Kimmy in the City

I thought I’d dedicate this post to my fellow recession auditionees. As you can tell from my earlier posts, being in theater is tough enough when the economy isn’t a giant pile of feces and there are more than 2 regional theaters open around the country.  I know this economy is hard on everyone bla bla bla, but I must say we have it the worst.  In recent years, I would simply wait for appointments from my agent, and every once in a while scoot into a chorus call when I couldn’t get appointments.  For those of you who do not know the equity theater audition process, it’s broken down like this;      

If you cannot get an appt from your agent, you sign up on a list the week before the aud and show up that day to get your number. Easy as giving a snickers to a fat kid, right?  Well, since 29834729834723 regional theater’s have closed and the ones still not bankrupt are casting primarily non-equity performers, we sad, broke actors are desperate to work.  So now we are auditioning with the mass influx of recently unemployed broadway actors as well as the usual 300.  Going to a chorus call (which is what many of us have to do now that agent appointments are becoming scarce) is like volunteering to have your arm amputated….without anesthesia. 

    Here is a typical day at a chorus call:

Walk into grossly overcrowded 400 degree room packed with sweaty, annoyed-they-have-to-go-back-to-chorus-calls women who have just woken up and are likely to be wearing curlers and a half face of makeup lugging a giant suitcase full of dance shoes.

The monitor begins reading the 45699298987 names on the list while people push forward to try to hear their name called

There is nowhere to sit, so you cram between two girls you think can support your weight. When your name is called (always at the end) you trip, scramble, push, and choke people to get from the back of the room to get your card.  

You are sweating profusely.

Your card reads 306.  Awesome.

Now you fill out the lame chorus call card with every show you have ever done bla bla bla.

Then you wait……and wait…….and wait.  At any chorus call  you are likely to hear the following topics from the people sitting around to you;

1) Shows they’ve booked.  

2) Shows they’d like to book.

3) Shows that they were down to the VERY end for. And they swear that the only reason the other girl got it was because she knew the director.

4) Diets they are on.  

5) Diets they have tried.

6) Diets they want to try.

7) How fat they are.

8.) Where they got their highlights and tanning bed package.

9) That they heard from Bob who heard from Fred that this casting agent wants to hear legit today. Then will repeatedly ask each other what they plan to sing.

10) How their rep book sucks and that they have no music.

11) How fat they look in this dress.

12) Gossip about other actors. 

13) How they hate the business. 

14) Discussions about alternate careers (subsequently all landing on ones that actually pay LESS than theater, if that’s even possible…ssssssh don’t tell them)

15) Their sex lives. 

16) Their agents.

17) Musical theater men who aren’t gay (this is usually a short conversation).

18) Being in debt.

So, your number is finally called (16 hours later) and you get in line to sing 6 bars of music (the equivalent of 3 words in a sentence).

 You wait in line then open the door to a room full of casting people so bored they want to stab themselves. They are probably also eating sandwiches and Facebooking while you stand before them.

You open your mouth and sing.

You are finished 4 seconds later.

You thank them.

They ignore you.

You leave the room as the next girl walks in.

You  swear you are changing your profession tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes. You go to a chorus call.

I have included some pictures indicative of the mood at recent auditions (generously donated by Ashley Linton)

I have decided that the movie theater in Times Square is my version of hell on earth.  And although this theater is in close proximity to my apartment, I will never ever go see a movie there.  Why, you ask?  Good question.  Here are some of the things you can expect to experience while sitting peacefully in that theater:

1) People answering their cell phones and having conversations (in full voice) during movies.

Obnoxious loud Ringtone: “If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it…….”

Ghetto movie go-er:  ”Hello??  Hey girl!!!!!  Whatchu doin??  Eh..nothin just chillin at da movies.”

Equally ghetto person on the other end: “bla bla bla, bla bla bla”

Ghetto movie go-er:  ”HA HA!  You funny girl!  Ya the movie’s coo.  Supwichyou? Nu-uh!!!!  No she dihn’t!!!”

(This will continue for 5 minutes. You get the picture)

 2) Most of the audience will talk back to/at the movie.

Joshua Jackson in ‘Shutter’: “Hey, come here”

Another ghetto movie go-er from directly behind me: “Donchu go girl!!!  Don’t do it!!!”

Yet another ghetto: “Nu uh!!!!  Get yo ass away from there!!!”

Me: (mentally bitch slapping myself for coming to this theater)

3) A small popcorn and medium drink will set you back $56.00  (see picture below).  This was an actual picture I took of my friend Jessica’s $12.00 meal. The midget sized popcorn was seriously like 8.00)

4) Half of said meal (see above) is likely to be hurled at the screen (or your head) by many of your fellow movie go-ers.  

5) You will probably be on the 266th floor which isn’t such a big deal until the movie is out and you are all forced down 1 skinny escalator which requires you to hit a landing at every floor and connect to another escalator.  Since there are way too many people on each escalator, you will be forcibly smashed into 50 people as you hit each landing.  Not all of these people will be wearing deodorant.  

6) There will be times you will fear for your life inside and outside of the theater.  Your small blonde probably-won’t-be-able-to-defend-yourself life. 

7) At least half of your audience will have come from Dallas BBQ across the street. And will be drunk. And loud.

Lesson learned? If someone suggests you see a movie in Times Square…..punch them in the face.

Um, so I can’t sleep as usual and my mind is wandering about some pretty retarded things I though I’d share. 

    First off, what did we EVER do without cell phones?  I mean, I have a SERIOUS relationship with mine…and I am talkin serious….marriage.  Now, let’s take a trip down memory lane back to the good ol’ days of yester into high school, circa 1996.  I mean, we had to beg our parents for pagers (yes, pagers kids…)  When we’d get a page, we would drive our asses all the way to the nearest gas station and use a …..gulp…..PAY PHONE…. to return the page.  Yup, I said it.  It’s all out on the table….we used pay phones.  Can’t you just see it?  Ten years from now we will be reliving the old glory days with our kids and, instead of the old “I had to walk 10 miles to school every day” speech, we will be explaining what pay phones were along with why and how we had to use them.  Our children simply won’t be able to comprehend such a burden. Now, you may be asking yourself why a 16-year old would possibly need a pager. This is a great question.  Well, for starters, what else is there to do in the suburbs of Chicago besides drive around aimlessly and hope someone will page you so can pull over and call them back?  Not much people, not much.  BUT, it was absolutly crucial to our social status to be notified at all times which local park the cool kids were at, only to drive there and hang out for 10 minutes before we were kicked out to yet another park.  And people actually say high school wasn’t fun??  I don’t buy it. 

  Ok, now let’s all revisit our first cell phone (a.k.a. car phone/Zach Morris phone).  It was a giant, and I mean GIANT heavy tube with a thick, black, coily wire you hooked into your car lighter that was to be used for “EMERGENCIES ONLY ” since it cost 52.00 a minute.  Come to think if it, Zach Morris must have racked up quite the bill talking to Kelly Kapowski as much as he did.

    When the phone rang with an actual ‘ringing’ sound, (Yes, those were the pre-bling tone days…can you imagine such a monstrosity??) you had to flip the giant panel down and scream, so the grainy voice at the other end (which was almost always your mom telling you to come home for dinner) could hear you.  How did I ever live like this??  It seems like such a wasted youth!  Can you imagine how much easier cheating on tests would be via text message?  Shit, I could have gotten into Harvard had they come out with that heavenly piece of technology just a wee bit earlier!  But hey, they say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?  This would explain why I am the rock solid person that I am today.

     Now, I know we all agree that facebook is pretty AWESOME. I mean, It has enabled me to find old friends from high school, talk to friends I wouldn’t normally communicate with all that much, and decorate my page with photo albums and pictures with my face superimposed onto Arnold Scherzinger and Chucky-the-homicidal-doll’s body.  So, that being said, don’t rain on my parade by writing me on here with a “Hey sexy, what’s shakin?  We’d be good together hot stuff”  (This, my friends, is an actually email I received) I mean, what do you expect me to answer you with?  “OMG thanks SO much for the lovely compliments!  I am just so flattered!  And I agree, we are OBVIOUSLY a match!”

  For those of you who don’t know who you are, I will post some simple questions to ask yourself before emailing me or any girl on here for that matter.  If you answer any of these questions with a “yes” then please don’t email me….or anyone with a vagina for that matter.

1.)  Am I over the age of 40 and still using the words “hotstuff”, or “chillin’”

2.)  Am I a fat, bald, divorcee who wears a toupee?

3.) Is my facebook name something like “Hungwell8″ or “Big papa22″ ?

4.) Am I from the Jersey shore or Staten Island (Nothing wrong with these lovely places, of course) and my idea of a good time is to come into the city wearing a child size tight black T-shirt and go clubbing whereupon I wiggle and rub up on poor innocent victims who simply want to go out and dance?

5.)  Do I wear my shirt unbuttoned to my belly button with 28 gold chains around my neck and drive a car with hydraulics and neon lights underneath?

6.)  Use phrases on a regular basis such as “sexy mama” and “sweet lips”

7.)  Am I married.

8.)  Am I crazy?

9.)  Am I gay?  (This one applies primarily to men in NYC who are overexposed to fashion and musical theatre.)

  That about sums it up.  If you answer yes to these, please, please don’t procreate….ever.

That’s all for today for today, folks.  See you on Facebook.

***I just transferred this from an old blog as I am updating the site . Enjoy.

 10 reasons why I love New York:

1.) Homeless men have Ipods. True Story

2.)  A 10 X 10 apartment being listed as a “size-able” room and easily going for $1400/month/

3.)  The restaurant industry here is so desperate to compete since there are 239847293847389478934 of them on any given block that you will find that dining is less about eating these days and more about ninjas  and their dueling sword fights, clown tightropists balancing on wires above your head while you eat chicken parm, and your waiters being dressed as martians.  

4.)  Only here can you get fat-free/sugar-free/calorie-free/lactose-free/carb-free/yogurt-free frozen yogurt and happily accept it as ice cream.

5.)  When it gets nice outside, the entire city immediately throws on their bathing suits and heads to a giant chunk of grassy land as if there were actual water anywhere in sight.

6.)  You can overhear people on their cell phones as they walk around the city saying things like, “No…I swear….he shoved a giant hot dog up there!   I know….kinky, right?”  (again, I could not make these things up if I tried.)

7.)  Dating someone on the East side is considered a long distance relationship.

8.)  Sitting on a train any given day of the week you can expect to see a mariachi band, a homeless person who has shat/pissed themselves holding a .40 in a brown paper and asking (well, what I think was asking since their words were quite slurred) for money to feed their “shungryy chillllldfren”, An old Asian woman selling used dreidels, broken yo-yo’s, a pink hammer, and a pack of Double A batteries. A man with no teeth singing opera, and a fat woman with halitosis who has tourettes.  And these things are all considered quite normal.

9.)  If you stop at any corner and look around you will spot at least 7 Starbucks…..And waiting for a double tall skim half-calf sugar/free dulche de leche macciato blended cream frappacino for more than 2 minutes is HIGHLY unacceptable.

10.)  Summer in the city boasts a blend of some of the world’s most interesting smells.  Among them;  Hot horse poop, rotting pee on asphalt, warm garbage, roasting sugar-coated peanuts, and bubbling doggy doo doo from owners who think picking up their dog’s shit is optional.  mmmmmm

 So, I just started taking a class appropriately entitled, “Change your book/change you life”, which is pretty bitchin’ because I kind of need to do both (the latter more so than the former).  So, as I was sitting there last night watching my classmate’s mock auditions desperately trying to pay attention and stop my mind from daydreaming about cupcakes and mullets, and I started taking inventory of all the humiliating auditions I’ve had since moving to the city….and realized just how many of these I have had.

    There was the time during a “Princesses” audition that I went to do a handstand (on the wrong side) and kicked Ellyn Marsh in the face making her nose bleed profusely.

Rob Ashford: Oh my gosh, are you ok??

Ellyn: (holding nose, tears running down) yes…yes I am totally fine (blood seeping through fingers) I barely feel it.

Rob Ashford: (stares blankly at Kim) It’s the other leg.

Kim: (desperately begins thinking of alternate careers)

    Then there was the time that my bare breast popped out during an audition for Wicked.  I was so into “popular”….jumping around and being my adorable self (and already mentally signing my contract)… until I felt a draft. On my tit.  So I look down and yup….there’s my areola standing out and proud for all to see.  I didn’t book the job. weird.

    So, by some grace of God I am called in for another role in the same show (which admittedly I am wrong for).  If you do not know the show, there is a character who is paralyzed from the waist down and in a wheelchair…this is important information.

Reader playing Boq: “Ive asked you to call me Nessarose, remember?”

Me: (gets up from chair with conviction and goes to him) “Boq!!!”

Reader playing Boq: (blinks silently stunned)

Me: (realizes she’s an asshole) (Turns to creative team) “Um….it’s a miracle…my legs work!

Creative team: (ripping up my headshot)

    And I am sure most actors out there know the stabbing fear that comes in those dance callbacks where they call, “5…6..7….8″ and you realize you have absolutely no idea what the first step is…let alone the entire combination.  Some actors handle this with grace and dignity by making a joke about their ‘brain fart’ or something to that effect.  And then there are other actors who stand completely still while people dance around them and begin to cry.  These actors have names that rhyme with Shmimmy Downell.

    And more recently I was in front of a very large creative team for the little roller-skating-musical-that-could, called Xanadu.  I had gone in wearing the same dress on 3 previous occasions for them, and the day before my agent called me and asked me to wear something reminiscent of a Grecian Goddess for the final aud.  So, I’m mid-audition dazzling them with my freakish talents, when they ask me to do the scene one more time…but this time in the style of a Midwestern Cheerleader auditioning for the Fresh Prince of Ben Aire….not really sure what that meant, but I will try anything..and so I went for it.  Forgetting I was wearing a long dress, I jump up confidently into a pike position before I begin the scene.  

Me (on floor): (opens eyes and sees ceiling and 8 terrified faces hovering over me) 

Creative team: Oh My God!!  Are you ok?  Should we call 911????

Me: Um…who am I?  No…I mean…I am fine.  I meant to do that.

Creative Team: I think you have a concussion.

Me: I am pretty sure you are correct about this.

***I did end up with a small concussion. and this was before I put on the roller skates. Again, didn’t book the job.  very strange.

    This brings me to another story my friend Danny just told me about a particularly awkward audition he had recently;

Danny: So…during “Why God Why” they made the accompanist play the ENTIRE 40 bar musical montage!

Me: Oh God….so what did you do??

Danny:  I walked over to the piano, started to sweat, and tried to feel something.

I do hear about hilariously bad auditions from time to time, but I kiiiiind of feel I may have the monopoly on these.  Just saying.

    On the rare occasions that I do drag my ass to the gym, I usually follow a fairly simple routine…

1) Insert headphones.

2) Turn on music

3) Begin movement on elliptical machine

4) Glance at the clock every minute in complete shock that it’s only been a minute since I last glanced at the clock, and

5) Wish the entire time that I was sitting on my bed watching Millionaire Matchmaker and eating a snickers bar.
    Well, today I got there and realized that I had forgotten my IPOD. I SERIOUSLY considered turning around and leaving. But, since my clothes have gotten deceptively tighter the last few weeks, I resolved to stay. Go me. I thought it would be pure agony (even more than usual) without having Britney’s thumping beat underneath me, but it was actually kind of amusing. Instead of zoning out to “I’m a Slaaaaave….for you” remembering the days Britney wasn’t completely bat-shit-crazy performing on MTV with a giant Python around her neck and making even the most flat-ab’d 20-something female feel like an over-the-hill sumo wrestler, I got a chance to really look around my gym for the first time. I had no idea NY gyms could be so hilarious.
    In one corner, there are the “I am short but I am going to overcompensate by making my muscles really really giant so that my arms don’t touch my sides” men. I love these pint size He-men….watching them is simply fascinating. Every single one lifts a GARGANTUAN barbell, grunts enthusiastically, sets the weight down, immediately goes to the mirror to and flexes their too-giant-for-my-tiny-body muscles, sighs proudly, then goes back and does it all again. Poor bastards….I fear they may be compensating for other….um….shortcomings (no pun intended).
    Then on the opposite corner you have the “too cool for school” girls who walk on the treadmill so slowly my 99 year-old grandfather could breeze past, while wearing black aviator sunglasses (my gym is in a basement….and has no windows), sipping on a grande triple shot mocha latte, reading Usweekly, and talking on their bedazzled blackberries. I giggled when I saw that one of them was wearing huge gold hoop earrings and repeatedly saying, “Shut up!!! No YOU shut up!!!” into her iphone as she “worked out”.
    Then you have the gays blatantly cruising one another while bopping up and down on stair-masters (my gym is in the theater district…nuff said). I love watching homos eye-f*** each other with the subtlety of a 350 lb. woman at a nudist colony. I mean…..it’s actually kind of refreshing. There’s none of that “does he like me?/Is he looking my way” bullshit that most women have to deal with. With them it’s more like, “I am mentally putting your dingaling in my mouth and ***content censored because my mother reads this***. I kind of envy their oddly aggressive dating behavior, although I always think it’s nasty when guys hit on me at the gym when I am sweating like a whore in church.
    And since my gym is blessed with tanning beds, you have the constant stream of tanorexics hoping to turn their brown/orange leathery skin just one shade darker to achieve the perfect I-live-in-Sub-Sahara-Africa tan….in new york. In march.

    So next time you are caught at the gym without your IPOD, open your eyes and look around….there is a whole gym full of weird crazy people just BEGGING to be seen.

Wow. Tonight’s Bachelor…I don’t even know where to begin.  I thought it took a giant, steaming pile-of–diarrhea turn for the worse after the most-annoying-host-ever-to-have-lived, Chris, announced that “Out of respect for the parties involved, there will be no audience here tonight.” This was said just before Jason broke up with Melissa……on national television. I mean…. obviously having your fiancee dump you the plain ‘ol run-of-the-mill way just wasn’t dramatic enough for ABC.  I did learn some very interesting things though…

So, I was watching Laguna Beach reruns on the N Network last night and found myself A) Feeling jealous of 17 year olds, B) Realizing it’s sad that I was feeling jealous of 18 year olds, and C) Realizing it’s sadder that I was watching the “N-network for teens” at 29 than it was to be feeling jealous of them.

Do you ever find yourself on facebook looking at pictures of people that you totally don’t know? (”Oh!…so-and-so was tagged in Suzy Smith’s photos! Why don’t I look at all of Suzy Smith’s photos….and entire profile while I’m at it! And then let me google her to find out everything there is to know about her from the time she was conceived until present day!”…….anyone?)…only to realize you have wasted a half hour on Suzy Smith who lives in Duluth and whom you will probably never meet?  Now that we have things like facebook and myspace, it is so easy to peek into other people’s lives.  I mean…is it really any different than peeking into someone’s windows at night wearing only a loincloth and some assless chaps? I think not. Sometimes it’s creepy how much of us is really out there on display for anyone and everyone to see.  On this note, I got a very disturbed message from my mother today who is A) embarrassed of this blog B) wonders where she went wrong in raising me, and  C) is CONVINCED that this will prevent me from ever getting a job or husband in the future…and that I will be 62 and still asking her for help with the rent. ***Side note: C is a very real possibility.