Call Me KP

Welcome back, Tek. One more year of that sweet, sweet honeyed ham tush behind the plate. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Theo, for this most glorious gift.

Mmmph.

Not counting those two weeks in the summer of 2007, a summer that I desperately want to return to, when I took a class with the Second City Training Center in New York City and those two wildly amateur attempts at improv at the PIT, I haven’t been on a stage in quite a long, long time. Oh, sure. I’ve acted out. Which in some lights looks a bit performing. But to have really been on a stage, in front of people, in front of a willing audience, I haven’t had that in quite a while.

Oh! And, um, the class I took was with the Second City Training Center. Please note that it was not their, ah, real school which eventually and talent-willingly feeds right into their Main Stage Company and beyond. No. This was just a rookie class. Loosely affiliated, I’d say. And I’m forever contractually bound to illuminate that distinction, so, there you go.

As much as I’ve wanted it and expressed that I’ve wanted it and gone ahead and tried to get it, I’m not an actress.

I’m not. I’m just not. At least, I don’t think I am. However, yes, sometimes people laugh a lot over some of the things I do or say or write and lovingly indulge me when they ask, “How has no one found you yet?” And, “Have you ever thought about auditioning for shows?” And, the one that makes me cringe (thankfully), “I feel like you’re destined for SNL.”

Okay, and I say cringe because it just sounds so weird. It does. It sounds weird. If I were to throw out a big old “Eff off” to my humility and actually agreed with these people and admit that it’s something I’ve been dreaming about since I was eleven, I wouldn’t be humble. To say out loud, “I hope you’re right, friend,” and to tell them about how much I want it, the way I cried a little (fine, a lot) the first time I entered Studio 8H as an audience member on February 12th, 2005 with Jason Bateman as the host and Kelly Clarkson as the musical guest, when I had by far and away the worst possible seat in that entire studio, but it didn’t matter because I cried anyway because I was there and Tina and Amy were right there and Darrel was right there and that’s where they’ve all stood, right there, well… I may actually sound cocky. I’d be overly confident. A snot. I’m not Tina. I’m not Amy. I’m not any of them.  And I want them to know that I know that, that I can see the difference. And I’d be that girl in those rehearsals that I hated. That one who hoped that we all knew how lucky we were to be on stage with her. And I hate that girl. And that’s my problem.

I really abhor pretentious behavior. I do. And, believe me, I know that if I’m looking for honest, genuine people then I’m in the wrong game. But it’s like that talent “expo” I went to last year with my friend Shannon. When I went into a Screenwriter’s Panel Discussion and saw a bunch of people I’ve never heard of talk about their big breaks with “projects” (not movies or films or shows, you cad) I’ve never heard of and watched them scoff at those real nobodies with real and sincere questions about how to get their start, I was queasy. I watched this one mousy man in particular with his bad hair and thick frames circling his beady eyes as they cast dagger stares down at all of us who were so very beneath him. After all, he’d just come back from Sundance where he totally had chai with Jared Leto after his rockin’ set at the Nokia “We Give Free Stuff To People Who Can Afford To Buy Ten Of Each For Themselves” tent. And that made his opinion worth while.

But on the other hand, this twat has his WGA card. How? I don’t know. He even has his SAG card. So he’s, like, rolling in experience and knowledge and wisdom. But, in all honesty, he’s been closer to the action than any of us in that room had ever been. He’s done more work and while it hasn’t been earthquakingly brilliant, it’s been something. He’s within reach and there’s something to be said about that. And one of those things is, “Kindly retreat back to your two thousand dollar a month one room studio cheese box “loft” above that curry joint in the Village, you hip, little troll. Bon Iver is so playing the Beacon tonight and you know how quickly the barkeep runs out of nine dollar Stellas. Better get there early enough to booze lightly and mingle. Oh! And bring your digi so all of your New York friends can see what a bitchin’ time you had in Utah. Douche.”

I am convinced, though, that you can be driven and be kind too. I just haven’t been able to find my perfect balance of all of that. Because for as much as I want these things, I do lack that extra push, that extra surge, like that look in Shannon’s eyes when she tosses her bright read hair over her shoulders before beginning her aria that will always, always stun the panel, and that look when she tells them who she is and where she’s from and who she’s auditioning for and indirectly why she’ll get it, because she’s gorgeous and she’s so, so talented and she works her ass off and it shows. I don’t have that one-track mind like my friend Molly who has seemingly not stopped performing for one second of her life, whose talent is extraordinary, whose shame is non-existent, and who plugs and plugs away at getting her material out there and into the right hands and she’ll get there because she’s hilarious and just never quits. Or like Kevin who has been at this for years, who has coupled up and worked with a Who’s Who list of comedians, who has worked with Lorne Michaels, who is (and I say this as impartially as I possibly can) one of the most talented people I ever seen perform, who knows his craft inside and out, who knows what works and what doesn’t, who I know is mere seconds away from getting his shot whether he’s really looking for it or not, because he’s working at it and working hard. I’m missing that. I’m missing that ability to balance it all. To be confident and kind. Sounds lame but rings true.

It’s not that I don’t think, deep down, that I have what it takes to get out there and at least try. I know what I’ve got. I know how it feels to hold the focus of a room filled with people and have them laugh at what I do. I know how that fuels me. What I don’t know is how to say I deserve it more than someone else, how I say that I’m the better choice for this part, for this show, when I’m not in perfect shape like that blonde over there and my teeth aren’t as straight and pretty as that girl there and my theater resume, dear Lord my theater resume, is Olsen twin thin compared to that chick’s Queen Latifa sized packet of experience.

So, maybe it really does all lie in experience. Maybe if I had just gone to as many of these cattle calls as I could and knew what to expect, I’d be better off. And I wouldn’t feel so out of place. Maybe if I didn’t take and settle for accepting myself as the girl that all of those directors saw me as and trusted that I am that girl that made all of those other people, those family and friends and teachers and strangers laugh, if I saw myself all the time as that girl, maybe I wouldn’t be as sheepish and bizarrely nervous as I am right now for this silly little audition I have coming up on Wednesday. Maybe I’d stop comparing my nerves to their bravado, my insides to their outsides, my talent to their showy-ness. I’d stop worrying about feeling out of place to the point where my well-rehearsed monologue blows and I’m a chorus girl or piece of moving scenery. Again. And I’d find that balance. I’d be able to, in some weird way, allow myself to do exactly what it is I want to do.

Some would say just lighten the hell up, KP. Forget about everyone else and everything else and just go in there and do the one thing you’re supposed to do and be done. But I get in the way of myself. I psych myself out. Because when you want something enough and someone says you can’t have it over and over, you start to believe them. You start because that “no” is now sometimes found in the places where you thought you were supposed to be able to find support and encouragement (cue Mom and Dad), because it’s easier and safer and more secure to marry into a great desk job in a city that they could drive to in one afternoon without having to make a pit stop. Because it’s easier to sit back than to stand up, especially when these new heels you bought for this audition are not yet broken in and your feet are killing you. Because you’ve done it your whole life. It everyone else before you, kiddo. You’re genetically wired this way. Because you’d be the one on the Titanic screaming, “No! You go ahead. I’ll be fine. I can handle this” as you shove the wailing passengers into the lifeboats while trying to patch the gaping hole in the ship with a pack of Flintstone band-aids; it just isn’t working for you. It doesn’t do you any good to cower, to let people walk over and around and through you just so you come out looking like “the nice girl.” Enough.

It’s enough. I’ve watched too much Oprah in this here ‘09 to put up with such a ridiculous sense of self. Why yes, girlfriend, I will. I will put myself back on my to-do list. And I’ll feel good about it. I will. I’ll do it. Damnit, I’ll do it. “Self-confidence for EEEEEEVERYOOOOONNEEE! YOUUUU get some self-confidence! And youuuuuu!”

Now, I’ve made a lame list of New Year’s Resolutions that I keep tacked up in my room beside my mirror. I’m determined. I’m ready. I’m…

I’m really a whiny little thing, aren’t I? Maybe I’m closer to that “actress” image than I thought. But, look, I’m not writing this post because I’m fishing for compliments. I’m not writing it to prove that I’m passionate or any of that. I’m writing it because I have to get away from it. If I get it out there, then it’s not so much in my way anymore. And who knows? Maybe I’m not the only one who has ever felt this way about something before. Gee. Maybe someone has felt this about a job or a raise or, hell, a significant other or something. Maybe it’s more universal than I even understand.

Anyway, I’ve found a monologue that is about as emotionally roller coaster-y as this very post if I really pick at it and tear it apart. It’s about two minutes if I pace it correctly. And I feel good about it. I really do. And I don’t know that I’ve ever been able to say that pre-audition before. But I think in making a smart choice for where I am, taking a good look at myself and my abilities and all that I’ve been through in the past few years, I think it works. I can understand this character and I know I’ve felt exactly what she’s feeling in this scene. Rather than taking on something considered “classic” that these people have seen countless times, I’m doing something that makes sense to me for right now. And I’m happy with my choice; a bit predictable for me if you know me and my love affair with this show. But why not? It hits rather close to home.

“And don’t call me Pammy.”

Hey, she snagged Jim with that attitude. Homegirl must have been on to something solid, right?

Recently, I offered to drive the son of one of my mother’s good friends back to school in Philadelphia.  Though I had never met him before, my mother spoke very highly of him and, of course, I do love meeting new people.  So why not?  And it was a really nice day.  The sun was out.  The traffic wasn’t too terrible.  I found a convenient parking spot in front of his dorm when it came time to unload my car.  It was a good day.

But during our conversation that afternoon, he mentioned something about a friend of his he no longer speaks to.  We were talking about the glories of college and he began to talk about their falling out and more specifically, about who this kid had become.

“He went and got this ridiculous scarification on his body,” he mentioned quickly, before continuing on with his story.

“Wait.  I’m sorry,” I interrupted.  Or cut in.  Ha.  ”What exactly is scarification?”

Well, apparently, it’s exactly what it sounds like.  Scarification, in modern times, is a form of body modification.  More intense on all levels than a tattoo, scarification is the act of cutting a design into someone’s skin using either heated tools or chemicals (fugginwhat!?) to essentially brand the flesh.  You know.  Like Old MacDonald would do to Bessie so as not to confuse her with the other cows in the pasture.  Everything but the prod, I guess.  I hope.

At the time, I didn’t invest much energy into the concept of this freakish practice.  Mostly because this wasn’t the whole point of my friend’s story.  And as our trip continued, we kept changing topics and eventually I forgot about it; until tonight, of course, when I was talking to Erin and she mentioned adding to her pretty moon tattoo. 

I relayed all of the above to her and asked if she had ever heard of anything like it.  Thankfully, it was new to her too.  And the more we talked about it, like how I’m prone to pick scabs and how she always itches cuts that are healing and scabbing over, we sort of stumbled into and few unanswered questions.  Naturally, I ran to my laptop and began investigating.  In addition to some of the most unsettling Google Image results ever returned to me (second only to ‘Really Ugly Kids’ and ‘Speidi’), I found a wealth of information on this unorthodox form of self-expression.

Wikipedia cites scarification as a concept in botany in which the outer layers of a seed are scraped off to promote germination.  Also, it refers to the crushing of concrete using hydrodemolition.  And after that nonsense is discussed, scarification as body modification is presented alongside some truly gruesome pictures.

Historically, scarification can be traced back to some African tribal rituals and can be followed through its usage as a mechanism of punishment in 19th Century England and France all the way to today where it is, quite honestly, a big, bad exercise in “Are You Fucking Crazy!?”

According to the fine folks over at bmezine.com, the larger the design, the better, as the scarring must grow into the shape; this process is not for the timid.  Clearly.  It’s basically go big or go home when it comes to engraving yourself.  And there are also certain ways to cut your skin so that when it heals, the scar will have a raised, 3D effect, though some people opt for having molding clay packed into their open wound to promote bumps and peaks.  Furthermore, this shit might not even be legal in every state as BME’s FAQ section encourages those wackjobs considering scarification to make themselves aware of their region’s laws.  Oh, and do a seek a professional cutter too.  Because, you know, this could be hazardous to your damn health.

Why did I keep reading?  Why did I bother to learn more after being completely disturbed by the photos?  I have no idea.  I really don’t.  It’s probably the same reason why when I’m peer pressured into sitting through a slasher- flick, I immediately “IMDB” it to deconstruct it as much as possible, to find out movie trivia and goofs and behind the scenes stories and how they made the blood gush so quickly all to make it a bit more real and a little less fantastic.  In learning as much as I can about something that scares me, I’m not quite as nutty.  

Some may just call that neurosis.  But honestly, I’d rather be neurotic and worrisome than carving an effing cartoon cat into my bicep.  You asshole.

Evan, you’re better off without this kid in your life.  Especially when he was loco enough to brand himself with Pikachu.

It’s days like today that make me wonder if I should have stayed in Iowa.  For just a few months longer.  What would it have mattered?  I made it six months.  What’s one more?  Two more?  It was nice to come home when I did.  Two days before Thanksgiving.  Everyone was on their way home for the holidays.  That exciting, happy reunion feeling was everywhere.  I loved the big smiles and the hugs and standing around talking in crowded Scranton bars with people I felt like I hadn’t seen in a thousand years.  But eventually, the season passed.  Everyone went back to work or school or their new homes.  Including me.  I went back home.  To Mom and Dad and Cat.  Better known as ‘The Loony Bin’.  And a part of me feels like I’m right where I was last year, yet with a significantly larger bank account and a far more impressive resume.

Technically, that’s exactly where I am.  I’m still employed by Uncle Sam, but I’m desperately searching, like the rest of the 9% (and growing) of Americans that are finding themselves jobless this year.  Alright, I’m not wholly jobless.  But I’m unhappy.  Can I say that?  I’m unhappy with my job.  It’s not what I thought it would be and it’s not what I want to do forever.  Not at all.

“Sorry, why wouldn’t you want to get paid unholy amounts of money for not doing any type of concrete work?”  He asked.

Because I just don’t like it.  I am twenty-three.  2.  3.  I should be trying things and failing and getting back up and finding my own way; stumbling in the direction of a career that I’ll be happy with because I enjoy what I’m doing.  Not staying with something because it’s secure, because it’s safe.  I’ll go mad.

Mad like today.  Today when it snowed.  Again.  When it snowed again.  Again.  Again.  When Mother Nature decided to behave like a bitchy girlfriend and flirt with another guy just because she could all in hopes of making her boyfriend, who really didn’t do anything wrong and who, come to think of it suddenly, is really, really too good for her, not to mention also too nice to dump her sorry ass, make him all jealous beyond comprehension, because she has tools that she can jiggle and giggle to get what she wants and, you know, she’s already snagged him and so now she’s just having fun because she’s young and perky and probably blonde and sleeps around because, hell, she’s a woman and she’s just exercising her womanliness and getting hers while the getting happens to be relatively good, what with the massive whole in the ozone layer and whatnot, I mean, she’s just taking advantage of a good situation to prove that he’s lucky to be with her and if he doesn’t like it or if he’s sick of it, well, at least he’s not like Jupiter having to deal with continual storms or Mercury having to deal with constant heat, right, she’s just proving to him that he’s got the better deal and if he continues to not do exactly what she asks, then she’ll tear him a new one, a new hole, in the ozone, to match the one that’s already causing so much trouble with it all being his fault really because all men are truly, truly ungrateful and do not appreciate a woman for all she can do like rain and snow and tsunamigoddamnit!

Basically, an overwhelming snow and ice storm plopped down and now my car is frozen shut like the doors of my father’s heart.  So we all got to spend all day together.  Again.  Marooned in suburbia.  With Mom following me into every room I’ve tried to seek peace and quiet in.  But she wants to show me the new cat condo she wants to buy for Romeo so he isn’t jealous of the new puppy we’re getting in two months.  So it’s a good thing that I’m home.  It is.  Because Caesar Milan (Mom’s latest hero after Julia Roberts as Erin Brockovich and whoever married Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora the first time) told her in his book that it is crucial to establish dominance in the pup’s early years.  I’ll be “pack leader” apparently; the constant source of authority in these fragile first weeks since I’m home and oddly (un) employed.  Awesome.

She continues on by voicing her concern over our cat.  There’s nothing wrong with him.  Except the he’s restless.  He’s cranky.  His appetite has changed.  And she’s worried that by bringing the puppy home while the weather is crummy and forcing Romeo to have to, without hope of refuge or sanctuary, without anywhere to safely hide, to stay inside with this new and probably unwelcome beast will only further his anxiety.

She worries.  About the anxiety.  Of our cat.  And his inability.  To have a place.  Of his own.

Tell me you’re following.  Please tell me.

And as I look over at Romeo, blacked out and drunkenly batting a nip-filled parakeet across our living room, the ultimate picture of cabin fever, it hits me.  We are so very much the same right now.  We’re trapped.  Trapped like rats.  With my mother.

I haven’t really been outside in over a year.  I haven’t sunned myself like the Gila Monster I was in a previous life.  Gone away from May to November and working ridiculous hours through the prime of Summer ‘08 has absolutely taken a toll on me.  I feel like I’m more anxious than ever.  And being that the roads are virtually impossible to travel on, it seems as though I’ll have to trudge through this for a bit longer.  But at least I have my cat.  (Hopefully, that won’t always be my excuse.  You know.  When I’m, like, forty-five.)

Spring can’t get here soon enough.  And it will bring me sunshine and birds and warm weather and high skies and baseball and breezes and good things.

In the meantime, if Romeo has a spare mouse or ball of yarn around…

While I try and educate myself on the finer points of web design, this is the blog’s new look.  It may be more than temporary– more than I had originally planned– as I continue to learn. And give myself headaches.

But it’s colorful, huh?  And look!  Thanks to David, I’m getting better at interpreting the Romance Language that is CSS. This original WordPress template had red links. I changed them to purple.  Oh!  And the background?  Yeah.  That was gray.  Now it’s “Lite Sea Green.”  Huh? Huh? What? Yeah. That’s right. How about that? Talk code to me, baby.

Um. Carry on.

What up, ‘09?  Let’s dance.

Major blog overhaul has begun.  If you’ll notice, friends and lovers, my 2008 posts have vanished.  Completely!  Okay, no.  No, not completely.  They’re still around.  Just marked ‘private’; for my eyes only.  And I did that for a number of reasons.  Not the least of which is that as I continue the emotionally draining task of looking for a new job, I may have bitched about a few people who would write really killer recommendations for me and you should never step on toes as they may be linked to the asses you must eventually kiss in your bright and shiny future.

However, should you crave a little Vintage KP (dry, bitter and a bit oaky with a hint of vanilla), just let me know what you think you want to enjoy and I’ll pour you that glass of that robust brilliance.  Metaphors!  

Furthermore, I’d just like to leave 2008 way, way behind me.  And I tend to do this with collections of my writings.  I don’t throw them away.  I just put them away.  Away, away.  And I try my best to move forward.  Start fresh.  So fresh and so clean, clean.

Please be patient as I’m looking for a customized layout for this shnazzy shpaysh.  But I’m fickle.  And I don’t want to pay some gifted web designer for a layout that I’ll be over in a week.  (Someone may marry into this one day.)

It has been a little over a year since I’ve started this whole blogging thing.  And what began as an exercise in saving my sanity may have actually turned into something a bit more.  With that, I’m pretty excited about what this 2009 has to offer.

The Year Of The Ox, huh?  Andelay, you fat cow.  Andelay.