St. Pat's SNAFU

Scribbled Notes from Second City at Piper's Alley

So I'm worried this will turn out to have been a waste of time. My coat and bag are wet from the sloppy bathroom sink, I reek like a brewery—had 4 beers (all green) in the last 2 hours, and I'm here to scout talent for Were the World Mine, my cousin Fred and his partner's indie film. There's no program or cast list so I have no idea how to figure out who the kids are if there are any good ones.

The things we do for love.

This time familial love for sure, scouting for child actors at the E.T.C. on St. Patrick's Day when everyone else in her right mind is out scouting hot 25 year-olds in Lakeview. I have, in fact, been just prior sitting pretty in a bar with Kit-Kat and her pals, taking in the delightful young, drunk scenery, scoping, flirting with the hot blond bartender with the soul patch and scar running out of the corner of his mouth like he was once fish-hooked.

My friend backed out of meeting me for Second City and I'm here alone watching kids improvise theatre as if I'm some sort of drunken perv.

I am the dirty taster.

I hope my buzz lasts through the show and on again through the train ride to wherever I go after this. Nothing like having to navigate the CTA system solo, drunk and/or pre-hung-over my first week in the city. Good fucking times.



After the Show

I walked up to somebody who looked like he knew what he was doing and started asking him about finding these kids should we want them in the movie. I had completely forgotten by that point that I was decorated in glittery shamrock stickers and stunk of booze and barsmoke. I realized just what a freaked out boozehound I must have looked like when he backed away and said, "Second City protects the identity of its young actors and takes the matter very seriously."

Gods. The best thing that came of today was that I get to write off 6 dollars on next year's taxes—hey, why don't I write off 26 and count the booze dough, too. I'm sure the IRS understands a girl's gotta drink on St. Pat's, work or no work. Hell, I should be able to write off a few hundred bucks today just for being Irish and getting ridiculous comments about my red hair.

Tee-shirt spotted: You must be Irish—looking at you, my dick's Dublin. Oh, those witty, witty 25 year-olds.