A Starving Artist CAIIIIIIIIIN'T SAYYYYYYYY "No"

So.  You've found yourself doing the good Proactive Actor-thing and you're at a workshop, hoping to make some kind of professional connection.

Good.  Good for you.

You're sitting next to a friend: a lovely woman who happens to be stupid gorgeous and ridiculously talented to boot.  And hilarious.  And all-around glorious.

This is excellent news.

You look down at your sides ("script"):  they're pretty bland and kinda lame, but no matter.  You know this shit.  You have goddamn excellent instincts.  You're gonna kill it.  End of story.

(End.  Of.  Story.)

You glance towards the agent whose workshop you're attending as someone else is preparing to read for her.  Said agent is fucking with her Blackberry.  It is instantaneously apparent that she could give less than two shits about her being there, and fewer shits about your being there. 

(...Wait a minute...)

"I heard she's a total bitch," says Glorious Friend.
Aw.  Super, says You.

And once you absorb this information, once you acknowledge exactly how little is really at stake in this given situation and that this supposed "paid audition" has turned into an instance of Hey there, _________ Agency, here's me handing over $40 in exchange for you not giving a fuck, there's a thing that starts to happen.  This kind of wave that washes over you all of a sudden, all without warning and forceful-like, and has a tendency to hit you even harder when you're hangin with a friend.  A chick-friend, anywho.  ...An actress-friend. 

Here's the arc in great/slightly exhausting description (picture it like the literal cresting and crashing of a wave, try it, it'll be fun):

--The water is calm = Shiiiiit, I got this.
--It's getting choppy = Wait.  I don't think this chick even wants to be here.
--Choppier = I mean, I'm still gonna do me, regardless...but why, really?  Why?!
--Choppier still = Fuck this.  This girl sucks.  These people suck.
--A wave begins to build = Fuck it.  I'm just gonna be a critic today.
--...Quickly = We are gonna be critics today. 
--It's cresting = ...But should I get catty about it? Noooo....
--It crests =  ....YES!  LET'S GET CATTY!!!  I CAN'T HELP IT!!!!  AHHHHHHHHH!!!!
--AND it crashes = OH!! So satisfying.  This cattiness is so SATISFYING! GUH!

...I wish I were lying, kids.  I do.  I wish that this weren't a place that we find ourselves in, a thing we resort to.  But, alas, this precise thing actually happens.  To the best of us.

It, in fact, happened.  Tuesday.

Glorious Friend and I both went up and did our scenes towards the beginning of the session. (Side-bar:  Said session was supposed to go until 9:30, it ended before 8:30.  These things don't happen.  Ever.  Example #368 citing this agent's lack of desire to be with us any longer than she was required to be...to get paid.  Fine.  Anyway...).  We weren't feeling great about it, about any of it, and I know that I personally felt a strong urge to throw my hands in the air with a ginormous FUUUUUUUUUUCK THIS!  and check out.

However.  I know better than that.  And am simply not one to not give my all to something, regardless of fruitless I feel my efforts may be.   Lame-sounding or not, it's true, and I mean, it is just a smart idea to look professional.  Always.

Truthfully speaking, both Glorious Friend and I gave it absolutely everything we could, regardless of the cold-ish kinda stupid environment; we were at a workshop, after all, and were still hoping to garner some kind of learning experience from it, at the very least.   So,we both took the agent's pseudo-notes to a tee, and ended up looking pretty good.  Really.

Once that was over, however, we busted out some pens and blank sheets of paper and were overcome with the aforementioned cattiness.  A cattiness that, as we were watching other scenes, led to exchanges like this:

"Hair."
Yes.  Unfortunate.

Blush.
"Oh dear God."
Orange.  There is only orange.

Boobs.
"Right?!  Amazing."
I would like those.
"They're gorgeous. ...And she is terrible."
Correct. 

This continued throughout the very vast majority of class (and was interrupted by one lovefest we had over a girl who was so wonderfully Melissa McCarthy-esque, that it will be goddamn criminal if someone doesn't pick her up soon...ahm sayin), and it didn't really feel like there would be an end in sight.  

But, there is always is.  And it always tends to happen when someone either does something so foolish or asks something so remedial that you cannot help but feel:
A) sad.
B) angry.
C) a combination of both.

And there she was, our last scene of the workshop:  Glary BigHead.

"Glary BigHead" is the Native American name I have given this chick-subject for the following two reasons:

--I first ran into Glary BigHead in the lobby outside of a callback audition last week.  I was minding my own business, studying my sides, futzing with my hair, like you do.  Glary BigHead walks in; she was clearly called for another audition altogether and plops her bags down next to mine...and glares at me.  And sneers.  Continuously, for an upwards of five minutes.    Having lived in New York for awhile now, I know this move.  This is the move of a person who is attempting to throw off your game because they don't trust enough in what they're about to bring to the table.  It is a silly move, and it automatically designates this person as a silly bitch.  The Glarer.  Hence:  "Glary".

--"BigHead" comes from...well, her head is simply too big for the rest of her body.

So, up walks Glary BigHead to the front of the room, panning across the space and sneering at all of us as she does so.  She is poised, she is ready-ish, she tosses her hair and says to the agent:

"So, excuse me.  You sent me these two scenes, but you didn't send them to me in chronological order.  I'm assuming that I am, in fact, supposed to do them chronologically.  Right?"

...

The agent looks aghast, Glorious Friend and I grab each other's knees, Melissa McCarthy-esque bows her head in shame.

Agent:  Well, how did I send them to you?

GBH:  They're out of chronological order.

Agent:  Well, I sent them to you in the exact way they are in the script.

GBH: ...Yeah?

Agent:  So, do it like it is in the script.

GBH: ... ... ... ...Oh.  (She clearly doesn't get it.  Tosses her hair, fluffs her boobs, assumes the position...and the room collectively sighs a sigh suggesting "Oh you poor, disillusioned, stubborn thing.")

(Glary BigHead, just listen to the woman.  Smile, nod, and listen.)

And the girl takes her advice, she does the two scenes in the order that they were meant to be done.  But you can see in her eyes that she's already written off the agent's credibility.  She's projecting that she knows more than woman leading the workshop does.  Without saying the word outright, every inflection in her voice, every ounce of Glary BigHead's body language is saying "No".

Her scene tanks.  Tremendously.  And thusly, the evening ended on the sour note of her suckage.


I don't get why she openly resisted her so much.
"No.  No, me neither."
Just go with it.  Always.
"It's easier."
Always. 

I thought about this a great deal yesterday--yesterday, which was kind of a big deal for me...

Yesterday was my first day at Upright Citizen's Brigade. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

(!!!)

A word on why I wanted to take class there: ... ... ..

....Alright, frankly, there are a number of things that I could say.  Yes, I think I'm funny-ish but could be funnier, but you know that already so we don't need to go into that.  Yes, I read the Bossypants   and want to live my life as parallel to Tina Fey's as is humanly possible, but you already knew that, too, so I'll stop.

In searching for what I felt would be my most appropriate next step to take professionally, I wanted to find something that was as much the antithesis of my grad school-experience as was possible.  ...Let me rephrase:  I wanted the sense of ensemble to be the same, but I wanted the process and the overall message to be different.

I knew within my first ten minutes of my first class yesterday that I had made the perfect decision.  It was like a breath of fresh air, it was light, it was buoyant, and largely because of this one single rule:

"Say Yes.  To everything."

I, personally, have never really had a problem doing this, in acting, in life...for better or for worse.  I have always just found it an easier thing to say, and far more fun to try something as opposed to resisting it.  But, other people have had problems with me feeling this way, in classroom settings. 

In grad school, I was yelled at by a particular instructor during one of my end-of-semester-evaluations regarding this very thing.

"Angela, you're always saying 'Yes' to everything I ask of you.  Why do you do that?" ...Really, I promise you, this was asked.  With concern.
Um.  Why not?
"No.  I want you to ask more questions.  Fight with me more.  Doubt me.  You don't have to agree with everything I say."
...No.
"...Are you being a smart ass?"

And I just didn't get it.  I might feel shitty about my given circumstance, and I might feel shitty about your role in it, but if your position is higher than mine and you give me a suggestion, I'm gonna take it.  Why do you want me to fight with you?  Why do you want me to doubt you?  Who gets anywhere when that happens?

And then yesterday, I found myself in a classroom studying a process that only functions around that precise mentality.  We are not allowed to say "No", or "But", because the second that we do, we're done.  The scene is done.  There is nothing to work with, because that one word, "No", has determined that no one will be able to work with you.  You have shut everyone and everything else off.

...

I feel like I want Glary BigHead to familiarize herself with that idea.  Or, at the very least, eat a burger.  (...And learn how to act.)

 

A Starving Artist & the Word of the Fey

I feel like everyone at some point--regardless of how bookwormy they may be--finds their "Bible" of sorts, some kind of point of reference by which they intend to construct and live their lives.

I have friends who have found this within The Secret and The Alchemist, Catcher in the Rye, Maxim and/or Cosmo.  The Bible (... ... ...).  At one point in the early chunk of my grad school days, I was beginning to feel as if my Bible was Amy Sedaris' I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence; I was feeling silly and weird albeit considerably self-loathing, was struggling with how to become a better domestic goddess as I had no means of/no actual reason for doing so, and had found great solace in the sauce.  And pot cookies.  It's fine.  Incidentally, I do still believe that everyone deserves to have their own Fuck-It Bucket (kindly refer to pages 290-291 in the aforementioned masterpiece).

And now, after having lived in this glorious city for nearly three years (Whaaaaaaaaaaat?!), after having plowed through a million and seven books, and after both cutting back on the sauce and becoming addicted to Pinterest, I have found it.  I have found my answer and, goddammit, she's a beaute:

Tina Fey's Bossypants.

Tina. Fey.  Now, there's a woman for whom I would, for A, pay an amazing amount of money simply to have stand in front of me just to read off a list of fancy hors d'oeuvres. Scrutinize them.  List the options off all deadpan-like just to say, "Friends, why are we doing this to ourselves?  Let's just order a Bloomin Onion and call it a day."

(...For the record, I feel like this is not a thing that she would legitimately say, but it certainly is a HOOT to think about.  Right?  Am I RIGHT?!... ...)

Tina Fey who, for B, I have been wildly enamored with for forEVer.  Since she first started Weekend Updating, to her schooling Jack Donaghy, to her "seein Russia from her howhse", this chick...this chick has always been a bit of a wonder to me.

Why I did not have the impetus to purchase this book months ago is beyond me.

Why it never occurred to me that the book might actually have something to say to me, I mean, I just have no idea.

How.  Ever.

I have a knack for having all sorts of important things happen to me all timely-like.  Sometimes.  I guess. Sporadically occasionally, but still, this is precisely one of those moments.

I feel like I found this book just in time.

Fellow Starving Artists were telling me years before I'd even moved here that it takes someone between three to five years to feel as if they're getting anywhere professionally in the city, on average.  Meantime, you'll have a few tremendous ups, have a series of tremendous downs, and then, there will be a wall, a big wall, and you'll hit it.

At the beginning of last week, I felt like I went at said wall much like a ram, concussed myself, landed on my ass and went, "Great.  Going nowhere, and with self-inflicted wounds.  Baller."  It sucked.  And I felt stuck, and kinda just like I was lying in wait; I'm horrendous at that particular (in)activity.

I discussed my pseudo-ballsy letter with my manager, nervously picked at my nail polish, drank 7.35 cups of coffee, and walked my ass into The Strand for a happy distraction.

And there she was, perched amongst the Staff Favorites like a shiny happy little beacon.

This should be good, I says to myself.  And like that, Bossypants was mine.

There are many many reasons why I feel like this book is arguably one of the most important ones that I have ever read.  For one thing, it reiterated that I should not only embrace my Inner Weird, but flaunt it.  Hard.  Tina Fey did not get by/get ahead/get anywhere touting supermodel-looks, an impressive pedigree or a droll character.  Instead, she took stock in the unique bits of herself that she had to offer, and ran with them:  her crazy big brain, her razor-sharp wit, relentless self-deprication, her scar, and her "heart-shaped ass.  Unfortunately, it's a right-side-up heart; the point is at the bottom."  She took all of those things, put them together in a completely untidy package and unapologetically gave them to Lorne Michaels and the rest of the world in a completely take-it-or-leave-it-fashion.

They took it.

And this unapologetic-thing therein of itself had an enormous impact on me.  I admit, I'm a pretty shameless person, and I actually really like that about myself, generally speaking.  However, I'm dually shameless and apologetic (it's possible, I swear), and that's lame.  Tina Fey is a woman who apologizes for nothing, not her career choices, not her Sarah Palin-impression, not her devotion to her husband and her kids, not her Republican parents.  And certainly not her being a woman and certainly, certainly not her being a funny one; she offers the least amount of apology for that.  She says the following regarding one of Amy Poehler's first read-throughs at SNL:

      I think of this whenever someone says to me, "Jerry Lewis says women aren't funny," or "Christopher Hitchens says women aren't funny," or "Rick Fenderman says women aren't funny....Do you have anything to say to that?"

   Yes.  We don't fucking care if you like it.

   I don't say it out loud, of course, because Jerry Lewis is a great philanthropist, Hitchens is very sick, and the third guy I made up.

   ...It is an impressively arrogant move to conclude that just because you don't like something, it is empirically not good.  I don't like Chinese food, but I don't write articles trying to prove it doesn't exist.

...So, she wins.

And then, much to my surprise, there was an entire chapter dedicated to the art of IMPROV WHICH I WAS SO STUPID EXCITED TO READ ABOUT BECAUSE OF HAVING JUST SIGNED-UP FOR CLASS AT UPRIGHT CITIZEN'S BRIGADE!!!!!!!!!!  (...PS, I just signed-up for my first class at UCB.  I start in 12 days.  I'm peeing my pants.)  She began at Second City in Chicago in 1992 (the same training ground for Amy Poehler, Amy Sedaris, Stephen Colbert, Steve Carrell, Chris Farley...no one remotely impressive...) and ate it whole.  She talks about how much she loved and still loves the feeling of being a part of an ensemble (Me too!!), loves this crazy artform where there is no choice but to say "Yes" to absolutely everything (What a great day!), this artform that has positively no predictability (Exciting! Terrifying!  I WILL TAKE IT!!!) and I'm speed-reading through this whole chunk feeling more giddy and excited than I have for pretty much anything in...I mean, just a really long time.

I suddenly began to feel like things were possible.  That I had things to offer that were possible, things that someone could maybe potentially want, and that I'd maybe be cool with either way.  It was crazy.  And refreshing, and...and...

I could go on to you about how the chapter about her dad reminded me precisely of my badass stepdad and just how much I loved that, how reading about her former job at the front desk of the Evanston YMCA reminded me of my stint at the elitist nursing home in my hometown, our mirrored horrendous attempts at getting a boy's attention, (our) puzzlement and wonder over (our) former both skinny and "little bit fat" selves, the fact that she and her husband still drive home like normal people to see their families for the holidays (in crazy rural-ass Pennsylvania...somewhere...)...how altogether completely normal she sounded, and how totally inspiring all of that was to me.

I finished the thing and thought about it, and realized that up until now, I hadn't really had anyone in the forefront-ish of this industry that I could look up to.  Really.  I mean, Kate Winslet yes but, let's face it, I will never be British or that perfectly buxom, and I'm sure both Leonardo DiCaprio and James Cameron would never want anything to do with me, so that will only ever take me so far.  I long for a career like Judy Greer's, like Parker Posey's, like Carol Kane's 25-30 years ago, but as far as someone to hope to be, I hadn't really found one.  I couldn't find a good enough example, a good enough model of a person off of whom I could intend to construct and live my life.

I may never be a head writer of SNL, or the creator and star of a gem like 30 Rock.  I may never find my way to Second City, I may never get to be so influential on a presidential campaign, I may never own such a fly white denim power-suit, I may never win the Mark Twain Prize for Humor; but I can do whatever the hell I can do, and if I can do it as brilliantly, fearlessly, intelligently, humbly and unapologetically as Tina Fey...I don't think I could think of many greater achievements.

And I won't fucking care who likes it.

A Starving Artist. The Featherweight Challenger.

Another thing you should know about me:  I have no idea what to do with myself in an "I'm calling the shots, here"-situation.  I'm bad at it.  Like, in life.

Professionally:  ...I mean, this is a thing that I can't even begin to wrap my brain around.  And yet, this is precisely where I'm finding myself at the moment.

The deal:

We recall that I've signed a contract, yes?  (Yes.)  Ok, great.  And that this happened liiiiiiike nine months ago, yes?  (Yes.)  Great.  Well, by and large in the time since I've signed, I have maybe gone out once/max of twice a week.

Now.

People will argue that this is better than not going out at all, and you're goddamn right it is.  (You are god. Damn. Right.  It is.)  However, you sign with someone and--as I've mentioned in a previous post--you expect to go out considerably more than that.  That expectation is kind of established for you.  And, if you've gone out more than that while freelancing...  

...I mean, then that's weird, right? 

So, I've been scratching my head over this situation for essentially nine months.  Meantime, submitting myself for bunches of things (when applicable, of course, I've gotten past just randomly handing my headshot over to auditions just to be seen when they're only looking for "tall, 40 year-old Malaysian females"...), attending workshops, planning for classes, researching headshot photographers, reading, and, generally, just being proactive as HAYell because I don't know any other way to go about things.  I don't.

"Proactive"...although a lot of this seems to me like "prep"-stuff, because it feels like not a whole lot is really happening.  Yet.  (In this business of "Hurry up and wait".  But still.)

So, there I was, feeling prepped and proactive when I decided to bounce over to the Midwest for a moment to cuddle with a boy and a dog.  Last Wednesday night, said dog was loafing across our shins, we were sharing a diet cherry limeade and watching the Top Chef-finale, and life was feeling pretty dreamy and glorious when we heard:

"Holy balls!!!! Did you hear that _____ has been auditioning for pilot season?"
...
Awesome!  Like, multiple pilots?
"Yeah!  He's getting sent out like crazy, and he has, like, no experience with that stuff.  At all."
(....Hm.)  Yeah.  I know.
"It's pretty rad.  ______ is going out for pilots, too.  Same thing.  But you knew that, right?"
(!!!!!!!!)  No.  No, I totally didn't.
"Wait, are you going out for the season?  For anything?"
(Hmmmmmmmm....) Not yet, not that I know of, no.
"Huh. ...Alright, well you kids have fun."

So.  ...

...Why not?  Why not? I've shot a few commercials since I've been here, I shot BORED TO DEATH (!!!!) and I'm SIGNED WITH SOMEONE!!!! I SUDDENLY HAVE NO IDEA WHY THIS IS NOT HAPPENING AND I DON'T GET IT AND WHAT IF MY BEST INTEREST IS NOT, IN FACT, IN MIND, AND HOLY SHITBALLS, IF NOT, WHY NOT?!?!?!

"Baby?"
Yes.
"Why don't you ask your manager?"
Hm?
"Ask your manager why you're not going out more and what you can do."
(Yiiiiiiikes...)  I should, right?
"I mean, yes.  Definitely."

It took me days to craft this letter.  Days.  I am awesome at being diplomatic, but I have positively no idea how to assert myself when it comes to asking people to look out for me in this profession.

And I think that's a problem.  Honestly.  That's a thing that I absolutely need to get better at, because I know I'm going to be doing it all of the time.  Always.  In this career, that's what you do to push ahead.  I get it. 

But fuuuuck.

So, I took my time with it, chose words that I believed sounded forward and firm, yet kind, and not remotely desperate.  I stated that I wanted to go out more, that I wasn't going out as much as I'd anticipated I would be.  I gave him the benefit of the doubt as to why.  I asked what we could do to make the situation better--together.  I listed what I've done, I listed what I wanted to do.

I was thorough. 

...My response was more passive than I would have liked.  I got some suggestions, for sure, but they felt...they felt kinda passive.

And as I emailed him more pictures this morning at his request ("Let's try to shake things up by adding some new photos (they don't have to be touched up)."), I wondered if that was enough.  If that was gonna be the trick.  If there was a trick.  If there was something I was missing. 

I began to wonder what I would have heard back if I'd written the only thing that I actually wanted to say:

I want you to fight for me.  I want to know that you're fighting for me, because you said that you would.  I am doing everything that I personally can, but I'm fully aware that I can't do this alone.

At this moment, I feel alone.

So fight.

A Starving Artist as a Slug.

Another thing to know about me:  I am horrendously bad at being sick.

It doesn't happen all that often so, when it does, whatever the ailment, my body feels like it's been hit by a Mack truck.  Seven times.  With the driver pointing and laughing at me, calling out "Take THAT!  And THAT, Sucka!!!  AH hahahahahahahahahaaaaa!!!!"

It.  Is.  Awful.

Further awful:  it forces me to be absolutely sedentary.

...

...This absolutely 100% goes against my nature, both as a person and CERTAINLY as a Starving Artist.  I mean, are you kidding me?!  We're supposed to be running around all the goddamn time like crazy people seeking out opportunities for ourselves.  Endlessly.  Right?  AM I RIGHT?!?!...

Hence, when I can't, when I am forced into absolutely not doing any of that stuff under any circumstances, after resting and relaxing for about 2-3 hours, I panic.  I panic, and start to contemplate all of the things that I maybe could get away with doing.

Because, I mean, why sit still?  (Because you're sick.)  Why not take advantage of this free day instead of just wasting time, like you're doing right now, because you're totally wasting time!  (Except that you're not, because you're totally sick.)  Why be lazy when there is so much stuff to do?!  All the time!!!  "Lazy" is a trap that one should never fall into, so beware.  BEWARE!  (Well, I am Bewaring, and will continue to do so.  But, I'm sick.  So.  There's a difference.  A big one.)

This schizophrenic talk?  I've been having it with myself non-stop for the past two days.

Am I aware that I really need to just calm the eff down? Yeah.  For sure.  Absolutely.  But, I have never been good at not doing stuff and, for as long as I can remember, feel guilty when days like this happen to me.

So, between chugging glasses of OJ and napping like a turd, I've been daydreaming up Could Do-lists for myself:  as in "All of the Things That I Could Do if I Weren't Feeling Bed-Ridden".  By and large, the list is comprised of totally unrealistic things that I would never think to do or have a means of doing in every day life, but, when I'm sick, I feel like those are the things that I should be doing first.  ...Because being sick apparently makes me ever so slightly cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.  It's fine.  I'll fess up to it.

The list....

WHY AM I NOT:
--patching those pants
--Crock-Potting a soup...or braising something
--at the gym (... ... ...)
--learning a new monologue
--going through my 2011-receipts for my taxes
--reupholstering/restaining that bench in the hallway
--painting that cabinet in the bathroom
--going for a run (... ... ...)
--at a museum
--finding an audition to go to
--signing up for voice lessons
--signing up for pottery classes
--going to buy every memoir of every contemporary humorist right now
--going to buy a pair of black heels (...I mean, I need some.  Right?)
--teaching myself the art of Sudoku
--teaching myself the art of Chess
--teaching myself the wonders of online poker (That's the worst idea ever.  No.  Way.)
--buying 30 lottery tickets
--...60 of them.
--teaching myself Spanish with that Rosetta Stone-like program we got...forever ago.
-building...something.
--teaching myself how to knit
--at a double-feature, because I should seriously take myself to the movies more
--at a Bikram-class, because quite maybe potentially I'd sweat out this feeling of "bed-riddenness" (...)
--dyeing my hair...because what if I went red-headed again and don't I deserve to feel cute in this time of utter absolute "gross"?!  Don't I?!
--learning how to make my own yogurt
--drunk.

Ladies and gentlemen, behold what I've wrestled with for the past 48 hours--betwixt hacking up a lung, blowing through an entire box of Kleenex, and passing out on my couch watching mindless television.  (Mindless television,  PS, is never nearly as satisfying when you're sick.  Why the hell is that?)

Sweet boyfriend is currently crewwing a show that is in the middle of teching, and so we knew we were going to have to spend Valentine's Day apart (yet again).  He called at about 12:30am once he got out of rehearsal last night.

"Hey there, Sickie."
(Croak)Valluhtyyye!
"Oh.  My goodness.  Go to sleep."
Doh.
"Honeyyyy..."
Doh!  Havenn taw to you...aw day.  
"Honey.  You need your rest."
Bin resteed!  Gah SO buch sleep!
"Sick girls need more sleep."
Z'dumm.
"No it's not.  It's smart, you need to get better."
Doh.  I'm fined.  Ah should...vaccooob.  Wahdurrproof my boots.
"Nooooo.  How 'bout you sleep."
Valluhtyyyyyye...
"Sleep, Honey.  Get some actual rest.  You never do."
...Hay dit.

And I DO hate it!  I feel like such a lump and as if I'm missing out on a zillion possible things that I could and should be doing.  A zillion possible things that could and should put me ahead.

The Starving Artist should never not be doing anything; the day that they sit back is the day that they will have missed out on it.  ...Or so we're led to believe.

But.  Maybe not.

Maybe the world can wait for me today. 

...Or maybe I'll quietly nurse myself back to health, and shellack our coffee table.

A Starving Artist Turns Pink in the Face

The MTA has this whole "If You See Something, Say Something"-campaign.  It's, of course, in regard to if you see anything suspicious while riding public transportation (a big hulking bag sitting by itself in the middle of a station, a box with sparks coming out of it in the middle of the subway car...someone toting an AK-47), you have to report it immediately to someone, yadda yadda yadda.  Right.

"If You See Something, Say Something".

I tumbled that phrase around a lot in my head today while writing a letter to The Susan G. Komen Foundation (which I eventually forwarded to the New York State Senate and various publications).

Now.

What I'm not about to do is preach about that issue to you, as much as I'd love to, and could quite easily.  But the very last thing that I want is for this page to become anything that could even sort of resemble any kind of political/ethical platform.

What I am going to do, however, is say this:

It is our absolute right as American citizens to speak up when we feel the need to, to share our opinions with others as we see fit, to address matters that we may see as either problematic or--at the very least--simply worth discussion. 

We are entitled to do so.  We have legit entitlement to do this.

However...My Dear Sweet Fellow Starving Artists:  I encourage you to do this all the more-so. 

We are the little people. 

Poetically, we are the passionfull and salaryless, bloated with bravado and devoid of security.  Rationally...we are frequently just fodder for other people's jokes.  We're not just a part of the 99%, we're artsy.  Which means that absolutely no one wants to listen to us.

So make them.

If you have a point, make it.  If you have a concern, share it.  If you're looking for a change, get it to happen for yourself.

"If You See Something, Say Something".

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.

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.