The Rite of Spring: Christmas Auditions 2013 (Part 2)

And we’re back!

So where was I? New York, French bistro, Brussels sprouts, lunch, almost missed auditions, Christmas auditions nailed, “that time of year again,” a burger and a side of parmesan fries and a drink with friends, and then on to Broadway!

Despite the facts that for the past six years I have been cast in one of the most popular shows in New York during the Christmas season and countless trips there, I haven seen much Broadway. I saw Phantom of the Opera, just last year, and that’s thanks to the generosity of Frank and Denise (friends from the Music Hall). What can I say? I didn’t get the Broadway gene.

A spate of shows closed earlier this year and a few more opened. I decided to see either Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella or Motown the Musical. I loved the 1965 version of Cinderella with Lesley Ann Warren more than The Wizard of Oz. And the music of Motown was the soundtrack of my childhood and early adult years. I opted for the edgier Motown.

Ron, one of my dressers from the Christmas Spectacular, hooked me up with house seats for the show. The story centers around Berry Gordy (along with scores artists he developed) and how he founded the chart topping rhythm and blues record label, Motown. The casting is superb and the vocal performances are stupendous. Three performances moved me to tears—

• Jibreel Mawry’s rendition of Michael Jackson’s “I’ll Be There”
• Ryan Shaw’s version of Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday”
• Brandon Victor Dixon’s (the actor who portrays Berry Gordy) last solo “Can I Close the Door” (an original song written specifically for the Broadway show)

Valisia LeKae’s Diana Ross is simply magical! The orchestrations, choreography, and the numbers of costumes and wigs are mind-blowing. And the audience was on its feet by the time curtain call came around.

Afterwards, Ron toured me around backstage for a closer look at changing corrals, costumes. It’s funny, after working at the Music Hall it seems miraculous that shows get done at all in other theaters. To say that the Lunt Fontanne theater’s backstage space is tiny is a gross understatement. That the show actually goes up nightly with space enough for the cast, crew, props, and sets is a miracle.

And of course, my last night in New York wouldn’t have been complete without some late night cheesecake at Junior’s. As you can see from the pictures on their homepage, the restaurant isn’t exactly a diner, but it has that 1950s decor that reminds me of the Disney Studios’ Prime Time Cafe, without the pushy wait staff. Ron and I talked over the rigors of opening his show and then called it a night.

I think by the time I awoke Thursday morning, the total number of calories I ingested surely fell short of 5,000,000. Another friend, Will (from the Music Hall Props department) and I ate a light lunch at the fabled Tremont in Greenwich Village. You’ve heard me rave about and post pictures from Tremont on Facebook in the past, and my last meal at Tremont left nothing to be desired—except Will’s fiancée Nina who was unable to join us due to work demands.

I downed most of an open-faced bacon sandwich, which was which was a variation on eggs Benedict, and an upscale version of a sidecar (poured by Tremont’s handsome manager, Billy).

Brunch at Tremont

Will and I chatted about recent events in our lives and the upcoming Christmas season. When the time came, Will rolled me into a cab and sent me off to the airport.

You know, all in all, my most recent trip to New York was a gastronomic gorge-fest, made possible and the better by a few of New York’s finest friends of mine. I’ve never been comfortable with huge groups of people. If given the choice, I’d much rather spend quality time engaged in stimulating conversation with one or two good friends, like those mentioned in this and the earlier post, noshing on good eats. Passing the time that way makes for one rite of spring I’ll never pass up.

(Now I need to put my carcass on a treadmill, before I’m able to wear that baby bear costume without the padding!)

The Rite of Spring: Christmas Auditions 2013 (Part 1)

Well, it’s springtime again. The weather has gotten a little warmer, once barren trees have sprouted new signs of life, and I returned to New York for my annual audition for the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. One of my friends, a resident New Yorker, went so far as to dub me a New York icon. I hope that doesn’t mean I’ve outlived my usefulness in the City That Never Sleeps.

Fresh from planning and successfully executing my mom’s 80th birthday dinner (more about the  Disney cruise that never was in a later post), I caught a 6:00 a.m. flight to Gotham—something I’ll never do again, no matter how good the airfare.

So as not to wear out welcome with last season’s roommate, I hit up Cheryl, an old friend of mine from my Disney, for a place to stay while in town. Within minutes of landing at LaGuardia, Cabs (a transplanted Irish lass) and I swapped text messages almost simultaneously. My text announced my arrival in town and her text assured me that Jason Collins had nothing on me. Yes, Cabs and I are that close. Needless to say, we set up plans to meet later that day.

Given my affinity for all things French, Cheryl suggested a neighborhood bistro a few blocks from her place. I took her recommendation and went to Cafe du Soleil and had their eggs Benedict. As you can see from the picture above, the owners carried the sunny theming from their name throughout the restaurant. And what would a French bistro be without a snooty waiter? I can’t tell you because I have yet to dine in one with a server who didn’t have seem to have a baguette up his bum. My server managed to keep his snootiness at a tolerable level. If you get the chance, give the place a try. Cafe du Soleil is one more reason to love the Upper West Side.

And so began my gastronomical tour of Manhattan.

Later that afternoon, I met Cheryl for a bite at McHale’s. There I introduced her to one of my favorite bartender-esses, the fair and aforementioned Cabs. From the looks of things, McHale’s management replaced its chef de cuisine and overhauled its menu. My new favorite item on their menu is their Brussels sprouts. I know, I know. Pipe down. I can hear your groans and suppressed regurgitation already. Trust me, I would be choking back barf at the mention of the little cabbages to this day, had I not given them a try. I was ten years old the last time I had Brussels sprouts and to memory they tasted nass-tee. I used to hate broccoli, so why not? Turned out, McHale’s Brussels sprouts, served with generous amounts of crumbled bacon rocked my world. While the combination of nachos, pizza margherita, and Brussel sprouts weren’t complementary flavor profiles; the brussel sprouts will be a part of my post-show pre-subway ritual, if I’m rehired.

Somewhere in between the eggs Benedict and Brussels sprouts, Wes (one of the stagehands from the Music Hall and huge fan of the celebrated Scones Thursday) called and invited me to lunch for Wednesday.

We met around 12:30 the next day and caught up on this and that. Near the end of our lunch, we had the following exchange—

” . . . and your audition at 3:00 o’clock today,” Wes said.

“No, my audition’s at 5:00 o’clock,” I said.

“I was looking at the website and it said auditions were at 3:00.”

“Hold on. Let me check the email.”

Thank God for Wes, and email, and iPhones that make it possible to check email because lo and behold, my audition was at 3:00 o’clock. At that point, it was already 1:30 p.m., so I hightailed it back to Cheryl’s place, picked up my things, and headed off to the Music Hall.

Can you imagine me showing up late for that audition? The shame. The humiliation.

Well, needless to say, I made it to the audition with time to spare.

The audition itself was the typical drill. About 35 of use vying for roughly sixteen positions learned the verse, then some choreography, and put it on its feet (sang the song while performing the dance routine) in groups of three. I never have been able to pick up choreography quickly, but thanks to Linda (the show’s director/choreographer) placing in one of the last three trios to audition, I had a little more time to rehearse on the sidelines. We said a few lines, performed the choreography once more time, got measured, turned in updated info, and that was it.All in all, the actual audition went well and lasted all of maybe 30 minutes—tops. I didn’t perform the routine flawlessly, but I did a pretty good job. Now the waiting begins. We won’t hear anything until August.

My elfmates and I have our own rite of spring: the post-audition pow-wow. Brad, Josh, and I headed to The Capital Grille for a quick bite, and the staff’s greeting consisted of an impassioned chorus of “what are you doing here? It’s that time of year already?”

To be continued.

Expectations—They’ll Getcha Every Time

Sandra, a not so well-known but dear friend of mine tossed out this pearl of wisdom over dinner a few weeks ago, “expectations are preplanned disappointments”. The adage made perfect sense to me as a litany of instances where my own pre- and ill-conceived notions of how a situation should unfold (or how someone should behave) ended with me getting the short of the stick. So I put forth the effort to change my modus operandi.

And it worked for a while.

Until some situation went down in a manner that was not to my liking. Or expectation. And lo and behold, when asked for his opinion on the situation, Jon (my roommate in New York last fall) made the observation that I was taking things too personally.

I responded with, “…well, I’m the person it’s happening to.”

What can I say? Old habits die-hard. But I gave the matter serious thought and realized I had inserted myself into a situation that really should have no bearing on my life at all.

Last night a similar situation occurred.

I’ve followed Oprah Winfrey along her very public journey of self-discovery, and her sharing of God’s call on her life with the world. To say that bearing witness to her walk has inspired me would be a gross understatement.

Oprah has been at the forefront of self-empowerment, self acceptance, and overcoming obstacles (internal and external). She’s established them as tenets in her brand and even shored up her once floundering network by injecting it with more of her core beliefs.

I was baffled last night that she would deign to give Chelsea Handler—a woman known for her cruelty and callousness— global exposure on her platform. In all honesty, Chelsea Handler was completely off my radar until I saw her February 2012 interview on Rosie O’Donnell’s show on OWN where they both disparaged Little People. As a Little Person, I was mortified (along with hundreds of people nationwide) at the unabashed objectification, denigration, and abject ignorance both women displayed regarding Little People during that interview.

This isn’t my first time at the rodeo, so I’m well aware that Oprah Winfrey is free to do with the Oprah Winfrey Network and its programming whatever she sees fit. But the fact is she’s been the driving force in crafting a brand so firmly rooted in principles of love, respect, and empowerment; but to turn around and then showcase someone who’s schtick is in direct opposition to those principles, I had to wonder: is altruism at the heart of OWN? Or is it a desire for more eyeballs no matter the cost?

Before going off on a rant, I had to examine why this pushed my buttons so, every response that came to mind began with “I”. The all-important ego, self, me, myself, and I dominated the justifications. And that wasn’t a good sign. It all came back to my expectations of what Oprah should or shouldn’t do.

The take-away: expectations are preplanned disappointments. People are people. We’re all free to make our own decisions. I know I’ve made decisions which may seem incongruous with my values that have left people scratching their heads. Who knows why Oprah chooses who she chooses to interview? Regardless, those choices have no bearing on my life. At all. The next time she chooses to interview someone who is in conflict to my core beliefs, I always have the option to change channels.

Now that’s living my best life.

Five Facts About Shrove Tuesday and Mardi Gras

1. Throughout Europe most people celebrate Shrove Tuesday with pancakes.

2. Pancakes are associated with the day before Lent because it was a way to use up rich foods such as eggs, milk, and sugar, before the 40 days fast begins.

3. The word shrove refers to an old English word shrive meaning ‘confess’.

4. Most people call today Mardi Gras, which in French means Fat Tuesday, marking seven weeks before Easter Day.

5. In Iceland they celebrate today with salted meats, fish, and peas. Known as Sprengidagur (Bursting Day).

[Reposted from Foodimentary.com]

As for me, I’ll take spirited Mardi Gras (with a Bloody Mary chaser the following morning) and begin a most penitent Lent with an imposition of ashes that evening. But that’s just me.

The Crash of 2013.

It’s predictable, almost inevitable. After living in New York for almost three months, performing in over one-hundred shows, and moving at the speed of a downhill slalom racer, there’s always a crash. Sometimes it manifests itself as abject exhaustion or a post-Christmas coma when I return to the real world of Orlando. Other times the crash shows up in the form of a mild depression, a fixation on “what’s next in my life,” musings over my purpose in life, or more often than not a fluid combination of the four.

In 2012, the crash consisted of what I thought was merely exhaustion, but upon close examination my battle fatigue turned out to be a case of walking pneumonia. I put the prescribed bedrest and pharmaceuticals to good use and plotted my next move, the publishing of my manuscript Walking Tall—which proved to be my best move.

For those of you who don’t know, in the course of four months I learned how to code (program/build out) ebooks (which is no small feat as each ereader requires a completely different type of document). I revised the manuscript, went through several rounds of editing, art directed and designed the book cover to cover, and launched the electronic versions (for iPad, Nook, and Kindle), along with a first edition print version for family close friends, back in May. (NOTE: Walking Tall still isn’t on the New York Times bestseller list, so if you don’t have a copy, consider this a subtle invitation to get one.)

Four months later in September 2012, I published a print edition, and have had a number of readings/speaking engagements locally and in New York.

And how did the the Crash of 2013 reveal itself?

Just a little insomnia coupled with what’s my next move musings.

I don’t know if you’re like me, but sometimes I get a little irritated with social media when I’m in that post-Christmas, what the hell’s next in my life mode, and I just want to throw my laptop and the whole of social media right out the window. Comparing everyone else’s exciting  highlight reel with my lackluster outtake reel can be . . . soul-crushing.

You exactly what I’m talking about.

Maybe you don’t have an extended period of the doldrums, but if you’re human you at have at the very least times when you don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground (as my father used to say; that was one of my favorite Rosey-isms). Of course, this doesn’t apply to anyone under thirty years of age because that’s what that period of your life is for: jumping from one transcendent experience to the next. And you’re learning how the world works and how you fit into it. Everyday’s a new adventure. Every interaction is a potential social landmine. But landmines aren’t on your radar because if you detonate an explosive situation, ten minutes later it won’t matter. You’re young. Please note, there is a huge different between explosive situation and catastrophic situation.

I know there’s probably a few of you out there thinking “now you know what it’s like for me while you’re off glamorizing in New York for weeks on end and I’m plodding off to a job I hate (or performing some thankless domestic chore for the hundredth time).”

And you’re right.

But now it’s my turn to gripe a little. [chuckle]

I think I’ve come up with a temporary fix to the crash of 2013: I’m going off the grid. No, I’m going to live in the woods without electricity. Are you insane? I’d never do that, not even for a minute. I’m an indoor kid, remember? What I’m proposing is avoiding social media for a few days.

Yup.

No Facebook. No Twitter. No blogging. No Pinterest. No LinkedIn. No Words With Friends. No You Don’t Know Jack. No status updates, birthday wishes, no pictures—zilch. Nada. Nix. Nein. None of it. But I will still be reading The New York Times, probably all of it during the ban.

I need to immerse myself in living life instead of observing life for a hot minute. I’m hoping to get some focus as to not what’s next, but what’s important now. I’m going to start small. My social media cleanse starts tonight at midnight. With any luck, it’ll last longer than it took to write this blog post. I’m shooting for twenty-four hours. If I can make it through the first twenty-four hours, I should be able to make it through to midnight Sunday night. Hopefully, this social media detox will last longer than a hot minute. Wish me luck.

I plan to get some reading done, maybe some writing, too. I could take in a movie or meet some friends, Who knows? I might even crack my Bible open a time or two. (Yes, that was a very telling; but true statement.)

If anyone needs to get in touch with me, you’re going to have to resort to old school means: call, email, or text me. (And don’t you dare give me grief about accepting text messages. You know who you are. I’ve read some of your attempts at texting your thoughts and they’re so “old school” they qualify as Neanderthal, so back off.)

Let me leave you with one question: how do you get through those barren periods in your life when you feel untethered and adrift at sea?

 

Image from technorati.com

Blog Ketchup.

I’ve found myself tossing and turning in bed at night wondering what’s next in my life, or simply lying there bug-eyed wide awake until 4:00 or 6:00 a.m. only to wake around noon. It began sometime during the last week of the show’s run and has only taken a day or two off since then. Maybe it’s a new manifestation of my post-Christmas exhaustion or the emotional crash of leaving behind the sensory stimulation of New York. In any event, I figured since I’m awake I’d try my hand at a blog post; but not before I tend to a little catching up. I’ve got a few things to share with you (in no particular order).

FIRST … Given the tenor of my last post, I think I need to clear the air. My outlook on life isn’t all doom and gloom. I’m generally optimistic, but I know this life isn’t all there is. My friend, Bob, who recently lost both of his parents, said it quite well—

“Although I don’t really see it as dying a little each day, I rather see it as one day closer to really living. Here on earth we only see a small glimpse of what life really is, someday, I pray I am fortunate enough to be chosen to truly live and be forever in His presence along with my parents, family and friends.” —Bob Addonizio

Before I left New York, I saw The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey and rather enjoyed it despite the wambly 3D effects in a few spots. So if you’ll indulge me again, I must make mention of one particular Gandalf quote that resonated with me. It is spoken when Galadriel asks him as to why he chose Bilbo. Gandalf’s response—

“Saruman believes it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. I found it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love. Why Bilbo Baggins? I don’t know. Perhaps because I am afraid, and he gives me courage.”

Thank you for your indulgence. Enough said.

Well, not quite. Jesus said it best of all—

A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another. —John 13:34,35

SECOND … there’s the small matter of my first New York Walking Tall book event. Oh, man. Go grab a cappuccino, a latte, a glass of Jameson Irish Whiskey, or whatever suits your fancy, as this is a pretty fun story, if I must say so myself.

Back near the end of September, a friend of mine named Jim dropped me a line and mentioned that he was enjoying reading my book, and thought that I should try to arrange a reading during the time I was in New York with the Christmas Spectacular. He also said that the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender Center in Greenwich Village would be a great venue for an event; and that he knew a few folks there to whom he could pitch the idea.

Great! I told him sign me up.

So I sent Jim my electronic press kit and he forwarded it on to Paul (the Center’s Director of Cultural Programs). I got all ensconced in the rehearsals with its requisite shock to my body, and the sightseeing, the eating, the drinking, the tech rehearsals that were derailed for three days by a hurricane that was totally off New York’s collective consciousness until it came ashore in New Jersey (yes, frigging New Jersey), and all that goes into opening a show on Christmas Island.

The week after the show opened, Paul confirmed Tuesday, December 18, as the date for my reading. It was the only date he had available and he expressed a little trepidation as that day kicked off the official unofficial start of Christmas shopping for New Yorkers and he experienced firsthand dismal turnouts in the past for events so close to Christmas. I don’t know if what he said didn’t register with me or what, but I wasn’t fazed at all. I agreed to the date.

Picking a passage to read was a no-brainer. I decided on something seasonal, light, and relevant to the audience. Besides, more pressing matters stared me in the face: I had people coming to see the show the next day, followed by a late night of making scones, and a three-show Thanksgiving Thursday that kicked off a lot of performances for the upcoming weekend. So the reading was a little off my radar. But I did manage to create a Facebook event for the reading in the middle of it all and invited everyone I knew in the New York City area. And ordered a few books to sell at the event.

Life on Christmas Island picked up considerably with more shows per week along with a record number of friends from far and wide who came to see the show. Friends came Tennessee, Florida, California, Washington state, and even Hawaii to see me perform; but my secret longing is that my family will someday make their way to New York to see me on the Great Stage. (More on that in another post, I’m sure.) There was no major strife or conflict in the dressing room; except for a very heated debate over the pronunciation of the French cookware Le Creuset.

And before I knew it, the time came for my gig at The Center.

I agreed to meet a couple of friends at Tavern on Jane before the event for a light bite and beverage to calm my nerves, but that backfired. They were travelling on bicycles to Greenwich Village from the Upper East Side, a good sixty blocks away, during rush hour. After waiting half an hour, I left and walked over to The Center.

Paul, The Center’s Director of Cultural Programming, met and welcomed me. I, in turn, made it known that I had a bad case of the jitters. I’m sure my profuse sweating clued him in to my mental state before I opened my mouth. He and his staff made every effort to assure me that I had no need to be nervous and that would be okay.

At about five minutes before I to enter the meeting room, I headed to the men’s room to make a pit stop. From inside a stall I heard two people enter.

“It looks like it’s going to be one of those nights,” one voice said. I recognized it as Paul’s.

Immediately, the movie screen in my mind flashed images of two people listlessly waiting for my arrival.

“Oh, why’s that?” the other voice said. I was certain the other voice was that of Paul’s assistant.

“I don’t think I set out enough wine for the reading. A lot of people turned out for this reading,” Paul said.

The other voice said something, I can’t tell you exactly what the other guy said because I was too busy trying not to wet myself from the good news of a nice turnout. The two men resolved to remedy the wine situation and left me alone with … my thoughts.

I joined the volunteers in the hall outside the meeting room and I felt a wave on anxiety wash over me. You’re probably thinking it was absurd for me to feel nervous about speaking to a room full of people when I perform several times a day in front of 6,000 people in one sitting. But my nervousness was justified. With a show like the Radio City Christmas Spectacular I’m a part of a larger whole, I’m merely a cog in a machine. The show involves lights, set pieces, drops, the biggest indoor video wall on the planet, singers, dancers, costumes, and a live orchestra; but with this reading, there was only me and my words. That’s it.

One of the volunteers at the check-in desk, pulled me aside before I walked into the room and colorfully said, “this is about you. These people came to see you. Go in there and give them what they want—you. Enjoy yourself. Be yourself. Take your time and relish it.” I don’t remember exactly how he put it, but his words made me laugh and took the edge off my anxiety probably as well as any pharmaceutical. I thanked him, said a quick prayer, and waited at the back of the room while Paul gave me a gracious and warm introduction.

The room was pretty much packed with roughly twenty-five people. I strolled down the center aisle, gave a little background about myself and the book, and settled in and read Chapter 14, Christmas Is.

There was no need to imagine my audience naked as they were eager to hear what I had to say. As I looked out over the audience I recognized several people who travelled to lower Manhattan to witness The Clay Show. Old friends from my earliest days at Disney came. New friends came. Coworkers from the show came. Former coworkers from the show from years gone by came. New coworkers I’d only met only a couple of weeks earlier came. People from around the city with whom I forged new friendships came. People I would have never expected came. People I didn’t even know came! Even Bethe, my first and favorite Mrs. Claus with Radio City, came. Her presence made the evening extra special for me as she had no idea that I was about to fondly mention her in the passage.

They laughed where I hoped they would, as well as in a couple of other places where I expected no response at all. But in both instances, I remembered to pause long enough for the audience to complete their response. Then some 15-20 minutes later, the reading part of the evening ended and those present applauded.

And the real fun began—the Q & A. Much to my surprise (not that I had any expectations), for the next fifteen to twenty minutes, the folks in the audience asked thought-provoking questions ranging from my walk with Christ to why I wrote the book to my mother’s response to said book to how to make it in the entertainment industry and more. I tried to keep my answers succinct, honest, and intriguing. Oddly enough, I found that a number of the answers to their questions had been answered at great length within the pages of Walking Tall. And I comically told them so.

The event wrapped up with me signing copies of the book for those present. Sitting there with a line of people waiting for me to sign their book reminded me of my days as Donald Duck; but the surroundings at The Center were a lot less harried and the background music much more hip. I made it a point to speak with everyone who hung around. Frankly, the turnout, the energy, everything overwhelmed me—in a good way.

Once the room cleared, Paul informed me that the attendees purchased all copies of the book, except for the few copies I reserved for a few folks at the Music Hall paid for in advance. I pulled out a copy for Paul and The Center’s library, and thanked him for a glorious evening.

And to end the night in proper form, a small contingent of friends and I headed to Tavern on Jane where we laughed the night away over the food and drink I missed beforehand.

You know I’ve been been around and welcomed by some pretty high-ups, thanks to my affiliation with Disney and other employers, but the welcome and care bestowed upon little ol’ me, a first-time author trying to get the word out about his book, by Paul and the folks at The Center ranked right up there with the best of them. Any writer should be so lucky to have hosts as personable and an audience as engaged as the ones I experienced that night.

Thank you one and all.

Protected: Gold Cast and Crew.

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password: