Most of the next few years, after my family moved back to the United States, were spent in a horrendously awkward merry go round of changing schools, feelings of isolation, and never being able to find my space in any social circle. I was that kid that was horrible in gym class, and had all the sense of style that you could find on a pinecone. And when my high school years rolled around, oh brother, it was like I was
trying to get myself beat up. I was so not with the times and trends, and as clueless as they came.
But, even if I could, I'd never go back and change any of that time. It gave me a lot of my innate wit and ability to deflect a lot of sad or trying times with humor and an appreciation for the absurd and knowing that no matter what, as long as I had my health and a good working mind, I would make it through.
Finally in college, my love of doing art re-ignited to new levels (with many thanks to previous art instructors in high school), and I dove head first into new groups of friends that were all funny, diverse, eclectic, intelligent, and just as unsure and yet full of piss and vinegar as I was to prove to the world that we were the ones being groomed to change it. By nature, I am an extremely introverted person, and I felt like I had finally beat that aspect of myself.
Ego came to get the best of me in those years, and my parents and many older people in my life will surely be remembered as saints for the insufferable way I had become. I was sure I was the most talented person in art, in acting (though to that point I'd only been in two small plays), and I was certain no one was funnier than me. I'm pretty sure if Wikipedia had been around then, I'd have been the image that accompanied the description of "utter jackass".
I will never forget the evening that I was at a local bar in Warrensburg and tried my hand at open mic night stand up comedy. I remember the rush of confidence, the drunken elation of the crowd as I walked to the stage, all polishing my ill deserved sense of accomplishment. All of it fake.
Truthfully, I have just small bits of of the next agonizing eleven minutes that remain with me. I do have a stunning memory of how my heartbeat sounded. And the room deafening quiet that hammered into me. The bright lights shining onto my sweat soaked face might as well have been those of an oncoming train lighting it's way with a heating lamp. The first few jokes garnered weak chuckles, but no more came as panic, no preparation, and the sudden notion of all eyes being on me at that moment... broke me.
Until I stood there raw, open, and vulnerable on a stage with people just staring back at me, or worse, averting their eyes in embarrassment
for me,... man, I'll tell you. I thought I knew crushing personal failure. No. Not until that moment.
I was twenty years old when all that happened. It wasn't until I was almost thirty-five that I finally got the courage to get out and try to perform again.
My art was my solace. Much of what I created during those years were very personal works, full of frustration, sorrow, anger and never to be shown to others. Many were burned and then thrown away. I needed to do that. To get it out.
As I started to do other jobs, I wanted nothing to do with drawing attention to myself, but just a few years ago, jobs were indeed scarce, so I took up being a security guard at various jobs. I found myself relying on my old ways of humor and disarming wit to deal with unruly or rude people. Sometimes I used it to cheer people up (bars are full of pretty miserable people at times). It was during this time as a door greeter, who was the face and voice,... the first impression people encountered, that I got to work on stand up material again. I started writing jokes, polishing stories and anecdotes, working on accents, and had a never ending revolving audience of couples, groups, singles from all walks of life to try stuff out on. Unusual, I know, but I actually had people refer to me as the friendly bouncer, or that long haired funny guy, or just things like that and told me often that they came to that bar I worked at because I made their time that much more enjoyable. Oh man, and the joy of people watching came back in spades, the nuances, the absurdities, all of that, and my love of impersonating or lampooning what I saw, bloomed.
But fear and bad memories can be that weight around your neck that will pull you down if left unchecked. It wasn't until I was able to get into a production artist position here at Hallmark, that an internal opportunity to audition for doing voice overs, made me think maybe I wanted to try again.
I know I must have stared at my computer screen, with the e-mail to request an audition spot in draft form, for like fifteen minutes before I actually hit send. I've in my life dealt with some crazy circumstances and weird stressful times, and I found myself intimidated by an e-mail.
I sent it, and immediately felt a mix of relief and anxiety. I'm not an overly religious guy, but I am not going to lie, I asked for some kind of sign that I made the right decision. Three days later, I watched the documentary "I know that Voice", and at that critical moment, when I felt lost and with no idea on how to prepare, I literally wanted to thank John DiMaggio and every actor in that documentary for arming me with knowledge and fighting chance just before my audition time was to happen.
One week after that, I headed to my audition spot. Heart in my throat, sweat in my palms.
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Mario
Next up, a window closes, but the door opens.
