Conservatory

Had my Level 1 Conservatory tonight. During a warm-up game designed to help us get to know one another's names and become comforable with each other, we stand in a large circle and throw/hand imaginary things to each other, while the instructor periodically adds a new object to the mix. So daggers were being thrown and caught, mice transferred gingerly, wrestling belts buckled, subpoenas gravely served, and a red ball (because even imaginary things have color)was hurled to people who were called out by name. All at once.

At one point, the instructor, a middle-aged man, walked up to me appearing to hold...a fire extinguisher? A baton?

He smiled. "This is a big, greasy, dildo."

And I thought, "I auditioned for THIS?"

I don't really need to desribe the rest of the class. I sat there, bored and annoyed, and observed the toxic gender dynamics that this kind of instructor brings out in this age group (the boys become more outspoken, dominant and rude; the girls become quieter and less assertive, more willing to be put into uncomfortable situations). Since I am not interested in once again fighting the power that decides that a woman in a scene must be a wife, daughter, or hooker, and...

OK; I'll say it. Since I think I'm already better than most of the Conservatory grads I've seen, I've decided to forfeit the tuition, bypass the aggravation, and give it up. My old group, for all of its flaws, was remarkably mature and good at supporting each other. This group spent a goodly amount of time discussing how to tell head hair from pubic hair, and the instructor steamrollers over everyone. It's very reminiscent of the OLD! director's style.

I'm just not in the mood for another arrested-development demagogue. I like most of the people in my class, one girl in particular who's very quick and funny, and looks the spitting image of the Margaret Yang character from Rushmore. But I was feeling old and disconnected. I didn't enjoy myself at all. It's sad, but perhaps it's time to move on from this chapter of my life, and focus on my own creativity, find an outlet whre I can be challenged and feel more rewarded. The Neofuturists have a program; perhaps I'll look into that. They seem more age diverse, and they have good writers. They're also a hell of a lot closer. We'll see. I have many options.

Was It My Singing?

So no call today, which means I didn't get into the show. I'm not that broken up about it, really; it's a student production, which means it's a crap shoot as to the quality of the material, and I've been in enough mediocre shows for now. Not that being in a mediocre show isn't a good experience in its own way: tepid material really forces you to compensate through characterization and working on finding the funny or interesting part of the script, but it would be cool to have something to perform that I know is strong on its own.

My Conservatory class starts next week, so that will be good for getting the the rust out and playing around a bit.

Everybody SING!

Last night I auditioned for the Level 5 Writing Class show at The Second City Training Center (there has been some confusion over this, so to clarify: I did not audition to write a show; I auditioned to perform in a show written by advanced-level students.)

My slot was at 9:15 and they were running behind. I checked in and handed my head shot and resume to the nice young man at the table.

"The red spot on the head shot in no way suggests that this was printed out on a home machine from a digital photo taken by a friend while I stood up against the wall, motherfucker."

"Um..No! Of course not!"

I saw Tim from my Beginner class; he was auditioning for something else. We chatted while we waited, and he filled me in on all the exciting developments in the South Loop (He bought a condo there last year and is ecstatic that they're going to put a 2-acre park by his house. This is good, because the South Loop is a bit of a concrete wasteland, alhouh this hasn't stopped young professionals from snapping up property there). Then he left for his audition, and my group (the last group) was called into the Skybox. Because Improv auditions tend to involve an observation of how people spontaneously interact, you are all thrown on stage at the same time. So there I was, with six twentysomething guys, facing a group of writers and the show's director, who seemed mature and confident.

"OK, I want each of you to step to the front of the stage, say your name clearly, and tell us what the theme to your high-school prom was."

Now, not only was my high-school prom 25 years ago, I didn't go. And here it was, back to haunt me.

I stepped forward when my turn came and said, "I was in the Latin Club. I didn't go to my prom." I tried to put as much teenage angst into it as I could, and I got some "awww"s from the audience.

We did some two-person scenes, some add-ons. I was OK. I felt rusty -- it had been a couple months since I'd "played," and I was a bit blocked. But I stuffed a turkey with gusto and played paddleball like a pro.

We were then assigned partners to go and review a written scene. I was paired with a guy I'd seen perform with Blue Shampoo, my friend Chris's group. Improv is incestuous as hell.

The scene was an interview for a job at McDonald's. We reviewed it and performed it (I kept thinking, "Does this scene go anywhere? Is this indicative of the show? Huh.")

Then for the last segment, he brought us all back on stage.

"OK, now we're going to have you sing."

Say WHAT.

"We aren't looking for perfect voices, just getting an idea of range. So just sing anything -- The Birthday Song, anything."

Now, people who know me know two things: One, I LOVE to sing. Two, I have a terrible singing voice. I'm like the cringeworthy American Idol auditioners, only I KNOW I'm not good. My singing style is straight from the Pinata School of Vocal Technique: I just keep blindly plugging away, hoping to hit my target, often missing, and what I lack in precision I more than make up for in the strength of my swing.

So I may not always hit that note, but I'll miss it with gusto.

As the guys stepped forward and sang, it was clear that none of us was a golden voice. Until Eldridge stepped forward and began to croon. Damn him.

I stood there trying to think of what to sing. (As someone who doesn't audition for musicals, I don't have "my song that I sing.")

"So what did you sing?" asked Sven this morning, when I told him.

"Well, earlier at home, I had been listening to the soundtrack from 'Avenue Q' ..."

"Oh my God."

"So when my turn came, I stepped to the front of the stage and belted out 'I'm Not Wearing Underwear Today.'"

Sven was horrified.

"Why didn't you sing, 'It's a Fine Line?'"

"Because that song is beautiful and is supposed to be pretty. You can sing 'I'm Not Wearing Underwear Today,' and nobody is offended if you're off-key. At least I didn't sing 'The Internet Is for Porn.'"

"How was it?"

"Well, it was loud."

So I'm not sure what my chances are, and I'm not sure that I mind if I don't get in. But I now have a fire under my butt to get my own material performed, because from what I've seen out there, my stuff is pretty competitive.

On my way out I saw Tom, the piano player from OLD! -- he was up for the pianist job for the show Tim was auditioning for. I told him I'd put in a good word when I'd heard he was being considered. He invited me to a St. Patrick's Day party he and a friend were throwing. (As I said, the whole Improv world is incestuous.)

So I gave Tom a ride home and then headed toward mine, singing "I'm Not Wearing Underwear Today" at the top of my lungs.