Thursday, January 19, 2012

A Starving Artist On the Radio(UH-Ohhh)

Two pieces of glorious news:

1) Lip:  it's fine.  After a week of utter paranoia and swollen whatnot and not being able to consume next to anything that wasn't cold-ish and didn't require either a straw or the gentlest of forks (...It's cool, I'm shaking my head at myself in "Aw for fuck's sake"-fashion, too...) it's fine.  And of COURSE it is!

(Minus the two stitches that are still hanging out there sorta and the little slice that's gonna hang out there...maybe always.  But whatever.  That'll add character.  Cute-like.  Fine.)  Sweet sweet sweet relief.

2) I BOOKED MY FIRST EVER BIG GIRL VOICE-OVER GIG!!!!!!!  JUST!!!!!!!!! YESTERDAY!!!!!!  OK.  So I found out yesterday, booked it Tuesday...I guess... 

I am so so so excited I can't even begin to tellllll you!  For A, it's a gig (obviously) and I've been itching for one.  Hard.

For B, it's VOICE-OVER!!!!  These things take forever to get into, and I've been going out for them for...ok, awhile.  Been giving a good showing (...so I guess "showing" isn't the appropriate word...still...), striking up a nice rapport with at least 5 of the casting folks I've seen over the past two years, and now, finally.  FINALLY!!!!

OK, so here's how it went down:

Sweet darling boyfriend came to visit last week for our 5-year anniversary (!!!!!!!) and immediately before his plane touched down, I received an email from my manager about an audition for a voice-over spot the following day.

You can absolutely come with me!  It'll take, like, 10, 15 minutes at most.
"Are there things to do in the neighborhood we're going to?"
Yeah.  Tons.
"Perfect."
Honey, no.  Nooooo, seriously, just come with me.
"IIIIIIII really don't feel like being that guy who's looming outside of a room while his girlfriend's auditioning.  That's weird."

No it's not!
"It is."
... ...
...Seriously, I'll only be 10, 15 minutes at most.
 "Great.  I'll be at that Sports Authority-whatever-place around the corner.  What's the spot for, anywho?"
Chuck E. Cheese. ...
"... ...Perfect."

This was at 1:50pm.

...

At 2:45pm:
"Only 10, 15 minutes, huh?"
That has absolutely never happened before.
"Suuuuuure."
No, really!  These things are...I mean, voice-over auditions are always so quick! 
"Well.  I guess that must mean they like you."
(EEEEEEEEEEK!!!!Maybe.

There are three different spots, all with the same basic premise:  a mom who is totally enamored with her kids is hanging out with her snarky (entirely single, entirely anti-kids) best friend and attempting to explain the joys of Chuck E. Cheese to her.

"Which one did you read for?"
Both.
"Awesome.  Well.  Which one did you read for more?"
...Both.
"Oh!  Hmm..."
Yeah.

And that?  Another kind of thing that had never happened to me before.

But, I do my best to not think too much about the audition, put it aside for awhile, and glide through the next four days of romanticalness and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.  (Not "romantical" by any means, but a pretty damn good flick just the same.)

...

I have the copy for 4 different spots (2 of which were absolutely brand spanking new) in my hands as I walk up to the callback audition Tuesday afternoon.  It's a tricky thing to not harp on a script, to not attempt to over-think it, but if there's one thing that I've found out about voice-overs after all this time, it's that doing so is essentially a death sentence. 

They're simple.  Everything you need to know is right there on the page.  

Actors generally spend a ton of time fretting over what's not being said on the page/in the script, what else needs to be discovered and uncovered and revealed and whatnot. 

Not so with voice-overs.  They are as absolutely uncomplicated as you can get.  And I love that.

I'm sent in with the gal that I originally auditioned with: a sweetheart of a thing who I actually shot that infomercial with a few months back (...No shame...No judgement...).  And we giggle our way into the room, all excited-like.

"So, wait.  Were you told who you were reading for?"
(...No, actually...No, actually.  Were you?
"No.  I wasn't."
Oh!  Hmmm...
"Right.  Weird.  Well...we'll see."
Yeah, I mean...yeah.

But my curiosity has been peaked.  Am I the sweet-natured mother, or am I the snarky clueless best friend?

(The Snark & The Mom...what a perfect title for a fable that would be...)

But really:  who am I?

Both the casting director and the producer are behind the table same as before, two smiley middle-aged gents with gloriously voluminous hair.

"Ohhhhh, boy, you two again."  Says the producer with a wink.  "Alright, you ladies clearly know what you're doing, you obviously like each other...this is good."

(This IS good, you're so right!!!)

"Ummmm, ok, let's start with the second copy and then let's just jump right in and give it a go, shall we?"
(Waiiiiit...)

The casting director:  "I'm sorry.  Who do we want reading for who?"
(Right.)
The producer:  "Oh!...You know, I don't really care." (Hmmmm...)  "Angela, let's have you slate and start off as Tina the mom, and you'll be Diane the best friend."

So for the next...I don't even know how long, we go back and forth through three of the four copies an upwards of ten times apiece.  (Which, if you've never auditioned for a voice-over, is quite a lot.)  Every other read, we switch roles; both roles of which feel really good, but could not be more different.

"OK.  Great.  Thanks, Ladies!  Ummmm...Angela."
....Yes?
"Could you stay?  For like, one more?"
(REALLY?!Really?!
"Yeah.  You don't have anywhere to be or anything, do you?"  (Which, for the record, is the kind of question where both possible answers feel equally as uncomfortable to say.)

I absolutely don't.
"Perfect."

For the next three hours (!!!!), I read with 5 different women.

...Yet another kind of thing that had never happened to me before.  

I stepped out in the hallway to wait three different times as other pairs went in, checking my Facebook a billion times over to avoid the various leers in my general direction.  (Aw, what does my news feed say now?... ...How bout now?).  And every time I stepped back into the room:

"YOU again!" 
I know, I know.  Sorry.
           "Who we having her read for this time?" (...?...)
"Oh, I don't care."
(...Hmmm...)  And the less the producer seemed to care, the more perplexed I seemed to get.  

I have not questioned my "type" in like seven years.  I haven't had to.  I am who I quirkily am and that's obvious...when you're looking at me. But it suddenly occurred to me that because I had never booked a voice-over, I didn't know what my type was in that regard.  Because, when you can only hear me...what do you hear?

(Holy fuck, what if I book this?)

(Holy fuck, if I do, is that one gig going to determine what my type is in this medium?)

"Jesus, you'd think we liked you or something."
Well, I hope so.

And I guess they did.

Because I did book it :)

But it's been over 24 hours since I got the email saying as much...and I still have no idea who I am:  The Snark or The Mom?

And I wonder. ...

Regardless, my voice will be pumping on your stereo in some way or another relatively soon.  And hopefully, it's the beginning of a trend.


Wednesday, January 4, 2012

A Starving Artist and a New Dawn, a New Day, a New...Mouth?



It is 11pm on New Year's Eve and my darling friend and are driving along the BQE on our way to the East Village.  Admiring the brilliantly lit skyline.  Again.

Have you seen this thing?

Two-and-a-half years living in this city and not an ounce of it has gotten old, it hasn't remotely lost its luster.  And I don't think that it will.  Truthfully.  It is simultaneously majestic and alluring and exciting and overwhelming, and straight-up amazing.  

What is that?!  And I point up towards the ginormous structure scraping the sky that appears to have been encrusted entirely with rhinestones.  It's stunning.

"Buddy.  That's the Freedom Tower."
Nuh-UH!
"Yeah.  Super pretty, right?"
I mean, it's...it's so beautiful.
"I know."

We continue winding our way through neighborhood after neighborhood, dodging crazy traffic and crazier pedestrians, blaring Florence + the Machine as loudly as is humanly possible.  Grinning.  Pumped.  Bopping around in the Honda without a single care in the world.

Ohhhhhh, it's gonna be a good year, Love.
"Yeah. If it doesn't end first."
It won't.  It can't, and it won't.

When the ball dropped in Times Square and the fireworks began to go off, I was somewhere in the middle of Warrior I and Warrior II, partaking in my first ever NYE Midnight-Yoga class.  Breathing out the toxins from the old year and taking in the pure pureness of the new.  Feeling brilliant.  Feeling excited.  Feeling ready to take on the world and feeling like everyone needed to know about it.  

(HELL yeah, you fighter, you resilient fighter, you!)

2012 was my delightful little oyster; I was owning it an hour in.

... ... ...And then I went home, gargled some salt water and some peroxide, popped an Augmentin and a painkiller and stared in my bathroom mirror at the stitches cruelly decorating my upper lip.

For real, you cannot go away soon enough.

And thusly began my New Year.

...

When it comes to booking gigs, there are three criteria for actors:
1) Talent.  (You should probably have some.)
2)  People.  (You should probably know some, or know people who know some.)
3)  Appearance.  (You should probably look ok.  Or interesting.  ...Or, at the very least, blemish-free.) 

**SIDEBAR:  Hygiene is a different thing altogether, some people find it "chic" to look unhygienic--I don't...--however, their hygiene is typically still pretty sound.  (Pomade, strategically etched make-up and thrift store-magic can work wonders, ah swear to gahd.)  But you throw this wrench of "Look at this crap on my face!" into the mix and you don't have a make-up artist on-hand to make your life joyous and your oopses forgivable...I mean, then you have a serious problem, my friend.  A serious.  Problem.**

And so, when I found myself running to the ER in Buffalo on Friday at 3:30am with my uncle, cousin and a gaping hole in my upper lip in tow (...Also, for the record, dogs are great.  I love them.  SO much.  And they love me back, one dog in particular.  But no matter how much you love them and they love you back, it is not the wisest of ideas to startle them with a hug.  I'm putting that out there.  Do what you will with the advice.  ...You have been warned.), once in the hospital, all the middle school-girls buried deep in the recesses of my self-consciousness were incredibly quick join us.

(UGH!  Ohmygod, you look so.  Stupid.)
Shut it.
(Your lip is like.  Huge.)
Hey.
(And like.  Bloody.  And huge.)
Hey!
(All the boys are gonna think you're like.  The opposite.  Of cute.)
Wait...
(For forever.)
I mean, that doesn't...I don't care about that at all.
(Yeah.  Ok.  But.  Who's gonna cast you.  With that.  Faaace?!)
...Oh.  Oh no.

And I sat there on the hospital bed swinging my feet around all nervous-like while the nurse prepared a zillion needle-things and swabby-guys and the ice that had been soothing my stupid lip had long since melted into a sad puddle between my cousin and I, feeling worrisome.  My sweet sweet lovely wonderful uncle picked up on this, and before I could say anything:

"Nurse.  Can you tell me how long this is gonna take to heal?"
           "Oh.  Oh gosh, ya know, I don't know.  These things are all different."
"Do you have some kind of ballpark time frame you could give us?"
            "Well.  It is the mouth..."
"Yeah..."
       Yeah...
             "And I don't think it's gonna take forever, but it certainly won't be better overnight."
"Right..."
       Oh god...
"I'm only asking because, ya know, she's an actress, and these kind of things are.  Ya know.  Pretty important."
       Yeah...
              "Oh." ...  ... ...(Say something.  SAY SOMETHING!)
              "Well.  The good news is it's a clean cut, so if it scars, you probably won't notice it too much."

(AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! NOT THE RIGHT THING TO HAVE SAID!!!!!!  I don't want it to scar at ALL, and what happens in the MEANtime?!?!  WHAT?! HAPPENS!!! IN THE MEANTIME?!?!?!)

"You ok, Honey?"
        Oh.  Sure.  I'm fine.  I have this fun story to tell now, so, it's fine.  (AHHHHH!!!!!)
"I wouldn't call it a 'fun story'."
        No no, it's cool.  It's totally fine.  Really.  (Eeeeeeeeeeeeee.....)
"OK."

Two hours and four stitches later, we're back home.  And, honestly, it could look a zillion times worse.

The next day, the rest of my family either doesn't notice or believes that I have a cold sore.  (Criminy.  I don't have herpes.)  But it's fine.

The next day, I'm sore, the inside of my mouth is slightly inflamed, but generally, the same story as the day before.

The next day, New Year's Day, back in the city:
"AH!  Oh my god!  What happened to you?!"  Awesome.

"I didn't notice anything.  Really."
         "It's so so small.  It's fine."
                "That looks fucking painful."
                          "I thought it was a cold sore, I didn't want to say anything."  
                                      I DON'T HAVE HERPES!!!
                                                  "Ohhhhh, Angela, that sucks."
                                      Thanks.

Today (my legitimate favorite):
"Ooh.  Honey.  I think...I think you have some chocolate chips or something stuck in the corner of your mouth."
         Oh.  Noooo, no, it's not....nope.

And it's official:  I am a walking "gross".

So now, there's this conundrum.  How am I supposed to be an actor out in the world with this new friend on my face?  Can everyone actually see it?  Is it as totally unavoidable as I feel like it is?  Will I walk into a room and have that be all anyone sees?  

And how long will I be stuck with said newfound friend?  A week?  Two?  An exceedingly long lonnnnnnng time?

How likely is it that this thing is gonna stand in my way?

The possibilities are...well, they're fucking endless, really.

And tomorrow, in like 9 hours, there is this glorious audition for a glorious role that I would be glorious for--because I do, in fact, look identical to the woman who is currently portraying her and it is, in fact, right directly smack-dab in the center of my wheelhouse--and I'm walking in there totally raring to go, as per, but with a mouth full of yikes.

...So maybe, I say Fuck it! and walk in there with my lips painted bright red.

Maybe, next time someone thinks it's a cold sore, I say Yeah.  So? ...My boyfriend's cool with it....?

Maybe.  Maybe I just ignore it altogether.  As much as I can.  

I mean, it is 2012.

It very well might be the end of the world as we know it...and I feel fine.