Auditions for their third season, including productions of Hair, Yasmina Reza's Art, and Twelve Angry Jurors - presumably the non-gender specific version of Twelve Angry Men.
I was Juror #7 in high school. It's a great damn script, and I wouldn't mind being a part of it again, especially if it meant working with a director who did more than tell me "Louder!" and "Angrier!"
Location
The Factory Theater. I lived a block away from it last year and I never even knew. It's a cozy little location, one I wouldn't mind performing in.
Scenario
The audition notice asked for two contrasting one-minute monologues. I fell back on my favorite one from The Random Caruso.
For the second, I decided to memorize a monologue from Bernard Shaw's Candida - one delivered by Marchbanks, the young two-faced poet.
I worked on that monologue the night before and all day before going to the audition. I walked all over downtown Boston, performing it aloud.
Then I walked over to the Factory Theater. When I entered the theater proper, I found three people looking at a clipboard, at which point they all stopped looking at the clipboard and looked up at me.
"I'm Terry," I said, "I'm here to audition?"
"Oh, Counter-Productions?" one vaguely familiar-looking woman said, pointing back to the way I came. "They're next door."
I stepped out of the theater, and looked back into the box office. There was a curtain on the back wall.
I stepped through it.
Audition
There was a rehearsal room. At the far end was a keyboard.
"Huh," I thought, looking at my watch, "I wonder when they're gonna get here."
And that's when I remembered.
Despite what I had written in my to-do list, as my Google calendar illustrates, the audition was actually scheduled for the day before on Saturday, August 1st.
Reflection
The reason I post this is to humiliate myself into never screwing up like this again.
We'll see how that works out!
Still, 9 headshots remain.
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