All I want is to rock your soul...

...or, Hey, remember that time I auditioned for American Idol?, Part One.

4PM, Sunday August 17, 2008
I meet Elizabeth at Port Authority. We head to Information to try and figure out how to get out to the Meadowlands. (Side note - in 2 years of living here, today is the first day I have cursed not having a car.) Crabby Information Lady sends us "next door" (Elizabeth: "I didn't know there was a next door") where we encounter Slightly Less Crabby Information Lady who sends us to Windows 1-10 where Window One Lady is helpful and not very crabby at all. To the bus!

We board and make it safely to New Jersey in no time flat. I'm excited. Elizabeth still can't figure out why she agreed to this.

5PM, Sunday August 17, 2008
Well. We're here. And I'm thinking the screaming throngs of people heading into the stadium wearing football jerseys MIGHT ACTUALLY BE GOING TO THE GAME. Where's the registration? Oh? All the way around the stadium and through the scary tunnel? No biggie!

(Scary tunnel.)

(Scary tunnel, and half the couple that followed us in.)

5:15PM, Sunday August 18, 2008
I hope I get it!

Ok. Made it. Through the big red doors marked "American Idol Registration."

And inside! To a crowd of...no one. Apparently, all the crazies arrived early this morning, got their bracelets, and left. The rest will turn up tomorrow. So no insanity to report just yet, but I do have high hopes in the days to come. But I have my seat ticket and my wristband and that's what's important. See?

Elizabeth is STILL not amused.


5:30PM, Sunday August 17, 2008
We begin the trek back around the stadium. Trouble is, we don't know where to go to get the bus, and no one else seems to know either. All I do know is that if we're not on the 6:14 bus, we'll be waiting until 7:14 and that doesn't sound like so much fun.

5:40PM, Sunday August 17, 2008
Still walking.

5:50PM, Sunday August 18th, 2008
Yup. Still walking.

6PM, Sunday August 18, 2008
We make it with 14 minutes to spare! It's mighty hot and we're thirsty.

6:20PM, Sunday August 18, 2008
No bus.

6:30PM, Sunday August 18, 2008
Still no bus

6:45PM, Sunday August 18, 2008
Still no bus. But we've made new friends! One was very quick to inform us he made it to Hollywood in Season 3. The other equally quickly piped in that she's a professional singer who splits her time between 3 bands and hosting a karaoke...thing. Elizabeth wastes no time in informing them she's not there to audition and just needed another excuse to laugh at me. And I...well. I make 'em laugh.

7PM, Sunday August 18, 2008
Bus arrives! And it's full! So we stand in the aisle and piss off all the people just wanting to return to the City after their relaxing weekend at the Shore and regale anyone in earshot with our tales. Our Season 3 Veteran talks us through his journey in the audition process and to Hollywood. Turns out, he was a young child of 16 and now wishes to return an older, wiser 21 year old. Sheesh. I feel ancient. But it's good to hear his take and be braced in what to expect. This entire process is going to be about luck and looks. Singing well won't hurt, either, but it's a clear and easy third.

And it's hilarious that I want this, more than I've wanted most other things in this world. Weirder still that I don't hear the nagging in my head that I usually hear leading into an audition. I guess I just understand that this whole thing is almost entirely out of my hands.

Call it grace, call it luck, call it good vibes, call it prayers, call it what you will...but whatever you got, could you please send some my way on Tuesday?

Everywhere you go, you shout it. You don't have to be shy about it.

Dear Faithful Readers,

I've been blogging at this here blogspot for 8 months now. In that time, I realize I have gathered quite the audience of close friends, acquaintances, and strangers across the globe. You've all been very kind in putting up with my babble, stroking my delicate ego, and assuring me I am in fact amusing. And I have tried my hardest to never disappoint as I bring you my bad days, my gripes, my realizations and revelations, my stories, my heart and my hopes. So far, I've told the tales of being a 20-something in a complicated city and have regaled you with my thoughts on: androgyny, tourists, birthdays, love, drunken stumbles, baseball, football, ugly (funny) cakes, American Idol, John Krasinski, the current state of Broadway, grocery shopping, beer, wine, hot wasabi peas, dramatic subway rides, Manolo Blahniks, terrible puns, sweet tea, auditioning, fashion, knee socks, and goodness knows what else. Oh! And let's never forget that time I wrote an ENTIRE BLOG ABOUT A MAN'S ASS.

Suffice it to say, I don't think there are many secrets between us. Which is why telling you what I'm about to tell you is kind of a big deal. I have a feeling that this post is going to push you from "Alison? Yeah, she's a little bit crazy" straight on into "Call the men in the nice white coats, tell them to bring the straight jacket and sedatives, that girl done lost her damn mind!"

Ready?


I am going to audition for American Idol on Tuesday.

Seriously. I mean, come on. I've been talking about it since sophomore year after Lori and I 'bout stomped a hole in her floor and deafened the entire campus with our shrieks upon Kelly Clarkson's coronation. I'm getting mighty close to that whole 28 years old cutoff. I'm never again going to be in a position where I'll live in the same city as the audition AND have a weekday off AND have a friend who also wants to go. And I mean, wasn't moving to New York all about taking risks and doing things I can do nowhere else anyway?
See, this all started when my friend Irene asked if she could crash while in town for the audition. I told myself if I had Tuesday off, I would go. If I was meant to audition, I would have the day off. But that's silly. Destiny and proper star alignment are for the big things, like love and really good finds at the thrift store. This kind of stuff I'll just have to take care of on my own. So I asked for the day off.

I then asked my friend Elizabeth if she would please please please please please go with me to get my armband on Sunday. When she said of course, I told her I loved her for putting up with my insanity. She responded "I love you for knowing I will."

I know I'm not the best singer, but I'm a damn good performer. I could do this. Or, I could just have another really funny story to add to my rapidly expanding collection. My father would call this a "win-win situation." I think I will, too.

Love,
me

P.S. Any song suggestions? I'm at a loss.

It's a goooood life. A gooood life. A gooood night, to be alive.

Sometimes, my job is really super extra rough on me. I mean, it's pretty much a requirement that in my free time I need to check out restaurants and neighborhoods and attend shows and go out to clubs and have fun. Sigh. I mean, I guess if I HAVE to.

Saturday night has since been labeled as "Concierges Gone Wild." Adrian, Megan and I took it upon ourselves to head out to a club, all for the good of our job and comfort of our guests.

We are so, so very selfless. True story.

Now. I am NOT a club girl. As a rule, I refuse to lower my standards to give business to places that won't allow me to wear flip flops. I am a football game at a sports bar with cheap beer kind of girl. But whatever. I had some $10 hot pink shoes that were itching to get out onto the New York streets. And it's fun to go shake what my mama gave me (is that how the saying goes?) every now and again. But shhhh. Don't tell anyone I had a good time - it'll ruin my rep.

When you're at a posh night club, you should definitely be sure to do the following things:

Take silly pictures.


Sprinkle in some America's Next Top Model practice.



Be as ridiculously good looking as humanly possible.

(Or at least sit next to people who are so that their beauty will reflect onto you a little bit.)

Woo people with your amazing eyebrow abilities.


Oh yeah! And DANCE!

(until you're reduced to a hot and sweaty mess.)

And finally, hop in a cab. And be happy.

And exhausted.

Don't you let me dissolve completely.

Walking through Times Square has become an art. Keep your eyes forward, smile at no one, AND RESIST THE TEMPTATION TO RESPOND TO WHAT WOULD BE A COMMONPLACE GREETING ANYWHERE ELSE. (You Yankees can snicker all you want, but even after two years this is all so very difficult for a girl from Alabama/North Carolina.) Everyone wants money from you. Everyone. They're either going to beg you for money...or they're going to beg you for money through the guise of crummy comedy club tickets.

Tonight, while avoiding the gazes and pleas, I was initially addresses as "sweetie." My fixed stare did not falter and within two seconds, this became "Fine, you fat bitch." Now, typically the beggars (I'm sorry - salesmen?) ignore you if you ignore them. This was a new experience for me.

Let's not even touch the fact that the man who called me a fat bitch was easily twice my size. Easily.
Um, whoops. Guess I just did.

Whatever. Blip on the radar. Scene change: a wine bar on 9th Avenue, 30 minutes later. Sidewalk seating, perfect views of foot traffic and Hell's Kitchen at night. Halfway into my half liter of house red, a homeless man wordlessly approaches my table, picks up my glass of wine, and throws it down his own throat. A "whoa" is all that manages to escape my lips, followed by a brief moment of silence and finally laughter from all those bearing witness. (And a free replacement glass of wine, thank goodness.)

What in the world?
This town is insane.

Stranded, without sails and aching heart.

Do you see this?

That's me and Crissie. Wednesday night. Mets game.
See?

That's the $8 beer I drank. On Wednesday night. At the Mets game.
See?

That's just a silly old picture I took of the scoreboard. On Wednesday night. At the Mets game.
See?

That's the view of the outfield and new stadium. From our seats. On Wednesday night. At the Mets game.

DO YOU SEE SEE THIS?!?!?!?!



That's my future husband, David Cook. He threw the first pitch. ON THURSDAY NIGHT. At the Mets game.

My life is shit.

I'll trade the moon for the sun, but this feeling for no one.

Sometimes I forget to love New York. Whenever this happens, I find myself doing things I can only do here. Tonight, I went to a Mets game and rounded things off at Rhythm and Booze. As I walked home, alone, I started humming This Little Light of Mine for no particular reason. I suddenly felt really capable and strong.

Sometimes, I get too tangled up in what I want for myself and what I think I should be working towards. I plot and I plan and yet things never live up to my own expectations. Tonight I started to silently beat myself up for once again falling short of the mark. As I walked home, alone, I told myself to be here now. I suddenly felt much more at peace.

I think God's the one who has made me capable and strong and assisted my destiny's course, but it's my job to chill out and enjoy the ride. What's going to happen, will. The universe won't fall apart should I stop daydreaming about tomorrow.

Be here now.
So. Here I am.

We are the color. And the blush, that faded into black.

Here in New York, they kiss on one cheek. Two would be both pretentious and European. When the opposite traffic light turns yellow, your foot had best be moving steadily from brake to gas, lest you be taunted with unnecessary horn honking from behind. Instead of “bless his heart” and “I’m not being ugly, but,” conversations are littered with “FUCKIN’ A!” and “Fah-getaboutit!” They’ll pay $75 for a burger, yet insist on turkey sandwiches from the filthiest, grimiest deli on the block. You’re a snob if you buy coffee from Starbucks instead of aforementioned deli, (but Dunkin’ Donuts is acceptable) yet completely tacky for purchasing a knock off handbag. Kids don’t have play groups – they’ve just got their cousins. And Football? Fah-getabout it. It’s all about baseball here.

It’s a city as cold as its Februaries and abrasive as its sidewalks. Which is why every time I hear the city’s nightly mantra, I can’t help but grin and grant a couple grace points.

Get home safe.

Not “y’all come back now, y’hear?” or “love you” or “so long” or “cheers” or “good night.” And it doesn’t matter your relationship to the person bidding you adieu. It’s your coworker, your best friend, your cousin, your teacher, the guy at the deli, or the stranger on the train. And it’s simultaneously necessary and comforting.

Get home safe.

Whoever you are, whenever you leave, whatever you do – you WILL hear this phrase. You will repeat back. And then you’ll kiss on one cheek and hail a cab, head for the subway, or check for a bus.

Get home safe.

Thank you, New York. That was always the plan.

I'm not here for your entertainment.

I find it hilarious that I spend a couple hours a day looking like this:

Just so I can spend about 30 minutes looking like this:

To find, upon returning home, that I now look like this:

Only to start it all over the next day.

We women are very silly creatures.

I'd rather be 9 people's favorite thing than a hundred people's 9th favorite thing.

So I'm in love.
It's true.

With this charming little thing. Four actors, four chairs, one keyboardist, every joke you could think to crack on Broadway shows past and present, a few mildly fancy tricks and a WHOLE lot of heart.

I've heard beaucoups about (title of show) since its run downtown at the Vineyard, but didn't ever take a moment to go see it. I wish I had. The show I saw on Thursday night was easily one of the best productions I have EVER experienced. To be able to know it from its roots must be the coolest thing ever. I can honestly tell you I was entertained every single second. And yes, most of it was silly, cheesy OMG I CANNOT BELIEVE THEY JUST WENT THERE/SAID THAT/THINK THAT TOO joke cracking and otherwise. It's a gratuitous piece of work, aimed mainly at "showmos" who will get every tiny theatrical reference. It's not right for mainstream, but that's fine, because mainstream doesn't deserve it.

I find it fitting that I just happened to see this show while in the middle of ongoing uncertainty about my place - in New York, in the theatre. I moved here all bright eyed and winsome, determined to prove that being an actor is about talent and not the ability to play the game. Friends, it ain't. It's about your training and who you know and how amazing your headshots are and if you can step up and bring it at every audition, every time. It's about being your #1 priority and is even more consuming than a full time job or, God forbid, a life. I humbly stand here to announce that, though it's lovely to believe otherwise, people who have a successful acting career have learned to play the game. Thankfully, some are even talented.

This cast? I wish there were words bigger than talented, impressive, or dazzling. I wish I could convey something more than "I loved loved loved loved loved it." It's an intense moment when you watch an actor, playing him or herself, unleash a thought that you thought you alone thunk. (Yes, I just said thunk. Deal with it.) And then, in the middle of it all, a quiet gasp followed by a round of applause. Your neighbor thought it too. So did the guy two rows ahead and to the right. And that guy, and that girl, and him and her, he, she and all of them, too. And you're suddenly reminded why you ever even bothered to try at all.

Because occasionally, something this perfectly wonderful slides next door to the controlled fluff that lines the rest of the block. It's all so very worth it. Even if it's not the perfect portrait of success that someone you never even commissioned once painted.

But I'll be your midnight cowboy, too drunk to even stand.

I need your help.

I need to know if this is funny, if if I'm just severely brain-dead, hard up for a laugh, and absolutely ridiculous.

My friend Kim directed me to a blog that pokes fun at piss-poor cake designs. http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com/
Now, this premise is nothing new, and some of the designs in question have been the the source of e-mockery for years. I scrolled through, rolling my eyes at the insanity and sighing at the stupidity.

But then I came across a golden ticket for hysteria. "Naked Mohawk-Baby Carrot Jockeys."

This cake is so disturbing, I'm almost glad the picture doesn't include the whole thing. The plastic clone babies wearing naught but mohawks is bad enough, but then they're also riding carrots. What do you do with that? It looks like some kind of perverted vegetable rodeo, or maybe a bizarre clone military exercise, what with their little plastic fists raised high in identical salutes.

And what kind of ocassion calls for a "naked babies riding carrots" decor, anyway? No, wait, maybe I don't want to know...



Y'all. I lost it. I literally started laughing so hard that my eyes welled with tears and I had to excuse myself to the ladies' room, where I stood trembling and snorting. I returned to my computer, hellbent on reading the description featured below the picture, only to have to step away from the desk again. It took a good 4 tries before I could compose myself enough to get through it. Later that night, while trying to fall asleep, I murmured to myself "Naked Mohawk-Baby Carrot Jockeys!" and erupted into peels of laughter once more.

This might be the time to admit that for the second week in a row, I watched that stupid Wipe Out show (you know...with the big red balls?!) and literally cackled so hard it sent the cat scurrying to her under-my-bed safety spot.

Someone, assure me I'm not alone. Please?