The last of my belongings are being schlepped from JFK today; Ian left for New York yesterday. One project opens tonight; four more known project open in the coming six months; three potential projects await choosing.
The results of sitting in those auditions two weeks ago are in: everyone I cast said yes. Unsurprisingly, the cast includes one girl who said "Do you take bribes? I'll bake a you a chocolate cake with pink frosting! Or purple!"
But will she? Will she really?
And that's the end of my focus. I can tell because the Beer Barrel Polka just began to play in my head.
Last night's five hours almost killed me, even though they included some highly entertaining moments. For example:
The girls we saw last night were either good or average...which, unfortunately is often the way it is with girls. There was a set of twins who auditioned and both were afflicted with Musical Theatre Voice, but I'm still calling them back because, duh, they were good and that voice goes away with vigorous shaking. But I do continue to be horrified by the large number of teenage girls who have a clearly visible spare tire round their middles when the rest of them is entirely thin. I don't get it. It's a fairly recent quality and a few summers ago I thought it was due to Pants You Can't Sit Down In. But now I think it might be hormones in dairy products.
Most often heard monologues:
Any monologue from a specially written monologue book is neither special nor well-written. Which makes it very difficult to tell if the poor choices are the fault of the actor or the writer or all the dumb adults who thought it would be a good idea to publish such a wretched tome. (But it also makes me think I should write one and include some auditioning tips in it because clearly they're in demand.)
And I very badly want a clips tape which includes every double take done towards the piano whenever a kid was horrified and shocked by what actual accompaniment sounded like.
All in all, it was a success. I have callbacks on Monday and I've got plenty of actors to give me a healthy cast. If all works out the way I'd like it to, I'll have a Circe who can play the trombone.
That's how many many students I will have seen audition by 9pm tomorrow...if no one else adds.
The only reason Monday's three hours and tonight's five hours were not entirely mind-numbing was that all auditioners are between the ages of 9-18.
Which means I can forgive them.
Poor monologue choices, poor song choices, freshly memorized pieces, choreographed gestures, no projection...you're forgiven. Sometimes I forgive them because it's clear that their parents told them it was a good idea to mime a little pig's tail or to bring in an actual dog. Sometimes I forgive them because they just have never been taught what to do. Sometimes I forgive them because they're singing "Lullaby of Broadway" and dancing along with some compressed choreography enhanced by a cardboard wrapping paper tube.
Of course, some of the students border on amazing and I'm really excited about the prospects of this upcoming project. (And one of those kids sang "Mama Mia" a capella along with do-do-do-do-do-dos.)
And I totally have a crush on one of the other directors--and he's totally the father of a local oft-seen-on-Seattle-stages actress. I've never had a crush on someone's dad before; it's oddly refreshing, much in the same way that laughing at the artistic director's comment of "All these kids are blending together for me. I look at them and think 'white kid,' 'white kid,' 'white kid.'" can add that extra bit of perspective when you're wondering why anyone's parents would get them a commercial agent.
Theatre spoils me. And not always in a good way.
Like, I recently received an e-vite to a birthday party and was confused as to why there were only 25 people on the list.
Years ago, I had a boyfriend who would only go to parties with me if I could prove that he would know everyone there because he was tired of meeting new people. (He is one of the people among the above 25, however.)
And I saw and still see his point: people are exhausting. Sometimes I have to hide in grocery store aisles if I spy folk I recognize. (This is true, my friends, I may have even done it to you. I believe that the grocery store, like the shower, is one of the few places where my time should be private and my own...unless I've invited you to come with me.)
But I still cannot stop myself from responding to or beginning conversations with strangers, be it the aging biker guy at Trees of Mystery who commented on my flexibility or the older woman at the campsite in Bay Center who looked apprehensive of the 32-year-old-me in pigtails: I get the feeling that it is my responsibility to make them feel comfortable and welcome in the world.
It's a curse, but sometimes it results in free sandwiches, desserts or drinks.
The best is talking to strange children: I'm sure my own children will be embarrassed by this some day, but I cannot resist. Especially when the strange children I'm talking to happen to be standing on the stairs of Yellow Dog's apartment in height order, lit by the skylight and wearing Catholic school girl uniforms. They immediately started telling me about a strict teacher who almost suspended someone on the second day of school!
My favorite strange child moment was one in the grocery store. I broke my own privacy rule and spoke to a child pushing his family's cart. But I had to. He was the smallest of the four kids and he got the dirty work. Which is what I said to him (more or less). He stared at me and we parted ways, me feeling somewhat embarrassed that my day job makes me feel like I can talk to whomever whenever.
A few aisles later, I saw him coming towards me, his head poking just over the handles of the cart. When we met in the middle of the aisle, he looked at me and said, "So, we meet again."
I don't know everyone who has been invited, but I'm going to the party of 25.
I have decided that my temporary duties include reading all incoming resumes and cover letters for this front desk position. Unfortunately, I did not decide that until today, which meant I only got to read two. Forturnately, the two were entertaining. Well, the first one was boring and I'm pretty sure the second one was an application along the lines of "see how you should actually hire me as a graphic designer rather than a receptionist?" due to its packaging.
Additionally, I have completed all actual tasks and have frittered as much time as I can stomach on the interweb. I forgot to bring reading material because I was too busy focusing on consuming cold medicine this morning. The only reading options on this desk include books I've already read and magazines with Dubya on the cover (and I cannot stomach that after the radio hits I took from the Republican convention). The only thing left for me is to open up the laptop and work on theatre tasks.
Luckily, this is the sort of place where I can bring my own computer and be questioned only by the IT guy. And all he wants to know is "how fast is it?"