but, you don't even know who we are!

   You really never know who you are going to meet waiting for you outside the stage door.  

   The funny thing about the stage door, is that all somebody needs to do is just locate it (which is really not difficult at all), and then they pretty much have you cornered because there is no other exit for an actor.  And any old Tom, Dick, or Harry knows that.  

   Tonight we were exiting and there were a bunch of people waiting for us.  Most just wanted signatures, but some wanted to talk.  Actually, A Chorus Line seems to draw all kinds, especially talkative ones (which I don't mind at all).  And since we are all so vulnerable on stage, telling our stories like it's our job (wait--it is our job), I think that makes them feel like they can relate to us; it makes people want to tell us about them because in a very one-sided way, they feel like they know us.  

   So, we had signed programs and taken pictures and were on our way, when we were stopped a little further away, this time by a father and his two daughters.  They asked for our autographs and we enthusiastically gave our assent.  The older of the two daughters started taking out these blank squares of paper--kind of like index cards, but without the lines.  This was a little strange, but we said nothing of it.  Oh, and she wanted each of us to sign one--so each card just had our name on it (which seemed really boring to me, but someone's trash is another person's treasure, so who I am to judge).  John pleasantly asked them if they enjoyed the show, to which there was a beat, followed by, Uh, we didn't see it.

   Well, now this was awkward.  If they didn't see the show, why in the world did they want our autographs?  They don't even know what characters we played or who we are!  To fill in the awkward silence, John said, Oh...Cool...But the truth is it wasn't cool, just weird and kind of sad.  

    

   Then the dad took his camera out and asked for a picture of us, with his daughters.  Again, we said yes and again I thought to myself, How will this picture be of any interest at all to them?  I mean, will they show it off to others: Look--here is a picture of some people that were in a show that we never saw...Oh, what show was it?, the picture-gazers might ask, to which the family would say, No idea. Cool, huh?

   Not really.  

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    We had a nice long rehearsal today with our choreographer, Baayork Lee, who is back in town.  We re-learned the opening combination.  This is a combination that we do twice each show, meaning that we do it 16 times a week.  It has been roughly 20 weeks since we opened the show in Denver, which means that we have performed it 320 times (and this is not including all of our rehearsals).  But we learned it again.  

   And I know I will be "learning" it again before too long.  That is just the way that art is, sometimes; you never get it perfect.  There is always room for improvement, which both inspires and mocks, depending on your mood, I suppose.  Today it did a little of both, I guess.

   The dance part of the rehearsal went great.  I borrowed my friend's shiny blue unitard, which made me happy since I have long since grown sick of all my dance clothes (Drew just cannot understand my insatiable desire for new dance clothes; that's okay cause I don't really understand spending $300 to watch a football game. Anyway).  And that blue unitard really helped spruce up my day (you think I am joking, but I am not).  But then they let everyone go but me and Colt, who had to work on our scene.  My first impulse was disappointment that everyone got to go but me (well, and Colt), but then I remembered that I wasn't 11 years old and could deal with those kinds of things; even understand that they are for my good (in rare moments of maturity).  

  To make a long story shorter (and you know I am good at writing long stories, dear reader), the rehearsal was difficult.  It felt like all of the blocking that I have been doing since March was just casually tossed out the window while I was left to find Kristine all over again.  I was literally made to shake for like 5 minutes straight while reciting my monologue (to convey nervous energy--this was both a little embarrassing and exhausting), and I was left unsure exactly how I would perform my monologue for the show later.  

  Well, just great.  That isn't exactly what I wanted to feel...

  But then my scene came around in the show and honestly, it felt great.  The truth was I did feel nervous, which is perfect for Kristine, and things had been shaken up (quite literally)--but mostly in a good way, I think. I got positive feedback from a lot of people, which I appreciated so much.  So, yeah, it was interesting and humbling, but in the end, ultimately good.  

But, I'd rather not shimmy and shake like that for a long time. Today was enough, I think.