...and it feels so good

I went to my high school reunion. Well, I actually went to the debriefing of the reunion. That's when the alumni ditch the polite reacquaintings in the cafeteria and head to a pub to drink 28 beers and call each other fag. I went to all-boys, Catholic prep school so the "fag" thing is obviously a joke.

When I arrived at PJ O'Shaunessey's, most of the bloated faces were pretty startled. I hadn't seen most of these men since they were old boys. In the years since, they carved out careers in law and finance, moved into neighborhoods I can only crash in, and adopted diminutive nicknames for themselves: James is now Jimmy, Peter insists on Peetie.

After ten minutes of exchanging startled handshakes and hugs with my old friends, I moved up to the bar and ordered some drinks. The helium of all the great-to-see-yous made me forget my legs and I knocked over a bar stool. Strange. I've spent the past eight years protecting myself from these guys' expectations and I felt so immediately puffed by their enthusiasm.

Home

I've been listening to the pipes lately. They give out a serious of pings and clangs each time I enter the bathroom. No one else is here in the apartment. I'm the only soul behind the locked door.

The pipes choked out their summer slumber, abandoning it to waft over the river and into the afternoon sky. Not a soul is with me in this apartment. My companions are these pipes, the brakes on a city bus, the fridge, a car honk, a Dominican radio station: the veins of a home.

Standardized

When did become standard for singers to lift and juggle the "i" sound in "God Bless America"? Whenever a seventh inning arrives, I'm forced to enjoy my favorite national hymn as "God Bless Amereeeecah." The singers must believe it gives them Gospel cred or something. Like, "Watch me go Boyz2Men on this bitch!"

If I had to sing this country's backup anthem, I'd hammer on the consonants. "Godddddd Bless Ammmerrrrrriccccccccccccah."
That'd shake up the system. Right? Wouldn't it? Well, I think it would. Shake things up.

Please, Carry On

You've heard it a thousand times from whiners just like me. An actor walks into a room to audition. There are a few apathetic, creative people behind a table and your photo/resume is laid out in front of them. The actor introduces himself. Some of the people nod. The reader smiles. The actor pauses to begin his audition, entering that awkward zone between polite reality and authentic fiction. The actor begins the scene - an event which he has spent maybe a full week preparing. After the actor has spoken his first line (possibly in a dialect foreign to his native tongue), the reader responds with his first line. And so this verbal dance, this dialogue, whirls until all the lines are spent.

But hark! I hear other speakers. Speakers whose contribution I did not foresee. Ah, look! The casting team behind the table has decided to chat. Better ignore them and carry on with the scene. Ah, they continue to chat! One seems to be evaluating the merits of my thousand-dollar photograph. And holding it up. And rotating it. Can't they see that I’m standing not three feet in front of them, looking just past their gaze and into my imagination?

I know how to solve this: I'll furrow my brow another inch and slow my speech down. This will affect a deeper earnestness in my portrayal and indicate that, no, I am thoroughly not distracted by their blathering. Now, not only will they value my performance, but admire my rigid focus in the face of flagrant disinterest. It will be a lasagna of appreciation. This really is one golden opportunity.

My Perfect Instrument

It's a shame that one can only read this blog and not hear me dictate it. You know why? Because my speaking voice is fucking delicious.

I had an audition this afternoon and instead of preparing the sides and trying to get off book, I simply hummed. I drank a gallon of Texas Crystal water ("It's like Texas in a bottle") and listened in on the elegant tones my diaphram was bubbling up into my facial cavity. It's like I wasn't even doing it, as if my vibrations were so ethereal that they evolved their own identity and my body just became a gracious host to their ringing beauty. I wish I could have gotten in the room and hummed for the producers and do fuck-all with the script. They'd understand that the tones produced could only spring from a vulnerable, talented soul.

Right now, I'm drinking warm tea with honey. This will massage and coat my throat to a point of total relaxation. My throat is a precious child and after articulating such grace, it's needs the most delicate treatment. If you say TLC, I think Throats Love Coddling. Sprouting from this hole at the top of my neck is my little velvet eel, the tongue. Soon enough, I will begin various diction exercises that will illustrate my tongue's agility. Art must be specific. And without a nimble tongue, my voice would echo only a vague brilliance. For most geniuses, this would suffice. However, I intend to make full use of all the startling abilities God has bestowed on me.

Notes from the Sofa

You know what's the best thing about being an actor? Waiting for a "You got the job!" call from your agent. No, really - in those waning hours of need, you get to treat everyone else who calls you like a pointless distraction. In one of those desperate periods yesterday, I kept my mind off the non-ringing phone by watching the news. And since there was live footage of a tragic accident (Cory Lidle's plane crash), it was a good news day. After a half-hour of watching NY1, the phone rang. "Sweet," I thought, "it's my agent and I got the job." But no, it was just my brother wanting to know whether or not I was okay. He lives in the suburbs, so he assumes that each Manhattan resident must be connected to a smoldering Upper East Side condo. I said I was fine, sitting on a plush sofa and eating macaronis. He said he didn't care about all that shit, he just wanted to know if I was all right. He hung up. I watched some more footage of the building and an on-the-street interview with some banker's slutty wife. She kept nattering on about how she, "needed to save (her) puppies!!! And one of them? Yeah, he's still in there! He could be in flames or something!!??" She later admitted that she actually lived five blocks down from the scarred building, which would put her precious pup a quarter-mile from any flames. But I guess we all want to ride the tragedy bandwagon sometimes.

Then the phone rang again! "Sweet," I thought, "now it's my agent and now I got the job." It was my mom. She wanted to know if I was okay. I told her about the sofa and macaronis then said something dicky like, "Can I talk to you later or something? I wanna watch this story develop, okay? Bye." My subtext was, "Why aren't you my agent with a job? Does it matter that you gave birth to me and funded my college education? I want to be on cable TV!" Disgusting.

Tony the Star

Now, all NYC waiting rooms are incubators for quirky behavior. As you sit at your scheduled appointment with your doctor or welfare agent, what can you do but stare at the fascinating, neurotic messes seated across from you? But sometimes, a real shining jackass rises above the fray, setting a new standard in annoyance.

So I'm at an audition for Law & Order (you've heard of it, yes?), sitting in a typically cramped holding pen. I only had to read a single line for this audition. So while waiting for my moment to shine, I opened up a very pretentious book called "The Personality of Animals." This is, I think, a pretty obvious sign to the other actors that I'm a far more high-minded soul and that they should respect this fact by not talking to me. In walks Tony Di Salami (not his name), saying something like, "Aww jeez, here we go! Linin' em' up again, eh?!" to nobody in particular but particularly loud. I hate him already. He sits down across from me. He's a tall fucker, dressed in leather cowboy boots, tight blue jeans, a Harley Davidson t-shirt and a beige leather jacket. Nice.

"Here I am! Everybody watch their knee caps!" He extends his body in a seated spread eagle - arms around the empty seats next to him and legs open in a kind of ballerina split. He seems the model of relaxation. "How we all doin' today, eh?" The other actors nod silently. I glare at him.

"I know you," he says to a Jersey-ish blonde next to me. "Tell me I'm right! You know I'm right!" She concedes that, yes, they may have met years ago at some non-equity casting call for Grease! "Aw yeah, knew that. Knew that right away." Tony is still speaking very loudly. But he's cunning, since he spotted the perfect candidate for his routine: a polite young lady with questionable self-esteem.

"Lemme see those sides?" She hands him her script. "Aw yeah, I think we gotta scene together at the end o'the episode. Sweet Action!" She giggles. "Ya see, my character's deal is he's mixed up in a crowd that's getting outta control, you know?" She nods and smiles when he nods and smiles. "Nah, but you'll do great in there, I can tell these things." She actually blushes and thanks him. Feeling fluffed by her gratification, he gets up to leave. "Aw steer clear everybody. Mister Lanky Legs comin' through!" He goes to chat up the office staff. Though he's still loud enough to be heard, his absence calms me. I hold up my pretentious book with an ever deeper sense of pride.

But then Tony's back. And, of course, he's on his cellphone. "Nah, that price was always gonna dip. I told you." His broker? "Nah, nah, nah, I gotta buddy at JP and he tells me this is the way it's gotta go." So he's into money, huh. He claps his phone shut and moves back to his seat. He eyes the blonde again and says, " Listen, we know a lot of the same people. I should give you my number." I guess this is Tony's gentlemanly way of saying that when he date rapes her, it'll be because she made the first move. That's class.