From Tyler J to Tommy J: a chronicle of chaos

To get what you want, simply plan your life down to the smallest detail so that getting what you want actually makes your life as complicated as possible.

That's how I work anyway.

I was out in the yard mowing the family estate (how masculine) sipping a Diet Coke (just took it down a notch) listening to In the Heights (we lost it) when I noticed I had received a voice mail from a New York number. Something in my gut told me I was about to get the shits...not THE shits, but you get it.

The voice: young, peppy, ringing with a terribly mislead optimism about the world...it was TheatreworksUSA alright. There they were to put a fist in my birthday cake and offer me the role of a lifetime...uh...the role of the week.

Thomas Jefferson. My favorite President. This was the man who coined the phrase "Once you go black" and I was being offered the chance to portray him for countless schoolchildren across the U.S...uh...across 6 states. BUT HEY! No rent for 4 months? I'll take it. And yes, you may pay me 10 extra dollars a week to sign up for a driving shifts, how very generous of you.

I spent the next few hours cancelling my life which included:

1. Backing out of the apartment I had almost agreed to take from a poor couple in a bind. Sorry you're poor, so am I.
2. Calling the agent in Chicago that seemed more than eager to sign me so that I could fulfill my dream of a children's theatre tour. I decided not to tell them this was better blogging material.
3. Cancel the multiple auditions I had scheduled for next week in Chicago including one I had already spent three hours memorizing piano music for.
4. Attempting to sell off my furniture at a moment's notice to my best friend so I can know somebody attractive is sleeping in my bed.

This is approximately the third time in the last 2 months that my life has packed up, turned a 180, and booked it out of town. Are you laughing yet God? Are your adult diapers saturated with divine urine because you've made my life such a clusterfuck?

I hope you chafe.

So there it is folks. Countless blog posts wasted trying to convince myself I could become famous in Chicago and now I just have to convince myself I can become famous after touring as a rockstar version of Thomas Jefferson.

IF THOSE LITTLE BRATS DON'T ASK FOR MY AUTOGRAPH, I QUIT!

Oh bee-tee-dubz I get my equity card. You non-theatre mudbloods are all "HUH?WHAT?" but you BFA sluts are all "OMGZ!NOWAYZ!"

George Washington better be a stud (and single)[and gay]{won't matter},

TJB: Making It

You Can Always Come Homo

I believe it's always important for successful people to remember where they came from. My goal as a celebrity is to always stay true to my roots. That's why I felt it was important to make a pit stop to my childhood home before moving on to take over Chicago.

While I was waiting for my flight home from NYC trying not to sob in front of strangers, I decided to do some research on which of my blast-from-the-past friends would be around good ol' Frankenmuth. I remembered a notable evening from last summer (the summer when I almost died) when I got completely hammered with my good friends Mole and Matt. Lucky for me, they were both coincidentally in town for the same Wednesday evening of Bavarian boredom.

We planned to meet at Tiffany's.

SIDE NOTE: in my town, we grew up thinking that song about breakfast at Tiffany's was in fact a song about having breakfast at the hole in the wall restaurant in the middle of our town. You see, we were all very confused because Tiffany's of Frankenmuth does not actually serve breakfast...

As I walked into a cloud of nostalgia, I noticed my two friends had become four. Here was the breakdown.

Mole: we'd been friends since forever. She has gifted me approximately 5 stuffed animals for various birthdays. They're all still on my bed. I still consider her to be 4'11" and a virgin, but she's really a 5'6" hooch (at least in my story).

Matt: we were birthday party friends in middle school. He's a ginger. He lost a lot of weight sometime in high school and became rather athletic and studly. Cutting humor and quick witted. Great talks. My kind of people.

Jenny: I just call her the heiress. She's beautiful and everything you want to be. Prom queen. So of course she's dating...

Zach: The athlete that was also the nice guy. We were best friends in kindergarten. He had a rat-tail then and is therefore the definition of "grew up".

So there we all were throwing back beers as I'm trying to remind myself of where I came from.


and boy oh boy was I reminded where I came from.

You know that moment when you're sitting in a bar just drinkin a beer and suddenly you hear someone at the bar yell "faggot" as if he'd just said "hello".

Now, calm down! Of course he didn't shout the term at me or else chairs would have been flying and authorities (more authoritative than myself) would have been called. But it was that interesting moment when my table of friends fell silent as we all decided how best to navigate the outburst when I thought

"How the HELL did I grow up here and decide to pursue musical theatre?"

We remedied the situation by ordering more $2 drinks...$2 drinks...no wonder these small town people become alcoholics. I was in heaven.

We decided to bar hop to the Main Street Tavern. Those of you from the larger city spectrum can probably imagine exactly the type of bar this is. There's a boy who looks 17 serving drinks, a portly hammered woman in a dirdl, a few 25 year olds who just finished their shifts at various hotels, and a man with a very odd haircut playing the piano and belting out every Billy Joel song he knows.

and he was good. He was REAL good.

But you know what readers? These people were genuinely happy. I had no clue what the hell they had to do Thursday morning, but here they were drinking themselves blind on a Wednesday night and they were thrilled to be doing it...and I was right there with them singing...

but singing in key.

So that's where I'm from America. I'm from a small town full of Wednesday drinking, dirndl wearing, faggot haters.

and I'm proud of it.

Get me the hell out,

TJB: Making It

Pissing On My Degree

I was just congratulated on being offered a job that would pay me $8/hr for being a door man/bell hop at a self-declared "anti-hip and therefore hip" new hotel in Chicago.

Oh, don't worry, it's a tipped position.

**channel sassy-black-woman persona to address head of HR**

But since your hotel doesn't even start "previews" until the middle of September and you're already selling your rooms on Groupon, trying to make luxury affordable for all walks of life, I can IMAGINE just how luxurious those tips are going to be from the people who didn't want to pay for a convenient location near ANYTHING.

Oh, you want this hotel to be popular among the neighbors? So every time I open the door for the old man that lives next door to come have his daily scotch in the bar, I'm sure he'll consistently hand me a George Washington (the role that still stings).

So if you could just re-read my resume and remind yourself that I have a pretty stellar GPA from one of the top universities in the United States and then think about the 2 iced coffees a week I'll be living off of because of your generous offer

and then stare into the eyes of headshot that I attached to my original e-mail and APOLOGIZE.

When you asked for young and attractive actors/models to submit for the position, you should have specified "desperate young and attractive actors/models who live at home with mom and dad" because you can't afford to pay for THIS.

My uniform better be slimming,

TJB: Making It

If I Can Make It There...oh wait...

If you're not careful, people will start to write your life for you. When I mentioned that I was thinking about leaving New York, I mostly heard one thing:

"You're giving up already?"

Let me tell you one thing kids:

Every single move I make is meticulously calculated to take me one step closer to a life you've only dreamed of. I am the most resilient son-of-a-bitch (jk Mom) you've ever met and nothing (except for maybe a free mani/pedi and a haircut at this point) will make me "give up". Ain't a single strong- black-woman out there got shit on me (but I respect you all...Sonya).

I wish you could've seen how stupid you looked when you asked me though...

"You're giving up already?"

Bitch, please.

So I called in my big guns and we're ready to roll. The windy-city party scene is going to BLOW.UP. to make this swagger the talk of the town.

I'm about to put Chicago on the map.

Well...it's already on the map but...it'll be in like a really edgy and cool, bold font now...

I'll be back NYC, but it's time for Season 2. I think Autumn in Chicago will be better for the TV show and probably be cheaper to film. See Bravo? I'm budget conscious. PICK ME UP ALREADY.

So keep reading kids. I've only got 4 days left in NYC and they're going to count.

My mom stopped reading out of shame,

TJB: Making It

I Can Haz Broadway?!

As I continuously sit in the 8th row center at every Broadway show, I look around at the people who no doubt paid upwards of my week's salary just to see Harry Potter sing and dance like the over-emoting monkey he is.

I think, "Gee...what if one day I have to sit in the mezzanine." And then I think, "Ha. I would never sit in the mezzanine."

Spoiled? Maybe. Good looking? Definitely.

Let's be honest, theatres should be paying me to sit amongst the ladies-who-lunch and 14 yr. olds whose bleached-out mother's bought them tickets so they'd stop crying in the lottery line. And don't even get me started on the boy next to me who bought every piece of merchandise Catch Me If You Can had to offer and then whined for 5 minutes about the fact that they ran out of show posters. I'm sure Aaron Tveit will be happy sign just your cast album.

Norbert Leo Butz will only sign boobs.

But it was my time at How to Succeed as I leaned forward to tell the bitch in front of me "TURN OFF YOUR G**D*MN PHONE!" that I really began to question what the theatre has become. Souvenir cups being sloshed around during Act II? Attendants peddling goods from the aisles like it's a hockey game? Jean shorts and tank tops paired with kitten heel flip-flops (ladies, they're disgusting, I'll cut off your feet)?

Daniel Radcliffe is on stage getting paid thousands and thousands of dollars per show and the best middle-class America can give him is an American Eagle graphic T?!

For shame, America. For shame. Thespians have struggled for years to maintain the least amount of dignity in a dying art form. The least you could do is chug your drink in the lobby like the greedy little TKTS swine you are.

So here I am wondering:

Is this the life I want to live? Singing and dancing my heart out on stage because it's the only thing that makes me heart happy while straight overweight bald men come with their wives to goggle at some low-cut sequins on some slut from Carnegie Melon (or arguably the pecs on some UMich beefy twink)?

Yes. Yes it is America. GOGGLE AT ME.

Dear Satan: my soul is free,

TJB: Making It

I BOOKED....wait what?

My heart was racing as I saw the unknown number flash on my outdated blackberry. I quickly stepped out of my office to take this important call. I could already envision my future on the road in a powdered wig as my trembling thumb pressed the green phone button. The attractive sounding young man on the other end introduced himself (the director perhaps!?) and began to offer me...

I paused.

"I'm sorry," I said, "WHO are you?!"

This was not the director of We the People. This man probably didn't even know what We the People was (I'm still not sure I do either). This man was calling me to offer a thrice-in-a-lifetime opportunity of touring with yet another children's theater production.

Have I ever mentioned I hate kids? Does this HAVE to be my niche God?! Do you hate my homo that much?!

Basically the gist of this job is this:

I move to a remote location in Illinois for a few weeks while I prepare that wonderful little show called Schoolhouse Rock LIVE! and another sparkling gem about kids being picked on...as if I want to relive my childhood 8 times a week. I would then tour the nation for 8 months to perform at what are no doubt the best elementary and middle schools in the world to teach ADD children about conjunctions and how to be a better person. Throw in a lukewarm weekly salary and...

A FREE gym membership? Now wait a minute we could have something here...

But hold on. I had to ask the real question: "I'm sorry sir, I don't meant to sound like an idiot but are you OFFERING this to me? You've never even met me"...

Apparently they just liked what I sounded like in an audio clip I sent them weeks ago and thought I looked pretty (which I do). Now THAT'S how to cast a show. But I couldn't just commit, I'm in high demand! I'm sitting by the phone waiting to be told my dreams are all coming true in a different cross-country white van. They would have to wait for my answer until Friday.

Is this my future?

Are you reading Bravo?

Who ate the rest of my Oreos?

A: My depression,

TJB: Making It

Abusing My Freedoms

This is it. I'm releasing what happens in the room. What I have held sacred for so long is now out in the open.

Why?

Because I have officially lost it. BREATHE TYLER BREATHE!

From the beginning:

As soon as I walked up to the callback group, I saw a familiar ginger boy from Northwestern. Unlike me, he was kind of a big deal at NU. The girls loved him, the guys loved him, the faculty loved him. He was that kid that admits he's "not a singer" but still manages to star in all of the musicals. You want to hate him, but then he smiles at you and you're like "NOOO I'M HELPLESS I LIKE YOU MUST HATE YOU I LIKE YOU". He didn't even audition for We the People...they just asked him to come to callbacks. Story. Of. My. Life.

Then I turned around and saw NU Boy #2. GREAT! I was back at college. NU Boy #2 informed me the casting director was a Northwestern grad and loved calling in NU kids. Awesome, because for a split second I thought I was called back for being talented. Now I could just rest on my non-existent laurels.

I sat between my two fellow graduates and listened to them complain about their agents and managers, and just when I was going to throw in my reservations about my agents and managers I realized I didn't have any to complain about...

which is probably why I'm sitting at a callback for the 3rd (count them THREE) national tour of a children's musical.

And of course, like any great story, all 3 Northwestern boys were called back for the same role. GREAT. So now, when I don't get it, I can feel right at home. The other two went in first.

We were told to "bring the energy". Something about that phrase made me snap inside, so when it was my turn...I went ka-ray-Z.

I kind of blacked out but I think it went a little something like this:

Me: Third Northwestern boy in a row! Whoa!
Casting Director: That's what I like to see
Me: WILDCATS!! WOOOOOOOO!!!! (along with the wildcat claw of course). LET'S DO THIS!

insert audition cut here...during which I realized I was throwing the sheet music. I'm not sure which lyrics I felt motivated this, but once you start you can't half-ass.

then come the sides. The reader was like a really really good actor and I'm not sure who allowed him to be a good actor since I think the only job of a reader is to give you just enough to go off of so my impulse was to punch the guy and say "WELL SHIT why don't YOU just be in the g-damn show". Because seriously? Anyway, I did a lot of headbanging and rock-star jumping and a lot of those bull-horn hands I imagine 80s rock stars do but have no evidence...

this was going real swell...so swell they asked me to sing another song...then they asked me to prepare to read for another part...

OH BUT WAIT!

Just before I could leave the room, one of the ladies asked about my limbo champion days. For those of you who have not seen a copy of my resume it says "Undefeated limbo champion (9 years)" and I'm not even joking. So, I launched into stories of my limbo competition wins and gave them a quick demonstration of my winning technique.

well if that doesn't seal the deal, I don't know what will

The next role I sang for consisted of a song in which the character dresses in drag and sings in falsetto. We were told not to worry about that and just bring in a strong character...so I decided to gospel-belt it like a black woman because hey, if they weren't going to cast me at this point they were at least going to remember me. And when you have pipes like mine and your pride level is ringin in at zero, you might as well release your bowels of shame and just blow.

and for some reason, they still let me attend the dance call.

Oh wait, they let everybody attend the dance call? OK that makes more sense.

So I danced. I danced like I was one of 5 people in the room that could. And it was good. Who knew you could break a sweat at a dance call for children's theatre?

Afterward, we were all sent into the hall in case they needed to see anything more...they didn't. SHOCKER! Though one boy was sent to get measured. Everyone else assumed that he was probably chosen for the role, but I knew he was probably too small to fit the costumes and there was no way this production had the budget for alterations.

Eventually, after 4 long hours of American pride and singing about the Freedom to Petition (I have that? Super...) I got to leave Chelsea Studios.

When I exited the subway at 79th street, it began to sprinkle. The mist actually felt refreshing on my tired face.

And then the heavens opened up to downpour. As I walked home through the flooded streets, shivering in the cold, saturated from head to toe, I thanked God and NYC for making my life decisions that much easier.

Hoping for the understudy,

TJB: Making It

Where the Hell is Guffman?

I'd like to remind you all that I just graduated from Northwestern University. That means I paid approximately $200,000 to prepare me for my chosen career path. That means my ass should not be sitting on the floor of an empty room in the middle of NYC amongst mere children who paid around $500 for a piece of paper from some establishment called AMDA.

Yet, there I was.

I debated for a long time whether I should spend my day off waking up early to swallow my pride and attend an open call for Hooray for Hollywood...a musical review that plans to open on the West End which surely means somewhere west of London (if London still exists post-rioting) and then tour the U.K. (if the U.K. still exists post-rioting). When my alarm went off at 8 a.m. I was somehow motivated. I was at no place in my life to turn down an audition opportunity! I could do this!! I could go down there and show them who's who and book this gig!!!

So I hit snooze for the next hour...

THEN I took a shower, threw on something that shouted "I'm American and hooray for our love of Hollywood". I realized I would now make it down there just as the 7 hours of open-call were about to begin. For those of you who don't know how open calls work, that means there were already 75-100 generically plain-looking brunettes wearing too much make-up already waiting to sing their 16 bars (though they were all hoping to squeeze in 32).

Once I made it down to the infamous Ripley Grier Studios, I found the holding room and walked up to the UNOFFICIAL LIST. Again, for those of you not in theatre...

...and might I add since I've heard some straight boy name Roullard has recently bookmarked my blog I'm going to guess A LOT of you are "not in theatre"...

The UNOFFICIAL LIST is a series of notebook papers that some girl who showed up 3 hours early has written (usually in purple or green ink) UNOFFICIAL LIST at the top of so that the audition monitor will know just how serious she is about these auditions. And like idiots, the rest of us schmucks respect this list and continue to sign our names underneath hers.

I was lucky 78 at 10 a.m. Less than 10 people would show up in the following 3 hours meaning I could have showed up 4 hours later and been seen at the exact same time.

That's called MATH and I was the only person in the room who could do it.

So I had several hours to kill. Here are some observations and spicy tid-bits that happened in those several hours:

1. I was the only blonde boy that showed up. Out of approximately 15 boys that even bothered to show up. One was a 65 year old man.

2. If you're not sure what you should sing, ask strangers. A nice group of generic brunettes were nice enough to inform a blonde girl that "Astonishing" is pretty much blacklisted from auditions these days. I seriously considered singing it after hearing that...

3. No girl...and I mean NO GIRL...looks good in a cotton jersey-knit dress. We can see the outline of your stomach, your love handles, and your droopy ass ALL AT ONCE!

4. Apparently you can't show up in your audition attire. You must show up looking your absolute WORST and then let us all watch your transformation (into a generically plain-looking brunette) as you put on your make-up, put in your hot rollers, and change out of your ill-fitting gym wear to slip on (you guessed it) a cotton jersey-knit dress.

5. If you are going to sing a song that was written for and first sung by Jennifer Hudson...you'd better be able to actually sing it better than Jennifer Hudson...otherwise do Diana Ross.

6. Nude heels lose their elongating effect if they're covered in dirt and scuff marks.

7. ARE PEOPLE SERIOUSLY STILL NOT PUTTING THEIR MUSIC IN A BINDER?!

Near the end of my 4 hours amongst the future cast of off-off-Broadway and an Alaskan Cruise Line Near You, I remembered my first days in NYC...full of audition appointments for hit Broadway shows and meetings with agents...

and I wept.

I put on my $10 sunglasses, grasped my tap water filled Fiji bottle, and wept for the days when I could be rejected by people who were somebody.

Suddenly the idea of touring the country in a van and portraying our first President for hoards of elementary school students has never felt so exciting.

Don't take me off the insurance yet Mom,

TJB: Making It

Party Like a Rockstar

There is a certain standard of social life one is expected to maintain as an upcoming celebrity. One must always stay in the public eye. In Musical Theatre, there are certain events one is expected to attend. The most important?

Musical Mondays.

Those of you at all familiar with Chicago, New York, theatre, gay, or simple fag-hag life will know exactly what this is. For those of you who have no idea what Musical Mondays mean...I don't have time for you. KEEP UP!

I realized I had been neglecting this duty as both a celebrity and socialite for weeks. I had been haggled by fellow socialites in Chicago for missing Mondays for months and haggled immediately upon my arrival in NYC. This week, I could hide no longer.

I planned on meeting my former F15 co-star and future agent/producer/manager/sugar daddy Andy K. outside of the club. Of course you know that one can't just waltz into these situations without proper preparation, so as I pressed my club couture, I sipped some...well you can imagine what I was sipping...drinking...chugging...

As I swaggered up to the club, Andy K. was waiting (very properly prepared) and I followed his swaying body past the bouncer, through the velvet ropes (in my head) and into the masses of pitchy showtune belting men.

BEER. The only thing I needed was BEER. I don't like to drink cocktails at these types of things because I feel like I've lost all masculinity then, so BEER. And then after several more BEERs (I'd tell you which kind, but this blog is so popular now I'm working on a couple of advertising contracts with other BEER providers)...

whow that was a long parenthetical, let me try again

And then after several more BEERs and a few impromptu performances of me singing selections from Les Miserables along with Lea Solonga, I found out Carly Jibson was performing. Carly MotherF-ing Jibson.

Most of you, even in theatre, probably have no idea who she is. Let's be honest, I really shouldn't either except for the fact that she did some little dog-and-pony musical at Northwestern 5 years ago and is a notoriously plump blonde girl from Broadway's Hairspray with a bad attitude and recovering drug addiction and THOSE ARE MY PEOPLE.

As she took the stage, I made it my goal to get seen. All respectable lines were forgotten. I shouted the imaginary inside jokes I had with her, pumped my fist, obnoxiously whistled, and waited in vain for the moment when I would be called up to the stage to perform a duet of "Good Morning Baltimore". In fact, Carly didn't even give me a point or wink or a shake of her boobies. I felt ashamed that I had sunk to such a low. I mean, this girl was my peer, my colleague, my...oh wait she has a career...well we're both blonde and SHE IGNORED ME.

So I blacklisted her.
Trust me, that means something.

She only sang four songs for the and then raced out of the club like there was free cake, coke, and whiskey down the street.

The rest of my night? It goes like this: I pulled a muscle on the dance floor from one too many high kicks, had 3 too many BEERs and stayed 4 hours too long.

Use your imagination.

No Mom - I'm not proud,

TJB: Making It

Fine Dining is All I Know How

To think it was less than 2 years ago that I first stepped foot onto the paved-in-gold sidewalks of NYC...although back then I didn't know that "paved in gold" referred to dog urine.

I mean, seriously, Pine-Sol that shit.

Upon my first visit, I was both in shock and awe of one dining establishment that seemed to tower over the rest. This establishment glowed in the center of Times Square. This restaurant seemed to say "DINE HERE! WE ARE THE HEART AND SOUL OF NYC DINING! WHY WOULD YOU COME TO NEW YORK TO DINE ANYWHERE ELSE!?"

That restaurant was none other than the Olive Garden.

There were, of course, hundreds of Olive Gardens scattered around every corner of the Midwest. I, of course, had never dined at a single one.

But this Olive Garden seemed special. New York City was the center of world culture and this Olive Garden was at the center of New York City. So for two years I dreamed of the day I would dine at the center of world culture.

Well, I could wait no longer. Well....I could wait the extra 40 minutes it took to get a table for two.

My VIP lifestyle bfflz MRudd (think Paris and Nicole...I'm Paris DUH...but he's like Nicole Simple Life Season 2 when she got cute) planned the excursion for over a week. With our busy schedules full of meetings, soirees, and guest appearances, we could only manage to make it happen on this special rainy Wednesday evening.

We entered through the revolving doors and felt transported to the heart of Tuscany (if Tuscany were having a peasant revolution). We waited for a gruesome 40 minutes amongst commoners on the second floor...overlooking roof construction. Once our buzzer went off, we climbed to the third floor and stood next to a group of 6 hostesses waiting to be recognized. THE HELL either of us was going to raise our voices to be noticed, even in this bull-run of a restaurant.

We were starting to become disheartened by the time we were seated in our corner booth (at least they remembered to give us the power table). Just when we had given up hope, our angel approached.

Melissa was a middle-aged portly woman with long blonde hair in a ratty bun and a monotone voice. At first glance, Melissa appeared to be just another washout bussed in from Jersey to serve the elite of the city. But I could see past her facade of hopelessness. She was the saving grace of the Olive Garden.

Not only did Melissa make sure MRudd and I knew exactly how long everything would take (she could do almost anything in "2 minutes") she offered us the works. ENDLESS SALAD AND BREAD STICKS?! She may as well have brought us edible bars of gold. When we were thirsty and our Diet Cokes had been emptied, she was right there with a pitcher to refill our goblets.

It was only when we noticed her impeccable manicure of turquoise and silver swirls that we knew for sure she was something special. I told her of my dreams of dining at this very Olive Garden and we relished in the joy she had brought us through her simple gifts of salad and bread sticks. I complimented her obvious skill in sprinkling the fresh Parmesan cheese atop our pasta.

Feeling completely full and satisfied, we asked Melissa for the bill.

and there inside were not just two mint-chocolate Olive Garden brand treats...but a hand full of 15. Melissa loved us back.

I gave her a generous tip beyond the included 18% gratuity and we exited the building

past the booths blocked off with caution tape
past the $7 bottles of wine
past the sad faces of tourists who had not won the Mamma Mia lottery

out of Tuscany and back onto the piss-stained streets of the city.

For one magical night we had dined at the center of world culture.

So what it gave me the shits,

TJB: Making It

I Didn't TOUCH That Cherry Tree

Imagine this:

Four founding fathers of America (that means olden-timey Presidents, so like pre-Obama) come together to form a rock-boy-band and travel the country to teach kids why they should care about the American government. Throw in a spunky black schoolgirl as the heroine and it sounds like award-winning theatre right?

Well, it's probably not...

but there I was auditioning for George Washington, the lead-singer of the group who makes girls swoon. I mean, TALK ABOUT TYPECASTING!

I was told there would be sides to prepare, so I showed up plenty early. I'm not sure why I thought the sides for a musical involving dead Presidents rapping about the American government would require a lot of preparation, but I did know that I wanted to spend as much time as possible with the other crazy auditioning schmucks.

and boy was it an experience.

As soon as I sat down, I learned who Chatty Cathy was. She was a pleasant looking Italian boy (you remember Jefferson was Italian right?) wearing khaki shorts. KHAKI SHORTS?! I'm sorry, but unless you have the calf muscles of a GOD, you should stick to pants for an audition.

This was the boy that thought his job was to sweet-talk the audition monitor as if this was just her temp. job because tomorrow she was casting the Book of Mormon...and we all know had THAT been the case I'd have been in her lap. Anyway, Cathy chatted with the monitor about their hangovers and what kinds of alcohol he can afford to drink the night before an audition and still sound his best.

You should know that prior to this "dream audition" for the role of a founding father, Cathy was extremely wasted the previous night from too many margaritas and still miraculously managed to attend an open call for a NYMF show that morning and SANG. HIS. ASS. OFF. I mean, the best he's ever sounded in an audition. EVER.

1. Remember this is an audition for a children's musical.
2. Remember that Cathy is an Italian boy auditioning for the young rock version of Jefferson.
3. Remember that I'm just listening as I prepare a scene in which I'm dressed in an eagle costume.

the AMERICAN DREAM here folks.

Just as I was relaxing into my amateur atmosphere, a muscular blue-eyed blonde boy came strutting down the hall...and he was wearing shorts...and he earned them. As the monitor handed him the sides for George Washington, I tried to stop imagining his calf muscles in George Washington's knee socks.

I was done for. The future George Washington of this award-nonexistant children's musical entered the room and I knew it was over. I had already seen one boy receive a callback so I knew that as soon as he excited Future G.W. would be handed his packet of materials by the monitor and told to return August 15th. Future G.W. exited and...

he left.

The muscular blonde boy picked up his bag, said his defeated thank-you, and exited the building.

Before I could run after him to get his number, I was called in.

You'll remember I hold what happens in the audition room sacred so I'll just tell you that I received a packet upon my exit.

See you August 15th bitches. Oh...except for you Cathy. Good luck on that NYMF show and slow down on the margaritas.

Stars and Stripes Forever,

TJB: Making It

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head...oh wait it's pee

I've received a lot of comments recently about how my blog makes my life seem really exciting...even more exciting than the lives of my readers (who are probably financially stable and can afford to eat at least two meals a day).

I'm not sure my readers are really grasping the honest truth of this blog...so let me put something in perspective for those of you who are "non-actors" or "real people" as I like to call them ("professionals" and "those who live happily past 29" are also acceptable).

Pretend you are starving. Pretend you are broke, panicking, living in a small room and, hell, perhaps even sharing a bed with someone you'd only met twice. You are tens of thousands of dollars in debt and you're only weeks out of college...in fact, you attended one of the top universities in the nation and you still remember the days when you were acing Calc. exams.

(now breathe and remember this is all hypothetical...for you)

You need a job and you need a job BAD.

JUST THEN! You see a posting for a job that you are perfect for. You know in your heart and soul nobody could do this job better than you could. But you realize the job isn't even offering to pay you...YOU DON'T CARE! Your entire being yearns to work and you must get this job.

You score an interview. Weeks before they send you materials to prepare.

What's this?! They send you a large paragraph of text. The text is a story. They want you to tell the story at the interview. This particular story is about a time you went on a date with an older gentleman who pretended to be interested in you just so he could take you home, remove your clothing, put you in his bathtub, and pee on you. Then, he tells you you're disgusting and to leave so he can go to bed.

You're a little embarrassed, but you give it your all and for weeks you memorize and practice telling this story to anyone who will listen regardless of the public shame.

The day of your interview arrives and you show up early, motivated, ready to win. You're called in to meet the bosses and you perform like the little dancing pissed on monkey they thought you were just from seeing a picture of your face.

...and then they don't give you the job...they don't give you the job that wasn't even going to pay...in fact, they don't even give you a second interview for the job...

Still think my life is more exciting?
OK YEAH IT KIND OF IS.

Look away Mom,

TJB: Making It