Who Never Learned to Sing

Tonight, at a small brick-and-mortar music store (the last of a dying breed) in my neighborhood, it will be a game of "Spot the Faker" for bemused citizens sitting in folding chairs as the principals in a local production of Gilbert & Sullivan's Iolanthe will sing selections from the operetta as part of a First Friday event.

(Hint: I'm the faker. The tall, skinny one with the glasses and the airplane hangar-proportioned proboscis.)

See, I never learned to sing. Strangely enough, in middle school, you could find me in the chorus. Stranger still, in high school, I was in musicals. But the weirdness didn't reach its height until two years after college ended, when I auditioned for my first Gilbert & Sullivan operetta, and audition committee heads turned to each other in stupification as I crisply and excitedly sang "When I Was a Lad," the patter song from H.M.S. Pinafore, (a song I had been singing in the shower for years) memorized, with silly little homespun choreography.

And here we are, six years later, seven operettas later. One more under the belt. They only wrote fourteen together, as all particularly proper 'peretta pedants know.

Yeomen of the Guard
Patience
H.M.S. Pinafore
Ruddigore
Pirates of Penzance
The Sorcerer
Iolanthe

I'm halfway home.

And I'm as scared to death as ever, because I never learned to sing.

I barely learned how to read music. When I was in first grade, our overweight and impossibly coiffed and painted music teacher did a note recognition exercise with us. If she held up a drawing of a quarter note, you got down on your knees. A rest, you sat down, Indian-Style. A whole note, you stood up with arms outstretched, and so on. As we got better at recognizing the funny symbols, my music teacher sped up the game, frantically holding up one card, then another, all of us sitting and standing like it was some sort of crystal meth-infused, gleeful church service for kids. The glee came to an abrupt halt when my ankle snapped after we were shown a rest and I sat down too quickly, and too awkwardly.

And so I became the first child to break his ankle in music class. Of course.

It's a cute story, sure, though it was embarrassing for a while, especially during the b'pimpled era, but I think it speaks rather uncomfortable volumes about my relationship with music, but specifically singing. I never quite stood up straight again, and I don't mean that literally, although I do have scoliosis, as is required by Jewish law. When I sing before an audience, there is always something being held back, there is always a reticence, something that is not quite sure it's supposed to come out, or wants to. And so I hide behind the comic G&S roles-- those funny, silly patter roles that were never written for operatic singers, real singers. They're written for a "comic actor who can sing," in the words of Sullivan himself, as opposed to the more lyric roles for the romantic leads and the heavies, people who must sing first, and act second.

And I hide pretty well, even though, at least in my own mind, I out myself every time I open my mouth. Although, to be honest, there's always a piece of me that's waiting for my other ankle to snap out from under me every time I sing and prance about a stage.

It's a shame, really, because I never get to enjoy what I do. Never. It's also a shame because I think my continued participation in these shows, the portrayal of characters traditionally inhabited by seasoned, veteran, trained performers, smacks a little bit of disrespect for the material I love so much-- the joyous and jocular, sonorous and sweet, precious and precocious material of two obstinate Victorian gentlemen who should have been sainted-- not just knighted-- just for staying together as long as they did. But I mean no disrespect, Sir William & Sir Arthur. Like an altar boy, I just want to celebrate you through the only means you handed down to me. And I've been lucky enough not to be found out yet.

Shhh-- don't tell. Anyway, no time for that now. As Gilbert said, "I have a song to sing, O."

Requiem for a Ferret

On November 22nd, 2009, my moustache died.

It lived peacefully, though not altogether unnoticed, beneath the shade of my gigantic, Semitic proboscis since I began growing it in early September, in preparation for its stage debut in "The Pirates of Penzance."

The director had decided that Major-General Stanley ought to have "a long, flowing walrus-style moustache, sweeping down to the jawline."

I looked at her and said, "I'll see what I can do."

"Good," she said, giving my shoulder an affectionate rub, "Oh, and great big mutton-chops, too."

Back in my high school days, I wore a fake moustache in a cataclysmically terrible production of "Kiss Me, Kate." The spirit gum used to epoxy the fur to my face left burns under my nose and, when it came time to remove the moustache, some of my skin invariably got removed, too. Not only that, but, during the show one night, I did an unexpected comedic improvisation on-stage that had the audience howling (I fell off a couch and crashed to the floor with a huge thud) but the conductor, a gigantic lesbian who herself had a moustache, was not amused. Backstage after the show, when I was getting changed, she charged up to me and, while I had my trousers around my ankles and fake, dead fuzz under my nose, she screamed at me and jabbed her conductor's baton into my sternum. And I think it was at that moment when I decided never to improvise during a production and never to wear fake facial hair.

So, when it came time to do "Pirates" I knew I was going to grow it myself. And grow it I did. In the style of Brevet Major-General Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, Mark Twain, and even Sir W. S. Gilbert himself, I went about my daily life sporting a 'stache any 19th century gent would have been proud to twirl.

I called it "my ferret."

Unfortunately, being Jewish as I am, my ferret never achieved the sweeping, flowing grace I had hoped for and had fantasized about wearing since middle school, when I longed for the day when I could be the epitome of the elegant, handsome chivalric gentleman.

The very model of a modern Major-General.

"Do people ever tell you you look like Groucho Marx?" the chef making my wife penne at IKEA said to me. I frowned.

"Yes," I replied dryly. He was the third person to make that precise remark that week.

The curse of the wiry, kinky Jew hair had struck again. And how.

I know it isn't right to say, but, even though it was Jewy, I liked the moustache. The crazy sideburns I could have done without, and indeed it was the sideburns that attracted the most attention, usually from goth teenagers congregating outside the neighborhood's local supermarkets. I can't tell you the number of sarcastic, sneering, "Nice sideburns!" I was the recipient of from September through November.

Even though I liked the moustache, and even though the sideburns might have been considered cool by hipster waitresses on the lower East Side, I promised my wife and myself that, once "Pirates" was done, I would massacre my facial hair. And, after our curtain calls on closing night, after we schmoozed with the audience, after I hung up my costume for the final time, that's just what I did. What had taken me over two months to cultivate was hacked off, thanks to my trusty Braun nazi shaving machine, in under six minutes. I was surprised the job did not require the services of a wheat thresher.

My wife squealed with delight when she saw me totally clean-shaven for the first time in a long while, and that made me feel good, but I was despondent over the copious amounts of my facial hair that resided in the theatre's bathroom trashcan.

That's.... mine.

Of course, being half-Israeli, I can grow facial hair simply by grimmacing during an episode of constipation, so I'm not really sweating it. I just miss my moustache. I guess the grass really is greener on the other side. The moustache, fortunately, wasn't green at all. Mostly brown, flecks of red here and there, and, of course, a very, very little gray.

When John Cleese Dies...

...I'm going to be very sad.

He's not my friend or a distant relative, and we're not even buds on Facebook but, when he dies, I am going to be devastated. Maybe not as much as when my allergist died, but that's a different story altogether.

I wrote John Cleese a letter once-- when I was twelve. It was my version of a "fan letter" I suppose, and I included a Python-inspired sketch and his agent wrote back, saying something to the effect that Mr. Cleese was "very busy" and didn't have time to write back to "children in America."

Quite fired up about that, I shot back a nasty letter asking what, exactly, John Cleese was so busy doing, back in 1992? "I find it hard to believe that John Cleese is so busy these days," I wrote in a letter to his agent, printed out on our ancient Dot Matrix printer, "all he does is gain weight and advertise Magnavox TVs."

That earned me a letter back from Cleese himself, which I have, of course, since lost.

I owe John Cleese a lot, and I'm sorry that, in my porn-filled adolescent angst I basically referred to him as a fat sell-out. He is, but Eric Idle, the purveyor of "Spamalot" and a thousand other Python-related reinventions and machinations designed at netting him a small fortune from nothing other than resting on his, and the other Pythons', laurels, is more of a fat sell-out than Cleese ever could be.

Incidentally, I also wrote to Eric Idle when I was twelve, and I've a good mind to do it again, now that I have a marginally better vocabulary.

Like lots of other boys my age, I grew up watching shows like "The Muppets" and "The Dukes of Hazzard" and "Diff'rent Strokes." Unlike lots of other boys my age, I also grew up watching "Monty Python's Flying Circus," "Fawlty Towers" and films like "Clockwise" and "Time Bandits." Because I have a somewhat obsessive personality, I didn't just watch one or two episodes of MPFC or one or two British films, I engorged myself on all of them and, as I began acting onstage, I began incorporating bits of the actors whom I respected so much. As I grew older, the actor whose mannerisms and vocalities I adopted the most of was undoubtedly John Cleese.

Though you wouldn't know it to look at him now, (because he's a fat sell-out), in his hey-day, John Cleese was beanpole thin, with endless legs, which made him hilarious-looking. One night, after performing the Major-General's song in The Pirates of Penzance, one of the actors in the male chorus remarked to me, as he was changing from his pirate costume into his policeman's costume, that "you don't even need to open your mouth to get laughs-- they're rolling about in their seats just looking at you." And I said, embarrassed, "Well, this is when being funny looking is its own advantage. Didn't help me much in high school, though."

I realized, though, that it's my physical appearance that's funny, and that appearance is very similar to that of John Cleese. Tall, impossibly skinny, with forever legs that any runway model would kill Heidi Klum and Tim Gunn for. While I can thank my parents genetics for my "funny body" more than I can thank John Cleese, I can at least thank him partially for knowing what to do with it onstage.

Work it, girl.

A story came out a couple of years ago that John Cleese was almost killed in his chauffeur-driven car when his driver had either fallen asleep or had suffered some sort of medical emergency at the wheel. Cleese was fine, but I thought to myself, "God, what if he'd died?" What if? People die every day, don't they-- people far more important in the world than John Cleese. But I suppose it's the people in your own little corner of the world that matter the most, to you. Not that John Cleese resides in my own little corner of the world, though, with his move to California, he's a lot closer to my own little corner than he was back when he resided in England.

I definitely owe John Cleese my voice. My British voice, that is. Though it's been tweaked somewhat, whenever somebody (particularly an English somebody) congratulates me on my accent, I always make sure to credit the original source: John Cleese. He taught me everything I know, especially how to rip out a good, "BAAAAHSTARD!" whenever necessary.

I know it's morbid, and it's not like he's on a respirator or anything at the present moment but, when John Cleese dies, I'm going to be seriously bummed. I might even eat him, dig a grave, and throw up in it.

That's a... a... Monty Python... um... joke.

You know...

...Cannibalistic Undertaker... Sketch....

Episode 26...

It....

Nevermind.

Often... Frequently

The Pirates of Penzance opens tonight.

Since its premier in 1879 (a dual premier in New York City and England to prevent, ironically, piracy) The Pirates of Penzance has had a lot of opening nights, in most countries around the world, whether or not they speak English. Or understand the English and their peculiar, quaint sense of humor.

Sorry, "humour."

Anyway, whenever it is time for another opening night, people invariably ask the question, "Are you excited?" And they always put the emphasis on the word "excited" which, I suppose, would be the logical choice there.

I hate to give the true answer, because it never fails to disappoint the people expecting a resounding "YES!" The truth, though, is that I'm not ever excited for opening night, or any night thereafter. I'm anxious, my bowels are in a state of absolute turmoil, I'm incessantly running through lyrics and tonalities in my head to stave off a spot-lit brain fart, I'm mentally and physically exhausted.

Oh, and did I mention I've been defecating at least five times a day recently? Would you be excited about that?

I realize that, in the hundreds of thousands of opening nights The Pirates of Penzance has enjoyed (and I'm sure sometimes "endured"), from music hall to concert hall performances, to professional to semi-professional to amateur to boarding school stagings all over the world, my production will barely be a hiccup in the overall scheme of Gilbert & Sullivan-ism, but it is my opening night.

I just can't seem to get excited about it.

When I was an EMT, random people-- family members, friends, patients, nurses, my supervisors-- would ask me with a smile, "So, do you like your job?" I would always smile back and answer, "No." Of course, looking back on it now, I realize that I really did like my job, and maybe I realized it then, too. Maybe I just like the look of utter consternation that ripples over peoples' faces when you give them the unscripted answers to life's formulaic questions. I don't, though, like opening nights. To me, they are an endless fathom of potential cockups, clusterfucks, missteps, trips, traps, falls, failures, and voice cracks. The chances that everything goes off without a hitch are non-existent.

I know, I know. I'm a pessemist and an alarmist and a nervous nellie and a catastrophist. Thank my mother-- I get it all from her. She'll be at the Saturday matinee-- you'll know her because she'll be the one wearing the HAZMAT suit in case Al Qaeda decides to launch a holy jihad against amateur Gilbert & Sullivan performances.

Show Week

Yes, it's show week. "Pirates of Penzance" opens Thursday, with much jollity and Victorian gayness. Consequently, My Masonic Apron is going to be a bit of a quieter place than it normally is, until we get back to regularly-scheduled programming on Monday.

And I lose the rampant sideburns and the sleeping ferret under my nose.

Yesterday, my wife and I were at rehearsal from 10am until 11pm, and I think it's safe to say that I've only ever worked that long continuously once in my life, as an EMT, when I did two eight-hour shifts in a row as a favor to some shithead who probably didn't even know my first name from my last name.

After loading pickup trucks and a trailer with scenery, unloading, doing a three-hour sing-through with the orchestra, and running the show with stops-and-starts for the first time on the actual stage, my brain probably resembles the gunk underneath your refrigerator combined with four-month-old fermented applesauce.

That said, why don't you just scroll down and enjoy the posts from Saturday and Sunday, because today's basically a loss. Fortunately, tomorrow I don't have to be at work until 12:00pm, so you and I can have our fun together then. Chances are, though, you'll be okay with catching up on the weekend's posts, as very few people, I think, read blogs on the weekend, let alone write them.

Thank God for dorks, right?

The Very Model of a Modern Major-General

As many of you know, I am an actor.

Well, I'm lots of things, but an actor, is, I suppose, one of them.

I even got paid to be an actor. Once. $20.00 an hour. I was hired by the University of Pennsylvania Medical School's Cultural Sensitivity Department to portray a mega-prick doctor treating (and mistreating) a patient with AIDS in a training web video for med students and physicians. You can watch me critically raise one eyebrow as I spout off insensitive gems like,"You're not gay, are you?" And, if you're a doc, you can get one whole CME credit, just for watching that shit!

All the other times I've appeared on stage and on film it's been for free, and, usually, it's been degrading. In 8th grade, I appeared in my middle school's production of The Pajama Game in a pair of boxer-shorts in front of hundreds and hundreds of amused (or were they bemused?) parents of my peers. And that was just the beginning.

Recently, I've run into a bit of a streak of portraying men from the armed forces. Sort of. In 2006, I appeared as Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B. in a production of H.M.S. Pinafore, and it was easily one of the gayest, twittiest roles I've ever done. And, as they say, I've been doin' this for a minute. Next Friday, I will inhabit the body and yellow shoes of the slightly psychotic General Genghis Khan Schmitz in a production of Seussical. In November, it's back to the merry and silly world of G&S where I will once again don a uniform to play Major-General Stanley.

I'm currently growing out my beard so that I can sport ridiculous facial hair for General Schmitz. For dress rehearsal, I'll shave off most of it, probably leaving a silly moustache and perhaps a pair of mutton chop sideburns to complete the effect. I've gone back and forth about what to do with the facial hair. Not that it's especially important, but I'm a fan of concerning myself with the irrelevant.

Keeps me off drugs.

All of these recent affiliations with militaria have gotten me thinking about the image of the military man over the centuries and how it's changed. Of course, the ideal of manhood has changed significantly over time, but I don't know how often it's been seriously considered. We give a lot of thought in this society about the image of the ideal woman, because women are hot. There's always talk about the ideal shape of a woman. Perfection of the female form in the 1860s was quite different from that of the 1950s, which was, of course, very, very different from the feminine ideal of, say, the 1990s.

But nobody looks much at the change in men, much less military men. Today, we don't even think twice about our image of the perfect military man. He's butch. He's tough. He could kill you with his pinkie finger. Fuck, he's so tough, he doesn't even have pinkie fingers. He's too fucking tough for pinkie fingers. He's got 10 fucking middle fingers-- to flip off OSAMA!

FUCKIN' AYE FUCK YEAH! HERE HE IS, YOU LITTLE FUCKPUSSIES!

This is what we expect our military men to look like nowadays. This is the modern ideal of a soldier. Macho. Threatening. Butch. Crewcut. Armed to the teeth. A negative grimace. Piercing eyes. Of course, it also doesn't hurt if his little dogtags rest in between two killer pecs, too.

Isn't that right, Major Hottie?

Though it might be hard to believe, this isn't always how it was. Bullet-chomping bunk-hunks weren't always the way military men rolled. Macho wasn't always the preferred aesthetic for the men of the armed forces. I mean, take a ride in the old DeLorean with me back just a couple centuries and get a load of old Lieutenant General Cornwallis.

Macho? Hardly. Fit-and-finish? Lacking. His dog-tag must have resided quite comfortably between his boobies. Look at the walking stick. Look at the effete positioning of the left arm and hand, as if to say, "A battle? Now? Oh, no, luv-- I just had these nails done!"

Now, I know what you're going to say: He's British-- of course he's gay. They're practically synonyms. Well, that may be true, but let's look at someone from the other side of the pond, from that same time period.

Look at this string-beany little wank. Just look at him. The father of our country. He's trying to be macho, but look at how he's forcing his arms to rest straight at his sides. You know he's doing everything in his power to restrain himself from resting one hand daintily on his hip. Come on, look at how he's straining. He's dying to do it. It's okay, George. Do it. Do what feels natural. It'll feel good.

Ahhhhhhhh...... See? Doesn't that feel better? Good. Now get away from that horse, you fucking pervyderv.

Moving up a century or so, we see that much as changed in the realm of the military ideal. As in the civilian world, powdered wigs are out, and facial hair is in. The advent of the photograph and the daguerreotype have brought us copious images of the military ideal during the Civil War. There's my personal favorite, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, Brevet Major-General:

Now that is a 'stache that says "knock off that slave and secession bullshit already," am I right? See-- we're getting butch-er, but we're not quite there yet. Can't you just picture the photographer giving out his instructions for this photograph?

"Okay, Lawrence. I see you've blown-dry your moustache. That's okay, I guess. No harm done. Just... listen-- just put your hands in your lap. Stare off vacantly into space and, please, for the love of God, try not to look gay. Just, you know-- don't do anything gay. I mean, this is 1865 already, you know? Just, remember: D.B.G. Don't be gay."

And I think, for the time, he's doing a pretty good job of keepin' it D.B.G. It's not easy. It's just hard for modern Americans to believe that people who looked like this seriously picked up guns and swords and bayonets and fucking killed other people who looked like this. We could maybe picture Joshua Chamberlain inviting a regiment from the 15th Alabama over to his house and poisoning their tea, but shoving his sword through one of their heads? I don't think so.

And then there's this guy-- he just screws up all valiant attempts at butchness.

You just had to put your hand on your hip, didn't you?

World War I was, I feel, the turning point. It was the transitional, liminal period between the genteel warrior/gentleman and the fightin' bastard that we have come to expect. I mean, I wouldn't want to fuck with these guys:

Then again, I'm pretty sure that this gentleman would rather join me for cocktails than shoot me in the face.

So three cheers for our military men, whether they fit into our stereotypical bullshit ideals of manhood or not. You're all patriots, valorous, dutiful and brave viscous killers in my book. And God Bless you for it. Better you than me.

An Open Letter to the D-Bags Sitting in Front of Us At the Opera

Dear D-Bags,

Hi.

I'm the guy who was sitting in back of you last night at the Academy of Music for the Savoy Opera Company's production of The Pirates of Penzance. You probably don't remember me, but I remember you.

What I remember vividly was you screwing around on your fucking Blackberries. During the overture. It's funny-- Sullivan didn't compose many of the overtures himself, usually leaving that task to colleagues like Alfred Cellier, who arranged the Pirates overture. Do you know why Sullivan didn't compose many of the overtures himself? Because of inconsiderate, shitnecked little fucktitties like you.

Sullivan was extremely dismayed after opening night of Yeomen of the Guard. He took great pains to compose a beautiful, soaring overture-- and the audience talked all the way through it. He swore that he would never compose another overture himself again. Of course, he also was always swearing that he would never work with Gilbert again. And again. And again. And he always did. And he wrote two more overtures himself, for the Gondoliers and The Grand Duke. And I'm sure people talked all through those, too.

People like you.

You see, people have been rude dicklicks in every century. They've always found ways to be self-important little tadgers, but now cellphones make it so much easier to be an asshole in a dark theatre. The iridescent glow from your screens are so distracting and so obnoxious.

I realize that you must be extremely important, you waifish, slightly intoxicated blonde tramp with your metrosexual husband thing. An on-call neurovascular surgeon, perhaps? The mayor of Seattle in for a visit? A CIA operative? Or maybe you're General David Patraeus after undergoing a covert gender reassignment procedure.

Maybe.

But you're probably just an asshole.

Did you like how, after the overture concluded, I made it a point to clap extremely loudly and extremely close to your left ear? That's my passive/aggressive way of saying,

"Hi. I'd like to bury your Blackberry inside your cerebellum."

You're lucky it was me and not my hotblooded, Israeli father sitting behind you, or he would have killed you with a Mossad tactical maneuver that involves the rapid insertion of a big, hairy thumb into the back of your skull.

It's funny-- I was outraged at paying $50.00 for a theatre ticket, but I did it anyway because a friend of mine was in this show, and I love Gilbert & Sullivan like I love little else. I thought that, by paying $50.00 for a seat that I had paid for my right to witness this show in relative freedom for annoyances or disruptions. You paid $50.00 for a theatre ticket, and you believe that paying this amount gave you the right to behave like a total asshole-- snickering at your texts and private, very loudly whispered jokes all through the first act. You obviously wanted to be somewhere else, and that was clearly indicated by the fact that you and your annoying companions left at intermission.

I realize that you're too uncultured to appreciate Sullivan's music and that you're too stupid to understand any of Gilbert's humor anyway, so it's just as well that you buggered off to go get even more drunk at some ridiculous hipster bar where you pay way too much for drinks you don't even like and drunktext your soulless, vapid friends who don't care about you.

You had no business being at that show. You weren't socially awkward or wearing a bowtie, you didn't have buck-teeth or a back-parting or seersucker trousers or saddle-shoes. Gilbert & Sullivan is clearly not your speed. And I'm glad you realized that early, so that my wife and I could enjoy Act II-- the entrance of the delightfully timid constables, the clever device of invoking Queen Victoria's name, the delightful plot contrivance and the most ingenius paradox.

Apparently, I AM the Very Model of a Modern Major-General

In the heady excitement of stripping wallpaper, scheduling allergist's appointments and generally running about like an epileptic chipmunk, I forgot to mention that I got cast as Major-General Stanley in "The Pirates of Penzance."

I now get to share the stage with a bevy of adopted daughters, dodder and mince around like an affected prat, and sing the immortal song, "I am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General," a piece of music which most Americans think is from "Animaniacs."

This will be my fourth principal patter role in a Gilbert & Sullivan operatta, and I'm proud to be ticking them off, one by one. Only ten left to go. It's a good thing I'm still young.

The audition was okay, as auditions go. I feel like my singing showed improvement while my comic timing was on the decline, but I guess the auditioners didn't feel that way. Or maybe they did, and there was just nobody else. I don't know, nor do I care that much either. I got the part, and it's always a nice thing to be wanted, except when it's by the police.

Rehearsals don't start until September, so it's difficult to get really excited about the show, and I have trouble getting excited about shows in general. Part of me thinks it's a waste of time and energy-- do audiences really give a shit about who's in a certain role in a given show? Does it really matter? There are many, many people who could do the part just as easily as me-- why does it have to be me? Sometimes I browbeat myself about doing community theatre. I could probably get paid work if I dusted up my resume, sent out headshots and put a little effort into it. But I don't.

G&S doesn't require serious acting chops (some would argue there's no acting involved at all, and that's true sometimes, but only if you can't act) and it satisfies my longing to pretend I'm British. Also, the Gilbert & Sullivan patter roles are relatively easy and comfortable for me-- it ain't Pinter and it ain't Arthur Miller or Eugene Ionesco. Not only do I appreciate and respect the talents and work of the two men intellectually, but I am over the moon for the music and the wit.

The thing I do have to work hard at, though, is the music. I can barely read music, so I fake a lot of things. I listen to recordings constantly to augment my meager sightreading abilities. Mrs. Apron tutors me privately, coaching me. I sing the songs constantly so that it is more muscle memory than anything else.

I'm pleased to have another opportunity to perform. I feel like I get better each time, and that's saying a lot because, the first time, I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. If you had told me, six years ago, that I would be singing solo operetta roles I would have laughed so hard I would have soiled myself, and you. But, here we are. I'm pleased to have the opportunity because I feel like I do have some talent-- certainly not enough for film or Broadway or even Philly professional theatre, but, there's something-- and, as long as there's something, then it should be shared.

I suppose that's why I have this blog instead of a diary. It serves the same basic function, a record of thoughts and musings and feelings-- and that's what it's for. I suppose, if it were just for me, I wouldn't try as hard-- and there certainly wouldn't be funny, hyperlinked pictures-- but I recognize that this is a place for you, too. You're here for some reason, and maybe I don't know what that is, and maybe I don't need to know, but I'm glad that you're all there, sitting in the audience, clapping away as the lights go down.

It's a little army, I know. But I'm proud to be your Major-General.

My Own, Private American Idol

I have an audition tonight.

Pirates of Penzance.

Major-General Stanley.

Community theatre.

God, I hope I get it.

(Seriously.)

(You still take me seriously, right?)

I once pitched a book proposal to an agent in New York City. He was gay, so I was sure he'd enjoy a proposal involving Gilbert & Sullivan. It was a life-imitates-art story about local community theatre group putting on "Pirates" and doing battle with a bunch of scurvy attorneys.

"Please," the gay agent wrote back to me, "I like you, but no Gilbert & Sullivan." He and I don't converse anymore-- Gilbert & Sullivan obviously ruined our relationship.

Thanks, guys.

I am very ill-prepared for my audition tonight, as I am for every audition I've ever had since middle school. I don't have the sheet music. It's all available online, but I'm just too lazy to find it and print it out. I've gone over the solos so much in the car with Mrs. Apron on the way to and from Vermont this weekend that I've got lyrics coming out of my ears-- and not just any lyrics, either: Sir Gilbert's lyrics. Parabolous, animalculous, Heliogabalus, etc, etc. I'm practically projectile vomiting five syllable words.

Mother, help me.

In some ways, I guess I'm over-prepared. In most ways, though, I just show up and pull something out of my ass, throw it against the wall, and hope it sticks. My anxiety manifests itself in bewildering displays of humor and tongue-tied-ness, which often leaves directors cracking up, if for the wrong reasons. My singing is, well, there's a reason I only audition for the doddering, old patter roles.

It's funny-- I teach audition techniques, but, really, I have no idea what the hell I'm doing myself. And I'd never suggest to a student that they do what I do when I walk into an audition.

* Okay, so what you really want to do is walk in, fidgeting.

* Make sure your face is pale, like you're three seconds away from throwing up.

* If you can have your eyes dart around the room, that's always good, too.

* Directors also love it when you make them repeat everything they say to you because you're fucked in the head to listen properly.

* Blather on and on about something totally irrelevant. That's money."

That's me in a nutshell! Miraculously, I have a pretty solid batting average, for some reason.

Man...

I hope I remember to do all that stupid shit tonight.