Beyond the Bio
Nice choice.
Don't get me wrong, bios are great for quick info, but if you're reading this, that means you've taken the time to actually be on this site, which is rare, and brave, and deserving of a little something more.
I always find it criminal that program bios don't include fun facts. Yes, it's technically more important to know that I graduated from NYU Tisch, but so did a lot of other really talented people.
So isn't it more interesting to know that I take great pride in my prominent outie bellybutton, or that I can sing every word to The Mountain Goats' album Ghana? But "outie bellybutton" is a lot of characters for a 140-or-less world, and I still haven't thanked my parents or girlfriend yet, so the bellybutton usually doesn't make it in under 50 words.
But this is my website: I get to call the shots, I get to use all the characters I want, and I can talk about bellybuttons and The Mountain Goats as much as I damn well please. Or until you leave to check your email.
Still here? Cool, here we go.
Don't get me wrong, bios are great for quick info, but if you're reading this, that means you've taken the time to actually be on this site, which is rare, and brave, and deserving of a little something more.
I always find it criminal that program bios don't include fun facts. Yes, it's technically more important to know that I graduated from NYU Tisch, but so did a lot of other really talented people.
So isn't it more interesting to know that I take great pride in my prominent outie bellybutton, or that I can sing every word to The Mountain Goats' album Ghana? But "outie bellybutton" is a lot of characters for a 140-or-less world, and I still haven't thanked my parents or girlfriend yet, so the bellybutton usually doesn't make it in under 50 words.
But this is my website: I get to call the shots, I get to use all the characters I want, and I can talk about bellybuttons and The Mountain Goats as much as I damn well please. Or until you leave to check your email.
Still here? Cool, here we go.
Fun Facts & Tricorn Hats
Fun Fact: My first ever speaking role was George Washington in the 4th grade.
My family had just moved to Richmond, VA from upstate NY a few weeks before the auditions for the annual historical school play that spans over 400 years of Virginia’s history, of which my little Yankee brain under my bowl cut hair knew nothing about.
My new history teacher was casting 3 roles in class one day: Child Narrator, Jamestown Settler, and Soldier #2. She asked us each to pick a character and read a couple lines in front of the class. After I picked up the side for Soldier # 2, I said to myself, “I could do this, I could play Soldier # 2,” so I gave one of the best readings of my life. I brought Soldier # 2 to life in front of a dusty chalkboard, and then I sat down to roaring applause with the full confidence that I had nailed it.
After class my teacher pulled me aside and said to me, “Alex, I’m not going to give you Soldier # 2, I’m going to give it to Miles,” and I was crushed. Devastated. Yes, I had failed my first audition, but even worse, I had failed Soldier # 2: I had been unsuccessful at making him a believable person. I barely even heard what she said next: “How would you feel, though, about playing George Washington? I wouldn’t want to put too much pressure on you because it’s a much bigger role, but I’d think you’d make a great Washington.” I was confused. That wasn’t even an option, I had no idea he was even in this play, how could I possibly have been cast as him?
But I sheepishly accepted, afraid more than anything to say no to my first new teacher, and on the fateful day of the performance, standing in the hallway outside a theater full of schoolmates and parents and parents of schoolmates, I stood shaking under my itchy powdered wig and terrified that my teacher had made a huge mistake: there was no way I could pull off George Washington, the first president of our country, the man who couldn’t tell a lie. I was supposed to be Soldier # 2 for pete’s sake.
Then, as the 5th graders shuffled past to fill the last of the seats, a tall kid with freckles and a big smile said, “Hey, are you playing George Washington?” I was barely able to nod as I stared at him like a deer in 18th-century headlights, but his smile only got bigger as he said, “I played him last year. You’re gonna do great,” and then flashed a quick thumbs up before disappearing into the auditorium.
The rest is mostly a blur, but I remember that my white-stockinged knees had stopped trembling, and that when it was all over and I stepped off the stage and removed my colonial tricorn hat, I wanted nothing more than to get back up there and do it all again.
My family had just moved to Richmond, VA from upstate NY a few weeks before the auditions for the annual historical school play that spans over 400 years of Virginia’s history, of which my little Yankee brain under my bowl cut hair knew nothing about.
My new history teacher was casting 3 roles in class one day: Child Narrator, Jamestown Settler, and Soldier #2. She asked us each to pick a character and read a couple lines in front of the class. After I picked up the side for Soldier # 2, I said to myself, “I could do this, I could play Soldier # 2,” so I gave one of the best readings of my life. I brought Soldier # 2 to life in front of a dusty chalkboard, and then I sat down to roaring applause with the full confidence that I had nailed it.
After class my teacher pulled me aside and said to me, “Alex, I’m not going to give you Soldier # 2, I’m going to give it to Miles,” and I was crushed. Devastated. Yes, I had failed my first audition, but even worse, I had failed Soldier # 2: I had been unsuccessful at making him a believable person. I barely even heard what she said next: “How would you feel, though, about playing George Washington? I wouldn’t want to put too much pressure on you because it’s a much bigger role, but I’d think you’d make a great Washington.” I was confused. That wasn’t even an option, I had no idea he was even in this play, how could I possibly have been cast as him?
But I sheepishly accepted, afraid more than anything to say no to my first new teacher, and on the fateful day of the performance, standing in the hallway outside a theater full of schoolmates and parents and parents of schoolmates, I stood shaking under my itchy powdered wig and terrified that my teacher had made a huge mistake: there was no way I could pull off George Washington, the first president of our country, the man who couldn’t tell a lie. I was supposed to be Soldier # 2 for pete’s sake.
Then, as the 5th graders shuffled past to fill the last of the seats, a tall kid with freckles and a big smile said, “Hey, are you playing George Washington?” I was barely able to nod as I stared at him like a deer in 18th-century headlights, but his smile only got bigger as he said, “I played him last year. You’re gonna do great,” and then flashed a quick thumbs up before disappearing into the auditorium.
The rest is mostly a blur, but I remember that my white-stockinged knees had stopped trembling, and that when it was all over and I stepped off the stage and removed my colonial tricorn hat, I wanted nothing more than to get back up there and do it all again.
