No sleep 'till Brooklyn

So I guess the reason I haven't written this week is because when I haven't been working, I've been travelling 140 blocks uptown to visit apartments that until yesterday I thought were in our price range. Since then we've had to lower the bar about $100. When I haven't been on the subway, I've been napping, since I usually average about 4-5 hours a night. When I haven't been napping, I've been either at the cold reading sessions for Ten Grand Productions (the reason why I am not reduced to a trembling mass at the bottom of the loony bin) or at the gym, burning off the copious amounts of reduced-fare Easter candy that I've felt compelled--nay, forced--to consume as a stress-management tactic.

And the reason that I'm sitting here clicking away in between rows of pink half-dollar Peeps and guilty snatches of Seth's Hershey Minis (except the Special Darks, lest I want my throat slit), is because I need five damn minutes to unwind after the news that Seth and I definitely need to be out by the 31st (which means in three days settle on an affordable apartment in God knows where, apply, get accepted, and move our stuff), because someone definitely dropped the ball when it came to communication, and this time you can't say we weren't doing our part.

It's like ten thousand spoons whan all you need are your hands and tongue back

Usually I'm not very good at spotting these things, but nonetheless it seems ironic that I would move to a big city to find acting work, only for my first show to be directed by Truman alumni.

It seems similarly ironic that I would get to play Lavinia in Titus Andronicus, a play that I've never studied in any of my classes and had never read on my own. Not just I-was-supposed-to-read-it-for-class-but-I-had-to-label-every-song-in-my-iTunes-by-genre-and-scrub-the-toilet not studying; it wasn't even covered by the curriculum. I skimmed it when I was preparing, but I considered it as equally valuable to brush up the plays with which I was more familiar, and since there were more of those, that task vacuumed up more time.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you.

Not a bit.

Small (Town) World

The stage manager led me into the room where I was supposed to read for Katharina in Taming of the Shrew with two other people. There was a blond lady, a man in his late twenties, and a dark-haired lady whose name I knew was Sabrina. I got ready to begin the scene.

"Let's see, first of all, Meredith...." They pointed at me like I was the perpetrator in a police lineup. I gulped. "You went to Truman!" The man and Sabrina threw their arms up in celebration.

"Yeah, yeah! Who went to Truman?" I asked.

"We did!" they both responded. Joy surged through my every capillary.

"What year?"

"Two thousand one," the man replied. "It'd be right before you came, so I think Alan Altmansberger would be still around that you know."

"I totally know Alan! Do you know Randy Bame?" I exclaimed.

"Hell yeah I know Randy Bame!" he laughed.

"What's your name?" I asked him.

"Brian Waters," he said.

"Oh! I've heard of you!" It rang a heavenly choir of bells; this guy played a key role in many of Randy's tales of the olden days when he first started working in the auditorium.

Suddenly, I didn't feel quite so nervous anymore.

A 15-Minute Brush With Fame

I served coffee to Phillip Seymour Hoffman this past Tuesday. I didn't freak out or gush or get his autograph, because that would not have been professional. And by professional, I don't mean barista-wise, I mean acting-wise. Maybe that's a little pretentious of me. But he did look really tired. He got a triple espresso (in case you wanted to know), so he must have been.

(But yes, I blushed like a Catholic hooker, and yes, my hands shook the whole time. And he smiled and thanked me and left a tip. What a gentleman. I want to buy all of his movies.)

I was really geeked out, and continue to be, but it also reminded me that I got to meet Danny Glover in Kirksville almost three years ago. And when I was younger, I met the guy who played the older brother on The Wonder Years when he was signing autographs at the Target store.

Somehow, this reminiscence merged Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon with Andy Warhol's "Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes, etc., etc." principle, which seemed ot me a stupid one anyway, because what did he mean by "fame"? Did he mean local fame, or national, or international fame, or somewhere in the middle? How many people would have to hear of them to constitute "fame"? Does posthumous fame count? Did he even bother to take into account that technology could get so wide-reaching and specialized that socitety might eventually fragment into as many individualized demographics as there are people themselves, each person choosing only what he or she wanted to see and hear and consume in their own private Idahos?

Therefore, I conceived a much more plausible, easy-to measure postulate. Each person in the world will have at least fifteen minutes of meeting someone famous. It counts if you are chatting in the grocery line with Bill Gates for five minutes, take a minute to get Scott Baio's autograph, and spend ten glorius minute sharing a cab with Danny Elfman on the luckiest night of your life. Maybe not the best one of his. My point is, it can conglomerate if needed. If you happen to be famous yourself, great. Not only will your work be taken care of, but then you can spread the joy of meeting someone famous to others.

Fifteen minutes at a time.

Gotta start somewhere

I can honestly say that doing theatre in Kirksville has prepared me, in some extent, for auditioning in New York, because my first one was last night and it was one of the most amateurly-run ones I'd ever attended.

That was not really meant to be a slight to Kirksville or the people running the auditions, by the way. I'd had certain expectations of "doing theatre in the real world" and all it entails: directors dismissing you on the spot or twelve seconds into your monologue because you were too short/tall/blonde/old/plain/pale/etc, lines spilling out onto the sidewalk and stretching around the block.

I got there two hours early, anticipating a line. Not only was there none, but it turned out that the location was to be in the auditorium of a Catholic girls' school. My fear was replaced by a creeping arrogance. I came back about twenty minutes before sign-ups, and there were a few girls waiting.

It was for a "festival" of five one-acts, four of which had parts I could fill, and three of which were directed by the playwrights. The directors set up stations in five different areas in the auditorium where actors would rotate around and do cold readings, which I was prepared for.

I was first in line to read for the excerpt from Waiting For Lefty, with a twentysomething gentleman with a photocopied headshot that looked like he had peered facedown onto the copier and pressed "start." The director handed us the scripts, told us where to stop reading and gave us a minute to scan them. I asked if we could take them outside and read them over with each other first. "No, no, that's all right, you can just read them here," she said.

For the other three I wasn't so lucky; they handed me the script and told me to go when ready.

One of the director-written shows had a character that was so shy she didn't talk, but instead wrote down what she wanted to say on index cards, and was "somewhat of a clairvoyant," and at one point we had to gather around her and mime looking at what she was predicting with belief/disbelief while two other characters exchanged dialogue.

The ratio of females to males was about 12:1. That was about the odds, I found, of their ability matching their headshot quality. Except for that first guy, they all had lovely headshots.

I'm really, really not writing this to make fun of anyone. I enjoyed being involved in Kirksvillian theatre, and these people were very kind. Yes, they were amateurs in every sense of the word, in that they were doing it purely for the love of directing and sharing stories theatrically with others. And, yes, I was also hoping for something a little bigger and better; I came here to start acting professionally. I wanted a little challenge. But I suppose if there's anything I should have learned here, it is "just because it's New York, doesn't mean that it's always going to be bigger/better; it only means that there will be the full platter of extremes," from hollow extravagant Broadway to the greenest of newbies.

There is another next Tuesday. I'm really hoping for that other extreme.

I Could Have Maybe Possibly Seen Paul McCartney Yesterday, In Theory, Like Hypothetically

I was having dinner with Lindsay at a Mexican restaurant, and she started telling me about the show that her roommate was in, which we were going to see afterwards.

"It's a performance piece--it's called 18/6, like eighteen-slash-six. There are projections, and people painting circles onto a canvas, and other stuff. It was done in 1959, and they're doing it again because of some anniversary thing with it. The playwright was really, really specific on how he wanted everything to be done, like he wrote out the exact movements, and dimensions of the set, and timing and audience instructions, and how many years after his death it would have to be before he would authorize it being re-released. It was this really underground thing back then, and for some reason it got really popular. They were hoping it would stay more underground, but the mainstream got word of it, and all the nights are sold out. It's kind of a really big deal." She looked a little sheepish. "Oh, yeah, and also, the guy who's painting circles on the canvas, it's going to be Paul McCartney--"

I choked on my tamale.

"--but not tonight, it's just a dress rehearsal, he'll be there another night. I guess that's how important an event this is supposed to be."

We took the subway to Queens and walked about six blocks, when we came upon a gaggle of warehouse spaces at a dead end overlooking the East River. Lindsay said to "look for one with the garage door half open," which made the event sound more eerily "underground." We entered and saw what looked like the skeleton of a really small house, with transparent plastic stapled to the frame to make walls, red and white and sometimes blue light bulbs lining the top beams, and divided with the transparent plastic into three rooms. They gave us brightly colored cards with handwritten instructions on which rooms to go for parts 1 and 2, 3 and 4, and 5 and 6. I was in room 2 for the first two parts.

Imagine your typical performance piece. Stereotypical, even. This was it. The actors entered, walking slowly to a beat. There was atonal music. They moved linearly and robotically, turning at right angles. They did some poses. One guy said monosyllabic words at irregular intervals. They left as they entered. Two minutes later, two actors re-entered, stood on opposite ends, and read two different speeches--on "art" and "time/perspective" that occasionally overlapped.

I switched rooms. The actors entered again. One girl stopped in front of me, grinned grotesquely, and began mechanically, rhythmically bouncing a small rubber ball. At one point she fumbled and it rolled by my feet. She held out her hand simply, her eyes imploring. I gave it back, and she resumed the bouncing. I wondered if it was part of the show. The actors came back, lined up, and screeched a few notes on some instruments--a small banjo, a kazoo, a recorder, and a violin. I switched rooms.

They re-entered. Some posed again, one stood by a projector while slides shuffled, one marched back and forth in front of a mirror, stopping every so often to brush his teeth or straighten his tie, and one squeezed oranges into juice and drank it. They exited. They re-entered. They pulled down scrolls of paper from a bar, read the different monosyllabic words on them all at once, and then marched off. It was over.

Lindsay and I left. She looked at me quizzically. "There were so many metaphors," I said wearily. We laughed. One of the girls afterwards made a remark about how it was "obviously" social commentary. I didn't get the obvious part, but I can go back in places and see where it could have been.

What I got from it was that performance art is not really my cup of tea. But I understand where it fits in the spectrum of theatre. I once visited a boyfriend when he was working at a theater in rural Indiana, where they essentially did choreographed musical revues for old people. The one I saw had a circus theme, and took 90 minutes worth of songs out of context in order to loosely wrangle them around elephants and trapeze artists. Thay even threw in "Send in the Clowns" because it had "clown" in the title. My boyfriend at the time complained about working there, saying that it wasn't what he wanted to be doing, that this wasn't art, he wasn't "creating" anything or making people think. Which was true; it was theatrical Cheez Whiz, icing, full-fat mayonnaise, purely for pleasure and stress-free entertainment, requiring no mental commitment.

Last night was the exact opposite. It forced you to not only forge connections for yourself, but decide where they would be forged, and when, and what the metaphors stood for, and if there was even any meaning at all. It was like they gave you a glass, a cow, some spices, pasturizing instructions, and then a hollow book of Les Miserables with a soggy Fig Newton inside. What I saw could have been very, very deep and over my head, or it could have been some playwright laughing his ass off at the thought of five actors walking around like robots and bleating nonsense. It reminded me of a story Rachel once told me, of a guy who one a poetry contest with a poem that consisted of one word: apple. The sponsors justified this because they said his poem made you question what a poem was, and what it meant that this was being classified as "good" or "winning" poetry, etc, etc. Or it could have been some frat guy who did it on a drunken whim.
Regardless, it suceeded in facilitating discussion and brainstorming between the two of us, even if it was only on the nature of what constitutes art and legitmacy and how we both preferred the middle ground, like Shakespeare, which I guess would be like fine Cheddar. Or Moliere, which could be Brie. Neil Simon would be American. Andrew Lloyd Webber--maybe Kraft singles.

The show is sold out for its entire run. Tickets ran around $250. I can't exactly call them suckers, though, because some of those lucky shits will actually get to see Paul McCartney.

Gnosis

"The Origin of Love" from Hedwig and the Angry Inch started playing from my iPod over the sound system at Oren's. I was toiling over various milks and shots when my boss, doing the same, remarked casually, "You know, when Hedwig was off-Broadway, his drummer, Dave, was a manager over at the Waverly store."

"Yeah?" I said, intrigued.

"Mm-hmm. Actually, the bassist, Chris, was also an assistant manager at the store on 79th. And John Cameron Mitchell's boyfriend at the time, I don't remember his name, was a keymaster at the store on 3rd. He ended up overdosing, though, so he's no longer around. It was really very sad."

"Wow!"

"Yes, and actually, the guitarist also worked on 3rd with John Cameron Mitchell's boyfriend. And Chris's girlfriend Kara also worked at the 79th store, but she wasn't a manager. And, Stephen, the guy who wrote the words to the songs--"

"The lyricist?"

"Right, his name was Stephen Schwartz then, but he took his boyfriend's last name, so now he's only known as Stephen Trask. Stephen worked part-time here, on 58th. Pretty much everyone in the band except for John Cameron Mitchell. But he was the only one who stayed with it when the movie was made."

There was little left to do but marvel. And finish the drinks.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

I threw a dinner party last Wednesday, partially to find homes for some zucchini and eggs, but mostly in honor of Amber leaving Kirksville to make something of her life back home near Chicago. We all drank three bottles of wine, used three dishcloths for sweat-rags when my lack of an air-conditioner grew too much to handle, and burned a million leftover sparklers before it began raining. She visited JavaCo a few hours before she left on Friday, to say hello and get a bagel before resuming packing. When she was gone I was left with a strange desperate emptiness, like when you're a little kid and you accidentally drop a toy into the ocean or let your helium balloon slip from your hand, and all you can do is helplessly watch it float away, and the only thing you can think of is all the fun you won't be having with it now that it's gone.

I've made plans for new living arrangements in Kirksville if I need them--ones I'm actually a little excited about. My dog is leaving for Rachel's parents in St. Louis next week--which I'm not looking forward to at all. I auditioned for No Sex Please, We're British and received a sassy bit part that I can duck out of easily if I need to skip town. My two employers have assured me I can work there as long as I want. Meanwhile, all the college kids are coming back in droves, and each one has probably heard a slightly different version of what I'm doing. I don't know how to budget my time because I don't know how much there is to spend. It could be two weeks. It could be two months. It's difficult to feel a proper good-bye if I have no clue when I'm going, and I don't know if it makes it any easier if the ones around me are leaving or staying as well.

Vegetus, Patron Saint of Homeless Edible Greenery (and other items of interest)

I gave away my shift at JavaCo on Thursday because I was sick of working. I would rather have dropped my pool shift, but it's more difficult to weasel out of those because there are only two other girls who work the early mornings, and one of then was already scheduled. I know I have to work for the rest of my life, and for the most part I enjoy my jobs, but enough was enough. Work sucks. I planned on being productive but spent the time sleeping instead.

My car needed to be inspected at least two weeks ago, and still does. Also, my mom found out I walked at gradutation after all and that I didn't tell her. She wasn't happy.

I'm doing makeup for LuAnn Hampton Laverty Oberlander. I get to make one guy look sixty, fashion a mustache on another, and put Heather's wig on. It's pretty fun.

I got an ominous voicemail from my friend with whom I'm moving to New York, saying that he's having trouble finding a place. Which might mean that I may not be moving to New York. I don't really want to think about that or its alternatives right now.

I dropped the Theatre Practice course I was enrolled in because I was graduated, poor, and Ron said it was OK to work onthe show and not be enrolled. I found out later that I still had to pay seventy-five percent of the fees. I appealed and learned today that it was granted, so that's two hundred dollars that I don't have to pay for gluing hair to Jeremy's upper lip and putting Heather's wig on.

In a week's time, I've accumulated two more zucchini, two tomatoes, and two ears of corn. Now I'm debating founding a shelter in my house for wayward herbage. Either that, or having a dinner party.

Give me your turnips, your corn, your bundled asparagus yearning to be eaten; send these, the homeless salad-tossed, to me; I lift my fork beside the golden refrigerator door.

My Iron Lung

I wanted to go to a bar yesterday evening before the smoking ban went into effect in Kirksville and no one would be able to have a cigarette within ten feet of any public property. Unfortunately, I forgot what day it was and missed out.

Before the resolution passed, I got conned into being in a political ad for it when I actually was opposed to it. I smoke when I feel like it, which is very seldom, and one of the reasons I don't do it oftener is because it's hell on your health. I wasn't against banning cigarettes in public at all, but I thought the decision should be left up to the individual property owners, who pay the taxes on their buildings and businesses, not the whole of the town dictating to the few. If the owners cared about public health, then it'd be on their conscience whether or not to allow smoking in their building.

My boss knew I acted, so she asked if I wanted to be in a commercial. I said yes, and she told me that all I had to do was hand a cup of coffee to my co-worker, who was pretending to be a customer, while she read a five-second pitch from the script. The crew set up the lights and camera and she practiced reading. When I overheard her rehearse, "We became a smoke-free restaurant five years ago," I balked.

"Umm. I think I might have to decline being in this after all," I told her.

"You don't have to decline," she smiled most diplomatically, with a resolve that would have reinforced the Berlin Wall. I sighed, and when the cameras were rolling, handed the cup of coffee uncomfortably over and over and over the counter to Patrick, an equally unwilling participant, until the KTVO crew called one a winner.

I never saw it, but I'm sure it did wonders because the resolution passed. I figured I'd salvage my wounded activism by sticking it to the man anyway and putting the commercial on my acting résumé.

Come All Ye There

I auditioned for the "Broadway in the Park" musical revue today and got in. I'll be doing "Everything's Coming Up Roses" from Gypsy and "Missing You" from The Civil War. Karaoke and other auditions aside, this is going to be my first time singing by myself in public, unless you count the four-word solo I had in Brigadoon in high school, which even I'd forgotten about until just now.

Lucy in the Hamptons with Lavendar Overlord

For anyone who doesn't know yet, the summer show at Truman is going to be Lu Ann Hampton Laverty Oberlander by Preston Jones. I read it today, and in concurrence with the suspicions of my friends and myself, it's a lot like a West Texas Heidi Chronicles. Except there's no feminism or art, or five-page long monologues, and very little deeper meaning other than "Get the hell out of this small town while you still can, and while you're at it, stop being so naive."

I think Ron is trying to inspire us.

It's also a lot funnier, and in a much less pretentious way. I think the only name dropped was when Lu Ann told the man who inspected the dirt that went on highways before the cement was doing a piss-poor job because the roads around Bradleyville were "more holey than Billy Graham's mother-in-law."

I can't wait to audition.

That which gums the ankle

Those involved in speech and debate/forensics in high school--or college even--are aware of the complex relationship that can evolve between duo interpretaion partners, most especially when it's a male and female. You spend enough time in rehearsal that other people would spend dating; you're both committed to the common cause of analyzing a piece of literature and acting it out. You constantly are evaluating and judging each other and have to be as equally supportive and suggestive. There is almost always sexual tension, one-sided or reciprocal, regardless of preference or who may already be in a relationship.

The one-acts went up this past week, with Out the Window on Friday. Dan and I got nervous towards the end of the process, so we put in some extra hours and ended up with something beautiful. Or at least better than what we had originally. Or at least maybe a passing grade for Jessica.