and still no TV show or book deal?!

After the trip from HELL in New Jersey, things could only get better.

JK, things got worse.

What did you expect? If you're just jumping on the band wagon of this blog, I suggest you go back to the first post and start reading. You'll see a trend...a large...downhill...trend...that has no intention of changing.

We (the people) have been cursed since day one. I've been waiting for the call from the production company saying they've scrapped the rest of the tour, but I think they're enjoying the blog too much. We've already cost them thousands of dollars in cancelled shows, towing fees, and overtime...copious amounts of overtime...

But let's review the day. We were originally supposed to leave NYC at 3 p.m. to arrive in Nowhereville, CT by 6. Due to our recent luck, the company suggested we leave at noon. HOW RIGHT THEY WERE!!

I decided to try my luck behind the wheel and actually enjoyed driving Betsy Ross (that's what we appropriately named the bitch of a van). Betsy wasn't too keen on accelerating or going up hills, but we guessed that her 60mph cap would still get us to our destination in plenty of time.

But it seems to be that time of the month for Betsy...

Let me remind you that Betsy underwent an inspection on Monday but broke down on Tuesday to be repaired on Wednesday to be approved for safe driving on Thursday.

An hour into the trip, we again began to smell that burning everything. The engine light came on as if to say "F YOU IDIOTS! DID YOU REALLY THINK IT WOULD BE THAT EASY?!" We pulled over at an Applebees and decided to ignore our fate over some luke-warm boneless wings.

Then we decided to hold the sword ourselves as we ran into its blade. Back into the van we went.

Not half an hour later, Betsy began smoking like the overheated skank she was.

Oh, but hey, at least we were right next to that rundown rest stop in the middle of MURDERVILLE. Seriously, I've never seen a better location for a homicide. Thankfully, my cast member (the African Princess) told me she wrote a research paper on rest stop murders back at Ol' Penn State and assured me

that it was very likely we would be murdered.

We had no choice but to sit and wait as pawns of the low-budget theatre gods.

The company told us they would be sending another van from NYC.

WAIT WAIT WAIT HOLD ON ONE SECOND! THERE WAS ANOTHER VAN!? ANOTHER VAN WE COULD HAVE TAKEN!? A VAN THAT HAPPENED TO BE PRACTICALLY BRAND NEW WITH BEAUTIFUL SEATS AND POWER LOCKS AND INSULATION AS WELL AS A WORKING RADIO?!

So who pointed their finger to smite us with Betsy Ross?

We sat at that rest stop in the pouring rain for 4 hours. In that 4 hours I sat on a bench...sat in the van...stood on a rock...sat on a rock...sat on a table...I even stood on the table...

and I pissed 6 times just to make myself feel like some part of being stuck at a rest stop was worth it.

Once the van finally showed up we happily jumped in and soared to our destination.

JK, are you kidding me?

We had to unload the entire set from the old van to the new van...in the dark...avoiding the hungry eyes of homicide.

But don't worry readers. I am safely in my hotel room. The 3 hour journey only took 9 and I can now kick back in the glorious LaQuinta Inn (that allows pets...lots and lots of pets...like...there's a dog race in the hall right now).

Thank GOD Connecticut has beer.

Shouldn't have laughed at Schoolhouse Rock,

TJB: Making It

Screw the Handbasket, I Went to Hell in a Red Van

Day 1 Take 2 was off to a great start. Even with Franklin getting on the wrong train (damn that privileged suburban upbringing) we were all there before 6 a.m. And thanks to union rules, we actually had to sit and wait until 6 a.m. to get in the van and start driving.

Washington had a lot to make up for and was the only person who seemed semi-awake, so he took the wheel like a champ. We arrived to the school with plenty of time for set-up and soundcheck. WAS IT POSSIBLE?! WE BOUNCED BACK FROM OUR CURSED BEGINNINGS!


JK, of course it's not possible.


Apparently, even though we were contractually obligated to have at least one representative from the venue help set-up, the wonderful people of Bumfuk, New Jersey didn't think it was necessary to follow the rules...any of the rules. Thankfully, they had created a stage 5 feet above the ground in the center of an acoustically challenged behemoth of a gymnasium. Thankfully, we had a shit ton of heavy set pieces to carry up the rickety staircase placed on the opposite side of the enormous gymnasium. Thankfully, there were no children present during set-up to hear the copious amounts of profanities I was forced to shout...and boy did the acoustics carry those.


As we approached showtime, it was very clear we were in trouble. We had blown through our Equity breaks (that's so we can't sue them for slavery) and were already getting paid overtime for not getting our half hour to rest before curtain (that's so I can put my face on). Exhausted, we prepared for soundcheck.


And then we were approached by an angel of an educator who decided it was time to let the kids into the gym so she could sneak off for a cigarette and quickie with the vice principal. When we tried to explain that we would be unable to do a soundcheck with all of the kids entering the gym, she retorted with, "Then I guess you're not doing a soundcheck".


Dear New Jersey: SUCK IT.


We were helpless. The actors silently put on our costumes. We crossed our fingers and strapped on our never before tested mics to make our debut performance.


I'd love to go into details of the show but I'll just say this:


Pretend you dragged a DVD across a concrete block and then attempted to watch it. In one ear, you hear half the actors at an eardrum bursting volume. In the other ear, you hear half the actors through a steel barricade. The picture is skipping like crazy and you're not even sure if the movie's in English. You try to laugh and applaud at the appropriate moments, but you're kind of still trying to figure out why you dragged your DVD across the concrete block.

and suddenly we were taking our bows.

We tore down our set and compared notes on when we each blacked out during the show. I made it the longest, staying conscious until the 4th measure of the opening number.


Only one thing could save our day: The Olive Garden.


JK, nothing could save our day.


16 miles outside of Manhattan I was awoken from a nap by the smell of burning...well, the smell of burning everything. It appeared our van was smoking and we pulled over to the side of the highway with zero signs of civilization (because nothing in Jersey counts as civilization). We opened the hood and pretended like any of us had any business being under the hood of a vehicle. We each picked our favorite generic car problem (oil leak, low coolant, dead squirrel in the engine) and flipped through the manual for good measure.


Then, Washington came out from under the hood holding a torn up rubber belt and pointed out a snapped tube of wires that even the gayest of me's could tell was not how this car was built. Knowing we were screwed, we all did what any actor in distress would do...call our parents...


After none of them offered to drive from their side of the country to make it all better, we called our theatre company.


One would assume that a company which tours hundreds of shows in vans would have some form of roadside assistance. Wanna guess if mine does?

I'm assuming you guessed right, because if the answer were yes, this blog post would be over.



We had to find our own tow truck.

When Alejandro of "All Car Towing" (they're good at naming things in Jersey) showed up to drag our sorry-ass van to his shop, we noticed there was no replacement vehicle for us. We assumed there was one on its way.


JK, we knew there wasn't one on its way because we knew how F-ed we were.

When Alejandro informed the 6 of us that we would all have to go with him in the cab of his tow truck, we half-chuckled at the joke...until we realized that tattooed and burly Alejandro had probably  never told a joke in his life. So like the clowns we were, we shoved into the 3 cubic inches of cab space next to Alejandro.

I'm pretty sure the shifter raped me.


10 miles later, we were at Alejandro's garage and had accepted that we would all be slaughtered and sold as ground beef. The torn up Cinderella child's sofa and discarded vacuums in front of the abandoned car wash seemed to say "RUN". But Alejandro spared us and called a cab instead.


Wanna be a cab driver in Jersey? Do you have a printer? You do? Great! Just print off 3 sheets of paper that say "Taxi" in a large Arial font, paste them to your windows and you're in business!



The "cab driver" said he could take us to the nearest train station, and after we traded some jokes about tripping on acid, he actually dropped us off at a train station. Finally we could go back to Manhattan.


JK, of course it wouldn't be that easy. We were only 4 hours into our 16 mile journey.


When a train finally arrived, we collapsed into the seats. One stop into the route, we realized we hadn't moved for a pretty solid chunk of time. The conductor came over the loudspeaker and explained that there were signal issues and we would be delayed for up to two hours.


And like the bitches of fate we were, we sat on that train for the entire two hours.


When we finally arrived at Penn Station, we looked like liberated prisoners straight out of Dachau. We couldn't even form coherent sentences and we simply stumbled away from each other with a half-hearted wave.


I have never been to Hell readers, but I bet you it will soon renovate itself to look like a trip through Jersey...as you watch our opening performance on repeat...


I can only imagine what this trip will be like once hotels are involved.



Writing my will now,


TJB: Making It

Screw the Handbasket, I Went to Hell in a Red Van

Day 1 Take 2 was off to a great start. Even with Franklin getting on the wrong train (damn that privileged suburban upbringing) we were all there before 6 a.m. And thanks to union rules, we actually had to sit and wait until 6 a.m. to get in the van and start driving.

Washington had a lot to make up for and was the only person who seemed semi-awake, so he took the wheel like a champ. We arrived to the school with plenty of time for set-up and soundcheck. WAS IT POSSIBLE?! WE BOUNCED BACK FROM OUR CURSED BEGINNINGS!

JK, of course it's not possible.

Apparently, even though we were contractually obligated to have at least one representative from the venue help set-up, the wonderful people of Bumfuk, New Jersey didn't think it was necessary to follow the rules...any of the rules. Thankfully, they had created a stage 5 feet above the ground in the center of an acoustically challenged behemoth of a gymnasium. Thankfully, we had a shit ton of heavy set pieces to carry up the rickety staircase placed on the opposite side of the enormous gymnasium. Thankfully, there were no children present during set-up to hear the copious amounts of profanities I was forced to shout...and boy did the acoustics carry those.

As we approached showtime, it was very clear we were in trouble. We had blown through our Equity breaks (that's so we can't sue them for slavery) and were already getting paid overtime for not getting our half hour to rest before curtain (that's so I can put my face on). Exhausted, we prepared for soundcheck.

And then we were approached by an angel of an educator who decided it was time to let the kids into the gym so she could sneak off for a cigarette and quickie with the vice principal. When we tried to explain that we would be unable to do a soundcheck with all of the kids entering the gym, she retorted with, "Then I guess you're not doing a soundcheck".

Dear New Jersey: SUCK IT.

We were helpless. The actors silently put on our costumes. We crossed our fingers and strapped on our never before tested mics to make our debut performance.

I'd love to go into details of the show but I'll just say this:

Pretend you dragged a DVD across a concrete block and then attempted to watch it. In one ear, you hear half the actors at an eardrum bursting volume. In the other ear, you hear half the actors through a steel barricade. The picture is skipping like crazy and you're not even sure if the movie's in English. You try to laugh and applaud at the appropriate moments, but you're kind of still trying to figure out why you dragged your DVD across the concrete block.

and suddenly we were taking our bows.

We tore down our set and compared notes on when we each blacked out during the show. I made it the longest, staying conscious until the 4th measure of the opening number.

Only one thing could save our day: The Olive Garden.

JK, nothing could save our day.

16 miles outside of Manhattan I was awoken from a nap by the smell of burning...well, the smell of burning everything. It appeared our van was smoking and we pulled over to the side of the highway with zero signs of civilization (because nothing in Jersey counts as civilization). We opened the hood and pretended like any of us had any business being under the hood of a vehicle. We each picked our favorite generic car problem (oil leak, low coolant, dead squirrel in the engine) and flipped through the manual for good measure.

Then, Washington came out from under the hood holding a torn up rubber belt and pointed out a snapped tube of wires that even the gayest of me's could tell was not how this car was built. Knowing we were screwed, we all did what any actor in distress would do...call our parents...

After none of them offered to drive from their side of the country to make it all better, we called our theatre company.

One would assume that a company which tours hundreds of shows in vans would have some form of roadside assistance. Wanna guess if mine does?

I'm assuming you guessed right, because if the answer were yes, this blog post would be over.

We had to find our own tow truck.

When Alejandro of "All Car Towing" (they're good at naming things in Jersey) showed up to drag our sorry-ass van to his shop, we noticed there was no replacement vehicle for us. We assumed there was one on its way.

JK, we knew there wasn't one on its way because we knew how F-ed we were.

When Alejandro informed the 6 of us that we would all have to go with him in the cab of his tow truck, we half-chuckled at the joke...until we realized that tattooed and burly Alejandro had probably  never told a joke in his life. So like the clowns we were, we shoved into the 3 cubic inches of cab space next to Alejandro.

I'm pretty sure the shifter raped me.

10 miles later, we were at Alejandro's garage and had accepted that we would all be slaughtered and sold as ground beef. The torn up Cinderella child's sofa and discarded vacuums in front of the abandoned car wash seemed to say "RUN". But Alejandro spared us and called a cab instead.

Wanna be a cab driver in Jersey? Do you have a printer? You do? Great! Just print off 3 sheets of paper that say "Taxi" in a large Arial font, paste them to your windows and you're in business!

The "cab driver" said he could take us to the nearest train station, and after we traded some jokes about tripping on acid, he actually dropped us off at a train station. Finally we could go back to Manhattan.

JK, of course it wouldn't be that easy. We were only 4 hours into our 16 mile journey.

When a train finally arrived, we collapsed into the seats. One stop into the route, we realized we hadn't moved for a pretty solid chunk of time. The conductor came over the loudspeaker and explained that there were signal issues and we would be delayed for up to two hours.

And like the bitches of fate we were, we sat on that train for the entire two hours.

When we finally arrived at Penn Station, we looked like liberated prisoners straight out of Dachau. We couldn't even form coherent sentences and we simply stumbled away from each other with a half-hearted wave.

I have never been to Hell readers, but I bet you it will soon renovate itself to look like a trip through Jersey...as you watch our opening performance on repeat...

I can only imagine what this trip will be like once hotels are involved.


Writing my will now,

TJB: Making It

Opening Days Happen Once. Adventures Are Forever.

There have been so many times in my still recent life that I've been going to bed when the sun is rising...and oh how I miss college for that reason.

So you can imagine how waking up at the ass-crack of dawn...scratch that we weren't even at the ass-crack yet...was WAY less fun. I dragged myself out of bed at 4:15a.m. to warsh my weave n' powder my nose. I grabbed my caffeine on the way to the train and pumped myself up for opening day.

As usual, I was the first one to the meeting site (SO PROFESH). I took the time to begin warming up my belt like a true diva and waited for the others. Two were not far behind me, followed by the stage manager. We were picking one cast bro up on the way, so 5 minutes before departure time, that just meant we were waiting for one! We were on a GREAT start to the first day!

Then five minutes passed and 6 a.m. hit. Some phone calls were made. The phone was off.

Five more minutes passed. More calls were made. An urgent voicemail was left. Phone still off.

Ten more minutes passed. Angry voicemails were left. Phone still off.

The three punctual cast members tried to remain positive by spraying the interior of the ghetto van with its only-opens-from-the-outside back door and questionably-stained seats. However, there was no saving the stage manager. As she "made some calls", we turned the other cheek.

The present cast had already made it into reviewing Broadway dance calls by the time half an hour passed and the stage manager was forced to contact higher powers. As this was our first show and there were no understudies, we were told our only option was to wait for the missing member.

Once an hour passed, it seemed that all hope was lost. We sat collapsed in the van as the sun rose, already two hours after we had risen from our beauty sleep...and the beauty was crackin fast.

And then the phone rang. The missing piece was finally awake...and terrified...and rightfully so.

"GET IN A CAB" were the only words spoken to him. Twenty minutes later, he was shoved in the van and away we went...speechless...horrified and 2 hours from showtime. Plans were made to abbreviate the set-up and expedite the process of load-in. The venue was notified and all our fingernails had been nervously chewed before we even hit the highway.

As we approached the exit to pick up the final cast member, the worst happened. The venue cancelled. All oxygen in the decrepit van seemed to seep out its cracks.  Perhaps that's what the questionable drip stains on the interior fabric were...hope.

We pulled off the highway for coffee and donuts with the final cast member. We hung our heads in embarrassment. I stepped in dog poop. It was the saddest collection of small-budget theatre in the tri-state area. After an hour of convincing ourselves we still had a reason to live, we piled back in the van and returned to NYC...at least we tried...somehow we ended up Jersey for a hot second...that GWB is misleading.

Then I got us VIP tickets to David Letterman and we had margaritas because THAT'S HOW I ROLL BITCH.

Should've booked Junie B. Jones Bumfuk, CT. Sorry bout it.

Cross your fingers Tuesday,

TJB: Making It

Friday is for Feelings

I've said it before and I'll say it again:

I do not like actors.

I also don't believe in half-assed emotions (I'm an Aries, which a lot of people say justifies my anger)...so I guess let me rephrase:

I hate actors.

Why do I hate actors? I don't know. My therapist (aka my dad...hey Dad!...JK he doesn't know how to use the "online"...) will probably tell you it's because I hate myself. Maybe I do hate myself (JK have you seen this bone structure?!), but that doesn't change the fact that I HATE ACTORS.

Seriously, look at us. We're pushy, we're self-absorbed, we're usually extremely misguided (YOU WILL NEVER BE FANNY BRICE) and incredibly attention hungry. Rarely do we actually care what happens below the surface as long as there's confetti or an 11 o'clock number involved in our immediate future. When we DO care about what's happening below the surface, we usually hope it's torturous, brooding, and psychologically disturbed, and only so we have an excuse to put our personal problems on a stage for the world to see. The world then admires us for our strength to approach such heartfelt matters in such a public way, but we're just happy to be awarded with shiny statues and paychecks for something most people pay thousands of dollars to deal with in private. THEN we can feel fulfilled.

But don't worry. You normal, everyday people "relate" to us.

I also don't like to use generalizations.

I realize that everything prior to this statement is a generalization...except for the very specific actors that I actually, really do hate...but they probably hate me equally...and they can suck it...Hey guys! LOVE that shirt! (JK you look chunky in that shirt.)

But fast forward to the actors that somehow avoid the generalizations. There are, shockingly enough, actors that somehow manage to stay grounded...and by "grounded" I mean the actors that acknowledge how absolutely absurd and ridiculous this profession is and how absurd and ridiculous they are. They still plan to be a star, kick your ass, and win a Tony, but they do it in such a way that you believe and (dare I say) trust that they actually care about you.

And as an actor, all I want is for people to care about me.

And those caring actors, my dear readers, are the actors that I have the pleasure to work with on a daily basis. Never in my life have I sat down amongst other actors and felt like I wasn't trying to keep up. Never have I experienced an actor that would sit down, casually drink straight whiskey with me (dude, bro, love, no homo, yes homo) and say, "This is me. Here I am. My balls are exposed for you to punch." I mean metaphorically. I've had a lot of balls vulnerably exposed to me in my time (oh hey F15), but never in such a heartfelt way.

Am I being too sentimental? Maybe. Am I still riding high on the buzz of Happy Hour? Absolutely.

But I'm going to say it world:

I love these actors.

and if they don't love me back...they can suck it.

Love and Hate are two sides of the same coin.

It's probably a penny,

TJB: Making It

I Work With Famous People

The choreographer for my show choreographed Everyday Rapture. When I found out, I almost wet myself. I have known this choreography since I first saw it and am now in love with my choreographer.

Story: this song was added to the show the last night of tech when the director felt a new finale was needed. The choreographer had to come up with the choreo on the spot, knowing Sherie was not a good dancer. She had to teach it to the three ladies in the bathroom on a break. The movements are inspired by Ms. Scott's tendency to talk with her hands...her beautiful golden hands...

and oh yeah...my choreographer has touched Sherie's hands...

How do I get her to touch mine?

More lotion,

TJB: Making It

LINE

You know that tone your parents use when you're not exactly sure what you did but based on how they're speaking you assume you're a huge disappointment? Like, the second you came out of the womb they've just been thinking "pfffffft boooooo no thank you".

That tone.

Now imagine that you just sprinted a marathon while waving your arms in circles and screaming at the top of your lungs. You're exhausted just thinking about it, right? You're sweating in places you didn't know had sweat glands and no amount of Speed Stick can apologize for how you smell.

NOW...imagine your parents speaking to you in that tone of voice after having watched what you just went through.

WELCOME to the life of an actor, where you can always assume you are never good enough.

"GOOD" DOESN'T WIN TONYS PEOPLE! Then again, neither do the fourth re-mountings of a touring children's musical. Yet somehow, the expectations are the same.

And MY GOD I will pour sweat from my kneecaps and toenails until I meet them or I will personally wipe your ass with my equity card.

But aside from the first run of our show in costume (and I look GOOD in a powdered wig) after which we're pretty sure our director questioned his entire existence and put our names on his "Never Cast Again" list...it was a pretty good day. And with two more days of rehearsal before our first show I can say

we are officially screwed.

Sorry 'bout it Generic Jr. High in Boofoo, CT. See you on Monday!

And in the middle of the train wreck, they held auditions for a replacement Franklin (don't go PLEEEASE). The response from the creative team?

"We saw people...we...saw....some people...there's...potential."

Only the cream of the crop for this show kids.

Well, gotta go memorize my lines. I'm not used to having more than 5.

Can I belt in Starbucks,

TJB: Making It