Pass/Fail

There are really great tools for actors that allow them to get in front of agents and casting directors with just the click of a button.

For a small fee, of course. Still, that's a price one must pay when fighting your way through stacks of retouched 8x10s and revamped resumes.

Let's face it. The market is competitive, and not just for actors. When you're reaping 10%  commission from only 10% of your roster and every discerning gay could cast a show, why not spend your nights giving hope to the hams of Manhattan?

With my first few weeks leaving me feeling forgotten, I decided it was time to open my wallet and pull some pork.

Within five minutes of sitting down in a room stuffed with hopefuls, I had already thrown in the towel twice and thrown up in my mouth thrice. One girl was recording everything with a tiny mic hidden in her bra. She was concerned about its visibility, but her friend was only concerned that everyone knew she had been invited to attend this seminar by the agent the night before, at a masterclass he had taught.

When I can invite people to spend money to meet me again, I'll know I've made it.

So there was a Q&A and the handsome agent managed to make everyone in the room want nothing more than to have his hands on their headshot. This pack of pigs was cackling on cue and reaching for recognition.

I managed to not click my pen more than twice. Why I was holding a pen was beyond me since there was no paper. I thought perhaps some pearl of wisdom would appear and I would just scribble it on my forearm.

After the Q&A, I only had to wait an hour to sing. I spent most of that hour listening to one girl explain how she looks FAR younger than she is (she doesn't) and was having the hardest time finding the right heels (but chose wedges), given her calves are so fit from being a trainer and her heels are so sore form all the pilates. She wasn't sure which selection to sing, and spoke aloud as she attempted to find the perfect contrast of 16-bar cuts. She ended up singing what sounded like two full songs.

The rest of the room spent their time panicking that they would be cut off before they reached their 32nd bar and if they would catch the train back to Hartford.

I tried to remain calm. This was the first time since moving back to NYC that I felt I was in a race again and my rose colored glasses were quickly turning to jade. I looked down at my Northwestern University binder (maybe it's time to change that) and reminded myself that I had everything I needed to make this happen.

And then, I sang. I sang the song I knew would impress and I gave it everything I had. I wasn't nervous, I wasn't doubtful, I was only me. 

Agent: "Good. Do you WANT to sing something contrasting?"

Not since college had I been asked to be contrasting. I WANTED to eat a burger. I hadn't eaten anything in 12 hours. At that moment, everything inside of me crumbled as I sang a second song.

Agent: "I think I've heard that song before."
Me: "Oh, I'm sure you've heard it a million times."

I then managed to word vomit a list of every Broadway performer who had sung the song as if he was giving me a test of its legitimacy.

Agent: "...somebody recorded it."

This time, I only answered with one name and quietly said "thank you" as if I had passed.

I left the building with the new realization that I had fully hit reset. I was just thankful I looked far younger than I actually am and made a pledge to do more pilates.

That burger tasted AMAZING,

TJB: Making It

Humble Beginnings

I was so excited to get back into the audition circuit that I woke myself up with the sun.

Actually, the sun just wakes me up because my bed is next to a curtain-less window that faces east and if I don't wake up my face will melt. Nonetheless, it was a convenience more than a nuisance on this day. Since I am once again an unrepresented nobody, I'm back to early mornings of fending for myself among the non-union hopefuls, showing up early to sign up for a chance at the big, broad way.

I threw on an outfit that said, "I got this," (which means I currently own three outfits and this one was the least wrinkled) and strutted to the train. On my way up the stairs to the platform, I tumbled forward and fell flat to the stairs. I thought about God and why he wanted me to fail. I laid there for a second to let the drama sink in. Then, I brushed myself off with a swipe of resilience and put in my headphones to drown out the doubt.

I arrived to the audition studio one hour before sign-ups began. 16 people were in line. Great. Not only did I tell myself I didn't have time to get coffee, but only 3 of those 16 were union and would get to sign up before me. Within the group of 16 was one old man, four nerdy types, and three bros who wanted everyone to recognize their presence. They seem to have woken up that morning with a marketing degree and thought, "Hey, I could be an actor. I have nice hair."

They will likely book it.

There was also one 19 year old white girl, who has either never seen The Book of Mormon or really just didn't have any f*cks to give.

I feel you, girl.

I signed up for a later appointment to give myself time to print new resumes. As I stood in FedEx stapling my newly designed "I'm a single actor" resumes to my "I used to be this young" headshots, I noticed something strange. Normally, the agent's contact information would be at the top and bottom of my resume. As a single actor, my own e-mail address and phone number glow below my name. But that wasn't my phone number.

It was my mother's.

I didn't even know my own phone number. I took the stack of hot-off-the-press mommy's cell resumes and threw them in the trash. I had no time to go back and edit my resume on my computer, so I had to call in a favor...to Chicago. Poetic justice. My graphic designing Best Friend Work Friend pulled through for me and edited the snafu before I could even pour the zero-calorie sweetener into my Starbucks.

I was golden. I went back to my audition just after lunch with a spring in my step. I could practically taste the production contract as I smirked at the 10 schmucks in line behind me. Though they all had agent's letterheads on their resumes, they were SCHMUCKS I SAY!

I entered the room, gave a glowing smile, and belted higher than I had ever belted. I sounded like an angel.

The casting assistant looked up only once and thanked me for coming in a well rehearsed congenial tone.

So this is what the cold hard ground feels like. You were right, T-Swift.

Please nobody call my mom,

TJB: Making It