In addition to writing classes at the Second City, I also have taken improv classes there. Levels A through E. If you're not hip to the Second City hierarchy of classes, basic improv classes consist of five levels, and in Chicago, the levels are A through E. At the conclusion of Level E, you can audition for the Conservatory, which currently consists of six levels. If you complete the Conservatory, then you may actually get some sort of paying gig through the Second City. (I understand that this can mean touring the country on and poking fun at other cities or performing on a boat where you make drunken newlyweds and pensioners laugh.)
So, anyhow, yours truly completed the five circles of improv classes at the end of April. In theory, I could have auditioned at the end of March, but: (1) I'm a flake and didn't know about the sign up times for auditions, and (2) it was a very crazy time at my day job and a Friday off would have been ill-advised. Fast forward to May, and sign-ups for auditions came around again. I dutifully signed up and arranged to take Friday, June 1 off from work. (I think there is more to do at work now than in late March, but oh well. I arranged for the day off.)
Ideally, an one should have a theatre resume, a head shot, and the sense to arrive early for an audition. The resume was taken care of weeks ago, when a good friend let me plagiarize the format from her resume. (She has much more acting experience than I do, so I had to dedicate a line to every theatrical thing I've done since age 18 -- including a playful choking of a Detroit sportscaster after Michigan lost a football game during my freshman year. Fuck you, Kordell Stewart.) So, resume: check.
I was too busy with work to get to a session for a head shot in the past eight weeks, but I thought that I had decent pictures of my face and an ample supply of high quality photo paper at home. Wrong. This paper did not exist. I had to burn a CD and go to a Walgreen's near my house to print them out. Bad idea. Walgreens' machine could not read my disc. No can do. I drove to Second City (already running late for my 2:00 p.m. time slot). Traffic was so characteristically bad that I couldn't go to a proper camera/photo store to print my budget head shot. I decided to try the Walgreen's across from Second City. Again, the disc wasn't read. I was pretty screwed because it was 1:50 and I was supposed to have arrived at 1:45 for my auction. At this point, I was so desperate that I asked the Walgreen's person if a passport photo could be enlarged to 8 X 10. Yes. Yes! I ran with that. "Okay, that'll be ready in 30 minutes, sir." Huh? No, I don't need it then. Forget about it. (I was going to go the Ale House, give up, and just tie one on.) They relented and printed me immediately.
I was on my way at 1:59 -- and arrived too late for my 2:00 slot. Rightfully, my 2:00 p.m. slot was given to somebody off the wait list. I was forced to wait to see if I could a wait list spot for 2:30. I was so angry at myself. Taking a day off from work when piles of paper need to be addressed. (Literal piles of paper.) Not having my head shot taken care of. Not bothering to pursue improv and sketch writing until I'm old enough to be a has-been. And generally just angry at myself.
I listened to music while I waited and read a list of tips for good improv. (A very pitiful form of cramming.) I toyed with walking away and just getting tanked the entire time, but I knew I'd always regret going this far and then walking away. I actually checked my work e-mail and responded to a few e-mails while I was waiting. (Take that, fellow auditioners who just graduated from college. I have a job. A job that affects my mood, gives me gray hair, and disrupts my GI tract. Jealous? You won't be in ten plus years.)
Well, I was the last guy allowed in for the 2:30 slot. 22 people auditioning for a slot in the Conservatory in Donny's Skybox. They had us go in groups of three. So, I was the last guy and went in a group of three that consisted of two people who went earlier. Our scene suggestion was "what's left of speed dating." Me and two women. I went smarmy. One partner suggested with her first line that we get out of there. An alarm went off in my head because that would kill the scene. I thought of a way to stay and make them fight over me. This culminated in me trying to convince two women that I was a wishbone and they had to pull me in half to "win" me and had their wish come true. I sensed trepidation from my partners. They would not try to rip my legs apart. (They probably didn't want to hurt an old codger.) So, that felt weird. Unlike a show, I really had no sense of whether others in the theatre were laughing. I was relieved when they called "scene."
The final portion of the audition was "Freeze Tag." I hate freeze tag. And the auditions are notorious for bad freeze tag because everybody wants to get as many looks as possible and they supposedly call freeze before you can get as much a facial expression out. I only got involved twice, I think. Neither was memorable in my book. Oh well. That was it. Audition over.
I walked out convinced that I would get a "Dear John" e-mail telling me whatever they tell you when you don't get in. (I've received these many times from potential employers and grad schools. I once received one that was dated two days before I interviewed! So, I was at least interested in how this rejection e-mail would be phrased.) But here's the kicker -- I got an e-mail accepting me into the Conservatory. I didn't see that coming. So, ten dollar head shot, being late for designated slot, feeling defeatist up to the moment of walking in, shitty freeze tag -- it didn't harm me enough to keep me out. Somebody must like wishbone humor. (And I really hope that the lucky bitch or son of a bitch who got my 2:00 p.m. slot got accepted.)
What a weird mindfuck of a process, but I'm thrilled to get the chance to go further.
Yes, the rusty '79 El Camino of head shots:
 |
| An undated mugshot. |
No comments:
Post a Comment