Cold Head

Sorry, I'b a liddle buddled. I beant "head cold."

I am a wuss. I will admit it; I will declaim it with gusto . . . as soon as I feel a little healthier. When I get sick, there's nothing halfway about it. There's no "little 24-hour thing" for this boy, ever. I like to believe it is because--even on a physiological level--I maintain the courage of my convictions. Probably, though, it has more to do with having a Constitution score of about 2. (Yeah gamers: I went yon.)

Friend Patrick

(who has a much more admirable Constitution score) was right in his comment in my last entry. The past year has made personally known to me much illness and injury (for more detailed explanation:

12/31/06

). In the words of the Bard: I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors, but think that God's got a sick sense of humor, and when I die I expect to find Him laughing.

Meanwhile, the world marches merrily onward, oblivious to my suffering. Monday's rehearsal and showing of

The Torture Project

(v. 3.5.07) occurred. That's not to suggest it went poorly, I just never really know how it went until I hear back from the producers. I spent whatever of the day I wasn't in the Shabaq position lying on the floor trying to marshal my reserves. The showing was PACKED, the which I take some of the responsibility for. We had a small room to begin with, and there was more concern for surrounding the big-wigs with appreciative audience members than there was with actual space, so . . . mistakes were made. Which should be okay, what with it being a workshop presentation and all, but you never can tell. Some of the more memorable of these included:

  • Tripping into an audience member in the first row because there was no light in which to exit after my first scene.
  • Running out to strike a music stand and getting it nearly disentangled from the newly added Christmas lights on the ground before realizing I jumped the gun on its removal . . . all the while the next scene has already begun.
  • Literally choking whilst trying to make drowning noises in a tub of water placed behind the audience because--due to the necessary additional seating--I was awfully worried about splashing the designer handbag just inches away.

I blame it all on the sickie. The response immediately following the presentation seemed positive, but of course that's what you do when locked in a room with about a dozen people who effectively told you, "I made this, and I think it's pretty and special." We'll get the real response when Ms. Laurie Sales emails us all to say either:

  • Quit your day jobs! The Public wants to create an everlasting ensemble troupe comprised solely of us and the entire Schreiber family!

Or:

  • Do you guys want to rehearse in New Hampshire again? At least we get free space there . . .

For the moment, I am merely glad it's over for a while, and merely hopeful that the next time we mount

whatever

version of it we have much more ample time and resources. Since the showing, too, I had my first rehearsal for

A Lie of the Mind

. I spent the day leading up to it resting, which is a significant sacrifice when one works an hourly job one already has to take some time off from for various theatrical endeavors. Sadly, I was not (and am not yet) cured by this respite. I did, however, manage to unbind and recycle countless

Torture Project

scripts into draft paper. So I've got that going for me. Which is nice. (And which is today's movie quote; name it, you freakin' namers!)

The cast of

A Lie of the Mind

is awesome. Just awesome. I was in no shape to socialize, but the work is so engaging there was very little impulse to, either. I've been lucking out on the casts I've been a part of the past couple of years. I can't be sure if that's luck, actually, or one of the occasional benefits awarded those of us who stick with this nutty craft long enough to build a bit of a community. In addition, I have to spout that I'm very impressed with the director, Daryl Boling. I've worked with Daryl in this capacity twice before, the first on a debut called

The Center of Gravity

(his directorial debut, I believe) and the second on a production called

Criminals in Love

. It's been three years since

CiL

, and in that time I've caught only two productions Daryl's directed: his

Black Comedy/White Liars

a couple of years ago and his

Miss Julie

about a month ago. I suspected, based on that last production, that he had really developed since I last worked with him. My suspicions are confirmed. He is approaching the text with a sensitivity and insight reminiscent of David Zarko, and I can't wait to be able to breathe through my nose again so I can rise to his work.

Tonight is another rehearsal for

ALotM

, and naturally I have mixed feelings about being there. This is what I want to be doing most in the world, but nothing is exactly fulfilling when one is in pain (see wuss comment above). It's one of those sacrifices--along with the resulting reduced income--that tests my resolve to be doing what I'm doing. So in at least one way, I'm coming out strong today.

PS - This Vick's nasal inhaler is

good stuff

. . .

PPS - Total sidebar: Amazingly excellent actor Chris Kipiniak from the

TP

is a comicbook writer as well, and today the first of his

Spider-Man series

arrives on the shelves. It's a series for youth. I so don't care, and am getting my copy right now. I know a comicbook writer!

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?

One-Legged Pigeons, the Lot of Us

That's what I saw on the walk from the subway to work this morning. He flew down in front of me and landed, making a slight adjustment for his weight in order to make his standing pose more like a flamingo and less like a

V8

commercial. I wondered, How can a pigeon lose just the one leg? Then I wondered at why I hadn't seen one before. I mean, it must be treacherous to live the life of a pigeon. They are the punk rockers of the bird world. I'm rather amazed that they don't get plastered by vehicles more often, much less have their legs amputated by animals, freak mishaps and, uh...freak animals.

I got nuthin'.

Anyway, it's nice and strange for me to be frantically trying to take advantage of the six-months healthcare this week and encounter a one-legged pigeon trying to cross the road. (Obviously the little guy has insurance through an HMO, if at all.) I feel a ken between myself and the winged rat. Fortunately, it's not because I'm on an HMO plan (because this time, I'm not). Rather it is because I have been feeling my age of late (my older friends are going to KILL me if they read this) with regards to my health. I now need to adjust how I accomplish spectacular feats, owing to persistent injuries like my sprained wrist and shoulder, or my chemical epididymitis (see

12/31/06

). This bird is losing a little bit of his sense of immortality.

My hope is that this new sense refines and improves my work--makes it more precise and efficient. Some days it's easier to keep this hope in mind than others, of course. It is so easy to allow a hardship to suck hope out of me. I'll never understand that reaction, but I experience it over and over again. It may just be me. Perhaps others are much better equiped, and their hope quotient goes up (to a point) as their hardships increase.

Me, I need the occasional gimpy pigeon to lend a little perspective.

Take a Breather, My Heart

A preface: Over the summer I grew a little obsessed with an idea that I've harbored for some years now. Namely, getting a tattoo. I've known what I want for a while now, though don't have a specific design yet (damn but I should have stuck with my art classes) and over the summer I figured out where I would get it. That, combined with a certain rediscovered penchant for irresponsible decisions very nearly drove me into tattoo parlors in both Florence and Scranton. Now, anyone who knows me knows that:

tattoo : me :: lace apron : Godzilla

That was part of the appeal, to be honest.

Cut to now (

the ever-glorious now, the ever-present...now,

to quote the late, great Mark Sandman) and my first doctor's visit on the new health insurance. It had been a little over a year since meeting with Ellen Mellow, M.D (and my first meeting [during the second day of last year's subway strike] was my first insured doctor's appointment of my adult life), and we had a lot of ground to cover (see Dec. 2 entry for details). Doctor M. specializes in heart health, and during my check-up she spent a good deal of time listening with her stethoscope. This seemed a little odd to me, but I told myself to relax and let time slip by. Then she asked me to lie down while she did more of the same, listening to my heart from multiple angles. That request put me even more in a "huh?" place. Then she terrified me.

"You have the most amazing arrhythmic heart variations."

Actually, she said a lot more, all in indecipherable medical jargon, but that's the dumbed-down version. As I came to understand, I have what Dr. Mellow considers to be a rarefied variety of regularly changing heart rhythms. She even went so far as to say that it could simply be due to my being an actor, due to emotional versatility/extremism, but that we'd better take an echo scan just to be sure.

And like in a bizarre old movie, she opened a side door from the examining room and there was a darker room with a big machine in it being operated by a man of Asiatic heritage who wasn't much for bedside manner. In the tersest terms he instructed me to lie on my side, close to him and the machine, and rest my left arm under my head. As I maintained my reclining-Venus pose, he attached three disposable electrodes to my chest, triangulating signals on my heart, then smeared a glob of teal gel on what looked like a bladeless electric razor and pressed it into my lower left pectoral muscle.

Bing! Just like that on the computer screen was a grainy, black-and-white image of my beating heart. I saw valve. And for the rest of the examination, at least ten minutes, I was rapt. He pushed the not-an-electric-razor with its not-entirely-warm gel in all different angles off my torso, and I saw live images of my heart switching from cha-cha to two-step, to waltz, to west-coast swing. I thought, as I lay there being prodded, how remarkable it was that we got something so right in ancient times as associating emotion with our hearts. They're not the source, nor a depository, but damned if they don't tie together the whole experience in a visceral way.

It makes perfect sense to me that my heart doesn't, and may never have, kept metronomic time. I don't know if I'll ever get that inking of a great black bird in mid-flap over my left breast. But if I do, it will have good company. Something wild, something of a scavenger, an improviser, itself.