Interwebz Identity, or, How the Hell did my Prom Date Find Me Again?

In the past two months, I have probably matched the combined time I have spent learning about and updating my "web presence" with the amount I have spent on theatre-related activities. It is a bizarrely exciting aspect of networking these days that we needs must have virtual selves as well as actual. In some ways, it's always been this way. Headshots. Business cards. Advertising. It's just that now there's this whole alternate universe, the interwebz, that we ignore at our own risk.

It's the risk that broke me down, made me submit to said interwebz at last. Because frankly, I am not excited by the custom websites, and can't help but be aware that the interwebz market is even more flooded than the acting profession, so the chances of reaching a broad audience are slim-to-none. Ah, but suppose someone wants to find you...and can't? Great, say I. I already have a cell phone surgically grafted to my hand and an email account that gets a hundred offers daily for erection-enhancing lubricants. Let them not find me! I'll be over here behind this tree whistling Django Reinhardt tunes.

Then I remind myself that I'm an actor.

Balls.

So, here's my progress on the whole webby-ness front:

• ma' website.
• ma' 'blog.
• ma' MySpace space.
• ma' Friendster locale.
• ma' Onion classifieds account.
• various theatres deigning to mention my involvement (No, Google, I did not mean "'Jeff Mills' theatre". You bastards.)
•  

So I would say I'm doing okay on that front. Certainly I've improved it greatly in the past couple of months...with a little help from my friends. Okay: a lot of help. Okay: they did it all, practically. So good. We're good. On the webinetz. Grood.

Non, monsieur. Excusez-moi, mais vous avez tort.

Look, I don't know who this "

Jeff Wills

" guy is, but he's really pissing me off. Go ride a bike, Jeff Wills! And you, YOU! Whatsyername?

Jeff Wills

, is it? That's just irresponsible, what you're doing. Besides, don't you have some table to bus, bitch! Your kung fu is no match for mine. Oh! Oh, excuse me, I didn't see you th . . . what are you doing to my leg? My alignment is NOT "all messed up!" Get away from me,

Jeff Wills

!

Actually, my point is defeated (once again!) by my own link-searching, which revealed that I have rocketed to the #5 slot on Google when you enter "Jeff Wills". I have no idea how that happened, but gift horses, etc. For years now I have struggled to find myself (pun intended) on these widewebberneties search engines, only to have to scroll through pages and pages of other JeffWillseses, the "VARNA cyclist" being the real popular fellow. (He's been working on his presence since 1995.) Somewhere around page 5 or 6, I would find actual mention of me, usually as the director of my friend

Jade's

second run of

ICONS

, Part I

. Which is great, and all, if you're looking to hire a director with one professional credit to his name.

I shall apply defribulation to my point, however (CLEAR!), and see if it can't go on to lead a relatively healthy, normal life. In the struggle to be known, to have the opportunities come to me more than I have to go after them, there's a lot of one's soul to be lost if one is not careful. I see myself through the filters of these sites, and there's very little recognition there for me. Perhaps that's as it should be. They are, to me, mostly marketing tools. The website is pretty (Yes you

are

, you're

pretty

!

) but essentially a best-face-forward kind of tool; a first impression of a careerist. The Onion ad was a lark, and represents me as I am when I'm sort of most casual about things. Friendster I signed up for so long ago (like, whole year or so) I'm not sure who that is at this point. The theatres and their websites are bare mentions of me as someone who acts and travels a bit. And MySpace...well. I can't STAND MySpace. MySpace is my generation gap from the youths--right there. When I finally got that page semi-glossed, friend Nat wrote to me to say (albeit in jest), "You

are

real!" MySpace makes me feel--on a visceral level--like an octogenarian in a discotech.

But this 'blog, at least, is fairly unfiltered and substantial. At times, it's frightening to think that I'm putting myself out to public access daily. (All three of you readers, this is a bond of

trust

.) One of the most anxious thoughts I have has to do with someone I knew years ago, anyone I've lost touch with, reminding me of who I used to be. Why should that be so terrible? I don't know. Maybe I've invested too much into this career that seems to require a polished veneer. Maybe I'm still not successful enough to be satisfied. Or maybe I really am, when it all comes down to it, an introvert.

Hey: It's what the MySpace personality profile tells me.

Sticking Up

A little something from my passive-resistance, anti'blogger friend (see

1/7/07

for said friend's impressive dramaturgy), who met a young actor at an educational gig:

"C____ was actually a really interesting guy, who had only been acting for about four months, and had already had a speaking part in the

upcoming Ridley Scott/Russell Crowe movie

--Russell Crowe pulls a gun on him. So awesome! But he used to be a stick-up kid. He talked really honestly about it later when S___ and I were walking back to the subway with him. He also said that he felt the need to pursue acting because of what had fallen in his lap--that from talking to other people on set he had begun to realize and appreciate how hard it is to do that, how hard the life is, and how hard it is to work to perfect the craft. He felt that to honor it--the opportunities that have been flung on him, and the lifestyle that usually accompanies it--he had to see it through to wherever this took him. So there's something for your blog (make no mistake--I do not condone that sort of thing): choosing this life because in part it chose you. And honoring what you have intrinsically. That there's some idea of a blessing involved, and that giving back, utilizing these tools is part of the respect you pay to the work. I think it's rather beautiful."

I agree.

This is not a perspective I come to naturally, this idea that some people have gifts (or "talent") that others do not. I would even go so far as to say: Most people who say they believe this idea, when pressed or drawn into a need to defend their position, would discover they were operating from an assumption. There are these axioms we are all inclined to accept through the sheer pressure of public opinion. It reminds me of a conversation I had with my sister (who, being a fellow

Unitarian Universalist

, tends also to be a questioner--

1/3/07

) on different subjects, but with the same question applied to them: Why? Why is saving a life automatically the best choice in every situation? Why should there be someone out there for everyone? Why should it be that people have natural talents, rather than abilities that are either cultivated or not?

The Why Cycle is a vicious one, of course. Ever have that conversation with a beebler (read: fully verbal but

very

young child) that starts out with something simple, like, "Why do birds fly?", only to end up with a question equivalent to "Why are we here and how do we, in fact, know we are here at all?" Ah, the birth of abstract thought! Ah, the Medea-complex it can inspire! So let's not build an

Escher staircase

, please. But the question "why" was made to draw back the curtain, show us through the frame to a broader horizon of possibilities, so it's a good place to start.

C____ reminds me of my mother, midway through seminary. (Stick with me here.) (Come to think of it, he reminds me of myself, midway through college [see

1/29/07

]. But my Mom has always been more inspiring, so:) A middle-aged Unitarian Universalist at

Wesley Theological Seminary

(an ecumenical Christian school) studying to become Reverend Wills. She came from teaching elementary school for years, and after volunteering for a year or two as Director of Religious Education (DRE) at our church--

AUUC

--began setting her sights on the ministry. That part of the story's unique enough, but the point (yes, I have one this time) is that about midway through her ten-year tenure as a student of ministry, her peers began to swap stories about their Calling. This is not calling, as in holla-back-shorty, but Calling, as in holla-back-Jesus. (Jesus: I ain't no holla-back prophet, but here's some blessing for the effort. And Haddock. H-A-D-D-O-C-K... [Just a little ecumenical

humor

, all in good fun...Sir...]) Of course all the acknowledged Christians had little difficulty with this in concept, regardless of how it might apply to them in practice.

My Mom, however, had to think about it for a bit. (It's what we do, UUs: think. Alla' time. It's irritating.) She also had to soul-search, pray, meditate and probably do some new age crap that I still respect but is awful, awful crap. Ahem. Sorry, New-Agers. And Wiccans. I do some of it myself. I'm just an upstart UU. WATCH OUT! Anyway--and this is funny--I can't remember what conclusion she came to. Which is the funny. I thought I had a point, and yet I have made a liar of myself. God did it, probably, for my non-UU-ness a few lines ago. Thanks, God. I needed that like I needed another crisis of faith. Anyway, my Mom is indeed Reverend Wills now (she even answers the phone that way; try it: 301-745-6576) so she and God must have gotten right about it somehow.

But how's this for a point: For whatever reason, my Mom is absolutely gifted at being a mother. It's what she was born to do, no doubt about it in my mind. Something silent in her reaches out to you in whatever need you're in and--whether it's by conduit to God or a powerful ability for empathy--gives you what you need. It's a fact of faith for me, and I don't have too many of those (mostly I have theories of faith, which is how we UUs generally like it).

My point, my friends, is that it doesn't matter how we do what we do. The source(s) of our power in the world, be it nature, nurture or divine providence, does not seek to answer the question of "why." What matters is that we do it. Perhaps we were meant to do what we're doing. Perhaps we've just spent a lot of time working really hard at it. I believe it's good to honor something other than yourself with what you do with your life. Any ambition means more, and will accomplish greater things, when it is serving a larger purpose. So honor thy mother and father, honor humanity, honor God, but honor something say I. Though not

L. Ron Hubbard

, please. That was based on a bet. I guarantee it.

There's a lot of banter between actors about the specific "right way" to get into character (it was a much-heated debate toward the beginning of the 20th century; now it's mostly just banter [like religion in the west, more and more people are beginning to see multiple perspectives with the same goal]), with camps that claim success is achieved when you

become

your character, transformed, and camps that insist success lies in the character

becoming

you, essential, real and true. A thousand grays lie between. I, and most peers with whom I've discussed it, see it as a meeting halfway. Halfway in this context meaning a point in time (rather than distance) when the two converge; sometimes the actor has to do more traveling, sometimes the character. I willfully apply this scenario to the question of our choice, or being chosen. And I think it is a constantly shifting ratio. Sometimes we just have to keep choosing and choosing and CHOOSING to do what we love. And sometimes, the love calls to us.

Holla-back, love. Holla-back.

We've come for the Festival

This weekend is full of the kind of plans I never could have imagined myself having during my first year in New York. Nothing fancy, just particular to my life and the people who I've ended up on the same path with. (That was awful; "people with whom the same path I have ended upon"? No. Gimme a minute...) In a matter of minutes I'm off to Port Authority (Ah, Grand ol' P.A., how I love thy grandeur!) to catch the Martz bus out to Scranton, PA. There will dear John Beck pick me up, feed me lunch, then we'll catch my friend Billy Rogan's concert at The Northeast Theatre, after which will come dinner and the main event,

Almost, Maine

, with a cast of people with whom I've worked with on different shows. (Grammar lobe broken is. Resist must I joke of Yoda.) Afterwards, there will probably be much rejoicing, I'll spend the night at John's, then after a leisurely breakfast with said John, catch the bus back here in time to rehearse for a reading that night at

The Knitting Factory

.

Now, let's see how the events described above surprise us...

_________________________________________

Man. Let me just say, the genius of my friends astounds and humbles me. It was a very musical weekend. Billy Rogan is a genius of technique. GET his album, if for nothing else than to get on the cultural ground floor of a guy who is on his way to gifted reinvention of guitar music. Honestly, his current effort is a bit beyond my capacity for complete appreciation. He's so freaking

good

at his self-proclaimed "two-hand" approach that I can't quite keep up with its versatility, but nevertheless, he is good and good. Give a listen:

Billy

G.D.

Rogan, Ya'll

.

So I attended his debut concert, and it was wonderful. Part of what's great about Billy (name-dropping, I assure you, because this guy's going places) and his craft is that the practice of it is so lofty, yet his personal demeanor is so unassuming. He almost apologized for performing his unique and demanding art, yet revelled in it and shared his joy for it with all of us mere mortals. The music sounds like a whole rock band at times, replete with lead guitar, bass, and drum set, yet all performed on Billy's lone acoustic guitar. When he just relaxes a bit, and performs for individual connection more than virtuosity, he will take every audience by storm. And that's not a critique of his concert; just a perspective on where this impressive and unlimited young artist will be headed. The concert was still beautiful and surprisingly magnificent. (Hi Guillermo. This is your shamelessly unabashed plug.)

Reeling from that, I caught

The Northeast Theatre

's production of

Almost, Maine

, by

John Cariani

. I must admit here that I am horribly biased about this production, having worked with all of the four-member cast in one capacity or another. Nevertheless, I must say that I believe this production was leagues beyond the accomplishment of the New York debut, which I took in about a year or more ago. When I saw that production, I thought it was enjoyable, but largely ineffective. I don't know what to attribute it to specifically, but that show left me a little cold. Technically proficient, but a little "below" the actors in some respect.

TNT's show

, however, made me care about the characters so much I didn't want to leave them. Brilliant.

Heather Stuart

,

Duane Noch

,

Conor McGuigan

and

Amber Irvin

, my hat's off to you. It might have been simple romantic entertainment, but you guys made it more. Significant. True. Lovely.

Following that, festivities ensued at John Beck's house, and they were lovely. Beer, wine, snack food...what more could we ask? I stayed up too late, and when 8:00 AM rolled around, I wanted to stay in bed in John's guest room (replete with a walnut-veneer work desk) for a few hours more. I left, however, treading boot prints in the shallow snowfall on my way to the

Martz Bus

station.

Upon arriving back in The Big Apple, it was off to perform in Nat Cassidy's reading at The Knitting Factory. It was my first time at TKF, and it was great fun. Three floors of entertainment, that place is. Oddly enough, though I didn't catch them, one of the few local bands I know,

Nakatomi Plaza

(Ya'll get the reference, right?

Die Hard

? If you don't get that--get out.), was playing there that night as well. The reading went well, and was even well-attended. Nat hopes to succeed in submitting the play to the

NYC Fringe Festival

. We'll see how that turns out, but the reading itself got nothing but positive reactions. Afterward, there was much brew-ha-ha, and bands. Nat's girlfriend,

Alexis

, performed, and I was duly impressed with her folky glory. Then

Nat (Cassidy and the Nines)

took stage, and was wonderful. I heard Nat's first NYC demo when we met, working in New Hampshire, and liked it, but had no idea how great his live show would be until I saw it tonight. It was like watching Dylan with a sense of humor.

That

able, and

that

entertaining. The crowd had a ball. That final act contained a member of the reading, and the band was

Stephanie Podunk and Ghost Town

. They were great too, with dual female vocals and rock sensibility, though they suffered a bit from classic sound-mixing issues in live performance.

It was surprising and musical weekend. I had many moments of lament for how little work I was actually doing (though the audience of "The Exiled" was very complimentary of my reading) but I can't help but grin at the abundancy of creation. It was inspiring.

And Patrick: Somehow I had pancakes both Saturday and Sunday. Miraculous pancakes...

Whine with your Cheese?

One of the ways in which I'm assured I belong in my quest to create theatre full-time is that, after a certain period of no long-term work ("long-term" in an acting context being about the span of a month) I begin to exhibit symptoms of depression and desperation. I crave the stage, or at least a studio, a script, or at least a scenario and a scene partner, or at least a director. To put a finer point on it, I suffer from withdrawal. (This of course is also how I know that I'm meant to drink and smoke. My logic is an impenetrable fortress. Or will be, until I die of heart, lung and/or kidney disease.) And guess what, my fine, feathered friends? Today I have the shakes.

Of course, I always have "the shakes" to some degree or another. As those of you who know me (I mean,

really know me

) are aware, I have a mysterious condition that causes my hands to tremor at times. It ain't

Parkinson's

, it ain't

MS

. Frankly, the doctors are stumped, and in being thusly stump'ed (that's with an accent on the "ed" for best scansion) they have theorized that I suffer from

Essential Tremors

, or E.T. The humor of

this acronym

doesn't fail to escape me. Neither does the humor of our medical science's tendency to name a condition when they can recognize it, yet have little idea about what causes it.

What I am referring to, however, has naught to do with my ability to hold a glass of water in a relaxed manner. No, rather, I refer to that incomparable feeling I get when it's been a while since I've tread the boards. It's glorious. Appetite, insecurity and aggressive temper all rolled into one glorious experience. I love it almost as much as I love my day job.

Almost

.

Perhaps I've seemed busy. I have been, but with all manner of things ancillary to playing a role on stage or film. I've been teaching workshops. I've been traveling. I've been teaching high-schoolers. I've been helping people get

divorced

. I've been designing brochures. I've been networking with other actors and the occasional producer. I've been participating in readings, discussions and revisions, website consultations and typing in this here 'blog. None of it really feeds the urge. It just stems it a very little bit.

Notice I did not say, "I've been auditioning." Dagger, thy pointe is for me. No. I haven't. I tried last Friday (for

The Irish Repertory Theatre

) but one thing led to another and I had to choose a little in-flow of money over it. And, I'm terrible at cold auditions. It's a sad fact. Those supposed E.T.s are linked to nervous energy, and nothing makes me more nervous than standard audition procedure, so the two compound one another. (I'm nervous about auditioning, my hands shake, I'm nervous about my hands shaking, etc.) I don't have stage fright, but I have audition fright.

Jeez, Louise.

But really, what could they have done to make a cold audition more terrifying? Anything at all, short of hanging eviscerated cadavers from the ceiling and jumping from a corner shouting "Boo!" when you walk in? You get up at Stupid O'clock in the morning in order to stand in a line of your fellow aspirant actors for at least an hour in order to get the audition slot you need to fit the thing into your day. Then you're either called to wait in line again (This time: sitting!) or go away and come back in time for your slot. As you wait, you get to watch

carbon copies of yourself

, only with better (Choose three [3]: hair / bone structure / physique / voice / height / experience / charisma) prepare and go through The Room. You shuffle your stuff from seat to seat as you move down the line, calculating where you'll put it all while you're in there, and trying to make sure you don't go up on at least the first line of your monologue. Finally it's down to you, and two minutes stretches into a lifetime....

Then the door to The Room opens. You pause to calculate that indeterminate amount of time they need to breathe between applicants, hoping you didn't rush them but aren't wasting their time, either. In you go, and The Room is always 1) small, 2) stuffy, 3) lit with fluorescents, 4) white. (Ever had a friend run you through that verbal "psychological" test that always ends with you providing three words about how you would feel in a windowless, doorless white room with a giant white armadillo in the center? That's The Room.) There are 1 to 10 people waiting for you inside (yes, 10--it's happened to me) at the far end, seated behind a table. You introduce yourself, your piece, and go. You have at most a minute-and-a-half to blow them away.

Then it's over. You're outside The Room again, a flush of heat rising to your face as you relax from all the adrenaline. At some point, there was a "thank you" that ushered you from The Room, but that doesn't matter now. What matters is that you've just realized that the person behind the desk was about 20 years old. Which means s/he was a casting assistant. Which means they have no authority or respect. Which means you didn't actually audition for the theatre, but helped fulfill their "audition process" required by

Actors' Equity Association

. So you go to work, and for two days try to convince yourself that you're not hoping to hear from them again.

I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. I also know there are plenty of people who don't feel this way, and who weather these things regularly just fine. Have I only myself to blame for my lack of work recently? Possibly. All right: Probably. The two regional theatres I work for regularly (

The Northeast Theatre

and

Signal & Noise Productions

), for different sorts of compounded reasons, haven't hired me this season. My crutches fell. My suppliers ran dry. The corner bodega is out of

Newcastle

and

American Spirits

. So I must rally, and walk a few harrowing blocks to the bodega that doesn't know me by name. So be it!

But does somebody want to hold my trembling hand?

I Am a Banana!

Dewds: Oh my dewds: What a day have had I.

Today was the suspect

KCACTF

workshop, and I must say I am SO glad I didn't bail (for fear of not being on their program:

12/15/07

). Patrick and I drove up bright and early, and spent some hours strolling the seemingly desolate

campus

, pinning up fliers for

In Bocca al Lupo

. Scavenging push-pins was fun . . . especially when we were done, landed in the check-in area just in time to hear one of the student volunteers walk in a demand to know why she couldn't find any unused push-pins on any bulletin boards. I worried (I'm a worrier) that there would be no students, for we saw so few on our lengthy back-and-forth over the campus. So many attempts at promotion have ended in disappointment for the theatre in the past, I've learned to brace myself for the worst possible outcome.

I needn't have worried.

We had nearly 50 students for the class.

I thank God:

1. They gave us a plenty-big room.
2. Patrick was there.
3. No one fell on his or her head.

Seriously: It was a liability nightmare. I suppose I should have kicked some people out, but I was just so surprised that I went straight into problem-solving mode. Five minutes before we were supposed to begin, Patrick and I quickly conferred amidst all the quasi-nervous college actors and agreed the best way to proceed would be to have them break into groups of three, see if there was enough space, then proceed in the hope that the spotters (those assigned to catch anyone who might fall) took to their jobs with grim determination.

We had them make a circle, shoulder-to-shoulder, and they essentially filled the 40x50 dance studio. To warm up, I had them count of one-two-one-two, and the twos step forward. Now we had two concentric circles, and we warmed up for about a half an hour. They were very responsive to my (cheesy, gratuitous) humor, and it wasn't too long before we were all warm in body and buzzing on the joy of being together and active. Great energy. And we did it all. In two hours, we learned the acrobalance poses of

Angel

(Superman) and

Front Thigh Stand

, worked on the dollar-bill exercise (teaching threes, separate and specific beats, listening) twice, and even covered some ground regarding building

commedia characters

from their appetites. And it ended with them almost unanimously hungry for more, which was great for

In Bocca al Lupo

. Hopefully students for that will come from this, but honestly, right now I'm just thrilled with how well it went.

That's about it, folks. I close the day, safely returned to my Brooklyn apartment now, gratefully exhausted from travel and

real

work. It was the kind of day to remember, when your work proved valuable and you feel useful and eager for more. There's a wonderful series of cartoons called "

Rejected

," by Don Hertzfeldt, that springs to my mind whenever I get in a situation that's potentially awkward or disappointing. It's a way of lightening my own mood and getting my mind off of worry. ("

My SPOON is too BIG

.") Some days, those same sheltering chants become

victory shouts

.