The whole intention of this blog was to streamline. To focus. To work smart not hard. To say, "voila, stand-up. J'arrive!" And yet... and yet...
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury (lovers of Nabakov and Jeremy Irons get my drift) I am lost. I am hopelessly lost. I am a stand-up comic who continues to make her living as a burlesquer one, sweaty wad of bills at a time, and somehow found her way on track to be in a musical off-Broadway, on top of the regular acting work to which my body is accustimed and must, like a dancer at the bar, continue to do for fear of losing my training and, more importantly, my mind.
Every time I bump into a certain friend of mine who is a comic, I go through this cycle of crisis. My friend has made it as a comic. Pays the bills as a comic. Has a cool, not totally out of the realm of possibility for what I could do with my life, life. Every time I bump into him, I tailspin. I google people who are slightly more successful than I am and wonder what I am doing wrong. I hold onto years like a meiser holds on to gold: I may be twenty seven, but at least I'm not twenty eight. What, ho! She is twenty-nine. By the time I am twenty nine I'll be somebody, for sure!
And I am somebody. Nine out of ten days of the week, I love my life, my small piles of cash and dirt cheap apartment that comes fully equipped with a maddeningly long subway ride into the city between two and a million times a day, depending on how much crap I can shove into one suitcase and how many numbers I have to do that night.
Today was a one in ten day. A not-so-sure-I-have-any-idea-what-I'm-doing-with-my-life day. I ran into the comic friend. We chatted. Life for both of us is going extremely well. He's gigging all the time, doing well, making TV appearances. I'm knocking on the door of the biggest role I've been offered to date. He's happy. I'm happy. He's slightly older than I am, so I don't do that weird jealousy thing with the twenty-nine! Ba-ha! (I'm not proud of that, by the way, but I still do it.)
And then WHAM! I get jealous. Not of his success, but of his ability to be one thing at one time, and for that to work so well for him. He doesn't wake up and spend thirty minutes making weird tarydactly noises to warm up his voice, then take Valarian root (herbal anti-anxiety reccomended to me by the head of ABC primetime casting due to nerves) go to a weird audition for something that he won't book, then to a rando photoshoot with some fella who is "super interested in burlesque and wants to shoot some downtown performers" then sit through two hours and a flat diet coke at an open mic, then to a Starbucks to blog, (thanks for the giftcard, Mom) only to end the night with one too many vodka on the rocks with olives "on the house" and false eyelashes half glued to his face at a burlesque show, only to wake up and do it all again. His life isn't perfect, but he at least gets to wear the same outfit for the entire day. I'm lucky if I make it in three or fewer.
Then again, I am rather fond of my trail of glitter.
Ugh! This is exactly what I'm talking about!
Today is a day where I wish I were more streamlined. Today is a day I wish I was a comic. Or an actor. Or a singer. Or on tour opening for Eddie Izzard across Europe and Austraila. Not... whatever it is that I am.
For 365 days I swore to be a comic. No option period. No way out. One year of mics every day. Now I'm not even sure if that's what it takes to be a comic, at all. There's a club. A club of people for whom this is their lives.They graduate to headlining at Caroline's. They book spots on Jimmy Fallon. They tour colleges and book the Chuckle Shack somewhere in the midwest and bitch about their day rate. I am not one of those people.
This week I had an acting intensive with my mentor who, because she is a filmmaker and single mom, only teaches about twice a year and does it out of a small town an hour upstate on the Metro North. She usually gives you about a week's notice, maybe two, which, for moi, means super early mornings on top of super late nights of shows for a week. This week it got so bad that I contracted a Urinary Tract Infection (my lady friend is out of town, so I can't even high five myself for getting sick from too much sexytime. Where were you on that one, ladyfriend?). A fucking horrible Urinary Tract Infection. A damage a muscle in my back because my kidneys are freaking out Urinary Tract Infection. A leaning across the counter at the pharmacy at Rite Aid telling the lady behind the desk that if, as she says, it will take about an hour to fill my $213 perscription, I will die, kind of Urinary Tract Infection. I cancelled a show for the second time ever since I've lived in NYC. It sucked.
It was my body's way of saying, "ENOUGH!" And I get it. It's too much.
I stayed in tonight. No mics. I shall focus on a writing project that I was supposed to finish two months ago. I will google people slightly more famous than I and wonder what I'm doing wrong.
Final callbacks for the off-Broadway show are this week. I have to sing better than I ever have before. I have to rid my body of infection. I have to sleep. Oh, god, I have to sleep. (Sleep is the biggest x-factor in one's vocal ability. You can cheat a lot of things, but when you are tired, your voice sounds tired and you damage it.)
Friday I slept for 13 hours straight when I laid down for a nap.
Oh, universe. Show me the path. Any path. Help me to shine and be shined upon. I am flinging so very much pasta being at the wall. Oh, please, help some of it stick.
On the upside, I get to perform in a Van Halen tribute burlesque show this Saturday at Joe's Pub. So I've got that going for me. Which is nice.
Sigh. Wanting things is the hardest part.
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