self-deprecation is the new confidence

Here I am sitting amongst a pile of brightly colored hoodies I attempted to wear in vain for an autumn that refuses to stay. My iPhone 4S has become significantly outdated just days ago and I had to restart my 5 year old laptop 4 times just to get the screen to turn on.

I would have gone to blog at the Starbucks around the corner, or better yet, the trendy coffee shop a few blocks farther that I can't remember the name of and can't afford anyway. However, since my laptop lasts no more than 15 minutes without being plugged in and I refuse to be that awkward-Asian-girl who stands and stares waiting for the generosity of a stranger who gestures to the available outlet under his stool

here I am

amongst my hoodies

on a bed that belongs to a girl I met once...

writing a book.

Well, I suppose I've already WRITTEN the book since I have pages and pages of a word document full of my last year which somehow seems so empty when typed in Times New Roman 12pt. font...so I put a few more words in bold to convince myself that something exciting really did happen and the world really would want to read about it on paper.

Or on their iPad...or iPhone 5...or whatever that off-brand thing Barnes&Noble sells is called.

In a typical fit of procrastination, I scrolled through my Facebook newsfeed, refreshing several times, hoping to be inspired or distracted when I found a quite comical status update in which a person with a normal job wrote about an interaction with a client.

"You should write a book" was the first comment on the status...no doubt from some suburban mother or misguided, urban lesbian (I couldn't tell from the thumbnail photo).

And when I scoffed and thought "Yeah, right"...I remembered exactly what I was doing.

writing a book.

So, of course, I began to imagine hundreds of young sassy (probably very attractive) gay boys reading the comments on my posts and scoffing just like me.

And having just removed my cardigan (which I thought would be the weather appropriate answer) to throw on top of my hoodies

I'm wondering, yet again, if I'm the one who has it wrong.

Maybe when people say "You should write a book", it's like when people say, "You can always do porn."

No, you can't.

I mean, sure, you always could, but that doesn't mean anyone is every going to watch it and SURELY nobody pays for that anymore.

So, is me sitting on a bed putting together a manuscript just some self-made masturbatory porno I'm going to throw out into the world? (There isn't one of those, don't Google it. Please.)

Do I have any business being in porn?

I mean, writing?

Well, America, since I have just re-read the first 20 pages of Sex and the City, which the Wall Street Journal called "A breath of fresh air" 15 years ago...

Yeah, I got this.

In fact, I'm more certain than ever I'm going to make somebody a lot of money someday.

So refill my coffee and turn on the AC because my cardigan is going back on and I'm getting down to business! I don't care what anybody says, it's autumn and I'm writing a book DAMMIT.

Oh GOD I should have bought a Mac,

TJB: Making It

not for the life of me

I know you've all been worried. In one of my most inspirational posts, I had given myself a goal date of September 15.

Well, that day has come and gone and still no word from me.

You'll have to forgive me because I haven't been able to stand up for the past few days. You see, I've started P90X.

What is P90X? I like to think of it as in-home boot camp for those who can't afford (due to lack of money or confidence) a real personal trainer at a public gym. For about an hour a day (plus additional exercises and cardio not to mention a suggested diet of oxygen and saliva) some juice head on a DVD motivates you to sweat until you puke.

No seriously, the puking is an extension of the ab exercises.

The most amazing part of it all? I'm doing it in my apartment. MY apartment. That's right. I have officially moved in to an apartment.

As in: I'm not moving at the end of the month.

As in: I've unpacked my suitcases for the first time since graduating college.

As in: yes my parents still help pay my rent but now they can mail things to me.

I have a friend who says I'm the worst at moving to New York because I've never actually moved here.

I began to realize maybe that's my problem. The reason I miss Chicago so much is because I'm still living in Chicago. While unpacking, I found a t-shirt from my college a cappella group tucked away in a hidden pocket of my suitcase where it has been since I packed it in Evanston over a year ago.

I too have stayed tucked away in that hidden pocket.

...oh yeah, that was good. I could SEE your heart strings tugging...

No, I don't want to stay in New York forever. Yes, I would love to move back to Chicago.

But I have always been a person who, no matter what I am doing, gives 110% until I am the best of the best.

So, I live here now. I mean, I'm REALLY going to start living here now.

And even though nothing is forever,
the only way out is forward.

If I can't be the most employed actor of the year, I'll at least be the hottest. So let's go P90X, bring it on, because as long as you're in MY home

I will beat you.

And since New York is now OFFICIALLY my home, the rest of you had better watch out as well.

I will be shirtless on Halloween,

TJB: Making It

thin is in, but you're still not

I recently auditioned for a staged reading (no, not a show) written by Scott Schwartz (no, not Stephen Schwartz...his son) at a casting office on the Upper West Side (no, not the theater district) in the living room of the casting director whose apartment serves as her office.

As you can imagine, I was back to feeling a little D-List (if listed at all).

Nonetheless, I was feeling #blessed and #grateful...albeit #shitty

The character breakdown?

"(Caucasian, 18-22): Innocent and lovable, with a puppy dog quality. Should not be muscular; he needs to look and seem a little sickly and weak... Tenor"

And those ellipses belonged to them, not me, as if to say "Yeah, feel flattered yet?"

So my seemingly sickly and weak self arrived 45 minutes early (just in case I wasn't on the list again), and waited for my chance to be innocent and lovable. 

You know, 45 minutes in a waiting room and you get to meet a lot of people. 

There was, of course, the overly confident generic brunette girl who assured us we were all going to "break so many legs" and that the creative team was "so nice" and she had "the best time" and would it be awkward if she stayed "just to use the restroom before I have to get on my bus to Jersey?"

Well, since you asked...now it is. 

Then, there was the Broadway veteran congratulating the boy who just made his Broadway debut while discussing her husband's Broadway show while I thought about how many times I could nervously click my pen before somebody asked me to stop.

Then, there was the boy wearing the same shirt as me with the same hair as me and with the same name as me who was going before me because I chose to arrive 45 minutes early. He, of course, had done shows with both the Broadway-veteran and the boy-with-the-Broadway-debut, so as they hugged, I kept clicking.

Then, there was HIM.

He walked in the door smelling like leather, wearing leather, but acting smooth as suede. The boy I had idolized in college (and he didn't even have a 6-pack then) who I had awkwardly introduced myself to at an H&M back in 2007 when I thought a celebrity was anyone who made $200/week and it didn't come from their parents. He must have thought I was so charming that we became MySpace friends and even went on what I thought was an exciting date to Subway which I later realized, to him, was probably an all-too-common "date to Subway".

and let's just say there's a reason MySpace flopped.

Subway...I sure was a cheap date at 19.

Well, even though he did give me the sheet music that got me into Northwerstern's Musical Theatre Program AND introduced me to the sweet vocals of Adam Lambert (PRE-American Idol), I never saw him again. 

But I never forgot that boy. 

So when he walked into the basement of the living-room-casting-office...I froze...

Well, I froze, but I kept clicking. 

I gave him time to hug the Broadway-veteran the the boy-with-the-Broadway-debut before he sat on the bench next to me, slowly leaned forward and said, "Hey?"

Yes, part of me wished he wouldn't remember who I was

but can you blame him for remembering?

I awkwardly tried to make small-talk as if I didn't know exactly what he'd been up to for 4 years, but the only plus side was that I managed to stop clicking my pen. 

The other plus side was that his audition fell into that 45 minute window I had left for myself so he wouldn't have to hear me sing. 

But as I sat in the basement and listened to the voice that I had idolized for years while the boy-with-my-name and the boy-with-the-Broadway-debut tried to guess how high he was singing

(I knew because I have great pitch)

I melted again. 

And as he quietly snuck out the front door taking his musky leather with him, I didn't even care that he didn't say goodbye. I probably wouldn't see him for another 4 years.  

SO you can imagine how awkward I was when I ran into him again tonight, in the dark, on an empty street in the middle of Queens, while I was gassy from Chinese food and tipsy from wine

and as he gave me a hug and all I could say was

"I promise I'm not stalking you..."

I'm sure this blog post isn't helping.

Smooth as suede, TJB. Smooth. As. Suede. 

Ugh, I know ladies...the worst part is knowing their inflated ego isn't trying to compensate for anything. They really have that much to be confident about. 

I can't even book sickly and weak,
 
TJB: Making It








 

Connecticu*t

I always joke that I tell my agent never to schedule any appointments for me before noon.

But almost a month ago when I received yet another appointment for my dream role in Next to Normal, I was willing to accept 11:20AM as a valiant effort on his part. There was no material to prepare for the audition (though by this point I was ready to sing every vocal line in the show regardless of how many rounds of callbacks there could be). All I had to do was sit and wait.

So when this busy first week of the fall season finally arrived, I took it easy. I made sure to rest, hydrate, exercise, and starve (after my run-ins with those Russians). Everything was leading up to booking my dream role.

I woke up at 8AM to ensure I had enough time to vocalize and pick the perfect outfit. Nothing was going to stand in my way today. I even left myself an entire hour to take the 20 minute trip to Midtown Manhattan.

And I was so glad I did when I stepped on the train to hear there was a signal problem and Manhattan bound traffic was delayed.

Not exactly standing in my way, but just to the left of it.

Half an hour later when I was still in Queens, it was standing in my way.

WHAT IF I DIDN'T HAVE ENOUGH TIME TO FIX MY HAIR?!

I preemptively texted my agent that I now had only 30 minutes to make the trip and as long as I didn't get lost (I mean if I can't find 30 Rock...), I'd be there in plenty of time.

To me, there is nothing more embarrassing than showing up late.

So when I made it with two minutes left to sprint down 52nd and arrive at the monitor's desk at 11:22, I was already embarrassed enough

and at first the monitor assured me it was completely fine since they were running behind

but then as he fell silent and asked for my name again

my heart sank.

Monitor: Oh, I'm so sorry...I don't see you on the list...what was your name?
Me: BARANSKI (I simply emphasized this in case his mind would hop-to and realize how recognizable that name should be in the theatre world). My appointment should be happening RIGHT NOW.
Monitor: Yeah, gosh, so sorry, you're not on here...

He gave me a blank stare as if I had simply made the entire thing up.

Me: My agent literally confirmed this appointment a month ago...do I...need to make some calls?

I had no idea getting seen for a job that paid $300/week would be so difficult.

Monitor: Yeah, why don't you do that?

So I called my agent who was equally confused how some small theater in Connecticut could at first seem so overly prepared one-month-in-advance to being a shit show the day-of.

and I don't want to call people out so we'll call it the MUSIC THEATRE OF SHMUNNECTICUT for those of you keeping score at home.

When I asked the monitor who we should contact about the mistake, he still pretended as if I was making everything up and when I held the phone up to him and said

"Do YOU want to talk to him?"

He simply told me that he would talk to the artistic team in the room and see what he could do.

I swear, it was as if Steven Spielberg were on the other side of that door and could NOT be bothered amidst the plethora of pudgy brunette boys he was currently seeing.

Surely the casting director would remember my blonde locks if he would just take a moment to sort out the mistake. I mean, I WAS wearing my lucky hoodie on the train, so this should all breeze over.

But no...as I waited outside for three more pudgy brunette boys to go, the monitor finally returned to me and said

"I'm so sorry, you're not on the list and due to time constraints we won't be able to see you today."

I DID NOT TURN DOWN FREE DRINKS AT A PREMIERE PARTY LAST NIGHT TO HAVE YOU TELL ME ABOUT YOUR TIME CONSTRAINTS. I HAVE HAD THIS APPOINTMENT FOR A MONTH.

But since my tongue was numbed by the aloofness with which I had been brushed off by some undergrad with a pen, I simply called my agent again.

Then, I waited for one hour in a Starbucks for the situation to be sorted out. I was feeling quite calm once I had downed my Venti iced coffee (unsweetened, splash of soy), but when I learned that my agent hadn't been able to get in touch with a single person that worked for MUSIC THEATRE OF SHMUNNECTICUT via e-mail or phone

he got Equity involved.

Listen, I didn't ask for it, I didn't want it, but I happen to have some pretty cut-throat people working for me.

And let me just say, when the union has to be contacted about how you're running your business...you're not running your business.

But not even Equity could get somebody on the phone.

So what happened?

My agent went home to put on his power suit and walked HIMSELF over to the auditions to speak to the artistic team himself

JUST to get me an apology.

You know, I look over this past year and realize I'm a pretty lucky guy.

The worst part of the situation? None of it matters. Nobody at that theater, and nobody who sees that show, and nobody in Connecticut or New York will ever care that I spent weeks concerned over 2 minutes of my life that would never happen. Nobody will care that I spent 6 hours of today trying to sing 16 bars.

We are expendable. We are replaceable. We are actors.

It's times like these that I start to search Amazon.com for LSAT books.

But as long as people keep putting on suits to get me apologies...I think I'll stick around.

Somebody's drinking tonight,

TJB: Making It

Of Models and Manhattan

After 12 hours of travel, I finally made it back to NYC.

But as the plane descended, so did my heart. Why is it that every arrival in New York City feels like the first?

I had said August was my month, and if you care to read August's posts, you'll find it was a lot of talkin n' tears...so I was ready for the new start of September regardless of whose month it was. 

Like the first day of school it was for most of America, I too was concerned with what to wear, what to bring, and who to talk to first. Four days away from this city and it has already forgotten about you. I really could have to start all over again.

In fact, just one hour into my first work shift and someone said, "You're not from here are you?"

Bitch please, go back to Long Island. I may not be from here, but your highlights are HEINOUS.

At least my agent hadn't forgotten about me, and I woke up early to prep for my first audition of the new New York school year.

And as anyone who has auditioned knows: four days away and that's like starting over too. I tried my best to stay out of my head, but when I arrived with enough time to check myself out in the bathroom mirror I noticed something strange...

More attractive boys than usual...

I had memorized the character breakdowns and knew there was only one role that could possibly be filled by these tall, fit, and exceedingly attractive young men

and I'm pretty sure I wanted that role to be filled by me

so how in trouble WAS I?

Then I saw it. The last door on the right before the bathrooms.

"FASHION WEEK MODEL FITTINGS"

Oh. Hell. No.

Not only did I have to sit amongst the buff MT boys who made me feel too thin, I had to watch all the Eastern European runway boys pass by who made me feel too fat.

My first day of school was proving to be quite the ego boost...

As my audition slot approached and my confidence sank, my Midwestern morals made themselves heard and I thought

"Oh snap. One of these Russians is totally going to jack my shit as soon as I step into that room."

And without being able to calm my prejudice so freshly renewed by my weekend in the country, I picked up my entire proud-to-be-American Army-official ACU backpack and carried it into my audition...

I awkwardly dropped the mammoth knapsack at the door as if I was moving in while my face made an awkward surprised-face due to the fact there were 25 people in the room and I expected 4.

The first thing out of my mouth?

"WHOW lots of people. Did you guys know there are MODEL fittings down the hall?"

cue awkward silence and a few unsure chuckles that should have convinced me to close my mouth

"I mean SERIOUSLY, these MT guys are bad enough and now I have to watch these Russian* dudes strut around? Today is not my day."

Needless to say, I think my agents can forgo this commission...

Sorry 'bout it.

But it was the first time I went 24 hours without a drink in a week, so at least we know I'm not an alcoholic.

The little things,

TJB: Making it

*Note: most of the models were probably American, but admitting such would really bruise my ego.


....

Of Frankenmuth

I came home with the normal expectation of offing myself with boredom before day 3.

Well, it's day 5 and here I am forcing myself to blog because I've been anything but bored.

Sure, there have been some really negative aspects of this trip...

Like the fact that everyone I went to high school with who still lives here seems to be 1. Exceedingly Attractive and 2. Acceptably Happy.

 It's been 5 years since I graduated, and I hoped for a little more Paunch and Happenstance if you know what I mean...(see what I did there?)

When I returned, I thought I wouldn't be able to relate to anyone. How could I possibly have anything to talk about with people who were STILL LIVING in Frankenmuth. 

And then I realized that we all had so much to talk about because we are all STILL LIVING.

I realized that no matter where we spent our four years of college and no matter where we climb into bed at night, we are all bound by this terrifying feeling that our lives could very well amount to nothing.

I call this: BEING 23.

or 24, or 25, or 26.

I had lunch with a fellow fashionista from high school (we used to be a part of what we called "The Council of Pretty People"...yeah...) who has spent the last few years traveling the world (and stalking me). She's lived in Spain, London, New Zealand, Australia and I'm sure more countries but I had to stop listening because all I could think was

"Wow...I'm incredibly jealous." and "I wonder if I could pull off that necklace."

And as we sat there staring at our plates of carbs trying to judge how much the other one would eat before we took another bite, we found ourselves in a predictable case of

the grass is always greener...

Here I was the "Next Big Thing" and there she was the "World Traveled Gal", both with degrees, both with hope, both unemployed. 

I went from wondering why this girl (and half of America) would be stalking my blog to understanding exactly why.

the same reason I turn on "No One is Alone" from Into the Woods  and sob in the shower. 

It helps to know that in a world where 16 year olds are superstars and we're somehow still expected to fall into fame and glory in an economy that wants us to work for free during a 3-month "internship" we moved across the country for with the dangling-carrot that they'll hire 20% of their interns if you're blood-thirsty enough to compete with them for a dream

that you're not alone.

that everyone is struggling.

that you're going to be OK.

If you remember that everyone who interviews you for a job was interviewed for their job and was also rejected from 20 other jobs whether they're a C.E.O. or a C.S.A., nobody seems that intimidating. And if they try to make you feel smaller than you are because you don't get the job or the role, you would have been miserable working for them anyway.

Doesn't unemployment feel better now?

So one day when I'm incredibly famous and you don't hate your job, or just have a job to hate, we'll get lunch together and laugh at the college kids in the booth next to us who have no idea what they're in for.

But we still won't eat carbs. 

Until then, struggle on America.

Beer is so cheap here so why is my glass empty,

TJB: Making It