston Blonde
Things I Like About Boston:
1. Cobblestones! Brick buildings! Total, total cuteness! Loves it.
2. No matter where I go, no matter how lost I get, I somehow always end up at Quincy Market. Not only does this mean I then know how to get home, it also means I get gourmet kettle corn. Although that's probably bad, because that probably means I'm training myself to get lost, like some kind of counterproductive Pavlov's dog experiment.
3. Even strangers are, in general, quite friendly and polite. They hold doors, they stop at crosswalks, they say "I don't know where you're going, young lady, but you look quite beautiful! Tell your parents to extend your curfew!" or "Good morning, princesa!" instead of "damn, bitch, you fine."
4. This place is dripping history. I practically tripped over the site of the Boston Massacre totally by accident. I was very excited.
5. Many, many women freely roam the city in jeans and sweatshirts. If I ever left my apartment and turned onto Bleeker looking less than totally fabulous and completely perfect, the fashionistas shot me looks that would kill. Sometimes, you just want to want to leave the house in sweatpants.
Things I DO NOT Like About Boston:
1. The motherfucking bus
So today The Producer was coming to hear us read before she finalized casting. Now, she was scheduled to come at 10, but we all had to be there at 9:30, just in case. Of oourse, on today of all days, the train behind mine broke down. We had to stop for 20 minutes to collect them. We then had to stop at every stop into Boston, arriving about 35 minutes behind schedule. Sprint from North Station to the Orange Line. Get off at Ruggles station, sprint down the escalator. En route, I completely trip and wipe out, scratching a giant escalator-shaped bloody gash in my leg from my knee to my ankle. I arrive down just in time to see the bus pulling away. I chase it. It doesn't stop.
Now, the bus is erratic, at best. The one I missed was late. And if I waited for the next one, I would have been way late for the meeting with The Producer. Panic ensued. Obviously, I decided to start running down the street like a crazy, bleeding madman with a curly prom-style updo (they made me do my hair to look more elegant) and stage makeup bordering on the hooker-esque (again, a mandate to look more elegant.)
I saw a glimmer of hope - a cab - and flagged him down. I made it to the doors of the rehearsal hall at 9:27, dragged myself up four flights of stairs and collapsed. By this point, all the hairspray had lost its hold and my hair was a stringy mess, my eye making was smeared across my face, and my scraped knees were still covered in blood. So much for impressing The Producer with my poise and elegance.
We waited. She arrived at 10:10. The Producer is kind of a big deal - she does all these broadway shows, and is currently bringing a play over from the West End, so she has a lot on her plate. For someone who is so respected/feared, at first glance she doesn't look that scary. She is very petite, and likes brightly colored capris, and has her nails perfectly manicured in a color that is probably called Come Hither Coral. She is, however, very intimidating, as she watched us all read in complete silence, staring, just looking, thinking, making us all sweat bullets. She and the Artistic Director left the room and had a 45 minute meeting, while we all sat there, about to vomit, convinced they were going to recast the whole thing, and we'd have to undo the blocking, and I had already fallen in love with all my parts and was sure I was going to have to give them all up.
The Artistic Director swept back in, and announced that nothing was changing for the girls. "I didn't think it would," she said, "I mean look at you! You're such an ingenue!"
So, naturally, I did what any ingenue worth her salt would do, and just batted my baby blues and smiled.
1. Cobblestones! Brick buildings! Total, total cuteness! Loves it.
2. No matter where I go, no matter how lost I get, I somehow always end up at Quincy Market. Not only does this mean I then know how to get home, it also means I get gourmet kettle corn. Although that's probably bad, because that probably means I'm training myself to get lost, like some kind of counterproductive Pavlov's dog experiment.
3. Even strangers are, in general, quite friendly and polite. They hold doors, they stop at crosswalks, they say "I don't know where you're going, young lady, but you look quite beautiful! Tell your parents to extend your curfew!" or "Good morning, princesa!" instead of "damn, bitch, you fine."
4. This place is dripping history. I practically tripped over the site of the Boston Massacre totally by accident. I was very excited.
5. Many, many women freely roam the city in jeans and sweatshirts. If I ever left my apartment and turned onto Bleeker looking less than totally fabulous and completely perfect, the fashionistas shot me looks that would kill. Sometimes, you just want to want to leave the house in sweatpants.
Things I DO NOT Like About Boston:
1. The motherfucking bus
So today The Producer was coming to hear us read before she finalized casting. Now, she was scheduled to come at 10, but we all had to be there at 9:30, just in case. Of oourse, on today of all days, the train behind mine broke down. We had to stop for 20 minutes to collect them. We then had to stop at every stop into Boston, arriving about 35 minutes behind schedule. Sprint from North Station to the Orange Line. Get off at Ruggles station, sprint down the escalator. En route, I completely trip and wipe out, scratching a giant escalator-shaped bloody gash in my leg from my knee to my ankle. I arrive down just in time to see the bus pulling away. I chase it. It doesn't stop.
Now, the bus is erratic, at best. The one I missed was late. And if I waited for the next one, I would have been way late for the meeting with The Producer. Panic ensued. Obviously, I decided to start running down the street like a crazy, bleeding madman with a curly prom-style updo (they made me do my hair to look more elegant) and stage makeup bordering on the hooker-esque (again, a mandate to look more elegant.)
I saw a glimmer of hope - a cab - and flagged him down. I made it to the doors of the rehearsal hall at 9:27, dragged myself up four flights of stairs and collapsed. By this point, all the hairspray had lost its hold and my hair was a stringy mess, my eye making was smeared across my face, and my scraped knees were still covered in blood. So much for impressing The Producer with my poise and elegance.
We waited. She arrived at 10:10. The Producer is kind of a big deal - she does all these broadway shows, and is currently bringing a play over from the West End, so she has a lot on her plate. For someone who is so respected/feared, at first glance she doesn't look that scary. She is very petite, and likes brightly colored capris, and has her nails perfectly manicured in a color that is probably called Come Hither Coral. She is, however, very intimidating, as she watched us all read in complete silence, staring, just looking, thinking, making us all sweat bullets. She and the Artistic Director left the room and had a 45 minute meeting, while we all sat there, about to vomit, convinced they were going to recast the whole thing, and we'd have to undo the blocking, and I had already fallen in love with all my parts and was sure I was going to have to give them all up.
The Artistic Director swept back in, and announced that nothing was changing for the girls. "I didn't think it would," she said, "I mean look at you! You're such an ingenue!"
So, naturally, I did what any ingenue worth her salt would do, and just batted my baby blues and smiled.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Get Out Your Tap Shoes, Frances
Halfway through 42nd Street, the show, once in peril of closing, is saved - they decide to take to the road and try it out in other cities before hitting New York. The chorus girls are no longer unemployed, joy breaks out, and Chorus Girl #4 yells "Get out your tap shoes, Frances!"
And so it begins.
Although I did not pack up a bird cage and a hat box while singing "Getting out of town! hachachachaaa!" I have, in fact, gotten out of town. The day after we finished scraping all the leftover carpet tape goo off the cement flooring of the Atlantic Stage 2, I dragged my incredibly nervous and grumpy (seriously - that carpet tape was a pain in the ass. thank you, ptp) self down to an opencall audition I saw in Backstage (sort of like a job listing magazine for theatre/film etc). Three rounds of callbacks and five monologues later, I was a member of "America's premier educational theatre company" (their words, obvi.)
I had a week to pack up my life before heading to Boston for rehearsals. Now, I love clothes. I have a lot of clothes. I love shoes. I have a lot of shoes. I bid most of them a fond farewell - seriously, I only have one pair of heels on me. ONE. But I have a pretty rockin' giant old man tweed suitcase/garment bag, pluss a rolly strawberry printed Betsey Johnson duffel. You know, when life gives you lemons, buy new luggage.
The show: five dramatic adaptations of short stories (The Tell-Tale Heart, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, The Necklace, The Monkey's Paw, and The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County) all done in 1 hour and 45 minutes, in theatres that can seat from 1000 to 4000 kids. Yeah. Much, much bigger than the lovely little black box of the Hepburn Zoo.
There are three different tours of the same shows - each has 2 actresses, 3 actors, and 3 techies. We all rehearse in Boston for a month, then head out on our separate loops. My tour is in what I am thinking of fondly as America's heartland - Illionis, Indiana, Ohio, Michigan, Minnesota, North Carolina, South Carolina, Virginia, Alabama, Kentucky, Delaware, Maryland...Kalamazoo and Saginaw, here I come!
Now, unfortunately, the West Coast tour - (glamorous California, lucky ducks) lost an actor due to illness and replaced him with one of ours! (in all fairness, they do leave earlier) So we're a man down. We will be getting a new one on Wednesday, but it means that we're really behind on the blocking, AND we may have to reshuffle the casting, so everything's really up in the air until we do a read-off for the producer on Monday. This means that if i DON'T do well enough, they will take me out of the part I already learned the blocking for (and which I have since become somewhat emotionally attached to) and replace me with the other girl. Obviously, this is extremely anxiety-producing. Especially because there's a mean little voice in my head that keeps saying that if I had been doing the part better, I wouldn't have to read-off for it, even though I know it mostly has to do with the new guy moving people around. Hopefully all will go well, but I don't want to go into too much detail on the show until casting is finalized. Hopefully they won't fire me altogether, or this would be the shortest, saddest little blog ever.
Regardless - the show will go on.
And so it begins.
Although I did not pack up a bird cage and a hat box while singing "Getting out of town! hachachachaaa!" I have, in fact, gotten out of town. The day after we finished scraping all the leftover carpet tape goo off the cement flooring of the Atlantic Stage 2, I dragged my incredibly nervous and grumpy (seriously - that carpet tape was a pain in the ass. thank you, ptp) self down to an opencall audition I saw in Backstage (sort of like a job listing magazine for theatre/film etc). Three rounds of callbacks and five monologues later, I was a member of "America's premier educational theatre company" (their words, obvi.)
I had a week to pack up my life before heading to Boston for rehearsals. Now, I love clothes. I have a lot of clothes. I love shoes. I have a lot of shoes. I bid most of them a fond farewell - seriously, I only have one pair of heels on me. ONE. But I have a pretty rockin' giant old man tweed suitcase/garment bag, pluss a rolly strawberry printed Betsey Johnson duffel. You know, when life gives you lemons, buy new luggage.
The show: five dramatic adaptations of short stories (The Tell-Tale Heart, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, The Necklace, The Monkey's Paw, and The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County) all done in 1 hour and 45 minutes, in theatres that can seat from 1000 to 4000 kids. Yeah. Much, much bigger than the lovely little black box of the Hepburn Zoo.
There are three different tours of the same shows - each has 2 actresses, 3 actors, and 3 techies. We all rehearse in Boston for a month, then head out on our separate loops. My tour is in what I am thinking of fondly as America's heartland - Illionis, Indiana, Ohio, Michigan, Minnesota, North Carolina, South Carolina, Virginia, Alabama, Kentucky, Delaware, Maryland...Kalamazoo and Saginaw, here I come!
Now, unfortunately, the West Coast tour - (glamorous California, lucky ducks) lost an actor due to illness and replaced him with one of ours! (in all fairness, they do leave earlier) So we're a man down. We will be getting a new one on Wednesday, but it means that we're really behind on the blocking, AND we may have to reshuffle the casting, so everything's really up in the air until we do a read-off for the producer on Monday. This means that if i DON'T do well enough, they will take me out of the part I already learned the blocking for (and which I have since become somewhat emotionally attached to) and replace me with the other girl. Obviously, this is extremely anxiety-producing. Especially because there's a mean little voice in my head that keeps saying that if I had been doing the part better, I wouldn't have to read-off for it, even though I know it mostly has to do with the new guy moving people around. Hopefully all will go well, but I don't want to go into too much detail on the show until casting is finalized. Hopefully they won't fire me altogether, or this would be the shortest, saddest little blog ever.
Regardless - the show will go on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
