Push-ups, somersaults, krumping. Seriously.

Spiderman: the musical? Sounds questionable, but the director is creative genius Julie Taymor of Lion King fame and the composer is Bono.

We walked in, and the choreographer said 'drop and give me twenty.' He was serious. The show involves aerial work (obviously), so strength is key. Most of the dancers got through the twenty pushups on adrenaline.

Then we did a floor routine like combination, rapid frontward and backward somersaults, handstands, ending in a bit of sexy spidery dance. We practiced it in too large groups and one girl got wacked in the face and bled.

Then another contemporary dance spidery dance with slides and crawls. And for the last twenty seconds we were supposed to Krump (a spastic, intense form of hip-hop that often involves clown make-up).

Push-ups, somersaults, and musical theater dancers krumping? It was memorable. No one was kept for further dancing or singing, so perhaps it was all for the amusement of the choreographer and his assistants. They were terribly nice.

He's Just Not That Into You

Last week there was an audition for High School Musical running at a prestigious regional theater not far from New York. This should be a perfect show for me, as I have a young and perky look (though I had been typed out for the tour before).

Auditions are infrequent this time of summer, and as I walked into a studio I hadn't been in a while, I got so depressed. I had been talking to a friend who was debating leaving an unhappy relationship - she was trying much harder than him to make it work. As I took the slow elevator up to the audition, I felt the same way.

The phrase 'he's just not that into you' flashed into my mind. I've never read that book, as I haven't been single and in need of dating advice for a while, but it seemed a perfect analogy for my relationship with dance. I have been trying so hard. I have been giving so much love. And it just doesn't want me.

I keep thinking maybe if I change, take more voice lessons, cut my hair, get a boob job, something, it will want me. What am I doing wrong, I keep asking myself. But maybe it's not me, it's them, this irrational, nonsensical industry.

I remember the good times, the ecstasy of performing like the addictive sex of a abusive relationship. The audition combo was bouncy cheer hop, like I used to do in high school, driving the point home. I used to love it so much. And it loved me back. I always had opportunities to perform, and I thrived.

But even then, as a glimpse at my despairing teenage journals will attest, it was fraught. I never felt good enough, skinny enough. It was never easy.

So why don't I do what I advised my friend, and walk away? There's got to be something else out there for me. A career that appreciates all I have to give and lets me work.

Of course the analogy isn't precise. Perhaps I am being overdramatic. But, as I rack up another rejection without understanding why, something to ponder.

Broadway Credits Please

Today was the first time I auditioned for Little Mermaid. The combo was confusing and seem disjointed at first, but all the moves were easy, sort of congo line-ish to Under the Sea, with a double stag jump and two single turns requiring basic technique.

There were a few disasters (probably singers crashing a dancer call), and a few dancers with no personality (come on, this is Disney). But in general everyone looked fine, like many audition combos there was no challenge to overcome, no chance to stand out. So why did they pick who they did to stay? A friend and I (both rejected) went out to eat and break it down afterward.

We realized the casting people had made a comment to everyone they ended up keeping about a credit on their resume - 'oh, you did Cirque' or 'I see 42nd Street on Broadway.' So they seemed to keep dancers with Broadway, National Tour or other impressive credits. Which is fine, except those girls weren't necessarily the best dancers in the audition. Some of them looked great, others weren't even smiling.

Getting a Broadway credit is often a matter of being in the right place (with the right look) at the right time. There are people on Broadway way more talented than me, but plenty that aren't. Still, once you're in, it's easier to get other shows. At least the casters know you're capable of showing up for eight shows a week, whatever the quality of those performances may be (though I've heard plenty of stories of Broadway performers with questionable attitude and work ethics - that doesn't show up on the resume though).

Radio City - Out in the Cold

Monday was the annual audition for the Radio City Christmas Show Spectacular. Alas, I am two inches too short to be a Rockette (5'6" and up), but there are a limited number of chorus spots, males and females of a variety of heights that come onstage and dance a bit with Santa and the little people elves while the Rockettes are changing costumes. The pay is less then for the tall ladies, but still good by musical theater standards, and everyone is eligible for the $10/show supplement for leading a sheep or donkey across the stage during the Living Nativity. (Doesn't sound like much compensation for the risk of stepping in doo-doo, but it adds up during the 20 shows a week over the 2-3 month holiday season).

Women (and teen girls, with their moms) come out of the woodwork for this one. Radio City must advertise in every dance studio in the tri-state area. I know from past experience to bring a book and dress warmly for the unseasonably cold when I show up at 9:30, half an hour before the call time. Because at Radio City, a cavernous structure with oodles of interior space, you wait outside, lined up along 51^st street, prey to curious tourists and mocking manual labors. Families ask to take pictures; middle-aged women got in line behind me at one point, thinking it was the line for 'the show.' We kindly explained that we were not waiting to be an audience member, but for judgment.

11:50, and the line has crept forward, but I am still outside. My legs are cold and achy from standing, and I am debating blowing off the whole thing because I have afternoon plans with a friend visiting from home who leaves at 2:30. But I am so close, so I wait until noon when we are given orange wristbands and let into the (empty) rehearsal studio. I hurriedly fill out the information and release form (I am auditioner number 276) go to the bathroom to change into my dance clothes, then wait in line for the bathroom, since many of us have had to pee for a while.

We have been inside about ten minutes when we are ordered in the audition room. We protest; we've barely had time to change, let alone do our hair and make-up and warm up our frigid bodies. A woman rudely yells 'Come on,' and we are rushed into the other studio, frantically buckling character shoes and smearing on lipstick.

Really, are the logistics that hard? Is there really not room in that entire building for us to prepare and sit and stretch?

The director and her assistants actually running the audition seem much more organized. We learn the short, mechanical combination and are briskly ushered center stage three at a time, cuts are made according to their own twisted logic of what height and ethnicity and look they need, and as I leave I pass the men (auditioning at 2) lined up outside. We were somewhat luckier than them. It has started to rain.

One at a Time

On average, we dance in groups of 4 as the auditors judge us. Sometimes 5 or 6, sometimes 3. Twice I've had to dance in groups of ten. At an audition for the Metropolitan Opera ballet corp the auditors picked dancers out individually from about seventy dancers learning the combination (those selected were asked to leave). But usually the groups are small enough that the auditor could watch you, but you've never sure if they actually do.

At the West Side Story audition this week (it’s coming back to Broadway), we danced one at a time. A very short, two eight-count combination across the floor, one dancer right after another. Professional dancers like to be looked at. Some deep psychological need for attention draws us to the stage. So why did girls exit the room stunned, many shaking their head and muttering "that was brutal?"

I attended the call for Jet girls, as opposed to the Shark girls, who get more stage time and the chance to shake their skirts in 'America,' one of the most vibrant, danceable numbers in Broadway history. Alas, to be a Shark girl you must pass for Puerto Rican, in line with the ethnic gang warfare plot. The Jets combination consisted of some simple snaps, jumps, a clap, sashe, single turn, ending in a kick followed by a sustained arabesque.

The choreographer seemed to be watching the dancers without really seeing them. We followed the progression of the cards from his hand either to the bottom of the pile, or, on occasion, to his assistant. The decision seemed to be made before the actually challenging part of the combination, and the relation between quality of dancing and promotion to the kept pile was murky. In my group, he kept the two dancers he made a big demonstration of already knowing, and about five girls that sort of looked alike, though it was hard to explain exactly in what way.

So what was so brutal? Being individually acknowledged then pointedly rejected? Or did we still not feel really acknowledged? Was our arabesque lacking, or were we instantly sorted by type, by hair color, skin tone, and other uncontrollable aspects of our face and body? We hadn't the time to really dance, to create a performance. But within ten minutes of entering the room we were told no thank you. The quickness was a blessing for our busy schedules, but it left us in a bit of shock and sort of sad.

Through a volunteer organization, I teach dance workshops to underserved kids. As part of our teaching philosophy, we try to notice each child in our forty-five minutes together and give specific positive feedback -- Natalie, that was a very creative jump you did across the floor, or Luis, I saw how focused and attentive you were throughout the entire class. I am so proud of you. We assume these kids, from homeless shelters and poverty stricken neighborhoods, don't get enough positive attention elsewhere.

I was in a crowded ballet class one day and started craving this feedback about my dancing. I rarely get comments from teachers in class, and even during a brief solo at an audition, I still don't feel noticed. I am not living in transitional housing with stressed out parents and teachers, so I shouldn't need this affirmation. But sometimes I do.

Legally Blonde and Other Great Movies-to-Musicals

Omigod you guys! Legally Blonde is totally today. In high ponytail, orange cheer skirt and purple converse, there is no way I am as old as my upcoming birthday says. The characters of this bouncy musical have come to life next to me in the a group of lip-gloss sharing blondes who are like so-totally-annoyed they shriek you-so-cannot-be-serious when the non-union dancers are kicked out of the holding room until their turn two hours later.

We learn a cheerleader turned pussycat-doll routine (remember it’s not dark sexy, but happy sexy the associate choreographer reminds us). It's fun with butt bumping and sass, though awkward at times, especially since we walk forward at the beginning and almost end up in the auditionees laps.

After all the groups dance, before they make the cut, they ask me and three others to do it one more time. I sass is up as much as I can, but I am still cut. Which makes me even more bummed out, since there was something about me that they liked, but on closer inspection not so much.

But it's really a silly show I tell myself, like so many movies-turned-musicals. Cry-Baby, Leap of Faith and 9-to-5 are imminent, with more on the works. Rumored to be coming soon:

- Sister Act (can I be Whoopi?)

- Spider-Man (with a score by Bono)

- Catch Me If You Can

- TV shows Colombo and Designing Women

And my favorite: Rocky! Better work on my boxing…

"I just want to dance!"

Not So Positive Thinking

Two auditions at 10 am today - Sacramento Music Circus's summer season, and a 50^th Anniversary tribute concert of an iconic American musical. I go with the former because it's close, in Connecticut, and more suited to my the type than the singing heavy musicals like Sweeney Todd and Evita at SMC. But if things go quickly, maybe I can hit both.

I signed up a week before and I show up before 9:30 so I'm in the first group. It is a rare coed call, and surprisingly, there are more boys than girls, since many ladies chose SMC.

A few minutes after ten we enter the room. The choreographer explains that the director is in a production meeting next door, so after we learn the combination, instead of making cuts as usual, we will be sent out to wait while the other groups learn. Annoying.

Even more annoying 45 minutes later, after all three groups have learned the combination, we are brought back in and told the director is still in his meeting, so let's just run the dance a few more times to stall. Because we have nothing better to do apparently.

I'm sorry, but when you arrange for over 100 unemployed dancers to be at a certain location, dressed and warmed up at a certain time, you owe them the respect of pausing your meeting with your set designer that could be held at any time and walking a few studios over and not wasting our time.

But I am trying to be positive, so I patiently perfect my routine, and within ten minutes the director graces us with his presence.

We do the simple ballet, but I hop on the double pirouette, almost falling out of it. After they explain his is a concert version and we are looking for very specific roles (all the more reason not to keep us waiting), I am cut. So I could have been cut for not being the desired type. But I am furious at myself for biffing the pirouette. The floor was slippery and the step into the turn awkward, but come on, I've been doing double pirouettes for like 20 years now, I take ballet multiple times a week where I execute them without a problem, so why do I screw it up now when it matters?

In the elevator, a fellow dancer is fuming. He complains about the wasted hour. I join in, condemning the director's rudeness. He notes the kept dancers weren't great anyway. I agree. Now I am angry at the director and not at myself. And that's okay. Lesson for the day: If you can't be positive, blame someone else, or the screwy system. I'm not lazy, and I shouldn't beat myself up. I wouldn't want to work for that jerk anyway.