I played hooky tonight from dance because… well, because of a few reasons. The first being I had to miss the first class for a theatre audition, the second being I got myself all stressed out because of the audition (to the point where I didn’t want to do ANYTHING, let alone something requiring coordination and mental capabilities to any degree), and the third being the anticlimactical result of said audition.
Reasons Two and Three both revolved around the same fact: the one-act for which I was auditioning was written by Tom Stoppard.
FACT: I love Tom Stoppard. Maybe more than I love David Ives, but them’s tricky waters.
FACT: Tom Stoppard is a *genius* of a playwright.
FACT: If Tom Stoppard said the only way I could ever perform in any of his works, regardless of who was directing or producing it, was if I took three full years of chemistry, I would do it. In a heartbeat.
Anyway. Hence my being stressed out. Local theatre co. putting on a Tom Stoppard play? I HAVE TO GET THE PART.
But then I got there and I was filling out a contact info sheet and I couldn’t remember the exact name of the play, and the following exchange took place:
ME: Sorry, what’s the name of the Tom Stoppard one-act again?
DIRECTOR: The what?
ME: The Tom Stoppard play.
DIRECTOR: The what play?
ME: Tom Stoppard?
Yeah. The director apparently didn’t know just *who* Tom Stoppard is, other than some guy who happened to pen a one-act that appealed to his fancy.
And then there’s the fact that I was the only one there tonight. Granted, it was the last evening of auditions, but, I mean, really? Only one there? Both directors did the cold readings with me. Neither had British accents that could have passed for anything close to regionally identifiable. Not that it says anything about their directing skills, of course, because hey! If directors could act, they’d be actors, not directors, right? Just like there are music producers who can’t sing or play an instrument to save their lives, right? Right?
In any case, I made callbacks. I’m sorry to say it doesn’t mean a whole lot to me in this moment, but maybe after Monday night I’ll be a little more enthused.
In lieu of the second dance class, I went to Chipotle to use this thing that expires at the end of next month. I’ve only been to Chipoodle once before, more than two years ago, and I think that time, too, I only went because the newspaper staff had coupons or certificates or whatever. In any case, I’ve never been able to get over the whole McDonald’s affiliation, and after tonight, I don’t see that I’m that much for the worse because of it. I’m not a big Tex-Mex fan, is all, and to anyone who thinks Chippotatle is straight-up Mexican food, let me just say that in all the years I lived in San Diego, I never once ate at a taco shop that tried to put white rice, black beans, and/or KERNELS OF CORN in my burrito.
On the way to Chippewa Falls, however, I saw my first Connecticut license plate! I’ve been in love with (the idea of) Connecticut ever since I was a kid: firstly, because of its spelling (silent c’s are sexy beasts), and secondly, because growing up, I was a hardcore BSC fanatic. And I mean that whole-heartedly. The series belonged to my sister first, then I took over ownership and continued adding to it as new books were published. We had the Super Series, the mysteries, the special-edition hardbacks, the Little Sister series– no trip to a B. Dalton or a Waldenbooks was complete without checking to see if a new installation had come out. And while I knew that Stoneybrook didn’t actually exist, I also knew that Connecticut did.
Also, their state quarter is something kind of lovely.
I’m just realizing now that this entry should have had a jump, but, oh well, I’m cold. Tea time!