At Least I Live On the West Side

Alright mom...this is a long one. I admit it. I went balls to the wall with this NYC thing. I stood in Chicago, ripped off my testicles, and threw them against the walls of the Big Apple. And DAMN do they hurt.

So here goes:

You know those people that you're in a room with and you just love the crap out of them and want to work with them and do everything possible not to get down on your knees and say "I'll do it for free!" (Work...work for free...and not on my knees.)

Well, I've been auditioning for those people all week.
And I'm still not working for any of them.

I also haven't gotten a real paycheck yet.
And I'm in the middle of a 9-day work streak.
I survive on yogurt and iced coffees. I mean, let's be real, as a gay man, I have private funds for my iced coffees...the rest can go.

So there I was on Monday, gearing up for my big week. In the middle of my work day, I received an e-mail from the studly man-who's-not-my-agent asking me if I could book the tour of West Side Story. Now, when you're fresh out of college living in a city you can't afford, you never say "no". So I spent the next 24 hours at work and at night frantically preparing sides I knew I would never have to read and songs I knew I would never have to sing...

knowing the audition started off with a dance call.

GAY BREAK DOWN. I NEEDED JAZZ SNEAKERS! I couldn't do a West Side Story dance call in canvas jazz shoes! I NEEDED TOP OF THE LINE JAZZ SNEAKERS! But I only had 24 hours...and a work day that ended with only half an hour to race uptown to the only dance supply store for the working man's hours...and they laughed at me when I told them how big my feet were...

so I would do the dance call in canvas jazz shoes.

Well, my ass was slipping all over the floor, but I didn't look as gay as the guy to my left, and I didn't look as immobile as the guy to my right...so I got to sing. Of course, I'd been singing the shit out of "Maria" for years, so that was no problem.

But due to the lack of phone calls from a Mr. Bernstein or Sondheim: I'm guessing I didn't book it. Sorry man-who's-not-my-agent. At least I'm still cute?

I sang for the man-who's-not-my-agent later that day...drenched in sweat that even my snappiest GAP plaid button down couldn't mask. I was excited to find out he'd brought his team of beautiful young women assistants. I have the most respect for gay men who surround themselves with beautiful young women assistants.

So I sang some songs, made some jokes, brushed the flowing blonde locks out of my face, and belted my lungs out.

The verdict: notice how I've still been saying the-man-who's-not-my-agent.

Apparently, I need more confidence and experience. Apparently, some people haven't read my blog.

BUT DON'T YOU WORRY! The man-who's-not-my-agent got me one more audition today...for yet another lead role.

You know...I'm not sure I can keep throwing my balls against the wall.

OH! I guess I should mention that I also auditioned for a team of managers, except I can't seem to keep a straight face when I think about the idea of someone like myself having someone to "manage" my non-existent career. So we'll leave that one out.

But let me just say...had I stayed 32 bars longer, I think I could've gotten the accompanist's number.

So where does that leave me Mom? Well, I've realized I have the potential and ability to compete with every performer on Broadway. I've realized I need jazz sneakers, dance classes, a gym membership and vocal coachings. I've realized I have approximately $12.17 in my bank account. I've realized I've turned down so many opportunities in Chicago (a city I can afford) to follow my dream of being on Broadway.

I've realized there are several paths to any given destination, and it truly is about the journey.

So, readers...so, Mom...I'm left with some choices. All I know is I'm headed towards another toll and I don't have any change to pay it.

Do I speed through the EZ-Pass lane and wait for my ticket in the mail, or turn my ass around and take the long, possibly more scenic route.

Only my blog can tell.

My venti iced coffee awaits,

TJB: Making It