Not Alone

Last week I got a phone call in reference to one of the grad school applications I had turned in around the start of January. It was from The New School for Drama in New York City, to which I had applied solely on the advice of a friend who was admitted to their program last Fall.

They were calling to say they’d like to schedule an audition with me. This is an accomplishment in and of itself, because they stress they don’t even grant an audition unless they like what they see in an application. I knew I was taking a risk applying with them. Money is tight and application fees aren’t cheap, so I may well have flushed the money down the toilet for all I had as a guarantee I would be granted some face time with them. I was honored when they called me.

I spoke with a man who told me they still don’t have my letters of recommendation. I explained I’ve been working for six weeks trying to get a hold of my last instructors, all of whom a) live in Moscow, b) have no email, and c) speak no English. It took a month just to get in touch with a third party willing and able to help me out. He seemed understanding – even though we’re past the postmark deadline, I have to try and make certain they get there at all. Then he wanted the name of my monologue and two-person scene.

Jigga-wha? Two-person scene? WHAT two-person scene?!

As it turns out, he was asking about the two-person scene detailed in the audition requirements. How silly of me. I should have checked there. Every audition I’ve ever had in my life (not many, I admit) wants two contrasting monologues, typically one classical (i.e. Shakespeare, or that time period) and one contemporary (last 100 years or so). I admitted I had no idea, admitted my embarrassment, and apologized for being unprepared – he admitted that many, many people make the same mistake of overlooking that particular.

Lucky me, I had already contacted a friend I was with in college about brushing up on my monologues. She agreed to do a scene with me, and we’ve spent since Friday going over plays and debating the pros and cons of various contrasting combinations. She came damned prepared, too, pulling from her play library and extensive knowledge and research to help me along.

Collaborating with a colleague has galvanized my intent in a way I never would have achieved alone. She hits hard with the truths I need to hear – about headshots, and working hard. She proposes ideas and concepts I wouldn’t have discovered on my own. Best of all, she’s showing a dedication to helping me move forward like no one has before.

I’ve been able to fall asleep since then secure in the knowledge that I’m not in this audition by myself. I picked a partner who shows as much enthusiasm over this project as I have myself. She feeds my confidence that I’ll be able to show this school and the others what I’m made of, that I deserve a spot within their ranks.

It’s my turn. It’s about time someone with the power to grant my wish realizes this.

And if you’re wondering – UCLA and CalArts have yet to contact me about my application, but my audition with The New School is January 31^st at 10:00 a.m., with A.R.T. February 4^th at 11:20 a.m., and DePaul February 21^st at 7:45 a.m. Good luck messages are more than welcome J

Humbled

I had an experience last night that has taken down my pride a notch

Applying for graduate school and remembering the physical requirements for the movement classes thereof reminded me, in yet another way, that I’m way out of shape. I get no small joy from exercise, especially jogging – but snow and ice upon the ground and temperatures that don’t rise above the teens have put that particular activity at a standstill in lieu of a thaw. So, reminded and inspired by Lee Adama about the benefits of a jump rope (even if it was a body double), I went out and bought one last weekend.

My apartment, thankfully, has a high enough ceiling to accommodate, and a quick shuffle of my furniture gives me the horizontal space I require. I discovered, not for the first time, that a new physical activity is difficult no matter what you’re used to. Weight lifting doesn’t much prepare you for the rigors of rock climbing, and jogging is not the same as jumping. Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself until I got a look at my reflection.

I have some extra weight around my middle, and I’ve accepted that. Even in my Superman costume I was overweight, but being so taught me enough about how to carry myself and position my arms in such a way as to block my extra padding from view. The one space I can jump, however, is right in front of a window. Thankfully, I can keep the blinds closed. Thankful, too, am I that the windows were recently heat-sealed, providing a thick sheet of plastic over the windows. I have am ambivalent, however, about the fact that said plastic provides a reflection of my shirtless torso as I bounce repeatedly.

It’s gross.

Combined with pushups and sit ups, I know I’m building a good exercise régime without having to leave my apartment, the likes of which I’ve not had since I owned a Bowflex and a punching bag. When I look at my reflection, I see the remnants of sculpture in my shoulders and chest. Below the breastbone, however, is an extra sac of guts I’ve always referred to as my winter coat, rippling in a way that reminds me of every shot of Homer Simpson in slow motion.

I’ve always been a firm believer in a harsher translation of the serenity prayer – either accept your situation, or do something to change it. If you’ve done neither, you’ve lost your right to complain. I could choose to face the other direction when I jump, but I think taking a good look at myself gives me an important reflection (yuk yuk yuk) o f the way I really look, and exactly how far I have to go before I’m proud of what I see.

And now that the pattern of my life has begun to alter from mundane repetition, the blogs should appear more often.

Statement of Purpose

A little something I've been sending to the grad schools to which I've applied.
Enjoy.
---

The process of character creation is one of attempting to attain an impossible perfection. Characters are not people, but rather simulacrums based on a marriage of skills. Leonardo's Mona Lisa or Michelangelo's David aren't people, but are excellent still-life representations thereof. In collaboration of the writer, the actor, the director, and the designer(s), a representation of humanity can be seen, heard, touched, and even interacted with. The goal is to make them as real as one can—to the observer, to the other actors, even to oneself. But as close to reality as things may become, a character is never, really, a person.

A character has no emotions, but rather borrows its emotions from the actor. The words it speaks are composed by another. Its appearance, its mannerisms, and its movements are all practiced, reviewed, and rehearsed to a degree unparalleled beyond stage and screen. Yet when the time of performance is at hand, we artists take a journey with the audience into a state of belief—or, a suspension of disbelief—that they're bearing witness to reality, that the words aren't scripted and the one speaking them hasn't also spoken the words of Hamlet, Willy Lowman, or Jean Valjean.

Actors go to great lengths to make the journey to emulate and represent humanity. We analyze and interpret the text. We adorn ourselves in the makeup and costume chosen for us. We draw upon our memories to tease strong emotions to the surface. Most importantly, we do what no other artist does; we allow ourselves to believe in a set of given circumstances. We believe in the who, what, where, when, why, and how, transcending ourselves into living art that, when successful, is a more accurate representation of humanity than any other artist can achieve.

I graduated from the University of North Texas in August 2001 with a sense that I had wasted my educational opportunities. A poorly performing student, I allowed the comfortable, unchanging environment to subdue my ambition and nourish my fears.

In 2004, I realized that my complacency had led to stagnation. I was unchanging and unmotivated, and I hated it. I felt within myself the growing desire to make something more of myself lest I end up feeling the weight of my dreams crushing my existence. No longer satisfied with my course, I applied for graduate schools.

My path led me to attend the Stanislavsky Summer School, a six week course at the American Repertory Theatre in 2005. There, I learned more about myself and my abilities than I had ever known. Through the instruction and training I received, I discovered I was as talented and capable an actor as I had ever believed I could be. My intelligence and dedication meant I only had to be given direction once. My physical size and confidence therein gave me a strong, commanding stage presence. My imagination and talent to turned me into a vehicle through which characters sprang to life. I pushed the boundaries of my comfort zone and experimented with instinct and improvisation, setting new goals and new limits for myself.

That winter I travelled to Moscow for a second six week course. Exposure to a foreign environment expanded my capabilities further as I discovered what it is to be an actor on an instinctual level. I learned of how actors communicate and connect with one another without conscious thought. I discovered the importance of creation without use of dialogue.

I also discovered how limited I could be without instruction. Alone, I found a limit to my willingness to explore. Without the direction and encouragement of others, I don't allow myself the full depth and breadth of my capabilities, tending to stay—emotionally and physically—where it's safe and comfortable. My desire, through this program, is to break the limits and boundaries of my comfort zone, expanding my versatility to new levels. I hope to tap into new methods and avenues of discovery, and to achieve a more complete and expanded sense of self. My goal is to turn the most I can currently accomplish into the least I will be able to achieve. I want to be ever growing, ever expanding, and ever changing into something new—something better.

Nekkid

I'm a little uncomfortable admitting this, but I like being able to see in people's homes. I've always been fascinated by how a place looks through a window. The furniture, the pictures on the walls, even what they're watching on television is far more intriguing than it would be were I actually standing within the containing walls. I have an unrelenting curiosity about the way other people live, to share in their stories in some small way. Being able to see the way they set up their home provides a basic understanding of these strangers.

Growing up I only got this view while taking long walks through a suburban neighborhood, and the occasions were rare. Most people exploit their ability to remain private, so the blinds were almost always drawn shut. This isn't true in Chicago. While riding the el to work, I get the chance to peek in several people's homes while zipping past. There's never a lasting view, of course, but a daily trip past a regularly open window gives me a unique perspective at the layout of various castles and their kings.

I've always been a little disappointed, however, that the people are never doing anything interesting. Usually they're watching TV. If I'm very, very lucky, someone might be walking to the refrigerator. I've always wished for some sort of Ebenezer Scrooge moment, watching the happy family gathered around a dinner table. Bustling activity as a group of people relates to one another, perhaps. People drinking at a party, or even sitting around a board game would be fine. Alas, none of these has occurred until recently, when the 3^rd most interesting thing possible was spotted almost 30 stories up.

My office building is across the street from Marina City. This is one of the most distinctive views of the Chicago skyline, being two apartment buildings that look like eaten corn cobs. Balconies are covered in various decorations, and most people let the sunlight in freely. This provides us with a look at all the numerous ways one can decorate a wedge-shaped apartment. People step outside for a smoke, or perhaps we get to see what people watch on TV. It's also fascinating to me that given the height of the building, some people experience a sunset a full hour earlier than others.

Also there's naked aerobics.

From time to time around 10:30 all work stops, people rush to the windows, and split the use of the binoculars only one person has thought to bring to a 28^th floor view (me). For half an hour, a woman in Marina City does laps around the perimeter of her apartment completely in the buff. Unable to get up to a full running speed in such a relatively small space, she half jogs, half power walks in front of her windows. There's even the occasional stretching/bending over.

The first time we noticed this was in the middle of a meeting between We the Temps and an associate media directors for one of our bigger clients. One by one, each of the men in the office would glance out the window. His eyes would squint in disbelief and attempted discovery. "What am I seeing there? It looks like . . . . But it can't be . . . ." Then his eyes would widen in surprise. "No way. No f'n way." Finally, his eyes would harden in determination, and with Galileo's own enthusiasm he'd find a way to announce the experience to everyone within the reach of his voice.

Part of me wants to believe she's completely ignorant of the fact that the obelisk-like structure across the street from her has people who can see into her living room during her routine. Part of me tries to rationalize it; "If I exercise naked, I won't have to do so much laundry!" The more rational part of me acknowledges and accepts the fact that she doesn't care that she's visible. Indeed, being watched may even be the point. If that's the case, my officemates and I are happy to oblige. I don't admit it often (and I feel I don't have to, really), but I'm an immature little child.

Naked people are awesome.

Mommy Dearest

In response to my request for good news, my mother emailed the following. I thought it deserved a broader audience.
(TM and TF is her shorthand for "The Mother" & "The Father")
1.TM & TF bought you a Christmas tree decoration.
2.I bask in happy thoughts of seeing you last July and entertain myself with thoughts of seeing you in Dec.
3.When I leave for work in the mornings, the light is just coming up in the east and by the time I arrive at school the light can be indescribably magical.
4.Obama will probably be president. Michelle will probably be first lady.
5.TF is tutoring my library aides, and they can do chemistry that they couldn't do otherwise.
6.TM & TF had dinner with Marian. She is smarter, wiser, & funnier every day.
7.I smile when I think of Lt. Dangle and Junior & their Thai restaurant delivery in the motel caper.
8.I've been eating more carefully, exercising faithfully, and my pants are getting looser.
9.I saw a booktv thing that talked about new media and web 2.0, and I thought of how clever and skilled you are with these things.
10.I love to read your writing. It paints a perfectly clear picture in my head. It puts me in the moment, in the place, in the action. I'm thinking of the bar scene from a posting before last.
11.All I want is for you to have the highest standards of ethics and service. That is exactly what you are. My life is complete.

Everything’s Catching On Fire

Someone give me some good news, please.

My own situation was made worse this morning by the fact that I overdrew my account. As a beer vendor I pay up front for cases to sell to the crowd; a case is $192, plus I need extra for making change. I made a withdrawal for this on Sunday, but I didn't put the money back into my account yesterday, so I didn't have it when my credit card payments and check to the IRS went through.

But now that the IRS has my first "good faith" payment and the first whomp from my last check, I called them again tonight to see if I can get put on that payment plan we'd previously discussed. I sat on hold for ten minutes before a person came on the line to tell me their computers are down and I should call back tomorrow.

But that's not all.

One friend of mine lost a family member yesterday.

Another friend got fired today. Not laid off—fired. They wanted to get rid of him but didn't have a real reason, so they made one up ("We're going in a new direction.").

My father is still in a jam over something that happened this summer.

Someone I know back home got promised a big break, but now a naysayer is trying to cut him off at the knees.

And finally, I know someone whose car was stolen a week before she had to move across the country, the movers showed up with her stuff two weeks late and charged her an extra $350, and she's too busy in school twelve hours a day to put up a fight during business hours.

I don't know anyone right now who has good news to report, and it's stressing me out. Dealing with my own problems is enough for just me to handle, but c'mon. Does anyone out there have any good news? And by news, I mean something that's happened recently. Most people can be happy that nothing bad has happened lately, and everyone is usually okay when we realize how many things in life we still have (health, family, a roof, a bed, etc.) What I need to hear is something new in your life that's good.

Did someone get a new job? Has anyone started a new relationship? Anybody buy a new car? Find $20 on the street? Somebody, please give me something. I need to know that I know somebody who's better off this week than they were last week.

Before I go insane.

...and Stay Out

In the interest of being interesting, I have another story to tell.

It happened a couple of months ago that I was bouncing one Saturday night. There were three of us working security at 10:00—I remember because I had just sent one of the other guys home for the night. By this hour on a summer night, we had three areas of the bar open Walking through the front door is what we wisely call the front bar, which is an elongated section with our front door on the short end. To walk straight back and take a sharp right turn puts one in the back bar, a square-ish room with lots of doors and windows. To enter the back bar from the front bar and continue onward will deposit you onto our patio. Bouncers who like to smoke like to work the patio because you can step over the low fence (only if you're employed there) and smoke on the sidewalk while keeping an eye on things. To do so creates a bit of awkwardness when telling a customer to stop smoking on the business side of the fence, but only if you care what a drunken smoker thinks of you. Most of us don't, but we appreciate the irony.

I had just stepped into the back bar when the bartender got my attention and pointed, urgently saying, "Blue hat, blue hat!" Bartenders urgently communicate to bouncers solely a physical description in exactly two circumstances. The first is a moderate-to-highly attractive woman calling attention to herself in ways that would cause her parents and pastor to disapprove. The second is a patron who's overstayed his welcome by a factor of 1+ drink or 1+ impolite comment to the staff. I turned to look. Wearing a blue hat (not an uncommon site in Wrigleyville, mind you) was a man in the 40-50 range.

Damn.

Because he was facing away from me, I put my hand on his shoulder to get his attention. He turned, and he and his buddies all groaned. Good, at least he knew he'd done something wrong. I didn't know what it was, but I didn't have to. This guy was being asked to leave, and he and his friends all knew it. There was a token protest, but it was half-hearted. I escorted the man to the door, made sure to point him out to the guy checking IDs, and went back to my post in the center of the bar.

After half an hour I stepped out to the fence for a smoke to find the fence guy had switched places with the door guy since Blue Hat had left. Thinking nothing of it, I sent him inside to take my place so I could light up. Five minutes later (less than the time it takes to smoke, mind you) one of the waitresses stepped outside and told me the bartender needed me.

Sure enough there was Blue Hat. Making the most of the changing of the guard, he'd come back past a bouncer who didn't know he wasn't supposed to come back. Standing at the bar he looked for all the world like he couldn't understand why he didn't have a drink in his hand. I grabbed his shoulder again and said, "No, see—you were asked to leave. That means you don't get to come back." He tried an argument with me this time, and started asking me what he had done. "You got asked to leave," I told him, made sure he went out again, and relit my smoke when I got back to watching the fence. Blue hat followed me.

He tried to continue his argument and proclaim his innocence, saying he didn't know what he'd done to get himself ejected. "I don't know either," I told him, "but when you're asked to leave I don't ask questions. You just leave."

"So I mouthed off to the guy, so what?" he said. "The guy's a fucking asshole," he said with such a slur I didn't understand him at first. I shrugged and tried to ignore him, but there are two certainties when someone gets booted. The first is that he'll always try to negotiate his way back into the bar, especially if his friends are still in there. The second is that a booted person's friends always stay to finish their drinks, proving there is no honor among inebriates. He spent the next 20 minutes making small talk, his speech so distorted that several times I had to ask him to repeat himself. With a hint of drool escaping the corner of what I'm sure was an attempt at a coy smile, he'd only say, "Yeah, you heard me," and nod a few times.

After a few minutes of this, he'd make his case. "Com'mon. Hey. Hey. I'm notta bad guy. Cancha jus' lemme back in? I'm harmless, I'm harmless." Short of wetting his jeans, there is no drunk stereotype this man had failed to fulfill.

"No," I'd say. Then he'd try getting angry.

"Fuck you. You're a fuckin' idiot. Asshole."

"See that?" I asked him. "That right there, that's why you don't get to come back." I indicated the 20-30 people enjoying themselves on the patio. "See all these people? There are a very few rules you have to follow, and all these people follow them. That's why they get to stay. You didn't follow the rules, so you don't get to stay." Not for the first time, I found a similarity between bouncing and they year I spent as a pre-school teacher.

My attention was needed at the opposite end of the patio for a moment, so I walked down. By the time I came back he was gone. I hoped he had moved on, but I hadn't in my heart accepted it was true. Full of hope I lit a cigarette anyway—and was on my second drag before the bartender stepped out and waved me in.

Sure enough, Blue Hat hopped the low fence and tried to rejoin his friends in the least sneaky way possible. It seems he rushed in, waved wildly to the bartender, and called out, "I'm Baaack!"

Not for long he wasn't, goddammit.

I admired his tenacity, but only a little. I don't know at what point he thought I was simply going to shrug and let him stay, and I let my anger at his audacity build in order to fuel the verbal torrent I was about to spew. Once we got outside, I channeled every wild-eyed, spittle-spraying high school football coach who'd ever given me a verbal thrashing, and I unleashed.

"You don't seem to understand. You were told to leave. That means you don't get to stay. You don't get to come back. You don't get to come in the front door, you don't get to come in the back door. You don't get to come in the side door. You don't get to come in at all. You are not welcome here. You have to go away. You have to be gone. You have to stay gone. If you don't understand that I will get the police here to explain it to you."

At the last minute I realized my mistake by threatening the police—never make a threat you aren't prepared to back up. Not that I wouldn't have done so if the circumstances warranted it, but I didn't want the police to make a special trip over this guy; they have more important things to do on a Saturday night in Chicago. Besides, every drunk thinks calling the police is a bluff no one is prepared to back up. My heart sank a bit as the fight drained from me; I had just played my King and promised an Ace, but had none up my sleeve. Worse, he called me out. "Go ahead," he said gaining confidence, "get the police." Shit. "There's their car," he said pointing to the street corner.

Eh? Sure enough, there was indeed a Chicago Police Car parked right on our corner. Rejuvenated, I instantly regained the ground I thought I'd lost. I wouldn't have to wait for them to show up, and—best news yet—this idiot is the one who pointed them out. Huzzah!

I approached the police with momentum and fervor. "Excuse me, Gentlemen," I said. "Would you please explain to this man that he isn't allowed back in my bar?" They looked annoyed, but it no longer mattered; one who had witnessed my tirade ran up and informed me that Blue Hat had jumped into a cab while I wasn't looking.

I admit I was a little disappointed at the flat ending to such a huge build, but that was okay. I've been involved in a few fights this year, and one of them included a $1,700 medical bill. All things considered, this ended as well as it should have.