and still no TV show or book deal?!

After the trip from HELL in New Jersey, things could only get better.

JK, things got worse.

What did you expect? If you're just jumping on the band wagon of this blog, I suggest you go back to the first post and start reading. You'll see a trend...a large...downhill...trend...that has no intention of changing.

We (the people) have been cursed since day one. I've been waiting for the call from the production company saying they've scrapped the rest of the tour, but I think they're enjoying the blog too much. We've already cost them thousands of dollars in cancelled shows, towing fees, and overtime...copious amounts of overtime...

But let's review the day. We were originally supposed to leave NYC at 3 p.m. to arrive in Nowhereville, CT by 6. Due to our recent luck, the company suggested we leave at noon. HOW RIGHT THEY WERE!!

I decided to try my luck behind the wheel and actually enjoyed driving Betsy Ross (that's what we appropriately named the bitch of a van). Betsy wasn't too keen on accelerating or going up hills, but we guessed that her 60mph cap would still get us to our destination in plenty of time.

But it seems to be that time of the month for Betsy...

Let me remind you that Betsy underwent an inspection on Monday but broke down on Tuesday to be repaired on Wednesday to be approved for safe driving on Thursday.

An hour into the trip, we again began to smell that burning everything. The engine light came on as if to say "F YOU IDIOTS! DID YOU REALLY THINK IT WOULD BE THAT EASY?!" We pulled over at an Applebees and decided to ignore our fate over some luke-warm boneless wings.

Then we decided to hold the sword ourselves as we ran into its blade. Back into the van we went.

Not half an hour later, Betsy began smoking like the overheated skank she was.

Oh, but hey, at least we were right next to that rundown rest stop in the middle of MURDERVILLE. Seriously, I've never seen a better location for a homicide. Thankfully, my cast member (the African Princess) told me she wrote a research paper on rest stop murders back at Ol' Penn State and assured me

that it was very likely we would be murdered.

We had no choice but to sit and wait as pawns of the low-budget theatre gods.

The company told us they would be sending another van from NYC.

WAIT WAIT WAIT HOLD ON ONE SECOND! THERE WAS ANOTHER VAN!? ANOTHER VAN WE COULD HAVE TAKEN!? A VAN THAT HAPPENED TO BE PRACTICALLY BRAND NEW WITH BEAUTIFUL SEATS AND POWER LOCKS AND INSULATION AS WELL AS A WORKING RADIO?!

So who pointed their finger to smite us with Betsy Ross?

We sat at that rest stop in the pouring rain for 4 hours. In that 4 hours I sat on a bench...sat in the van...stood on a rock...sat on a rock...sat on a table...I even stood on the table...

and I pissed 6 times just to make myself feel like some part of being stuck at a rest stop was worth it.

Once the van finally showed up we happily jumped in and soared to our destination.

JK, are you kidding me?

We had to unload the entire set from the old van to the new van...in the dark...avoiding the hungry eyes of homicide.

But don't worry readers. I am safely in my hotel room. The 3 hour journey only took 9 and I can now kick back in the glorious LaQuinta Inn (that allows pets...lots and lots of pets...like...there's a dog race in the hall right now).

Thank GOD Connecticut has beer.

Shouldn't have laughed at Schoolhouse Rock,

TJB: Making It

Screw the Handbasket, I Went to Hell in a Red Van

Day 1 Take 2 was off to a great start. Even with Franklin getting on the wrong train (damn that privileged suburban upbringing) we were all there before 6 a.m. And thanks to union rules, we actually had to sit and wait until 6 a.m. to get in the van and start driving.

Washington had a lot to make up for and was the only person who seemed semi-awake, so he took the wheel like a champ. We arrived to the school with plenty of time for set-up and soundcheck. WAS IT POSSIBLE?! WE BOUNCED BACK FROM OUR CURSED BEGINNINGS!


JK, of course it's not possible.


Apparently, even though we were contractually obligated to have at least one representative from the venue help set-up, the wonderful people of Bumfuk, New Jersey didn't think it was necessary to follow the rules...any of the rules. Thankfully, they had created a stage 5 feet above the ground in the center of an acoustically challenged behemoth of a gymnasium. Thankfully, we had a shit ton of heavy set pieces to carry up the rickety staircase placed on the opposite side of the enormous gymnasium. Thankfully, there were no children present during set-up to hear the copious amounts of profanities I was forced to shout...and boy did the acoustics carry those.


As we approached showtime, it was very clear we were in trouble. We had blown through our Equity breaks (that's so we can't sue them for slavery) and were already getting paid overtime for not getting our half hour to rest before curtain (that's so I can put my face on). Exhausted, we prepared for soundcheck.


And then we were approached by an angel of an educator who decided it was time to let the kids into the gym so she could sneak off for a cigarette and quickie with the vice principal. When we tried to explain that we would be unable to do a soundcheck with all of the kids entering the gym, she retorted with, "Then I guess you're not doing a soundcheck".


Dear New Jersey: SUCK IT.


We were helpless. The actors silently put on our costumes. We crossed our fingers and strapped on our never before tested mics to make our debut performance.


I'd love to go into details of the show but I'll just say this:


Pretend you dragged a DVD across a concrete block and then attempted to watch it. In one ear, you hear half the actors at an eardrum bursting volume. In the other ear, you hear half the actors through a steel barricade. The picture is skipping like crazy and you're not even sure if the movie's in English. You try to laugh and applaud at the appropriate moments, but you're kind of still trying to figure out why you dragged your DVD across the concrete block.

and suddenly we were taking our bows.

We tore down our set and compared notes on when we each blacked out during the show. I made it the longest, staying conscious until the 4th measure of the opening number.


Only one thing could save our day: The Olive Garden.


JK, nothing could save our day.


16 miles outside of Manhattan I was awoken from a nap by the smell of burning...well, the smell of burning everything. It appeared our van was smoking and we pulled over to the side of the highway with zero signs of civilization (because nothing in Jersey counts as civilization). We opened the hood and pretended like any of us had any business being under the hood of a vehicle. We each picked our favorite generic car problem (oil leak, low coolant, dead squirrel in the engine) and flipped through the manual for good measure.


Then, Washington came out from under the hood holding a torn up rubber belt and pointed out a snapped tube of wires that even the gayest of me's could tell was not how this car was built. Knowing we were screwed, we all did what any actor in distress would do...call our parents...


After none of them offered to drive from their side of the country to make it all better, we called our theatre company.


One would assume that a company which tours hundreds of shows in vans would have some form of roadside assistance. Wanna guess if mine does?

I'm assuming you guessed right, because if the answer were yes, this blog post would be over.



We had to find our own tow truck.

When Alejandro of "All Car Towing" (they're good at naming things in Jersey) showed up to drag our sorry-ass van to his shop, we noticed there was no replacement vehicle for us. We assumed there was one on its way.


JK, we knew there wasn't one on its way because we knew how F-ed we were.

When Alejandro informed the 6 of us that we would all have to go with him in the cab of his tow truck, we half-chuckled at the joke...until we realized that tattooed and burly Alejandro had probably  never told a joke in his life. So like the clowns we were, we shoved into the 3 cubic inches of cab space next to Alejandro.

I'm pretty sure the shifter raped me.


10 miles later, we were at Alejandro's garage and had accepted that we would all be slaughtered and sold as ground beef. The torn up Cinderella child's sofa and discarded vacuums in front of the abandoned car wash seemed to say "RUN". But Alejandro spared us and called a cab instead.


Wanna be a cab driver in Jersey? Do you have a printer? You do? Great! Just print off 3 sheets of paper that say "Taxi" in a large Arial font, paste them to your windows and you're in business!



The "cab driver" said he could take us to the nearest train station, and after we traded some jokes about tripping on acid, he actually dropped us off at a train station. Finally we could go back to Manhattan.


JK, of course it wouldn't be that easy. We were only 4 hours into our 16 mile journey.


When a train finally arrived, we collapsed into the seats. One stop into the route, we realized we hadn't moved for a pretty solid chunk of time. The conductor came over the loudspeaker and explained that there were signal issues and we would be delayed for up to two hours.


And like the bitches of fate we were, we sat on that train for the entire two hours.


When we finally arrived at Penn Station, we looked like liberated prisoners straight out of Dachau. We couldn't even form coherent sentences and we simply stumbled away from each other with a half-hearted wave.


I have never been to Hell readers, but I bet you it will soon renovate itself to look like a trip through Jersey...as you watch our opening performance on repeat...


I can only imagine what this trip will be like once hotels are involved.



Writing my will now,


TJB: Making It

Screw the Handbasket, I Went to Hell in a Red Van

Day 1 Take 2 was off to a great start. Even with Franklin getting on the wrong train (damn that privileged suburban upbringing) we were all there before 6 a.m. And thanks to union rules, we actually had to sit and wait until 6 a.m. to get in the van and start driving.

Washington had a lot to make up for and was the only person who seemed semi-awake, so he took the wheel like a champ. We arrived to the school with plenty of time for set-up and soundcheck. WAS IT POSSIBLE?! WE BOUNCED BACK FROM OUR CURSED BEGINNINGS!

JK, of course it's not possible.

Apparently, even though we were contractually obligated to have at least one representative from the venue help set-up, the wonderful people of Bumfuk, New Jersey didn't think it was necessary to follow the rules...any of the rules. Thankfully, they had created a stage 5 feet above the ground in the center of an acoustically challenged behemoth of a gymnasium. Thankfully, we had a shit ton of heavy set pieces to carry up the rickety staircase placed on the opposite side of the enormous gymnasium. Thankfully, there were no children present during set-up to hear the copious amounts of profanities I was forced to shout...and boy did the acoustics carry those.

As we approached showtime, it was very clear we were in trouble. We had blown through our Equity breaks (that's so we can't sue them for slavery) and were already getting paid overtime for not getting our half hour to rest before curtain (that's so I can put my face on). Exhausted, we prepared for soundcheck.

And then we were approached by an angel of an educator who decided it was time to let the kids into the gym so she could sneak off for a cigarette and quickie with the vice principal. When we tried to explain that we would be unable to do a soundcheck with all of the kids entering the gym, she retorted with, "Then I guess you're not doing a soundcheck".

Dear New Jersey: SUCK IT.

We were helpless. The actors silently put on our costumes. We crossed our fingers and strapped on our never before tested mics to make our debut performance.

I'd love to go into details of the show but I'll just say this:

Pretend you dragged a DVD across a concrete block and then attempted to watch it. In one ear, you hear half the actors at an eardrum bursting volume. In the other ear, you hear half the actors through a steel barricade. The picture is skipping like crazy and you're not even sure if the movie's in English. You try to laugh and applaud at the appropriate moments, but you're kind of still trying to figure out why you dragged your DVD across the concrete block.

and suddenly we were taking our bows.

We tore down our set and compared notes on when we each blacked out during the show. I made it the longest, staying conscious until the 4th measure of the opening number.

Only one thing could save our day: The Olive Garden.

JK, nothing could save our day.

16 miles outside of Manhattan I was awoken from a nap by the smell of burning...well, the smell of burning everything. It appeared our van was smoking and we pulled over to the side of the highway with zero signs of civilization (because nothing in Jersey counts as civilization). We opened the hood and pretended like any of us had any business being under the hood of a vehicle. We each picked our favorite generic car problem (oil leak, low coolant, dead squirrel in the engine) and flipped through the manual for good measure.

Then, Washington came out from under the hood holding a torn up rubber belt and pointed out a snapped tube of wires that even the gayest of me's could tell was not how this car was built. Knowing we were screwed, we all did what any actor in distress would do...call our parents...

After none of them offered to drive from their side of the country to make it all better, we called our theatre company.

One would assume that a company which tours hundreds of shows in vans would have some form of roadside assistance. Wanna guess if mine does?

I'm assuming you guessed right, because if the answer were yes, this blog post would be over.

We had to find our own tow truck.

When Alejandro of "All Car Towing" (they're good at naming things in Jersey) showed up to drag our sorry-ass van to his shop, we noticed there was no replacement vehicle for us. We assumed there was one on its way.

JK, we knew there wasn't one on its way because we knew how F-ed we were.

When Alejandro informed the 6 of us that we would all have to go with him in the cab of his tow truck, we half-chuckled at the joke...until we realized that tattooed and burly Alejandro had probably  never told a joke in his life. So like the clowns we were, we shoved into the 3 cubic inches of cab space next to Alejandro.

I'm pretty sure the shifter raped me.

10 miles later, we were at Alejandro's garage and had accepted that we would all be slaughtered and sold as ground beef. The torn up Cinderella child's sofa and discarded vacuums in front of the abandoned car wash seemed to say "RUN". But Alejandro spared us and called a cab instead.

Wanna be a cab driver in Jersey? Do you have a printer? You do? Great! Just print off 3 sheets of paper that say "Taxi" in a large Arial font, paste them to your windows and you're in business!

The "cab driver" said he could take us to the nearest train station, and after we traded some jokes about tripping on acid, he actually dropped us off at a train station. Finally we could go back to Manhattan.

JK, of course it wouldn't be that easy. We were only 4 hours into our 16 mile journey.

When a train finally arrived, we collapsed into the seats. One stop into the route, we realized we hadn't moved for a pretty solid chunk of time. The conductor came over the loudspeaker and explained that there were signal issues and we would be delayed for up to two hours.

And like the bitches of fate we were, we sat on that train for the entire two hours.

When we finally arrived at Penn Station, we looked like liberated prisoners straight out of Dachau. We couldn't even form coherent sentences and we simply stumbled away from each other with a half-hearted wave.

I have never been to Hell readers, but I bet you it will soon renovate itself to look like a trip through Jersey...as you watch our opening performance on repeat...

I can only imagine what this trip will be like once hotels are involved.


Writing my will now,

TJB: Making It

Opening Days Happen Once. Adventures Are Forever.

There have been so many times in my still recent life that I've been going to bed when the sun is rising...and oh how I miss college for that reason.

So you can imagine how waking up at the ass-crack of dawn...scratch that we weren't even at the ass-crack yet...was WAY less fun. I dragged myself out of bed at 4:15a.m. to warsh my weave n' powder my nose. I grabbed my caffeine on the way to the train and pumped myself up for opening day.

As usual, I was the first one to the meeting site (SO PROFESH). I took the time to begin warming up my belt like a true diva and waited for the others. Two were not far behind me, followed by the stage manager. We were picking one cast bro up on the way, so 5 minutes before departure time, that just meant we were waiting for one! We were on a GREAT start to the first day!

Then five minutes passed and 6 a.m. hit. Some phone calls were made. The phone was off.

Five more minutes passed. More calls were made. An urgent voicemail was left. Phone still off.

Ten more minutes passed. Angry voicemails were left. Phone still off.

The three punctual cast members tried to remain positive by spraying the interior of the ghetto van with its only-opens-from-the-outside back door and questionably-stained seats. However, there was no saving the stage manager. As she "made some calls", we turned the other cheek.

The present cast had already made it into reviewing Broadway dance calls by the time half an hour passed and the stage manager was forced to contact higher powers. As this was our first show and there were no understudies, we were told our only option was to wait for the missing member.

Once an hour passed, it seemed that all hope was lost. We sat collapsed in the van as the sun rose, already two hours after we had risen from our beauty sleep...and the beauty was crackin fast.

And then the phone rang. The missing piece was finally awake...and terrified...and rightfully so.

"GET IN A CAB" were the only words spoken to him. Twenty minutes later, he was shoved in the van and away we went...speechless...horrified and 2 hours from showtime. Plans were made to abbreviate the set-up and expedite the process of load-in. The venue was notified and all our fingernails had been nervously chewed before we even hit the highway.

As we approached the exit to pick up the final cast member, the worst happened. The venue cancelled. All oxygen in the decrepit van seemed to seep out its cracks.  Perhaps that's what the questionable drip stains on the interior fabric were...hope.

We pulled off the highway for coffee and donuts with the final cast member. We hung our heads in embarrassment. I stepped in dog poop. It was the saddest collection of small-budget theatre in the tri-state area. After an hour of convincing ourselves we still had a reason to live, we piled back in the van and returned to NYC...at least we tried...somehow we ended up Jersey for a hot second...that GWB is misleading.

Then I got us VIP tickets to David Letterman and we had margaritas because THAT'S HOW I ROLL BITCH.

Should've booked Junie B. Jones Bumfuk, CT. Sorry bout it.

Cross your fingers Tuesday,

TJB: Making It

Friday is for Feelings

I've said it before and I'll say it again:

I do not like actors.

I also don't believe in half-assed emotions (I'm an Aries, which a lot of people say justifies my anger)...so I guess let me rephrase:

I hate actors.

Why do I hate actors? I don't know. My therapist (aka my dad...hey Dad!...JK he doesn't know how to use the "online"...) will probably tell you it's because I hate myself. Maybe I do hate myself (JK have you seen this bone structure?!), but that doesn't change the fact that I HATE ACTORS.

Seriously, look at us. We're pushy, we're self-absorbed, we're usually extremely misguided (YOU WILL NEVER BE FANNY BRICE) and incredibly attention hungry. Rarely do we actually care what happens below the surface as long as there's confetti or an 11 o'clock number involved in our immediate future. When we DO care about what's happening below the surface, we usually hope it's torturous, brooding, and psychologically disturbed, and only so we have an excuse to put our personal problems on a stage for the world to see. The world then admires us for our strength to approach such heartfelt matters in such a public way, but we're just happy to be awarded with shiny statues and paychecks for something most people pay thousands of dollars to deal with in private. THEN we can feel fulfilled.

But don't worry. You normal, everyday people "relate" to us.

I also don't like to use generalizations.

I realize that everything prior to this statement is a generalization...except for the very specific actors that I actually, really do hate...but they probably hate me equally...and they can suck it...Hey guys! LOVE that shirt! (JK you look chunky in that shirt.)

But fast forward to the actors that somehow avoid the generalizations. There are, shockingly enough, actors that somehow manage to stay grounded...and by "grounded" I mean the actors that acknowledge how absolutely absurd and ridiculous this profession is and how absurd and ridiculous they are. They still plan to be a star, kick your ass, and win a Tony, but they do it in such a way that you believe and (dare I say) trust that they actually care about you.

And as an actor, all I want is for people to care about me.

And those caring actors, my dear readers, are the actors that I have the pleasure to work with on a daily basis. Never in my life have I sat down amongst other actors and felt like I wasn't trying to keep up. Never have I experienced an actor that would sit down, casually drink straight whiskey with me (dude, bro, love, no homo, yes homo) and say, "This is me. Here I am. My balls are exposed for you to punch." I mean metaphorically. I've had a lot of balls vulnerably exposed to me in my time (oh hey F15), but never in such a heartfelt way.

Am I being too sentimental? Maybe. Am I still riding high on the buzz of Happy Hour? Absolutely.

But I'm going to say it world:

I love these actors.

and if they don't love me back...they can suck it.

Love and Hate are two sides of the same coin.

It's probably a penny,

TJB: Making It

I Work With Famous People

The choreographer for my show choreographed Everyday Rapture. When I found out, I almost wet myself. I have known this choreography since I first saw it and am now in love with my choreographer.

Story: this song was added to the show the last night of tech when the director felt a new finale was needed. The choreographer had to come up with the choreo on the spot, knowing Sherie was not a good dancer. She had to teach it to the three ladies in the bathroom on a break. The movements are inspired by Ms. Scott's tendency to talk with her hands...her beautiful golden hands...

and oh yeah...my choreographer has touched Sherie's hands...

How do I get her to touch mine?

More lotion,

TJB: Making It

LINE

You know that tone your parents use when you're not exactly sure what you did but based on how they're speaking you assume you're a huge disappointment? Like, the second you came out of the womb they've just been thinking "pfffffft boooooo no thank you".

That tone.

Now imagine that you just sprinted a marathon while waving your arms in circles and screaming at the top of your lungs. You're exhausted just thinking about it, right? You're sweating in places you didn't know had sweat glands and no amount of Speed Stick can apologize for how you smell.

NOW...imagine your parents speaking to you in that tone of voice after having watched what you just went through.

WELCOME to the life of an actor, where you can always assume you are never good enough.

"GOOD" DOESN'T WIN TONYS PEOPLE! Then again, neither do the fourth re-mountings of a touring children's musical. Yet somehow, the expectations are the same.

And MY GOD I will pour sweat from my kneecaps and toenails until I meet them or I will personally wipe your ass with my equity card.

But aside from the first run of our show in costume (and I look GOOD in a powdered wig) after which we're pretty sure our director questioned his entire existence and put our names on his "Never Cast Again" list...it was a pretty good day. And with two more days of rehearsal before our first show I can say

we are officially screwed.

Sorry 'bout it Generic Jr. High in Boofoo, CT. See you on Monday!

And in the middle of the train wreck, they held auditions for a replacement Franklin (don't go PLEEEASE). The response from the creative team?

"We saw people...we...saw....some people...there's...potential."

Only the cream of the crop for this show kids.

Well, gotta go memorize my lines. I'm not used to having more than 5.

Can I belt in Starbucks,

TJB: Making It

Sorry Dad.

These are stanchions. They are heave as F**K. So can someone explain why they're the only real piece of set this company invested in?!

There's no better way to feel elite or exclusive than the creation of inside jokes.

During a rehearsal process, the cast crosses the threshold of inside-jokery sometime around the conclusion of the first week when the "I don't know you but you  might be prettier than me" jitters start to go away (after extensive comparison of physical assets in the studio mirrors). After crossing the threshold of inside-jokery, all hell breaks loose. The cast can no longer be controlled. Progress is at an all time low, and one begins to wonder if the entire show can ever possibly be blocked at such a rate.

Right on cue (and about the only cue we hit on time) my cast has finally crossed the threshold.

Did you know that our creative team thought we had another entire week of rehearsal? Maybe that explains why they haven't literally beaten us to a pulp yet. But get the buckets ready, because from here on out we'll be puking backstage between numbers.

But now that we have entered our second and final week of rehearsal, I can tell that the next three months are going to be nothing short of pant-pissing hilarious, and that's just from what comes out of our stage manager's mouth. In fact, she doesn't even need to open her mouth. One glare from her "OH NO YOU DIDN'T" stare and you're not sure whether to cross your legs because you're gonna pant-piss laugh or because she's gonna sucker-punch your gonads.

Maybe if I stop rewriting my lines to sound more "Effie White" she'll stop glaring at me.

Did  you know she drives a Mercedes? She's probably taking it on the road with us. She got it for free. Why? BECAUSE SHE'S AWESOME. No seriously, some dude just loved her and gave her a Mercedes. On her last tour, they toted around a rocking chair just because she mentioned she liked sitting in it. So the crew would package it up and deliver it to her hotel room at every stop. She's like Oprah...if Oprah were funny and didn't have a billion dollars...but probably just as powerful.

And then there's the cast. We've been split into camps (so WWII I know). We have: 1. Team Short/Dancers, 2. Tall Tall/Movers, and 3. The Girl...who somehow, though vital to the story line, never seems to have any blocking.

I happen to be on 1. Team Short/Dancers...which is somehow the complete opposite of any former categorization of Musical Theatre team I've ever been on...which is somehow telling me I have no clear future in this business...

Short Team/Dancers are allowed to do turns, tumbling, and dramatic leaps/falls. Tall Team/Movers are allowed to do rhythmic walking and arm-ography. I think it's an insurance thing. The Girl is only allowed to stand her ground and belt her face off.

Back to rehearsal with the adorable yet incredibly intimidating director:

Me: "Sorry, when was my cue?"
Director: "About right when you gave the punchline to that joke backstage to Jeremy. Wanna share it with the rest of us? I bet it won't be as funny then."
Jeremy: "...No, it would be just as funny then..."
Director: *glare*

Director: "Tyler, the point is you're doing moves in this song that a WWF wrestler would do! Do something tough a wrestler would do!"
Me: "Like...sing?"
Director: *glare*

And then, on a break from our dramatic leaps and rhythmic walking and things a singing wrestler would do, our sassy-eyed stage manager stopped and said what every cast hopes to hear...

"**important information I should have been listening to blah blah**we're a family**blah blah"...

because that's when you know she's not going to rat your ass out in the rehearsal reports for being late.

Thanks girl!! Say hey to Laurence Fishburne for me!

NOTE: For those of you worried about not being able to see this pant-pissing worthy tour, don't worry. They've already signed on for a 4th National Tour in the Spring of 2012. The show that no one knows but never dies. I guess that's what happens when there's buzz of you performing at the White House for Christmas...

Sorry Dad (it's hilarious and you feel excluded because you don't get it),

TJB: Making It

D-I-V-A spells Tyler

There was a hot second in my life where I thought I had direction. I booked a tour and my life was decided through December and I had nothing to worry about until then...

...little did I know...

There are only rumors about when and where our first show is and nobody knows when we're actually leaving the city. Seriously, the layout and specifics of what will happen the next few months are so unclear it's like there's an SS at our backs saying "JUST GET ON THE TRAIN!"

A few weeks ago I thought to myself, "Children's musical? E-Z-P-Z! Just slap on a smile, sing some unison vocals and make the kids laugh!"

and then I learned how hard it is to be on stage for a straight hour while keeping children engaged and interested, not to mention entertained and laughing. A Kardashian reference does not a joke make...

Not to mention, this music and its lyrics are probably the most complicated I've ever had to learn. I guess that's what happens when 12 different composers write your show. I mean, sure, Sondheim's a bitch but at least he's consistent. Singing about the First Amendment with some unnecessary 5/4 bars thrown in the mix? Why don't you just probe me?

JK.

unless you want to...

But there we all are, commiserating together, while our endlessly energetic director inspires us to do it for the kids. Seriously, I need to know what he puts in his coffee and then inject that into my veins because mama needs a pick-me-up.

I just keep saying "tomorrow will be a better day."

Really...it will be...we're staging my diva-beltress-sing-off with my fellow African beauty (but fo-rizzle I think she's royalty, she has citizenship in like 12 countries)...

but she don't know she's messing with a certified queen.

Knock me up and call me Beyonce,

TJB: Making It

I Got a Silver Star for Lifting a Table...a Silver...

SACK UP KID! It's only Day 1!

Alright, let's just get it out there.

Not only is George Washington straight...he's married.

Are you kidding me God?! Just this once you couldn't help me out? Is this a sign that I am destined to be alone forever on this path I have chosen?

The problem is, I can't even be angry with the guy. No wonder I didn't get the role. I mean, he's about the manliest, studliest, statuesque George Washington you could pick ringing in at 6'3" with an equally beautiful and statuesque wife who just so happens to be in another musical...rehearsing in the same building...touring at the same time...so they're never more than a floor apart...

...Let's be real, this is a set-up...

And you don't even want to HEAR the story of how they met because it will make you tear up and hate your life since you don't have a storybook of memories with either of them

ALRIGHT now that I dumped that out of my bitch bag...


On my first day of school, I learned that my life is going to be probably the most interesting and eventful it has ever been. Every single person in that room has a smile on their face and a fanny-pack full of sass on their waist.

The one-liner's you can pick up when you're paying attention in a children's theatre rehearsal...

Here's my favorite interaction of the day:
Adams (to me): What sign are you?
Me: Aries...why?
Adams (to Franklin): What sign are you?
Franklin: Gemini
Adams (having left me hanging, to Franklin): Oh yay we're supposed to get along!
Me: *SCHOOLED*

Well at least the Music Director seems to like me...oh he's only here until Wednesday?...oh...well...

Aw shucks I'm just kidding, this cast and crew is going to get along great.

Wait hold on...Franklin is being replaced? They posted it online? So he's leaving too? They're dropping like flies I tell ya.

But I know it's all going to be smooth sailing once the adorable, dreamy, smart and funny director (you told me to blog it...) arrives with the adorable, dreamy, smart and funny choreographer (womp she's a girl...) on Wednesday.

Unless we've all been replaced by then.

So with Adams in the corner choreographing a music video, Franklin's career upgrading before we get to page 3, the stunning Dawn stealing my role of token-Diva, and Washington with his perfect life...

that leaves me...wondering which one of these kids is going to drink with me...

What's that Washington? You take an extra shot in your jumbo Magarita?

Winning,

TJB: Making It

Boys II Men

Meet my best friend T-Bagg (that's not his birth name). He came to NYC this weekend to visit me...ok and his girlfriend. At least, I assume she's still his girlfriend based on their shameless displays of PDA which is fine but I'm all "don't throw your hetero in my face, is this a hate crime?" but then he buys me beer and I like it.

JK it's a hate crime.

So there we are chatting and talking and I can't help but feel a sense of pride (it might have just been a full bladder but we're going with pride).

You see, T-Bagg just started his life as a high school teacher at a prestigious (at least that's the word they use so they can charge you $100K to go there) Catholic (at least that's the word they use so they can avoid state laws) High School in California. Basically, he now spends his days shaping the youth of America. Our future. The young, white, wealthy, youth of our future.

And you know what America? You couldn't pick a better guy to do it.

At that moment when I finished my third beer in the middle of Manhattan, my best friend and I looked across the table at each other through our hazy buzz and I thought

"this man is my hero"

and yeah, hero is a pretty strong word, but I want you to focus on MAN. When I met T-Bagg four years ago we were mere boys putting our hands on kegs and kicking our legs into the air to chug out of a tap as fast as we could.

and now we are inspiring the future of America.

T-Bagg by sharing inspirational literature, history, and philosphy. Me by sharing...song, dance, and dated pop-culture references...

but I swear some little gay boy in the audience is going to look up at me in my powdered wig and frock coat and be inspired to better America...or at least think I'm really cute...just like when I saw Marius in Les Miz at 13. And I sobbed.

So here I am, a man America, ready to shape the youth of your future just like my best friend and personal hero T-Bagg.

and to the people who read this blog and say I'm too self-involved I say:

Oops sorry, don't have time, gotta gel my hair.

To America on this day of remembrance: Love,

TJB: Making It

But Wait: Boxers or Briefs?

As an actor, you are aware that there are several people you never want to piss off. The top of that list is usually the stage manager. After all, they do write the rehearsal reports. But speaking from experience as cheap labor in the costume shop of Northwestern University, the costume construction team is right there at the top of your "do not piss off" list...ESPECIALLY if you want to look cute doin your high kicks.

Here's a tip actors: you can tell how much the shop team likes you by the amount of flare pieces added during your fitting. Give them a smile? We'll add a few extra studs to your sash. Say a funny quip? We'll add some buckles to your knee-high boots.

All of a sudden you're the most flashy and glittery vision to grace the Broadway stage...or in my case, Martin Luther King Jr. High.

Have a bad attitude? You can bet that your bra's going to be a little snug and you're getting the wig cap with the questionable stains.

 So there I was, in heaven, playing dress-up. I knew it was going to be a great time when the first piece handed to me was a pair of black skinny jeans. I could hardly breathe and it was PERFECT. And as I twirled in the mirror, that's when I saw it...

my ass. practically glowing. framed perfectly.

Next came the puffy sleeve, lace up shirt (a staple for any founding father). Then the patriotic waist sash, sensibly knotted on the left side. Throw in a gold vest with a cheetah print collar and a neck scarf and suddenly you're Thomas Jefferson circa Seventeen-Seventy-SEX.

But we weren't done yet folks. Oh no. The crown jewel of this show is the floor-length Prince inspired shiny blue rocker coat with a perfectly designed train for dramatic spin effects.

Are you turned on yet? Remember my ass in those skinny jeans. THIS IS COSTUME PORN PEOPLE! And to think I could have been in that one show wearing a short sleeve white button-up with a black tie.

BORING. Who wants that? Not me (JK cast me we can redesign).

The only downfall of the fitting came with the hats. I'm not sure if you've seen the cranium on this kid, but it's huge. Massive. Mammoth. I choke back tears of embarrassment every time I try to squeeze on a cap. In fact, they have to build an entirely new wig helmet because I'm just that deformed. I think God gave me this oval noggin to balance out my impeccable bone structure. Gotta stay grounded somehow.

But seriously readers (and by readers I think we're back down to just Mom based on her confession of continuously clicking refresh on my blog...thanks for trying to boost my ego) BUT SERIOUSLY READERS I tried to post a picture, but it was so sexual that even the world wide web would had to censor it.

You're going to have to see this ass in person.

Everyone in this Starbucks is gay or a frumpy brunette girl,

TJB: Making It

A Word From Our Sponsors

Hi America,

My name is Tyler J. Baranski and I'm the writer of Making It. I realize we kind of skipped a few steps in our relationship and I wanted to take a step back and talk about what we have together.

I started this blog about three months ago (I could give you an accurate time span but that would involve opening a new tab and maths) to keep myself sane. I had no intention at the time that it would become anything. I mean everyone writes a blog and mine's not even on tumblr, so the fact that people trust a blogspot domain is still shocking to me.

but I mean, you picked the right blog to read...

In all honesty, I'm just some schmuck from the middle of Michigan who was supposed to go to Harvard and become a doctor and somehow I ended up at Northwestern and became an actor. So when I was graduating and panicking that my life had little to no direction except for a plane ticket to NYC (on AirTran, about as ghetto as flying gets...) I created this character.

For those of you who know me, you know this character. TJB. He's sort of like Stephen Colbert (no, not Stephen Colbert, but "Stephen Colbert") and yeah sometime's it's hard to tell us apart. I mean, we're both really attractive and sometimes you just can't look away.

But this blog is about as real as Snooki. I mean, yes my life is pretty shameless and a tad controversial (I only wear real fur and I don't recycle) but nothing about me or TJB is mean spirited, you know? Except that thing I said about Brooke Shields, but she owes me money so you understand.

We're just trying to live paycheck to paycheck...when we get paychecks...and have a good time doing it.

So for those of you who read this and don't know me, I just want you to know that I think you're beautiful (especially you Mom) and don't hold this against me or my therapist. In fact, we should probably get a drink...get to know each other...you're paying.

And if you come see We the People you'll learn all about free speech and free press and see me in a really cute vest and tight pants.

If only I had an ass,

Tyler J. Baranski
at least that's what Equity has to call me.

I'm Contractually Obligated To Write This Post

You know those people you see in movies that sign contracts without reading them and you’re like “NO DON’T! READ IT! I know you’re excited you’ll be king for a day, but you know there’s fine print in there that’s going to screw you over!”

Well I’m that happy-go-lucky schmuck signing his life away. Make.Me.King.

I don’t think I could have looked any more naïve in a contract signing. Giggling, talking about Michigan, having no idea what the date is, and what the HELL is a W2? Is that a car? Who knows, but I think I own one now…

Maybe I shouldn’t have had that iced coffee. BUT I WAS HUNGRY!

The only time I paused was when the company manager said something to the effect of…

“and that comes out to about $10.50 an hour”

I’m sorry, what? Go back. $10.50 an hour? I just laughed at a hotel for wanting to pay me $8 an hour (plus tips don’t forget) to carry some bags, but for an extra $2.50 you think that justifies wearing a powdered wig and pretending to play the bass guitar in front of thousands of children? I don’t think so missy.

Oh wait what? You’ll pay $6.50 a week extra because you’re going to take pictures and film me? Well that changes everything. I mean, my E! True Hollywood Story is going to need some sort of footage anyway…

And $10 a week if I drive? I AM MAKING BANK!!

So that’s it folks…I signed my life away. I am now tied down to We the People until Christmas Day 2011 (I think our final performance is at the White House for Malia and Sasha Obama’s gift. It’s not? Oh, ok.)

So now all I have to do is turn in my copies to Actors Equity before the first rehearsal on Monday. But you know what America? I’m scared. I’m scared that maybe this fame thing is all happening too fast. Maybe I don’t want to walk into that Actor’s Equity building quite yet…maybe I should wait…

Because to be honest I hate walking into a building and having NO idea where I’m supposed to go so I’m a needz to google some shit first. Then BRING ON THE FAME BABY!

My mother keeps an excel spreadsheet of my blog’s view count.

Make her proud,

TJB: Making It

Oprah Slapped Me Once

This is an essay I wrote for the University of Chicago (which I was accepted to...which I thankfully didn't attend...) This essay caused UChicago to read my application on NPR back in 2007 when their "Uncommon Application" was being challenged. Afterwards, they sent me a very persuasive Christmas card which I found in my drawer this weekend. I used this essay in a "Write Your Own" competition at the University of Michigan and received 2nd place in the state. I lost to a kid who wrote about a pilgrimage to India...Pakistan...Bangladesh?

Anyway, I think this is great proof that I never took life too seriously...and how much I don't change...and how off-color I was at such an early age...

The prompt was: You are hosting a brunch with 3 guests. What is the menu? Who are the guests? Think "Mad Hatter's Tea Party".

I should also mention I was quite the myspace celebrity in my day...pre-NU-Facebook celebrity...

My first step towards fame. Here goes:
--------------------------------

Note to reader: Although I really enjoy bacon, I am not a huge brunch person. Therefore, I have made this a dinner party.

At least the swelling was subsiding. I had never known a dinner party to be so physical. Oprah Winfrey, of all people to strike me in the face, was last on my list.

            “Ribs?! I am insulted,” exclaimed the richest woman in America, “Just because I’m black, you think this has to be a barbecue?”

            “I simply really enjoy barbecue sauce,” I tried to explain. Try to explain something to Oprah. Do it. Maybe she appears superfluously understanding on her talk-show, but in real life, she is a force to be reckoned with.

            If I could not convince one of the two ladies, Oprah or Condi Rice, to run in 2008, the future of our nation was in grave danger. Unfortunately, neither of the ladies was budging, not even after I had served my grandmother’s world-famous oatmeal raisin cookies. When the cookies can’t convince, it is not worth convincing. Surrendering, I pushed aside my plans for the government’s future, gave up my pursuit of the talk show host’s nomination, and focused on my questioning of the Savior’s enigma.

             “Jesus, would you care for more Apple Cider? I’m pretty sure it is kosher. Do you need to eat kosher foods, or was King of the Jews really just a saying. I never understood what went wrong in that relationship, you and the Jewish people. And do you really hate gay people? The Catholics told me you did. That’s one thing that could destroy our friendship, you see for some time I…”

            “QUIET! My name! You talk so much. Slow down. I did not reschedule my second coming just so you could badger me on the technicalities of Christianity!” Woops. I had clearly upset Jesus. Granted he does have a reason to be upset since his whole world has kind of deviated into a trench of sin, but seriously. I had worked so hard to make this party a success and no son of a god was going to mess that up for me. I simply wanted answers.

            “That’s right baby! You tell him.” Oprah had clearly not understood when I tried to clarify that although some people call her God, they don’t really mean it. However, by some divine power of her own, she had claimed Jesus as her son. Condi, however, was not declared her “sister”, since as Oprah put it, “You do not deserve to be a black woman, following around that sad old white man like some slave. You got to stand UP for yourself girl.” Her lingo was really starting to grow on me. I must be honest. My contact with ethnic people is extremely limited. Besides the few adopted Asian girls at my school, I rarely had the chance to meet anybody of another race.

             I must explain. I attend the whitest school in my county. Living in this city my entire life has not exactly allowed me to diversify the way one would in a larger inner-city school. Unfairly, I have been banished into a life of conformity and monotony. Naturally, I would choose guests for my party who would permit me to broaden my social spectrum. That is exactly why…wait…why is my face wet?

            Oprah had shown Ms. Rice the perfect spitball. My fat lip was rapidly becoming Oprah’s favorite target. For Condi it seemed that the term conservative does not apply to dinner table etiquette. Perhaps she was just targeting the gay kid in some informal demonstration of protecting the sacredness of marriage. Either way, after only hearing about what the strategy is NOT in Iraq, I’m not sure the lady really has her own opinions. What a waste of servings.

            Some point between a diatribe from Christ about the absurdity of him being a white man from the Middle East and Condoleezza’s speech on foreign relations with Iran, I decided that the geographical region of the Middle East is the cause for a lot of confusion. Learning they do not all speak Arabic or necessarily wear turbans, I now realized how sheltered life was gradually becoming. When one only sees pictures of the Taliban in USA Today, there is a general stereotype formed. However, there is an exchange student at my school from Kazakhstan, and she speaks Russian. From Global Studies I knew that Kazakhstan was part of the Soviet Union which is now more commonly deemed Russia, and the world all began to make sense.

            Slowly, I started to realize where I had gone wrong in this dinner party. I was only concerned about one person: myself. I had only served the foods that I wanted to eat without any consideration to what Oprah, Jesus, or Condoleezza would enjoy. The questions I asked were only meant to appease my own stresses about life. Searching to expand my own social status, I had wasted hours with three of the most powerful people known to man. This was no way to go about life. JFK was right, and I was no longer going to ask what others could do for me. Alas, the party was a waste and my day was spent.

            Then, I went to check my myspace and found out that I had five new comments and three new messages. Now I see that day for what it really was: a complete success. Thank Jesus (who is now my friend on myspace).

--------------

Hey Mom, aren't you glad I didn't go to UChicago and become a lawyer like I planned?

2nd place is not 1st, 2nd place is not 1st, SECOND PLACE IS NOT FIRST,

TJB: Making It

Why Sondheim is Single

There is that specific moment in every gay boy's life when he knows his emotions are getting the best of him...

when he's listening to the Wicked soundtrack.

Not only is he listening, he's belting along. He's probably crying too, but he can't tell because he's in the shower washing his feelings down the drain.

The old saying has always been "it's lonely  at the top" but SHIT I'm not even close to the middle and I'm already wondering what the hell is going on. Listen America, I'm not trying to be emo here, but I think you can all agree

men suck. Hell, I'm not even going to call them men, these are boys. And do you know which boys are the worst?

The actors.

How do I know? BECAUSE I AM ONE, and I'm no peach either. The difference is: when I give you a ring and we move across the country from each other, my "I love you" BBMs are MEANINGFUL. The least you could do is clue me in when you're dating somebody else because that's just common Facebook etiquette. I bet you carried his bags (btw if he tipped you well all is forgiven. Baby's gotta pay the bills).

 Listen readers, I'm not trying to blast anybody on the internet here...that's tacky...and I consider myself more ostentatious than tacky. Still, I've been told 5 times in my life "you're the kind of guy I want to spend the rest of my life with". I guess I should have been tipped off when I heard kind of guy.

Do you know what the scariest part is? It is incredibly easy to delete somebody from your life. A few untags, a block, an unfollow, an ignore-future-invites plus the willpower to un-memorize a cell number and you're free.

Yeah, free to find another asshole.

It's like holding a mirror up to a mirror.

But hey, I'm the one sitting at my parents house.

George Washington better be a babe.

COMING MOM! JESUS,

TJB: Making It

Chicago: Open Bars and Broken Dreams

I was feeling quite guilty about tricking Chicago into thinking I would actually move there and allow my career to take such a hit...so I decided to stop by on a sort of "goodwill tour".

OK really I was kind of miserable and needed to see my best friends before I embarked on a 3 month journey with 5 kids I've never met before. You see, I tried to go to summer camp once and I cried and begged my parents to take me home after 90 minutes. It was band camp...there were mosquitoes...and my bunk mate was fat...

Somehow I don't think my parents will be as willing to drive me home from NYC when I find out Ben Franklin is a lil' portly. However, my parents were dolls and drove me to Chicago to remind the windy city of what could have been.

I wish I could convey to you how amazing all of my friends are and talk about how successful they are so young life but

1. I do not promote other people.
2. Somebody I leave out is going to get pissed because either
3. I forgot I saw them or
4. They're just not successful...

I mostly just did the usual Chicago things like lunchtime at the Playboy Headquarters, but anywhere I go there is of course a VIP event to attend. This week was a celebration of TimeOut Chicago (which is funny because just two weeks ago I pretended to be a journalist from that very publication in NYC writing a story on gay bars as a successful ploy for free drinks and no cover).

I attended the event along with Chicago bro-extraordinaires SMQ and JWeb. They're like super business savvy and look really good standing on either side of me.

I'll be honest and tell you none of us really had a clue what the event was supposed to be celebrating, but we did know there was an open bar from 6-8PM and we intended to use every second of it. So we waltzed in at 5:59 and stumbled out at 8:01. Between those times we double-fisted the most delicious drinks you've ever tasted while enjoying free food and making friends with the entire staff and every lonely looking Asian we could find.

Only CLASS for these bros.

I did learn one very important tip: GET BUSINESS CARDS!

Every single person I met handed me their card (obviously in the hopes I would call them and/or sleep with them) and since I didn't have business cards, I just did what I do best...

I pretended that they of course knew who I was and didn't want to embarrass them by handing them my card since they probably already knew where to find me.

This worked like a charm...meaning everybody was too drunk to process what I was saying anyway...8PM couldn't have come at a better time.

There was a bittersweet feeling of visiting Chicago. Sure I now have jazz sneakers signed by the incomparable JLDubs, but I also spent 12 hours doing manual labor. Sure I got to see all of my beautiful blonde best friends, but I also spent 12 hours doing manual labor. Sure I got to watch Jon Harrison dripping in sweat, but I also...ok maybe that one was worth the 12 hours...

I dunno world. While I was in Chicago I had this sent to me from a fellow NU alumn:

"I stumbled upon your blog and am obsessed with it. So are all of my friends I sent it to. Seriously it is hilarious and well-written and resonates even with us non-showbizy folks seeking gainful employment."

Do you know what I say?
I wish you had more important friends.
Then I'd be on Bravo.

Until then, the only gainful employment I'll be seeing is in a big white van dressed as Thomas Jefferson traveling America.

Yes turning tricks,

TJB: Making It