Never did I think I'd dine at an all-u-can-eat buffet that boasted fried okra and special Beef Lover's corner. Greetings from the Golden Corral and the Carolinas.
Our first hotel down here, in Wilmington, North Carolina, was a perfectly lovely Comfort Inn that shared a parking lot with...the Pure Gold stripclub. However, I chose not to ogle the naked ladies, but rather to head over to the Gold's Gym and "elliptically crosstrain," aka watch the muscly tattooed UNCWilmington frat boys lift weights. All I can say is, helloooo Delta Chi. But seriously some of these people had arms like as big as my head. Madness.
Anyway, just because we missed out on the stripclub doesn't mean we don't know how to party. Behind the stripclub, in an adjacent stripmall/parking lot, there was a Ten Pin Bowling Alley. I actually bowled very well for me, which means very badly for a normal human being. It was, however, a victory of human experience, as I gathered more insight on my anthropological study of what goes on in our great nation outside Connecticut's Burberry borders. Long story short, the lane next to us was full of good ol' southern boys. I learned many things:
1. "Excuse me, but my friends and I couldnt help but ask - did you used to be a cheerleader? Aw, I knew it!" is a fairly good opening line.
2. "How old are you? You're outta highschool, right? Thank god!" is not a good follow-up.
3. Shorts with things written on the butt are always a good conversation topic, especially if they are somehow sports related and you are in a bowling alley.
4. The phrase "so, is my southern charm workin?" will indubitably be used, no matter if said fellow is from Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, or Georgia.
5. A good job offer laying grout in tiles in Fort Lauderdale is stronger than love. And plus I had a kettle corn party to host back at the hotel. As one of our fellow actors said, I am "outrageous. Like Jem." Outrageous, not stupid.
Flirting is like a foreign language: it's good to practice regularly. Anyway, nothing wrong with a little harmless flirting, especially since I have five surrogate big brothers, one of whom has a black belt in karate.
Anyway, the stage was right on the UNCWilmington campus, and very very nice. The crew kicked ass, the show went really well, that audience was into it - my favorite moment was when I entered for The Monkey's Paw, some kid yelled out, "Mary Poppins!" Sorry, little boy, no spoon full of sugar - just an ironic story about fate.
Our time here in the South has also given me a chance to pursue my second great love (after theatre, of course) : obscure diet sodas. There's Diet SunPop, which is like the bastard child of Mountain Dew and SierraMist, pretty good, but the best part is the cute retro-looking label. And then today I tried Diet Cheerwine, which sounds gross but is actually awesome: "The Cherry Different Soft Drink." Mmmm mmmm.
So now we're at yet another Carolina Quality Inn, totally exhausted. One of our crew guys today offered to join our tour to be the Other Actress's personal foot massager, and that wouldn't be so bad right now.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
It's More Than a Show - It's a Dixie Stampede Adventure of a Lifetime!
For some people, it's Paris. A black and white wonderland full of women smoking in Chanel and men in berets, sipping black coffee and falling in love. For some people, it's Italy. Technicolor Tuscany, winding streets, hopping on the back of a vespa and riding away with an impossibly handsome stranger. Dream destinations, the ones that become so iconic, so mythical, that there's no way the reality can measure up. For me, that dream place was Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. And this weekend, I finally made it.
It was quite an epic journey. Day one, New York to Maryland (long.) By the time we made our next-to-final stop at a Burger King, we were all going a little nutty. Our driver put on a crown, declared himself king and the van his dominion. I was granted a duchy, as Duchess Applefrita (did you know Burger King makes apple fries? Delicious!) and we terrorized toll booths all the way down to our hotel. In Maryland, we then ran into some extremely drunk middle-aged women who were, um, to use a less than polite term, trailer trash. They were falling all over eachother, yelling "I want a brownie!", "the yuppies are staring!" and "who cares what the goddamn yuppies think!" Toto, I have a feeling we're not in New England any more. Day two, Maryland to South Carolina (longer.) Highlights included a "DARE TO BARE! Adult Films and Toys and Trucker Showers!" shack (trucker showers?) and something involving a giant sombrero called South of the Border that was just too weird to get into describing. But a singalong of Cher's Farewell Tour makes a ten hour drive go faster than you'd think.
I know, I know, you're still thinking - what the hell? Why? Why Myrtle Beach? Well, my best friend in elementary school and her family went every summer, and came back with hermit crabs and tales of magical places like Medieval Times and the Dixie Stampede. I wanted to go more than anything else. And last night, I was at Dolly Parton's DIXIE STAMPEDE!
The Dixie Stampede is a huge building in the shape of a plantation/diamond hall jubilee house. After a 45 minute juggling/banjo preshow, we entered the arena - a giant oval ring with sawdust, sort of like a circus, with wooden bleachers and tables all around. Our stage manager and I take our seats, and are pleased to note that we've been placed on the North side - the audience is divided half and half, North and South. The lights dimmed....cue fog...cue voice..."AMERICA. Land of the Free. Home of the Brave. The most bountiful country IN THE WORLD." Cue herd of buffalo. Then came the Indians, then the settlers from back east, then (cue dramatic music) "different ideas of what freedom means." Aka the Civil War. Then began the real show- the North and South compete in equestrian events, with each side of the audience cheering them on, and whoever wins the most events wins the "war"/dinnershow. In between the trick riding there are wonderful music/dance numbers such as "Belle of the Ball," "Southern Cooking," and "Yankee Ingenuity," many of which feature costumes that light up. There are also pig races, chicken races, and miniature horse races. Throughout the show, you feast on some of that Southern Cooking - creamy vegetable soup, a biscuit, an herb baked potato, a whole chicken, pork loin, an apple turnover, and, wonder of wonders, UNLIMITED PEPSI PRODUCTS. They literally set a PITCHER of diet pepsi down before me. Needless to say, hopped up on all that caffeine and sequins, I was hootin and hollerin with the best of them. Like Dolly herself, it was ridiculous and overthetop in the best possible way.
And in case you were wondering, obviously the North won.
Today was pretty much perfect. Our hotel is SUPERnice, two room suites with full kitchen and everything, and even more important, RIGHT ON THE BEACH. We spent all morning playing in the waves, then running into the hot tub, then lunch at Thorny's Saloon, then the afternoon in the lazy river pool, and then back again to the beach at night after a trip to the ice cream stand. Yes, as I'd been warned, much of Myrtle Beach is tacky strip malls full of supercrap. But the beach is beautiful. I haven't spent this much time in the ocean since summer vacation in elementary school, and it was just amazing.
Paris isn't in black and white. The closest it gets is grey and drizzly. Myrtle Beach, however, was pretty much just what I expected. A little dirtier, a little sketchier, one trip is probably enough, but overall, KICKASS.
Thank you, Dolly Parton. Thank you.
Now I have to deal with the fact that I'm NOT being paid to sit on the beach all day, and the alarm is set for 6:15...
It was quite an epic journey. Day one, New York to Maryland (long.) By the time we made our next-to-final stop at a Burger King, we were all going a little nutty. Our driver put on a crown, declared himself king and the van his dominion. I was granted a duchy, as Duchess Applefrita (did you know Burger King makes apple fries? Delicious!) and we terrorized toll booths all the way down to our hotel. In Maryland, we then ran into some extremely drunk middle-aged women who were, um, to use a less than polite term, trailer trash. They were falling all over eachother, yelling "I want a brownie!", "the yuppies are staring!" and "who cares what the goddamn yuppies think!" Toto, I have a feeling we're not in New England any more. Day two, Maryland to South Carolina (longer.) Highlights included a "DARE TO BARE! Adult Films and Toys and Trucker Showers!" shack (trucker showers?) and something involving a giant sombrero called South of the Border that was just too weird to get into describing. But a singalong of Cher's Farewell Tour makes a ten hour drive go faster than you'd think.
I know, I know, you're still thinking - what the hell? Why? Why Myrtle Beach? Well, my best friend in elementary school and her family went every summer, and came back with hermit crabs and tales of magical places like Medieval Times and the Dixie Stampede. I wanted to go more than anything else. And last night, I was at Dolly Parton's DIXIE STAMPEDE!
The Dixie Stampede is a huge building in the shape of a plantation/diamond hall jubilee house. After a 45 minute juggling/banjo preshow, we entered the arena - a giant oval ring with sawdust, sort of like a circus, with wooden bleachers and tables all around. Our stage manager and I take our seats, and are pleased to note that we've been placed on the North side - the audience is divided half and half, North and South. The lights dimmed....cue fog...cue voice..."AMERICA. Land of the Free. Home of the Brave. The most bountiful country IN THE WORLD." Cue herd of buffalo. Then came the Indians, then the settlers from back east, then (cue dramatic music) "different ideas of what freedom means." Aka the Civil War. Then began the real show- the North and South compete in equestrian events, with each side of the audience cheering them on, and whoever wins the most events wins the "war"/dinnershow. In between the trick riding there are wonderful music/dance numbers such as "Belle of the Ball," "Southern Cooking," and "Yankee Ingenuity," many of which feature costumes that light up. There are also pig races, chicken races, and miniature horse races. Throughout the show, you feast on some of that Southern Cooking - creamy vegetable soup, a biscuit, an herb baked potato, a whole chicken, pork loin, an apple turnover, and, wonder of wonders, UNLIMITED PEPSI PRODUCTS. They literally set a PITCHER of diet pepsi down before me. Needless to say, hopped up on all that caffeine and sequins, I was hootin and hollerin with the best of them. Like Dolly herself, it was ridiculous and overthetop in the best possible way.
And in case you were wondering, obviously the North won.
Today was pretty much perfect. Our hotel is SUPERnice, two room suites with full kitchen and everything, and even more important, RIGHT ON THE BEACH. We spent all morning playing in the waves, then running into the hot tub, then lunch at Thorny's Saloon, then the afternoon in the lazy river pool, and then back again to the beach at night after a trip to the ice cream stand. Yes, as I'd been warned, much of Myrtle Beach is tacky strip malls full of supercrap. But the beach is beautiful. I haven't spent this much time in the ocean since summer vacation in elementary school, and it was just amazing.
Paris isn't in black and white. The closest it gets is grey and drizzly. Myrtle Beach, however, was pretty much just what I expected. A little dirtier, a little sketchier, one trip is probably enough, but overall, KICKASS.
Thank you, Dolly Parton. Thank you.
Now I have to deal with the fact that I'm NOT being paid to sit on the beach all day, and the alarm is set for 6:15...
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Large Instruction Room
After an extended long weekend involving a stay at home (I need a certain amount of Nantucket Red and Burberry plaid in my environment to fully recharge; I suck peppiness from them like a plant sucks nutrients from the sun) AND an escape to the big city (a fabulous tour of the fabulous new apartment of my fabulous friend) we are back on the road! Here we are in the wilds of upstate New York, where the desk clerk at the Quality Inn (not to be confused with the Econolodge with whom we share a parking lot or the Silo Restaurant, Inn and Country Store next door) was so starved for company he talked our ear off every time we crossed the lobby floor. I don't think the man had seen another human being for weeks. He even carried my bag up the stairs just to prolong our human interaction, and believe me, that is no small task. But seriously, A plus for the Quality Inn, as it was the first hotel that had yogurt in the free breakfast. Ah, it's the little things that make life better.
In every venue, (hello Junior High du jour!) once we've unloaded every egregiously heavy box and oddly shaped, bruising set piece off the truck, we break off into our specific jobs. As wardrobe/makeup mistress, my real job is to MacGyver some sort of dressing room area out of whatever I've been given. Today it was a bathroom, and the lighting was good, but there was no table space. Thankfully I was able to get two desks from the janitors, because I was thisclose to trying to build something out of the urinals, which would not have been pretty. Just as I was getting grumpy, on my way back to the stage, located in the vaguely communist sounding Large Instruction Room, the teacher who was sort of organizing the event said, "Stephanie - let me guess - you're playing Katrina!" I delightedly responded yes, and she said "ah, how did I guess!" So it's nice to know that I can still look cute enough after hauling around giant wardrobes in no makeup and sweatpants.
We're currently in a hotel/Outback Steak House in Danbury, CT, and only one light works in the room, so I'm huddled next to the glow of Will and Grace on Lifetime. I fear my home state is not making a good impression.
In every venue, (hello Junior High du jour!) once we've unloaded every egregiously heavy box and oddly shaped, bruising set piece off the truck, we break off into our specific jobs. As wardrobe/makeup mistress, my real job is to MacGyver some sort of dressing room area out of whatever I've been given. Today it was a bathroom, and the lighting was good, but there was no table space. Thankfully I was able to get two desks from the janitors, because I was thisclose to trying to build something out of the urinals, which would not have been pretty. Just as I was getting grumpy, on my way back to the stage, located in the vaguely communist sounding Large Instruction Room, the teacher who was sort of organizing the event said, "Stephanie - let me guess - you're playing Katrina!" I delightedly responded yes, and she said "ah, how did I guess!" So it's nice to know that I can still look cute enough after hauling around giant wardrobes in no makeup and sweatpants.
We're currently in a hotel/Outback Steak House in Danbury, CT, and only one light works in the room, so I'm huddled next to the glow of Will and Grace on Lifetime. I fear my home state is not making a good impression.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Follow the Yellow Brick Road
To go ahead and state the way way obvious, the thing that makes a tour way way different from doing any other show is the whole touring aspect - basically it's a glorified road trip with a little applause thrown in. Although it is definitely different than any road trip I've yet experienced.
To be fair, I don't have a lot of road trippin experience. When it comes to family vacations, we are, and have always been, predominately fliers. Yes, we've done driving trips, but most are day trips or under four hours. For example, we've flown down to Key West (gay vacation destination capital of the South) more than we've driven up to Ogunquit, Maine (gay vacation destination capital of the North. Yes, we like to vacation in places with lots of gay pride. As my father astutely noted, you know the restaurants are good. Plus you're pretty much guaranteed that any tourist with a fannypack is wearing it ironically, which I find very reassuring.) The only thing of note that ever happened was on one long trip (which wasn't even that long) down to Colonial Williamsburg in which my sister drew on me with a permanent marker. I know. Crazy.
Funnily enough, touring reminds me the most by far of the few seasons I spent on the competitive cheer circuit. Same size van: three rows of people putting on the type of makeup favored by renegade clowns and crackwhores. As you might imagine, the small college co-ed competitive cheer league is not a large one, so most cheer trips were only day trips. We'd roll out of the dining halls at 6:00, causing the few insane people who were awake (either runners, girls in smudged makeup doing the walk of shame, or those who were still drunk) to ask "this school has cheerleaders?" and head on down to SUNY Albany or the Basketball Hall of Fame or what have you. Usually we'd be back in time to make the pregame parties. We did, however, take one big trip: an overnight stay at a Howard Johnson in Trenton, NJ, to compete at the Trenton Arena. (Come to think of it, this may be where some of my NJ prejudices come from.) We packed a cooler full of snacks (Reduced Fat Cheez Nips, Reduced Fat Wheat Thins, Reduced Fat Cheese Sticks, Diet Coke and 5 Calorie Lemonade, causing the one straight male to growl "It's like traveling with models! I just want FULL FAT!"), curled eachother's hair, prank-called the Seventeen Magazine help-for-transgender-teens-hotline and played "Never Have I Ever" over the walkie-talkies.
As you might imagine, the biggest problem with traveling with 13 girls was bathroom breaks. (13 Cheerleaders = more diet coke than one could imagine humanly possible.) We nearly doubled the projected Mapquest time thanks to the sheer volume of bathroom breaks. Turns out, however, that bathroom breaks are an issue in any longterm van situation. And things recently took a turn that would never, ever have happened in the cheer van.
Friday afternoon rush hour. We were stuck in it pretty much bumper to bumper all along the New Jersey turnpike, the Staten Island Expressway, and 95. Right after we've left the turnpike behind, our Sound Boy announces he has to pee. Our Sound Boy is actually not only sound, but also our house manager and our understudy. He looks like a mini Justin Timberlake, has the attention span/energy of a five year old hopped up on pixie sticks at a birthday party with a clown, and is our unofficial "troubadour," as he either plays the guitar/sings in the van or controls the CD player with a somewhat iron fist. ("No! Track nine! Track nine! No, wait, it's skipping! Augh!! New CD! NEW CD! Track five! Track five! No! No! NO! No more Brittney Spears! Damn it, Stephanie! Take out 'You Drive Me Crazy' NOW!!!") As we go along, the peeing complaints increased. I wasn't really paying that much attention, as I was driving on this hellacious stretch of road and trying not ot die. Plus I was secretly a little pissed off about the Brittney Spears incident (they said in the meeting driver got to pick the music and they only let me listen to three songs on the CD!) so I was ruminating on that. And just to be perfectly clear, there were no rest stops. Nor was there anywhere to exit. Like I said, bumper to bumper traffic. Frankly I don't even know how the situation got so out of hand, as I was thinking about Ms.Spears tragic journey, and whether or not she had it in her for a comeback, when all of a sudden the shrieking informs me that Sound Boy is, in fact, peeing. In the van. In a travel coffee mug.
Needless to say, this was highly disturbing. I am not a pee in public places kind of girl. I didn't even know peopled peed in the woods until I visited my cousins in Maine when I was 6, to say nothing of vans. Actually, I knew a couple people at school who peed in vans, but that had fewer travel mugs and more community service as punishment involved. Once the shrieking died down, Sound Boy assured us that he was going to dump the pee out the window. But there really wasn't anywhere convenient to dump it. The windows in the back don't really open all the way, and we couldn't pull over - stuck in the middle lane. So we spent most of the State Island Expressway cruising along with a mugfull of pee, while someone (usually me) screamed out at sporadic intervals "I can't believe we have PEE in the VAN!!!!!!!!!!"
Eventually, something had to be done. My fearless navigator tried to take control of the situation (because really, you just can't drive down the road with a travelmug full of pee. That's unhygenic) by convincing Sound Boy to hand him the pee.
Me: Get rid of the pee!!!!
Sound Boy: The window won't open!
Navigator: Give me the pee!
Me: Don't you DARE bring that pee up here!
Navigator: Give me the pee! My window opens and I'll dump it out!
Me: That pee is NOT coming up here!
Sound Boy: I can't pass it off! There's a dribble situation on the side of the mug!
Me: Oh my GOD I don't want to know I just don't want to know!
Sound Boy: No it's fine, I got it, I got it.
Someone in the back: We can't just drive around with pee!
Me: I can't believe there's pee in the van!
Navigator: JUST GIVE ME THE FUCKING PEE!
Me (crying softly): There are so many things I could have done with my history major that didn't involve urine.
At some point, thanks to the vagaries of traffic patterns, we made it over to the right lane. Still in standstill traffic. Amidst shouts of "GO GO GO!" sound boy opened the door and dropped the entire travelmug of pee by the side of the road. Everyone then yelled "DRIVE!!!!!!" and slammed the door shut, but of course I couldn't go anywhere -traffic. So we basically pee-bombed the side of the road and then just sat there.
This was not in my contract.
To be fair, I don't have a lot of road trippin experience. When it comes to family vacations, we are, and have always been, predominately fliers. Yes, we've done driving trips, but most are day trips or under four hours. For example, we've flown down to Key West (gay vacation destination capital of the South) more than we've driven up to Ogunquit, Maine (gay vacation destination capital of the North. Yes, we like to vacation in places with lots of gay pride. As my father astutely noted, you know the restaurants are good. Plus you're pretty much guaranteed that any tourist with a fannypack is wearing it ironically, which I find very reassuring.) The only thing of note that ever happened was on one long trip (which wasn't even that long) down to Colonial Williamsburg in which my sister drew on me with a permanent marker. I know. Crazy.
Funnily enough, touring reminds me the most by far of the few seasons I spent on the competitive cheer circuit. Same size van: three rows of people putting on the type of makeup favored by renegade clowns and crackwhores. As you might imagine, the small college co-ed competitive cheer league is not a large one, so most cheer trips were only day trips. We'd roll out of the dining halls at 6:00, causing the few insane people who were awake (either runners, girls in smudged makeup doing the walk of shame, or those who were still drunk) to ask "this school has cheerleaders?" and head on down to SUNY Albany or the Basketball Hall of Fame or what have you. Usually we'd be back in time to make the pregame parties. We did, however, take one big trip: an overnight stay at a Howard Johnson in Trenton, NJ, to compete at the Trenton Arena. (Come to think of it, this may be where some of my NJ prejudices come from.) We packed a cooler full of snacks (Reduced Fat Cheez Nips, Reduced Fat Wheat Thins, Reduced Fat Cheese Sticks, Diet Coke and 5 Calorie Lemonade, causing the one straight male to growl "It's like traveling with models! I just want FULL FAT!"), curled eachother's hair, prank-called the Seventeen Magazine help-for-transgender-teens-hotline and played "Never Have I Ever" over the walkie-talkies.
As you might imagine, the biggest problem with traveling with 13 girls was bathroom breaks. (13 Cheerleaders = more diet coke than one could imagine humanly possible.) We nearly doubled the projected Mapquest time thanks to the sheer volume of bathroom breaks. Turns out, however, that bathroom breaks are an issue in any longterm van situation. And things recently took a turn that would never, ever have happened in the cheer van.
Friday afternoon rush hour. We were stuck in it pretty much bumper to bumper all along the New Jersey turnpike, the Staten Island Expressway, and 95. Right after we've left the turnpike behind, our Sound Boy announces he has to pee. Our Sound Boy is actually not only sound, but also our house manager and our understudy. He looks like a mini Justin Timberlake, has the attention span/energy of a five year old hopped up on pixie sticks at a birthday party with a clown, and is our unofficial "troubadour," as he either plays the guitar/sings in the van or controls the CD player with a somewhat iron fist. ("No! Track nine! Track nine! No, wait, it's skipping! Augh!! New CD! NEW CD! Track five! Track five! No! No! NO! No more Brittney Spears! Damn it, Stephanie! Take out 'You Drive Me Crazy' NOW!!!") As we go along, the peeing complaints increased. I wasn't really paying that much attention, as I was driving on this hellacious stretch of road and trying not ot die. Plus I was secretly a little pissed off about the Brittney Spears incident (they said in the meeting driver got to pick the music and they only let me listen to three songs on the CD!) so I was ruminating on that. And just to be perfectly clear, there were no rest stops. Nor was there anywhere to exit. Like I said, bumper to bumper traffic. Frankly I don't even know how the situation got so out of hand, as I was thinking about Ms.Spears tragic journey, and whether or not she had it in her for a comeback, when all of a sudden the shrieking informs me that Sound Boy is, in fact, peeing. In the van. In a travel coffee mug.
Needless to say, this was highly disturbing. I am not a pee in public places kind of girl. I didn't even know peopled peed in the woods until I visited my cousins in Maine when I was 6, to say nothing of vans. Actually, I knew a couple people at school who peed in vans, but that had fewer travel mugs and more community service as punishment involved. Once the shrieking died down, Sound Boy assured us that he was going to dump the pee out the window. But there really wasn't anywhere convenient to dump it. The windows in the back don't really open all the way, and we couldn't pull over - stuck in the middle lane. So we spent most of the State Island Expressway cruising along with a mugfull of pee, while someone (usually me) screamed out at sporadic intervals "I can't believe we have PEE in the VAN!!!!!!!!!!"
Eventually, something had to be done. My fearless navigator tried to take control of the situation (because really, you just can't drive down the road with a travelmug full of pee. That's unhygenic) by convincing Sound Boy to hand him the pee.
Me: Get rid of the pee!!!!
Sound Boy: The window won't open!
Navigator: Give me the pee!
Me: Don't you DARE bring that pee up here!
Navigator: Give me the pee! My window opens and I'll dump it out!
Me: That pee is NOT coming up here!
Sound Boy: I can't pass it off! There's a dribble situation on the side of the mug!
Me: Oh my GOD I don't want to know I just don't want to know!
Sound Boy: No it's fine, I got it, I got it.
Someone in the back: We can't just drive around with pee!
Me: I can't believe there's pee in the van!
Navigator: JUST GIVE ME THE FUCKING PEE!
Me (crying softly): There are so many things I could have done with my history major that didn't involve urine.
At some point, thanks to the vagaries of traffic patterns, we made it over to the right lane. Still in standstill traffic. Amidst shouts of "GO GO GO!" sound boy opened the door and dropped the entire travelmug of pee by the side of the road. Everyone then yelled "DRIVE!!!!!!" and slammed the door shut, but of course I couldn't go anywhere -traffic. So we basically pee-bombed the side of the road and then just sat there.
This was not in my contract.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
There's an Opera Out on the Turnpike
Like any self-respecting Connecticut yankee, I have always been slightly skeptical about our neighbors to the south. And no, I don't mean our neighbors below the Mason-Dixon line, I mean our neighbors on the other side of New York: the fine citizens of the Garden State. On the surface, we would appear to have a lot in common. New York is "the city", and we're close enough to sort of consider ourselves part of it - an auxiliary part, but at least more in the know than, you know, those poor bastards in Indiana. And yet, there is a great divide. New Jersey is "bridge and tunnel" trash. Connecticut is "commuters." CT-ites think they live there because they want to, but New Jersey people live there because they have to. We smugly pop our pastel polo collars, thinking that New Jersey tries to be Connecticut, but despite its best efforts, it just can't.
(Obviously, these are all gross generalizations, over-simplifications and slight exaggerations. Don't send me hate mail.)
Naturally, I grew up brainwashed, believing that New Jersey was full of tacky big-haired girls in splatter-painted tube tops and purple eyeshadow who hang out in minimalls. It was a place of foul-smelling factories and crowded turnpikes, best driven through as quickly as humanly possible. This week, however, I learned that above all else, New Jersey is a land of contradictions.
When we first crossed the border from Mass. into Jersey, I didn't actually believe we were in Jersey. It was all green! And full of trees! And lakes! And nature and stuff! It was really breathtakingly beautiful. It turned out we were in some sort of State or National Park, so I figured that didn't really count. But then we crossed out of the National Park, and I thought for a minute we had somehow ended up in a greener, flatter Vermont, but no, it was still Jersey, just endless farms of gently rolling hills, and it was still really beautiful. I mean, I knew there were some farms in New Jersey, because many farmers' markets in the city feature Jersey tomatoes, but I had no idea it was quite so agricultural. The first school we stopped in was across the street from...a feed supply store. Not a mall. A feed supply store. Feed and tractor parts.
And then the first thing I noticed at the next school was a poster featuring smiling cartoon children who cheerily proclaimed "Our Students DON'T Support Weapons or Fighting!" which, for whatever reason, did not reassure me. Here were the stripmalls with a school plunked down in the midst of a Bennigan's and a Sassy Stylzz hair salon. However, even here it didn't look nearly as stereotypically Jersey as I had expected. It just looked like the less preppy parts of Connecticut (yes, there do exist less preppy parts.) And nobody's hair was that big. Frankly, teachers dress pretty much the same everywhere. And more importantly, kids are awesome everywhere. The kids assigned to help us load-in/load-out here were apparently on some sort of academic trial, and trust me, our set is so heavy that is a punishment bordering on cruel and unusual. (Yes, theatre as punishment. Just like in A Walk to Remember, in which the bad boy is forced to audition for the school play and ends up falling in love with good girl Mandy Moore who's playing the lead. Well not just like that, because no one had a terminal illness or fell in love, as they were all in like sixth grade.) These kids were so sweet, and so helpful (we're talking professional level cable coiling which is no mean feat as my cables are like giant knots with two plugs sticking out), and really interested in all the different aspects of technical theatre. They were so enthusiastic I assumed they had volunteered until I found out otherwise. Plus, it was at this school that I recieved my two favorite compliments: 1. A random boy in gym class yelled out "YOU'RE A GOOD ACTRESS" and 2. in the first time I have finally felt pretty enough to pull off the lead in The Necklace, someone told me that I was quote "killing it in that dress." Damn girl, indeed.
As I drove the van (yes, I drove the van! I drove a van on the New Jersey turnpike and NOBODY DIED!!!) into Staten Island, I came to the profound realization that I had way, way underestimated the Garden State. The people are awesome, and the scenery is really pretty. In short, as many Springsteen fans had already discovered, Jersey rocks.
(Obviously, these are all gross generalizations, over-simplifications and slight exaggerations. Don't send me hate mail.)
Naturally, I grew up brainwashed, believing that New Jersey was full of tacky big-haired girls in splatter-painted tube tops and purple eyeshadow who hang out in minimalls. It was a place of foul-smelling factories and crowded turnpikes, best driven through as quickly as humanly possible. This week, however, I learned that above all else, New Jersey is a land of contradictions.
When we first crossed the border from Mass. into Jersey, I didn't actually believe we were in Jersey. It was all green! And full of trees! And lakes! And nature and stuff! It was really breathtakingly beautiful. It turned out we were in some sort of State or National Park, so I figured that didn't really count. But then we crossed out of the National Park, and I thought for a minute we had somehow ended up in a greener, flatter Vermont, but no, it was still Jersey, just endless farms of gently rolling hills, and it was still really beautiful. I mean, I knew there were some farms in New Jersey, because many farmers' markets in the city feature Jersey tomatoes, but I had no idea it was quite so agricultural. The first school we stopped in was across the street from...a feed supply store. Not a mall. A feed supply store. Feed and tractor parts.
And then the first thing I noticed at the next school was a poster featuring smiling cartoon children who cheerily proclaimed "Our Students DON'T Support Weapons or Fighting!" which, for whatever reason, did not reassure me. Here were the stripmalls with a school plunked down in the midst of a Bennigan's and a Sassy Stylzz hair salon. However, even here it didn't look nearly as stereotypically Jersey as I had expected. It just looked like the less preppy parts of Connecticut (yes, there do exist less preppy parts.) And nobody's hair was that big. Frankly, teachers dress pretty much the same everywhere. And more importantly, kids are awesome everywhere. The kids assigned to help us load-in/load-out here were apparently on some sort of academic trial, and trust me, our set is so heavy that is a punishment bordering on cruel and unusual. (Yes, theatre as punishment. Just like in A Walk to Remember, in which the bad boy is forced to audition for the school play and ends up falling in love with good girl Mandy Moore who's playing the lead. Well not just like that, because no one had a terminal illness or fell in love, as they were all in like sixth grade.) These kids were so sweet, and so helpful (we're talking professional level cable coiling which is no mean feat as my cables are like giant knots with two plugs sticking out), and really interested in all the different aspects of technical theatre. They were so enthusiastic I assumed they had volunteered until I found out otherwise. Plus, it was at this school that I recieved my two favorite compliments: 1. A random boy in gym class yelled out "YOU'RE A GOOD ACTRESS" and 2. in the first time I have finally felt pretty enough to pull off the lead in The Necklace, someone told me that I was quote "killing it in that dress." Damn girl, indeed.
As I drove the van (yes, I drove the van! I drove a van on the New Jersey turnpike and NOBODY DIED!!!) into Staten Island, I came to the profound realization that I had way, way underestimated the Garden State. The people are awesome, and the scenery is really pretty. In short, as many Springsteen fans had already discovered, Jersey rocks.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Young At Heart
Believe it or not, our first week on the road is almost at an end! And although this is technically my first grownup job, this is like the least grownup I've felt in...ever. Why? Because our first week is all PPs aka Private Performances aka Middle School Auditoriums. Augh! I feel a sudden urge to slather myself in body glitter and cover my head in butterfly clips. Then go cry in the bathroom because no one asked me to slow dance.
We began at a Holiday Inn in Nashua, New Hampshire. Surprisingly enough, a friend of mine happened to be in the neighborhood, so my "gentleman caller" (as some of the cast enjoyed referring to him as) and I sampled the local nightlife (keep in mind, this is Sunday, people), which consisted of a Boston Billiards bar stuck in among warehouses and empty factories. All of the waitresses were dressed in slutty Patriots football uniforms, but they made a mean Flirtini, so Boston Billiards = two thumbs up.
The first show was...a first show. That's the best way to put it. A little messy, but not horrendous. It's really exhausting - load in takes a couple hours, then the show is like two hours, then we load out for like two hours. Thankfully that night began the Weird Hotels. The Best Western in Seabrook, NH features a playground, pool with frog waterslides, stationary swanboats, a ferris wheel, and an Old Mcdonald's Farm petting zoo complete with goats. We played on the swingset and watched the stars, and all I could think was "Damn, I am so happy I'm not sitting in a pantssuit at Goldman Sachs right now." The march of the Weird Hotels continued with a Coco Key Best Western, in Fitchburg Mass, "The Key West of Massachussetts!" Seriously. There were 40 foot waterslides and beach chairs. Our last hotel, the Comfort Inn in Port Jervis NY, wasn't really that weird, except we did watch the cops escort a very drunk guy named Ray out of the Mountain Top Lounge, so there was a little local flavor.
So far, life on the road is pretty great. Two of the guys play guitar really well, so we've been having some pretty kickass van singalongs, as well as a waltz/polka dance party under the gazebo at Coco Key. But the best part has been the kids. They've assigned us student groups to help at most of the shows, and everyone has been so wonderful. On our second day, a team of students, moms, and even the vice principal all rolled up their sleeves and helped out. The next day, we had a team of junior tech guys, who were pretty much hilarious. There was almost a rumble in the cafeteria (yes, we ate in the caf with the kids, surrounded by cheerleaders and guys in jerseys and it was the weirdest thing) because one of them sat with me and the Other Actress as opposed to this very forward junior girl who was not too happy about the situation. And today, I had a very enthusiastic team of 13 year old girls helping me hang costumes and talking my ear off about how much they loved Sleepy Hollow and asking me to show them how to make funny squeaky noises and hit boys. Things have been a little rough - there's no wing space in the auditoriums, we've had to change in everything from the band room to a janitor's closet to the spanish classroom, but for all the little girls who've dreamed of prancing about in ballgowns and wigs, it's totally been worth it.
We began at a Holiday Inn in Nashua, New Hampshire. Surprisingly enough, a friend of mine happened to be in the neighborhood, so my "gentleman caller" (as some of the cast enjoyed referring to him as) and I sampled the local nightlife (keep in mind, this is Sunday, people), which consisted of a Boston Billiards bar stuck in among warehouses and empty factories. All of the waitresses were dressed in slutty Patriots football uniforms, but they made a mean Flirtini, so Boston Billiards = two thumbs up.
The first show was...a first show. That's the best way to put it. A little messy, but not horrendous. It's really exhausting - load in takes a couple hours, then the show is like two hours, then we load out for like two hours. Thankfully that night began the Weird Hotels. The Best Western in Seabrook, NH features a playground, pool with frog waterslides, stationary swanboats, a ferris wheel, and an Old Mcdonald's Farm petting zoo complete with goats. We played on the swingset and watched the stars, and all I could think was "Damn, I am so happy I'm not sitting in a pantssuit at Goldman Sachs right now." The march of the Weird Hotels continued with a Coco Key Best Western, in Fitchburg Mass, "The Key West of Massachussetts!" Seriously. There were 40 foot waterslides and beach chairs. Our last hotel, the Comfort Inn in Port Jervis NY, wasn't really that weird, except we did watch the cops escort a very drunk guy named Ray out of the Mountain Top Lounge, so there was a little local flavor.
So far, life on the road is pretty great. Two of the guys play guitar really well, so we've been having some pretty kickass van singalongs, as well as a waltz/polka dance party under the gazebo at Coco Key. But the best part has been the kids. They've assigned us student groups to help at most of the shows, and everyone has been so wonderful. On our second day, a team of students, moms, and even the vice principal all rolled up their sleeves and helped out. The next day, we had a team of junior tech guys, who were pretty much hilarious. There was almost a rumble in the cafeteria (yes, we ate in the caf with the kids, surrounded by cheerleaders and guys in jerseys and it was the weirdest thing) because one of them sat with me and the Other Actress as opposed to this very forward junior girl who was not too happy about the situation. And today, I had a very enthusiastic team of 13 year old girls helping me hang costumes and talking my ear off about how much they loved Sleepy Hollow and asking me to show them how to make funny squeaky noises and hit boys. Things have been a little rough - there's no wing space in the auditoriums, we've had to change in everything from the band room to a janitor's closet to the spanish classroom, but for all the little girls who've dreamed of prancing about in ballgowns and wigs, it's totally been worth it.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Feels Like the First Time
Back in the days when I was a supremely awkward 10 year old who still wore Winnie the Pooh overalls and considered butterfly clips and body glitter the height of fashion, my entire sixth grade class went to Massachusetts for a whale watch field trip. Not only did I have to suffer through a heinously boring dune buggy ride, a mandatory game of capture the flag, and watching the popular girls perform a choreographed routine to the song "Barbie Girl," they canceled the actual wale watch due to inclement weather. 11 years later, I have finally watched whales!
This week was our first Saturday off EVER, and most of the cast and crew went on a little field trip on a whale watching boat that left from the Boston Aquarium. I was sort of grumpy, because I had to drag my extremely exhausted butt out of bed at 8:30, and although that is two and half hours later than usual, I really wanted to sleep. I did take a nice little nap in the sunshine on the boat, however.
I'm not sure I'm totally sold on whale watching, as an experience. For a lot of it you just wait in the water for a whale. Kind of like the first time I went fishing in a boat and I found out you just sit and wait for fish and couldn't TALK and I wanted to stab myself with a fish hook. Except when the whales actually showed up it was a much bigger payoff than some dinky little sunfish. Humpback whales are HUGE!! And they spout! And fluke! And they came really close to the boat - so close you could see the barnacles. But even better than the humpbacks were the MINKES!!!! (pronounced minkeys). Minkes are miniature whales. They get kind of a bad rap because they are little so people think they're not that cool. But they are so CUTE and their pectoral fins are called mittens so we saw lots of MINKE MITTENS!!!! I may or may not have gotten really excited and started jumping up and down and clapping and yelling "MINKE MITTENS!" I was really popular on this boat. Not.
These past two days marked not only my first whale sighting, but also the first time I made coffee. Yes, I know, shameful. But in my defense 1. I don't drink coffee 2. I'm from Connecticut (that's my answer to all spoiled-princess-queries) and 3. the only coffee-bitch jobs I've had have been doing insanely complicated coffee runs that necessitated constructing towers out of cinnamon dolce lattes and reduced fat strawberry scones in order to carry anything. But as wardrobe mistress, my ancillary duty is to make the communal coffee. Thankfully there were instructions on the Mr. Coffee filter box. Unfortunately for the rest of the cast, who does drink coffee, it was probably really shitty. But whatevs, it was hot and caffeinated, so I think I can count that as a success.
Plus we went through more than 20 cups so it can't have been that bad.
This week was our first Saturday off EVER, and most of the cast and crew went on a little field trip on a whale watching boat that left from the Boston Aquarium. I was sort of grumpy, because I had to drag my extremely exhausted butt out of bed at 8:30, and although that is two and half hours later than usual, I really wanted to sleep. I did take a nice little nap in the sunshine on the boat, however.
I'm not sure I'm totally sold on whale watching, as an experience. For a lot of it you just wait in the water for a whale. Kind of like the first time I went fishing in a boat and I found out you just sit and wait for fish and couldn't TALK and I wanted to stab myself with a fish hook. Except when the whales actually showed up it was a much bigger payoff than some dinky little sunfish. Humpback whales are HUGE!! And they spout! And fluke! And they came really close to the boat - so close you could see the barnacles. But even better than the humpbacks were the MINKES!!!! (pronounced minkeys). Minkes are miniature whales. They get kind of a bad rap because they are little so people think they're not that cool. But they are so CUTE and their pectoral fins are called mittens so we saw lots of MINKE MITTENS!!!! I may or may not have gotten really excited and started jumping up and down and clapping and yelling "MINKE MITTENS!" I was really popular on this boat. Not.
These past two days marked not only my first whale sighting, but also the first time I made coffee. Yes, I know, shameful. But in my defense 1. I don't drink coffee 2. I'm from Connecticut (that's my answer to all spoiled-princess-queries) and 3. the only coffee-bitch jobs I've had have been doing insanely complicated coffee runs that necessitated constructing towers out of cinnamon dolce lattes and reduced fat strawberry scones in order to carry anything. But as wardrobe mistress, my ancillary duty is to make the communal coffee. Thankfully there were instructions on the Mr. Coffee filter box. Unfortunately for the rest of the cast, who does drink coffee, it was probably really shitty. But whatevs, it was hot and caffeinated, so I think I can count that as a success.
Plus we went through more than 20 cups so it can't have been that bad.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
"I'm Always Gonna Be Known as Baby Spice, Even When I'm...30!"
There's a scene in Spice World, that under appreciated cinematic gem (seriously - watch it - it's hilarious - I'm not kidding) that is to the Spice Girls what Hard Day's Night is to the Beatles, in which all the girls are sitting on their awesome tour bus, hanging out their respective areas. Baby Spice, swinging on her swingset (yeah, she has a swingset in a tour bus, I told you it was awesome!) takes her lollipop out of her mouth and says "I'm so tired of being treated like a baby." Posh (heinous bitch! always has been, even before her totally skeletal fashion zombie best friends with Katie Holmes days) shoots her a withering glare and says "yeah, but you play into it." Baby denies it, but even she is aware of the ironic juxtaposition of lolly and kneesocks. This, the eternal struggle of Baby Spice, I identify with all too well.
Don't get me wrong. I love being the baby of whatever group I'm in, and YES, I admit, I totally, totally play it up too. But on the other hand, I don't want to be treated like a baby. It's a fine line. There is a fine, fine line between supportive and condescending, and while I very much appreciate the positive notes I've been given on my performance, most of them are for stupid, 1st grade play-type stuff like "yay for you! we could hear you! and you remembered to stand closer to the bench! and that was a cute squeaky face! and you know a lot of lines! wow! gold star!" It's not summer camp. I'm not fifteen. I know what I'm doing. It's very, very weird to go from being in a theatre environment where I was generally considered very on top of my shit (ah, College, how I love thee) to being like the one who needs hand holding. But I don't want anyone to hold my hand! (Well, I don't want any metaphoric handholding. I'm all about the literal handhlding.) Also, the fact that I now have a reputation as a crier probably doesn't help. (Once. Once. I cried ONCE. Okay it was a lot of crying, but it was like one day. And I have really leaky tear ducts.)
I want to wear pigtails AND be taken seriously. Maybe that's just too much to ask. But I'm sure as hell not changing my hair.
Hmm...now that I think of it, there are five of us actors on tour as well. Obviously I'm Baby Spice, but I'm sort of wondering who else would be whom...
In the most important development this week, my red Katrina wig got replaced by a blonde Katrina wig, and all I can say is thank god! The producer, artistic director, makeup artist and costume designer all agreed that I was "better as a blonde."
Well, duh!
Talk about obvious statement of the century. Not only am I BEST as a blonde, I really can't be anything else.
Don't get me wrong. I love being the baby of whatever group I'm in, and YES, I admit, I totally, totally play it up too. But on the other hand, I don't want to be treated like a baby. It's a fine line. There is a fine, fine line between supportive and condescending, and while I very much appreciate the positive notes I've been given on my performance, most of them are for stupid, 1st grade play-type stuff like "yay for you! we could hear you! and you remembered to stand closer to the bench! and that was a cute squeaky face! and you know a lot of lines! wow! gold star!" It's not summer camp. I'm not fifteen. I know what I'm doing. It's very, very weird to go from being in a theatre environment where I was generally considered very on top of my shit (ah, College, how I love thee) to being like the one who needs hand holding. But I don't want anyone to hold my hand! (Well, I don't want any metaphoric handholding. I'm all about the literal handhlding.) Also, the fact that I now have a reputation as a crier probably doesn't help. (Once. Once. I cried ONCE. Okay it was a lot of crying, but it was like one day. And I have really leaky tear ducts.)
I want to wear pigtails AND be taken seriously. Maybe that's just too much to ask. But I'm sure as hell not changing my hair.
Hmm...now that I think of it, there are five of us actors on tour as well. Obviously I'm Baby Spice, but I'm sort of wondering who else would be whom...
In the most important development this week, my red Katrina wig got replaced by a blonde Katrina wig, and all I can say is thank god! The producer, artistic director, makeup artist and costume designer all agreed that I was "better as a blonde."
Well, duh!
Talk about obvious statement of the century. Not only am I BEST as a blonde, I really can't be anything else.
Monday, September 8, 2008
My Girl Wants to Party All the Time
Ah, September. The time of year when a young girl's fancy turns to sticky-floored frat basements and red plastic cups. Until she remembers that college is OVER. Gone are the days of slutty costume parties, the ambient sound of beer pong balls whizzing through the air, and long brunches spent discussing who did the walk of shame out of whose dorm, who peed in whose closet, and who climbed out of whose window. Sigh...
I'm not really sure I yet understand/appreciate the post-collegiate party life. You didn't have to worry about finding something to do. Boom there it was - dance party in the "This Week" Guide! Evite from the social house! Friend of a friend has a friend with champagne! Weekends at college had a familiar, wonderful pattern: 1. Put on eyeliner 2. Dance party 3. Rehash scandalous events at brunch. Bingo.
It's not that I don't enjoy going out now: 1. Go to bar with friends 2. Drink cocktails that taste like fruit 3. Overshare details about personal life. I mean, obviously, that's good times. But there's a biiig part of me that wants to run onto the student center dance floor with my girls and shake my butt to the sweet sounds of "Hips Don't Lie," simultaneously fending off creepers like townies or freshman while making eyes from the hottie who sits two rows back in Civil War and Reconstruction. See, that was the other brilliant thing about college. Even the guys who were moderately sketchy weren't that sketchy. School was small enough that everyone pretty much knew eachother or knew someone you knew, so yes, while you risked a heinous crime like potential awkwardness by the salad bar in the dining hall, the chances that someone was going to roofie you and leave you in a dumpster were very small.
This weekend I was, quite literally, poised on the threshold between my new and old worlds. After cocktails and cake to celebrate our wonderful Stage Manager's birthday (it was a beautiful cake - chocolate vanilla swirl with vanilla frosting and "MANAGE THIS" written on it. Other Actress, who bought the cake, is a genius) I set off to join an old friend from highschool, who now works at a law firm, at a wine mixer thing full of other law firm/business school types. I set off determinedly into the heart of Cambridge, and wound up smack in the middle of Harvard freshman orientation. Not the official freshman orientation, obviously. The "we're away from home for the first time WOOHOOO" kind of orientation. I saw people outside a building, so I thought it might be my party. This gaggle of boys held the door open.
Boy: So...you going to the party?
Me: Yes.
Boy: I think I've seen you at the science center...you a freshman?
Me: Um...yes. *Giggle*
(I'm a totally compulsive liar with strangers. I don't know why. I just am.)
Boy: Yeah, us too.
(Dawns on me that this is probably not the right party, as lawyers and business people are probably not throwing freshman ragers.)
I hate to say it, so shameful, but there was a part of me that really, really wanted to follow these total strangers to a party full of harvard freshman. Letting go of college is a lot harder than I thought. Thankfully, one of the boys addressed the other as "Bro" right then, which is an appellation I find really stupid, and snapped me back to sanity, as I realized I was not going anywhere with three drunk 18 year olds. I said I needed to find another party and left, after agreeing with Boy that yes, I was sure I'd see him around the science center.
Turns out, however, that leaving for the grownup party totally paid off! It was, in fact, kickass. Ok it'll sound like I'm a huge loser, but I had the best time ever. All the lawyers were having a SHOWTUNES SINGALONG! Turns out the host was an excellent pianist, and I got there right as they were seguing from Sound of Music to Beauty and the Beast. I was four cocktails in, which means I think I can do anything, which results in me either: 1. Doing splits 2. Expostulating on the finer points of the Louisiana Purchase 3. Sprinting or, most likely 4. Singing. And maybe it was just the cocktails, but I was on fire! We next did Phantom of the Opera, which I had played Christine in in the WORST production EVER when I was 15, but that does mean I know the score forewards and backwards. And after my Beauty and the Beast warm up, I was all BAM! Check out that cadenza! BAM! High B! BAM! High C! BAM! The phantom of the opera is THERE inside my MIND, bitch!!!
I think the girl who brought me was a little embarassed. She kept telling me to let other people sing. When I told her I wanted everybody to sing (which I did. I was full of song and love.) she replied that they needed to hear themselves. Whoops. And I think I totally ruined a romantic moment with her and the guy she was macking on by singing along on their duet. Whoops.
Regardless, I was having the time of my LIFE. Which gives me hope for the future!!
The post-college party scene ISN'T as bleak as I thought! There was disney singing and magic and frosting and no one tried to make me drink beer! (gross)
Things are looking up.
I'm not really sure I yet understand/appreciate the post-collegiate party life. You didn't have to worry about finding something to do. Boom there it was - dance party in the "This Week" Guide! Evite from the social house! Friend of a friend has a friend with champagne! Weekends at college had a familiar, wonderful pattern: 1. Put on eyeliner 2. Dance party 3. Rehash scandalous events at brunch. Bingo.
It's not that I don't enjoy going out now: 1. Go to bar with friends 2. Drink cocktails that taste like fruit 3. Overshare details about personal life. I mean, obviously, that's good times. But there's a biiig part of me that wants to run onto the student center dance floor with my girls and shake my butt to the sweet sounds of "Hips Don't Lie," simultaneously fending off creepers like townies or freshman while making eyes from the hottie who sits two rows back in Civil War and Reconstruction. See, that was the other brilliant thing about college. Even the guys who were moderately sketchy weren't that sketchy. School was small enough that everyone pretty much knew eachother or knew someone you knew, so yes, while you risked a heinous crime like potential awkwardness by the salad bar in the dining hall, the chances that someone was going to roofie you and leave you in a dumpster were very small.
This weekend I was, quite literally, poised on the threshold between my new and old worlds. After cocktails and cake to celebrate our wonderful Stage Manager's birthday (it was a beautiful cake - chocolate vanilla swirl with vanilla frosting and "MANAGE THIS" written on it. Other Actress, who bought the cake, is a genius) I set off to join an old friend from highschool, who now works at a law firm, at a wine mixer thing full of other law firm/business school types. I set off determinedly into the heart of Cambridge, and wound up smack in the middle of Harvard freshman orientation. Not the official freshman orientation, obviously. The "we're away from home for the first time WOOHOOO" kind of orientation. I saw people outside a building, so I thought it might be my party. This gaggle of boys held the door open.
Boy: So...you going to the party?
Me: Yes.
Boy: I think I've seen you at the science center...you a freshman?
Me: Um...yes. *Giggle*
(I'm a totally compulsive liar with strangers. I don't know why. I just am.)
Boy: Yeah, us too.
(Dawns on me that this is probably not the right party, as lawyers and business people are probably not throwing freshman ragers.)
I hate to say it, so shameful, but there was a part of me that really, really wanted to follow these total strangers to a party full of harvard freshman. Letting go of college is a lot harder than I thought. Thankfully, one of the boys addressed the other as "Bro" right then, which is an appellation I find really stupid, and snapped me back to sanity, as I realized I was not going anywhere with three drunk 18 year olds. I said I needed to find another party and left, after agreeing with Boy that yes, I was sure I'd see him around the science center.
Turns out, however, that leaving for the grownup party totally paid off! It was, in fact, kickass. Ok it'll sound like I'm a huge loser, but I had the best time ever. All the lawyers were having a SHOWTUNES SINGALONG! Turns out the host was an excellent pianist, and I got there right as they were seguing from Sound of Music to Beauty and the Beast. I was four cocktails in, which means I think I can do anything, which results in me either: 1. Doing splits 2. Expostulating on the finer points of the Louisiana Purchase 3. Sprinting or, most likely 4. Singing. And maybe it was just the cocktails, but I was on fire! We next did Phantom of the Opera, which I had played Christine in in the WORST production EVER when I was 15, but that does mean I know the score forewards and backwards. And after my Beauty and the Beast warm up, I was all BAM! Check out that cadenza! BAM! High B! BAM! High C! BAM! The phantom of the opera is THERE inside my MIND, bitch!!!
I think the girl who brought me was a little embarassed. She kept telling me to let other people sing. When I told her I wanted everybody to sing (which I did. I was full of song and love.) she replied that they needed to hear themselves. Whoops. And I think I totally ruined a romantic moment with her and the guy she was macking on by singing along on their duet. Whoops.
Regardless, I was having the time of my LIFE. Which gives me hope for the future!!
The post-college party scene ISN'T as bleak as I thought! There was disney singing and magic and frosting and no one tried to make me drink beer! (gross)
Things are looking up.
Friday, September 5, 2008
TGIF - Oh Wait, I Work Saturdays
Today I discovered a solution to the age-old "How do I pee while wearing tights, knickers and five pounds of crinoline?" problem. It involves strategically timed potty breaks while hanging out backstage wearing only black mary-jane character shoes, white nylon tights, a large white colonial man's shirt, and a nylon wig cap. The electric blue underwear and bra you can see through the whole ensemble was just an extra bonus today. Obviously, it also involves checking the hallway very carefully before I dart out to the bathroom. Somehow, miraculously, I managed not to be caught once by the one or two random Community Collegiates who seem to have wandered into the performing arts center by accident. This was very lucky as I look like a revolutionary war militiaman with a nylon fetish.
Tech was long. Sorta painful. Very tiring. Thankfully I discovered that my little colonial pennsylvania dutch schoolboy hat makes a decent pillow, and I just curled up in a little knicker-ed, knackered ball and passed out backstage while the boys were chopping people up onstage. Yes, I slept through a murder on a hard wooden floor. It's been a long week.
Tech was long. Sorta painful. Very tiring. Thankfully I discovered that my little colonial pennsylvania dutch schoolboy hat makes a decent pillow, and I just curled up in a little knicker-ed, knackered ball and passed out backstage while the boys were chopping people up onstage. Yes, I slept through a murder on a hard wooden floor. It's been a long week.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Some Place Where There Isn't Any Trouble. Do You Suppose There Is Such a Place, Toto?
This morning, one of our actors came to the brilliant conclusion that our little company comprises the Wizard of Oz. The Scarecrow, the Tinman, the Cowardly Lion, yours truly in braids and little red shoes (seriously, that's what I was wearing today), and although Other Actress is not mean AT ALL, she was wearing a long black dress...and is, though not wicked, certainly a little bit badass.
Like my Kansan alter ego, I too set out on a journey today from our new theatrical homebase of the Community College (woohoo tech!), not to see the great and powerful Oz, but to see the great and powerful HO. Not some sort of uber-prostitute, but some sort of electrical supply facility. This meant I had to drive the van, following someone driving the truck back to the Rider storage facility.
I know, right? You're thinking "Ooo, scary, you big wuss, a 15 passenger van." I know. Nuns drive them to charity events. Old ladies drive them to Bunco tournaments. Pedophiles drive them to playgrounds. It shouldn't be that hard. But keep in mind, people, the largest car I've ever driven is a volkswagen beetle. Yeah.
I felt the panic rise in my throat I started to back up. Because if I dinged someone else's car in the parking lot, the fine student body of The Community College would not hesitate to cut a bitch. And that bitch would be me. But no bitches were cut, and I turned on the radio, and it was Carrie Underwood. "Before He Cheats." And I knew I could totally do this shit. I mean, Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie drive cross country on road trips all the time. Well actually, I can't remember if they actually drove. But as I cruised down the mean streets of the Quincy/Braintree area, I just kept telling myself to be Nicole. Because if that idiot can drive, I can drive. I lowered my fake D&G sunglasses and rocked it Nicole-Richie-style. And it was actually really easy. Before you know it, I'll be pulling into truckstops, hopping out in daisy duke shorts and a flannel shirt tied up just high enough to expose a double cherry tramp stamp or some other sweet tat, trading tales of the road with Bubba and the other truckers.
HO is a giant warehouse. I don't really know what it does. It is filled with machinery and big sweaty men in baseball hats and sleeveless tees. I was the only person with breasts for miles. And, surprisingly enough, hung over the front desk, is a 15 foot long poster of Ryan Evans - yes, that would be the obviously-gay-but-no one-can-say-it-because-it's-Disney brother of Sharpay Evans from the Highschool Musical franchise. Huh...
And then the sound system kicked into some sweet Backstreet Boys.
Appearances can be decieving.
All in all, it was a pretty easy day. We loaded in to our new theatre today (the set, the props, I finished organizing the wigs and costumes.) I didn't have to carry anything heavy (thank you, boys!) and love my sweet sweet costume job. The only show we ran was The Necklace, as it needs the most work because I am having some problems being elegant enough. I, of course, decided to show just how damned elegant I am by doing a little twirl and promptly walked into a step (the only feasible obstacle on the entire stage) and tripped. So dainty and graceful. Like a butterfly. Like the kind of butterfly that keeps flying into a light and hitting it. Like a dumbass butterfly.
As I do on anyday we miraculously get out early, I headed straight to Borders. In any bookshop, I am like a kid in a Garamond-type-set candy store. Well, more like a kid in an actual candy store, thanks to the free samples of rocky-road-bars and raspberry-mocha-lattes-with-whipped-cream barista boy was passing around on a tray. It's not just a bookstore, it's a sub-free cocktail party! I blame my subsequent book-buying orgy on the sugar rush.
Book-wise, I read what is generally considered to be crap. The marshmallow fluff of the literary world: Chick Lit. See, I already blew through most of the classics back in my I-Think-I'm-Smarter-Than-Everyone (and I've got the copy of Villette in my hot pink Lisa Frank sparkly unicorn backpack to prove it!) - phase, which lasted from approximately 1st grade to 10th grade, when my mother mercifully bought me a copy of Bridget Jones' Diary, and I realized 1. I was a pretentious asshole and 2. Reading can be like portable TV! So I never really made the transition into adult "literature" (not adult like erotica, obviously. I mean like good books grownups read.) Basically, if it wasn't written by a dead white chick in a corset or a live white chick in Manolos, I probably haven't read it. And I am totally fine with that. So I went on my merry way, picking up pastel hardbacks (why do I only like the hardbacks??? why?? they always look so much more interesting!) until I'd accumulated so many I had to buy a totebag to accomodate them. And then I almost crippled myself lugging them from State Street to North Station to Beverly Farms.
I am book-binger. Like I need some kind of Hardback-Chick-Lit-Shopaholics Anonymous Support Group. Or I will end up broke and hunchbacked.
Like my Kansan alter ego, I too set out on a journey today from our new theatrical homebase of the Community College (woohoo tech!), not to see the great and powerful Oz, but to see the great and powerful HO. Not some sort of uber-prostitute, but some sort of electrical supply facility. This meant I had to drive the van, following someone driving the truck back to the Rider storage facility.
I know, right? You're thinking "Ooo, scary, you big wuss, a 15 passenger van." I know. Nuns drive them to charity events. Old ladies drive them to Bunco tournaments. Pedophiles drive them to playgrounds. It shouldn't be that hard. But keep in mind, people, the largest car I've ever driven is a volkswagen beetle. Yeah.
I felt the panic rise in my throat I started to back up. Because if I dinged someone else's car in the parking lot, the fine student body of The Community College would not hesitate to cut a bitch. And that bitch would be me. But no bitches were cut, and I turned on the radio, and it was Carrie Underwood. "Before He Cheats." And I knew I could totally do this shit. I mean, Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie drive cross country on road trips all the time. Well actually, I can't remember if they actually drove. But as I cruised down the mean streets of the Quincy/Braintree area, I just kept telling myself to be Nicole. Because if that idiot can drive, I can drive. I lowered my fake D&G sunglasses and rocked it Nicole-Richie-style. And it was actually really easy. Before you know it, I'll be pulling into truckstops, hopping out in daisy duke shorts and a flannel shirt tied up just high enough to expose a double cherry tramp stamp or some other sweet tat, trading tales of the road with Bubba and the other truckers.
HO is a giant warehouse. I don't really know what it does. It is filled with machinery and big sweaty men in baseball hats and sleeveless tees. I was the only person with breasts for miles. And, surprisingly enough, hung over the front desk, is a 15 foot long poster of Ryan Evans - yes, that would be the obviously-gay-but-no one-can-say-it-because-it's-Disney brother of Sharpay Evans from the Highschool Musical franchise. Huh...
And then the sound system kicked into some sweet Backstreet Boys.
Appearances can be decieving.
All in all, it was a pretty easy day. We loaded in to our new theatre today (the set, the props, I finished organizing the wigs and costumes.) I didn't have to carry anything heavy (thank you, boys!) and love my sweet sweet costume job. The only show we ran was The Necklace, as it needs the most work because I am having some problems being elegant enough. I, of course, decided to show just how damned elegant I am by doing a little twirl and promptly walked into a step (the only feasible obstacle on the entire stage) and tripped. So dainty and graceful. Like a butterfly. Like the kind of butterfly that keeps flying into a light and hitting it. Like a dumbass butterfly.
As I do on anyday we miraculously get out early, I headed straight to Borders. In any bookshop, I am like a kid in a Garamond-type-set candy store. Well, more like a kid in an actual candy store, thanks to the free samples of rocky-road-bars and raspberry-mocha-lattes-with-whipped-cream barista boy was passing around on a tray. It's not just a bookstore, it's a sub-free cocktail party! I blame my subsequent book-buying orgy on the sugar rush.
Book-wise, I read what is generally considered to be crap. The marshmallow fluff of the literary world: Chick Lit. See, I already blew through most of the classics back in my I-Think-I'm-Smarter-Than-Everyone (and I've got the copy of Villette in my hot pink Lisa Frank sparkly unicorn backpack to prove it!) - phase, which lasted from approximately 1st grade to 10th grade, when my mother mercifully bought me a copy of Bridget Jones' Diary, and I realized 1. I was a pretentious asshole and 2. Reading can be like portable TV! So I never really made the transition into adult "literature" (not adult like erotica, obviously. I mean like good books grownups read.) Basically, if it wasn't written by a dead white chick in a corset or a live white chick in Manolos, I probably haven't read it. And I am totally fine with that. So I went on my merry way, picking up pastel hardbacks (why do I only like the hardbacks??? why?? they always look so much more interesting!) until I'd accumulated so many I had to buy a totebag to accomodate them. And then I almost crippled myself lugging them from State Street to North Station to Beverly Farms.
I am book-binger. Like I need some kind of Hardback-Chick-Lit-Shopaholics Anonymous Support Group. Or I will end up broke and hunchbacked.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Breathe. Just Breathe.
So as my loyal fans may have noticed (Okay, Loyal Fan - this one's for you, Kolbe Franklin) I'd taken a blogging hiatus. Why, you ask? Let's just say I almost had to rename this blog The Unemployed Ingenue, and all of my energy had to go towards trying not to cry/vomit 24/7.
Yes, I was almost fired. I wish I could say it was because of something badass like torching the rehearsal hall or stealing a ballgown to wear for a night out on the town, but no such luck. It was a lot more mundane: Get bigger and get louder, or get out.
So I spent a lot of time this week getting acquainted with my diaphragm (no, not that kind - the kind you breathe from. I mean I love everybody here but I don't love 'em like that) and practicing arm motions in the mirror. And one heart-pounding, nauseating run for the producer later, I'm still here. Employed. Woo! It has been a rollercoaster, my friends.
I will say this - this week of madness has made me so thankful for all the friends I've made here in such a short period of time and feel so unbelievably lucky for how wonderful all my fellow tour-meisters are. It's also restored my faith in actors. I mean, I have always loved actors. Ask anybody - really loved them (yeah, that time I sort of meant it like that.) But this summer, working from the Stage Managing side of the table 50% of the time, I was sort of way down on them as a species of humanity. HOWEVER, this week the entire cast pulled together and helped me so much. I literally could not have done it without you. For the dance lessons, vocal coaching, cartoon face inspirations, and for threatening to kick my ass if I didn't think positivie - you know who you are - THANK YOU. I love you guys.
There's no business like show business, and thank fucking god. At least the rest of the population doesn't have to deal with this insanity.
Next stop: Tech Week! Community College, here we come!
Yes, I was almost fired. I wish I could say it was because of something badass like torching the rehearsal hall or stealing a ballgown to wear for a night out on the town, but no such luck. It was a lot more mundane: Get bigger and get louder, or get out.
So I spent a lot of time this week getting acquainted with my diaphragm (no, not that kind - the kind you breathe from. I mean I love everybody here but I don't love 'em like that) and practicing arm motions in the mirror. And one heart-pounding, nauseating run for the producer later, I'm still here. Employed. Woo! It has been a rollercoaster, my friends.
I will say this - this week of madness has made me so thankful for all the friends I've made here in such a short period of time and feel so unbelievably lucky for how wonderful all my fellow tour-meisters are. It's also restored my faith in actors. I mean, I have always loved actors. Ask anybody - really loved them (yeah, that time I sort of meant it like that.) But this summer, working from the Stage Managing side of the table 50% of the time, I was sort of way down on them as a species of humanity. HOWEVER, this week the entire cast pulled together and helped me so much. I literally could not have done it without you. For the dance lessons, vocal coaching, cartoon face inspirations, and for threatening to kick my ass if I didn't think positivie - you know who you are - THANK YOU. I love you guys.
There's no business like show business, and thank fucking god. At least the rest of the population doesn't have to deal with this insanity.
Next stop: Tech Week! Community College, here we come!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
