And I ask myself: why am I watching this? I'm afraid to examine too closely the side of me that is willing to watch and mock others, and to masochistically wade through the trough of bad notes. The fact that these people willingly seek this kind of humiliation out somehow doesn't make me feel absolved of my part of guilt. I can't laugh at people's disappointment and disillusionment. It's too reminiscent of experiences I've had in the past, and it touches on my deep-seated fears for my future as a performer. Let me tell you something: Auditioning sucks. The only time it's not a stressful experience (thus far) is when you don't give a hoot about the outcome. In which case, why show up in the first place?
I've decided to skip the cattle calls for the next few weeks and wait and see what happens once they all get to Hollywood.
I woke up today to a crazy, drippy, freezing, rainy morning. My shoulders shot right back up around my ears.
Let me tell you: Puppies, I have witnessed the darker side of humanity this morning.
It has taken me one and a half hours to get to work today. An hour longer than usual. And this was with a cab. I thought I'd spring for the extra 5 or six bucks from the subway just to avoid the rain, treacherously icy sidewalks (why wasn't there any salt today?), and the crush of the bus (because I sure as sugar wasn't going to actually attempt to walk up the matterhorn that is Jeanne Mance). Partway up the hill in the cab, we had to back down again, because there was an accident at the top of the hill.
So we took another route about seven blocks away, and don't you know, there was yet another accident on that corner. Once we finally negotiated our way around it (16 dollars and twenty minutes have rolled by on the meter by now) and started up Aylmer, which is yet another hill, although less steep, we began to skid backwards all the way back down the street, and were not able get any traction. Homeboy had neglected to install his winter tires.
Ten minutes later, the cabbie is spewing a string of Creole profanity at top volume, waiting for one of the cars behind us to back up a foot and half so he could try to build up momentum. I finally lift my head out of my hands to see two people slip and fall down on the sidewalk and to see a TV camera filming our pitiful attempt to get up the hill. I wish I could say that I was able to appreciate how funny we must have looked. I confess that I seriously struggled against the desire to flip the cameraman the bird and ruin his shot. But the important thing is finally, we made it up the hill!
The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful, save for a few people trying to hop in our cab everytime we stopped at an intersection. I never thought I would fear the elderly, but this one lady filled me with an unholy terror when she banged on the window. Still, the poor thing. She was wet, and cold, and exaperated. And yet, I still locked the door. (Crazy wench wasn't going to get me, no sir.)
When we pulled up in front of the MAI 30 minutes or so after leaving Place des Arts Metro, the cabbie stopped the meter and looked back at me expectantly. I looked at the meter and looked back at him. I don't have the heart to tell you the final total cost of what was supposed to be a four block trip amounted to. It only took him a moment to catch on and decide to only charge me ten bucks for the whole ordeal.
Which is a good thing, you know, because I didn't want to begin my day of rehearsing a play about loving black people by committing violent, black-on-black crime before 9 am in the morning. Why do I ever take cab rides anywhere? You'd think I'd have learned my lesson how badly a simple, ten-minute ride can go awry.
Oh...right, because I'm lazy. I knew there was a good reason.
My shoulders are only just beginning to relax now, but I really do wish I had a handy manservant to give me massages. Where is that Julio when I need him?
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