Actors Are People Too: Sometimes

As I've been pretending to have any business being a published author, I've had the opportunity to reread and re-edit all of my earliest bitchings. I'll admit that I became embarrassingly emotional looking back at my first few weeks in New York City, remembering the wide-eyed hope with which I entered the audition room, feeling that I was just seconds away from being discovered. Where was that Queen these days, shorn of his blonde swoop bangs and invincible hope?

I decided it was time to go back to my roots. Pound the pavement in search of what I once knew. 

So when I walked into my first general E.P.A. in two years (Equity Principal Audition for you normals - that means going for the big roles), I was forced to do a double take. A triple take. A QUADRUPLE take. Not only was I transported back to being the boy in the blue hoodie, but they were all there. Like some f*cked up Wizard of Oz. Every single person I had written about from the first weeks of New York Life. Looking aloof. Sipping tea. And hugging. Oh my God, they're still hugging. 

There was the boy who got the role instead of me. My first New York audition, shafted by a kid from Harvard. Not only that, but one line over was the chatty Asian girl, her days as a cover in Spring Awakening almost a decade ago.

Then, there was the gay guy on my left from the West Side Story dance call.  He's had quite a successful career since I laughed at his leotard, so I guess the joke's on me. 

And then there was the guy with this ass that was like, "WHAT?" I've never written about him before, but it's so weird to be in a room where you can tell everybody is just looking at one person's butt like, "WHAT?" I mean, it was like what you imagine when somebody says, "Butt," and you're like, "Oh yeah. That's what a butt should look like." Well done, him. 

My point is, I began to think that I had fallen years behind my peers. They were out there being stars, and I was hunched over my keyboard trying to make the last three years sound interesting. 

Turns out, they're all still standing in line at 8 o'clock in the morning trying to pay bills in their dance shoes. 

And I was so happy to see them. 

Maybe I'll hug them next time. 

Just kidding don't touch me,

TJB: Making It

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

And we'll never be royals.

Ladies and gentleman, my serving days are over. I am a restaurant manager.

Did you just raise an eyebrow? I sure did. In fact, when I opened my mouth to suggest they hire me as the new recruit, the voice inside my head was shouting, "Shut the hell up! What are you doing? You have zero qualifications or experience. There's not even a karaoke night."

Still, as I like to say: if you went to Northwestern, you can do whatever you want. So, here I am doing it.

OK, the job is not as glamorous as I would like it to sound. Essentially, I keep the place from burning down and entertain wealthy New Yorkers with jokes about wine and kids-these-days before they have a chance to scoff at their scallops. On paper it says "Assisatant", and I even took a pay cut (though I managed to negotiate far above the initial offer. My former agent would be proud.) However, if I'm going to stuff 100 pictures of my face into envelopes to land on the desks of new agents' interns in the hopes that I will one day sing another 16 bars, I might as well set the goddamn tray down and pour a glass of wine.

And I think I have a lot of potential in this field.

Potential. That's a word best reserved for funerals.

I figure if I'm going to be famous before I'm thirty, I could open a restaurant for my forties. I've always been a good multitasker.

The hostess asked if I had a nose job because my bone structure is so flawless. I think we'll keep her.

Looking forward to the new karaoke night,

TJB: Making It

1,000 Words

Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a huge fan of myself. Sure, I have prominent cheekbones, a stabbing jawline, and over six feet of angelic white skin. I also have an oddly shaped head, the biceps of a sapling, and really weird baby toes. I guess we are our own toughest critics.

Unless you're an actor, and then everybody else is twice as tough and far less nice. Seriously, you should hear what some casting offices have said about my baby toes.

When it comes to picking a new headshot, I turn 13-year-old-girl-called-fat-in-the-locker-room. There's nothing like sorting through 500 pictures of yourself trying to find one that doesn't make you want to cut your face off.

Do I really smile like that? What's wrong with my ears? Is my nose too big or too small? Do I have a lazy eye and nobody told me?

Then, you find it. That one photo that represents your essence, capturing a moment in time that reflects your true self. In my case, this is the photo that makes you wonder if I'm about to say "I love you", "I hate you", or "Go fuck yourself".

Of course, once you've found that perfect reflection of your soul, you have a team of people airbrush the hell out of it until you look like a Ken doll.

Just kidding, I barely needed any retouching.

Go fuck yourself. JK.

I love you (I hate you),

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

Parents Can't Stop My Swerve

Great parents have a strange way of making you feel like you can do anything, but also that you can't do anything right. My parents are probably the best parents, so I spent a weekend feeling both incredibly motivated and incredibly disappointed in myself.

Just kidding, I'm like the best son in the world. 

What being around my parents does make feel is incredibly single. Anyone who's met my parents knows they're pretty close...in a weird Ben Stiller movie sort of way. They do everything together, including Pilates...every morning...even in my studio apartment. I would have complained about the time and lack of space, but then I saw the shoes they bought me. 

Now, anyone who's met me (or read my blog) knows that I'm pretty sure I peaked when I was 17 and will never find another  5'7", 115 lb. jerk to date me again. I get closer to the proverbial knife the longer I go without having interaction with gay men who are not actors, or every time a Trader Joe's cashier comments on my purchase of ice cream, wine, and chocolate. 

No, it's not going to be a romantic night. 

So when my best friend texted me at dinner to say she was suddenly in the mood to go out, I left my parents with the check, threw on a printed top, and took some shots before I dragged that bitch to the gay bar. It had been weeks since I had seen a v-neck T and vodka tonics. I was like a kid at the circus. We perched ourselves at the head of the bar (6'1 blondes belong at the top), and overlooked the colorful kingdom of queens. 

Before I had even finished my first drink, some drunk in a tank top came over to whisper far too loudly into my ear, "My friend in the green shirt over there really wants to talk to you."

I WAS BACK! And green shirt was real  handsome. Sure, he was wearing American Eagle, or Hollister, or something that was popular in 2002, but he was pretty and that's all that mattered. 

No, I didn't go talk to him. Hell, I hadn't even finished my first drink. Have some respect before you prematurely approach me. The point is, I was reminded that I am not completely undesirable just because I spend my time in the shadows of straights.

Watch out kweens, the sun is shining and so is this jawline. And if my spring wardrobe has anything to say about it, I'll have a new ex-boyfriend by the 4th of July!

Now if my hag could just finish finals,

TJB: Making It

something about this

I remember sitting in my AP English class senior year of high school. It was "college prep week" and we were in the computer lab researching our major requirements so we'd know what to expect the coming fall. I was a Political Science major at Northwestern University. I sat staring at the screen questioning my entire existence (as any emotional 18 year old does). My hand shot up.

Me: What if I don't want to do this?

As a valedictorian (I had to get that in there), I could tell my teacher was confused by my resistance.

Teacher: The assignment?
Me: No. This. I don't want to do this. I don't want to be a lawyer.
Teacher: So don't. But you have to do something.

That's the day I became an actor.

Six years later, I'm drinking out of a Harvard coffee mug from 2004 in the middle of Chicago thinking, "What the hell is this?"

The truth is, America, I don't really care. I've been having a pretty baller time since I grew a pair of nuts in 2007. When you realize it takes less than 5 seconds to change life, you kind of just start chilling. And as long as you keep doing something, everything else just sort of takes care of itself. Yeah, I'm sure there will come a day when I'm 55 thinking, "Well, shit, maybe I should have..." but probably not. I'll probably get pushed in front of a train first, and then I'll just be thinking, "Well, shit."

So relax, people. Whenever you feel like your life is a mess, just be grateful you didn't document it in a blog. And whenever you think I'm upset or stressed or care, just remember one thing: I'm an actor. None of this really matters. Something does, but not this.

I'm gonna be something,

TJB: Making It