Careers are for Queers (and I need one)

I met with a manager yesterday. The meeting had been rescheduled several times over the past week - just enough anticipation for me to draft an acceptable award speech I could use for either a Tony or Emmy (I had already committed to ad-libbing the Oscars.)

The manager had been introduced to me through my agent-who-didn't-want-to-be-my-agent-again while I was dressed in a youth sized football uniform at a Halloween party. You can imagine how I thought this was the perfect business relationship to foster six months later. But since I had just finished a successful spec script of The Mindy Project that received rave reviews (from my roommate), I decided it was time to jump back into performing. Keep myself rounded. And since my last 20 submissions of headshots and resumes went unanswered, why not start with that guy who saw me drunkenly eat finger foods?

Before you completely write off my ability to live as an independent adult, know that I used my tax return to go to the dentist this weekend. I had a cavity. Probably too many fistfulls of Lucky Charms before bed.

I woke up for the meeting with just enough time to decide which shoes to wear. Outfits can be decided the night before, but shoes are so dependent on the weather and how conveniently close my Converse are to the door. Like a good gay, I wore my expensive shoes and forgot to eat before I left.

When I arrived, I was handed a clipboard of papers to fill out. It was helpful that most of the first page wanted the information for my agents I didn't have, so I could skip straight to pages 2 and 3.

Pages 2 and 3 consisted of columns and columns of skills. In each category, I was asked to rank my ability from 0-9. Fuck being a 10. I imagined some crafty potential-talent had ranked themselves a 1-0 in singing ability, and when they bombed their first audition and the management questioned their perfect 10 self-evaluation, the talent said, "Oh no no no. I said I was between ONE and ZERO."

0-9 it was.

Once I had ranked myself in "Aerobics" (I gave myself a 7 because I was familiar with, had never done, but was fairly confident in my ability to pick it up quickly) and had come across "Billiards" a second time (I guessed too many people had confused "Pool" with "Swimming," or this list had not been updated since 1965), I started to wonder if it was all a test. Perhaps if I actually finished the list, they considered me a desperate loser who would rub my belly and pat my head for any chance at fame. But if I called them out on their endless list of surely useless skills, I risked looking like an asshole. Perhaps this list was a proven path for countless stars. What did I know?

I did know that I had no knowledge of any of the 6 listed types of horseback riding. I finished the list and patted my head.

Then, I approached the manager. He asked for my headshot and resume, pointed out my blank first page, and quickly scanned through my skillset. Suddenly, "Do you know the difference between an agent and a manager?"

I wanted to say I barely knew how good I was at Aerobics and this question was probably not the best start for somebody who had just turned 25 and paid $200K at a top-tier university. I wanted to say that I knew I appeared embarrassingly unprepared and novice compared to my peers who can kick their face and cry on cue. Instead, I rattled off what I remembered from the last time a manager raised an eyebrow at me. I was sinking fast.

"Do you have any questions for me?"

It was the question that let you know the meeting was over. And though I had so many questions, my survival instincts kicked in.

"No. But where are you from originally?"

OH my GOD, why didn't I just say "world peace"?

"Why?" he asked in just the right way to allow me one more chance at redemption.
"Because you don't seem like somebody who's from New York" I said in just the right way to make it clear that I absolutely already knew he was from New York and recognized there were so many bullets in my foot that one more shot wouldn't matter.

He politely handed me his business card and told me to sleep on it. Consider if a manager is the move I want to make at this point in my career.

As the elevator doors opened, I thought, "First Impressions: [1-0]."

I spent $300 on a tooth,

TJB: Making It

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