30 Reasons Why 30 Will Be OK
Reason #3: Hey, Angela. Remember all those stupid life choices you made when you were 20? Now you get to say that they're officially a decade behind you. It'll almost be as if they never happened. (...Kinda.)
Reason #4: Remember all those stupider life choices you made when you were 23?
...And, in retrospect, some of those stupid life choices were awfully fun.
...
...Here's a question: Do 30 year-olds still make stupid life choices? Maybe this point is kinda moot.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Monday, November 26, 2012
A Starving Artist & The Battle at Dirty Thirty, Ep.1
So, it's happening: I'm turning 30. And it's happening in 15 days.
Fuck. Me. Running.
I mean, HOW IS THIS HAPPENING?! I'm dreading it. I'm dreading it so hard.
I know I've mentioned this, I'm sure of it, but seriously, I have always absolutely loved birthdays so much. Been that girl that's counted down to her birthday obnoxiously for years, giving everyone 186/172/96/etc. days of pre-warning that Hey. My birthday's happening. Soon. You need to fucking be aware of this so you can squeal and say things about it that wholllllllllle day.
I've said this, yeah? ...I've said this. AHHHHHHH, SENILITY!!!!!
So yeah, this year...yeah, I don't want it. I hate it. Regardless of the fact that I have thought each friend who has passed the 30-mark thus far to be badass, thinking that they've appeared that much more distinguished and put-together since exiting their 20s. For some reason, I have convinced myself that 30 will be the death of me as opposed to something new and exciting or, at the very least, just another year. And I've seriously tried to fight against it (purchasing anti-aging serum, dressing like a Fraggle for Halloween, still putting Nesquik in my coffee each morning even after all these years... ...).
...Goddamn losing battle, this was.
So, my goal over the next 15 days is to convince myself that I too will become badass, distinguished and put-together in my 30s. I am, henceforth, seeking out to discover two new reasons every day why this new Era of Angela will be ok; appropriately, we'll have 30 reasons in total.
(Hoorayyyyyyyyy for positive affirmationy things, this feels soooooo Dr. Phil, it's fine.)
OK. Here goes.
30 Reasons Why 30 Will Be OK
Reason #1: Everybody's doing it.
Reason #2: According to my dear friend Mark, "Now, someone can actually say 'Oooh, she's spunky for her age!' Until now, it's just been like, 'Oh, she's just young and whatever.' But NOW! It's like, 'Oh! Wow! Look at her! She's all alive, and spunky! That 30 year-old's got some energy!' Right?!"
...
This is gonna be hard.
Fuck. Me. Running.
I mean, HOW IS THIS HAPPENING?! I'm dreading it. I'm dreading it so hard.
I know I've mentioned this, I'm sure of it, but seriously, I have always absolutely loved birthdays so much. Been that girl that's counted down to her birthday obnoxiously for years, giving everyone 186/172/96/etc. days of pre-warning that Hey. My birthday's happening. Soon. You need to fucking be aware of this so you can squeal and say things about it that wholllllllllle day.
I've said this, yeah? ...I've said this. AHHHHHHH, SENILITY!!!!!
So yeah, this year...yeah, I don't want it. I hate it. Regardless of the fact that I have thought each friend who has passed the 30-mark thus far to be badass, thinking that they've appeared that much more distinguished and put-together since exiting their 20s. For some reason, I have convinced myself that 30 will be the death of me as opposed to something new and exciting or, at the very least, just another year. And I've seriously tried to fight against it (purchasing anti-aging serum, dressing like a Fraggle for Halloween, still putting Nesquik in my coffee each morning even after all these years... ...).
...Goddamn losing battle, this was.
So, my goal over the next 15 days is to convince myself that I too will become badass, distinguished and put-together in my 30s. I am, henceforth, seeking out to discover two new reasons every day why this new Era of Angela will be ok; appropriately, we'll have 30 reasons in total.
(Hoorayyyyyyyyy for positive affirmationy things, this feels soooooo Dr. Phil, it's fine.)
OK. Here goes.
30 Reasons Why 30 Will Be OK
Reason #1: Everybody's doing it.
Reason #2: According to my dear friend Mark, "Now, someone can actually say 'Oooh, she's spunky for her age!' Until now, it's just been like, 'Oh, she's just young and whatever.' But NOW! It's like, 'Oh! Wow! Look at her! She's all alive, and spunky! That 30 year-old's got some energy!' Right?!"
...
This is gonna be hard.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
A Starving Artist Gives Thanks
Doctors appointments are just kinda whatever, right? Like, everyone feels a certain way about having to visit medical professionals, doctors, clinic folk, what you will. Some people approach them with anticipation, just wanting to walk in the door so that they can hear some kind of good news. Some people cannot walk towards a medical facility without breaking out into sheer panic. Personally, I've never really felt one way or the other about it.
However, I will say that it's a scary thing walking into an appointment that you've been dreading for over half of your life.
It's actually downright terrifying.
However, the relief that washes over you once you leave said appointment (happily, without a stamp of doom on your forehead) is brilliant. It's practically epic, it's exhilarating.
So on Wednesday, I found myself exiting this building walking through Union Square feeling weightless and relieved and giddy. All the things.
And all I could think of to say, all I legitimately could think of to say was Thank you. Just Thank You, and for everything.
I understand that this might sound lame, but it is completely and totally honest.
And, of course, the next day would be Thanksgiving. And, of course, everyone's been doing these "I'm Thankful"-posts on the Book of the Face. So I thought, UGGGGGGGGGH, god. ...You should totally do that.
And honestly, I never do. I never come right out and express these things, expressures of gratitude, and that's kind of surprising.
It's time.
...
The following is a list of things that I have found to be thankful for, based on the past 6 months alone:
I am thankful for wine.
I am thankful for wine and chocolate.
I am thankful for 5-star Michelin restaurants, establishments where wine and chocolate are served really elegantly. And for beautiful friends who have beautiful birthday dinners in such extravagant settings.
I am thankful that I can be clearly out of place in such settings, clearly, and embrace it. Knowing that the standard fancy clientele is having far less fun.
I can thankfully vow that I will never settle to be the gal that has "far less fun".
I am thankful that I still find peanut butter and jelly to be a perfectly acceptable meal.
I am thankful for pedicures.
I am thankful for finding a great pair of heels.
I am thankful for finding great running shoes.
I am thankful to live on top of a park where I can traipse about in said running shoes, and get lost in the hills and trees and lushy lushness that all seem so not-New York....amongst a sea of weird crazies that are the very definition of "I'm a fuckin New Yorker, motherfucker."
I am thankful to have a day job.
I am thankful to only have one day job. (Finally.)
I am thankful that I refuse to be defined by my day job.
I am thankful for the Avon Foundation.
I am thankful to have been born to the most amazing, buoyant, hilarious, inspirational woman that ever was.
I am thankful to know so many wonderful people who care enough to support both her memory and a cause that I care so very deeply about.
I am thankful for Lori, Marisa, Colleen, Brad, Adrienne, my cuzzies, my aunt, and that guy I date.
I am thankful to be able to say I walked a marathon and a half in two days, and to feel crazy enough to want to do it again. (And again. And again.)
I am thankful to have a manager.
I am thankful for voice-overs.
I am thankful that I know the difference between a British dialect and a Texan one.
I am thankful for so-easy-a-caveman-can-do-it website templates. And even thankfuller that some of them are FREE.
I am thankful to have friends who are new(er) to the city, babes even. Thankful to know them, to love them, and to watch them kick more professional ass than I ever thought possible.
(I'm thankful that I feel that much more obscenely proud than jealous of said ass-kicking friends.)
I am thankful for best friends, pregnant bellies, and babies.
I am thankful for the people who name their children brilliant things like "Matisse", "Truth", and "Sequoia". You guys provide the example of yet what one more thing I aspire to never ever be.
I am thankful for birth control.
I am thankful for Pinterest.
I am thankful for YouTube. And The Gregory Brothers. And Epic Rap Battles of History.
I am thankful for Aaron Paul. Let's be real, I'm thankful to have finally found Breaking Bad, a show that both totally terrifies and completely inspires me.
I am thankful for Upright Citizen's Brigade, an environment that both totally terrifies and completely inspires me.
I am thankful that I'm almost finding it fun to be scared.
I am thankful for the days that have me running between multiple auditions.
I am thankful for the days that leave me with fuck-all to do. And I'm thankful for the people (ie: my boyfriend) that reaffirm that that's completely ok.
I am thankful that I know how to stretch a dollar.
I am thankful that I know how to really stretch a dollar.
I am thankful that I know when to just spend that damn dollar.
I am thankful to be nerding out in domesticity.
I am thankful to feel at home in the most frenetic city in the world.
I am thankful to feel at ease while being uninsured.
I am thankful to know that being uninsured does not make you unimportant. And I am thankful for the organizations that are looking out for me because of it: the Avon Foundation, Planned Parenthood, the Breast Treatment Task Force.
I am thankful for boobs. Smallish ones, mine in particular, that are (I have just been told) extremely healthy.
I am thankful that I get to keep my uterus, and that we are, in fact, moving Forward.
I am thankful that I'm occasionally called in to audition in a bathing suit (for reasons that I will never begin to comprehend).
I am very very very thankful that I don't have to do that every single day.
I am very very very thankful that I have never been asked to do anything naked (...professionally...). Like, holy shit. How awful. All I see is that scene in Fame when Irene Cara auditions topless for that film, and that scene in Family Guy when Minnie Mouse does the same...sobbing... ....
I am thankful for hilarious marketing campaigns.
I am thankful that I have a boyfriend who, for whatever reason, moved here for me. When I never asked him to. When he'd been perfectly cozy where he was. That he packed a few things, grabbed our dog, and that he just did it.
I am thankful that he's found a way to make this Home.
I am thankful that he, for whatever reason, likes me enough to keep my ass in check and call me out when I'm acting bat-shit crazy. For example:
"Hey. You only slept for three hours last night. Maybe don't go for a run, and go back to bed."
"Hey. You will not get fat if you have one piece of pizza."
"Hey. You don't even know her, why are you concerned about her opinion?"
"Hey. Don't work so hard."
"Hey. Don't try to do so much."
"Hey. ... ...You're crazy."
I am thankful for our badass apartment.
I am thankful for our badass neighborhood: the awesome diversity of it, the awesome scenery, the awesome location, and our awesome corner bodega with its fluffy weird lathargic cat and $3 deli sandwiches.
I am thankful that we have a CARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!
I am thankful that all we had to concern ourselves with during Hurricane Sandy was our PBR-supply, The Money Pit, Best in Show, and season 4 of Breaking Bad.
I am thankful that most of our friends stayed well out of harm's way. And that the ones who didn't were brought back to normalcy swiftly and fairly smoothly.
I am thankful to know some extraordinarily generous, giving, and beautiful people who have been giving their everything to relief efforts for the past three weeks.
I am thankful that the woman who occasionally sleeps in front of the stairwell to our rooftop hasn't relieved herself there. Yet.
I'm gonna say it: I am thankful that I am not poop-shy. Considering how things went down at our Thanksgiving, I am more thankful for that than ever before. (... ...What?).
I am thankful that our dog (who is also not poop-shy...) only weighs 75 lbs. I can't imagine what life would be like having any larger of a lap dog.
I am thankful to have been raised by the sweetest, kindest, most hard-working and supportive family possible. A family that has always stressed to me the importance of following a passion as opposed to following a dollar. I know that they wish that my particular passion were a bit more secure, a bit less unknown and "hurry up and wait", but they've never had any less than 100% of my back. I could not be more thankful for that.
I am thankful to have never seen a single episode of Toddlers and Tiaras, Honey Boo Boo, or Keeping Up With The Kardashians.
I am thankful to not know a single person attending New York Reality TV School (which, PS, is a real thing).
I am thankful to have so many curious friends. Friends who are going back to school, switching career paths, moving across the country, eager to seek out new experiences and take risks just because. Just. Because. Goddamn, that's cool.
I am thankful to have realized that my professional destiny was not, in fact, to be an English teacher.
I am thankful that I stood up to not straightening my hair. Or shortening my name.
I am thankful to every person who has ever referred to me as "flaky", "starry eyed", and/or "too bubbly". You have made my skin thicker. Also: Fuck you very much.
I am thankful for dryer sheets, lilacs, and the smell of burning charcoal.
I am thankful for dirty chai, hot cider, and Jameson--neat, or on the rocks.
I am thankful for new music, funny women, David Sedaris, and The Coen Brothers.
I am thankful for IKEA.
I am thankful for skinny jeans.
I am thankful for men's button-downs.
I am thankful for grad school.
I am thankful for every city in which I've lived.
I'm thankful for every place to which I've traveled.
I am thankful that despite all else--despite an endless amount of pitfalls, despite how hard I tend to be on myself over things that I will never be and never have (and are, thereby, never to be in my control), despite my tendency to have things go completely unaccording to plan, despite the wacky uneven road behind me and the rougher road ahead, I am thankful that I have somehow turned into a bitch that simply won't quit. Won't. Who is stubborn, who is resilient, and surprisingly brave.
And I am thankful that despite all else, and despite how frighteningly cheesy it may sound, I am thankful that I am a girl who is, for whatever reason, unabashedly loved.
And I guess that's it.
That's at least what's most important. And that's enough.
However, I will say that it's a scary thing walking into an appointment that you've been dreading for over half of your life.
It's actually downright terrifying.
However, the relief that washes over you once you leave said appointment (happily, without a stamp of doom on your forehead) is brilliant. It's practically epic, it's exhilarating.
So on Wednesday, I found myself exiting this building walking through Union Square feeling weightless and relieved and giddy. All the things.
And all I could think of to say, all I legitimately could think of to say was Thank you. Just Thank You, and for everything.
I understand that this might sound lame, but it is completely and totally honest.
And, of course, the next day would be Thanksgiving. And, of course, everyone's been doing these "I'm Thankful"-posts on the Book of the Face. So I thought, UGGGGGGGGGH, god. ...You should totally do that.
And honestly, I never do. I never come right out and express these things, expressures of gratitude, and that's kind of surprising.
It's time.
...
The following is a list of things that I have found to be thankful for, based on the past 6 months alone:
I am thankful for wine.
I am thankful for wine and chocolate.
I am thankful for 5-star Michelin restaurants, establishments where wine and chocolate are served really elegantly. And for beautiful friends who have beautiful birthday dinners in such extravagant settings.
I am thankful that I can be clearly out of place in such settings, clearly, and embrace it. Knowing that the standard fancy clientele is having far less fun.
I can thankfully vow that I will never settle to be the gal that has "far less fun".
I am thankful that I still find peanut butter and jelly to be a perfectly acceptable meal.
I am thankful for pedicures.
I am thankful for finding a great pair of heels.
I am thankful for finding great running shoes.
I am thankful to live on top of a park where I can traipse about in said running shoes, and get lost in the hills and trees and lushy lushness that all seem so not-New York....amongst a sea of weird crazies that are the very definition of "I'm a fuckin New Yorker, motherfucker."
I am thankful to have a day job.
I am thankful to only have one day job. (Finally.)
I am thankful that I refuse to be defined by my day job.
I am thankful for the Avon Foundation.
I am thankful to have been born to the most amazing, buoyant, hilarious, inspirational woman that ever was.
I am thankful to know so many wonderful people who care enough to support both her memory and a cause that I care so very deeply about.
I am thankful for Lori, Marisa, Colleen, Brad, Adrienne, my cuzzies, my aunt, and that guy I date.
I am thankful to be able to say I walked a marathon and a half in two days, and to feel crazy enough to want to do it again. (And again. And again.)
I am thankful to have a manager.
I am thankful for voice-overs.
I am thankful that I know the difference between a British dialect and a Texan one.
I am thankful for so-easy-a-caveman-can-do-it website templates. And even thankfuller that some of them are FREE.
I am thankful to have friends who are new(er) to the city, babes even. Thankful to know them, to love them, and to watch them kick more professional ass than I ever thought possible.
(I'm thankful that I feel that much more obscenely proud than jealous of said ass-kicking friends.)
I am thankful for best friends, pregnant bellies, and babies.
I am thankful for the people who name their children brilliant things like "Matisse", "Truth", and "Sequoia". You guys provide the example of yet what one more thing I aspire to never ever be.
I am thankful for birth control.
I am thankful for Pinterest.
I am thankful for YouTube. And The Gregory Brothers. And Epic Rap Battles of History.
I am thankful for Aaron Paul. Let's be real, I'm thankful to have finally found Breaking Bad, a show that both totally terrifies and completely inspires me.
I am thankful for Upright Citizen's Brigade, an environment that both totally terrifies and completely inspires me.
I am thankful that I'm almost finding it fun to be scared.
I am thankful for the days that have me running between multiple auditions.
I am thankful for the days that leave me with fuck-all to do. And I'm thankful for the people (ie: my boyfriend) that reaffirm that that's completely ok.
I am thankful that I know how to stretch a dollar.
I am thankful that I know how to really stretch a dollar.
I am thankful that I know when to just spend that damn dollar.
I am thankful to be nerding out in domesticity.
I am thankful to feel at home in the most frenetic city in the world.
I am thankful to feel at ease while being uninsured.
I am thankful to know that being uninsured does not make you unimportant. And I am thankful for the organizations that are looking out for me because of it: the Avon Foundation, Planned Parenthood, the Breast Treatment Task Force.
I am thankful for boobs. Smallish ones, mine in particular, that are (I have just been told) extremely healthy.
I am thankful that I get to keep my uterus, and that we are, in fact, moving Forward.
I am thankful that I'm occasionally called in to audition in a bathing suit (for reasons that I will never begin to comprehend).
I am very very very thankful that I don't have to do that every single day.
I am very very very thankful that I have never been asked to do anything naked (...professionally...). Like, holy shit. How awful. All I see is that scene in Fame when Irene Cara auditions topless for that film, and that scene in Family Guy when Minnie Mouse does the same...sobbing... ....
I am thankful for hilarious marketing campaigns.
I am thankful that I have a boyfriend who, for whatever reason, moved here for me. When I never asked him to. When he'd been perfectly cozy where he was. That he packed a few things, grabbed our dog, and that he just did it.
I am thankful that he's found a way to make this Home.
I am thankful that he, for whatever reason, likes me enough to keep my ass in check and call me out when I'm acting bat-shit crazy. For example:
"Hey. You only slept for three hours last night. Maybe don't go for a run, and go back to bed."
"Hey. You will not get fat if you have one piece of pizza."
"Hey. You don't even know her, why are you concerned about her opinion?"
"Hey. Don't work so hard."
"Hey. Don't try to do so much."
"Hey. ... ...You're crazy."
I am thankful for our badass apartment.
I am thankful for our badass neighborhood: the awesome diversity of it, the awesome scenery, the awesome location, and our awesome corner bodega with its fluffy weird lathargic cat and $3 deli sandwiches.
I am thankful that we have a CARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!
I am thankful that all we had to concern ourselves with during Hurricane Sandy was our PBR-supply, The Money Pit, Best in Show, and season 4 of Breaking Bad.
I am thankful that most of our friends stayed well out of harm's way. And that the ones who didn't were brought back to normalcy swiftly and fairly smoothly.
I am thankful to know some extraordinarily generous, giving, and beautiful people who have been giving their everything to relief efforts for the past three weeks.
I am thankful that the woman who occasionally sleeps in front of the stairwell to our rooftop hasn't relieved herself there. Yet.
I'm gonna say it: I am thankful that I am not poop-shy. Considering how things went down at our Thanksgiving, I am more thankful for that than ever before. (... ...What?).
I am thankful that our dog (who is also not poop-shy...) only weighs 75 lbs. I can't imagine what life would be like having any larger of a lap dog.
I am thankful to have been raised by the sweetest, kindest, most hard-working and supportive family possible. A family that has always stressed to me the importance of following a passion as opposed to following a dollar. I know that they wish that my particular passion were a bit more secure, a bit less unknown and "hurry up and wait", but they've never had any less than 100% of my back. I could not be more thankful for that.
I am thankful to have never seen a single episode of Toddlers and Tiaras, Honey Boo Boo, or Keeping Up With The Kardashians.
I am thankful to not know a single person attending New York Reality TV School (which, PS, is a real thing).
I am thankful to have so many curious friends. Friends who are going back to school, switching career paths, moving across the country, eager to seek out new experiences and take risks just because. Just. Because. Goddamn, that's cool.
I am thankful to have realized that my professional destiny was not, in fact, to be an English teacher.
I am thankful that I stood up to not straightening my hair. Or shortening my name.
I am thankful to every person who has ever referred to me as "flaky", "starry eyed", and/or "too bubbly". You have made my skin thicker. Also: Fuck you very much.
I am thankful for dryer sheets, lilacs, and the smell of burning charcoal.
I am thankful for dirty chai, hot cider, and Jameson--neat, or on the rocks.
I am thankful for new music, funny women, David Sedaris, and The Coen Brothers.
I am thankful for IKEA.
I am thankful for skinny jeans.
I am thankful for men's button-downs.
I am thankful for grad school.
I am thankful for every city in which I've lived.
I'm thankful for every place to which I've traveled.
I am thankful that despite all else--despite an endless amount of pitfalls, despite how hard I tend to be on myself over things that I will never be and never have (and are, thereby, never to be in my control), despite my tendency to have things go completely unaccording to plan, despite the wacky uneven road behind me and the rougher road ahead, I am thankful that I have somehow turned into a bitch that simply won't quit. Won't. Who is stubborn, who is resilient, and surprisingly brave.
And I am thankful that despite all else, and despite how frighteningly cheesy it may sound, I am thankful that I am a girl who is, for whatever reason, unabashedly loved.
And I guess that's it.
That's at least what's most important. And that's enough.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
A Starving Artist On-Set
Wednesday, 1:25pm. A bustling lobby at a popular casting studio...
Excuse me, I'm sorry.
"Yes?"
Sorry. I don't mean to be that girl, but I was scheduled for 1 o'clock...
"...OK--"
...Right, and I just wanted to see how long I had before I went in.
"Oh."
To audition.
"Right. Ummmm...you still have like 5 girls ahead of you."
Oh. OK.
"Why?"
Well--
"...Do you have, like, somewhere to be? Somewhere else you have to get to or something?"
Actually...I mean, I do.
"Uh-huh."
Sorry. It's just, I have to be on-set at 2.
"Oh!" (Oh?) "Oh! No worries, we'll switch some stuff around and take care of it."
(REALLY?!) Really?!
"Absolutely! Don't sweat it, we'll get you there in plenty of time."
Oh. Great! Great.
"Thanks for your patience, by the way."
No. Yeah, of course, thank you.
...And so there you are, getting preferential treatment, being that girl getting preferential treatment at an audition because of those 5 1/2 words:
I have to be on-set.
And you should feel guilty, you should, having those other girls who have been waiting for 45 minutes leer at you, laughing at your expense because you somehow can't keep your almost-cleavage buttoned-up and cursing you under their breath for cutting in line, almost effortlessly, simply for having a more important place to be.
But you don't.
You feel goddamn magical.
You continue to feel magical as you kick that audition's ass, whisk yourself towards the elevator whilst grinning extra big at the bitches who are still staring you down as you exit, float down the street, and glide (...not really, it was midday traffic in Chelsea) into a cab.
(cue the plucky little orchestra)
440 West 15th, please.
"West one-five, ma'am?"
One-five, indeed, good sir! (Ha HAAAAAA!!!)
I am going to set.
You are going to set, you fancy bitch! How completely dreamy, how magical!!
You magically heave your bags from the cab, pay the driver with a smile, sprinkle some fairy dust and send him on his merry little way.
There is the HighLine.
There is the sun.
And there is the magical building in which your set awaits you. Just you.
Glorious!
You pirouette through the doors streaming rainbows in your wake.
Hello! Where might I find Stage E?
"Ah! But of course! It's just right through there!"
Oh, gracious, THANK you! Um, shall I?
"You shall!"
I SHALL!
You throw open the doors of the hallway releasing a fleet of doves and, as you careen towards the stage door, you are showered with falling rose petals...and awe.
"The set is calling you," whispers the unicorn standing before Stage D, "She awaits."
Well, I am not one to keep a lady waiting, says you.
You give the unicorn a wink, he bows his head reverently, you take a deep breath, and gently press on the sapphire-studded door of Stage E.
I am headed to set, I am headed to set, I am... ...
(cue the extreme record scratch)
But no.
No, friends. Not so. What awaits is something altogether completely 100% different than magic. What awaits is something altogether completely 100% the absolute opposite of unicorns and wonderment and set-whimsy and "Angela, here's your director's chair and cucumber water. And complimentary pegasus."
No.
What awaits is a world of squeals and chaos and pigtails and velcro. Extreme hyperactivity and the mingled smell of baby powder and baby feet. And hairspray.
Oh no.
What awaits is 42 children in exceedingly bright nearly-neon clothing and their stage mothers.
NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
You see, ladies and gentlemen, this is what the world looks like when you're shooting something for Nickelodeon. And, indeed, I was.
In complete and total honesty, I had nearly forgotten what world I was actually walking into. Really. And, in my defense, of course I did! I was walking onto a set. A pretty sizable one, matter uh fact, and I don't care who you are, you're not on one of those every second of every day, that's some exciting shit. I was excited. ...I'm perpetually excited, but COME on, that's a legit exciting situation. In theory.
But this. This. The world of Nickelodeon to a 29 year-old...aw boy, you guys.
(Sidebar: I should like to preface this by saying that I love children. I totally absolutely do, I can't wait to have them someday. In eleven years. And I hope that they are brilliant and have dimples, that they are brilliantly dimpled children who giggle and are sweet and witty and not remotely douchey or bratty ever. ...I'm gonna work really hard at that. In eleven years.)
Children are nuts.
I mean, generally speaking. You put 42 of them in a room together, they go nuts. Inherently, they do. So, if you put 42 of them in a room together and then you tell them that they're all going to be on TELEVISION: nuts. Ape. Shit. Crazy, BUH-nanas.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
"AH! AHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGH!!!!" Yelling yelling yelling, screaming screaming screaming, running running running dance party dance party dance party as soon as I walked through the door and OH my god, my brain's exploding. Wow.
I sat back and absorbed this, all of this, and massaged my temples as I was trying to assemble my wardrobe potentials for the shoot. There were these little moppy-haired boys running around the holding room like airplanes, little girls with better hair than I have chasing each other to the buffet table to consume their weight in Handi-Snacks.
"I love One Direction."
"No, I love One Direction!"
"I do!"
"I do!!"
"My mom says I do most."
"Nuh-uh!!"
"YUH-huh!!!"
"TELEVISION!!!!"
"TELEVISIONNNNNNNNNNNN!!!! AHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGH!"
And then Me in the middle of this. Plus three other equally as floored-looking grown-ups.
Wow.
The four of us sat in silence around the perimeter of the room and just stared off into the abyss of rabid children.
Are you seeing this?! says I to the 65 year-old lady sitting next to me. All that energy....I can't tell if I'm envious or terrified. You know?
Silence. Absolute silence as she remained glued to her Kindle.
OK great.
Great.
Yelling yelling yelling, screaming screaming screaming, running running running dance party dance party dance party--the room is theirs. Undeniably so. Every hair and make-up chair has a toddler parked in it, every drink has been snatched-up by 5 year-old claws, every hanger is draping a smock from Gap Kids, every P.A. is taking deep breaths and staring way too hard at their clipboards, and I'm just this slack-faced imbecile, just kinda standing there.
(What the hell am I doing here?)
"Excuse me, m'am. Which role are you?"
Uh...Toy Store Adult Extra #2? I'd nearly forgotten about that part of it, too. That "extra"-thing. That "You auditioned for a speaking role but got this instead"-thing. Shit was getting hilarious.
"Ah! Gotcha. Great, thanks! We'll...check in in a bit."
Hell.
And then, there were the stage mothers.
You're in the business, you know stage mothers, and you can't avoid them, no matter how much you'd really really really really like to. You know that they will take over a room, letting everyone else know how completely important and perfect their child is, how completely important and perfect their wardrobe has to be, and exactly how much hypoallergenic eyeliner they are comfortable with their child wearing and why.
These women birthed Stars. Brilliant, uber-talented, hyper-charismatic stars, and they need to be showcased; it is the stage mother's job to ensure that their child is showcased better than the other 41 children in the room.
I cannot tell you the number of times that I have participated in just such an exchange with one of these women:
"So, have you done this play before?"
Actually, no, this is my first time. I'm thrilled, th--
"Oh, well, this is Julia's sixth time."
Oh. Wow. That's--
"She auditioned for her first time when she was 3, but they said that she was just a bit too young. So. Then, we had her audition when she was 4, right when she started Kindergarten, because she started early, you see, quite early, she's incredibly young for her grade but she's just so smart. ...Anywho, she just blew them away at her audition, just wow, you know? And she's been in it ever since, kinda getting bigger and bigger with her part every year. And she's done it regionally now, too, which is just...I mean...UH. You know?"
...That's great.
"But she's just so humble, you know? Like, it never gets to her head, and I just thank God for that every single day, that I have such a modest, humble, talented, beautiful daughter. Look at her over there, she's the one with the pink leggings and those little Uggs on, the one sitting cross-legged all...poised. Isn't she beautiful?"
...She is.
"And she's just so excited, her entire primary school is coming. Just all the kids, all of them. I was talking to her teacher and I think that her class should all make cards for her, just, you know, 'Oh. Wow. Great Job', something, but I don't know, we'll see, it's not my call, so--"
How, um, how old is she?
"She's 6."
Oh. Wow.
"But, you know, a very mature 6."
...Sure. That's cool.
"Mmhmm. ...So. How old are you?"
Stage mothers are terrifying. Stage mothers are exhausting.
However, for the first time in my whole life, I looked around this room and saw that these stage mothers were simply exhausted. Completely depleted, as if they'd just given up.
(Oh god.)
What kind of child could wear their stage mother out?!
(Oh god.)
These ones.
(Oh. God.)
And I really and truly began to wonder what exactly I'd signed up for, rather, what I'd been cast in, rewarded with.
I was still wondering as much half an hour later when I found myself standing in a big warehousy room with 6 kids and one other adult sot. My hair had been curled, my lips had been glossed, there were a million and a half cameras and these crazy big lights, and a great big bright green backdrop melting into an expansive bright green floor.
'Twas the set, I was on-set. Finally.
(...I still don't get it.)
And there I am taking in my surroundings, and there's these two P.As lumbering around the set in pursuit of one (count that: one) boy.
"Trevorrrrr."
"Trevor."
"We need...we need you to sit down, Buddy."
"Trev, just have a seat, pal. We need you to stay. Seated."
"And quiet."
"Please."
"I'M A DOG!!!!!"
...
"That's cool, Bud."
"RAWR!!!"
"OK, so maybe we're not playing dogs right now."
"We're not."
"Maybe we're a Trevor, and Trevors sit."
"BUT DOGS SIT!!! BUT SOME BEARS!!! DANCE!!!!"
"Sure. But your...dog-bear can't dance."
"Let's stay away from those electrical cords, please."
"Yeah, and all those...ok, you need to--no more running, Trevor."
"Want me to get his mom?"
"RAWWWWWWWWWWWWWR!!!! RAWR RAWR RAWRRRRR!!!" Running around the foot of the set, pawing at the air all crazy-like.
"Trevvvvvvv...oh. Kay."
And P.A. #2 just stares at me, all haggard-looking and glassy-eyed.
"I can't be this kid's babysitter. Like, I won't." Throws his hands, marches off in the opposite direction.
(Yessssssss.)
And then:
"Angela?"
Yes?
"Hi! Avery here is going to be your partner in this scene." And then P.A. #3 brings over this adorable little wide-eyed girl who can't possibly be older than 6, all decked-out in polka-dotted everything and multi-colored Chuck Taylors. She looks prim, and composed, and completely totally precious.
I attempted to avoid the fact that little Avery was my implied daughter (Jesus, someone like me could feasibly have a 6 year-old. Ugh), swallowed my pride (She's cute anywho), and pressed on.
Oh, hey, Avery! How are you doin?
...Nothin.
Uh. Did you come right from school today? What grade are you in?...
...
Staring at the ground, kinda shuffle-stepping back and forth. Not a word.
...'Kay. Fail. (...Jerk.)
"OKayyy, guyyys, are we ready? Now. I need you all to look up at this beam, at this beam right. Here. OK? Are we looking? Are you guys alllllll looking at this beam, the one right here that goes allllllllll the way across the ceiling? ...OK? Got it?"
(CHRIST, Buddy, we got it! We got it!)
"OK. Now on the count of three, I want you alllllllll to pretend that there are great big balloons alllllll alonnnnnnng the sky, right where this beam is. OK? You're all at a great big balloon festival and there are great big balloons allllllllll over the sky, but. You can only look at the ones right. In. Here, where the beam is." (God.) "OKayyyyy?"
'Kay.
"And let's talk about all the different balloons we see with our partner." (What, this girl?) "OKayyy?"
O.K.
"On the count of three, ready?"
As the P.A. begins to count, I suddenly become completely annoyed. I sincerely don't understand what I'm doing in this company or why I'm doing this kind of work, this children's programming stuff, or how it is that I'm finding myself being an extra, again. And being an extra amongst a horde of children, nonetheless, it just felt like salt in the wound. Shouldn't I be doing something, I don't know...better than this by now? Something important-ish? Something where I could actually act instead of being a glorified babysitter to three dozen rugrats? Something...
(Uggggggggh, I am the grossest diva in the world!!!)
"Three! Action!"
"Hey! See that?!"
...
(...Avery? Was that just Avery? Talking to me?)
Ummm...which?
"The one right there, the one that looks like an elephant." And she grins like a maniac and points skyward.
Oh. Yes, yes I do.
"That's so funny."
Yes it is.
"Ooh! And that one over there? That looks like a cat."
It totally does.
"I know!"
I know! You're right!
"It looks like he's licking his paw!"
Yes it does.
"That's so silly!"
And for a moment, I'm actually having a blast. This girl is precious and has this big crazy awesome imagination and, for a moment, I forget that we're doing this for television. For a moment, it feels like we're just having fun.
Hey, Avery.
"Yeah?"
See that reallllllllly big balloon over there?
"Ooh, yeah! It's huge!"
I know! Don't you think it looks like a turtle?
...
"...No."
...
What? You don't? You don't think that looks like a turtle?
"No."
Oh.
"It looks like a pig."
Huh. Well, I think it looks kinda like a turtle.
"It doesn't. It's a pig."
(This girl sucks.)
"OK, wait, guys, freeze!" shrieks the PA, "Now. I want you alllllllll to keep looking at the balloons, but now alllllllll of the balloons have baby penguins on them! Oh nooooooooo, whyaretherebaby penguinnnnnnnnnns, ok go."
(Jesus.)
"NO!"
...What?
"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!! LOOK AT THE BABY PENGUINS!!!!!!!"
...Where?
"Up there! Right up there! On the balloons!"
...I don't see any baby penguins. (I can play your game here, Lady.)
"Yes you do!"
No.
"Yes you DO! You have to! They're right! There! They're everywhere!" And she was so manic about it that I started to feel bad. Felt bad for denying her, for not giving that jerk precisely what she wanted.
And then I looked at her again, and suddenly, I thought about my niece.
My niece is turning 3 soon, and she's a perfect creature. She is. She's beautiful and sweet and is in love with everything. Dogs, the beach, the guitar, The Little Mermaid, The Fresh Beat Band...
And then I remembered that I was on-set for her very favorite show. I'd earnestly forgotten about that, too.
And then I felt like if I didn't give into this jerk partner of mine that not only would I not be playing along, but that my niece would see it. She'd see me being mean, being a bully, my niece would see me being horrible and ruining her show.
...
Oh. My. Gosh WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT THESE PENGUINNNNNNNS?!?!
"I don't know!!"
There's so many!!!
"I know!"
This is AWful!
"I know! Mom!"
Avery! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRGHHHHHHH!!"
"Cut!"
The next couple of hours moved along in a similar fashion:
"You're at the zoo, HEY! Look at those polar bears!"
Trevor, you can be a worm later. Let's look at the bear right now, OK? ...The bear, Trev.
"You're still at the balloon festival, HEY! Let's look at the clouds!"
"There's so many of them!"
I know, right?
"I like the big green ones!"
...Me, too.
"You're in a toy store, HEY! Look at these stinkbugs!! Shake off those stinkbugs!!! Ewwwwww, they smell awwwwwwwfulllllll! Now RUN! RUN! RUN AWAY FROM THE STINKBUGS!!!"
STINKBUGGGGGGGGGGGGS!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRGHHHHHHH!!
High-quality acting on my part.
...Fine.
And the thing was it actually ended up being fun. And, I mean, of course it did. It was Nickelodeon, for crying out loud, you don't walk away from a Nickelodeon-shoot having had a fun time, something's wrong. Very.
And the thing is that this was not my first go-round a set of less-than-Oscar-caliber. I've shot an infomercial. ...Criminy, I've shot lots of things. I guess I'm just antsy to shoot something that feels legit to me, supremely so, something I can walk away from going Aw, damn, look what I did!!!
Someday.
But this set didn't belong to me. And most won't. This one simply belonged to 40 other people, wee ones, who were just as psyched to be on television as I was.
But, at least I got to say that I was there.
...
Walking away from 440 West One-Five, I called my sweet boyfriend instantaneously, like you do.
(cue "Rhapsody in Blue")
"Are you done already?!"
Yeah. What do you wanna do for dinner?
"You're done. On-set."
Yeah.
"Well, that was quick!"
Mehhhhh, not really.
"Angie, you were only there for three hours."
(?!?!?!?!)
The shortest shoot in the history of the world. And I hadn't forgotten, I simply hadn't realized. What a happy little nugget of discovery.
"You just left set."
Yes.
"And now you have all night. To play."
I do!
"...I'd say you won."
I WON!!!!
Excuse me, I'm sorry.
"Yes?"
Sorry. I don't mean to be that girl, but I was scheduled for 1 o'clock...
"...OK--"
...Right, and I just wanted to see how long I had before I went in.
"Oh."
To audition.
"Right. Ummmm...you still have like 5 girls ahead of you."
Oh. OK.
"Why?"
Well--
"...Do you have, like, somewhere to be? Somewhere else you have to get to or something?"
Actually...I mean, I do.
"Uh-huh."
Sorry. It's just, I have to be on-set at 2.
"Oh!" (Oh?) "Oh! No worries, we'll switch some stuff around and take care of it."
(REALLY?!) Really?!
"Absolutely! Don't sweat it, we'll get you there in plenty of time."
Oh. Great! Great.
"Thanks for your patience, by the way."
No. Yeah, of course, thank you.
...And so there you are, getting preferential treatment, being that girl getting preferential treatment at an audition because of those 5 1/2 words:
I have to be on-set.
And you should feel guilty, you should, having those other girls who have been waiting for 45 minutes leer at you, laughing at your expense because you somehow can't keep your almost-cleavage buttoned-up and cursing you under their breath for cutting in line, almost effortlessly, simply for having a more important place to be.
But you don't.
You feel goddamn magical.
You continue to feel magical as you kick that audition's ass, whisk yourself towards the elevator whilst grinning extra big at the bitches who are still staring you down as you exit, float down the street, and glide (...not really, it was midday traffic in Chelsea) into a cab.
(cue the plucky little orchestra)
440 West 15th, please.
"West one-five, ma'am?"
One-five, indeed, good sir! (Ha HAAAAAA!!!)
I am going to set.
You are going to set, you fancy bitch! How completely dreamy, how magical!!
You magically heave your bags from the cab, pay the driver with a smile, sprinkle some fairy dust and send him on his merry little way.
There is the HighLine.
There is the sun.
And there is the magical building in which your set awaits you. Just you.
Glorious!
You pirouette through the doors streaming rainbows in your wake.
Hello! Where might I find Stage E?
"Ah! But of course! It's just right through there!"
Oh, gracious, THANK you! Um, shall I?
"You shall!"
I SHALL!
You throw open the doors of the hallway releasing a fleet of doves and, as you careen towards the stage door, you are showered with falling rose petals...and awe.
"The set is calling you," whispers the unicorn standing before Stage D, "She awaits."
Well, I am not one to keep a lady waiting, says you.
You give the unicorn a wink, he bows his head reverently, you take a deep breath, and gently press on the sapphire-studded door of Stage E.
I am headed to set, I am headed to set, I am... ...
(cue the extreme record scratch)
But no.
No, friends. Not so. What awaits is something altogether completely 100% different than magic. What awaits is something altogether completely 100% the absolute opposite of unicorns and wonderment and set-whimsy and "Angela, here's your director's chair and cucumber water. And complimentary pegasus."
No.
What awaits is a world of squeals and chaos and pigtails and velcro. Extreme hyperactivity and the mingled smell of baby powder and baby feet. And hairspray.
Oh no.
What awaits is 42 children in exceedingly bright nearly-neon clothing and their stage mothers.
NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
You see, ladies and gentlemen, this is what the world looks like when you're shooting something for Nickelodeon. And, indeed, I was.
In complete and total honesty, I had nearly forgotten what world I was actually walking into. Really. And, in my defense, of course I did! I was walking onto a set. A pretty sizable one, matter uh fact, and I don't care who you are, you're not on one of those every second of every day, that's some exciting shit. I was excited. ...I'm perpetually excited, but COME on, that's a legit exciting situation. In theory.
But this. This. The world of Nickelodeon to a 29 year-old...aw boy, you guys.
(Sidebar: I should like to preface this by saying that I love children. I totally absolutely do, I can't wait to have them someday. In eleven years. And I hope that they are brilliant and have dimples, that they are brilliantly dimpled children who giggle and are sweet and witty and not remotely douchey or bratty ever. ...I'm gonna work really hard at that. In eleven years.)
Children are nuts.
I mean, generally speaking. You put 42 of them in a room together, they go nuts. Inherently, they do. So, if you put 42 of them in a room together and then you tell them that they're all going to be on TELEVISION: nuts. Ape. Shit. Crazy, BUH-nanas.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
"AH! AHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGH!!!!" Yelling yelling yelling, screaming screaming screaming, running running running dance party dance party dance party as soon as I walked through the door and OH my god, my brain's exploding. Wow.
I sat back and absorbed this, all of this, and massaged my temples as I was trying to assemble my wardrobe potentials for the shoot. There were these little moppy-haired boys running around the holding room like airplanes, little girls with better hair than I have chasing each other to the buffet table to consume their weight in Handi-Snacks.
"I love One Direction."
"No, I love One Direction!"
"I do!"
"I do!!"
"My mom says I do most."
"Nuh-uh!!"
"YUH-huh!!!"
"TELEVISION!!!!"
"TELEVISIONNNNNNNNNNNN!!!! AHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGH!"
And then Me in the middle of this. Plus three other equally as floored-looking grown-ups.
Wow.
The four of us sat in silence around the perimeter of the room and just stared off into the abyss of rabid children.
Are you seeing this?! says I to the 65 year-old lady sitting next to me. All that energy....I can't tell if I'm envious or terrified. You know?
Silence. Absolute silence as she remained glued to her Kindle.
OK great.
Great.
Yelling yelling yelling, screaming screaming screaming, running running running dance party dance party dance party--the room is theirs. Undeniably so. Every hair and make-up chair has a toddler parked in it, every drink has been snatched-up by 5 year-old claws, every hanger is draping a smock from Gap Kids, every P.A. is taking deep breaths and staring way too hard at their clipboards, and I'm just this slack-faced imbecile, just kinda standing there.
(What the hell am I doing here?)
"Excuse me, m'am. Which role are you?"
Uh...Toy Store Adult Extra #2? I'd nearly forgotten about that part of it, too. That "extra"-thing. That "You auditioned for a speaking role but got this instead"-thing. Shit was getting hilarious.
"Ah! Gotcha. Great, thanks! We'll...check in in a bit."
Hell.
And then, there were the stage mothers.
You're in the business, you know stage mothers, and you can't avoid them, no matter how much you'd really really really really like to. You know that they will take over a room, letting everyone else know how completely important and perfect their child is, how completely important and perfect their wardrobe has to be, and exactly how much hypoallergenic eyeliner they are comfortable with their child wearing and why.
These women birthed Stars. Brilliant, uber-talented, hyper-charismatic stars, and they need to be showcased; it is the stage mother's job to ensure that their child is showcased better than the other 41 children in the room.
I cannot tell you the number of times that I have participated in just such an exchange with one of these women:
"So, have you done this play before?"
Actually, no, this is my first time. I'm thrilled, th--
"Oh, well, this is Julia's sixth time."
Oh. Wow. That's--
"She auditioned for her first time when she was 3, but they said that she was just a bit too young. So. Then, we had her audition when she was 4, right when she started Kindergarten, because she started early, you see, quite early, she's incredibly young for her grade but she's just so smart. ...Anywho, she just blew them away at her audition, just wow, you know? And she's been in it ever since, kinda getting bigger and bigger with her part every year. And she's done it regionally now, too, which is just...I mean...UH. You know?"
...That's great.
"But she's just so humble, you know? Like, it never gets to her head, and I just thank God for that every single day, that I have such a modest, humble, talented, beautiful daughter. Look at her over there, she's the one with the pink leggings and those little Uggs on, the one sitting cross-legged all...poised. Isn't she beautiful?"
...She is.
"And she's just so excited, her entire primary school is coming. Just all the kids, all of them. I was talking to her teacher and I think that her class should all make cards for her, just, you know, 'Oh. Wow. Great Job', something, but I don't know, we'll see, it's not my call, so--"
How, um, how old is she?
"She's 6."
Oh. Wow.
"But, you know, a very mature 6."
...Sure. That's cool.
"Mmhmm. ...So. How old are you?"
Stage mothers are terrifying. Stage mothers are exhausting.
However, for the first time in my whole life, I looked around this room and saw that these stage mothers were simply exhausted. Completely depleted, as if they'd just given up.
(Oh god.)
What kind of child could wear their stage mother out?!
(Oh god.)
These ones.
(Oh. God.)
And I really and truly began to wonder what exactly I'd signed up for, rather, what I'd been cast in, rewarded with.
I was still wondering as much half an hour later when I found myself standing in a big warehousy room with 6 kids and one other adult sot. My hair had been curled, my lips had been glossed, there were a million and a half cameras and these crazy big lights, and a great big bright green backdrop melting into an expansive bright green floor.
'Twas the set, I was on-set. Finally.
(...I still don't get it.)
And there I am taking in my surroundings, and there's these two P.As lumbering around the set in pursuit of one (count that: one) boy.
"Trevorrrrr."
"Trevor."
"We need...we need you to sit down, Buddy."
"Trev, just have a seat, pal. We need you to stay. Seated."
"And quiet."
"Please."
"I'M A DOG!!!!!"
...
"That's cool, Bud."
"RAWR!!!"
"OK, so maybe we're not playing dogs right now."
"We're not."
"Maybe we're a Trevor, and Trevors sit."
"BUT DOGS SIT!!! BUT SOME BEARS!!! DANCE!!!!"
"Sure. But your...dog-bear can't dance."
"Let's stay away from those electrical cords, please."
"Yeah, and all those...ok, you need to--no more running, Trevor."
"Want me to get his mom?"
"RAWWWWWWWWWWWWWR!!!! RAWR RAWR RAWRRRRR!!!" Running around the foot of the set, pawing at the air all crazy-like.
"Trevvvvvvv...oh. Kay."
And P.A. #2 just stares at me, all haggard-looking and glassy-eyed.
"I can't be this kid's babysitter. Like, I won't." Throws his hands, marches off in the opposite direction.
(Yessssssss.)
And then:
"Angela?"
Yes?
"Hi! Avery here is going to be your partner in this scene." And then P.A. #3 brings over this adorable little wide-eyed girl who can't possibly be older than 6, all decked-out in polka-dotted everything and multi-colored Chuck Taylors. She looks prim, and composed, and completely totally precious.
I attempted to avoid the fact that little Avery was my implied daughter (Jesus, someone like me could feasibly have a 6 year-old. Ugh), swallowed my pride (She's cute anywho), and pressed on.
Oh, hey, Avery! How are you doin?
...Nothin.
Uh. Did you come right from school today? What grade are you in?...
...
Staring at the ground, kinda shuffle-stepping back and forth. Not a word.
...'Kay. Fail. (...Jerk.)
"OKayyy, guyyys, are we ready? Now. I need you all to look up at this beam, at this beam right. Here. OK? Are we looking? Are you guys alllllll looking at this beam, the one right here that goes allllllllll the way across the ceiling? ...OK? Got it?"
(CHRIST, Buddy, we got it! We got it!)
"OK. Now on the count of three, I want you alllllllll to pretend that there are great big balloons alllllll alonnnnnnng the sky, right where this beam is. OK? You're all at a great big balloon festival and there are great big balloons allllllllll over the sky, but. You can only look at the ones right. In. Here, where the beam is." (God.) "OKayyyyy?"
'Kay.
"And let's talk about all the different balloons we see with our partner." (What, this girl?) "OKayyy?"
O.K.
"On the count of three, ready?"
As the P.A. begins to count, I suddenly become completely annoyed. I sincerely don't understand what I'm doing in this company or why I'm doing this kind of work, this children's programming stuff, or how it is that I'm finding myself being an extra, again. And being an extra amongst a horde of children, nonetheless, it just felt like salt in the wound. Shouldn't I be doing something, I don't know...better than this by now? Something important-ish? Something where I could actually act instead of being a glorified babysitter to three dozen rugrats? Something...
(Uggggggggh, I am the grossest diva in the world!!!)
"Three! Action!"
"Hey! See that?!"
...
(...Avery? Was that just Avery? Talking to me?)
Ummm...which?
"The one right there, the one that looks like an elephant." And she grins like a maniac and points skyward.
Oh. Yes, yes I do.
"That's so funny."
Yes it is.
"Ooh! And that one over there? That looks like a cat."
It totally does.
"I know!"
I know! You're right!
"It looks like he's licking his paw!"
Yes it does.
"That's so silly!"
And for a moment, I'm actually having a blast. This girl is precious and has this big crazy awesome imagination and, for a moment, I forget that we're doing this for television. For a moment, it feels like we're just having fun.
Hey, Avery.
"Yeah?"
See that reallllllllly big balloon over there?
"Ooh, yeah! It's huge!"
I know! Don't you think it looks like a turtle?
...
"...No."
...
What? You don't? You don't think that looks like a turtle?
"No."
Oh.
"It looks like a pig."
Huh. Well, I think it looks kinda like a turtle.
"It doesn't. It's a pig."
(This girl sucks.)
"OK, wait, guys, freeze!" shrieks the PA, "Now. I want you alllllllll to keep looking at the balloons, but now alllllllll of the balloons have baby penguins on them! Oh nooooooooo, whyaretherebaby penguinnnnnnnnnns, ok go."
(Jesus.)
"NO!"
...What?
"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!! LOOK AT THE BABY PENGUINS!!!!!!!"
...Where?
"Up there! Right up there! On the balloons!"
...I don't see any baby penguins. (I can play your game here, Lady.)
"Yes you do!"
No.
"Yes you DO! You have to! They're right! There! They're everywhere!" And she was so manic about it that I started to feel bad. Felt bad for denying her, for not giving that jerk precisely what she wanted.
And then I looked at her again, and suddenly, I thought about my niece.
My niece is turning 3 soon, and she's a perfect creature. She is. She's beautiful and sweet and is in love with everything. Dogs, the beach, the guitar, The Little Mermaid, The Fresh Beat Band...
And then I remembered that I was on-set for her very favorite show. I'd earnestly forgotten about that, too.
And then I felt like if I didn't give into this jerk partner of mine that not only would I not be playing along, but that my niece would see it. She'd see me being mean, being a bully, my niece would see me being horrible and ruining her show.
...
Oh. My. Gosh WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT THESE PENGUINNNNNNNS?!?!
"I don't know!!"
There's so many!!!
"I know!"
This is AWful!
"I know! Mom!"
Avery! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRGHHHHHHH!!"
"Cut!"
The next couple of hours moved along in a similar fashion:
"You're at the zoo, HEY! Look at those polar bears!"
Trevor, you can be a worm later. Let's look at the bear right now, OK? ...The bear, Trev.
"You're still at the balloon festival, HEY! Let's look at the clouds!"
"There's so many of them!"
I know, right?
"I like the big green ones!"
...Me, too.
"You're in a toy store, HEY! Look at these stinkbugs!! Shake off those stinkbugs!!! Ewwwwww, they smell awwwwwwwfulllllll! Now RUN! RUN! RUN AWAY FROM THE STINKBUGS!!!"
STINKBUGGGGGGGGGGGGS!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRGHHHHHHH!!
High-quality acting on my part.
...Fine.
And the thing was it actually ended up being fun. And, I mean, of course it did. It was Nickelodeon, for crying out loud, you don't walk away from a Nickelodeon-shoot having had a fun time, something's wrong. Very.
And the thing is that this was not my first go-round a set of less-than-Oscar-caliber. I've shot an infomercial. ...Criminy, I've shot lots of things. I guess I'm just antsy to shoot something that feels legit to me, supremely so, something I can walk away from going Aw, damn, look what I did!!!
Someday.
But this set didn't belong to me. And most won't. This one simply belonged to 40 other people, wee ones, who were just as psyched to be on television as I was.
But, at least I got to say that I was there.
...
Walking away from 440 West One-Five, I called my sweet boyfriend instantaneously, like you do.
(cue "Rhapsody in Blue")
"Are you done already?!"
Yeah. What do you wanna do for dinner?
"You're done. On-set."
Yeah.
"Well, that was quick!"
Mehhhhh, not really.
"Angie, you were only there for three hours."
(?!?!?!?!)
The shortest shoot in the history of the world. And I hadn't forgotten, I simply hadn't realized. What a happy little nugget of discovery.
"You just left set."
Yes.
"And now you have all night. To play."
I do!
"...I'd say you won."
I WON!!!!
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
A Starving Artist's Gonna Be in Pictures (, Kid).
I’m gonna say it: I think that headshots are terrifying.
I do.
Only Starving Artists have to deal with these things, everyone but everyone in the entertainment/performance industries. Everyone else—I mean, the only comparable things that the rest of the world will ever have to deal with are driver’s license pictures. Photos on badges at work. Mugshots.
These pictures happen and everyone takes a gander at them later and goes “Ha-HAAAAAAAA, I look hilarious. And awful.” Because of course you do! You’re sitting there posing by yourself, just…posin’. You’re not trying to capture any particular moment in time, you’re not trying to showcase a swimsuit or a ring or a really awesome cigar, or show off what a beautiful beach you’re at (in “sunny FORT LAUDERDALE!”). All you’re doing is showing off your mug, your face, your head. It is an inherently awkward thing to do.
We Starving Artists, however, are expected to pose in just such a fashion and be awesome about it. Headshots are our calling cards, we cannot get into the door of any casting office without one. Correction: without a super good one. And, we’re supposed to know what that means, how to do that, how to not be awkward and instead, take a picture that says “HEY! Look at me, I’m kickass and suuuuuuuuuper different, you should probably cast me in everything always.”
…
Let it be said that this is not an easily achievable thing for everyone. Some people don’t trust in the fact that casting directors have brains and imaginations and will, therefore, treat their headshot session as an opportunity to show off their entire arsenal of alternate personalities. There are actors in this world that have headshots featuring them as, say, an astronaut, a zoo-keeper, a Professor Plum-type…some kind of combination of all of the above, all looking very fierce and pensive. And desperate.
These people exist.
(And, I’d be willing to bet that they have some siiiiiick photos on their driver’s licenses.)
There are also people who treat their headshot session as an opportunity to look “glamorous”. You know. “Glamorous”? Napoleon Dynamite? Everyone’s aunt/babysitter circa 1989-1992? …Once upon a time (two months ago), my stepmother asked me if that was going to be my approach.
You mean am I going to Olan Mills?
“Or, ya know, I don’t know. Somewhere. But, are ya getting a glamour shot? Is that why ya need new ones?”
“Or, ya know, I don’t know. Somewhere. But, are ya getting a glamour shot? Is that why ya need new ones?”
Oh. Ummmmm…nooo…
In all fairness, I was kinda hoping to get some of these. When I was 7.
I don’t need to tell you that these people definitely still exist.
And then, there are people who approach their headshot session with fear in their eyes. Not fear of the photographer, but fear of the end product. They inherently know that everything will go absolutely inexplicably wrong with the shoot, and they know this because they are “not photogenic”.
These people are goddamn everywhere.
The session happens, and suddenly, the actor has forgotten how to smile, what a smile looks like on them, what smiling even is.
“Oh god, my fucking chipmunk cheeks.”
They begin to fidget and sit in positions so unnatural that it would make those Cirque du Soleil guys feel uncomfortable.
“Does this, like, look alluring? …How fat are my arms right now?”
“Just relax.”
But, they don’t relax. Instead, they panic. They sweat, they lose focus, they forget who they are as an actor and why they’re even there. And the world…the world goes to shit.
“Ohmygod, I hate this goddamn blazer. Why’d I bring this blazer?! I can’t believe he’s making me wear it, I swear to god I must look like I’m 40 or something right now and I’m totally not and I had no right to skip the gym this morning, that was insane and now I’m all bloated and stupid looking and my hair is a goddamn mess and…oh god, I’m a disaster. I’m a total disaster. Fuckin—uggggggggh, stop it. Relax. … … …THIS PICTURE IS NEVER GOING TO CAPTURE MY ESSENCE!!!!”
“You ok?”
“I just…I don’t think I look that great in pictures.”
“You’re fiiiiiiiiiine.”
“JUST FINE?! FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!”
The proofs come back and there it is, shot after shot, a cross between a deer-in-headlights and an apology.
“Fucking hell, is this really all I have to work with?”
And there will be one picture, one picture amongst the hundreds taken that is passable, somewhat cute and not entirely tragic.
“Oh. So, I guess that’s my headshot, then.”
…
…OK, so this wasn’t precisely how my headshots went down the first time around, but I deeply feared such a thing happening with these new shots. Deeply.
I have no idea what it is, but I have never really dug how I look in pictures. Not really. Put me in front of a video camera, we’re swell. Put me in front of a camera and give me a little “Say ‘Cheese’ ” and I tend to look a goofball. Well, I think that I do.
(Sidebar: It’s entirely beside the point that I am, in fact, a goofball. I would really like to not look that way when I am, say, trying to be sincere or lovely. You’re taking a picture, I try to exude some kind of ethereal glow or something about myself, no, absolutely not, you will get “goofball”, this is what happens.)
So as the time got closer to my shoot, and the more pressure that I was putting on the event and the end product and every ounce of headshot-related everything (a pressure that my manager was only adding to: “I’m realllllllllllllly putting a lot of emphasis on these new pictures to get you more work.” You are?! Oh. Fantastic. SO AM I!), the more that I began to fear that shitty headshots were inevitable.
…
So. They’re not.
I am currently flipping through 367 proofs of my face (!!!!367!!!!) and I can assuredly tell you that you can, in fact, walk away from your shoot not feeling like a complete and total numbnuts with nothing but lackluster choices for yourself.
Here’s how:
Step One) (…”Cut a hole in the box”…I had to…AND) Make sure that you do your research. Lots of it. Look at as many different photographers’ portfolios as is humanly possible to know what’s out there, what in no way appeals to you, and what completely strikes your fancy.
Step Two) Once you find someone whose work you dig, meet with them to see if you actually dig each other. You don’t want to get photographed by an asshole or someone that you just don’t click with because otherwise, you’ll be gritting your teeth and clenching your ass cheeks so tightly throughout the shoot that you’ll never photograph well.
Step Three) Be nice to yourself in the days leading up to the shoot: Get some sleep for once, buy yourself some new clothes (you’re already dropping an exorbitant amount of money on the shoot, what’s a little more? Honestly.), chug gallons of water and, maybe, if you’re feeling crazy, skip the alcohol for a bit. It will suck, especially when you’re hanging out with your lady friends and they’re working on some sexy looking martinis, and when everyone else at work is participating in Shot O’Clock. Restrain yourself, sip on your water, convince yourself that you feel like a champ, and plan to make up for lost time as soon as your shoot is over and done with.
Step Four) Go in knowing what you want.
Step Five) Go in knowing what you want.
Step Six) Go in knowing what you want.
Step Seven) Allow yourself to be surprised.
Step Eight) Leave your cop uniform at home.
Step Nine) Have your photographer play The Strokes-station on Pandora throughout your shoot. Just do it.
Step Ten) Remind yourself that this shoot is not a matter of Life or Death. Continually. Best case scenario, you’re having a little mini dance party for a few hours and chatting with a really fun and quirky guy who just happens to have a camera stuck to his face. And a make-up artist behind him (and, who are we kidding, that shit’s awesome).
I mean, that’s it. No big deal.
It doesn’t have to be terrifying. It can actually be a completely good time. And if it is, if it legitimately is, then you’ll get your proofs back (whether it’s 50 or 450 of them) and find yourself going:
Oh. So, that’s not terrible. That’s…Me. That’s Me.
And then you remind yourself that that’s all it ever is.
Monday, June 25, 2012
A Starving Artist on Preparedness
So, I went to another workshop with a casting director the other day. It was super great, super informative, and it may have been the first one in the history of the world to run long. Like by a lot. ... An hour over time.
These things don't happen.
Needless to say, this casting director was 175% invested in us, and I appreciated her for that.
I could go on and on about how totally candid she was, how much she emphasized the importance of making only super bold choices when auditioning ("Why would I ever want to see you do only what's on the page? I already know what's on the page, and now I'm bored with it. Show me how clever you are."), how much she harped on the lack of professionalism in actors and how that will always trump talent (I completely and totally buy that), the fact that I think that I kinda kicked ass (you know, fun fact, but not entirely important), lots of things, I could say lots of things.
Instead, I'm just gonna cite this one moment in the workshop for you:
There was this one gal in the class, & she was beautiful and exotic looking, she was dressed beautifully and exotically, and she had a beautiful and exotic sounding voice to boot. OH! And she had this beautiful and exotic name, too. Bitch had The Package. She was given this scene featuring two women, one was a spokeswoman for a dildo, the other the host of the infomercial featuring said dildo; each woman had two lines apiece, and she was expected to give each role a try.
"These characters only have two lines, so you only have two lines to make a lasting impression with me," said the casting director, "Be bold."
(Sidebar: I had the same scene, so I was taking notes. Lots.)
Dildo Spokeswoman was fine, kinda sexy, kinda weird, but fine. When it came time for her to give Infomercial Host a try:
"OK. So do it again, and this time, think Kathie Lee Gifford."
"Who?"
...
"Wait. You don't know who Kathie Lee Gifford is?"
"No."
(No way.)
"Wow. OK. I don't know, am I dating myself with that reference? Maybe."
"I don't...I don't know."
"OK. Do it again, and think Kelly Ripa."
"Who's that?"
...
...
"...You're kidding."
"No. Should I know who that is?"
(YES!)
And the casting director just stared at her in complete and total disbelief.
"Kelly Ripa. From television."
"Oh. ...I don't really watch television."
...
...
...
"You don't watch television?"
"No. I mean, not really."
...
Let's take a moment to discusss why this is so bad. Actually, let's do a little comparitive-thingy. This is much like if the following people said the following things:
Wannabe English Teachers: "I mean, I haven't read any Shakespeare or Kurt Vonnegut. Or To Kill a Mockingbird. I don't really read."
Wannabe Musicians: "Who's Milli Vanilli? Who's Jack White? What's an iPod?"
Wannabe Car Mechanics: "I melted one of my brother's matchbox cars once. So...I guess I've kinda taken a car apart."
...No. Just No, to all of it.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T WATCH TELEVISION?!"
"Well...."
"YOU WANT TO BE AN ACTOR AND YOU DON'T WATCH TELEVISION?!?!"
"I go to plays."
"NO, but...POP CULTURE!!! HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE IS OUT THERE?! HOW ELSE DO YOU KNOW WHAT'S RELEVANT?!"
"I do."
"You DON'T! You don't. These women are all over TV, and in every sort of magazine, for better or worse."
"...Oh."
And my heart kinda started to hurt for her. Almost. I mean, if we're being honest with ourselves, I don't watch nearly as much TV as I should. I don't have time to. And people say that it needs to be almost like a second job for Starving Artists, watching TV, going to movies, reading plays, all that jazz (...pretty decent second job, right?). We have to immerse ourselves in everything that's out there so we can find our fit. That's what's expected of us.
But, GOOD! CHRIST!
"Guys, you need to do your homework and know who's relevant, who's been relevant..."
"...Um..."
"...Who's out there at all...."
"...Um, excuse me?"
"Yes?"
"Can you tell me something about these women?"
And this casting director, this casting director who's been doing epic amounts of shit in New York City for twenty-plus years just sat there for a moment and stared at her.
"...No."
"But..."
"That's not my job."
"OK. Can I try it again?"
"No. You're done."
And you knew that didn't just mean "You're done with your scene". The girl had been written-off. There will be no phone calls, there will be no auditions, she didn't come in prepared and, just like that, a potential professional connection had been destroyed.
And we all watched it happen.
And it was sad. And kinda terrifying. And you think about it, and if someone gives you only two lines to make a lasting impression, that's a lot of pressure on anywhere between one to twenty words.
But, I guess the twenty scripted words aren't the most important thing. I guess it's the grand whole of your First Impression that lasts.
These things don't happen.
Needless to say, this casting director was 175% invested in us, and I appreciated her for that.
I could go on and on about how totally candid she was, how much she emphasized the importance of making only super bold choices when auditioning ("Why would I ever want to see you do only what's on the page? I already know what's on the page, and now I'm bored with it. Show me how clever you are."), how much she harped on the lack of professionalism in actors and how that will always trump talent (I completely and totally buy that), the fact that I think that I kinda kicked ass (you know, fun fact, but not entirely important), lots of things, I could say lots of things.
Instead, I'm just gonna cite this one moment in the workshop for you:
There was this one gal in the class, & she was beautiful and exotic looking, she was dressed beautifully and exotically, and she had a beautiful and exotic sounding voice to boot. OH! And she had this beautiful and exotic name, too. Bitch had The Package. She was given this scene featuring two women, one was a spokeswoman for a dildo, the other the host of the infomercial featuring said dildo; each woman had two lines apiece, and she was expected to give each role a try.
"These characters only have two lines, so you only have two lines to make a lasting impression with me," said the casting director, "Be bold."
(Sidebar: I had the same scene, so I was taking notes. Lots.)
Dildo Spokeswoman was fine, kinda sexy, kinda weird, but fine. When it came time for her to give Infomercial Host a try:
"OK. So do it again, and this time, think Kathie Lee Gifford."
"Who?"
...
"Wait. You don't know who Kathie Lee Gifford is?"
"No."
(No way.)
"Wow. OK. I don't know, am I dating myself with that reference? Maybe."
"I don't...I don't know."
"OK. Do it again, and think Kelly Ripa."
"Who's that?"
...
...
"...You're kidding."
"No. Should I know who that is?"
(YES!)
And the casting director just stared at her in complete and total disbelief.
"Kelly Ripa. From television."
"Oh. ...I don't really watch television."
...
...
...
"You don't watch television?"
"No. I mean, not really."
...
Let's take a moment to discusss why this is so bad. Actually, let's do a little comparitive-thingy. This is much like if the following people said the following things:
Wannabe English Teachers: "I mean, I haven't read any Shakespeare or Kurt Vonnegut. Or To Kill a Mockingbird. I don't really read."
Wannabe Musicians: "Who's Milli Vanilli? Who's Jack White? What's an iPod?"
Wannabe Car Mechanics: "I melted one of my brother's matchbox cars once. So...I guess I've kinda taken a car apart."
...No. Just No, to all of it.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T WATCH TELEVISION?!"
"Well...."
"YOU WANT TO BE AN ACTOR AND YOU DON'T WATCH TELEVISION?!?!"
"I go to plays."
"NO, but...POP CULTURE!!! HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE IS OUT THERE?! HOW ELSE DO YOU KNOW WHAT'S RELEVANT?!"
"I do."
"You DON'T! You don't. These women are all over TV, and in every sort of magazine, for better or worse."
"...Oh."
And my heart kinda started to hurt for her. Almost. I mean, if we're being honest with ourselves, I don't watch nearly as much TV as I should. I don't have time to. And people say that it needs to be almost like a second job for Starving Artists, watching TV, going to movies, reading plays, all that jazz (...pretty decent second job, right?). We have to immerse ourselves in everything that's out there so we can find our fit. That's what's expected of us.
But, GOOD! CHRIST!
"Guys, you need to do your homework and know who's relevant, who's been relevant..."
"...Um..."
"...Who's out there at all...."
"...Um, excuse me?"
"Yes?"
"Can you tell me something about these women?"
And this casting director, this casting director who's been doing epic amounts of shit in New York City for twenty-plus years just sat there for a moment and stared at her.
"...No."
"But..."
"That's not my job."
"OK. Can I try it again?"
"No. You're done."
And you knew that didn't just mean "You're done with your scene". The girl had been written-off. There will be no phone calls, there will be no auditions, she didn't come in prepared and, just like that, a potential professional connection had been destroyed.
And we all watched it happen.
And it was sad. And kinda terrifying. And you think about it, and if someone gives you only two lines to make a lasting impression, that's a lot of pressure on anywhere between one to twenty words.
But, I guess the twenty scripted words aren't the most important thing. I guess it's the grand whole of your First Impression that lasts.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
A Starving Artist Needs Guidance On Her Apple
I am not thrilled about the fact that I am almost completely computer illiterate.
It's true. I am, I swear.
I went to grade school at a time when the only computer-related things that were taught were:
--This is how you get comfortable with an Apple/IBM-keyboard.
--This is how you can type 53 words a minute.
--This is how you add a Button. (...I think that had something to do with some kind of slideshowy PowerPoint-thing. ...Hey look! I know what PowerPoint is!!!!)
In college, I honestly never had to use anything beyond Microsoft Word. Ever. Oh, except that one PowerPoint-presentation I had to give for a nutrition class (THERE IT IS AGAIN!). I only JUST used Microsoft Excel for my first time Last. Year...and I was lost the first couple of times around with it.
I can download things with ease, I can upload things (sometimes...), I can use the most basic templates imaginable to make things look clean and tidy and easy to navigate (Thanks, Blogger!).
However.
If it's complicated, if it is even slightly complicated, if something has to be dragged into a folder that doesn't appear on a main page somewhere or if I have to reconfigure something or add a Flash Player somewhere, I am absolutely positively screwed.
I was ok with this for awhile. Honestly. And I know some people might think "Wait, what? No big deal, you're a Starving Artist, precisely how technologically advanced do you need to be? I fail to see the problem in this." I thought this very same thing.
However, there is a huge problem in this:
If you want to be taken seriously, your shit can't look elementary.
...And there it is.
I am smack in the middle of the Three Year Itch, meaning that I've been a Starving Artist in this city just long enough that I'm comfy, I know what I'm doing, but I need an all-around upgrade. Hence, one of the reasons I started taking classes at Upright Citizen's Brigade, why I'm throwing myself into more workshops/paid auditions, why I'm getting new headshots taken (and am in the process of setting up photographer interviews RIGHT! NOW!), all of the things. These little steps forward are great and fine and I have had no problem in taking them or finding a way to make them all happen.
It's this other stuff. This other stuff that's supremely necessary that I wish I knew how to do for myself, but absolutely positively don't.
Par Example:
**I have a website. I do, she exists, and that's a GOOD thing for sure. But she's a sad looking thing. She looks like a Junior in high school designed it (although, honestly, I probably shouldn't give myself that much credit, current high school Juniors know wayyyyyyyy more about this stuff than I do).
It is supremely basic and has splotches of pictures of Me (headshots, production photos, etc.) just copy/pasted throughout. I couldn't do some kind of flashy slideshow-business with them, that wasn't even an option with the template, this was the only option. Incidentally, my main page honestly feels more like a collage meant for Grama's living room wall than a "professional" website. I couldn't even upload my resume onto it, I had to type it all in...and it looks like hell. Really.
It ALL looks like hell, really.
But it's there just the same, and I suppose I should be grateful for that. But, three years in, I would really really like it to look about 275-times better than it does.
So my options are the following:
--Find someone to design it for me (and pay them hundreds of dollars to do it when I'm already spending thousands of dollars on other supremely mandatory albeit super exciting things this summer...and throwing up in my mouth over all of it).
--Take a huge effing risk and figure out how to do this flashy upgraded technologically advanced shit for myself. ...This terrifies me. I honestly want someone to sit down with me and hold my hand/remind me to take deep breaths throughout the whole process. But, I think...
...Mehhh, I don't know what I think. WHAT'S A BITCH TO DO?!?!
Par Example Seconde:
**I have a Facebook-page (obviously). And it's great and it's loaded up with great fun things and I'm on it all the goddamn time. However, I got to thinking that I should probably have a Facebook-page that is specifically devoted to professional stuff, a Business Page, if you will.
So, I started to create one.
Business Pages are set up that much differently than regular pages; you don't really have "Friends" as much as you have "People to Like Your Stuff" if not just "Subscribe" to it (the Subscription-part if self-explanatory enough). Your page shows a restricted amount of things, you can more closely restrict the number of people who are drawn towards your page, etc.
It's Facebook. It's the easiest most navigable thing in the world and everyone but EVERYone is on it.
...I can figure next to none of this shit out.
WHAT'S A BITCH TO DO?!?!
Par Example Finale:
**I have all of these clips of all these things that I've filmed, between commercials, industrials, a scene study, a web-series, and my little blip on Bored To Death. Once I get the footage my most recent shoot, I will finally have enough material for a reel, like a pretty damn good one.
(Sidebar: Actors should have reels for themselves as early as is humanly possible. However, when you spent eight years of your youngish adult-life only doing theatre, it takes awhile to build up some on camera-stuff.)
Currently, I have YouTube-links of these clips pasted all over my shitty website, but really, piecing them together in a professional and concise-looking way would be an excellent idea.
...So. How the fuck do I do that?
My options (Scarily similar to my "Website"-options):
--Find someone to piece it together for me (and pay them hundreds of dollars to do it when I'm already spending thousands of dollars on other supremely mandatory albeit super exciting things this summer...projectile vomit everywhere, repeatedly, hold bake sales & convince sweet boyfriend to start hooking to make up for the tremendous financial loss).
--Take a huge effing risk and figure out how to do all this flashy upgraded technologically advanced blahbitty blahbitty blah all by myself. Blah blah blah. ...It almost sounds sensible. It ALMOST does. But the problem is that aside from me being absolutely positively horrified by absolutely all of this, I don't really know when I'm going to find the time to teach myself this shit. ALL of this shit, ANY of it!
But. It's gotta get done. All of it. So...What's a bitch to do? Does she hire someone, or does she man up, find a way to clear her schedule and learn a few things (under the guidance of someone who is equally as willing to clear their schedule and teach a few things)? Or, am I hopeless? Like a complete and total lost cause? Surely not. Right?
(Sidebar: Now I know how my parents feel about...ok, well, most things contemporary and technological. Ew, I feel old.)
How's about this:
If you help me out, I will make you dinner. Lots. And write you some personalized poetry. Organize your sock drawer, paint your living room, walk your dog every day for a month.
And! I will make you your very own mix CD, from a playlist I've created OFF OF ITUNES!!!! YEAH!!! Aw see, I OWN this technological shit!!!
...
It's true. I am, I swear.
I went to grade school at a time when the only computer-related things that were taught were:
--This is how you get comfortable with an Apple/IBM-keyboard.
--This is how you can type 53 words a minute.
--This is how you add a Button. (...I think that had something to do with some kind of slideshowy PowerPoint-thing. ...Hey look! I know what PowerPoint is!!!!)
In college, I honestly never had to use anything beyond Microsoft Word. Ever. Oh, except that one PowerPoint-presentation I had to give for a nutrition class (THERE IT IS AGAIN!). I only JUST used Microsoft Excel for my first time Last. Year...and I was lost the first couple of times around with it.
I can download things with ease, I can upload things (sometimes...), I can use the most basic templates imaginable to make things look clean and tidy and easy to navigate (Thanks, Blogger!).
However.
If it's complicated, if it is even slightly complicated, if something has to be dragged into a folder that doesn't appear on a main page somewhere or if I have to reconfigure something or add a Flash Player somewhere, I am absolutely positively screwed.
I was ok with this for awhile. Honestly. And I know some people might think "Wait, what? No big deal, you're a Starving Artist, precisely how technologically advanced do you need to be? I fail to see the problem in this." I thought this very same thing.
However, there is a huge problem in this:
If you want to be taken seriously, your shit can't look elementary.
...And there it is.
I am smack in the middle of the Three Year Itch, meaning that I've been a Starving Artist in this city just long enough that I'm comfy, I know what I'm doing, but I need an all-around upgrade. Hence, one of the reasons I started taking classes at Upright Citizen's Brigade, why I'm throwing myself into more workshops/paid auditions, why I'm getting new headshots taken (and am in the process of setting up photographer interviews RIGHT! NOW!), all of the things. These little steps forward are great and fine and I have had no problem in taking them or finding a way to make them all happen.
It's this other stuff. This other stuff that's supremely necessary that I wish I knew how to do for myself, but absolutely positively don't.
Par Example:
**I have a website. I do, she exists, and that's a GOOD thing for sure. But she's a sad looking thing. She looks like a Junior in high school designed it (although, honestly, I probably shouldn't give myself that much credit, current high school Juniors know wayyyyyyyy more about this stuff than I do).
It is supremely basic and has splotches of pictures of Me (headshots, production photos, etc.) just copy/pasted throughout. I couldn't do some kind of flashy slideshow-business with them, that wasn't even an option with the template, this was the only option. Incidentally, my main page honestly feels more like a collage meant for Grama's living room wall than a "professional" website. I couldn't even upload my resume onto it, I had to type it all in...and it looks like hell. Really.
It ALL looks like hell, really.
But it's there just the same, and I suppose I should be grateful for that. But, three years in, I would really really like it to look about 275-times better than it does.
So my options are the following:
--Find someone to design it for me (and pay them hundreds of dollars to do it when I'm already spending thousands of dollars on other supremely mandatory albeit super exciting things this summer...and throwing up in my mouth over all of it).
--Take a huge effing risk and figure out how to do this flashy upgraded technologically advanced shit for myself. ...This terrifies me. I honestly want someone to sit down with me and hold my hand/remind me to take deep breaths throughout the whole process. But, I think...
...Mehhh, I don't know what I think. WHAT'S A BITCH TO DO?!?!
Par Example Seconde:
**I have a Facebook-page (obviously). And it's great and it's loaded up with great fun things and I'm on it all the goddamn time. However, I got to thinking that I should probably have a Facebook-page that is specifically devoted to professional stuff, a Business Page, if you will.
So, I started to create one.
Business Pages are set up that much differently than regular pages; you don't really have "Friends" as much as you have "People to Like Your Stuff" if not just "Subscribe" to it (the Subscription-part if self-explanatory enough). Your page shows a restricted amount of things, you can more closely restrict the number of people who are drawn towards your page, etc.
It's Facebook. It's the easiest most navigable thing in the world and everyone but EVERYone is on it.
...I can figure next to none of this shit out.
WHAT'S A BITCH TO DO?!?!
Par Example Finale:
**I have all of these clips of all these things that I've filmed, between commercials, industrials, a scene study, a web-series, and my little blip on Bored To Death. Once I get the footage my most recent shoot, I will finally have enough material for a reel, like a pretty damn good one.
(Sidebar: Actors should have reels for themselves as early as is humanly possible. However, when you spent eight years of your youngish adult-life only doing theatre, it takes awhile to build up some on camera-stuff.)
Currently, I have YouTube-links of these clips pasted all over my shitty website, but really, piecing them together in a professional and concise-looking way would be an excellent idea.
...So. How the fuck do I do that?
My options (Scarily similar to my "Website"-options):
--Find someone to piece it together for me (and pay them hundreds of dollars to do it when I'm already spending thousands of dollars on other supremely mandatory albeit super exciting things this summer...projectile vomit everywhere, repeatedly, hold bake sales & convince sweet boyfriend to start hooking to make up for the tremendous financial loss).
--Take a huge effing risk and figure out how to do all this flashy upgraded technologically advanced blahbitty blahbitty blah all by myself. Blah blah blah. ...It almost sounds sensible. It ALMOST does. But the problem is that aside from me being absolutely positively horrified by absolutely all of this, I don't really know when I'm going to find the time to teach myself this shit. ALL of this shit, ANY of it!
But. It's gotta get done. All of it. So...What's a bitch to do? Does she hire someone, or does she man up, find a way to clear her schedule and learn a few things (under the guidance of someone who is equally as willing to clear their schedule and teach a few things)? Or, am I hopeless? Like a complete and total lost cause? Surely not. Right?
(Sidebar: Now I know how my parents feel about...ok, well, most things contemporary and technological. Ew, I feel old.)
How's about this:
If you help me out, I will make you dinner. Lots. And write you some personalized poetry. Organize your sock drawer, paint your living room, walk your dog every day for a month.
And! I will make you your very own mix CD, from a playlist I've created OFF OF ITUNES!!!! YEAH!!! Aw see, I OWN this technological shit!!!
...
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