another (commercial) audition: north bank

i have to say this: commercial auditions freak me all the way out because most of what it takes to get the gig has nothing to do with talent and everything to do with your "look" -- and God help me but what that means is an ever-evolving thing for me as a black woman. another blacktress broke it down for me in plain english one day as we were waiting to be seen for an american express commercial that's running incessantly right now: for movies, they like black girls with straight hair; for commercials, they prefer black girls with natural or "texturized" hair. problem is, i have hair that no one understands, except africans and very progressive african-americans. i think it's because film is usually about the fantasy (and let's face it, in most of america, straight hair is also what's considered to be prettier) and commercials are for the everyday moments, like clipping coupons or taking care of the kids. her suggestion: have hair that white people can understand -- especially if it's natural. if they don't understand it, they're afraid of it. and what they're afraid of, they won't hire. now does that sum up everything that's wrong with this country racially/ethnically or what.

i get a lot of callbacks for commercials but hey, look at me: i'm a size 6 which reads as "co-ed" or "young mom"; i have my own hair and nails which reads "real" or "sincere" (whatever that means); and i wear a minimum amount of make-up, for a clean, fresh-faced appearance, which reads "young". nobody cares how old i actually am. all they care about is what the camera says. the camera says that i'm in my early to mid-twenties. if i gained weight, it would definitely say something else.

a few months ago, my manager told me that if i weighed 75 more pounds, i'd work all the time. i know that he's right. my friend knows an actress that's agonizing about whether to lose the weight that she'd gained after a sudden illness. it seems that ever since she's gone from a 4/6 to a 16/18, she's been working non-stop. most of the big black women i know work all the time. but weight gain isn't an option for me. i think the reason why i don't have (and have never had) any health problems whatsoever is because i live at the gym, i eat very well and i pop vitamins after every meal. why trash all that for a paycheck? but i digress.

like i said, with most commercial auditions, they look at you and decide if they want you before you even open your mouth. but then once you make the first cut, all of the other things come into play. like being able to readjust for the camera, hitting your mark and -- oh, yeah -- acting. i got rid of all of my wierd nervous facial ticks and twitches when i did the it factor. six months or so of cameras following me around all the time pretty much did the trick. now i can readjust effortlessly, thank God.

this one was for north bank, at liz lewis casting in chelsea. (never heard of 'em. must be a regional thing.) they know me there and they like me a lot. i get seen for something there at least once a month and i usually get called back, so when i go in its like a mini meet 'n greet, which is nice. actually, getting called back but not getting the job isn't so horrible as my friend joan cargill loves to say, because at least i'm being considered for the job. an audition means i'm showing up, i'm here. a callback means i'm in the running, i'm in the game, i'm in play.

so when i came in, the guys at the front were friendly and cool (that always puts me at ease). one of them was playing the hook to the andy williams' song born free on an endless loop. i was like, whoa -- you're way too young to know who he is and why he's cool and he was like, whoa -- i'm way to young looking to know. it's all about what you look like, isn't it. and then he winked at me. (too-shay...) as he took my photo, he told me that everyone was supposed to sing that line in the audition. ha-ha, i thought, i know the whole song. (how sad is that?) this is going to be a hoot.

and it was. i went in with all of my things as props, turned to a wall as if i were making a point of purchase, and then i turn around and burst into song like julie andrews because i feel so free about my banking choices, now that i'm with north bank. no lines. just me singing born free a capella and looking genuinely elated -- but in a not theatrical/not cheesy/realistic way. "sing it the way you would if you just burst into song in real life," the agent suggested helpfully. and God help me, but all i could think about was mary poppins.

and then it was over. how could i fret about it? my hair was probably all wrong. (too black, too strong...) besides, i am to perform in the RENT 10th anniversary show at the nederlander tonight. i'm still trying to figure out what i'm going to wear!

so tell me something i don't know...

Your Power Level is: 86%

You have all the tools you need to be a success - both professionally and personally. You'll probably go beyond reaching your goals. You'll change the world (at least a little).

How Powerful Are You?

she-driver

i went to the dmv the other day on 34th and 6th, up the street from the manhattan mall. someone told me that it would be easier to get things done there instead of at the one uptown on 125th street. it sounded like a great idea—i didn’t even know that there was a dmv there. i went there in the early afternoon. what a zoo. all of humanity was there in its unwashed glory, in lines that looped back on themselves endlessly and somehow never moved. they snaked their way throughout the room, creating a kind of orderly confusion that was absurd. of course, i didn’t stay. but i did figure out what i had to do to get a learner’s permit and what forms of ID i had to bring with me upon my return. (my utility bill? you betcha!)

i didn’t think that i’d have to exert this much effort to do something this simple but i don’t care what it takes. i’ve decided to give myself a driver’s license for my birthday. that means i’ve got until june 30th to pull it off. my friend says he’ll gladly give me driving lessons in a parking lot deep in the heart of new jersey—it’s where he grew up, so he knows all about it—but i have to get my learner’s permit so we’ll be practicing legally. i have to skip town for a month in the middle of may so i don’t necessarily have that much time. and there’s a class that i’m required to take, too. yeesh. and of course there are fees. more money i don’t have.

but somehow i know that it’ll be worth it, if only to wipe that smug, smarmy look off of my entire family’s face and end once and for all the endless comedy routine that erupts whenever my name and the word car is mentioned in the same sentence.

that’s my real birthday present. that’s what i really want: to silence the peanut gallery.

oh and by the way—you maybe wondering why didn’t i learn how to drive before now, because it’s such a rite of passage for teenagehood and i’m waaaay past all that and everybody’s got one and i don’t. actually, i’ve got three good reasons. just for the record, here they are:

1. from what i observed as a kid, being able to drive a car meant that i was handy for running errands. it didn’t mean that i had any real degree of freedom. i couldn’t do what i wanted to do, just because i had a driver’s license. the only thing that would give me that freedom was leaving home. clearly a jet airliner was in order, not a car. everybody wasn’t thinking like me. i know plenty of people who haven’t left their hometown yet.

1. i have spent most of my adult life in nyc—a place that has an excellent transportation system. owning a car is expensive, anyway. nevermind paying it off or the gas or parking issues. usually, you have to pay for a place to keep it when it’s not in use. i usually walk to where i’m going. when the weather’s warm, i ride a bike. most of my friends who live elsewhere drive everywhere—and they look it.

1. when i did live in texas as a college student, i rode a motorcycle—and i didn’t need to have a driver’s license to ride one. i needed a motorcycle license.

See more progress on: learn how to drive a car

effing brilliant

another audition: imagine tap

it was all laid out for me and i did everything that i was supposed to do: i was to sing blues music (a walk in the park for me if there ever was one) but i brought sheet music anyway and made sure that it was well-marked. i had extra headshots. i looked fantastic even by my own exacting standards, thanks to those late-night runs in the park. (i'm finally starting to see progress, thank God.) everything was in place -- except for my voice. it left me sometime in the night as i slept fitfully, thanks to post nasal drip from my raw nose and a lack of humidity in my room. unusual, because i kept my humidifier running constantly but i didn't realize that it had run out of water. a vocal audition with no voice. believe it or not, i showed up anyway. ballsy, right?

but i had to. it was for a show that was in development -- and i want to originate work, not replicate it. gwen called me for this one. zane mark is the md and darryl waters is involved as well. john would be playing piano for the audition. i figured it would be like old home week (we all worked on harlem song together) -- and it was. immediately, i was completely at ease -- which left me free to concentrate on giving zane what he needed in terms of intent, phrasing and throughline. (trust me -- there's way more to singing than opening your mouth and having pretty notes come out.) when i left, i knew that he was satisfied with what i did, even if i ended up sounding like macy grey.

when is this thing going to clear up? my ear aches, my head is full of snot and my throat is sore. i have a gig on friday night and i'm supposed to do wfuv's idiot's delight on saturday...

tomorrow, already

i've got a pretty cool audition tomorrow. if i get it, it'll fill out the rest of my summer nicely. the wonky news is, i've got an earache, a raw nose and lots of mucus. i don't know what happened to me. change of seasons, maybe. something is infected and my body is fighting it all the way. they want a blues song and they want me to be prepared to sing a gospel number -- not a problem, unless i have no voice. but strangely, my throat is unaffected.

everybody's got their home remedies. here's mine: i'm going to walk to midtown from west harlem for church service, do a shot of wheatgrass before i get there, get some odwalla superfood and some orange juice from whole foods on the way back uptown, make it to easter dinner with my friends, pop vitamins and medicine and go to bed early. and hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.

happy easter!

after church service in the middle of the afternoon, i went to a lovely easter dinner party uptown, in one of those glorious, sprawling pre-war apartments on riverside drive. i love to cook and bake but i was told to not bring anything except an appetite. there were candles everywhere. it was casual, intimate and fun. and delicious: cream of asparagus soup followed by a salad and then rack of lamb with bundled string beans and herb roasted potatoes. i ate way too much. unfortunately, my friend couldn't be there. he had to work. how sweet that everyone missed him.

after dinner, someone pulled out a guitar and we passed it around, so there were a lot of wonderfully spontaneous moments for singing and playing as we all drifted in and out of conversation and continued to sip coffee and nibble on sweets. not one chocolate bunny in sight, unfortunately -- but i did bring enough kindereggs for everyone, which had all of us furtively putting together our toys after the cognac settled in, in spite of the german directions.

what a beautiful night.

"Marriage Is For White People"

this is an interesting article that rosa c. forwarded to me last week. i emailed it to all the black folks i could think of and got such strong feedback that i thought i'd blog it. bon appetit.
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"Marriage Is For White People" by Joy Jones
Washington Post March 26, 2006

I grew up in a time when two-parent families were still the norm, in both black and white America. Then, as an adult, I saw divorce become more commonplace, then almost a rite of passage. Today it would appear that many -- particularly in the black community -- have dispensed with marriage altogether. But as a black woman, I have witnessed the outrage of girlfriends when the ex failed to show up for his weekend with the kids, and I've seen the disappointment of children who missed having a dad around. Having enjoyed a close relationship with my own father, I made a conscious decision that I wanted a husband, not a live-in boyfriend and not a "baby's daddy," when it came my time to mate and marry.
My time never came.

For years, I wondered why not. And then some 12-year-olds enlightened me.

"Marriage is for white people."

That's what one of my students told me some years back when I taught a career exploration class for sixth-graders at an elementary school in Southeast Washington. I was pleasantly surprised when the boys in the class stated that being a good father was a very important goal to them, more meaningful than making money or having a fancy title.

"That's wonderful!" I told my class. "I think I'll invite some couples in to talk about being married and rearing children."

"Oh, no," objected one student. "We're not interested in the part about marriage. Only about how to be good fathers."

And that's when the other boy chimed in, speaking as if the words left a nasty taste in his mouth: "Marriage is for white people."

He's right. At least statistically. The marriage rate for African Americans has been dropping since the 1960s, and today, we have the lowest marriage rate of any racial group in the United States. In 2001, according to the U.S. Census, 43.3 percent of black men and 41.9 percent of black women in America had never been married, in contrast to 27.4 percent and 20.7 percent respectively for whites. African American women are the least likely in our society to marry. In the period between 1970 and 2001, the overall marriage rate in the United States declined by 17 percent; but for blacks, it fell by 34 percent. Such statistics have caused Howard University relationship therapist Audrey Chapman to point out that African Americans are the most uncoupled people in the country.

How have we gotten here? What has shifted in African American customs, in our community, in our consciousness, that has made marriage seem unnecessary or unattainable?

Although slavery was an atrocious social system, men and women back then nonetheless often succeeded in establishing working families. In his account of slave life and culture, "Roll, Jordan, Roll," historian Eugene D. Genovese wrote: "A slave in Georgia prevailed on his master to sell him to Jamaica so that he could find his wife, despite warnings that his chances of finding her on so large an island were remote. . . . Another slave in Virginia chopped his left hand off with a hatchet to prevent being sold away from his son." I was stunned to learn that a black child was more likely to grow up living with both parents during slavery days than he or she is today, according to sociologist Andrew J. Cherlin.

Traditional notions of family, especially the extended family network, endure. But working mothers, unmarried couples living together, out-of-wedlock births, birth control, divorce and remarriage have transformed the social landscape. And no one seems to feel this more than African American women. One told me that with today's changing mores, it's hard to know "what normal looks like" when it comes to courtship, marriage and parenthood. Sex, love and childbearing have become a la carte choices rather than a package deal that comes with marriage. Moreover, in an era of brothers on the "down low," the spread of sexually transmitted diseases and the decline of the stable blue-collar jobs that black men used to hold, linking one's fate to a man makes marriage a risky business for a black woman.

"A woman who takes that step is bold and brave," one young single mother told me. "Women don't want to marry because they don't want to lose their freedom."

Among African Americans, the desire for marriage seems to have a different trajectory for women and men. My observation is that black women in their twenties and early thirties want to marry and commit at a time when black men their age are more likely to enjoy playing the field. As the woman realizes that a good marriage may not be as possible or sustainable as she would like, her focus turns to having a baby, or possibly improving her job status, perhaps by returning to school or investing more energy in her career.
As men mature, and begin to recognize the benefits of having a roost and roots (and to feel the consequences of their risky bachelor behavior), they are more willing to marry and settle down. By this time, however, many of their female peers are satisfied with the lives they have constructed and are less likely to settle for marriage to a man who doesn't bring much to the table. Indeed, he may bring too much to the table: children and their mothers from previous relationships, limited earning power, and the fallout from years of drug use, poor health care, sexual promiscuity. In other words, for the circumspect black woman, marriage may not be a business deal that offers sufficient return on investment.

In the past, marriage was primarily just such a business deal. Among wealthy families, it solidified political alliances or expanded land holdings. For poorer people, it was a means of managing the farm or operating a household. Today, people have become economically self-sufficient as individuals, no longer requiring a spouse for survival. African American women have always had a high rate of labor-force participation. "Why should well-salaried women marry?" asked black feminist and author Alice Dunbar-Nelson as early as 1895. But now instead of access only to low-paying jobs, we can earn a breadwinner's wage, which has changed what we want in a husband. "Women's expectations have changed dramatically while men's have not changed much at all," said one well-paid working wife and mother. "Women now say, 'Providing is not enough. I need more partnership.' "

The turning point in my own thinking about marriage came when a longtime friend proposed about five years ago. He and I had attended college together, dated briefly, then kept in touch through the years. We built a solid friendship, which I believe is a good foundation for a successful marriage.

But -- if we had married, I would have had to relocate to the Midwest. Been there, done that, didn't like it. I would have had to become a stepmother and, although I felt an easy camaraderie with his son, stepmotherhood is usually a bumpy ride. I wanted a house and couldn't afford one alone. But I knew that if I was willing to make some changes, I eventually could.

As I reviewed the situation, I realized that all the things I expected marriage to confer -- male companionship, close family ties, a house -- I already had, or were within reach, and with exponentially less drama. I can do bad by myself, I used to say as I exited a relationship. But the truth is, I can do pretty good by myself, too.

Most single black women over the age of 30 whom I know would not mind getting married, but acknowledge that the kind of man and the quality of marriage they would like to have may not be likely, and they are not desperate enough to simply accept any situation just to have a man. A number of my married friends complain that taking care of their husbands feels like having an additional child to raise. Then there's the fact that marriage apparently can be hazardous to the health of black women. A recent study by the Institute for American Values, a nonpartisan think tank in New York City, indicates that married African American women are less healthy than their single sisters.

By design or by default, black women cultivate those skills that allow them to maintain themselves (or sometimes even to prosper) without a mate.

"If Jesus Christ bought me an engagement ring, I wouldn't take it," a separated thirty-something friend told me. "I'd tell Jesus we could date, but we couldn't marry."

And here's the new twist. African American women aren't the only ones deciding that they can make do alone. Often what happens in black America is a sign of what the rest of America can eventually expect. In his 2003 book, "Mismatch: The Growing Gulf between Women and Men," Andrew Hacker noted that the structure of white families is evolving in the direction of that of black families of the 1960s. In 1960, 67 percent of black families were headed by a husband and wife, compared to 90.9 percent for whites. By 2000, the figure for white families had dropped to 79.8 percent. Births to unwed white mothers were 22.5 percent in 2001, compared to 2.3 percent in 1960. So my student who thought marriage is for white people may have to rethink that in the future.

Still, does this mean that marriage is going the way of the phonograph and the typewriter ribbon?
"I hope it isn't," said one friend who's been married for seven years. "The divorce rate is 50 percent, but people remarry. People want to be married. I don't think it's going out of style."

A black male acquaintance had a different prediction. "I don't believe marriage is going to be extinct, but I think you'll see fewer people married," he said. "It's a bad thing. I believe it takes the traditional family -- a man and a woman -- to raise kids." He has worked with troubled adolescents, and has observed that "the girls who are in the most trouble and who are abused the most -- the father is absent. And the same is true for the boys, too." He believes that his presence and example in the home is why both his sons decided to marry when their girlfriends became pregnant.

But human nature being what it is, if marriage is to flourish -- in black or white America -- it will have to offer an individual woman something more than a business alliance, a panacea for what ails the community, or an incubator for rearing children. As one woman said, "If it weren't for the intangibles, the allure of the lovey-dovey stuff, I wouldn't have gotten married. The benefits of marriage are his character and his caring. If not for that, why bother?"

joythink@aol.com

i love a parade...even a soggy one

i had a gig on saturday night with jc hopkins' biggish band at swing 46. on the first break, chuck mackinnon introduces me to what he called his "two dads" -- they hugged me like they'd known me all my young life. turns out they were scottish tourists, in town for the tartan day parade. it wasn't a "kiss me, i'm irish" moment but it was awfully close. and very funny. ("we're scots," one of them declared, "not scotch. scotch is a whisky-flavored gin.") as it turns out, their two nieces (ages 14 and 16) were leading the parade the next day. they made all of it sound like so much fun, i thought i'd see if my friend wanted to go. after all, he is scottish-american.

i love a parade, the song goes -- and it's true, i do. i love it that everyone has their own parade in this city. we're not supposed to forget our heritage and our cultures and our languages to be "as american as possible" -- whose big idea was that, anyway? there's no such thing as a melting pot. it's actually a gigantic salad. it's our uniqueness that makes us great. i don't understand the push to keep certain people out when that's the way most of us got here. the only real americans are native americans. everyone else is an immigrant -- except, of course, the african slaves who came here against their will.

my friend thought that going to the tartan day parade was a lousy idea.

"first of all," he goes, "it's supposed to rain. you know what that means? lots of mulching woolen kilts." "that's never stopped any parade from happening in the city," i countered. so he checked the website and said, "sixth avenue?! who has a parade on sixth avenue?! everybody gets to parade down fifth avenue. the puerto ricans. the germans. the irish. why to the scots get sixth avenue?! and why do they only get 15 blocks?!" the truth is, he had a really good point. we had just happened onto the greek independence day parade a few weeks before on museum mile when we were on our way to the met to see the last day of the rauschenberg exhibit. interestingly enough, black folks' parades needed their own neighborhood and their own borough, respectively: the african-american day parade happens on malcolm x boulevard (where else?) and the west indian day parade (the biggest parade in the city, by the way) is in brooklyn.

was the city of new york treating the scots like *gasp* red-headed step-children?

i don't know how i did it, but i talked him into going to the tartan day parade. the weather was so cold and rainy as we stepped out of the subway that my friend declared, it's probably cancelled. it certainly looked cancelled, in spite of the steel barricades that were assembled along the route. we got there too early and standing around in the freezing cold was not an option, so we went to MoMA and saw the Edvard Munch exhibit, which was profoundly depressing. so we saw some de Koonings and some "monochromatic abstract art" that really annoyed me. anyone remember the broadway play "art" wherein one friend gave his buddy a painting that was basically white? lots of stuff like that. remarkably, my friend can make sense of it. i can, too, eventually -- but i don't think i should have to work that hard.

we killed a little too much time because when we came out, it looked the same as it had before, pretty much. i didn't even hear any bagpipes faintly in the distance. i felt sad. "don't worry," my friend said brightly, "i'll get you some bagpipe music." (he was totally making fun of me, wasn't he?)

hey, wait a minute. my friend is also part norwegian. i think i'll take him to the norwegian-american day parade in may. i won't tell him where we're going this time, though. i want to see the look of genuine surprise on his face when we show up.

the bad news and the good news

the bad news is, the callback for the "chase mileage" commercial got cancelled. no one knew why. the short answer is that they 86'ed my part but who knows -- maybe they cast it at the last minute from some other direction. oh, well.

the good news is, i had a great meeting with the HOWL festival organizers at F.E.V.A. this afternoon. they're interested in the jc hopkins biggish band and my songs. neat-o. afterwards, i went to the mud cafe for a chai soy latte and walked across town to get some fresh air and think.

all in a day's work. i'm going for a long run in riverbank state park while the sun is still shining.

i got a callback!

i'm going in tomorrow afternoon for a callback on the "chase mileage" commercial. they called me today with the details. i been on this ride so many times, i can't even get my hopes up. of course i'll wear the same outfit. the rest is in God's hands.

i want to say "gee, i want to do my best" but i can't because with commercials there is no such thing as "doing your best" -- you don't get the gig by doing anything, necessarily. a lot of it is what you look like. there were no lines with this one. i walked around some chairs, i sat down, i smiled faintly (probably because i hadn't eaten anything and i was kind of out of it) and that was it. they liked my "look" -- wigless. (ha!)

getting the gig would be stellar but the fact that i keep getting callbacks for commercials without a wig makes me very, very happy.

i look familiar...

they called me on monday for a commercial audition. something called "chase mileage" -- was i interested? it's all such a two-step for me by now that i took down all of the information and didn't give it a second thought. they wanted me to be a young mom. i didn't know what that meant anymore. renee suggested that i wear a particular wig that she knew i had -- she knows my closet quite well and i know hers, too (it's a blactress thing) -- but i can't do that. i think wigs make me look older. and desperate, somehow. it doesn't have that natural wow-i-didn't-think-that-was-a-wig-at-all look. i look like one of those painfully well-dressed senegalese girls that's trying a little too hard to get over. so i have wigs, just in case i need them but just in case never really happens.

there's a reason for that.

once upon a time, a fellow blactress explained it to me, in technicolor: in commercials, they like black girls with natural hair. that's reality -- the girl that clips coupons, changes the diapers and bakes. she wears practical shoes, says sensible things about over the counter medication and uses pine-sol. in the movies, they like black girls with perms and weaves. that's the fantasy -- the long hair, the knowing look, the fake nails. she wears heels, uses profane language and if she isn't a prostitute, she probably looks like one. television can go either way but usually if it's shot in el-lay, they go the weave route.

i don't straighten my hair. the reasons why are too numerous to mention. but trust me, they're good ones. if you put a gun to my head, i'll certainly do a press and curl if the role demands it but chemicals are not an option. and that's that.

the next morning was cold and rainy. i was on time and drowsy, dressed in a conservative woolen skirt and woolen sweater-jacket. and i was wigless.

there was another black woman there. we came up on the elevator together. she said, you look familiar. i said it would probably hit her later that afternoon, why she thought she knew me. she was darker than me and she had on a lovely burnt mustard-yellow shirt and she had dreads. as we stepped off the elevator, we were whisked into the room without even signing in. there were four of us -- she and i and an older white couple. we were to play musical chairs. the catch was that all of us were able to sit down comfortably. when we sat down, we were to give each other knowing looks. and that was it. we slated, he shot it and the next thing i knew, i had finally signed in. as i left, she remembered me -- from a swing band i used to sing with a few years ago. small world.

as i got on the elevator, a tall good-looking black man got on with me, half-smiled and said, you look familiar...

the latest list

some people have everything brought to them. they show up in nyc and in short order, whatever they reach for is in their hands, no matter what it is -- a record deal, a broadway show, the ideal set-up, the perfect job... you name it. me? reaching out doesn't seem to give me much more than lots of flexibility. don't get me wrong. i've accomplished some wonderful things that way. but i've never had an avalanche of success come to me by waiting for the phone to ring. it's all about my own ideas, my own plan of action. this is the hardest way but in the long run, i think i'll be better off.

ultimately, God knows what He's doing. the d.i.y. approach suits my temperament and my personality. i'm much stronger and more confident than i ever would have been if things had happened the other way around. and i actually have something to say.

my not-so-secret weapon is, i have this habit of making lists. they're everywhere: on post-it notes by the phone, in my journal, on half-used deli napkins, a junk mail envelope that i was about to throw away. it's a way of organizing my thoughts, realigning my goals and priorities and making sure that i get certain things done in a timely fashion. i've got it down to a daily/weekly/monthly/yearly situation. i can't tell you what i'll have for lunch next tuesday but i can tell you exactly where i want my life to be in ten years. of course, what i want and what i get are sometimes two completely different things. but wanting something is a great start.

none of it is written in stone. it changes according to my mood, my circumstances, my money flow -- but i keep writing things down anyway. sometimes it feels like a writing excercise. something to do before i go to bed, or right before i get out of bed or as i'm about to leave my place. sometimes it feels like an excercise in futility. (will i really have my very own brownstone in harlem someday, with a nice big backyard filled with flowers, a recording studio in the basement and my record label on the ground floor?) but sometimes there are moments when something takes over my hand as i'm writing and i let go. i think of things that seem impossible -- relocating to nyc on no money to live and work as an artist, for example -- and i find a plan of action to make it happen. and then all of a sudden, i realize that it's time to dream something else because i'm living the dream i thought would never happen. do that enough times with no money in your pockets and nothing in your hands but spit and grit and prayer and determination and after awhile, anything seems possible.

my ex-boyfriend used to say, "if you want to make God laugh, make plans." in his mind, that made it okay to have no plan at all. whenever he would tell me that, i would say, what a cop out. if nothing ever happened, that must have been God's plan all along. but proverbs 16:9 says "in his heart a man plans his course but the Lord determines his steps." it's a two way street.
jiminy cricket was right -- a dream is a wish your heart makes -- and God is there to light the way. i suppose i could learn how to box with one hand tied behind my back -- but why?

here's my latest list.

i woke up today and realized that even though it's snowing right now in big heavy chunks and i was wearing snowpants, it was only an optical illusion. spring has sprung officially. the next thing i knew, it would be august. i had to ignore the visuals. what did i want to accomplish before the end of the summer? there's a lot of lists going on but here's a little from each of them. these are ten things that i absolutely have to do by the end of the summer, no matter what:

1. record/mix/master the follow up black americana cd
2. record/mix/master the jazz cd
3. record/mix/master the folk/country cd
4. of course, i'm going down south for a spell to see my family -- but hey, how about a real vacation? (i can't remember the last time i had one.) i want to leave the country for a week or so with my friend.
5. do a 14 day fast -- and finish it off with some hardcore hydrocolonic therapy
6. read that ridiculously heady three volumed kierkegaard nightmare
7. take my annual "on the beach in my black bikini" photo
8. (...look absolutely spectacular in that black bikini, by the way...)
9. open an IRA account
10. live alone

squirrel...it's what's for dinner!

this is my uncle hiram, the great southern outdoorsman, showing me how to skin a squirrel last christmas.

part one



part two



and finally, part three



(and no, squirrel does not taste just like chicken.)

the war of attrition

i went to the equity building early yesterday afternoon to audition for an industrial showcase for state farm. renee called me and told me about it and it made sense to go and at least toss my hat in the ring because it would start rehearsing right after i did the show i've already got upstate. the pay would be great. and they're going to chicago and las vegas, at the end of the summer and later in the fall, respectively. i couldn't make it for the female singers call that morning. would they see me during the male singers call? why not try to be seen? what's the worst that could happen?

here's the way it works for a chorus call: they post the audition information and if you're equity, you get to sign your name onto a list on a big board on the 2nd floor of the equity building. when the audition time comes up, that list comes down and they call the names on the list. when your name is called, you step forward and take a numbered card and fill it out. you give that card to the monitor, along with your headshot, right before you go in to audition. a lot of people sign up but they don't show up, which is great for walk-ins like me. they separate males and females. and if you're non union, you get seen at the end of the day after they've seen everyone that's union if they're not too worn out to bother. (big if, folks. big if.) many's the day i sat there outside of that lounge all day (you can only go in the lounge area if you're equity), only to be told that they're too exhausted to hear me sing 16 bars. but i digress.

they had three auditions going at once. it was a real zoo. i showed up when the powers that be were having lunch, so things were strangely quiet. and then all of a sudden, there was bedlam -- everyone was walking around with their books open, their shoes off, hot rollers in their hair, catching up with friends and everything else. i was the only black girl there for a minute -- and with good reason: audition 1 was for an equity workshop of "little house on the prairie" (someone wants to turn it into a musical); audition 2 was for an upcoming season of straight classic plays for a theater company in utah (they wanted monologues and i wasn't prepared); and audition 3 was for the industrial. i had missed the female singers call that morning because i had a doctor's appointment and i wanted to be seen but they were seeing male singers in the afternoon. and after sifting through a list of 257 names to see who was there, they came up with 130 guys. each of them would walk in and hit 8 bars. pow, that's it. that meant that they weren't seeing any women. no time. no room. oh, well. that didn't phase me. if God wanted me to get the part, i'd get it -- and nothing that i could do to screw it up would keep it from me.
i thought, i'm here so i may as well be seen for something. so i went in for "the little house" gig. why shouldn't they consider me? we were out there on the prairie, too -- as cowboys and frontierswomen and railroad workers and everything else, quiet as it's kept.

stacy was there. she'd showed up earlier and showed her ass when they wouldn't let her into the female singers call that morning so she was back to see if she could get in at all. and tamara was there, too -- she took the numbered card right before mine for the prairie gig and she had a monologue ready for utah. we went into the women's dressing room and did a severe amount of catching up. when i went in there before to put on a light beat and change shoes, everyone was exchanging stories. the room was full but i remember specific ones: there was a redhead in a flowery gypsy skirt, trying hard to affect a prairie look; a blonde in hot rollers and a cute pink strapless number that she confided was her bridesmaid's dress, which brought gasps and appreciative murmurs from everyone; and a brownskinned black woman with beautiful pumps that i couldn't stop staring at.

this is the two cents that i pitched in.

i told them that when i was a little kid, i thought that i'd make it because i had talent and talent was all that anyone needed. but i was wrong. there are plenty of talented people who aren't working or who are barely getting by, while people with hardly any talent at all work constantly and have enviable careers. so what do you really need to make it? after a moment, everyone pitched in their thoughts -- "connections," someone said. "luck," said someone else. i let all of them finish and then i said, really now, you only need one thing. one little thing. all you need is to never, ever, ever give up.

and with that, the redhead stopped readjusting her hair and turned around and said, it's the war of attrition.

everyone chimed in with their opinions. everyone agreed. what a perfect way to say it. i threw my head back and laughed. that's it. the war of attrition. that's what i'm doing: i'm wearing them down. that does it, i said. i was thinking about leaving and now, i've decided not to go. the room cheered me on. and with that, i went outside and filled out my numbered card and waited my turn. they wanted my best 16 bars. i think i gave it to them.

as i was headed home, i checked my messages. my commercial agent called with an audition. could i come in on tuesday to be seen for an industrial showcase for state farm?

running, running, running

i've been running on the 1/4 mile track in riverbank state park late at night for the past week or so -- around 9pm until they close at 11pm -- and now i'm starting to do it first thing in the morning, too. the weather is changing and i have to catch up and knock the winter chunk off of me or i won't be able to get into my spring/summer clothes. i'm convinced that the reason why i'm a size 4/6 is because i'm too cheap to buy new outfits every season. i have basics and i accessorize but basically it's the same pencil skirt and blouse i had when i showed up in this town.

and i'm not one of those "i can eat anything i want and be thin" people, either. it's a constant battle, it's an everyday situation and it's hard, hard, hard. losing weight and getting in shape is one thing but maintaining and keeping it all in check requires a whole other level of discipline. i don't enjoy the gym and i don't like running. it's work. sometimes its agonizing. most of the time, it feels like hard labor because i'm always pushing myself. but it's worth it, when realage.com says i'm almost 15 years younger than i actually am. or when i go get a check up and my cholesterol level is so low, my doctor gives me a double take and a smile, and then gives my hand a little squeeze. or when i toss out my clothes because i've worn them out or because they're out of style, not because i'm shopping at lane bryant these days. or when i go home to ATL and i'm with my brother damon and his three teenage daughters and we run into someone that knew us in high school and they think that i'm one of his kids. (that was priceless, folks. just priceless.)

none of this is vanity, you know. they won't let me in already because they don't think i'm pretty enough -- whatever that means. my logic is, i don't need to give them any more reasons.

last year i decided that as a birthday present to myself, i would have a picture taken of me in a bikini on the beach annually. i got a black string bikini and set the bar pretty high. it was worth all the running i had to do to get there, to look that good. so now i'm looking at myself naked and i'm thinking about my birthday -- june 30th -- and i'm counting backwards. if i keep running everyday and if i lift weights the way that i should and if i stick to my body for life regimen, i think i can get it all back in 6 weeks, even though it's a 12 week program. (and yeah, body for life really works.)

hm. maybe i'll enter their body for life challenge...

super 8 fantasy

i'll be living alone soon enough, so i'm going through all of my things and throwing away as much as i possibly can. i want to toss out whatever i can and clean everything so that all of it will be easy to rearrange when the spare room is empty and it's time to shift things around. earlier today my friend and i walked my dinette set over to a place that accepts donations for a program called "furnish the future" for homeless people who are getting their lives together. it felt good to not just leave it on the sidewalk. i hope its a blessing to someone.

i know that spring cleaning is traditionally the thing to do right about now, but i'm such a packrat that i need this kind of motivation every month. strangely, i've found all kinds of things. so far, the most interesting is the super 8 cameras and projector that i'd acquired some time ago, after reading a book about super 8 films. i'd completely forgotten about them. they aren't rusted over, either. they work and they are beautiful. it's got me thinking about super 8 filmmaking all over again. and i haven't given any of that serious thought since carrie passed away. me, the one that was so insistent on learning how to write movies, i finished college as a screenwriting major. and carrie fanned those flames into a bonfire -- with long talks into the night about our ideas and how we could realistically make them happen. she started her production company and got everything off the ground with one short film after another and she was starting to delve into music videos. if it weren't for the lung cancer, i'm sure that she would have pulled it off.

so now i'm looking at all this equipment and i'm thinking about carrie and i'm restless again. i'm remembering our conversations, the treatments i'd written, the partially written screenplay that i showed her. she was so encouraging, so positive, so sure that i'd do something wonderful. there was an idea i had for a documentary about my surname, which is german. i've never met any white people with this name. i thought it would be interesting to go to germany and meet my relatives, by way of a plantation in south georgia that's supposedly named after all of us, and trace a part of my family history. it wouldn't be a two hour saga. more like 30 minutes, maybe. when i mentioned it to a german filmmaker friend of mine, he thought it was a great idea. he even thought that i could get funding from germany. it seemed so farfetched at the time -- the kind of thing we'd sit around and talk about, after a big meal and some introspective conversation -- but totally do-able. and then the world rushed in, carrie went away and i went off to do other things. but that idea wouldn't leave me alone. and now it's back.

the more i dig, the more cameras i find.

well. i can't sit around with a good idea in my hands for long. i have to do something. and all of a sudden, it's not so impossible. actually, it sounds like a lot of fun.

there, that's better...

someone wrote to me earlier and said that they couldn't really see what my baby brother looked like, so here he is again with my friend little debbie in ATL a few months ago. enjoy!

i want my saturdays back!

i remember when saturdays meant something: sitting around in my pajamas eating fruit loops and watching bugs bunny all day, then running around in the woods until eveningtime came along and my mother would call us in because it was too dark to play anymore. now saturday means housecleaning usually, oversleep if i'm lucky, a pot of lapsang souchong if i can get it and a mandatory afternoon workout in the gym -- no excuses. and no cartoons. they all suck now, anyway.

so i've decided to give my saturdays an overhaul, in three easy steps:

1. CARTOONS! i found a bunch of bugs bunny dvds online that were so exhaustive, i had to call my brother ramon in ATL and tell him about it. i have to get them all. that'll start my saturday off right, no matter where i am in the world.
2. skip breakfast. all that sugary fun day glo cereal is out -- and it has been for quite some time. for some wierd reason, i'm happiest if i don't eat anything until noon.
   
3. shut yerself in. it's really got to be worth my while to leave my apartment on a saturday because going anywhere in NYC on the weekends is a nightmare. i should stay in and practice, practice, practice. and watch netflix at night.

that being said, i've got an action-packed evening planned. tonight, i'm going to see jc hopkins at rockwood music hall and then i'm probably going to go to the slipper room to see scotty the blue bunny and some late-night burlesque with a bunch of my friends. as long as i work out and clean house before i disappear until 5am, i won't be all that concerned about much else. i've had a long week. i need some fun.

i think he's in kuwait...

this is my baby brother, somewhere in the middle east. isn't he handsome? the world calls him john. we call him moniah.

he comes home in april for awhile. i don't know if he'll come home again before the end of the year, so i have to get there while he's stateside. basically, he belongs to the military until late '07, i think.

i don't know how he can wear all those clothes in the desert.

when i was small, he was mine. i changed his diapers. i put him on my back and took him with me when i went wandering through the woods. he was so beautiful. and now he's something like 6'4'' or so -- and so gigantically huge, sometimes i think he ate the kid i used to take care of. he eats everything in sight, too. he loves gordon lightfoot. and bugs bunny. and crunk. he writes poetry. he makes music.

to get the full effect, i suppose you'd have to see a snapshot of what he looked like when he was three.

he's over there right this minute, eight hours ahead of me all the time, shooting at things and getting shot at, probably. i don't really like to think about any of it very much. it makes me sick to my stomach to think that anything bad could ever happen to him.

...and that's how it went.

i called renee to see if she got called in for the IPod commercial. when she said she didn't, i insisted that she come with me. why? simply put, because i'm tired of being the only black girl in the room.

i got her in on the last IPod commercial and she did an interview with the agency after the smoke cleared, so now we freelance with the same folks. they didn't mind her crashing the party. the set-up was loose and she is a dancer, after all. we got there a little late. the sweet receptionist remembered me as always. i changed my clothes and then i changed them again when i saw how casually dressed everyone else was. it wasn't as crazy as it was before -- maybe because we showed up before noon. and they had everyone sign releases right off the bat. before, they whipped out the paperwork at the callback. if you didn't sign, you couldn't be seen.

renee went in before me. and then i was in there, flailing my arms and legs around to the strains of the red hot chili peppers' californication. it was a guy this time. really even-keel about it all. there he stood on the other side of a little camera, staring at a wide screen monitor with a remote control in his hand, warmly encouraging me to "let myself go and just have fun" -- whatever that means. i was very punk/post-modern/spazz about it, but with feeling. it was all i could think to do, to truly be myself and not look like anybody else. and it was fun, actually. i left there on a high, feeling good about the fact that i wasn't sitting around whining and complaining about how i'd like to get a commercial someday -- i was actually doing something about it.

i skipped off to the duane reade, where i got nilla wafers, ritz crackers, cold medicine (my friend gave me his small slight headcold) and the most amazing lotion -- new stuff by the vaseline people that's so good, i'm giving up kiehl's (seriously!) -- and then i went home, had lunch and ran lines for the law and order audition.

somewhere around 5pm, i freshened up my make-up (which was a basic beat) and impulsively put on a wig. very short and not too "finished" -- because the scene required that i look like i just got out of bed. my knots seemed so stationary, so static. they'd seen me so many times before. i thought, why not, i'll try something different. why not. i take the local to chelsea and then the crosstown bus to the pier, with that de kooning bio to keep me company all the way there and back. what a great read. i'm lost in it, thinking about his life and his art and how melancholy he was. but i digress.

i got there on time but they had technical difficulties. there were two people in front of me and then there were none. and all of a sudden, i was in that room. three men sat across from me, a dish of candy between us and the nice lady that fetched me read with me. was there a camera in the room? i don't think so. but maybe it was in the back somewhere. i don't know. everything went by in a blur. i read through it once and it was over as soon as it began. he seemed to like what i did, but i can't ever get a read on film/tv people when they say things like that. i just have to leave the room and not care anymore. but i cared a little.

i remember calling klingman and telling him everything and he was like, don't think about it. such excellent advice. he knew i'd pick at it like a scab until i was bleeding through the proverbial band-aid. he said, they know you, they've seen you before. if they want you, they'll call. if they don't, that's that.

and with that, i buried myself in my de kooning bio. when i got home, i watched a jimi hendrix bio and practiced guitar until my fingers hurt too much to go on. so of course, i kept going. and somehow, that pretty much summed it all up.

...and that's how it went.

but wait! there's more!

my manager for the acting stuff just called. i'm going in for law and order tomorrow evening. i don't know which franchise -- criminal intent, sexual victim's unit or the standard issue original. i'm going to skip out and pick up my sides right now. guess what the part is? "black woman" -- and probably an angry one, too. (is there any other kind?) i made klingman give me the lowdown. evidently, they're looking for my boyfriend so they bust my door down while i'm in bed with someone else. *sigh* hey, it is what it is.

on the one hand, i'm excited but on the other hand, i'm like, oh, fer cryin' out loud! ever since i joined SAG, i've been in there a million times or more. me and a million other black girls. it's like a wierd revolving door for theater actors that need to build their reel. they keep calling you in until you land something and then you can't do it anymore.

boy, am i sick of seeing everyone i know but me doing their bit part on that show or what. who knows? maybe it's my turn...

another IPod audition?!?!

yeah, that's right -- believe it or not, i've got an audition for another IPod commercial tomorrow morning. (again with the IPod commercial audition. again!!!) they remembered me from the last one and requested me -- which is nice, i suppose. but frustrating.

i'm going to the same production company i went to the last time, all the way on the west side. it's more present-day rock and roll this time -- rage against the machine. the casting agent has people downloading their music to get a feel for what they want. thankfully, i'm already a fan. my hair is in knots, so there's no getting around that. i don't think my afro would be appropriate, anyway. but how do i move to it? and more importantly -- what do i wear?

gee. i wonder if renee is going?

newsflash #2!

i didn't get the part in the nanny diaries. they said that they loved me as an actress but they wanted someone that was more "corporate."

my friend said that he wasn't surprised that i didn't get the part. (he's the one that ran lines with me.) in the description of the character, it asked for "perky" -- and according to him, that just isn't me. "but i can act perky," i countered. "i'm an actor, remember?"

"movies don't have anything to do with acting," he said flatly.

"but i can act," i said weakly.

"it doesn't really matter," he said, "unless you're doing theater." and then he went on. "they'll get some character actor to do it. you'll see."

"i see your point," i began, "but i don't necessarily think that's it. if i had dressed more corporate or straightened my hair or something..."

"given them the visual effect..."

"yeah," i said.

"what does that have to do with acting?"

and on and on we went. i love talking to him. strangely, he doesn't ever bully me -- verbally or otherwise. we just think out loud together and bounce ideas off of each other. it's dreamy.

Scotty The Blue Bunny, serving it up at The Slipper Room

here he is in all his bunny glory, handing someone in the front row their head last saturday night at the slipper room. doesn't he look spectacular? you can't tell from this shot, but he's lost 60 pounds the hard way -- cut the junk, cut the sugar, cut the fat and excercised/worked out every day. there's no easy way around it. especially in your thirty-something years.

i really admire scotty the blue bunny a lot. even though i've known him forever, i'm such a fan.

what a fun night that was. i took stacy with me. she'd never seen burlesque before and she was totally blown away. it's nice to know that no matter how crummy my week has been, i can always show up there on friday or saturday night and have a hoot time.

newsflash!

i got the part in "buddy: the buddy holly story." they made me an offer this afternoon. neat-o!

three in a row, tick-tac-toe!

what a day, sports fans. what a day.

the first one was "buddy: the buddy holly story" at nola studios for 1pm, right next to studio 54 on the west side. i took the n/r from union square because i had a noon appointment with my eyebrowist and got there a little early. this time, the waiting area was filled with asians: they were having callbacks for the king and i and everyone was pacing, running lines, readying sheet music. eventually, a blonde wandered in. no doubt she was being seen for the role of anna.

the monitor was chatty and sweet. at one point, he blurted "congratulations on your audelco nomination for harlem song" -- and i told him, when i saw that i was up against leslie uggams, i knew i wouldn't get it. i absolutely loved her in thunder knockin' at the door. but that's another story...

there were five people ahead of me. just enough to relax and not get worked up until the very last minute. how would i handle this one? when i finally went in, i announced to the room that i didn't know the song they'd sent, that i'd only gotten it the day before and could we please bang it out around the piano. lo and behold, that's exactly what we did: i heard it only once and then sang it back to him, nailing it. one of them, an older gentleman who couldn't stop beaming at me, said "you look beautiful and you sound beautiful" -- i had to give him a hug and a kiss, he was so heartfelt about it. there was sunshine streaming through the windows in such a strangely idyllic way. it was a really lovely moment. we held onto it for a fraction of a second. and then with a "you'll hear from us soon" i was off to the next appointment.

this one was "rockstar" at 3pm. i jumped on the n/r to prince st. and got there a little early. there was something profoundly depressing about the whole ordeal. first of all, it was a downstairs/basement club that left me feeling like i was like stepping into an elegant cave. (hm. maybe that was the idea.) everyone was sitting around, wearing filthy looking clothing and filling out paperwork haphazardly and tuning up their expensive gear. you could smell the desperation. and it didn't smell like victory.

some people were strumming acoustic guitars and singing to themselves. everyone looked a little too happy to be there. a little too eager, a little too "on"-- a little too ready. something about it was straight out of central casting. and yes, i was the only black person there.

they had everyone in a long hallway until they'd signed everything that they had to, and then as a certain number of people left, a certain number would be asked into the other section of the set-up through some glass doors to the back bar, where they had a table and assistants scurrying around and cameras and so on. everyone's belongings moved with them, so the back bar area was a mass of everyone's coats and equipment bags and stuff. someone gave me a big brown envelope with a number on it. i was told to stick my paperwork it there -- the application and the release form, which i'd dutifully downloaded online and filled out at home. sample question: what rock star is most like you and why? i was going to say big mama thornton, but jack sprat was like, don't be obscure or arty -- you'll scare them right out of the box. and i'm thinking, even if it's the truth? evidently so. but whatever.

before i sang a note, i had to hold up that envelope and slate my name and where i'm from and all that rot. as my accompanist, jack had to sign one, too. but he didn't have to tell anyone how old he was. i did -- which infuriated me. when the assistant behind the table saw that i'd written the word "irrelevant" under the year for my date of birth, she insisted on it. when i told her, her face fell off. the point is, dino ("rah-rah-rah-rah-rah!") promised me that it wouldn't be an issue. the bottom line: tell her and be seen or don't tell her and walk out. jack was like, we can walk out now -- whatever you want to do. how cool was he at that moment? but in the end, yeah, i told her. and yeah, i stayed. i wanted to go through the process just so i could look myself in the eye later without wondering about what could have happened.

actually, what i had to sit through was much more revealing than i thought it would be.

i heard more than a dozen people and i saw almost as many do their thing onstage, whether i was peeking through the curtain at the back bar or sitting in the main room trying not to stare. strangely, no one could really sing. lots of pitch problems and sustaining notes problems and breath support problems. one girl went outside right before she was to sing so she could take a drag off of her friend's cigarette, to help her vocals. (!!!???) mostly, they all came out sounding affected and overly-wrought to the point where i felt genuine embarassment, especially when the songs they wrote veered towards more personal subject matter. like the last guy that dumped you or how much you hate yourself. everyone had pricey acoustic guitars. the guys overplayed. the girls could hardly play. and like i said, no negroes -- at least, not while i was there. maybe the other one showed up yesterday.

i sang "taster's choice" and steve miller band's "jet airliner" -- and i know how to sing and i know how to perform, so i'll leave it up to you and your imagination to figure out how i did. if they don't pick me, it won't be because i sucked. it'll be because i'm not 25 anymore -- even if i do look it.

the last audition was for "the nanny diaries" -- all the way west off of hudson st. i had to sit in this little production office with these well-dressed WASPy-looking old women and wait for almost an hour and there was a craft services looking table within eyeshot loaded with yummy things to eat and i was absolutely starving and yes, i was not the only black girl in the room. the other two were working for the company and no, they didn't speak to me.

i went into a tiny room and sat with four people. one operated the camera, one read with me, and the other two were very chatty cathy with me which put me at ease. we carried on a bit. it was like a cocktail party without the cocktails. i remember thinking, gosh these people are awfully nice for film people. but as it turns out, they're not from el-lay, so go figure.

the scene was a page long, only five lines from me. it was over as soon as it started. the next thing i knew, i was on the train home, wondering what happened...

prep, prep, prep

surprise! (but it's no suprise really, if you've been paying attention and keeping score at home.) i've got a callback and two auditions tomorrow: the (maybe) broadway-bound musical "the buddy holly story" at 1pm is the callback; the 2nd season of "rockstar: the series" at 3pm and the major motion picture "the nanny diaries" (starring scarlet johanssen) at 5pm are the auditions. am i going to have an action-packed day or what?

i didn't think everything would pile up on me like that, but these things are impossible to predict. i'm at home this afternoon/early evening running lines and learning music. the callback gave me sheet music that has me plunking away on my piano to learn the melody. surprisingly, i've learned enough piano and music theory to pull it off. i've been studying for a little while and there's a lot that i knew before i ever sat down with a teacher but i never know what i know until i need to use it, if that makes any sense. the other day when i was rehearsing with jack, i sat at my kitchen table and transposed a song effortlessly. that's not where i was 6 months ago and, as my english pal june would say, i'm pretty well chuffed about it. or rather, to quote "the brain" of "pinky and the brain" -- sometimes i even amaze myself.

i'm not even nervous or wound up or anything. i'm just going to have as much fun as possible and that's about it. i don't fret over this stuff, folks. they're not rejecting me when they say no. actually, the real reason why i'm so blase is because i've got my own thing going on. to tell you the truth, the only thing i'm really concerned about is getting my eyebrows done at jeniette before my first appointment.

Another Audition: "Fame Becomes Me"

As I left for the audition, it was freezing cold. I packed everything that I would need and got there early so I could get ready upon arrival. This audition wasn’t problematic but I’d hit a few snags to get there. The biggest one? My manager gave me the wrong sides, which sent me careening in the wrong direction, memorizing material that I didn’t need to know. Oh, well. My persistence turned things around quickly. I made my friend run lines with me and he ended up learning them, too -- which made for some interesting non-sequitors. His first line to prompt me was “You promised me an evening of full-frontal nudity.” Everytime he said it, it made me smile. It’s nice that whenever I have to memorize something, he helps me. He’s really kind of good at it.

So there I was in Bernie Telsey’s waiting room, signing in. there I was, putting my clothes on in the bathroom as fast as I could because the door handle was busted and I was afraid that someone would walk in on me. There I was, giving myself a basic beat in the hallway’s big mirror. There I was, perched in my favorite heels, an Afro puff on my head, a song in my heart. But which song?

All of the other black girls in the waiting room that were being seen for the part I was up for were heavy-set. No surprise there. Production folk seem to think that when it’s time for comedy, fat people are funnier than the rest of us. The woman that plays the role on his show Jiminy Glick is heavy-set. hmmm...

In short order, I was in that room. The creative end of the entire production staff must have been sitting at that table. The one at the very end – Mark, if I remember correctly -- jumped up and threw his arms around me. We’d done Marci X together. That was my first movie role, my first big line. I pointed at Lisa Kudrow and said, “Get that bitch off the stage!”

It was so great, to walk in the room and be loved.

I sang Stormy Weather which seemed to amuse them. When I was done, they collectively burst into applause, like they were at a cabaret or a piano bar or something. Martin Short tilted his head at a funny angle, made a face and said, in this high squeaky voice, “You’re spiffy.” And I tilted my head in the same way and made the same face and said, “I am.” And he made another face. We totally picked up on each other’s vibe. Cute. He’s a live one, that Marty. And then I did the scene they gave me, and I nailed it because my friend drilled me on it and I knew it. It’s nice to do a great job but I know that the reason why anyone gets cast doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with talent.

That one loving gesture from Mark when I entered the room set the tone for the entire audition. It was one of the best I’ve ever done. I left there feeling satisfied.

Here's a nice slice of wierdness: as I left the building, it began to hail violently.

let the prepwork begin!

i'm spending the weekend working on audition material. there's kind of a lot of it. i'm really throwing myself into it with the hopes of digesting most of it down by monday. it's important to me, to get consistently good at auditioning, so if i don't get the job, it won't necessarily be my fault. besides -- what a colossal waste of everyone's time, to go into an audition and not be prepared. and it's tacky, too. it's like, why bother going in at all, if you're not going to learn the material and do your best?

i've got an audition for a martin short play called "fame becomes me" which sounds hilarious. it's broadway bound this fall. they're looking for an understudy for a lead role, any ethnicity. they want someone that's funny and that can improvise -- and God knows, that'll weed 'em out fast. they want me to come into the audition with the sides (which i'm memorizing) and a funny song. my first thought was, i don't know any funny songs but then again, of course i do -- "i'm tired" the song mel brooks wrote from the drop dead funny blazing saddles, as sung by madeline kahn. is that my favorite movie ever or what. and it's the funniest song i know.

wouldn't it be funny if i wore garters and stockings and heels and opened my wrap dress like a robe and dragged a chair around the room like dietrich as i sang it? with a huge angela davis afro on my head, 'cause that's what i'm rockin' these days. nice.

i also have to do impressions. i can't do any famous people. i just can't. who am i, rich little? i'll probably go in there and do my various and sundry family members, which is way, way funnier than it sounds. my father chewing me out long distance about where his grandchildren are that i'm supposed to have given him by now never fails to decimate the crowd.

and then of course there's rockstar: the series. this one is kind of a cakewalk because i already know a slew of rock songs. i just have to pick something that's appropriate and not freak out too much when it's time to get dressed and do something with my hair. they want me to show up with three songs, at least one of which should be a cover. needless to say, i'm leaning towards '70s blues rock that'll really let me sing but that's popular enough to recognize. that bad company song "can't get enough" comes to mind. we'll see. i'm also supposed to download the application from their site and bring it with me when i come in. it asks a lot of pesky questions and yeah, there's legalese to ingest and sign, probably before they'll see me. because isn't that the best way to make sure that i sign everything that i'm supposed to?

i'm going to talk to brad the programmer at Aaron Davis Hall about my one person show on reparations and maybe developing it there. there's an idea that i've been bouncing around with ken roberson about a performance art piece on blues music and a singular migration back down south. and my friend renee is choreographing something interesting that she wants me to be in, so i have to learn a song for that, too. but that's a little further down the pike next month.

so there's a lot of stuff going on. a lot to think about, a lot to organize. my friend is working until tuesday and my roommate went AWOL about a week ago, which has been dreamy, having the place to myself. perfect for walking around the living room in my underwear while i memorize stuff by repeating things like i'm insane and playing songs over and over and over. and yeah, messing with my baby taylor.

hey, guess what?

believe it or not, i'm auditioning for rockstar: the series. (yeah, i know.) but i didn't go looking for this one, y'all. they called me. read all about it here.

kate's tamale party

i spent most of the day of the gig with the mammals recovering from kate's tamale party in williamsburg on friday night and the late night hang that inevitably ensued elsewhere in the bowels of downtown nyc. this meant drinking a lot of water to hydrate my throat and sleeping well past noon -- a habit i can't seem to break because my life and my art won't let me. thank God i don't drink or do drugs. i never got into it. i'm way too cheap. and vain. not that i think i'm the most beautiful woman in the world -- i just want to take good care of whatever i've got for as long as i can. besides, how much fun can i have if i'm not healthy? a late night hang in my world revolves around long conversations into the night with interesting people while i put my feet up and sip tea. strangely, most bars i frequent know this and are glad to accomodate me.

kate's from houston. her grandma in tejas sent her seven dozen tamales, so she sent out invitations and everyone pretty much came running, including quite a few texans, which is always a surprise. i forget that we are legion here, probably because, although i'm happy to meet another southerner in this neck of the woods, i don't look for it the way i used to. i've circled the wagons together, so to speak. i've got enough ammo and provisions to hold out until spring. but that tamale party was something else. lots of fixings to go with, like sour cream and beans and what not. copious amounts of foreign beer and tequila. and somewhere in there, kate pulls four half-gallon containers of blue bell ice cream out of her freezer -- the best ice cream in the world, and you can only get it in texas. she ordered it online. they shipped it next day air but only if she would order as much as she did, as the minimum. she had ice cream cones and everything. and then there were dueling iPods, wherein folks kept whipping out their playlists and foisting them upon the home stereo speakers. so one minute we'd be listening to iggy pop ripping into "i snub you" and the next it was the hollies "long cool woman" wow. it was like being in south austin at a backyard party -- except we were in billyburg. nice way to crank into the weekend.

if you want to know how the gig went, click here.

the first day

last night, i made it to the gym a few hours before it closed. i ran into my neighbor chad. he and i have an interesting history. i actually met him when i was waiting tables and his boyfriend paul recognized me from a reality tv show that i did called "the it factor" on bravo. we chatted. they were looking for a place to live. i wished them luck. the end -- or so i thought. a few days later, they're both coming out of my building as i'm coming in. turns out, there's a vacancy down the hall from me -- and they took it! i guess we were meant to be friends.

that was a few years ago. i must admit, it's been fun having them around. they invite me over when they throw dinner parties. i housesit for them occasionally when they're out of town, which is great because they've got a huge apartment and a huge tv with a huge dvd collection. and i can always come over to hang out or whatever. somehow, they always know how many more white people have moved into the building and whether they're gay or not -- and they're the first ones to complain about it. two gay white guys whining about the the gay/white people in the mostly dominican/black west harlem neighborhood. ironic, right? hilarious, definitely. whatever.

chad had just come in to the gym, too. we both commiserated about how out of shape we were and how badly we'd been eating and all the other things you say when you're at the gym and you run into someone you know and you stand around talking when you're supposed to be working out. somewhere in there, a lightbulb goes off over chad's head and he asks me if i'd like to be his workout partner. we discuss it a little. the upshot of it all is, he's got somewhere to be from 9 to 5 so the only way that we can pull it off is if we go at 6:30am. the gym opens at 6am. can we pull it off? i say i'll do it if he will. and he says he will if i will. so we handshake -- and then, incredibly, we leave.

well, miracle of miracles. he called me at 6:20am and five minutes later, i step out into the hall and he's standing there, waiting. and we do it, we really do it: we go to the gym. i actually pushed myself somewhere in there and had a thorough little workout. we left by 7:30am and ran into donette, who was on her way there. what are you doing here, she squawked, you can't get anything done this early!

and she's right. but my commitment to myself is bigger than my inability to wake up before noon. and the end result -- a body that's even stronger and leaner and healthier than it is now -- will be even bigger than that.

we're giving ourselves until the first day of spring to get it together. that's only about five weeks away...

yes, the answer is no

i didn't get the iPod commercial. doesn't that suck? when my agent called me and told me, i saw a winged sack of money with a dollar bill sign on it flying away into the horizon, just like on the bugs bunny cartoons. but i did have a go-see today for a sunglasses ad campaign. so who freakin' knows?

i totally have to say this: i am really sick of watching tv and seeing someone else doing the plum part in the commercials that i almost got. this iPod thing is going to be really bad because the ad will probably be everywhere.

oh, yeah. happy valentine's day.

instant callback, instant recall

i had an audition today for "the buddy holly story" at nola studios, a few doors down from studio 54. it's going up at the merry go round, upstate. my manager wanted me to do it because he thinks its broadway bound. that makes sense, especially after the elvis musical "all shook up" -- and wow, i think miramax produced that, too. actually, after the success of "chicago" all the movie production companies opened musical theater divisions to develop their movies into musicals. i've got an audition for a california workshop of "sister act" on wednesday morning. "the buddy holly story" is probably one of those feel-good musicals that's filled with songs that absolutely everyone knows, whether they're crazy about buddy holly or not. it'll be a real sing-along hit parade.

they wanted me for an r&b singer character, a la aretha franklin. of course the last thing i wanted to do was go in there and sing any aretha franklin because i figured that's what everyone else was going to do -- and how many times can you stand to hear "respect" in one day, even if it does sound great? (and let's face it, it probably doesn't.)

making my way up the street in the bright sunlight and the snow and the filthy slush, i had a flashback to a buzzcocks show that i saw there for free a million years ago when i first came to the city. i had a friend who worked for a rock concert promoter and she would give me tickets from time to time. it was a fun night and a good strong memory of my early time in the city. free tickets to rock shows?! how could i not be a happy girl with that in my life?

weird, the way the past can creep up on you out of nowhere.

so i went to the 11th floor and crash landed in musical theater hell. there was four or five studios in a section that shared a small hallway lined with what looked like church pews, and of course the overpriced junk food machines and the water cooler, with offices at the other end of the hall and a blackboard, clearly stating who was on first. the spillage was horrendous. nothing but "the young caucasians" as far as the eye could see -- most of whom were early twentysomething and visually tweaked to perfection, with their pumps and their audition outfits and their "books" of sheet music, arranged and notated just so. it was like i'd walked into the whitest place on earth -- seriously. i looked around and took it all in and i thought, i can remember when i wanted this. it sickened me, to imagine myself going to one epa after another and singing my face off, thinking that it mattered because i was talented. what a lie.

it was painful, watching them throw shade: the blondes, a little too friendly and eyeing each other on the sly. the brunettes with their pantene hairdos, just friendly enough. the chubby redhead, sitting alone, looking sideways at all of them. i was the only black girl there. and none of them were looking at me. nothing that i'm not used to. just a funny thing that keeps happening. and sometimes it gets to me.

i had to change my clothes. i had to do my make-up. i wrapped my hair in cloth because i was straightening it and i didn't want the dampness to undo my hard work. just a little black dress and some black pumps. nothing spectacular. i mean, hey -- i want to look nice when i present myself, but i know better than to think that my outfit will get me the job. it takes a little more than that to make it happen -- at least, that's the way it works in theater. film and tv (and video, too) i suppose, is another ordeal. people get put in movies for the way they look all the time. no one seems to care that they can't act. but i digress.

an older actress sat next to me. pretty and slim, with a short clipped jean seberg salt and pepper look, and a long dramatic black dress and jacket. her book was a nice and tidy zip up three ring binder in black leatherette. and her sheet music, like most of the girls there, was in plastic and color coded, and tagged with plastic labels. i looked at her sideways and leaned away from her, murmuring, you're scary. she laughed. i wasn' t kidding. we chatted for awhile. nice lady. somewhere in there, we talked about auditioning and working and i was like, it's not about getting the job -- it's about getting the audition in the first place. i can't audition for a show that doesn't have any parts for me. and she quietly agreed.

and then i went in.

what a warm sunny room, filled with warm sunny people whose names escape me. all i remember is that they totally loved me, for real. it was like a really great first date. i could do no wrong.they sat at the other end of a huge baby grand and a sullen looking pianist managed a friendly face when i plopped my book on the piano and didn't open it. after introductions were made all around, i impulsively asked the pianist to play a 12 bar blues in d. he actually looked a little confused at first. (wow.) i sang "stormy monday" -- why not? all they needed was to hear that i could sing that gritty old school r&b. i sang through it once, they loved what i did and then one of them said, you've got a callback! neat-o. then another one said, were you in "harlem song" and i was like, yeah and he gushed, i loved you soooo much in that show and i thought, why can' t anyone ever recognize me? why do they have to ask if it was me? i was the lead, for cryin' out loud. but hey, what am i saying. it's nice to be loved. (sigh.)

i went back to my things and the lady said, so how'd it go and i was like, i got a callback and she said, wow, that's great. and i went, well, like i said before -- getting the job isn't the problem. getting the audition is. her friend overheard me and congratulated me and i laughed and said, congratulate me when i get the job. i mean, wow. a callback is nice, but it's not going to pay my rent. all i could think as i left was, if i get this, i have to work 20 weeks for a year of health insurance and 2 weeks to get vested for my aea pension plan.

let's see if i get it.

no, i still haven't heard anything.

i'm kind of in the process of forgetting all about my little iPod week. if i was going to get it, they would have called me by now, i guess. especially if they're going to shoot on tuesday. then again, there's a nor'easter in full bloom right now (it's actually snowing sideways, believe it or not) and a lot of airports have shut down. like, most of them along the eastern seaboard. and besides, phil said he'd call me whether i got it or not. so maybe it's still up in the air.

renee is talking to me like it's a done deal. very amusing.

i'm wondering if i'll be able to do the interview/performance for WDVR's Blue Monday tomorrow night. it's in sergeantsville, new jersey -- 90 minutes away in good weather.

iPod callback?!

i got a phone call at the end of the day yesterday from phil, my commercial agent. i got a callback for that iPod commercial! i know. (i know.) it's so hard for me to believe because all my life, just about everyone i've ever met has always worked very hard to make me believe that i can't move. so when i try to dance, i'm really self-conscious unless i forget myself -- and that can only happen if i'm having fun. hanging out with kenny roberson and renee and babygirl and the rosas and all the other dancers i know has been really freeing because they're so inclusive and encouraging. they've always told me that there's nothing wrong with the way i move. i think somewhere in there, i started to believe them. now i've got a callback on an iPod audition that'll have me dancing in silhouette if i actually get it. wow. the dancers were right. and to think -- for the initial audition, i went in there with a pretty little dress on and my hair in a gigantic afro, and i danced around like a spaz.

phil actually thanked me for making him look good.

so i went back in: same time, same hair, same boots, same beat, different dress. it was a silk cowgirl number that's truly psychedelic. very bright, very gram parsons. renee didn't get a callback, so i went in alone. i went in early to change clothes and get it together because it was too cold to show up ready. when i came out, there were several auditions happening at once and so there was this really interesting visual mix in the main holding area where everyone converged. as i touched up my afro, a slim handsome asian man in a business suit struck up a conversation with me while he played with a deck of cards. he looked conservative but he really wasn't. quite the charmer, in fact. he was there for an callback for a new chewing gum. he wasn't supposed to tell me the name of the gum, so he told me anyway. and then we both laughed. i wasn't supposed to tell him the name of the band that was in the iPod commercial but by then i hadn't looked over the nondisclosure agreement closely enough to figure out who it was and why i wasn't supposed to blab. i couldn't audition until i signed that contract, though. oh, well. we wished each other luck and waved to each other slowly as he drifted back to his section, and i got back to my paperwork which really wasn't that complicated: if you want to be seen, you have to sign. period.

there was more information on the print-out this time, and it was hand-written:

Director's note for callbacks: we want energy. It needs to look untrained. Be creative. We want an ever-changing range of ideas and shapes.

immediately i thought, wow. maybe i could actually get this.

according to the girl at the front desk (who loved my hair), they called back about 30 people or so and they certainly need more than one. i saw griffin at the audition and the callback (we did a workshop of stew's travelogues together at the public) and he was like, "whoa -- you said you were going to get this when you came out of that valtrex commercial, remember? you said why am i auditioning for that when i should be seen for this? and now here you are! girl, you're gonna get this..." griffin was there for two callbacks, God bless him -- iPod and The Gum That Can't Be Named. he totally looked like a hippy. he had long dreads down to his elbows and he had let them down with a part in the middle and a band around his head. that was enough right there, as far as i was concerned, to get him the part.

this time, there was a choreographer in the room who emphasized the information on the print-out, which was a little off-putting because he really didn't say anything new or give any real direction. he was perched on a couch near the camera with his legs crossed, looking interested. the blonde was in better spirits and was really nice to me, which was a little off-putting as well. whatever. i said i'd do more of what i did in the first place and then i did it and then it was over. i turned to the camera to slate at the end and realized some snaps came loose and my totally-real-not-fake breasts were exposed. not falling out, mind you -- my lingerie is way too good for that kind of catastrophe -- more like popping out. i was genuinely embarassed. as i left, the choreographer goes, very nice. and i'm thinking is he talking about my cleavage or my movements? or both?

i called phil to let him know how i did. and he reminded me that if i got the commercial, i'd have to go to el-lay from 2/14 to 2/18 -- and i've got two gigs that fall on those dates! everyone will just have to understand when i cancel. i can't say no to a national commercial...

iPod audition

the description of what they wanted was right next to the sign-in sheet. i took it when i was in for the valtrex commercial the day before, so i could look it over and ingest it. here's the gist of it:

We want people who look like 70's Hipsters, Neo-Hippies, who dance 70's style -- not polished -- lots of energy!!! Listen to the music, feel the music. These are cool kids with their own style and are great movers.

We're doing one minute or so of 70's dance. There will be a bongo drum in the studio, but only do something with it if it feels natural. Otherwise, it's a prop or something to ignore.

WARNING

If we start seeing Pirouettes, Broadway or Hip-Hop, we will start throwing sharp objects at you. To be direct, no Ballet, Broadway or Hip-Hop.

It's 70's 70's 70's.

of course i thought about renee and asked her to come to the audition with me. i told her to call dana who agreed to come in, too. i figured i could sneak them in before or after me and they could just put my agent's name on their photos, no problem. but then my agent called back and said that if i knew of anyone else, i could bring them in. i gave them their names and they gave me their appointment times.

all of it came together so beautifully, it was a little weird.

i had no idea what to wear but i knew that my hair had to be in a gigantic afro. the bigger, the better -- and that was going to take a lot of work. i had a psychedelic looking dress but no boots. and then -- no lie -- the doorbell rang and my favorite ups guy presented me with a box -- boots that i'd ordered weeks before and forgotten about that matched the outfit perfectly. how creepy is that? i did a natural matte finish on my face with a red mouth and set out to meet renee at columbus circle but we didn't connect until we got to the audition. it was packed again and everyone was the same as they were before. even renee was like, why all the shade? it was fun, though.

before renee got there, i walked around the corner to the bathroom and almost walked into this tall dark lanky good-looking gay white broadway chorus boy doing pirouettes in front of a big mirror. i gasped and then i made him stop. "i didn't see the write up," he said after i explained his huge wrong turn -- grateful but somewhat defensive. "aren't you glad i did?" i replied. and we laughed.

it was the end of the day. the blonde that took me into the room had pretty much had it. as soon as it started, it was over. i don't even know what i did, but i'm pretty sure i looked like a spaz. but i had fun, so i'm sure i did well. i always dance great when i'm having fun.

from Valtrex to iPod

i got called in by phil my commercial agent to do an audition for valtrex. you know -- the herpes medication. everyone's seen those commercials: young, attractive people relaxing in the sun and chatting in this intimate confidential tone about what they didn't know about their STD. i'm thinking, whatever. it's a national commercial. getting one would be like winning the lotto. i'm not imagining what i'd do with the money anymore. i'm just trying to get good at auditioning on-camera.

that goodness starts with how i look. i stood in the bright shining daylight of my bedroom window like a soldier and put on enough make-up to make it look like i didn't have on any make-up (which is a special skill, especially for someone that's as heavy-handed as i am -- thanks to all the theater i've done over the years) and then i skipped down to 10th Ave. when i got there, the place was packed with young urban hipsters. by that, i mean those attractive, trendy, mostly twenty-something city dwellers that always look slightly distracted as a rule yet somehow never fail to throw shade. i'm thinking, whatever. this hasn't even started and it's over because you ain't got what i got and i don't want what you have. it's so wrong to be done with the room when you walk in. wrong. but necessary.

the valtrex commercial was a breeze. i came out in no time and whaddya know? the hoarde was still there, milling about and struggling to not look at me. what in the world are they auditioning for? i thought. brylcreem? as it turns out, it was all about iPod. i was running late to meet simone and her little girl in midtown, so i called my agent to make me an appointment for the next day. why not? i'm as hip as anyone in that room. and i'm not just telling myself that so i can get hyped up to do the audition. i really am.

(really.)