The Call is Louder as the Distance Grows.

Several months ago, I cybernetically plunked down a couple of tens of dollars and put in an application for the UPTA.

For the layman, that stands for Unified Professional Theatre Auditions.  At least it used to; I haven't been there in a decade, but I remember distinctly the running joke about people continuing to call it the United blah blah.....which caused the Director of the audition, a fellow named Detroit, no end of irritation.

As I said, it's been ten years since I made the application; I was there when you applied by mail, with a SASE, and you waited to see what was what.  Back in the stone age, donchaknow.

But it was, traditionally, a great weekend.  Two minutes of stress, followed by an evening of interviews, and a few hours here and there to eat and schmooze and such with old friends spread over long distances, gathered together for one weekend.

For those of you unused to the idea, this "cattlecall" audition consists of many companies under one roof, watching many actors do their stuff in two minute increments.  That's right, folks; you have two minutes to show what you got.  There's nothing like it in the world.

I have missed it.

The last time I made that trek was 2003; I was living in CA, doing some work out there, freshly married, but feeling artistically stagnated.....so, I flew out to Memphis, to see what was what.

I never failed at that particular audition; I always found some kind of work to do; which was good because at that time, I was literally one move ahead of the creditors and the repossessors and all the people that required my time and money.  The purchase of my next meal (and my next mortgage payment, etc) depended upon the success of the audition.

So.  Not so fun.

Now, I'm reasonably free of those encumbrances; so the joy of actually auditioning should come back to me like an old friend.

Cuz I'm going back to Memphis in February.

Now, make no mistake; I'm ten years older and looking every inch of it.  I've been out of the professional ranks for at least that long, and even though I've dabbled in the ensuing years, the pressure of the profession (short rehearsal periods and heavy competition) have been absent.  So, my daily swing goes from excited optimism to paralyzing fear of humiliation.

I don't want to be one of those guys.  The guys who can't or won't admit that they're past it.

But I gotta know.  I need it to give me a punch up the conk.

So, I'm going for pride and the rest is gravy.  Perhaps I'll see old friends.  Perhaps I'll have some regional food and walk through the Civil Right Museum.  Perhaps I'll just walk along the Mississippi River and think of younger days.

But I'm throwing the bones.