Two weeks ago, I turned a scary age.
I mean, it was my Birthday, and I will always always love that day unabashedly no matter what happens (and will continue to announce its approach 4 weeks in advance, if not earlier). But.
This was the last Birthday of my 20s.
...Kinda terrifying.
I took a good long hard look at myself in the bathroom mirror late late late that Saturday night/early early early that Birthday morning:
There I stood, with layers of alpha-hydroxyness on my mug, all of this pro-baby's bottomesque moisture and anti-wrinkleness. I feel like I maybe potentially still have the face of a 24 year-old (25...maybe...). And no, my hair is not turning brittle or falling out (I have SO much hair), and no, nothing is even somewhat drooping or sagging (sweet jesus, thank you).
But.
Fact remains, much to my chagrin: I am getting older.
(...Don't. Tell. Anyone.)
And, frankly, I don't feel like doing it.
And so, while standing there staring myself down in the bathroom mirror at 3:30am, I made the conscious decision to fight against it, this aging thing, and actively. All year long.
I had no idea what that meant, but I felt great about it, and slept like the baby that I was but a mere 29 years prior.
When I woke up 6 hours later thinking that my voice had dropped like 9 octaves overnight, my teeth felt abnormally weak and that I should probably start thinking about a life insurance policy, I decided to establish a more definite plan of attack.
I ran back to the bathroom mirror, and waited to be enlightened.
...
...
...(staring ahead at myself all blankly) You're bad at this, all of a sudden.
...
...This is dumb.
...
...
It then occurred to me that my roommates might be waiting for the bathroom and would know that I'm in there just kinda like staring at myself, and I started to feel ultra lame and kinda shameful and...EUREKA!!!
What if I seek out a different way to make myself uncomfortable every day? Antsyness and discomfort can keep you feeling young because....you're unsettled. Ish. RIGHT?! ...
...It's a start. Done.
And off I went in search of discomfort.
The day began gloriously. We were hosting an intimate little drunken Birthday-brunch, and the mimosas and conversations were flowing all afternoon. We bounced back and forth between discussions on early-90s hip-hop, the Buffalo Bills being perpetual heartbreakers (...I'm still scowling...), donuts, daiquiri drive-thrus, and the best Brooklyn-neighborhoods to live in right this second right now.
Eventually, however, (and as is often the case), we got talking politics: the walking embarrassment that is Rick Perry, the walking oxymoron that is Marcus Bachmann, Herman Cain quoting Pokemon, Obama and Teddy Roosevelt, and what the shit is going to happen to us between 2012 and 2016.
This is territory that I tend to thrive in. (Ah LOVE it!)
However. I also tend to get really heated when I run into a bullheaded/narrow-minded individual who is daring to contest certain things that--in my very educated and exceedingly liberal personal opinion--just shouldn't be contested. Say educational reform, gay marriage...eliminating student loan debt.
...WHY! WOULD ANYONE! CONTEST THIS?!?!
And yet, there I was, in my living room, with a friend telling me how many topics were more pressing, how irresponsible most people with student loan debt were, how those without scholarships should have worked harder, or only gone to school part-time, or not gone to grad school, or not gone to school at all.
And I. Was. Furious.
Furious in my living room on my Birthday and UNCOMFORTABLE (!!!)...but uncomfortable and decidely stressed-out and cornered in a bizarre way. I was blowing it, blowing it!, this was not going at all the way I had been aiming for it to while staring in my bathroom mirror 3 hours prior.
(New topic, new topic, new topic...)
..."...So, are they really building that Whole Foods in Gowanus or is it all just talk?"
Yeah, and anybody want a cream puff?
Uncomfortability, 1. Angela, zip.
...This was not working at all. I needed to further refine my search in such a way that I would stay away from becoming abrasive or remotely bristly, because that just can't be good for anybody. And I hate it. And I was certain that I had sprouted crows feet within the past 5 minutes from the sheer stresses of debate and confrontation.
(It's gotta be simpler. ...Maybe I just make a further attempt to like step outside of my little box o'comfort, and take a miniature risk of some kind every day. ... Better. I think... OK, great.)
And thusly, I embarked on Attempt #2. ...The next day.
The next day, I'm walking through Union Square on my way to a lunch meeting. A lunch meeting. Me. Actor-types don't have those. Actor-types will get together over lunch and talk about stuff--headshot photographers, great scripts, and IKEA--but they don't do "meetings", generally speaking. "Meetings" are saved for people who work in offices or classrooms and wear slacks to work. I was about to cross into thoroughly unfamiliar territory.
On top of all of this, I was headed into a lunch meeting with two people that (to my knowledge) I had never met a day in my life: the Director of Alumni Relations and the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences from my grad school. These two people had actually sought me out.
I almost felt important.
I felt far more intimidated. And, UNCOMFORTABLE (!!!), but I didn't know if that was a good thing. Because I didn't know what I was doing. But, onward I pushed, attempting not to judge the two overly full bags on my back exploding with gym/shower/work-stuff, attempting not to think I looked like a hobo, and attempting to feel like I could, in fact, be perfectly cut-out for a lunch meeting. With strangers.
I was open to it.
(I could be that girl, I could wear this hat. Maybe. ...Awkwardly. ...)
And, naturally, it went great because, naturally, I know how to hold a good conversation as I am, naturally, an actor and that's essentially a prerequisite. The idea of the lunch was uncomfortable, the act was...well, it was adult. More. Adult. Huh. ...
UNC = 2, Ange = zip.
We were going backwards. It was stupid and terrible and I was 2 days into 29...and officially aging.
(New approach!...Something.)
Over the next series of days, I meandered the city attempting to think of new things that I could do, new things to try, to take on, to test my levels of comfort and fake myself out and feel youthful. And to look cool. ...I earnestly thought the plan made sense. I thought it was 100% going to work. I was coming up empty.
"Hey, Angela! I heard someone had a Birthday last week..."
Maybeeeeee...
"Happy Belated! Was it fun? How old are you? Twenty-five?"
...You're sweet.
"What, twenty-six?"
Nope.
"Twenty-seven?"
Nope.
"Wait. Ummm...."
Older, my friend, I'm older.
"Oooooh. Oh man. Ouch."
Superb.
Suddenly, I had been 29 for all of one week and three days, and I felt decrepit.
...And then, I began to Christmas-shop.
There are few things that I enjoy more than Christmas shopping. I am not even sort of kidding. I will be that girl that stands in line at a store for 45 minutes with a shit-eating grin plastered across my face all sorts of antsy and excited because I'm getting something perfect and genius and unexpected. (I was that exact girl actually 3 different times this season.) I love the crowds, I love the lights, I love carrying 7 different bags in my hands at once.
And I love waiting until the last minute to do all of this. Every single year. Without fail.
I'm on the train coming home from just such an excursion Wednesday night. I have bags on my lap and in between my legs, and I'm sleepy but cheesing it and attempting to not take up more space than is necessary whilst on the bench. (...Impossible task, by the by.) A young Cobble Hill-type plops next to me and taps me on the shoulder.
"You all done shopping?"
No. Not yet. Tomorrow, though.
She grins all sweetly. "You're loving this."
...I totally am. And I am. No lie.
"That's awesome. I somehow finished like almost 2 weeks ago."
(Nuh-UH!!!) You know, someday I should probably consider that approach. Attempt to be more responsible and exhibit some better kind of time management with myself.
"Meh. If you want."
It sounds smart.
"Honestly, and this might sound lame, I find that getting all of that done early helps me to think about all of the rest of everything earlier, too."
"All of the rest of everything", liiiiiike what? What do you mean?
"Like, I actually get to think about what my resolutions for the New Year are going to be instead of just rushing into them and not committing to them like everyone else does."
Oh. Huh. (Huh...).
"It's kind of a lot to mull over if you really want to do it right, I guess."
Sure. (...)
"Because, you want to think about all of the different things that you want to take on, the new things you want to do for yourself, for sure. But then you also want to think about what you plan on letting go of."
...Wait, what?
"Yeah, like what do you not want to take with you into the New Year? What can you shed?"
(...Eureka.) I have absoultely never considered that before.
"Oh! You should! It's, like, refreshing, it lightens you up. Your burden, if you've got one, You, and...everything."
And I suddenly realized just how much I don't do that. I'm brilliant and consistent with taking new things on, and rarely take the opportunity to let things go. And I should. For once.
I don't need to be as weighed down as I am with stuff. Bags, hats, things-not-done, whathaveyou.
"Merry Christmas!"
You too, have a good one!
And so it goes: onward, with the good fight.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
A Starving Artist Plans.
It's nearing the end of the year (WHAT?!) which for me, means two definitive things:
A) ...My Birthday is fast approaching :)
B) I need to start planning my Next Step.
Like most people, the second that the holidays start to explode and Christmas/present-buying (yessssss!!!!)/the New Year become unavoidable, I sit back and start to reflect on what I've done and, therefore, what I need to do next. Soon. ...Pretty much as soon as January 1st happens.
Every year, I feel as if this list of "To Dos" becomes ever so slightly more dire.
Every year, I feel as if this list becomes tremendously more exciting.
And, for the first time in QUITE awhile, I feel as if this list is being equally as devoted to personal stuff as it is professional.
...I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SEE THE DAY WHEN SUCH A LIST WAS COMPILED!!!!
(It has been. ...Let's see how well we can actually achieve all of this stuff. We can. It's fine.)
The current list is as follows:
*I am funny. ...I think. I can be. But, I'd like to be funnier and kick ass and get cast in things because of said "funny". Hence:
To Do #1: Sign-up for classes at Upright Citizens Brigade.
Get my ass kicked, get shaken out of my head, have a brilliant time--stay there and love it.
If (on the very very off chance that) the vibe at UCB and I don't quite jive:
To Do #1B: Sign-up for classes at The Pit.
Get my ass kicked, get shaken out of my head, have a brilliant time--stay THERE, and love it.
I'm pumped about this. I'm itching to get back into some kind of classroom and itching to get to work at being better at something, and I inherently know that this is 100% the next thing I need to be doing in THAT regard.
(...It is at this moment that I ignore all of the dollar signs that are starting to dance in front of my face.)
NEXT!:
*I have been in the city now for over two years, and I'm represented, which is great..but I'm not satisfied. I want to be getting out there more than I am, and feeling like I have someone who is really playing/pushing for me. I know this kinda deal takes time, supposedly a lot of it, but still. Hence:
To Do #2: Find more/other representation, specifically of the Legit/Theatrical-variety.
Put myself out there, talk to friends, take workshops, shmooze--see what happens.
If no one is biting with this approach:
To Do #2B: Invest in improv classes even harder, & hope that something arises from being there.
Put myself out there, talk to friends, kick ass, shmooze--see what happens.
This Representation-game is stupid, and dumb, and I have a feeling that it might not really ever end (I hope it does, happily...that would be great), and I can be resilient, and patient. I'm good at these things. And I'm thoroughly aware that being Represented is not the end-all-be-all, clearly, obviously. ...But, really. Really really really, I want one. I want to feel like I'm actually playing this game as opposed to just tapping in sometimes.
(...It is as this point that I attempt to tag an extra two days onto every week/extra 5.5 free-for-all hours onto every day.)
NEXT!:
*Whether I like it or not, I'm turning 30 in a little over a year. (...) Three of my girlfriends and I have been talking about taking a "Goddammit, We're 30"-trip for the past two years in an effort to leap into this particular chunk of our lives with a sense of whimsy and liquor-fueled escape. Hence:
To Do #3: Plan this trip. And take it.
...
(It is at this point that I begin to physically bat away the dollar signs that are dancing in front of my face.)
NEXT!:
*I love my headshots, and they've worked for me incredibly well (which is a HUGE sigh of relief)--but I've been sitting with them for awhile, and even though no one in casting/agents/managers/etc. have said anything about them looking dated or inappropriate, it's a thing that I'm starting to think about. Hence:
To Do #4: Assess whether or not I actually need new headshots right this second.
-AND-
(Potential) To Do #4B: Get them taken.
(...It is at this point that the batting of the dollar signs becomes a bit more manic.)
NEXT! (A series of non-negotiables that need no explanation):
To Do #5: Attend grad school classmates' beautiful super fun wedding.
To Do #6: Go home the weekend that wonderful childhood friend is having her BABY!!!
To Do #7: Go back and forth visiting boyfriend. A lot. Considerably more than this past year.
To Do #8: Embark on a series of DIY-projects around the apartment (throughout the winter specifically, in an effort to beat away any semblance of the depression that New York Winter-Dead can encourage).
To Do #8B: ....Hope to uncover the DIY-guru within me, and ignore the fact that my mother never even taught me how to sew a button. ...
(... $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ ...)
NEXT!:
*BOYFRIEND IS MOVING HERE!!!!!! EEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! SO IS THE DOG!!!!!!!!! YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYYYYYY!!!!!!! HAPPINESS ABOUNDING!!!!... ... This means I need a new apartment.
To Do #9: Find. A new. Apartment.
(...These fucking dollar signs are everywhere. They are FUCKING EV-REE-WHERE!!!!)
Other Things That Would Be Bonuses (Because I Don't Have Much Control Over Them):
To Do #10: Get cast in a show.
To Do #11: ...Or two.
To Do #12: ...Or five.
To Do #13: Get cast in a big fat national commercial.
To Do #14: Wake up to find that my student loans have been obliterated.
Other Things That Would Be a Swell Idea:
To Do #15: Go somewhere just to go somewhere without there being an actual purpose behind it (ie: vacation with Boyfriend, home just to go home...Wegmans...).
To Do #16: Find yet another job/means of supplemental income.
To Do #17: Have a sit-down with Judy Greer and ask if I can play her sister in everything. Always.
To Do #18: ...Freeze my eggs.
To Do #19: Run a half-marathon.
To Do #20: Get a sunburn.
...
...Really, realistically, this is a list that I could continually add things to. For a long time. And very well may, for that matter.
But, the immediate things--the immediate 10ish--are absolute necessities. And it can be an intimidating thing, to look at a list of things that you need to do within "X"-amount of time. I earnestly create these kinds of lists for myself constantly just to stay on point, frequently asking How the shit am I going to do this?
And sometimes, you simply can't do it all. Which is forgivable, and human and, ultimately, fine.
Sometimes, however, you just find a way. Because you have to.
...
To Do #1: Find a way to do all of these things, without excuses, with a little flexibility, and extraordinarily fucking well.
A) ...My Birthday is fast approaching :)
B) I need to start planning my Next Step.
Like most people, the second that the holidays start to explode and Christmas/present-buying (yessssss!!!!)/the New Year become unavoidable, I sit back and start to reflect on what I've done and, therefore, what I need to do next. Soon. ...Pretty much as soon as January 1st happens.
Every year, I feel as if this list of "To Dos" becomes ever so slightly more dire.
Every year, I feel as if this list becomes tremendously more exciting.
And, for the first time in QUITE awhile, I feel as if this list is being equally as devoted to personal stuff as it is professional.
...I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SEE THE DAY WHEN SUCH A LIST WAS COMPILED!!!!
(It has been. ...Let's see how well we can actually achieve all of this stuff. We can. It's fine.)
The current list is as follows:
*I am funny. ...I think. I can be. But, I'd like to be funnier and kick ass and get cast in things because of said "funny". Hence:
To Do #1: Sign-up for classes at Upright Citizens Brigade.
Get my ass kicked, get shaken out of my head, have a brilliant time--stay there and love it.
If (on the very very off chance that) the vibe at UCB and I don't quite jive:
To Do #1B: Sign-up for classes at The Pit.
Get my ass kicked, get shaken out of my head, have a brilliant time--stay THERE, and love it.
I'm pumped about this. I'm itching to get back into some kind of classroom and itching to get to work at being better at something, and I inherently know that this is 100% the next thing I need to be doing in THAT regard.
(...It is at this moment that I ignore all of the dollar signs that are starting to dance in front of my face.)
NEXT!:
*I have been in the city now for over two years, and I'm represented, which is great..but I'm not satisfied. I want to be getting out there more than I am, and feeling like I have someone who is really playing/pushing for me. I know this kinda deal takes time, supposedly a lot of it, but still. Hence:
To Do #2: Find more/other representation, specifically of the Legit/Theatrical-variety.
Put myself out there, talk to friends, take workshops, shmooze--see what happens.
If no one is biting with this approach:
To Do #2B: Invest in improv classes even harder, & hope that something arises from being there.
Put myself out there, talk to friends, kick ass, shmooze--see what happens.
This Representation-game is stupid, and dumb, and I have a feeling that it might not really ever end (I hope it does, happily...that would be great), and I can be resilient, and patient. I'm good at these things. And I'm thoroughly aware that being Represented is not the end-all-be-all, clearly, obviously. ...But, really. Really really really, I want one. I want to feel like I'm actually playing this game as opposed to just tapping in sometimes.
(...It is as this point that I attempt to tag an extra two days onto every week/extra 5.5 free-for-all hours onto every day.)
NEXT!:
*Whether I like it or not, I'm turning 30 in a little over a year. (...) Three of my girlfriends and I have been talking about taking a "Goddammit, We're 30"-trip for the past two years in an effort to leap into this particular chunk of our lives with a sense of whimsy and liquor-fueled escape. Hence:
To Do #3: Plan this trip. And take it.
...
(It is at this point that I begin to physically bat away the dollar signs that are dancing in front of my face.)
NEXT!:
*I love my headshots, and they've worked for me incredibly well (which is a HUGE sigh of relief)--but I've been sitting with them for awhile, and even though no one in casting/agents/managers/etc. have said anything about them looking dated or inappropriate, it's a thing that I'm starting to think about. Hence:
To Do #4: Assess whether or not I actually need new headshots right this second.
-AND-
(Potential) To Do #4B: Get them taken.
(...It is at this point that the batting of the dollar signs becomes a bit more manic.)
NEXT! (A series of non-negotiables that need no explanation):
To Do #5: Attend grad school classmates' beautiful super fun wedding.
To Do #6: Go home the weekend that wonderful childhood friend is having her BABY!!!
To Do #7: Go back and forth visiting boyfriend. A lot. Considerably more than this past year.
To Do #8: Embark on a series of DIY-projects around the apartment (throughout the winter specifically, in an effort to beat away any semblance of the depression that New York Winter-Dead can encourage).
To Do #8B: ....Hope to uncover the DIY-guru within me, and ignore the fact that my mother never even taught me how to sew a button. ...
(... $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ ...)
NEXT!:
*BOYFRIEND IS MOVING HERE!!!!!! EEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! SO IS THE DOG!!!!!!!!! YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYYYYYY!!!!!!! HAPPINESS ABOUNDING!!!!... ... This means I need a new apartment.
To Do #9: Find. A new. Apartment.
(...These fucking dollar signs are everywhere. They are FUCKING EV-REE-WHERE!!!!)
Other Things That Would Be Bonuses (Because I Don't Have Much Control Over Them):
To Do #10: Get cast in a show.
To Do #11: ...Or two.
To Do #12: ...Or five.
To Do #13: Get cast in a big fat national commercial.
To Do #14: Wake up to find that my student loans have been obliterated.
Other Things That Would Be a Swell Idea:
To Do #15: Go somewhere just to go somewhere without there being an actual purpose behind it (ie: vacation with Boyfriend, home just to go home...Wegmans...).
To Do #16: Find yet another job/means of supplemental income.
To Do #17: Have a sit-down with Judy Greer and ask if I can play her sister in everything. Always.
To Do #18: ...Freeze my eggs.
To Do #19: Run a half-marathon.
To Do #20: Get a sunburn.
...
...Really, realistically, this is a list that I could continually add things to. For a long time. And very well may, for that matter.
But, the immediate things--the immediate 10ish--are absolute necessities. And it can be an intimidating thing, to look at a list of things that you need to do within "X"-amount of time. I earnestly create these kinds of lists for myself constantly just to stay on point, frequently asking How the shit am I going to do this?
And sometimes, you simply can't do it all. Which is forgivable, and human and, ultimately, fine.
Sometimes, however, you just find a way. Because you have to.
...
To Do #1: Find a way to do all of these things, without excuses, with a little flexibility, and extraordinarily fucking well.
Friday, November 4, 2011
A Starving Artist Marches Her Band Out. Beats Her Drum.
It aired.
It finally. Freaking. Aired.
After months of crazy anticipation (Am I gonna miss it? Am I gonna cry? Will people think it's dumb? Will I look like an absolute heffer?...IS THIS GONNA BE THE COOLEST THING EVER?!?!), my little baby moment in the sun aired on HBO on Halloween night.
...As in this past Monday, after the happiest weekend of my life when my best friend got hitched and was, incidentally, the most beautiful bride I've ever seen and I was, incidentally, the most ecstatic and heart-happy and nerrrrrrrrrvous Maid of Honor that ever was. Fine.
Coming off of such a weekend, I felt as if HBO could be a perfect little button to a perfect little week.
I hoped.
...
It's funny how when you do these kind of things--take these (what YOU know to be) significant steps in your professional life, or your personal life, or whathaveyou--that there are people just kind of standing by seemingly waiting to pounce and shit on you.
Maybe this isn't on purpose. But just the same.
I'm leaving the gym a week ago and have a text from a co-worker (who I happen to like):
"Hey I gotta tell u something, can u call work when u get a chance? Its pretty important and work UNrelated."
A miniature panic ensued--why WOULDN'T it after a set-up like that?!--and I called straight away.
"Heyyyyyyyyy."
Hi! What's...going on? Is everything ok?
"Welllllll..."
...
"I have something to tell you and you might already know, but I thought you'd want to know in case you didn't. And I wanted to tell you."
OK...
"It's not good."
...
"..That's not the best lead-in, I know, I'm sorry."
Yeah. So...
...
"Someone started streaming your episode online last night."
(...Oh!) Oh! OK.
"Well, we watched it last night."
Alright. That's fine.
"They cut your scene."
...
...
WHAT?!
"Yeahhhhh."
Wait. What do you mean?
"Well. ...You're still in it, you're there." (OK...) "But, you only say one liiiiine."
(... ...Really?)
Actually, I...I only have the one line.
"Oh. ... ...Well, it's like really quick."
Yeah.
"I mean, just like a really fast little clip of you. Like a blur."
...Sure. OK.
"But you look BEAUTIFUL. You're just...you're not there much."
But I still speak? (Right?!)
"...Yeah..."
(Oh.) Then that's fine. That's totally OK if you still see me saying my line. I didn't expect it to be some long crazy epic scene.
"Well, just, no. I know. I just didn't want you to be disappointed."
(HOW COULD I BE DISAPPOINTED?!) I won't be. It's fine.
"But really. It's not much. And I've heard that it always feels different and, like, more on-set than what ends up on screen."
(...What's your point, here?) Sure. But, I knew that going into it, too. And that's OK.
"Oh! OK. Well, I just wanted to be the one to tell you."
...
WHY?!?!
I was so totally confused. Was she expecting me to feel bad about being on a show on HBO having only one line to say? I WAS STILL GOING TO BE ON A SHOW ON HBO WITH A LINE TO SAY!! You would see my face, you would hear my voice...I was featured on the trailer for the episode, how could I POSSIBLY feel bad about that?!
How could I feel bad about taking any kind of step forward?!
And then, of course, I sat back and assessed for a sec--once I finished stomping around and brushed my shoulders off--and thought: Why would she have thought otherwise? Few people outside of this profession understand how many steps you have to take before you can walk out of Obscurity. Cut a girl some slack.
...But don't listen to her.
I still found myself venting to my genius sweetheart lawyer-roommate later that day.
"Ew! Fuck that!"
Right?!
"Yeah. Angela, please. Has she been on TV in any way at all ever?"
No. No.
"Then, fuck it. Don't let her rain on your parade. This is way too exciting."
...
...Even though it is only one line?
"Whoa. Yes. ESPECIALLY because it's one line."
I mean, right. Right.
"...You're not allowed to do that."
Do what?
"You can't knock yourself for a triumph. No matter how large or small. All of these things need to be celebrated, always, and so we are having people over, and we are dressing up, and having drinks, and watching you speak on television. And it's gonna be great."
...Goddammit, I love you. OK.
And so, we cleaned our apartment, got some wine, made hors d'oeuves, put on cute little dresses, gathered some friends, and turned to HBO at 9pm.
That's the role I was originally called in for.
"Oh. Why is that girl so familiar?"
Flight of the Concords.
"Riiiiiiiiiiight. ...You'd be so much better."
You're sweet.
...
"How does your family feel about the Plushie-sex in this episode?"
I didn't tell 'em.
"Ah. OK."
...
"Is that the restaurant? Is that where you filmed?"
It is.
"So. Is it happening soon?!"
I think so...
"EEEEEEEEEE!!!"
...
That's my head.
"That totally is."
...
And then:
"Fire!"
And a girl in an amazing dress shoots up out of a chair. Looking horrified.
FIRE?!
"YAYAYAYAYAYAYYYYYYY!!!!!"
"YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!"
"YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAAYAYYYYYYY!!!!"
And then, we rewound it 5 times. And then we all took turns saying it. And then we shrieked some more.
And then my NAME scrolled across the credits as "Female Patron 2", and it was generic as all hell, but it was official.
And that was it. And it was great :)
I can say I've done it, officially--that I've taken my first big girl-step in this particular chunk of my career. And no, it's not the recurring role that I initially went in for.
But it's still exposure. And visibility.
And an IMDB-credit.
And a step.
And I'll take it. I'll take all of it. And revel in my little triumph.
It finally. Freaking. Aired.
After months of crazy anticipation (Am I gonna miss it? Am I gonna cry? Will people think it's dumb? Will I look like an absolute heffer?...IS THIS GONNA BE THE COOLEST THING EVER?!?!), my little baby moment in the sun aired on HBO on Halloween night.
...As in this past Monday, after the happiest weekend of my life when my best friend got hitched and was, incidentally, the most beautiful bride I've ever seen and I was, incidentally, the most ecstatic and heart-happy and nerrrrrrrrrvous Maid of Honor that ever was. Fine.
Coming off of such a weekend, I felt as if HBO could be a perfect little button to a perfect little week.
I hoped.
...
It's funny how when you do these kind of things--take these (what YOU know to be) significant steps in your professional life, or your personal life, or whathaveyou--that there are people just kind of standing by seemingly waiting to pounce and shit on you.
Maybe this isn't on purpose. But just the same.
I'm leaving the gym a week ago and have a text from a co-worker (who I happen to like):
"Hey I gotta tell u something, can u call work when u get a chance? Its pretty important and work UNrelated."
A miniature panic ensued--why WOULDN'T it after a set-up like that?!--and I called straight away.
"Heyyyyyyyyy."
Hi! What's...going on? Is everything ok?
"Welllllll..."
...
"I have something to tell you and you might already know, but I thought you'd want to know in case you didn't. And I wanted to tell you."
OK...
"It's not good."
...
"..That's not the best lead-in, I know, I'm sorry."
Yeah. So...
...
"Someone started streaming your episode online last night."
(...Oh!) Oh! OK.
"Well, we watched it last night."
Alright. That's fine.
"They cut your scene."
...
...
WHAT?!
"Yeahhhhh."
Wait. What do you mean?
"Well. ...You're still in it, you're there." (OK...) "But, you only say one liiiiine."
(... ...Really?)
Actually, I...I only have the one line.
"Oh. ... ...Well, it's like really quick."
Yeah.
"I mean, just like a really fast little clip of you. Like a blur."
...Sure. OK.
"But you look BEAUTIFUL. You're just...you're not there much."
But I still speak? (Right?!)
"...Yeah..."
(Oh.) Then that's fine. That's totally OK if you still see me saying my line. I didn't expect it to be some long crazy epic scene.
"Well, just, no. I know. I just didn't want you to be disappointed."
(HOW COULD I BE DISAPPOINTED?!) I won't be. It's fine.
"But really. It's not much. And I've heard that it always feels different and, like, more on-set than what ends up on screen."
(...What's your point, here?) Sure. But, I knew that going into it, too. And that's OK.
"Oh! OK. Well, I just wanted to be the one to tell you."
...
WHY?!?!
I was so totally confused. Was she expecting me to feel bad about being on a show on HBO having only one line to say? I WAS STILL GOING TO BE ON A SHOW ON HBO WITH A LINE TO SAY!! You would see my face, you would hear my voice...I was featured on the trailer for the episode, how could I POSSIBLY feel bad about that?!
How could I feel bad about taking any kind of step forward?!
And then, of course, I sat back and assessed for a sec--once I finished stomping around and brushed my shoulders off--and thought: Why would she have thought otherwise? Few people outside of this profession understand how many steps you have to take before you can walk out of Obscurity. Cut a girl some slack.
...But don't listen to her.
I still found myself venting to my genius sweetheart lawyer-roommate later that day.
"Ew! Fuck that!"
Right?!
"Yeah. Angela, please. Has she been on TV in any way at all ever?"
No. No.
"Then, fuck it. Don't let her rain on your parade. This is way too exciting."
...
...Even though it is only one line?
"Whoa. Yes. ESPECIALLY because it's one line."
I mean, right. Right.
"...You're not allowed to do that."
Do what?
"You can't knock yourself for a triumph. No matter how large or small. All of these things need to be celebrated, always, and so we are having people over, and we are dressing up, and having drinks, and watching you speak on television. And it's gonna be great."
...Goddammit, I love you. OK.
And so, we cleaned our apartment, got some wine, made hors d'oeuves, put on cute little dresses, gathered some friends, and turned to HBO at 9pm.
That's the role I was originally called in for.
"Oh. Why is that girl so familiar?"
Flight of the Concords.
"Riiiiiiiiiiight. ...You'd be so much better."
You're sweet.
...
"How does your family feel about the Plushie-sex in this episode?"
I didn't tell 'em.
"Ah. OK."
...
"Is that the restaurant? Is that where you filmed?"
It is.
"So. Is it happening soon?!"
I think so...
"EEEEEEEEEE!!!"
...
That's my head.
"That totally is."
...
And then:
"Fire!"
And a girl in an amazing dress shoots up out of a chair. Looking horrified.
FIRE?!
"YAYAYAYAYAYAYYYYYYY!!!!!"
"YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!"
"YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAAYAYYYYYYY!!!!"
And then, we rewound it 5 times. And then we all took turns saying it. And then we shrieked some more.
And then my NAME scrolled across the credits as "Female Patron 2", and it was generic as all hell, but it was official.
And that was it. And it was great :)
I can say I've done it, officially--that I've taken my first big girl-step in this particular chunk of my career. And no, it's not the recurring role that I initially went in for.
But it's still exposure. And visibility.
And an IMDB-credit.
And a step.
And I'll take it. I'll take all of it. And revel in my little triumph.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
A Starving Artist Explains It All For You...And Mourns Her Silver Fox.
See, what happens is this:
You come home from work one night; you just worked a double, your allergies have smacked you upside the face, you're running on 6 hours of sleep between two days and spent the entire day before clear across the state at a dear friend's wedding.
Your voice. Is gone.
You walk into your apartment and it is eerily quiet inside. Your roommate is cleaning the bathroom, kinda manic-like--which is additionally weird because you've never seen her clean anything--and it smells like gardenias and bleach and the tiles look impeccable. And that's amazing.
You wave (because you can't speak), and ball up like a caterpillar on your couch.
After 20 minutes of silence underscored with desperate scrubbing and seemingly tuneless humming, your roommate ambles out into the hallway, and stares at the wall.
"So. My Grandmother died today."
You croak out some version of Oh no! and make to hug her.
"No no. It's fine. She had some kind of Alzheimer's so, she's pretty much been gone for awhile." And she stares at the wall. "I'm fine. I am."
Silence. And staring.
"They're cremating her. Which she didn't want, but my Mom decided it's more practical. So they are."
You are stare at her, she continues to stare ahead.
"She was my Grandmother." ...
"My Mom told me I'm not supposed to grieve." You mouth WHAT?! "She says she was dead already, so it'd be a waste of time and energy. Life goes on and then it stops, and that's that."
You find some Post-Its on the coffee table and start writing in a flurry:
You take your time and grieve as you see fit.
"I don't know."
Do it!
"But what if she's right, my Mom, like maybe I should just accept it, get over it. Right?"
No.
"Why, though?"
She was your Grama, you're allowed to be sad, and you should.
"...Yeah..."
I totally believe that no one should compromise how they grieve or mourn for anyone. It's a need that you have to fulfill.
"Yeah. Thanks."
I'm serious.
...
"So I started cleaning. It felt good. Better."
I get it.
"Yeah?"
Yeah. I do.
"Like a distraction or something. And I needed one. So..."
...
And then she finally looks at you. "Thanks."
Of course.
I have a lot that I could say about Death.
...
And then what happens is this:
You're at work for your second double in a row; you're running on an additional five hours of sleep so you're feeling pretty buoyant and just in a generally good mood.
Your voice. Still gone. But less gone--and that's fine.
All of a sudden, two of your closest friends from your favorite MidWestern city (your grad school city) show up. They've just moved to New York, and you're giddy to have them so close so you croak Holy crap, come sit with me. You need to stay for like three hours. Or more. ...I'm getting you drunk, OK? Great.
They're there for half an hour when another friend from grad school shows up (HOORAY!!!) and settles into their booth.
Fifteen minutes later, another grad school buddy is at their table (HOORAYYYYYYYYY!!!!); he lives in Philly now, but is in town just for the day.
Within the next 20 minutes, you have six of your closest friends from grad school sitting at that table. It's busy as hell, but you don't care; simply having them there is enough, and is lifting you up in a surprising way.
Running past their table:
"Git it, Girl."
"Best server ever!"
"Be done soon! Come sit!"
"Love you, Angie!"
"Love youuuuuuuuuu!!!!"
...And you wonder what you did to deserve any of this. And you feel sappily glorious.
...
And then what happens is this:
Two hours later, you're finishing up your shift; your last two friends have cozied up to the bar and are watching the last chunk of a baseball game.
Your voice. Is tired. And so are you.
But you're biding your time--there's only an hour left, and you don't have much to do. And so, you decide to check your phone. Because you can.
And there is a text from your boyfriend.
And it tells you that a man named Gary Holcombe--your mentor from grad school--has just died. Suddenly. A few hours ago.
You run up to the bar to share your news--and then you mentally check-out.
...
I am not a girl who allows myself to cry in public.
This could not be helped.
...
Who was Gary? A lot of different men rolled up into one tall slender body. A man commonly referred to as The Silver Fox because of both his beautiful head of hair, and "knack with the ladies".
A man who grew up in podunk nowhere-Kentucky and, like so many men his age, went to fight in Vietnam. Where he was a sniper. And saw too much. And perhaps did too much. And then chose to bury all of it as deep and far away from the surface as was possible.
And then, he went to a music conservatory.
And then, he was on Broadway.
And then, he ran around on a zillion tours, and banged a zillion women, later marrying an equally-as-successful-equally-as-carnal woman.
They then chose to settle down in that MidWestern-place, where they lived and worked and thrived and inspired for over twenty years.
Gary was the man responsible for bringing me into my grad program.
I remember auditioning for him and putting on my most brave and bubbly face--feeling entirely terrified.
"Are you always this upbeat and...smiley?"
...Yes. Actually yeah. I am.
"Really?!"
I promise. ...Is that OK?
And he smiled this huge shit-eating grin from behind his table. "If you're not lying to me, and don't you dare lie to me...goddammit, we could use you."
For three years, we were as tight as tight could be. Everything he said was thoroughly bold but without threat--he made you believe in him, and made you believe in yourself.
He was the guy who would stop a song or a scene mid-rehearsal and scream, "Angela, you are fucking so much better than that! Don't you fucking cheat me, goddammit!"
And once class was over: "Goddamn, girl, your ass looks amazing in those pants. Your boyfriend better appreciate that."
He does.
"Well, I do."
GARY!!!
"...Heartbreaker."
You dirty dirty son-of-a-bitch.
"Hell yes, mama." And he'd cackle. "Love you."
Love you, too.
"And GO HOME AND WORK ON THAT SONG, goddammit!!!"
I will.
"Open this." And he'd jab towards his chest.
Yes, Sir.
"...You fucking tease."
GodDAMMIT, Gary!
He fought for us to live up to our fullest potential.
He fought for others to believe in us the way that he did.
He fought. Always.
"You're a good egg. You know you're a good egg."
"You know who that character is better than he does, don't you fucking compromise your gut instinct."
"Don't you fucking let him push you around."
"Go out there and get it. For me. You can and you will."
"You're a unique thing. Go out there and give it, give You. It's more than enough."
"I love you."
"I love you."
"I love you. ...Goddammit, if I were 30 years younger..."
Gary. See, I have this boyfriend...
"Oh, right. ...He can come, too."
Perfect.
"Love you."
And you knew that he meant it. And it meant the world.
A couple of years ago, the demons from years past that he buried so deep came back to haunt him. And he fought hard to ward them off, but just couldn't anymore.
We stopped being phone buddies.
He started going in and out of hospitals.
We started knowing less and less of his status and whereabouts.
...And now, he's just gone. And there's this huge part of my heart that has just been broken apart.
I am thankful. I am thankful to have had such an important and lovely influence at such an important and selfish time in my life. I wish that I could have said more. I wish that I could have done more. And I wish that I could have held onto him longer--but that's just not the way the world works.
The world can set you up for Loss. The world will never keep Loss from you.
...
This Irina loves her Chebutykin.
This Blondie loves her Silver Fox.
This Angela misses her Gary. Tremendously. Now and always. And thanks him for the world.
You come home from work one night; you just worked a double, your allergies have smacked you upside the face, you're running on 6 hours of sleep between two days and spent the entire day before clear across the state at a dear friend's wedding.
Your voice. Is gone.
You walk into your apartment and it is eerily quiet inside. Your roommate is cleaning the bathroom, kinda manic-like--which is additionally weird because you've never seen her clean anything--and it smells like gardenias and bleach and the tiles look impeccable. And that's amazing.
You wave (because you can't speak), and ball up like a caterpillar on your couch.
After 20 minutes of silence underscored with desperate scrubbing and seemingly tuneless humming, your roommate ambles out into the hallway, and stares at the wall.
"So. My Grandmother died today."
You croak out some version of Oh no! and make to hug her.
"No no. It's fine. She had some kind of Alzheimer's so, she's pretty much been gone for awhile." And she stares at the wall. "I'm fine. I am."
Silence. And staring.
"They're cremating her. Which she didn't want, but my Mom decided it's more practical. So they are."
You are stare at her, she continues to stare ahead.
"She was my Grandmother." ...
"My Mom told me I'm not supposed to grieve." You mouth WHAT?! "She says she was dead already, so it'd be a waste of time and energy. Life goes on and then it stops, and that's that."
You find some Post-Its on the coffee table and start writing in a flurry:
You take your time and grieve as you see fit.
"I don't know."
Do it!
"But what if she's right, my Mom, like maybe I should just accept it, get over it. Right?"
No.
"Why, though?"
She was your Grama, you're allowed to be sad, and you should.
"...Yeah..."
I totally believe that no one should compromise how they grieve or mourn for anyone. It's a need that you have to fulfill.
"Yeah. Thanks."
I'm serious.
...
"So I started cleaning. It felt good. Better."
I get it.
"Yeah?"
Yeah. I do.
"Like a distraction or something. And I needed one. So..."
...
And then she finally looks at you. "Thanks."
Of course.
I have a lot that I could say about Death.
...
And then what happens is this:
You're at work for your second double in a row; you're running on an additional five hours of sleep so you're feeling pretty buoyant and just in a generally good mood.
Your voice. Still gone. But less gone--and that's fine.
All of a sudden, two of your closest friends from your favorite MidWestern city (your grad school city) show up. They've just moved to New York, and you're giddy to have them so close so you croak Holy crap, come sit with me. You need to stay for like three hours. Or more. ...I'm getting you drunk, OK? Great.
They're there for half an hour when another friend from grad school shows up (HOORAY!!!) and settles into their booth.
Fifteen minutes later, another grad school buddy is at their table (HOORAYYYYYYYYY!!!!); he lives in Philly now, but is in town just for the day.
Within the next 20 minutes, you have six of your closest friends from grad school sitting at that table. It's busy as hell, but you don't care; simply having them there is enough, and is lifting you up in a surprising way.
Running past their table:
"Git it, Girl."
"Best server ever!"
"Be done soon! Come sit!"
"Love you, Angie!"
"Love youuuuuuuuuu!!!!"
...And you wonder what you did to deserve any of this. And you feel sappily glorious.
...
And then what happens is this:
Two hours later, you're finishing up your shift; your last two friends have cozied up to the bar and are watching the last chunk of a baseball game.
Your voice. Is tired. And so are you.
But you're biding your time--there's only an hour left, and you don't have much to do. And so, you decide to check your phone. Because you can.
And there is a text from your boyfriend.
And it tells you that a man named Gary Holcombe--your mentor from grad school--has just died. Suddenly. A few hours ago.
You run up to the bar to share your news--and then you mentally check-out.
...
I am not a girl who allows myself to cry in public.
This could not be helped.
...
Who was Gary? A lot of different men rolled up into one tall slender body. A man commonly referred to as The Silver Fox because of both his beautiful head of hair, and "knack with the ladies".
A man who grew up in podunk nowhere-Kentucky and, like so many men his age, went to fight in Vietnam. Where he was a sniper. And saw too much. And perhaps did too much. And then chose to bury all of it as deep and far away from the surface as was possible.
And then, he went to a music conservatory.
And then, he was on Broadway.
And then, he ran around on a zillion tours, and banged a zillion women, later marrying an equally-as-successful-equally-as-carnal woman.
They then chose to settle down in that MidWestern-place, where they lived and worked and thrived and inspired for over twenty years.
Gary was the man responsible for bringing me into my grad program.
I remember auditioning for him and putting on my most brave and bubbly face--feeling entirely terrified.
"Are you always this upbeat and...smiley?"
...Yes. Actually yeah. I am.
"Really?!"
I promise. ...Is that OK?
And he smiled this huge shit-eating grin from behind his table. "If you're not lying to me, and don't you dare lie to me...goddammit, we could use you."
For three years, we were as tight as tight could be. Everything he said was thoroughly bold but without threat--he made you believe in him, and made you believe in yourself.
He was the guy who would stop a song or a scene mid-rehearsal and scream, "Angela, you are fucking so much better than that! Don't you fucking cheat me, goddammit!"
And once class was over: "Goddamn, girl, your ass looks amazing in those pants. Your boyfriend better appreciate that."
He does.
"Well, I do."
GARY!!!
"...Heartbreaker."
You dirty dirty son-of-a-bitch.
"Hell yes, mama." And he'd cackle. "Love you."
Love you, too.
"And GO HOME AND WORK ON THAT SONG, goddammit!!!"
I will.
"Open this." And he'd jab towards his chest.
Yes, Sir.
"...You fucking tease."
GodDAMMIT, Gary!
He fought for us to live up to our fullest potential.
He fought for others to believe in us the way that he did.
He fought. Always.
"You're a good egg. You know you're a good egg."
"You know who that character is better than he does, don't you fucking compromise your gut instinct."
"Don't you fucking let him push you around."
"Go out there and get it. For me. You can and you will."
"You're a unique thing. Go out there and give it, give You. It's more than enough."
"I love you."
"I love you."
"I love you. ...Goddammit, if I were 30 years younger..."
Gary. See, I have this boyfriend...
"Oh, right. ...He can come, too."
Perfect.
"Love you."
And you knew that he meant it. And it meant the world.
A couple of years ago, the demons from years past that he buried so deep came back to haunt him. And he fought hard to ward them off, but just couldn't anymore.
We stopped being phone buddies.
He started going in and out of hospitals.
We started knowing less and less of his status and whereabouts.
...And now, he's just gone. And there's this huge part of my heart that has just been broken apart.
I am thankful. I am thankful to have had such an important and lovely influence at such an important and selfish time in my life. I wish that I could have said more. I wish that I could have done more. And I wish that I could have held onto him longer--but that's just not the way the world works.
The world can set you up for Loss. The world will never keep Loss from you.
...
This Irina loves her Chebutykin.
This Blondie loves her Silver Fox.
This Angela misses her Gary. Tremendously. Now and always. And thanks him for the world.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Starving Artist is Watching You.
Not so surprising fact about me: I am a chronic people watcher.
I do it all the goddamn time. Partially for acting/character-fodder, partially just because I'm generally fascinated by pretty much everyone.
Once upon a time, I kept an actual people-watching journal in which I recorded fascinating accounts of absolute strangers--what they were doing at that particular moment, what they looked like, what name I supposed they had, their entire presumed backstory...(...I fondly recall "David", the "virginal 45 year-old Styx-loving Trekkie" who came into my old coffee shop with his "virginal 25 year-old mail-order bride" whose name I couldn't determine but was giggling wildly and "was about to get drunk for the first time, a shameless ploy for David to finally get her effing pants off"...and "Linda", the "Price Chopper cashier with an apartment full of cats and cat paraphernalia" who smelled like pee, "only ate slurpy things" and "didn't smile or smirk or laugh or really speak as a general rule"..."Kirsten", the "compulsive liar/pyromaniac/nymphomaniac" who was "thinking about studying cosmetology"..."Lance", the sweaty and "drunk business man who lost his job 5 months ago but still wears the same suit everyday, unironed" who camped out in the bathroom for 15 minutes "thanks to 5 Red Bulls and too much Taco Bell drive-thru"...)...
...Truthfully, I should dust that journal off and start toting it around again. What a damn good idea that was.
I'm pretty stupid good at it, this people watching-thing, I'll toot my own horn, it's fine.
Do I wish I were a bit less obvious about my people watchingness, think it would behoove me to put on a more subtle face?
...Yeah. I mean, that might be a good thing to consider.
But I think it's safe to assume that if I'm out in public--unless I am out on some kind of date, I'm feeling like balls and have my eyes focused on the sidewalk, or I'm sprinting like a jackhole from one destination to another--I am probably people watching. Or will be at some point on my venture.
It's not as if there's ever any particular kind of person that I'm looking for. Not really. I think I just kind of always have my ears perked up and my eyes darting around for other lives less ordinary.
Even beyond that: seemingly ordinary happenings and the little things that make them (the situations themselves and the people within them) absolutely fascinating.
Obviously--OBVIOUSLY--I see a lot.
At the gym, right, there's these women, these insanely hugely pregnant women doing cardio. Manically. These otherwise supremely slender women with overblown basketballs protruding straight from where their once small and delightfully concave belly button was, pedaling away on ellipticals as if their lives depended on it. This crazy exhaustion on their faces, this crazy focus in their eyes. Who are these women?!...What are their names? Where are they from? Where does she live now? What does she do/Who did she marry/What does he say to her before they go to bed each night? At the dinner table?...Why is she doing this?
At the bar the other night--our favorite bar across the street with the 50million beers on tap and the hap-hap-happiest jukebox in the world--there's this couple, right, sitting at the table behind us. She's vampiring the shit out of his neck, going to town, having a blast for like 10 minutes--he doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch. The entire time, the guy is just staring at the wall in front of him. Blankly. He's too entranced by the world's most mundane looking bottle of whiskey or something to notice the thing that is begging for attention from him, pretty much crawling in his lap and sucking on his throat as if her life depended on it. Who are THESE guys?! What's THEIR deal? Did they just meet? Are they a steady couple/Is he pissed at her/Is he cheating? Is he gay?...Why is she doing this? Why is HE?
The happy Hipster-couple on the train a few months back: Who are they?
The adorable but thoroughly scatterbrained casting assistant who unintentionally pushed back everyone's audition appointments by two hours (TWO! HOURS!): Who is she?
The disgruntled-looking sap standing next to his lady who is perched in a make-up chair at Sephora: Who is he?
The guy in the wheelchair offering his lap up as a taxi service, the woman screaming to the cashier at the bookstore that she doesn't "trust their bags", the 8 year-old kid who cusses his mother out in the middle of the restaurant for no good reason...and then draws a picture of a little boy with a gun on his chest all over our paper tablecloths.
Who are these people? What are they about? The possibilities are endless, and that thrills me.
And then, I have to wonder: I can't possibly be alone in this.
Someone. Someone is doing this exact same thing. To me.
I think about this as I'm getting ready to walk into the gym this morning, the kind of "Me" that I let walk out of the house and onto the train and into a world that could very well be waiting to analyze and assess what I've shown up with that day.
I am:
--A funny looking white girl in bright shorts, intense running shoes, and a sad hoodie...& huge hair.
--Blaring MIA and Tribe Called Quest at an obscene decibel on my iPod (because I don't believe in listening to music at any less of a volume...if the music sounds at all "whispery", you can't really hear it, so you might as well turn that shit all the way up to 11).
--Doing a crossword puzzle with the world's most furrowed and unmake-upped brow. Like I'm 70.
--Showcasing the mysterious and horribly nasty-looking bruise that has appeared on my shin.
--Underdressed, and freezing cold...and turning slightly bluish white.
It occurs to me that I am just as much of a "case" as anyone else. The potential subject of someone else's glimpse at a life less ordinary.
...
...Perspective. You funny, tricky bitch.
On the train later today, this man comes on two stops after I do, screaming like I've never heard a grown man scream before, at no one in particular, and weaving a tapestry of obscenities along the way.
It's hard to tell if he has Tourette's, if he's wasted, or both...or what. But the entire car's intrigued.
"What the fuckIDON'TGIVE A FUUUU-UCK!!! FUCK!!!"
(Ooh.)
He goes back and forth from screaming things like this to mumbling unintelligible something-or-others for the next four stops. Quieting down to such a point that you think he's done, that he's over whatever it was that was eating him up when: "This shit is BULLshit! FUCK all y'all!!! Your life gon end, too!!!" (Wait. What?) "FUCK!"
And I feel like I've missed something. Or there's at least a something else, something else to this guy that he wants to get across but is too messed up to express. I'm enthralled. (Who are you, Sir?)
The train pauses at the next stop and this MTA-guy walks onto car and just stares the guy down. Doesn't say a goddamn word, doesn't even go near him, but stares him down from the opposite end of the car. As if he thinks that'll teach him--or whatever. He points at him, "You're done yelling, friend," walks out, and then we're moving again.
"Fuckin stupid ass cop thinks he gon change me. Naw! SHIT, he gettin me a beer. SHIT!" (And now you're getting cocky.) "Shit." (What's your deal, friend?) "Bitch, YOU get me a beer!" (Oh, fuck.)
And this crazy lady attempts to talk back to him, throwing around a slew of "How dare you"s and "Shut the hell up"s, but he's oblivious, stumbling around the center of the car and he props himself up on a pole.
"WILL SOMEBODY LISTEN TO ME?!?!"
...
...And there is complete silence. And we're all hanging on it, every single last one of us in the car waiting to hear what this guy's got to say, who he is, what his deal is--what his message is for all of us.
...
"Suckmydicksuckmydicksuckmydick." (Perfect.) "Just. ...". And pretty much as he sighs, the doors of the train open and it's my stop. And he's done, and I have to go.
And my curiosity is running around all wild and crazy for the rest of the day.
I am so totally bizarrely intrigued by this man, I have so many questions, and I have absolutely no answers.
And I won't.
...And maybe, in the end, that's what makes it great.
I do it all the goddamn time. Partially for acting/character-fodder, partially just because I'm generally fascinated by pretty much everyone.
Once upon a time, I kept an actual people-watching journal in which I recorded fascinating accounts of absolute strangers--what they were doing at that particular moment, what they looked like, what name I supposed they had, their entire presumed backstory...(...I fondly recall "David", the "virginal 45 year-old Styx-loving Trekkie" who came into my old coffee shop with his "virginal 25 year-old mail-order bride" whose name I couldn't determine but was giggling wildly and "was about to get drunk for the first time, a shameless ploy for David to finally get her effing pants off"...and "Linda", the "Price Chopper cashier with an apartment full of cats and cat paraphernalia" who smelled like pee, "only ate slurpy things" and "didn't smile or smirk or laugh or really speak as a general rule"..."Kirsten", the "compulsive liar/pyromaniac/nymphomaniac" who was "thinking about studying cosmetology"..."Lance", the sweaty and "drunk business man who lost his job 5 months ago but still wears the same suit everyday, unironed" who camped out in the bathroom for 15 minutes "thanks to 5 Red Bulls and too much Taco Bell drive-thru"...)...
...Truthfully, I should dust that journal off and start toting it around again. What a damn good idea that was.
I'm pretty stupid good at it, this people watching-thing, I'll toot my own horn, it's fine.
Do I wish I were a bit less obvious about my people watchingness, think it would behoove me to put on a more subtle face?
...Yeah. I mean, that might be a good thing to consider.
But I think it's safe to assume that if I'm out in public--unless I am out on some kind of date, I'm feeling like balls and have my eyes focused on the sidewalk, or I'm sprinting like a jackhole from one destination to another--I am probably people watching. Or will be at some point on my venture.
It's not as if there's ever any particular kind of person that I'm looking for. Not really. I think I just kind of always have my ears perked up and my eyes darting around for other lives less ordinary.
Even beyond that: seemingly ordinary happenings and the little things that make them (the situations themselves and the people within them) absolutely fascinating.
Obviously--OBVIOUSLY--I see a lot.
At the gym, right, there's these women, these insanely hugely pregnant women doing cardio. Manically. These otherwise supremely slender women with overblown basketballs protruding straight from where their once small and delightfully concave belly button was, pedaling away on ellipticals as if their lives depended on it. This crazy exhaustion on their faces, this crazy focus in their eyes. Who are these women?!...What are their names? Where are they from? Where does she live now? What does she do/Who did she marry/What does he say to her before they go to bed each night? At the dinner table?...Why is she doing this?
At the bar the other night--our favorite bar across the street with the 50million beers on tap and the hap-hap-happiest jukebox in the world--there's this couple, right, sitting at the table behind us. She's vampiring the shit out of his neck, going to town, having a blast for like 10 minutes--he doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch. The entire time, the guy is just staring at the wall in front of him. Blankly. He's too entranced by the world's most mundane looking bottle of whiskey or something to notice the thing that is begging for attention from him, pretty much crawling in his lap and sucking on his throat as if her life depended on it. Who are THESE guys?! What's THEIR deal? Did they just meet? Are they a steady couple/Is he pissed at her/Is he cheating? Is he gay?...Why is she doing this? Why is HE?
The happy Hipster-couple on the train a few months back: Who are they?
The adorable but thoroughly scatterbrained casting assistant who unintentionally pushed back everyone's audition appointments by two hours (TWO! HOURS!): Who is she?
The disgruntled-looking sap standing next to his lady who is perched in a make-up chair at Sephora: Who is he?
The guy in the wheelchair offering his lap up as a taxi service, the woman screaming to the cashier at the bookstore that she doesn't "trust their bags", the 8 year-old kid who cusses his mother out in the middle of the restaurant for no good reason...and then draws a picture of a little boy with a gun on his chest all over our paper tablecloths.
Who are these people? What are they about? The possibilities are endless, and that thrills me.
And then, I have to wonder: I can't possibly be alone in this.
Someone. Someone is doing this exact same thing. To me.
I think about this as I'm getting ready to walk into the gym this morning, the kind of "Me" that I let walk out of the house and onto the train and into a world that could very well be waiting to analyze and assess what I've shown up with that day.
I am:
--A funny looking white girl in bright shorts, intense running shoes, and a sad hoodie...& huge hair.
--Blaring MIA and Tribe Called Quest at an obscene decibel on my iPod (because I don't believe in listening to music at any less of a volume...if the music sounds at all "whispery", you can't really hear it, so you might as well turn that shit all the way up to 11).
--Doing a crossword puzzle with the world's most furrowed and unmake-upped brow. Like I'm 70.
--Showcasing the mysterious and horribly nasty-looking bruise that has appeared on my shin.
--Underdressed, and freezing cold...and turning slightly bluish white.
It occurs to me that I am just as much of a "case" as anyone else. The potential subject of someone else's glimpse at a life less ordinary.
...
...Perspective. You funny, tricky bitch.
On the train later today, this man comes on two stops after I do, screaming like I've never heard a grown man scream before, at no one in particular, and weaving a tapestry of obscenities along the way.
It's hard to tell if he has Tourette's, if he's wasted, or both...or what. But the entire car's intrigued.
"What the fuckIDON'TGIVE A FUUUU-UCK!!! FUCK!!!"
(Ooh.)
He goes back and forth from screaming things like this to mumbling unintelligible something-or-others for the next four stops. Quieting down to such a point that you think he's done, that he's over whatever it was that was eating him up when: "This shit is BULLshit! FUCK all y'all!!! Your life gon end, too!!!" (Wait. What?) "FUCK!"
And I feel like I've missed something. Or there's at least a something else, something else to this guy that he wants to get across but is too messed up to express. I'm enthralled. (Who are you, Sir?)
The train pauses at the next stop and this MTA-guy walks onto car and just stares the guy down. Doesn't say a goddamn word, doesn't even go near him, but stares him down from the opposite end of the car. As if he thinks that'll teach him--or whatever. He points at him, "You're done yelling, friend," walks out, and then we're moving again.
"Fuckin stupid ass cop thinks he gon change me. Naw! SHIT, he gettin me a beer. SHIT!" (And now you're getting cocky.) "Shit." (What's your deal, friend?) "Bitch, YOU get me a beer!" (Oh, fuck.)
And this crazy lady attempts to talk back to him, throwing around a slew of "How dare you"s and "Shut the hell up"s, but he's oblivious, stumbling around the center of the car and he props himself up on a pole.
"WILL SOMEBODY LISTEN TO ME?!?!"
...
...And there is complete silence. And we're all hanging on it, every single last one of us in the car waiting to hear what this guy's got to say, who he is, what his deal is--what his message is for all of us.
...
"Suckmydicksuckmydicksuckmydick." (Perfect.) "Just. ...". And pretty much as he sighs, the doors of the train open and it's my stop. And he's done, and I have to go.
And my curiosity is running around all wild and crazy for the rest of the day.
I am so totally bizarrely intrigued by this man, I have so many questions, and I have absolutely no answers.
And I won't.
...And maybe, in the end, that's what makes it great.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
A Starving Artist Talks About Sex (Bay. Bee.)
Remember that one time that I discussed infomercials? Slash how far an actor would go/when it would be "enough"/the importance of being able to get behind your projects? Slash how much it would suck to become Gonorrhea-girl? Which was really just a roundabout way of discussing what you're willing to let yourself get known for, the way in which you're willing to put yourself out there...Remember all that?
Well. Yesterday was fun.
Yesterday, I auditioned for a contraceptive commercial.
This wasn't actually my first time (...heh heh...hehhhh...) around the "I bang"-commercial block, I actually auditioned for a Trojan-vibrator commercial last year. ...Also fun.
But no no, this was an entirely different deal altogether. This audition was for a morning after pill.
This says "I indeed bang, but there was an oops. An OOPS--and I need something to prevent a further 'oops'."
And ok: it's not that this is a project that I can't get behind--of course I can, of COURSE! I can--but it's just...it's funny. The idea of Me in a contraceptive commercial. Me. Awkward quirky character-featured Me in an ad not just about...(...sexxxx...), but about screwing (...hehheh...hehhh...) that up.
Such ads that involve a forlorn-slightly-panicky-looking lady laying around with a "What NOW?!"-face in her bright airy loft, later moving through a medicine aisle while looking marginally terrified and dazily thumbing through wee pill box after wee pill box, later moving through skyscrapery cases in a book store dazily thumbing through random books with a slight sense of relief over her face, before finally moving to some cute outdoor bistro where she sits outside sipping on cosmos with her other equally-as-relieved non-pregnant friends. You know, those ads. It's a pretty known pseudo-solid formula.
And am I JUDGING those ads? Hell no! That's just....that's just what they are. Like always. But, you know, the notion of Me being in one...
...And again, I would never turn that down, ever. Ever. Why would I?! It's not that, it's just...it'd be funny.
I'm not really the dismayed-Sex-is-really-effing-serious-type.
In the audition notice that I received Monday night, it said the following:
"Must be comfortable talking about contraception."
(Well, I mean, sure. Why not, right? OK. OK, fine, I'm shameless, I lack a censor button, I've been naked, regularly...albeit a long time ago, but I get it, and that's fine. That's fine. Yay, sex. Let's talk about it. ...And sell stuff.)
"If you have a boyfriend and who is interested, please bring him to casting. Please let us know his name beforehand so we can notify casting."
(... ... ...)
A lot of the time, I find myself getting increasingly more bummed over the fact that there is still an 1100-mile distance between said boyfriend and I. In this instance, however...I mean, I can in no way envision going into an audition setting like that with him. You might as well lock us in a room with a circus clown who says, "Alright, kids, talk to me about poop. Tell me about your poop. POOOOOOOOP!" We would have turned into absolute children 5 seconds in.
"Well, in our moments of intimacy..."
YEAH! Intimacy!!! We do it sometimes. Uhh!!!
"Um--yeahhhhhYeahhhh! Bangin!!!"
So MUCH of it!!!
"Lots! We keep like a talley...well...we did..."
YEAH! TALLIES!!! When we...lived...in the same...
“Look at yer butt!”
Not now.
"…Yeah, and, but know what?! No! Babies!"
YEAH! So much bangin, positively no babies!!!
"Uhhh."
UHHH!
"Hahahahaha"Hahahahaaaaa!!!! AND a fist bump. Or something.
It would not have boded well for the casting director, for our careers...or our reputations, by and large.
So, in I walk Tuesday morning, having practiced my "forlorn"-face the night before and feeling as confident as any girl (who spends 98.25% of the year growing her virginity back) could walking into a morning after pill-audition. And it's fine. Everyone waiting is normal looking, everyone in the room has undoubtedly banged sometime, some are there auditioning as a couple (... ...), some of us are there alone...
(...Pffft. This is fiiiiiiiiine, piece of cake.)
I grab the script and get to work:
"Last night, my birth control failed me." (Oh goddammit, REALLY?!)
Fifteen minutes later, I walk in with this beautiful Midwestern-looking tall drink of water. We're going on camera together, as "friends".
"Alright, girls, tell me a little bit about yourself. Where you're from, how long you've been in the city, what you like to do in your spare time."
The tall drink of water goes first, and she's totally charming. Smiling, giggling, talking super articulately and with such ease about growing up in Pennsylvania and her fencing practice.
(I don't fence. Should I? Would that help my case because it's kinda...sexual? Because of the long things that you thwart and...thrust...and everythingdammitIdon'tknow.)
"Alright, Angela, tell us about yourself."
Wellllll, I'm from the Finger Lakes...
"Oh! I was just there! It's beautiful!"
Right?! I know! Where were you?
"Oh. I don't know. I mean...somewhere....".
...
OK. Well, that's where I'm from. And...ummm...I got here essentially like 2-and-a-half years ago, but really 2 because. I. Subletted here rightaftergrad school. And then. Moved here. For real, liiiiiiiiiiike two years agoandit'sreallyfunandIloveithereandtrytoauditionasmuch as I can. Um. Iloveworkingout. A lot. And. ... ...I love cooking.
"Oooh! Cooking!"
...Yeah...
"You sound like you're a little embarrassed about that."
Oh. (Ack!) No! Not at all! I just...I'm a bit of a novice but I'd love to, like, Paula Deen myself. (...What?) I really like chopping garlic. (WHAT?!?!) Uhhhh... (...Get. It. Together.) Um...
"Let's move on." (SHIT!) "Talk to me about your personal experiences with both birth control and emergency contraception."
And then I was off. Like a shot. I didn't even give the other chick an opportunity to think, I just launched right in and fuh-king ran with it. Maybe it was just my desperate attempt to redeem myself. Maybe it was just my desperate attempt to remind myself that I was, at one time, a sexual being. ...Mayhaps both.
I OWNED that segment. Hard.
(Yessssssssssssssss.)
"OK, ladies, great. Let's take a look at the lines." (Eeeeeee...). "Have a seat on this bench, you're friends, you can be friendly."
Sure!
Of course!
"Great. You start with the first one and go every other, and Angela, you take the second line, go every other...you get it."
OK, sure!
"Now. These lines aren't, like, 'life or death', but they're not cheeky either. Let's see what you do."
(Hmmm...OK...).
We breathe, get comfy, smile at each other--genuinely--scootch closer and decide to do the damn thing.
We breathe, get comfy, smile at each other--genuinely--scootch closer and decide to do the damn thing.
"OK, we're rolling. And. Action."
Last night, my birth control failed me.
But I know what to get.
One-Step Emergency Contraception!
And, I know where to go. Watch me!
(...and so on...)
"OK. Not so fun." (Crap.) "More, like, serious, like...tough cookie Maria Bello-ish." (Wait. Am I accosting people about emergency contraception?!) "Just think 'tough'. And you don't actually know each other, don't look at each other, don't refer to one another. You're on the same bench, but foreign, you don't know each other." (K...We're complete strangers.). And our octaves drop and we both stare directly into the camera. Shit gets serious.
"Two tough broads on a bench, and action."
"Two tough broads on a bench, and action."
Last night: my birth control failed me.
But. I know what to get.
One-Step Emergency. Contraception.
And, I know where to go. (Pause. Lean forward.) Watch. Me.
(Etcetera.)
"And cut. PERFECT!" (Whaaat?!) "Thanks, Ladies!"
...And that was that. The two of us look at each other, equally as perplexed, and walk out of the studio. We take that long awkward walk down the corridor together to that long awkward elevator ride--that moment when you really really just want to be alone, but are still forced to be in the same intimate space with one another. (Do we talk? Do I...say anything to her? I mean, after what we just did...)...
So. Was it good for you?
Sunday, September 11, 2011
A Starving Artist and Random Acts of Kindness.
Clearly, there are many things that New York is.
I've spoken about a zillion of them. I could undoubtedly cite a zillion more. I probably will--at some point.
But quite noticeably as of late, New York is Fearful. It is a Fearful city.
Which is surprising when you consider the sizable balls it appears that the average New Yorker has.
But there is a kind of guard that is perpetually up, a sort of lying in wait-ness within every citizen of the city. For a sundry of reasons:
"What if I can't really afford to be here?"
"What if I'm not deserving of being here?"
"What if my train gets stuck?"
"What if I get bed bugs?"
"What if I can't get a sushi roll with brown rice?"
"What if IKEA isn't delivering today?"
"What if an earthquake takes us out?"
"What if Irene takes us out?"
...And worse fears still.
We are crawling with these thoughts, and the fear is contagious. And overwhelming. And you watch as everyone slowly brings themselves to this kind of resolve, this "OK. Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens."
And then, it's The Wait. And there are inherently pins and needles, and that inherently makes everything far worse.
And in this particular time when the city seems to be crawling with this sensibility even more than usual... ... ...I mean, I don't know, there are always so many wonderfully nice surprises that this great big glorious place seems to have for you, things that you wouldn't have necessarily thought would matter so much. ...
It's these random acts of kindness.
These small little minute actions that friends and strangers alike are compelled to do even in the most stressful of times.
Everybody's doing em. Everybody. And it's kind of remarkable.
In the past week alone, I have witnessed a slew of examples: someone surprising a distant acquaintance by buying them dinner, an entire (enTIRE) subway car donating money to the old impoverished man playing his trumpet, a teenage boy chivalrously walking an old woman across a crosswalk in Union Square, (multiple)friends helping (multiple)friends land an agent, (multiple)friends helping (multiple)friends land a job, surprise plates of soul food here, surprise compliments from strangers there, surprises surprises everywhere.
All of these things entirely unexpected, all SOOOOOOO NIIIIIIIIIICEand where's it all coming from?!
And then. There was this:
I am riding home in a cab from the airport Friday morning, feeling sad and blue over having just reabandoned my boyfriend and my tuxedoed dog in the Central time zone but three hours prior. The traffic is backed-up, but the ride is smooth, and the ride is quiet.
...
"You like-a dehallz-uh?"
... ... ...I'm sorry, what?
"You like-a de Hallllllz-uh?!?!" And the cabbie randomly whips out a sleeve of cough drops, and turns over his shoulder, wearing the biggest grin I've ever seen.
Oh. Oh, I'm good, but thank you. So much.
I've spoken about a zillion of them. I could undoubtedly cite a zillion more. I probably will--at some point.
But quite noticeably as of late, New York is Fearful. It is a Fearful city.
Which is surprising when you consider the sizable balls it appears that the average New Yorker has.
But there is a kind of guard that is perpetually up, a sort of lying in wait-ness within every citizen of the city. For a sundry of reasons:
"What if I can't really afford to be here?"
"What if I'm not deserving of being here?"
"What if my train gets stuck?"
"What if I get bed bugs?"
"What if I can't get a sushi roll with brown rice?"
"What if IKEA isn't delivering today?"
"What if an earthquake takes us out?"
"What if Irene takes us out?"
...And worse fears still.
We are crawling with these thoughts, and the fear is contagious. And overwhelming. And you watch as everyone slowly brings themselves to this kind of resolve, this "OK. Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens."
And then, it's The Wait. And there are inherently pins and needles, and that inherently makes everything far worse.
And in this particular time when the city seems to be crawling with this sensibility even more than usual... ... ...I mean, I don't know, there are always so many wonderfully nice surprises that this great big glorious place seems to have for you, things that you wouldn't have necessarily thought would matter so much. ...
It's these random acts of kindness.
These small little minute actions that friends and strangers alike are compelled to do even in the most stressful of times.
Everybody's doing em. Everybody. And it's kind of remarkable.
In the past week alone, I have witnessed a slew of examples: someone surprising a distant acquaintance by buying them dinner, an entire (enTIRE) subway car donating money to the old impoverished man playing his trumpet, a teenage boy chivalrously walking an old woman across a crosswalk in Union Square, (multiple)friends helping (multiple)friends land an agent, (multiple)friends helping (multiple)friends land a job, surprise plates of soul food here, surprise compliments from strangers there, surprises surprises everywhere.
All of these things entirely unexpected, all SOOOOOOO NIIIIIIIIIICEand where's it all coming from?!
And then. There was this:
I am riding home in a cab from the airport Friday morning, feeling sad and blue over having just reabandoned my boyfriend and my tuxedoed dog in the Central time zone but three hours prior. The traffic is backed-up, but the ride is smooth, and the ride is quiet.
...
"You like-a dehallz-uh?"
... ... ...I'm sorry, what?
"You like-a de Hallllllz-uh?!?!" And the cabbie randomly whips out a sleeve of cough drops, and turns over his shoulder, wearing the biggest grin I've ever seen.
Oh. Oh, I'm good, but thank you. So much.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
A Starving Artist For Only $19.99 (+ S/H)
Every actor has this fear that they're going to be offered a project that they don't necessarily support, and I feel as if the fear only grows when it comes to commercials.
This could mean being on a Pro Life-commercial when you're staunchly Pro Choice, talking about the wonder that is the medicine that you're on (for Herpes...when you don't really have it, but it now seems as if you do to the entire rest of the world), or just generally promoting a product that you know from personal experience absolutely sucks.
The fear can be pseudo large and pretty legitimate. I mean, is a grand really worth it? Seventeen grand?
...Three hundred dollars?
What do you do?
And then, beyond that, there are just certain commercial platforms that seem 100% taboo--like "Why in the hell would I ever want to shoot something like that? Embarrassing."
Most specifically: the infomercial.
Somewhere, there is a woman who is driving her kid to her first date at a miniature golf course/crock potting dinner/buying a pair of Jimmy Choos/blowing lines, and this woman has the "privilege" of saying that she paraded around in Pajama Jeans on an infomercial. Saucily.
Someone somewhere has "Fallen, and they can't get up."
Someone somewhere has enthusiastically chugged a Magic Bullet-smoothie, ShamWowwed the hell out of the hood of their car, donned a Bump-It in their hair before a manufactured night out with an imaginary group of girls, and all with a thumbs-up and a series of nods of approval to the camera.
"This product is genius--and so am I!"
...This happens. Obviously. And we all know it, because we see these people constantly, and point and laugh and say "HaHA! That looks dumb."
Well, imagine my surprise this past Friday when my manager sent out an email saying that they had a last minute infomercial project come up and that the shoot would be on Monday "Would anyone be interested in helping out?"...and that I replied YES!!!!! before I really got the chance to think about what I was signing on for.
And then all of a sudden...all of a sudden, I'm about to become "that girl". ...Hmph.
That. Girl.
Who's on the wrong bus heading towards Jersey at 8am. Then stranded in the middle of a mall parking lot with 5 (perfectly nice) strangers at 8:30. Then picked up by a director--tan, floppy blonde hair and shades--in his jeep and escorted to the studio smack in the middle of a quiet unassuming little suburb.
(So far...so far all of this seems exactly precisely right.)
And it's all there:
The super bright ready-to-go "kitchen", complete with dishwasher sink stove oven big fat fridge and the longest countertop on an island you've ever seen.
The super bright ready-to-go "bedroom".
The super bright ready-to-go "laundry space" (with shelves lined with canisters of OxyClean..."This is where Billy Mays shot, ya know.").
All roped off, but all absolutely poised and on the ready, available at any time...for magic.
And then there--off in a little room all by itself--was the display desk. The infamous display desk where said presenter presents the product surrounded by a bunch of women who ask silly questions, only to nod with approval to the camera in front of them when they discover that "Yes, grape juice really does lift off of your whites in a snap! when you use blahblahblah!!!"
Crazy crazy business.
But there it was, all right there in front of me. And I had to shake my head a few times to actually convince myself of what I was about to do--This is so silly!!!--but then kinda stepped back and thought about it for a second, and went Meh. Or maybe not. It's still a gig, and maybe...maybe it's actually fine.
...
Surprises are always nice.
I like em. Specifically when I've walked into a situation not feeling stellar, and I get this little surprise of "pleasant" thrown my way.
So, it was nice to realize that the product I was promoting was actually really kinda cool. (A bit of a glorified spy-tool to use on your kids...but pretty damn clever just the same.)
Even more nice: I was going to be acting! Like for real! Nothing shmaltzy smile-wink-nod-like, but like actually something character-driven: a TESTIMONIAL!!! I GET TO DO A TESTIMONIAL!!! SWEET!!!!
...As the mother of an 8 year-old boy. ... 8.
"You don't quite look old enough to have a teenager yet," (THANKS!!!...) "But...yeah, 8 should work."
(Arrrrrrgh.)
"So, Angela, how many kids do you have?"
...Wait. Really?
"Yeah! You do...?"
Nooooo. No. I don't. ...Yet.
"Oh. ...You married?"
Nooooo...
"Oh. ...You're not even thirty yet, are you?"
Nope, not quite.
"Hmph."
(What the hell does that mean?! ...These are just not the kind of complexes I was expecting to have on the set of an infomercial.)
And yet there I am, requestioning my life choices, as per.
Am I going to have to bounce an 8 year-old on my knee throughout said testimonial?
Do I have to give the camera a thumbs-up and a wink?
Do I have to fake cry?
Will I be the one offering this product up to the American infomercial-watching audience with the utmost enthusiasm screaming "And if you act now, you'll get a complimentary green tea moisturizer from Proactiv! Six month's worth, yours for only an additional $14.95!" ?!
Where's Richard Simmons? Suzanne Sommers?! WHAT IS HAPPENING IN MY LIFE?!
I wait a series of hours before they film my testimonial--the last segment of the day. And I'm walking away from the make-up chair towards the ready-to-go "bedroom" in my Mommy-appropriate T-shirt and jeans, but with a mug that looked like a cross between a drag queen and a Bratz-doll (I really don't think I'd trust any testimonial from any mother of an 8 year-old who looks like this. I wouldn't.) and I pause.
You DID sign-up for this--voluntarily.
There ARE moms who look like you, with this...face on--just not in Park Slope.
These people are NICE, they gave you COFFEE...and it's a GIG, ANGELA!!!
Get over yourself and do the damn thing, and act the part--without judgement. No. Judgement.
...
And honestly? It really wasn't bad. It wasn't. At the end of the day, it was a pretty mellow shoot (and yes, that in itself was a huge surprise) promoting a pretty decent product, and it was a pretty good time.
It was work. Work I could, at the end of the day, legitimately find a way to get behind. And I did.
I have to believe that that will always be the most important thing to this business, for me anyway: Can I actually find a way to get behind this?
If I can, then where's the problem? There simply isn't one.
If I can't...
...Well then how far will I go? How much will I just suck it up?
When would it just not be worth it anymore?
This could mean being on a Pro Life-commercial when you're staunchly Pro Choice, talking about the wonder that is the medicine that you're on (for Herpes...when you don't really have it, but it now seems as if you do to the entire rest of the world), or just generally promoting a product that you know from personal experience absolutely sucks.
The fear can be pseudo large and pretty legitimate. I mean, is a grand really worth it? Seventeen grand?
...Three hundred dollars?
What do you do?
And then, beyond that, there are just certain commercial platforms that seem 100% taboo--like "Why in the hell would I ever want to shoot something like that? Embarrassing."
Most specifically: the infomercial.
Somewhere, there is a woman who is driving her kid to her first date at a miniature golf course/crock potting dinner/buying a pair of Jimmy Choos/blowing lines, and this woman has the "privilege" of saying that she paraded around in Pajama Jeans on an infomercial. Saucily.
Someone somewhere has "Fallen, and they can't get up."
Someone somewhere has enthusiastically chugged a Magic Bullet-smoothie, ShamWowwed the hell out of the hood of their car, donned a Bump-It in their hair before a manufactured night out with an imaginary group of girls, and all with a thumbs-up and a series of nods of approval to the camera.
"This product is genius--and so am I!"
...This happens. Obviously. And we all know it, because we see these people constantly, and point and laugh and say "HaHA! That looks dumb."
Well, imagine my surprise this past Friday when my manager sent out an email saying that they had a last minute infomercial project come up and that the shoot would be on Monday "Would anyone be interested in helping out?"...and that I replied YES!!!!! before I really got the chance to think about what I was signing on for.
And then all of a sudden...all of a sudden, I'm about to become "that girl". ...Hmph.
That. Girl.
Who's on the wrong bus heading towards Jersey at 8am. Then stranded in the middle of a mall parking lot with 5 (perfectly nice) strangers at 8:30. Then picked up by a director--tan, floppy blonde hair and shades--in his jeep and escorted to the studio smack in the middle of a quiet unassuming little suburb.
(So far...so far all of this seems exactly precisely right.)
And it's all there:
The super bright ready-to-go "kitchen", complete with dishwasher sink stove oven big fat fridge and the longest countertop on an island you've ever seen.
The super bright ready-to-go "bedroom".
The super bright ready-to-go "laundry space" (with shelves lined with canisters of OxyClean..."This is where Billy Mays shot, ya know.").
All roped off, but all absolutely poised and on the ready, available at any time...for magic.
And then there--off in a little room all by itself--was the display desk. The infamous display desk where said presenter presents the product surrounded by a bunch of women who ask silly questions, only to nod with approval to the camera in front of them when they discover that "Yes, grape juice really does lift off of your whites in a snap! when you use blahblahblah!!!"
Crazy crazy business.
But there it was, all right there in front of me. And I had to shake my head a few times to actually convince myself of what I was about to do--This is so silly!!!--but then kinda stepped back and thought about it for a second, and went Meh. Or maybe not. It's still a gig, and maybe...maybe it's actually fine.
...
Surprises are always nice.
I like em. Specifically when I've walked into a situation not feeling stellar, and I get this little surprise of "pleasant" thrown my way.
So, it was nice to realize that the product I was promoting was actually really kinda cool. (A bit of a glorified spy-tool to use on your kids...but pretty damn clever just the same.)
Even more nice: I was going to be acting! Like for real! Nothing shmaltzy smile-wink-nod-like, but like actually something character-driven: a TESTIMONIAL!!! I GET TO DO A TESTIMONIAL!!! SWEET!!!!
...As the mother of an 8 year-old boy. ... 8.
"You don't quite look old enough to have a teenager yet," (THANKS!!!...) "But...yeah, 8 should work."
(Arrrrrrgh.)
"So, Angela, how many kids do you have?"
...Wait. Really?
"Yeah! You do...?"
Nooooo. No. I don't. ...Yet.
"Oh. ...You married?"
Nooooo...
"Oh. ...You're not even thirty yet, are you?"
Nope, not quite.
"Hmph."
(What the hell does that mean?! ...These are just not the kind of complexes I was expecting to have on the set of an infomercial.)
And yet there I am, requestioning my life choices, as per.
Am I going to have to bounce an 8 year-old on my knee throughout said testimonial?
Do I have to give the camera a thumbs-up and a wink?
Do I have to fake cry?
Will I be the one offering this product up to the American infomercial-watching audience with the utmost enthusiasm screaming "And if you act now, you'll get a complimentary green tea moisturizer from Proactiv! Six month's worth, yours for only an additional $14.95!" ?!
Where's Richard Simmons? Suzanne Sommers?! WHAT IS HAPPENING IN MY LIFE?!
I wait a series of hours before they film my testimonial--the last segment of the day. And I'm walking away from the make-up chair towards the ready-to-go "bedroom" in my Mommy-appropriate T-shirt and jeans, but with a mug that looked like a cross between a drag queen and a Bratz-doll (I really don't think I'd trust any testimonial from any mother of an 8 year-old who looks like this. I wouldn't.) and I pause.
You DID sign-up for this--voluntarily.
There ARE moms who look like you, with this...face on--just not in Park Slope.
These people are NICE, they gave you COFFEE...and it's a GIG, ANGELA!!!
Get over yourself and do the damn thing, and act the part--without judgement. No. Judgement.
...
And honestly? It really wasn't bad. It wasn't. At the end of the day, it was a pretty mellow shoot (and yes, that in itself was a huge surprise) promoting a pretty decent product, and it was a pretty good time.
It was work. Work I could, at the end of the day, legitimately find a way to get behind. And I did.
I have to believe that that will always be the most important thing to this business, for me anyway: Can I actually find a way to get behind this?
If I can, then where's the problem? There simply isn't one.
If I can't...
...Well then how far will I go? How much will I just suck it up?
When would it just not be worth it anymore?
Sunday, July 24, 2011
A Starving Artist Is a Hot Mess.
Here's one of the zillions of reasons why this city is so great:
Whereas New York is an absolute mecca for fashion and beauty and all things "Lookin gooooooood!"-related, there are just a few times of year when all of that absolutely goes out the window. Because it has to.
A) The Stupid Rainy Season.
I'm walking everywhere--I need galoshes, I need an obnoxiously large umbrella, and, at some point, I know that I am going to be caught off-guard without these things and looking like a drowned rat. ...Why even try to look cute? I'm not. I won't.
B) The Snowy/Hell Freezeth Over Season.
I am woolen, I am layered, I am Jack's Brooklynite Yetti--and it's fine. I'm not freezing. ...I may look frumpy and glo-worm-like, but I'm not freezing.
-AND (lastly)-
C) ...The Season of the Infamous Oppressive HeatWave.
...
Now:
This one is arguably the funniest to me. The best and the funniest. Why? Because absolutely everyone gives up. EVERYone. It matters not who you are, where you're going, what you did--this almost became a Backstreet Boys-song, I'm sorry--you have stopped trying. (...Too much, anyway.) And why?
To do otherwise takes too much effort--effort which may, in fact, be futile.
Why put on a cute dress if you're just gonna sweat your way through in it minutes?
Why bother to do your hair if it's just gonna end up frizzing itself out into a three-foot-wide monstrosity the moment you leave your apartment?
Why wear heels or jewelry or glasses or underwear or life if...if...it just sucks and it's too hot to bother to strap it all on?!
Answer: don't. Don't do any of it.
I have no idea exactly what it is about being in a city that's typically so caught up in its own "image" and just seeing it kind of let go of itself and get lazy that's so hilarious and kind of (very) liberating to me--but it is. It totally is.
Examples (...of the week...from personal experience...):
*My gym became a ghost town overnight. My little typically flooded gym smack in the middle of NoHo--absolutely no one is there, all week--except for me (which might mean that I'm crazy...)...
*In one day--four-and-a-half hours, actually--I pass by three different drag queens at random in entirely different spots of the city. Not a one of them was wearing an ounce of make-up.
*Audition #1: Equity-audition, and everyone is dressed down and in billowy loose things and flip flops. Girls are casting sideways "Ew"-glances at my heels. My heels. (...Fuck em.)
*Audition #2: On-camera audition, and everyone is dressed even more down...and taking turns sticking paper towels up their shirts in the lobby.
"Does this shirt look wet to you?"
"...Um...you know, kinda..."
"You know what, I don't even care. I don't even care."
*There are lines outside of Tasti-Dee...for breakfast.
*"What'd you do last night?"
"Nothing."
"I didn't leave my bedroom. I couldn't."
"Me neither. It's the only room with an AC-unit."
"Same."
"I spent the night at my friend's house."
"Fun!"
"Because he has central air."
"....Ohhh. ...Have fun?"
"We just sat. And drank...water."
"Hmph."
*My motor skills leave me entirely and I develop the astonishing skill of dropping things directly into my non-existent cleavage...and finding that they stick there...and I don't find myself rushing to do too much about it.
*Everyone. And everyTHING. Is late. The trains, audition times, reservations...delivery guys...my realization that I haven't been drinking any water...which is why I can't sit up straight and feel like yacking...
*"Want a fudgsicle?"
"It's just too far away." (...It's in the next room...).
*Hey.
"Hey. ...Roomie."
How was your...day?
"Um.... I think...good...".
Good.
"...Yours?"
...Ohmygodidontthinki even remember. Really."
"Mmhmm."
...
...Are you just really stupid tired? I am like. So tired."
"Yeaaaaaah, I think I might like. Go to bed."
Me too.
"...Dude, we're the lamest. It's 8:30."
I can't--I mean...I know...
*The number of bra-less and bathing-suit-top-as-bra-women in the city have increased...dramatically.
*"The freezer and the low-boy are both broken. We have no ice cream, we have no unspoiled milk and the juice smells like death."
Oh no.
"Nothing for anyone. Like, maybe just...alcohol?"
Hmph.
"Yeah. ...Should we, like, fix it?"
...
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
*... ... ....."Dude. It's been 15 minutes. We have not moved or spoken."
I know.
"We seriously should just go to bed. This is heinous."
I just--it's so far...
Slugs.
We become a society of slugs. All worker bees and show ponies alike.
It's as if we're handed this entirely different kind of universal struggle--and goddammit, I find it glorious and hilarious and so entirely unglamorous...that that only makes it greater.
I LOVE this shit!
And, ahmunna say this:
We're allowed to say that it's hot. We are. Because it is. Maybe don't look at it as if we're saying "I'm so much hotter than YOU are." (dear folks on Facebook who have had such a problem with anyone publicly complaining about the heat...I mean really...). Maybe, for once, we can accept that everyone's just trying to say:
"Holy fuckballs. It's hot. I am so hot--AREN'T YOU?!"
"ISN'T EVERYONE?!"
"...Want a blotting paper? You can have mine, because I...I don't even care. I just don't care anymore."
Whereas New York is an absolute mecca for fashion and beauty and all things "Lookin gooooooood!"-related, there are just a few times of year when all of that absolutely goes out the window. Because it has to.
A) The Stupid Rainy Season.
I'm walking everywhere--I need galoshes, I need an obnoxiously large umbrella, and, at some point, I know that I am going to be caught off-guard without these things and looking like a drowned rat. ...Why even try to look cute? I'm not. I won't.
B) The Snowy/Hell Freezeth Over Season.
I am woolen, I am layered, I am Jack's Brooklynite Yetti--and it's fine. I'm not freezing. ...I may look frumpy and glo-worm-like, but I'm not freezing.
-AND (lastly)-
C) ...The Season of the Infamous Oppressive HeatWave.
...
Now:
This one is arguably the funniest to me. The best and the funniest. Why? Because absolutely everyone gives up. EVERYone. It matters not who you are, where you're going, what you did--this almost became a Backstreet Boys-song, I'm sorry--you have stopped trying. (...Too much, anyway.) And why?
To do otherwise takes too much effort--effort which may, in fact, be futile.
Why put on a cute dress if you're just gonna sweat your way through in it minutes?
Why bother to do your hair if it's just gonna end up frizzing itself out into a three-foot-wide monstrosity the moment you leave your apartment?
Why wear heels or jewelry or glasses or underwear or life if...if...it just sucks and it's too hot to bother to strap it all on?!
Answer: don't. Don't do any of it.
I have no idea exactly what it is about being in a city that's typically so caught up in its own "image" and just seeing it kind of let go of itself and get lazy that's so hilarious and kind of (very) liberating to me--but it is. It totally is.
Examples (...of the week...from personal experience...):
*My gym became a ghost town overnight. My little typically flooded gym smack in the middle of NoHo--absolutely no one is there, all week--except for me (which might mean that I'm crazy...)...
*In one day--four-and-a-half hours, actually--I pass by three different drag queens at random in entirely different spots of the city. Not a one of them was wearing an ounce of make-up.
*Audition #1: Equity-audition, and everyone is dressed down and in billowy loose things and flip flops. Girls are casting sideways "Ew"-glances at my heels. My heels. (...Fuck em.)
*Audition #2: On-camera audition, and everyone is dressed even more down...and taking turns sticking paper towels up their shirts in the lobby.
"Does this shirt look wet to you?"
"...Um...you know, kinda..."
"You know what, I don't even care. I don't even care."
*There are lines outside of Tasti-Dee...for breakfast.
*"What'd you do last night?"
"Nothing."
"I didn't leave my bedroom. I couldn't."
"Me neither. It's the only room with an AC-unit."
"Same."
"I spent the night at my friend's house."
"Fun!"
"Because he has central air."
"....Ohhh. ...Have fun?"
"We just sat. And drank...water."
"Hmph."
*My motor skills leave me entirely and I develop the astonishing skill of dropping things directly into my non-existent cleavage...and finding that they stick there...and I don't find myself rushing to do too much about it.
*Everyone. And everyTHING. Is late. The trains, audition times, reservations...delivery guys...my realization that I haven't been drinking any water...which is why I can't sit up straight and feel like yacking...
*"Want a fudgsicle?"
"It's just too far away." (...It's in the next room...).
*Hey.
"Hey. ...Roomie."
How was your...day?
"Um.... I think...good...".
Good.
"...Yours?"
...Ohmygodidontthinki even remember. Really."
"Mmhmm."
...
...Are you just really stupid tired? I am like. So tired."
"Yeaaaaaah, I think I might like. Go to bed."
Me too.
"...Dude, we're the lamest. It's 8:30."
I can't--I mean...I know...
*The number of bra-less and bathing-suit-top-as-bra-women in the city have increased...dramatically.
*"The freezer and the low-boy are both broken. We have no ice cream, we have no unspoiled milk and the juice smells like death."
Oh no.
"Nothing for anyone. Like, maybe just...alcohol?"
Hmph.
"Yeah. ...Should we, like, fix it?"
...
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
*... ... ....."Dude. It's been 15 minutes. We have not moved or spoken."
I know.
"We seriously should just go to bed. This is heinous."
I just--it's so far...
Slugs.
We become a society of slugs. All worker bees and show ponies alike.
It's as if we're handed this entirely different kind of universal struggle--and goddammit, I find it glorious and hilarious and so entirely unglamorous...that that only makes it greater.
I LOVE this shit!
And, ahmunna say this:
We're allowed to say that it's hot. We are. Because it is. Maybe don't look at it as if we're saying "I'm so much hotter than YOU are." (dear folks on Facebook who have had such a problem with anyone publicly complaining about the heat...I mean really...). Maybe, for once, we can accept that everyone's just trying to say:
"Holy fuckballs. It's hot. I am so hot--AREN'T YOU?!"
"ISN'T EVERYONE?!"
"...Want a blotting paper? You can have mine, because I...I don't even care. I just don't care anymore."
Friday, July 8, 2011
A Starving Artist Meets a Lull.
So, I signed.
It felt great. It felt really really stupid great. And right. And I walked out of that office, and it was ninety-seven ridiculous degrees outside and I had sweat and iced coffee seeping out of my pores and felt gross and sticky and like I was melting into a puddle of pasty white girl around my flip flops.
And clearly--clearly--I just didn't even sort of care.
I was so OFFICIAL. Like ALL of a sudden. The world kicked ass and I was suddenly kicking so much ass in it--kick ass!!!!!
And then, over the next seven days, I had like six auditions and a big fat meeting with a big fat agency that went so so super well--well enough that they said "Freelance with me?" and I of course went GREAT!!! and then there I was AGAIN! Ninety-seven degrees outside, parading around in blissful disgustingly sweaty Anthropologie-clad post-sex-like oblivion as if I owned the freaking city.
Because I felt like it!!!!! I felt like I did!!!!
THIS, I thought, THIS is what my life is about to become and it's AMAZING!!! THINGS ARE SOOOOOO HAPPENINGGGGGGG!!!!!
...
In two weeks, I have had three auditions.
Three.
Two weeks.
I have only been signed for four weeks, and suddenly, I'm like No. No. What have I done wrong?! (Somehow, having any number of auditions can be "wrong" all of a sudden...fine...). This can't be right at all. This is not what it was looking like. Originally.
I signed.
And I cut my hair. (Two inches...)
But...we promised. Like, we're contracted now, and that means that we're supposed to be doing lots of stuff and lots of auditioning like all of the time! Right? Doesn't it?...
...So...
And we as actors do that stupid thing. That stupid thing that's only meant to be nice and just, like, conversation, but always turns into making someone ultimately feel...dumb:
"So, what have you been up to? Have you been working on anything lately?"
Always. Whenever you see someone out, at an audition, at a bar, wherever, when it's clearly been awhile: "So, got anything cool lined up? Staying busy?"
And you're not doing it to be a dick (...I'm not anyway...), but you're doing it just to chat. And to give them the opportunity to say "Actually, YEAH, I have been!" Which is great.
It is.
...
It's great when they've been staying busy--and aren't represented by the same person that you are, and aren't going on four times the auditions as you are per week, and haven't booked like five things in the past month and a half.
When they are and have been...ok no. No. Still great--just, kinda, maddening. A little.
(...A lot.)
BUT! Different paths, different people.
OK. You are 5'10" and gorgeous and a buck-three. I'm...not. And that's fine! Our markets are just...different. That's all. That's why. ...Right? Right.
And youuuuu arrrrrrrrre forty. And ethnic-looking and gorgeous. Again, I'm not. So...there's that.
But...
But. Goddammit please tell me that I'm still doing ok. Please tell me that in this two weeks of quiet that there hasn't suddenly been some kind of "What the shit are we doing kidding ourselves with this girl?!" that's come over my manager. Or this new agency. Or this OTHER agency. That's just impossible, right?
RIGHT?!
...
And in my brain, wayyyy in the back, I know that it's just my neuroses that's been doing all of the talking. That stupid panic and neuroticism that comes over you when you want something so badly to just fucking work in your favor. I know this.
I know that I had plenty of weeks of quiet before I was signed. And it was never a problem then. I never questioned then whether it was the breakdowns or my lack of talent that was making for a quiet week. For real--for REAL: WHY should it be a problem now?!
(Fact: ...Goddamn I use a lot of caps and underlininess when I'm feeling emphatic. Hmph...).
So, yes. I've been feeling Yikes-like.
I finally finally finally got together with a sweet lovely dear friend today who I've been playing tag with for weeks, and immediately following a guessing game as to the name of his soon-to-be-born daughter (Cordelia?..."Awww, cute name. Nope." ... Ivy? ..."Cute. Two syllables, yeah. ...Nope." ... ...Moses? ... "Ooooooh...."), we launched into this whole discussion. And:
"No."
What?
"No. It's fine, Angela, you're totally fine."
No! But...no. I don't know.
"Yessss you do."
Guhhhhhhhhhhhh.
"Angela, I've lived here for seven years and I never've gone out on like six auditions a week. That's crazy! If I got two, that was good."
...OK...
"Aaaaaaaand you're still a baby."
...
WHAT?! NO!
"Girl! Have you even been here for two years yet?"
...Next month.
"And you've done anything already?! You're fine."
And that is a very very very nice thing to say, and I honestly forget that I'm almost still kinda new-ish, and I do forget that Oh yeah, I totally have done stuff because I am 100% impatient with myself and an embarrassing gross kind of perfectionist where I feel like I need to be able to do absolutely everything absolutely all of the time and all at once. And well.
...I don't cut myself any slack all that often. I potentially should.
And I swear to you, I was so so thoroughly aware a freaking month ago of that whole concept that everything is just supposed to happen in its Time. In due Time. When it's ready, when it's yours, it'll happen. In Time, I knew that.
But. Goddammit.
You sign this piece of paper--and that's really all it is, paper--and it's all of a sudden as if Time is not the thing that matters anymore.
But Results sure do. A lot.
...Which is just crazy, right?
Because Results for who? Who exactly is it that I think that I have to prove myself to anymore, anyway? If I've freelanced, if I've booked, if I've signed...
...
.
It felt great. It felt really really stupid great. And right. And I walked out of that office, and it was ninety-seven ridiculous degrees outside and I had sweat and iced coffee seeping out of my pores and felt gross and sticky and like I was melting into a puddle of pasty white girl around my flip flops.
And clearly--clearly--I just didn't even sort of care.
I was so OFFICIAL. Like ALL of a sudden. The world kicked ass and I was suddenly kicking so much ass in it--kick ass!!!!!
And then, over the next seven days, I had like six auditions and a big fat meeting with a big fat agency that went so so super well--well enough that they said "Freelance with me?" and I of course went GREAT!!! and then there I was AGAIN! Ninety-seven degrees outside, parading around in blissful disgustingly sweaty Anthropologie-clad post-sex-like oblivion as if I owned the freaking city.
Because I felt like it!!!!! I felt like I did!!!!
THIS, I thought, THIS is what my life is about to become and it's AMAZING!!! THINGS ARE SOOOOOO HAPPENINGGGGGGG!!!!!
...
In two weeks, I have had three auditions.
Three.
Two weeks.
I have only been signed for four weeks, and suddenly, I'm like No. No. What have I done wrong?! (Somehow, having any number of auditions can be "wrong" all of a sudden...fine...). This can't be right at all. This is not what it was looking like. Originally.
I signed.
And I cut my hair. (Two inches...)
But...we promised. Like, we're contracted now, and that means that we're supposed to be doing lots of stuff and lots of auditioning like all of the time! Right? Doesn't it?...
...So...
And we as actors do that stupid thing. That stupid thing that's only meant to be nice and just, like, conversation, but always turns into making someone ultimately feel...dumb:
"So, what have you been up to? Have you been working on anything lately?"
Always. Whenever you see someone out, at an audition, at a bar, wherever, when it's clearly been awhile: "So, got anything cool lined up? Staying busy?"
And you're not doing it to be a dick (...I'm not anyway...), but you're doing it just to chat. And to give them the opportunity to say "Actually, YEAH, I have been!" Which is great.
It is.
...
It's great when they've been staying busy--and aren't represented by the same person that you are, and aren't going on four times the auditions as you are per week, and haven't booked like five things in the past month and a half.
When they are and have been...ok no. No. Still great--just, kinda, maddening. A little.
(...A lot.)
BUT! Different paths, different people.
OK. You are 5'10" and gorgeous and a buck-three. I'm...not. And that's fine! Our markets are just...different. That's all. That's why. ...Right? Right.
And youuuuu arrrrrrrrre forty. And ethnic-looking and gorgeous. Again, I'm not. So...there's that.
But...
But. Goddammit please tell me that I'm still doing ok. Please tell me that in this two weeks of quiet that there hasn't suddenly been some kind of "What the shit are we doing kidding ourselves with this girl?!" that's come over my manager. Or this new agency. Or this OTHER agency. That's just impossible, right?
RIGHT?!
...
And in my brain, wayyyy in the back, I know that it's just my neuroses that's been doing all of the talking. That stupid panic and neuroticism that comes over you when you want something so badly to just fucking work in your favor. I know this.
I know that I had plenty of weeks of quiet before I was signed. And it was never a problem then. I never questioned then whether it was the breakdowns or my lack of talent that was making for a quiet week. For real--for REAL: WHY should it be a problem now?!
(Fact: ...Goddamn I use a lot of caps and underlininess when I'm feeling emphatic. Hmph...).
So, yes. I've been feeling Yikes-like.
I finally finally finally got together with a sweet lovely dear friend today who I've been playing tag with for weeks, and immediately following a guessing game as to the name of his soon-to-be-born daughter (Cordelia?..."Awww, cute name. Nope." ... Ivy? ..."Cute. Two syllables, yeah. ...Nope." ... ...Moses? ... "Ooooooh...."), we launched into this whole discussion. And:
"No."
What?
"No. It's fine, Angela, you're totally fine."
No! But...no. I don't know.
"Yessss you do."
Guhhhhhhhhhhhh.
"Angela, I've lived here for seven years and I never've gone out on like six auditions a week. That's crazy! If I got two, that was good."
...OK...
"Aaaaaaaand you're still a baby."
...
WHAT?! NO!
"Girl! Have you even been here for two years yet?"
...Next month.
"And you've done anything already?! You're fine."
And that is a very very very nice thing to say, and I honestly forget that I'm almost still kinda new-ish, and I do forget that Oh yeah, I totally have done stuff because I am 100% impatient with myself and an embarrassing gross kind of perfectionist where I feel like I need to be able to do absolutely everything absolutely all of the time and all at once. And well.
...I don't cut myself any slack all that often. I potentially should.
And I swear to you, I was so so thoroughly aware a freaking month ago of that whole concept that everything is just supposed to happen in its Time. In due Time. When it's ready, when it's yours, it'll happen. In Time, I knew that.
But. Goddammit.
You sign this piece of paper--and that's really all it is, paper--and it's all of a sudden as if Time is not the thing that matters anymore.
But Results sure do. A lot.
...Which is just crazy, right?
Because Results for who? Who exactly is it that I think that I have to prove myself to anymore, anyway? If I've freelanced, if I've booked, if I've signed...
...
.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
A Starving Artist as an Alien
I graduated from high school 11 years ago yesterday.
...
I could get all nauseous-like about this. Get nostalgic and think about my 11th birthday. Do the whole "I'm old, what exactly have I done in 11 years?"-thing.
I could. Any of that. Entirely.
...
I was actually home last weekend. I took three days to pop home and see my family, my best friend (for the SECOND WEEKEND IN A ROW) who's getting hitched in four months, and to make a sneak attack on a bridal shower for another dear friend from childhood. Seven shades of bliss crammed into 57 hours.
My hometown is roughly 6.5 hours west of the Apple.
As cliche as it sounds to say that it's a completely different world, it is. Completely. It's quiet and suburban-borderline-country...a million miles of green, a million miles of lake, barns, vineyards, and this tiny little Main Street that has essentially nothing on it that isn't a family-owned operation.
Everyone. Knows. Everyone. There's only 10,000 people there, and most of whom have always been there--and there's a tremendous coziness in that.
It is, hands down, the single sweetest place I know.
I woke up in my bed last Friday morning (the same exact one that I've slept in since I was 7), completely panic stricken. I was overwhelmed by this terrifying little humming droan-ish sound and I had no idea where it was coming from but I thought it was wrong, totally wrong, something was amiss, this was an alarm of some kind and I didn't like it.
And then I sat there.
And my window was wide open, and there was an actual breeze--that didn't smell of concrete or garbage or pizza, but lilacs. My dad's lilacs.
And then my simple little suburban-bred brain kinda creaked itself open and went You're crazy. That's not an alarm. Those are wind chimes. Wind chimes, Angela.
Where. The shit. AM I?!
And I promptly ran downstairs to drink coffee on my front porch, just because I could, with no agenda, no place to be, no cacophony to distract me whatsoever.
It was foreign and wonderful and ideal and kind of out-of-body-like. And Home. Wonderful wonderful Home. Plain and simply.
...But Home is not a place that I could live. Which sounds weird to say. I mean to say that it's not a place that I could stay and plant myself, and I pretty much always knew that I couldn't, and there's a part of me that's always been kinda heartbroken about that.
But I couldn't.
In the lovely little whitebread storybook wonderland where I was raised, there is nary a starving artist to be found.
Nary an "artist" beyond the people who dip into Rochester to do the occasional play, the folk musicians who play in the townie bars, the jewelry makers and the woodworkers. And that's all great, really and truly it is. That's an absolute part of its absolute charm.
But it's just not a thing that I could do. And I know that about myself.
Correspondingly, it's always a funny thing to dip back there, surrounded by all of these people who you love and always unconditionally will, but all of whom are either teachers, lawyers, counselors or craftsmen.
And all of whom have gardens.
And all of whom drive cars.
And all of whom are either married or getting there, and talking kids and buying houses and health insurance and vacations. Known things. Stability. In general.
I am a foreign foreign object in this place any more.
And it's taken me quite awhile to get ok with this, to not feel like I'm screaming WOOOOO! Odd duck. ODD DUCK!! Right here!! whenever I walk into Wegmans.
But now: it's totally fun.
"So wait. How much are you paying for your place?"
Well, the whole thing is $2550, but it just got raised a little...
"...How do you DO that?!"
Meh.
"And you're just...acting?!"
Welllllll, no, not quite. That's where I hope to be...
"Wait. What else do you do?!"
Oh. Ummm...
"Ohmygod, have you been on Broadway yet?!?!"
Nooooooo no no no no no. Trust me, you would know.
"Are you gonna be soon?!"
...That'd be nice. ...
"Don't you miss having a car?"
I mean sometimes, yeah, a lot.
"But how do you get around?"
I just take the train. Or walk. Or both.
"But like far?!"
Sure!
"Like every day?"
Well. Yeah.
"Wow. ...With groceries?"
You gotta.
"Hm. ..."
...
"...So when are you getting married?"
Eleven-and-a-half years.
"That's pretty precise."
Sure. I've mapped it all out.
"Damn."
Right?!
And every time as I'm having this conversation, I'm cognizant of the fact that I would have never predicted such a path for myself....eleven years ago. I don't really know what I thought beyond the idea that I'd maybe be married and maybe be driving myself to go act at some kind of permanent acting job somewhere in my cute little silver Honda Civic. Looking cute. And going home to water the irises and tigerlilies in my front yard.
Somewhere foreign.
Somewhere almost scary.
But somewhere that felt like home.
...And it's not quite the scenario that my 18 year-old fantasy dictated, but I got about 1/3rd of it right.
...
I sat at this bridal shower last Saturday, in the living room of this huge beautiful house, in the middle of the sunniest day I'd seen in a long time, watching my friend the honoree open hand blenders, and lingerie gift certificates, and bath towels, and recipe books...and she was beaming. And I looked around the room, at all of the other beaming faces--the moms, and the grandmas, and the aunts, and the sisters, and the cousins...beautiful married home-owning friend number one, beautiful married home-owning friend number two, one beautiful nearly-married and blissful friend.
And then my best friend--my engaged tenure-tracked beautiful remarkable best friend--who was looking at me, giddy, and beaming, and who grabbed my hand for no reason to give it a squeeze, but just held it for awhile instead.
And I guess...
...I guess it's just nice to know that there are places in this world that you're not necessarily meant to stay in, but where a part of you will always undoubtedly belong.
That even as I'm running all over this city, doing this acting-thing that I love and that I know I'm meant for, but dodging "Cut your hair"s and "Get a new headshot"s and "Find a better monologue"s and "Why are you so perky?"s, attempting to find some kind balance and ground between these tremendous ups and tremendous downs--sometimes, I can just say Screw it.
Sometimes, I can just go west. To somewhere foreign.
...
I could get all nauseous-like about this. Get nostalgic and think about my 11th birthday. Do the whole "I'm old, what exactly have I done in 11 years?"-thing.
I could. Any of that. Entirely.
...
I was actually home last weekend. I took three days to pop home and see my family, my best friend (for the SECOND WEEKEND IN A ROW) who's getting hitched in four months, and to make a sneak attack on a bridal shower for another dear friend from childhood. Seven shades of bliss crammed into 57 hours.
My hometown is roughly 6.5 hours west of the Apple.
As cliche as it sounds to say that it's a completely different world, it is. Completely. It's quiet and suburban-borderline-country...a million miles of green, a million miles of lake, barns, vineyards, and this tiny little Main Street that has essentially nothing on it that isn't a family-owned operation.
Everyone. Knows. Everyone. There's only 10,000 people there, and most of whom have always been there--and there's a tremendous coziness in that.
It is, hands down, the single sweetest place I know.
I woke up in my bed last Friday morning (the same exact one that I've slept in since I was 7), completely panic stricken. I was overwhelmed by this terrifying little humming droan-ish sound and I had no idea where it was coming from but I thought it was wrong, totally wrong, something was amiss, this was an alarm of some kind and I didn't like it.
And then I sat there.
And my window was wide open, and there was an actual breeze--that didn't smell of concrete or garbage or pizza, but lilacs. My dad's lilacs.
And then my simple little suburban-bred brain kinda creaked itself open and went You're crazy. That's not an alarm. Those are wind chimes. Wind chimes, Angela.
Where. The shit. AM I?!
And I promptly ran downstairs to drink coffee on my front porch, just because I could, with no agenda, no place to be, no cacophony to distract me whatsoever.
It was foreign and wonderful and ideal and kind of out-of-body-like. And Home. Wonderful wonderful Home. Plain and simply.
...But Home is not a place that I could live. Which sounds weird to say. I mean to say that it's not a place that I could stay and plant myself, and I pretty much always knew that I couldn't, and there's a part of me that's always been kinda heartbroken about that.
But I couldn't.
In the lovely little whitebread storybook wonderland where I was raised, there is nary a starving artist to be found.
Nary an "artist" beyond the people who dip into Rochester to do the occasional play, the folk musicians who play in the townie bars, the jewelry makers and the woodworkers. And that's all great, really and truly it is. That's an absolute part of its absolute charm.
But it's just not a thing that I could do. And I know that about myself.
Correspondingly, it's always a funny thing to dip back there, surrounded by all of these people who you love and always unconditionally will, but all of whom are either teachers, lawyers, counselors or craftsmen.
And all of whom have gardens.
And all of whom drive cars.
And all of whom are either married or getting there, and talking kids and buying houses and health insurance and vacations. Known things. Stability. In general.
I am a foreign foreign object in this place any more.
And it's taken me quite awhile to get ok with this, to not feel like I'm screaming WOOOOO! Odd duck. ODD DUCK!! Right here!! whenever I walk into Wegmans.
But now: it's totally fun.
"So wait. How much are you paying for your place?"
Well, the whole thing is $2550, but it just got raised a little...
"...How do you DO that?!"
Meh.
"And you're just...acting?!"
Welllllll, no, not quite. That's where I hope to be...
"Wait. What else do you do?!"
Oh. Ummm...
"Ohmygod, have you been on Broadway yet?!?!"
Nooooooo no no no no no. Trust me, you would know.
"Are you gonna be soon?!"
...That'd be nice. ...
"Don't you miss having a car?"
I mean sometimes, yeah, a lot.
"But how do you get around?"
I just take the train. Or walk. Or both.
"But like far?!"
Sure!
"Like every day?"
Well. Yeah.
"Wow. ...With groceries?"
You gotta.
"Hm. ..."
...
"...So when are you getting married?"
Eleven-and-a-half years.
"That's pretty precise."
Sure. I've mapped it all out.
"Damn."
Right?!
And every time as I'm having this conversation, I'm cognizant of the fact that I would have never predicted such a path for myself....eleven years ago. I don't really know what I thought beyond the idea that I'd maybe be married and maybe be driving myself to go act at some kind of permanent acting job somewhere in my cute little silver Honda Civic. Looking cute. And going home to water the irises and tigerlilies in my front yard.
Somewhere foreign.
Somewhere almost scary.
But somewhere that felt like home.
...And it's not quite the scenario that my 18 year-old fantasy dictated, but I got about 1/3rd of it right.
...
I sat at this bridal shower last Saturday, in the living room of this huge beautiful house, in the middle of the sunniest day I'd seen in a long time, watching my friend the honoree open hand blenders, and lingerie gift certificates, and bath towels, and recipe books...and she was beaming. And I looked around the room, at all of the other beaming faces--the moms, and the grandmas, and the aunts, and the sisters, and the cousins...beautiful married home-owning friend number one, beautiful married home-owning friend number two, one beautiful nearly-married and blissful friend.
And then my best friend--my engaged tenure-tracked beautiful remarkable best friend--who was looking at me, giddy, and beaming, and who grabbed my hand for no reason to give it a squeeze, but just held it for awhile instead.
And I guess...
...I guess it's just nice to know that there are places in this world that you're not necessarily meant to stay in, but where a part of you will always undoubtedly belong.
That even as I'm running all over this city, doing this acting-thing that I love and that I know I'm meant for, but dodging "Cut your hair"s and "Get a new headshot"s and "Find a better monologue"s and "Why are you so perky?"s, attempting to find some kind balance and ground between these tremendous ups and tremendous downs--sometimes, I can just say Screw it.
Sometimes, I can just go west. To somewhere foreign.
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