Lick it

Just like a needy ex-boyfriend, as soon as I feigned disinterest in NYC, it wants me.

I was asked back in for the artistic team of Rock of Ages. A cruise line production, sure, but dollars are dollars. My last audition for anything was months ago, so jumping straight to final callbacks was both exciting and unwarranted. Since I had read for the role four or five times in the past few years, I was just jaded and bitter enough to sing zero notes until I walked into the room. Being so well prepared, as the accompanist launched into "Hit Me With Your Best Shot", I opened my mouth and

licked my fists.

I meant to kiss them in a masculine Rocky 3 sort of way, but my mouth was so distracted by the newness of singing again that my tongue simply skimmed across the fingers of the right hand, and then over to the left hand. And since I had just doused both hands in foamy Purell from one of those 2010 Swine Flu machines, my facial expression turned north of sour.

I finished the song with a high kick for good measure, and then two-thumbsed-up everybody in the room individually to show that I was also aware of what had just occurred.

But since they were likely impressed by the uninhibited realness of my acting skills - and the fact that I listened to three or four final callbacks crack before me - I received a "come back tomorrow" email.

I'm not trying to say that licking your fists is the worst thing you could do while trying to book a job, I'm just trying to figure out where my brain is so that licking my fists is the subconscious impulse. Maybe writing is the right career choice.

Or maybe cruise-goers everywhere (meaning New York to the Bahamas) will get to be inspired by me, the fist-licking Aryan tenor.

Fetish for thought,

TJB: Making It