A Starving Artist Talks About Sex (Bay. Bee.)

Remember that one time that I discussed infomercials?  Slash how far an actor would go/when it would be "enough"/the importance of being able to get behind your projects?  Slash how much it would suck to become Gonorrhea-girl?  Which was really just a roundabout way of discussing what you're willing to let yourself get known for, the way in which you're willing to put yourself out there...Remember all that?

Well.  Yesterday was fun.

Yesterday, I auditioned for a contraceptive commercial.

This wasn't actually my first time (...heh heh...hehhhh...) around the "I bang"-commercial block, I actually auditioned for a Trojan-vibrator commercial last year.  ...Also fun.  

But no no, this was an entirely different deal altogether.  This audition was for a morning after pill.

This says "I indeed bang, but there was an oops.  An OOPS--and I need something to prevent a further 'oops'."

And ok:  it's not that this is a project that I can't get behind--of course I can, of COURSE! I can--but it's just...it's funny.  The idea of Me in a contraceptive commercial.  Me.  Awkward quirky character-featured Me in an ad not just about...(...sexxxx...), but about screwing (...hehheh...hehhh...) that up.

Such ads that involve a forlorn-slightly-panicky-looking lady laying around with a "What NOW?!"-face in her bright airy loft, later moving through a medicine aisle while looking marginally terrified and dazily thumbing through wee pill box after wee pill box, later moving through skyscrapery cases in a book store dazily thumbing through random books with a slight sense of relief over her face, before finally moving to some cute outdoor bistro where she sits outside sipping on cosmos with her other equally-as-relieved non-pregnant friends.  You know, those ads.  It's a pretty known pseudo-solid formula. 

And am I JUDGING those ads?  Hell no!  That's just....that's just what they are.  Like always.   But, you know, the notion of Me being in one...

...And again, I would never turn that down, ever.  Ever.  Why would I?!  It's not that, it's just...it'd be funny.

I'm not really the dismayed-Sex-is-really-effing-serious-type.

In the audition notice that I received Monday night, it said the following:

"Must be comfortable talking about contraception."  

(Well, I mean, sure. Why not, right?  OK.  OK, fine, I'm shameless, I lack a censor button, I've been naked, regularly...albeit a long time ago, but I get it, and that's fine.  That's fine.  Yay, sex.  Let's talk about it.  ...And sell stuff.) 

"If you have a boyfriend and who is interested, please bring him to casting.  Please let us know his name beforehand so we can notify casting."

(... ... ...)

A lot of the time, I find myself getting increasingly more bummed over the fact that there is still an 1100-mile distance between said boyfriend and I.  In this instance, however...I mean, I can in no way envision going into an audition setting like that with him.  You might as well lock us in a room with a circus clown who says, "Alright, kids, talk to me about poop.  Tell me about your poop.  POOOOOOOOP!"  We would have turned into absolute children 5 seconds in. 

"Well, in our moments of intimacy..."

             YEAH!  Intimacy!!!  We do it sometimes.  Uhh!!!

"Um--yeahhhhhYeahhhh!  Bangin!!!"

             So MUCH of it!!!

"Lots!  We keep like a talley...well...we did..."

             YEAH!  TALLIES!!!  When we...lived...in the same...

“Look at yer butt!”

             Not now.

"…Yeah, and, but know what?!  No!  Babies!" 

             YEAH!  So much bangin, positively no babies!!!

"Uhhh."

             UHHH!

"Hahahahaha"Hahahahaaaaa!!!! AND a fist bump.  Or something.

It would not have boded well for the casting director, for our careers...or our reputations, by and large.  

So, in I walk Tuesday morning, having practiced my "forlorn"-face the night before and feeling as confident as any girl (who spends 98.25% of the year growing her virginity back) could walking into a morning after pill-audition.  And it's fine.  Everyone waiting is normal looking, everyone in the room has undoubtedly banged sometime,  some are there auditioning as a couple (... ...), some of us are there alone... 

(...Pffft.  This is fiiiiiiiiine, piece of cake.)

I grab the script and get to work:  

"Last night, my birth control failed me."  (Oh goddammit, REALLY?!)

Fifteen minutes later, I walk in with this beautiful Midwestern-looking tall drink of water.  We're going on camera together, as "friends".  

"Alright, girls, tell me a little bit about yourself.  Where you're from, how long you've been in the city, what you like to do in your spare time."

The tall drink of water goes first, and she's totally charming.  Smiling, giggling, talking super articulately and with such ease about growing up in Pennsylvania and her fencing practice.  

(I don't fence.  Should I?  Would that help my case because it's kinda...sexual?  Because of the long things that you thwart and...thrust...and everythingdammitIdon'tknow.)

"Alright, Angela, tell us about yourself."

Wellllll, I'm from the Finger Lakes...

         "Oh!  I was just there!  It's beautiful!" 

Right?!  I know!  Where were you?

           "Oh.  I don't know.  I mean...somewhere....".

...

OK.  Well, that's where I'm from.  And...ummm...I got here essentially like 2-and-a-half years ago, but really 2 because. I.  Subletted here rightaftergrad school.  And then.  Moved here.  For real, liiiiiiiiiiike two years agoandit'sreallyfunandIloveithereandtrytoauditionasmuch as I can.  Um.  Iloveworkingout. A lot. And. ... ...I love cooking.

"Oooh! Cooking!"

...Yeah...

            "You sound like you're a little embarrassed about that." 

Oh.  (Ack!)  No!  Not at all!  I just...I'm a bit of a novice but I'd love to, like, Paula Deen myself. (...What?)  I really like chopping garlic.  (WHAT?!?!)  Uhhhh... (...Get.  It. Together.)  Um...

"Let's move on."  (SHIT!) "Talk to me about your personal experiences with both birth control and emergency contraception."

And then I was off.  Like a shot.  I didn't even give the other chick an opportunity to think, I just launched right in and fuh-king ran with it.  Maybe it was just my desperate attempt to redeem myself.  Maybe it was just my desperate attempt to remind myself that I was, at one time, a sexual being.  ...Mayhaps both.

I OWNED that segment.  Hard.

(Yessssssssssssssss.)

"OK, ladies, great.  Let's take a look at the lines."  (Eeeeeee...). "Have a seat on this bench, you're friends, you can be friendly."

Sure!

            Of course!

"Great.  You start with the first one and go every other, and Angela, you take the second line, go every other...you get it." 

            OK, sure!

"Now.  These lines aren't, like, 'life or death', but they're not cheeky either.  Let's see what you do."

(Hmmm...OK...).  


We breathe, get comfy, smile at each other--genuinely--scootch closer and decide to do the damn thing.

"OK, we're rolling.  And. Action."

Last night, my birth control failed me.

            But I know what to get.

              One-Step Emergency Contraception!

            And, I know where to go.  Watch me!

(...and so on...) 

"OK.  Not so fun."  (Crap.)  "More, like, serious, like...tough cookie Maria Bello-ish."  (Wait.  Am I accosting people about emergency contraception?!)  "Just think 'tough'.  And you don't actually know each other, don't look at each other, don't refer to one another.  You're on the same bench, but foreign, you don't know each other."  (K...We're complete strangers.).  And our octaves drop and we both stare directly into the camera.  Shit gets serious.

"Two tough broads on a bench, and action."

Last night:  my birth control failed me.

            But.  I know what to get.

             One-Step Emergency. Contraception.

            And, I know where to go.  (Pause.  Lean forward.)  Watch.  Me.  

(Etcetera.) 

"And cut.  PERFECT!"   (Whaaat?!)  "Thanks, Ladies!" 

...And that was that.  The two of us look at each other, equally as perplexed, and walk out of the studio.  We take that long awkward walk down the corridor together to that long awkward elevator ride--that moment when you really really just want to be alone, but are still forced to be in the same intimate space with one another.  (Do we talk?  Do I...say anything to her? I mean, after what we just did...)...

So.  Was it good for you?

A Starving Artist and Random Acts of Kindness.

Clearly, there are many things that New York is.

I've spoken about a zillion of them.  I could undoubtedly cite a zillion more.  I probably will--at some point.

But quite noticeably as of late, New York is Fearful.  It is a Fearful city.
Which is surprising when you consider the sizable balls it appears that the average New Yorker has.

But there is a kind of guard that is perpetually up, a sort of lying in wait-ness within every citizen of the city.   For a sundry of reasons:

"What if I can't really afford to be here?"
"What if I'm not deserving of being here?"
"What if my train gets stuck?"
"What if I get bed bugs?"
"What if I can't get a sushi roll with brown rice?"
"What if IKEA isn't delivering today?"
"What if an earthquake takes us out?"
"What if Irene takes us out?" 
...And worse fears still.

We are crawling with these thoughts, and the fear is contagious.  And overwhelming.  And you watch as everyone slowly brings themselves to this kind of resolve, this "OK.  Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens."

And then, it's The Wait.  And there are inherently pins and needles, and that inherently makes everything far worse.

And in this particular time when the city seems to be crawling with this sensibility even more than usual... ... ...I mean, I don't know, there are always so many wonderfully nice surprises that this great big glorious place seems to have for you, things that you wouldn't have necessarily thought would matter so much. ...

It's these random acts of kindness.

These small little minute actions that friends and strangers alike are compelled to do even in the most stressful of times.

Everybody's doing em.  Everybody.  And it's kind of remarkable.

In the past week alone, I have witnessed a slew of examples:  someone surprising a distant acquaintance by buying them dinner, an entire (enTIRE) subway car donating money to the old impoverished man playing his trumpet, a teenage boy chivalrously walking an old woman across a crosswalk in Union Square, (multiple)friends helping (multiple)friends land an agent, (multiple)friends helping (multiple)friends land a job, surprise plates of soul food here, surprise compliments from strangers there, surprises surprises everywhere.

All of these things entirely unexpected, all SOOOOOOO NIIIIIIIIIICEand where's it all coming from?!

And then.  There was this:

I am riding home in a cab from the airport Friday morning, feeling sad and blue over having just reabandoned my boyfriend and my tuxedoed dog in the Central time zone but three hours prior.   The traffic is backed-up, but the ride is smooth, and the ride is quiet.

...

"You like-a dehallz-uh?"
... ... ...I'm sorry, what?
"You like-a de Hallllllz-uh?!?!" And the cabbie randomly whips out a sleeve of cough drops, and turns over his shoulder, wearing the biggest grin I've ever seen. 
Oh. Oh, I'm good, but thank you. So much. 
"Yesssss, yesssssss, eet eeez oh-kiay. You are the wellll-come. Eeez oh-kiay."
The end.


Did I laugh incredibly hard about this exchange?  Yes, yes I did.   But was it entirely sweet, and entirely unexpected and entirely kind?  


It totally was.


Clearly, this man felt that he was doing me a favor, and offering me the only thing he had in his possession that I could enjoy.


What a sweet and selfless gesture.


It's an astonishing and refreshing thing to realize that even in these moments of great fear, in these moments of chaos and bristle and doom and gloom, people like this exist.  Moments like this will happen.  Seemingly in abundance.


Forgive the cheese, but I too have to believe that at the root of it all, we're really all just 'good'.  Maybe it just takes a little crisis to bring out the best in us.  


...I'll take that.

A Starving Artist For Only $19.99 (+ S/H)

Every actor has this fear that they're going to be offered a project that they don't necessarily support, and I feel as if the fear only grows when it comes to commercials.

This could mean being on a Pro Life-commercial when you're staunchly Pro Choice, talking about the wonder that is the medicine that you're on (for Herpes...when you don't really have it, but it now seems as if you do to the entire rest of the world), or just generally promoting a product that you know from personal experience absolutely sucks.

The fear can be pseudo large and pretty legitimate. I mean, is a grand really worth it?  Seventeen grand?

...Three hundred dollars?

What do you do?

And then, beyond that, there are just certain commercial platforms that seem 100% taboo--like "Why in the hell would I ever want to shoot something like that?  Embarrassing."

Most specifically:  the infomercial.

Somewhere, there is a woman who is driving her kid to her first date at a miniature golf course/crock potting dinner/buying a pair of Jimmy Choos/blowing lines, and this woman has the "privilege" of saying that she paraded around in Pajama Jeans on an infomercial.  Saucily. 

Someone somewhere has "Fallen, and they can't get up."

Someone somewhere has enthusiastically chugged a Magic Bullet-smoothie, ShamWowwed the hell out of the hood of their car, donned a Bump-It in their hair before a manufactured night out with an imaginary group of girls, and all with a thumbs-up and a series of nods of approval to the camera.

"This product is genius--and so am I!"

...This happens.  Obviously.  And we all know it, because we see these people constantly, and point and laugh and say "HaHA!  That looks dumb."

Well, imagine my surprise this past Friday when my manager sent out an email saying that they had a last minute infomercial project come up and that the shoot would be on Monday "Would anyone be interested in helping out?"...and that I replied YES!!!!!  before I really got the chance to think about what I was signing on for.

And then all of a sudden...all of a sudden, I'm about to become "that girl".  ...Hmph.

That.  Girl.

Who's on the wrong bus heading towards Jersey at 8am.  Then stranded in the middle of a mall parking lot with 5 (perfectly nice) strangers at 8:30.  Then picked up by a director--tan, floppy blonde hair and shades--in his jeep and escorted to the studio smack in the middle of a quiet unassuming little suburb.

(So far...so far all of this seems exactly precisely right.)

And it's all there:

The super bright ready-to-go "kitchen", complete with dishwasher sink stove oven big fat fridge and the longest countertop on an island you've ever seen.

The super bright ready-to-go "bedroom".

The super bright ready-to-go "laundry space"  (with shelves lined with canisters of OxyClean..."This is where Billy Mays shot, ya know.").

All roped off, but all absolutely poised and on the ready, available at any time...for magic.

And then there--off in a little room all by itself--was the display desk.  The infamous display desk where said presenter presents the product surrounded by a bunch of women who ask silly questions, only to nod with approval to the camera in front of them when they discover that "Yes, grape juice really does lift off of your whites in a snap! when you use blahblahblah!!!"

Crazy crazy business.

But there it was, all right there in front of me.  And I had to shake my head a few times to actually convince myself of what I was about to do--This is so silly!!!--but then kinda stepped back and thought about it for a second, and went Meh.  Or maybe not.  It's still a gig, and maybe...maybe it's actually fine.

...

Surprises are always nice.

I like em.  Specifically when I've walked into a situation not feeling stellar, and I get this little surprise of "pleasant" thrown my way.

So, it was nice to realize that the product I was promoting was actually really kinda cool.  (A bit of a glorified spy-tool to use on your kids...but pretty damn clever just the same.)

Even more nice:  I was going to be acting!  Like for real!  Nothing shmaltzy smile-wink-nod-like, but like actually something character-driven:  a TESTIMONIAL!!!  I GET TO DO A TESTIMONIAL!!!  SWEET!!!!

...As the mother of an 8 year-old boy. ... 8.

"You don't quite look old enough to have a teenager yet,"  (THANKS!!!...) "But...yeah, 8 should work."

(Arrrrrrgh.)

"So, Angela, how many kids do you have?"

...Wait.  Really?

"Yeah!  You do...?"

Nooooo.  No.  I don't.  ...Yet.

 "Oh.   ...You married?"

Nooooo...

"Oh.  ...You're not even thirty yet, are you?"

Nope, not quite.

"Hmph."
 (What the hell does that mean?! ...These are just not the kind of complexes I was expecting to have on the set of an infomercial.)

And yet there I am, requestioning my life choices, as per.

Am I going to have to bounce an 8 year-old on my knee throughout said testimonial?

Do I have to give the camera a thumbs-up and a wink?

Do I have to fake cry?

Will I be the one offering this product up to the American infomercial-watching audience with the utmost enthusiasm screaming "And if you act now, you'll get a complimentary green tea moisturizer from Proactiv!  Six month's worth, yours for only an additional $14.95!" ?!

Where's Richard Simmons?  Suzanne Sommers?!  WHAT IS HAPPENING IN MY LIFE?!

I wait a series of hours before they film my testimonial--the last segment of the day.  And I'm walking away from the make-up chair towards the ready-to-go "bedroom" in my Mommy-appropriate T-shirt and jeans, but with a mug that looked like a cross between a drag queen and a Bratz-doll (I really don't think I'd trust any testimonial from any mother of an 8 year-old who looks like this.  I wouldn't.)  and I pause.

You DID sign-up for this--voluntarily.

There ARE moms who look like you, with this...face on--just not in Park Slope.

These people are NICE, they gave you COFFEE...and it's a GIG, ANGELA!!!

Get over yourself and do the damn thing, and act the part--without judgement.  No. Judgement.

...

And honestly?  It really wasn't bad.  It wasn't.  At the end of the day, it was a pretty mellow shoot (and yes, that in itself was a huge surprise) promoting a pretty decent product, and it was a pretty good time.

It was work.  Work I could, at the end of the day, legitimately find a way to get behind. And I did.

I have to believe that that will always be the most important thing to this business, for me anyway:  Can I actually find a way to get behind this?

If I can, then where's the problem?  There simply isn't one.

If I can't...

...Well then how far will I go?  How much will I just suck it up?

When would it just not be worth it anymore?

A Starving Artist Is a Hot Mess.

Here's one of the zillions of reasons why this city is so great:
Whereas New York is an absolute mecca for fashion and beauty and all things "Lookin gooooooood!"-related, there are just a few times of year when all of that absolutely goes out the window.  Because it has to.

A)  The Stupid Rainy Season.
      I'm walking everywhere--I need galoshes, I need an obnoxiously large umbrella, and, at some point, I know that I am going to be caught off-guard without these things and looking like a drowned rat.  ...Why even try to look cute?  I'm not.  I won't.

B)  The Snowy/Hell Freezeth Over Season.
      I am woolen, I am layered, I am Jack's Brooklynite Yetti--and it's fine.  I'm not freezing.  ...I may look frumpy and glo-worm-like, but I'm not freezing.

-AND (lastly)-

C)  ...The Season of the Infamous Oppressive HeatWave.
      ...
 
      Now:
      This one is arguably the funniest to me.  The best and the funniest.  Why?  Because absolutely everyone gives up.  EVERYone.  It matters not who you are, where you're going, what you did--this almost became a Backstreet Boys-song, I'm sorry--you have stopped trying.  (...Too much, anyway.)  And why?

To do otherwise takes too much effort--effort which may, in fact, be futile.

Why put on a cute dress if you're just gonna sweat your way through in it minutes?

Why bother to do your hair if it's just gonna end up frizzing itself out into a three-foot-wide monstrosity the moment you leave your apartment?

Why wear heels or jewelry or glasses or underwear or life if...if...it just sucks and it's too hot to bother to strap it all on?!

Answer:  don't.  Don't do any of it.

I have no idea exactly what it is about being in a city that's typically so caught up in its own "image" and just seeing it kind of let go of itself and get lazy that's so hilarious and kind of (very) liberating to me--but it is.  It totally is.
  
Examples (...of the week...from personal experience...):
*My gym became a ghost town overnight.  My little typically flooded gym smack in the middle of NoHo--absolutely no one is there, all week--except for me (which might mean that I'm crazy...)...

*In one day--four-and-a-half hours, actually--I pass by three different drag queens at random in entirely different spots of the city.  Not a one of them was wearing an ounce of make-up.


*Audition #1:  Equity-audition, and everyone is dressed down and in billowy loose things and flip flops.  Girls are casting sideways "Ew"-glances at my heels.  My heels. (...Fuck em.)


*Audition #2:  On-camera audition, and everyone is dressed even more down...and taking turns sticking paper towels up their shirts in the lobby.
              "Does this shirt look wet to you?"
                    "...Um...you know, kinda..."
              "You know what, I don't even care.  I don't even care."


*There are lines outside of Tasti-Dee...for breakfast.


*"What'd you do last night?"
              "Nothing."
                      "I didn't leave my bedroom.  I couldn't."
              "Me neither.  It's the only room with an AC-unit."
                      "Same."
                                "I spent the night at my friend's house."
              "Fun!"
                      "Because he has central air."
              "....Ohhh.  ...Have fun?"
                      "We just sat.  And drank...water."
              "Hmph."


*My motor skills leave me entirely and I develop the astonishing skill of dropping things directly into my non-existent cleavage...and finding that they stick there...and I don't find myself rushing to do too much about it.


*Everyone.  And everyTHING.  Is late.  The trains, audition times, reservations...delivery guys...my realization that I haven't been drinking any water...which is why I can't sit up straight and feel like yacking...


*"Want a fudgsicle?"
              "It's just too far away."  (...It's in the next room...).


*Hey.
              "Hey.  ...Roomie."
How was your...day?
              "Um.... I think...good...".
Good.
              "...Yours?"
...Ohmygodidontthinki even remember.  Really."
               "Mmhmm."
...
...Are you just really stupid tired?  I am like.  So tired."
                "Yeaaaaaah, I think I might like.  Go to bed."
Me too.
                "...Dude, we're the lamest.  It's 8:30."
I can't--I mean...I know...


*The number of bra-less and bathing-suit-top-as-bra-women in the city have increased...dramatically.


*"The freezer and the low-boy are both broken.  We have no ice cream, we have no unspoiled milk and the juice smells like death."
                  Oh no.
  "Nothing for anyone.  Like, maybe just...alcohol?"
                  Hmph.
  "Yeah.  ...Should we, like, fix it?"
  ...
 "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"


*... ...  ....."Dude.  It's been 15 minutes.  We have not moved or spoken."
 I know.
                "We seriously should just go to bed.  This is heinous."
I just--it's so far...


Slugs.
We become a society of slugs.  All worker bees and show ponies alike.

It's as if we're handed this entirely different kind of universal struggle--and goddammit, I find it glorious and hilarious and so entirely unglamorous...that that only makes it greater.

I LOVE this shit!

And, ahmunna say this:
       We're allowed to say that it's hot.  We are.  Because it is.  Maybe don't look at it as if we're saying "I'm so much hotter than YOU are."  (dear folks on Facebook who have had such a problem with anyone publicly complaining about the heat...I mean really...).   Maybe, for once, we can accept that everyone's just trying to say:
        "Holy fuckballs.  It's hot.  I am so hot--AREN'T YOU?!"

        "ISN'T EVERYONE?!"

        "...Want a blotting paper?  You can have mine, because I...I don't even care.  I just don't care anymore."

A Starving Artist Meets a Lull.

So, I signed.

It felt great.  It felt really really stupid great.  And right.  And I walked out of that office, and it was ninety-seven ridiculous degrees outside and I had sweat and iced coffee seeping out of my pores and felt gross and sticky and like I was melting into a puddle of pasty white girl around my flip flops.

And clearly--clearly--I just didn't even sort of care.

I was so OFFICIAL.  Like ALL of a sudden.  The world kicked ass and I was suddenly kicking so much ass in it--kick ass!!!!!

And then, over the next seven days, I had like six auditions and a big fat meeting with a big fat agency that went so so super well--well enough that they said "Freelance with me?"  and I of course went GREAT!!!  and then there I was AGAIN!  Ninety-seven degrees outside, parading around in blissful disgustingly sweaty Anthropologie-clad post-sex-like oblivion as if I owned the freaking city.

Because I felt like it!!!!!  I felt like I did!!!!

THIS, I thought, THIS is what my life is about to become and it's AMAZING!!!  THINGS ARE SOOOOOO HAPPENINGGGGGGG!!!!!

...

In two weeks, I have had three auditions.

Three.

Two weeks.

I have only been signed for four weeks, and suddenly, I'm like No.  No.  What have I done wrong?!  (Somehow, having any number of auditions can be "wrong" all of a sudden...fine...).  This can't be right at all.  This is not what it was looking like.  Originally.

I signed.

And I cut my hair.  (Two inches...)

But...we promised.  Like, we're contracted now, and that means that we're supposed to be doing lots of stuff and lots of auditioning like all of the time!  Right?  Doesn't it?... 

...So...

And we as actors do that stupid thing.  That stupid thing that's only meant to be nice and just, like, conversation, but always turns into making someone ultimately feel...dumb:

"So, what have you been up to?  Have you been working on anything lately?"

Always.  Whenever you see someone out, at an audition, at a bar, wherever, when it's clearly been awhile:  "So, got anything cool lined up?  Staying busy?"

And you're not doing it to be a dick (...I'm not anyway...), but you're doing it just to chat.  And to give them the opportunity to say "Actually, YEAH, I have been!"  Which is great.

It is.

...

It's great when they've been staying busy--and aren't represented by the same person that you are, and aren't going on four times the auditions as you are per week, and haven't booked like five things in the past month and a half. 

When they are and have been...ok no.  No.  Still great--just, kinda, maddening.  A little.

(...A lot.)

BUT!  Different paths, different people. 

OK.  You are 5'10" and gorgeous and a buck-three.  I'm...not.  And that's fine!  Our markets are just...different.  That's all.  That's why.  ...Right?  Right.

And youuuuu arrrrrrrrre forty.  And ethnic-looking and gorgeous.  Again, I'm not.  So...there's that.

But...


But.  Goddammit please tell me that I'm still doing ok.  Please tell me that in this two weeks of quiet that there hasn't suddenly been some kind of "What the shit are we doing kidding ourselves with this girl?!" that's come over my manager.  Or this new agency.  Or this OTHER agency.  That's just impossible, right?

RIGHT?!

...

And in my brain, wayyyy in the back, I know that it's just my neuroses that's been doing all of the talking.  That stupid panic and neuroticism that comes over you when you want something so badly to just fucking work in your favor.  I know this.

I know that I had plenty of weeks of quiet before I was signed.  And it was never a problem then.  I never questioned then whether it was the breakdowns or my lack of talent that was making for a quiet week.  For real--for REAL:  WHY should it be a problem now?!

(Fact:  ...Goddamn I use a lot of caps and underlininess when I'm feeling emphatic.  Hmph...).


So, yes.  I've been feeling Yikes-like.

I finally finally finally got together with a sweet lovely dear friend today who I've been playing tag with for weeks, and immediately following a guessing game as to the name of his soon-to-be-born daughter (Cordelia?..."Awww, cute name.  Nope." ... Ivy? ..."Cute.  Two syllables, yeah. ...Nope."  ... ...Moses? ... "Ooooooh...."), we launched into this whole discussion.  And:

"No."
What?
"No.  It's fine, Angela, you're totally fine."
No!  But...no.  I don't know.
"Yessss you do."
Guhhhhhhhhhhhh.
"Angela, I've lived here for seven years and I never've gone out on like six auditions a week.  That's crazy!  If I got two, that was good."
...OK...
"Aaaaaaaand you're still a baby."
...
WHAT?!  NO!
"Girl!  Have you even been here for two years yet?"
...Next month.
"And you've done anything already?!  You're fine."  

And that is a very very very nice thing to say, and I honestly forget that I'm almost still kinda new-ish, and I do forget that Oh yeah, I totally have done stuff because I am 100% impatient with myself and an embarrassing gross kind of perfectionist where I feel like I need to be able to do absolutely everything absolutely all of the time and all at once.  And well.

...I don't cut myself any slack all that often.  I potentially should.

And I swear to you, I was so so thoroughly aware a freaking month ago of that whole concept that everything is just supposed to happen in its Time.  In due Time.  When it's ready, when it's yours, it'll happen.  In Time, I knew that.

But.  Goddammit.

You sign this piece of paper--and that's really all it is, paper--and it's all of a sudden as if Time is not the thing that matters anymore.

But Results sure do.  A lot.

...Which is just crazy, right?
 
Because Results for who?  Who exactly is it that I think that I have to prove myself to anymore, anyway?  If I've freelanced, if I've booked, if I've signed...

...

.

A Starving Artist as an Alien

I graduated from high school 11 years ago yesterday.

...

I could get all nauseous-like about this.  Get nostalgic and think about my 11th birthday.  Do the whole "I'm old, what exactly have I done in 11 years?"-thing.

I could.  Any of that.  Entirely.

...

I was actually home last weekend.  I took three days to pop home and see my family, my best friend (for the SECOND WEEKEND IN A ROW) who's getting hitched in four months, and to make a sneak attack on a bridal shower for another dear friend from childhood.  Seven shades of bliss crammed into 57 hours.

My hometown is roughly 6.5 hours west of the Apple.

As cliche as it sounds to say that it's a completely different world, it is.  Completely.  It's quiet and suburban-borderline-country...a million miles of green, a million miles of lake, barns, vineyards, and this tiny little Main Street that has essentially nothing on it that isn't a family-owned operation.

Everyone.  Knows.  Everyone.  There's only 10,000 people there, and most of whom have always been there--and there's a tremendous coziness in that.

It is, hands down, the single sweetest place I know.

I woke up in my bed last Friday morning (the same exact one that I've slept in since I was 7), completely panic stricken.  I was overwhelmed by this terrifying little humming droan-ish sound and I had no idea where it was coming from but I thought it was wrong, totally wrong, something was amiss, this was an alarm of some kind and I didn't like it.

And then I sat there.

And my window was wide open, and there was an actual breeze--that didn't smell of concrete or garbage or pizza, but lilacs.  My dad's lilacs.

And then my simple little suburban-bred brain kinda creaked itself open and went You're crazy.  That's not an alarm.  Those are wind chimes.  Wind chimes, Angela.


Where.  The shit.  AM I?!


And I promptly ran downstairs to drink coffee on my front porch, just because I could, with no agenda, no place to be, no cacophony to distract me whatsoever.

It was foreign and wonderful and ideal and kind of out-of-body-like.  And Home.  Wonderful wonderful Home. Plain and simply.

...But Home is not a place that I could live.  Which sounds weird to say.  I mean to say that it's not a place that I could stay and plant myself, and I pretty much always knew that I couldn't, and there's a part of me that's always been kinda heartbroken about that.

But I couldn't.

In the lovely little whitebread storybook wonderland where I was raised, there is nary a starving artist to be found.

Nary an "artist" beyond the people who dip into Rochester to do the occasional play, the folk musicians who play in the townie bars, the jewelry makers and the woodworkers.  And that's all great, really and truly it is.  That's an absolute part of its absolute charm. 

But it's just not a thing that I could do.  And I know that about myself.

Correspondingly, it's always a funny thing to dip back there, surrounded by all of these people who you love and always unconditionally will, but all of whom are either teachers, lawyers, counselors or craftsmen.

And all of whom have gardens.

And all of whom drive cars.

And all of whom are either married or getting there, and talking kids and buying houses and health insurance and vacations.  Known things.  Stability.  In general.

I am a foreign foreign object in this place any more.

And it's taken me quite awhile to get ok with this, to not feel like I'm screaming WOOOOO! Odd duck.  ODD DUCK!!  Right here!!  whenever I walk into Wegmans.

But now:  it's totally fun.

"So wait.  How much are you paying for your place?"
         Well, the whole thing is $2550, but it just got raised a little...
"...How do you DO that?!"
        Meh.
"And you're just...acting?!"
       Welllllll, no, not quite.  That's where I hope to be...
"Wait.  What else do you do?!"
       Oh.  Ummm...
"Ohmygod, have you been on Broadway yet?!?!"
       Nooooooo no no no no no. Trust me, you would know.
"Are you gonna be soon?!"
       ...That'd be nice. ...
"Don't you miss having a car?"
       I mean sometimes, yeah, a lot.
"But how do you get around?"
       I just take the train.  Or walk.  Or both.
"But like far?!"
       Sure!
"Like every day?"
       Well.  Yeah.
"Wow. ...With groceries?"
       You gotta.
"Hm. ..."
       ...
"...So when are you getting married?"
      Eleven-and-a-half years.
"That's pretty precise."
      Sure.  I've mapped it all out.
"Damn."
      Right?!

And every time as I'm having this conversation, I'm cognizant of the fact that I would have never predicted such a path for myself....eleven years ago.  I don't really know what I thought beyond the idea that I'd maybe be married and maybe be driving myself to go act at some kind of permanent acting job somewhere in my cute little silver Honda Civic.   Looking cute.  And going home to water the irises and tigerlilies in my front yard.

Somewhere foreign.

Somewhere almost scary.

But somewhere that felt like home.

...And it's not quite the scenario that my 18 year-old fantasy dictated, but I got about 1/3rd of it right.

...

I sat at this bridal shower last Saturday, in the living room of this huge beautiful house, in the middle of the sunniest day I'd seen in a long time, watching my friend the honoree open hand blenders, and lingerie gift certificates, and bath towels, and recipe books...and she was beaming.  And I looked around the room, at all of the other beaming faces--the moms, and the grandmas, and the aunts, and the sisters, and the cousins...beautiful married home-owning friend number one, beautiful married home-owning friend number two, one beautiful nearly-married and blissful friend. 

And then my best friend--my engaged tenure-tracked beautiful remarkable best friend--who was looking at me, giddy, and beaming, and who grabbed my hand for no reason to give it a squeeze, but just held it for awhile instead. 


And I guess...

...I guess it's just nice to know that there are places in this world that you're not necessarily meant to stay in, but where a part of you will always undoubtedly belong.

That even as I'm running all over this city, doing this acting-thing that I love and that I know I'm meant for, but dodging "Cut your hair"s and "Get a new headshot"s and "Find a better monologue"s and "Why are you so perky?"s, attempting to find some kind balance and ground between these tremendous ups and tremendous downs--sometimes, I can just say Screw it. 

Sometimes, I can just go west.  To somewhere foreign.

A Starving Artist's Extra Credit

Due to my big fat experience on the Bored to Death-set and just because I'd simply never done it before, I figured What the hell and submitted myself for a gig as an extra.

And I got it.

...

Now that I have spent two 17 hour-days back-to-back on a set in such a position, I should like to give you a run-down of exactly what this all looks like:

1) Call the casting services at 9:30pm to get your call-time for the next day...and thereby find out that it is at 5:40am at a random corner in the upper-chunk of Manhattan.  Meaning that you need to wake-up by (realistically) 3:30am.  You should sleep...

2) ...But you can't because you're (A) wound-up and (B) have to pack a million pounds of winter coats and possibilities for "Minnesotan-winter funeral attire".  Decide what that term means, dig out your thickest coats, find whatever pairs of matching gloves that you can...and then sleep.

3) ...Almost.  Check the weather report for further preparedness:  it is going to be at least 90-degrees tomorrow.  Well, shit.

4) Pass out on the couch at midnight.


5) Wake-up like a shot at 3:30am, run around to make coffee and look as "camera ready" as this hour allows.

6) Call a cab at 4:30am...because you realize that attempting such a hike on a train this early could take potentially two hours. 

7) Thirty-five dollars and 65 minutes later, you are on a bus bound for Connecticut  (Connecticut?)  --and pass out in the world's most awkward fetal position.

8) An hour later, the bus stops, your limbs are all asleep, you have the fabric pattern of the bus seat imprinted on your poorly make-upped face, but you need to roll onto the set.  Now.

9) You're in the holding tent...behind a large funeral home.   There is coffee, and fruit, and comfy-looking chairs (ish)--and yelling.  Everyone is yelling.  Dear god, how is this possible--how is this much yelling even possible this early?  You run to get your wardrobe approved--because you're afraid that you'll get your throat slit otherwise.

10)  While doing so, you're asked if you have anything "cuter-looking, like any cocktail dresses".      
       Well, they said Minnesotan-winter funeral attire so, I have layers of stuff and all those coats and everything so...
        "So no?"
        ...No.  Oh man, no.  I don't.
        "OK.  No.  That's ok, we'll...think of something."
        ...Shit.

11)  While sitting in the holding tent making sweet sweet love to your coffee (while sitting there in your fitted cute black borrowed-cocktail dress...and black hulking winter boots...unfortunate...) the PA who scares you and sounds much like Rosanne Barr begins to squawk:
       "EXTRAAAAAAAAAAS!!! LISTENNNNNNNNN:  you canNOT!  SIT!  On the LEFT SIIIIIIIIIIIDE of the TENT!  That is for CREW and PRINCIPALS ONLYYYYYY!!!!  YOU GUYYYYYYYYYS NEEEEEEEEED to BEEEEEEEEEEEE on the RIGHT SIIIIIDE!!!!!"
       Instantaneously, people try to protest:  there's not enough room, we need to spread-out, what if there are people in our bunch who are claustrophobic and feeling overly congested by the number of winter coats lying around...
       "You GUYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYS!!!!! NO!  No.  RIGHT side ONLYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!  ONLY the RIIIGHT SIIIIDE!  Pick up your STUFF, and MOVE IT RIGHT NOWWWWWWWW and MAKE SOME ROOM!   It is NOT HARRRRRRRD!!!!!"
       Shuffling, sneers and mumbles abounding.  You then realize that you are but one in a herd of entitled-feeling cattle in a very small pen...and that this is going to be a long long day.

12) At 8am, the first group of extras is called to set.  You are not among them, so you take this opportunity to work on your crossword puzzle.

13)  At 9am, the second group is called to set...wash, rinse, repeat.

14)  At 9:45am...the same.  You find a new crossword puzzle and a much larger cup of coffee.

15)  At 10:10am:  "You GUYYYYYYYYYYS!!!! ANYone who has NOT been CALLED, GRAB YOUR COATS and your APPROOOOOOOOOOOVED GLOVES AND SCARVES ETCETERAAAAA and LINE UP!  OUTSIDE!  THE FUNERAL HOME!!!  RIGHT OUT BACK THERRRRRRE!!!! OUT! SIIIIIIIIIDE!!!!  QUICKLYYYYYY!!!!"
        Eager and highly-caffeinated, you fly like the wind.

16)  At 10:35am, you are still standing outside of the funeral home in your longest woolen winter coat and further winter attire...your phone says that it is already 84-degrees outside.  A number of the women standing around you begin to complain.
       "Ugh.  They would have never had us stand around like this on 30 Rock."
                 "I know, right?!  They're so nice there.  Not here."
       "When were you there last?  Last season?"
                  "Ummmm, no.  Last week.  I did The Good Wife for a day, and then 30 Rock."
       "Oh.  Nice.  I mean, I shot there for two days a couple weeks ago, too.  It was great."
                  "Oh."
       "Yeah..."                  
                           "Boardwalk was brutal last week.   Like, bru-tal."
                  "I'm suuuuuure.  Not like this, though, right?"
                           "Ugh.  No.  No way.  NOTHING like this.  Not at all."
        "Nothing is."
                  "I know."
                           "Ugh, GOD!  I know."
...
...Ohhhh boy.

17) At 10:50am, you are ushered on to set, and spend the next half an hour getting filmed walking back and forth across a hallway.  The woman walking across the hall with you grips onto your elbow (like she's punishing you, or attempting to guide you somewhere...or both) and continually yells at you to walk slower.

18)  You are given new positions and told to take your coats back to the tent, "This scene is funeral-cocktail attire only!"
       Your former scene partner throws her coat at you.
       "Take this to the tent for me,"  fluffs her hair, stomps away.  Like the wild lady-beast that she is.
       ...

19)  You begin another half an hour of walking back and forth across a hallway...from a different angle.
        The lady-beast leers at you whenever possible, and you attempt to avoid having an awkward stare-down with her.
        Another woman with an atrocious perm (that you later find out is a weave...from Avon..."This was $14, if you can believe it, doesn't it look healthy?  And full?"...)  yells at you to walk faster.
        ...

20)  "You GUYYYYYYYYYYYS!!!!!!!  EXTRAAAAAAAS!!!  BACK TO HOLDIIIIIIING!!!!!"  ...Where you sit for three hours.  With two more crossword puzzles.
       "Oooh, hey, can I help you with that?"
       Oh!  Sure.
       "Where you at?"
       Um, 89-Down:  Narrow groove, as in a muscle...
       "OOH!  Oooh yeah, that's uh....um...Shoot, I know it..."
       ...
       "Ooh!  No!  You know what, there, 5-Across, what's that?!"
       Oh.  OK:  Chihuahua's breed group.  Three letters.
       "Yeah!  Isn't that just 'dog'?!" ...
       ...Ummmm....
       Oh.  God.  Dammit.
 

21)  Lunch break.  All crew and AFTRA-members stay and do craft services in the tent, where there is swordfish and cucumber water and like this salad bar and all these amazing decadent things.  Which you don't need anyway, because you're assuming that you still have "too much thigh".  It's fine.  You're over it, swear to god...
       You report outside, where non-unioners have noodles and cookies.
       ...You run for more caffeine.  And some Starbursts.  And mixed greens with no dressing--because non-unioners apparently don't get dressing.  Today at least.

22) Over the next five hours, you're sent to stand in line behind the funeral home to be ready to go on set 4 different times.  Each time, you are there for 45 minutes, with no word as to if you'll be used, if you can go elsewhere to like meander or pee, nothing. 
       You chug three more cups of coffee, and a Diet Coke, listen to this guy who weighs like a buck-thirty get into a heated debate about circuit training with a personal trainer (and want to crawl into a hole and die), and become involuntarily pulled into a fake boxing-match with a guy who says that you're evil (...).

23)  You pet Parker Posey's dog.  And then an older couple walks by, carrying an urn.
        ...
       You're dismissed back to holding.

24) After conducting a lesson in both Shakespeare and the wonder that is 'the moose-knuckle' (which sent the buck-thirty guy running around the holding tent asking everyone "So, uh, would you say I have a moose-knuckle?  Really, do I?"  the extras are all called together...
      ...And DISMISSED!  FOR THE DAY!!!!
      ...It's 7:30pm.
      "You GUYYYYYYYYYS!!!!!! CALL the CASTING HOTLIIIIIIIINE at 9! 30!!!!!"

23) You return to Brooklyn at 9:45pm.  You discover you are due back to the bus at 6:45am.  (I get to sleep an extra hour!!!!!!!)

24)  Repeat steps 3-9, 11-15.

25)  You are called on set at 11am, take another half an hour getting filmed walking back and forth across a hallway--a skill at which you've become particularly masterful at.

26)  They are preparing to shoot a pivotal scene:  Laura Linney is giving the eulogy at Cynthia Nixon's unborn child's funeral.
        YOU are going to be directly in the shot, right over over Cynthia Nixon's shoulder--so you get to ACT!  THIS IS GREAT! 
        They want to pair you with a boy in the shot.
        They choose the buck-thirty guy.
        "So...what's a moose-knuckle again?"
        ...Ohhhhh myyyyyy GOD!

27)  Buck-thirty guy apparently is too elastic-faced for the scene (but YOU'RE not!  Way to take a note...) and is thankfully replaced.

28) You've acted, you feel super good, you're TOLD you did super good (Hoorayyyy!)...you're dismissed to holding.

29)  Repeat steps 20-22...replace noodles with rice and veggies, Starbursts with Jelly Bellies, and awkward circuit training-conversation with "I have money, lots, and this is why it's so important...".  ...

30)  At 6:30pm, you are called back onto set to be background in front of a sushi bar...with Parker Posey and her son on the show.  You try to not look at her too hard or acknowledge the fact that you want almost her exact career (FACT:  I.  Love.  Parker Posey.)  or just generally be weird.  (Don't be weird.)
  ...You're not.  SUCCESS!

31)  You're dismissed back to holding just as the Waffles and Dinges-truck pulls up for the crew...and the septic tanks of the Port-a-Potties are being purged immediately next to the tent.  ...Yes.

32)  Following an hour of putzing (looking up a sundry of different origins of terms on Wikipedia, thinking up new ways to avoid buck-thirty guy, discussing which borough is better and why...and drinking more caffeine--mistake......)
       "You GUYYYYYYYYYS!!!!!! EXTRAAAAAAAAS!!!!!  You're WRAPPED!"

HOORAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYDear.  Sweet.  Jesus.

It's not that the work is bad.  It's not.   At all.

But godDAMN it's exhausting.  And in multiple regards.

Fantastic for people-watching, fantastic for just the experience...but I feel like it's not a thing I want to frequent doing. 

BUT!  At least I can say I've done it.  And at least you'll SEE ME, which is neat...but hopefully only from the face up.

Because this bitch apparently needs to fine-tune her sense of Minnesotan-winter funeral attire.