A Starving Artist on Image.

Yesterday afternoon, I headed out my front door looking like one of the Andrews Sisters.

I had my hair blown-out straight only to roll some loose Victory Curls (“Victory Curls”?!  Goddamn, 1940s-terminology was the coolest.), delicately lined eyes, bright red lips, and an authentically vintage plaid dress paired with some authentically vintage badass heels.

I Looked.  Awesome.

I’m well aware that in New York, there are two types of people who can get away with walking around like this:  Hipsters, and Starving Artists.  Hipsters do it to look chic and out of the ordinary for Chic and Out of the Ordinary’s sake, whereas Starving Artists do it because an audition has asked it of them and, incidentally, they end up feeling chic and out of the ordinary.

(…I don’t need to tell you which category I fall into.)

(…)

(…God bless this audition.)

So, I walked through my neighborhood, feeling like The Shit.  Sat on the train, feeling just the same.  Paraded around Gramercy, strolled on over to Chelsea and down into the West Village in my 60 year-old little heels just because I could.  And yeah, I felt fucking glorious.  And yeah, I was aware that there were a handful of people looking my way, and I was aware that there were a handful who intentionally weren’t. 

I genuinely didn’t care either way.

It was not until I was on the train back home that I dared to take the rest of Me in:

I am a girl who, for once, actually looks kinda cute.  But, I look like I should be simultaneously saluting someone and cooking a pot roast, yet I’m reading Game of Thrones and slurping an over-sized Juice Generation smoothie.  …Huh.

And, to me, that made perfect sense. 

“Quirk”.  I was still embodying my label, my Image of “Quirk”, just in an entirely different way than usual.

Neat. …Oh, Bran, Summer IS a perfect name for your direwolf!!!

Starving Artists fight with their Image (/persona/type/all of these things) all of the goddamn time.  It's a fact.  It’s almost like a thing that you have to expect to deal with once you walk into this business.

My Image has been called into question a couple of times within the past week, and kind of for the first time.  EVER, it felt like. 

I take great pride in the fact that I’ve known for a long long time what kind of Image I project out into the world, both as a Me and as a Starving Artist.  I mean, in school, your instructors attempt to stretch you and make you more rounded as an actor, expand your range as much as is possible, right right right right obviously.  But all the while, you’re expected to hold true to “Who You Are Most”.

Over years and years of careful calculation, I have determined that Who I Am Most is “Quirky”, or, if we’re being more specific, “Quirky Effervescent Girl”, or, if we’re really zeroing in,  “Quirky Bright Best Friend”.

This Image is further indicated by the following traits:

--I’m not the prettiest girl in the room.

--I’m not the boringest girl in the room.

--I’m not the stupidest girl in the room.

--I’m not the quietest girl in the room.

--I am bubbly.

The Image is further indicated on a purely superficial scale in that:

--I am extraordinarily animated, vocally and physically (although, hopefully, less elastic-faced than I once was).

--I move quickly always.  Like a bunnyrabbit.

--I have a huge smile, and it’s gummy. 

--I have huge eyes, and they’re better storytellers than I am.

--I have crazy mermaid hair.

--I generally wear bright things.

--…I am bubbly.

Oh, and:

--I’m a loud silly bitch that people seem to want to spend time with.   People who are accepting of the fact that I might break into a song/limerick about them at a moment’s notice.

Hence:  “Quirky Bright Best Friend”.  (In a nutshell.) 

I’m cool with this.  In fact, I’m more than cool with this, these are all things that I’m happy to own and, in fact, have for quite some time.  In fact, I might be so bold as to say that I occasionally flaunt these things because, I mean, why not?  I own them, you don’t, and I like that, so…so, yeah, I can flaunt my Quirk.  Non-obnoxious-like.  I do, and I will.

How.  Evs.

Because I “own” these things and have owned these things and just like them all so much, I don’t really want to deviate from any of it too much.  Call it “Stubborn”, call it “Smart”, call it what you will, I just don’t want to do it.

I never thought I’d be asked to.

…

This past week, a sweet sweet lady friend of mine had an interview with my manager; she had kicked an exorbitant amount of ass at her grad school showcase and, incidentally, my manager wanted to chat with her and I, incidentally, wanted to know all of the horny details immediately following.

She:  “Kinda intense.  Haha.”

ME:  Isn’t he, though?!

She:  “Oh and he just told me that he has ideas for your hair.”

ME: …What does that mean about my hair…? 

What DID that mean about my hair?! 

As much as I love my mane, it’s not a thing I’ve ever been too protective about.  I’ve had it a sundry of different lengths, dyed it a sundry of different colors, it all grows out or grows back, that’s fine.  But…Huh.   Odd.

I emailed him straight away.

ME:  I heard you have some thoughts about my hair…?

He:  “LOL.  All in good time…”

…And that was it!  That was ALL he said.

ME:  I am SO INTRIGUED!

Which was actually code for “I am now suddenly SO NERVOUS!”  Because, what the hell?!  Just tell me what you want!  Don’t dangle the idea in front of me like that...unless you think I won’t like it…

Hours went by before I heard anything else on the matter.  I was on my way out the door to go to a workshop when sweet sweet lady friend texted:

“He wants you to cut it some and straighten it.”

…

I throw diva-fits over nothing.  I generally don’t believe in them, they’re heinous and gross.

I threw a goddamn Diva. Fit.

STRAIGHTEN my hair?!  He wants me to STRAIGHTEN my hair?!?!  Permanently?!?!?!  FUCK NO!!!  No.  No!  Absolutely not, that is a ridiculous request, it’s not happening.

I was furious.  Furious at the idea that someone would want me to part with my curls—I LOVE them!  How DARE you!!—and furious that he would even think to make such an obscene and ludicrous and potentially career-detrimental request. 

That’s my mermaid hair, and people talk about it.  In a good way.  To my face.   All the time.

How did he not know that?

That’s a thing that helps me to stand out.  That’s a thing that defines my Quirk, it helps to define Me.  I permanently straighten my hair, and I will look like everyone else…almost. 

Did he remember what happened to Jennifer Grey after her nose job?!

It takes a significant Image-defining option out of the way, and I will straighten my hair on occasion for occasional auditions, obviously, and happily, but I will not do it permanently, I will not get rid of my curls, I will not get rid of my Quirk, that’s a stupid request!  It’s stupid, I hate it.  Guhhhhh!!!

…Obviously, none of this was said directly to him, rather, I shrieked it to the rafters while pacing around my living room.  Like you do.  It actually has yet to come up in actual conversation and, frankly, I hope it doesn’t.  (Maybe he realized it was a bad idea.)  And maybe I’m feeling too precious about it.  Maybe.  …But, I don’t think so.

Thing is, and correct me if I’m wrong, I just feel like the last person in the world that I should have to defend any semblance of my Image to is the chap who’s representing me.  He should be as aware of it as I am. 

If he’s helping me “sell” the Quirky Girl, why deflate the Quirk?

This notion lit a fire inside of me that I carried into the workshop later that evening.  I was meeting with a casting director—an indie film casting director (EEEEEEEE!!!)—and, obviously, wanted to put my best face forward. 

For this particular workshop, we the class had the good fortune of being able to choose our own scenes; the casting director listed a series of sides on a database from both movies he’s currently working on and ones that he’s worked on in the past, and left it up to us to skim through them and choose one that fit us best.

It didn’t take long for me to find one:  a chick managing an underground radio station, kinda spastic, perfectly Quirky.  Done.

I dressed the part well, I was completely entirely off-book, and felt a bit firey for sure from the hair-convo, but primarily fearless and stoked. 

I walked up to the front of the room and perched myself in front of the camera, feeling like I had nothing to prove and everything to own. 

So I did.

There was chat, there was a take, there were giggles, there was an adjustment, there was laughter.  A lot.  And then, it was done.

Casting Director:  “Cut.  Really really good work.  Perfect second time around.  Honestly.”

ME:  Thank you.

CD:  “You nailed it.  And…you should know that you have great timing.  Like, really impressive comedic timing.”

ME:  Wow.  Thank you so much!  Thanks!

(Thank you!!!)

CD:  “…I mean, I got nothing else to say.  Really great.  Thank you.  A lot.”

…So, that felt awesome.  I felt giddy and flattered and relieved and elated and all of those things.  Tremendously.

For fifteen seconds.

And then, this happened.

CD:  “Angela.”

ME:  Yes?

CD:  “Your resume is really impressive.”

ME:  Oh.  Thank you.

CD:  “You have some pretty great, impressive credits on here.  And you’ve obviously been trained well.”

ME:  Thank you! Very much.

CD:  “Really and truly.  And your headshot is not nearly good enough for you.”

…

WHAT?!  My HEADSHOT?!  My calling card for the past four years?!  The picture I’ve been selling myself with?!  The image of my Image?!  “Not good enough”?!?!

I had had maybe two negative comments about my headshot in the past four years.  Two.  And I had been thinking about getting new ones taken, until I had various friends, my manager and one of my commercial agents dissuade me from doing so.

“No.”

    “No way.”

         “You certainly don’t need to.”

“You’re still the same actress telling this same story that you are in this picture.”

    “You look no different.”

           “Save your money.”

    “Save your money, it’s totally unnecessary.”

And now, this.

CD:  “On a shallower scale, you just look much younger in this picture than you appear.  Like, if I saw this picture, I would think to cast you as high school-age, or early college.  I absolutely would not just from looking at you right now.”

(Oooooh.)

CD:  “Class, look.  Do you guys see what I mean?”

(Guhhhhh.  Well, this, um…this feeling sucks.) 

But then, he went on.

CD:  “That’s not even the most important thing.  You.  You are bright.  You are like big and bright.” 

(“Big”?  How so?…Don’t read into it.)

CD:  “I have talked to you for two and a half minutes and that is evident.  And it’s already infectious, and it’s different and unique and good.”

ME:  …Wow.  Thank you.

(Wow.  Thank you.)

CD:  “This picture doesn’t tell me that. “

ME:  Oh.

(Oh.  Shit.)

CD:  “It’s a pretty picture for sure, but I don’t care.  We see pretty pictures all of the time, and it gets really easy to pass them by.  Because we expect to see them.  We don’t expect to see You.”

ME:  …Oh.

CD:  “This isn’t you.  It’s pretty.  And it’s blah.  Show me bright, Quirky, infectious you.  You find a picture that can do that for you, you’ll kill.”

ME:  Wow.  OK.

CD:  “You couldn’t be passed by, passed up if you had a picture saying as much.  Your resume says as much, you certainly say as much, you deserve a picture that says as much.”

(Oh my god.)

ME:  You think I’ve been getting passed by?  For this?

CD:  “Honestly? I do.”  (Oh my god.)  “And I don’t want you to anymore, OK?”

ME:  OK.

CD:  “New pictures.”

ME:  New pictures.  OK.  Great.  …Thank you so much.

CD:  “Absolutely absolutely.”

I’d messed up.  I’d sold myself short.  I’d owned the Image, built a resume around the Image, and been passing around a calling card, a headshot that didn’t quite do it. 

I had been overlooked for it.

He was too specific for me to not believe that what he was saying was absolutely true.

There was this huge crazy pit that was starting to grow in my stomach, but I closed it up as quickly as I could and just stared ahead of me at this casting director.  This casting director who, evidently, believed in Me.  In who I was.  In my capabilities, my Image, Me. 

He believed in Me that much after two and a half minutes. 

I had no idea what I did to deserve that.

I still don’t.

CD:  “Where is she…Angela!”

ME:  Yes?

CD:  “That scene?  That scene that this girl just did?  Perfect for you.  It would obviously sound totally different coming from you, but really.  Perfect.”

ME:  Awesome.  Thanks.

CD:  “No kidding, work on it.”

ME:  I will.  Thank you.

CD:  “Man, I can’t wait til you get new pictures.”

…Me neither.

A Starving Artist or What You Will

Not every Starving Artist is given the opportunity to have a second go-round with a role, nonetheless a kickass role in a kickass play.  

Oh man.  It's the greatest.

It's like the world just says "OK, hey.  Here's this again.  Try it once more, and do it better.  See what else you can find.  You're different, you're older, that shouldn't be hard."

We just opened our Twelfth Night two days ago, but I first did this thing when I was in grad school and had...an "important" experience with it.  Not "good", not "bad", "important". 

So, for actors, grad school is a purely selfish place, right?  It's this place where you have three years to investigate yourself, figure out precisely who the hell you are, know it for definite, and then walk out into the world with it.

I was still figuring all of that out when I played Olivia the first time.  I was actually in the thick of it.  I only knew how to be a quirky likable girl; I felt comfortable being a little weird and feared being ordinary, I couldn't bear the thought of the audience not having my character's back (slash not liking ME), and I was youngish and super wide-eyed.  Henceforth, when my director (the same man you yelled at me for saying "Yes" to everything, openly hated my bubbliness and frequently called me a "Flake" specifically to piss me off...which worked...he was a peach), when he said "Angela, your first steps onstage in this play need to be the steps of a solemn high-status woman who refuses to get out of mourning," I thought:

Ummm...I didn’t understand a word you just said.  Could you repeat that?

I legitimately had no idea what that meant.  In terms of Me, I didn't.  At all.  It sounded like the complete antithesis of everything I was and I, therefore, had no idea what to do with it.

So, I played with her, determined to figure something out. 

Every day, he told me “No”.  Every day, I got shot down.  Every day, I got a little more confused, and every day, I broke apart a little more.

“Angela, she’s a woman.”

I know.

“You’re still giving me a girl.”

I’m working on it, I know.

“And she’s in mourning.”

OK.

“She’s stuck there.”

…OK.

“But, she’s a clown!”

Uh…

“Don’t forget that.  She’s a clown, in love.”

…I’m confused.

“What is so confusing about that?!”

(EVERYTHIIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!!!)

I hated everything.  I would run home, tear my hair out, vent to that guy I date…make-out, watch Rock of Love on VH1, and pass out no less confused than I was hours before.

“Angela, you need to listen to the people onstage with you.”

I am, I honestly honestly am.

“Then why aren’t you getting it?!”

I don’t know!!

Every day.

“A mourning clown in love, Angela! That’s it!”

Wait.  “That’s it”?!

“Yes!  But you’re a woman, not a character!”

But.  OK, but, I’m a clown?!

“WHY IS THIS SO HARD FOR YOU?!”

Every.  Day.

Finally, one night, I went home, sobbing.  Embarrassed.  We were getting ready to start teching and I was lost, and terrified that I was going to make a fool out of myself.

That guy that I date and I had only been together for like 3 months, and already, he’d mastered the art of talking me off a cliff.  (Saint.)

“Baby.  I think you’re trying too hard to do everything he’s asking of you.”

Well, of course I am.  Olivia’s apparently all of those things.  To him.

“Or she’s not.”

…What?

“Or she’s not.  Maybe they’re all just suggestions.  Maybe you need to take everything he says with a grain of salt instead of taking it all directly to heart and trying to do…all of it.”

But, I feel like I’m not doing any of it.  And I can’t figure out a way to effectively do any of it.

“Well.  Then maybe ‘taking what he says with a grain of salt’ really just means ‘don’t go out of your way to do what he wants.’ ”

…What?

“Take the essentials of her, the essentials that he’s suggested, but interpret them only in the ways that you’re capable of doing them.”

…Oh.

“You are enough.”

Oh.

“Always.”

And so the next day, I walked into rehearsal, pissed and determined.  I threw every note of my director's out of my head and stared directly at him with “Fuck you”-eyes every time I had to deliver a soliloquy.  I felt like I had lit a fire under my ass and just started running, erratically, but running just the same.

I was exhausted.

We sat on the floor for notes after the run.

“Before we begin…Angela.”

Yeah?

“Where the HELL has that girl been all this time?!”

… … …(And I smirked.)

“No less than that.  Ever.”

OK.

And thusly went my first hand at Olivia.  A thing that worked in the end, but one that I never really felt was “mine”; a thing I always knew could be better.

And so, here I am, five years later, and I have this opportunity to try her again.  A completely different director, completely different ensemble, interpretation, environment, city…and I feel like I know this bitch.

I feel like I have been through enough heartbreak in my life at this point to know how one can walk around with it every day.

I know what it means to be both a woman and a fool, a clown….because I’m pretty sure that’s who I am in my every day life.

I have been betrayed by friends, I have been hounded by assholes, I have aggressively pursued things only to be shot down…and only for me to turn right around and pursue it again, harder.

These are “Olivia”-things.

And so, I walked into the rehearsal process ready to own her, ready to make her mine, and our director is the coolest guy in the whole wide world, so he gave us all space to figure out how to do that, how to own our shit.  He would reign us in when necessary, but would otherwise say “Yeah yeah yeah, great, keep playing, now try this.”

It felt.  So good.

And it felt like work, but, like, the best work, and I knew that I was walking into this Opening Night of this Twelfth Night offering something different…both for myself, and for the audience.

This Olivia was new to me, and unique to me, and I felt with every fiber of my being that the audience would feel that, too.

And I was jazzed.

We pretty much have the most badass playful ensemble imaginable, and our funky unique little production (in a legit cabaret house in the Upper Upper West Side, it’s the shit) went off without a hitch the first night.  Of course it did.  People went nuts, couldn’t stop talking about how much fun it was, totally non pretentious, absolutely 100% all fun all the time.

…So, that feels great.

We went out, celebrated, turned right around and brought it again the second night, killed, went out, celebrated.  And I felt awesome.

And then our first review came out, our first glowing wonderful review with a headline that read:

SHAKESPEARE IN A BAR IS PREDICTABLY RAUCOUS: “AN AGGRESSIVELY SEDUCTIVE OLIVIA”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!)

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The writer is totally with us, totally thinks the production is a blast: a “razor sharp”, “deftly-executed physical comedy” that is both “relevant” and “engaging”.

(THESE ARE ALL GREAT THINGS!!!)

“Fancy West London theater, this is not.”

(THAT’S GREAT, TOO!!!!)

“…this isn’t your typical theater experience, you might be in for a bit of a shock when you are accosted by an aggressively seductive Olivia or realize you are drinking the same beer as Sir Toby Belch.”

(YOU’RE GODDAMNED RIGHT!!!!!)

“For those who want to languish in the artistry of Shakespeare’s syntax, you may be better off elsewhere, as this interpretation focuses more on the comedic aspects of this screwball romantic comedy. Don’t expect Olivia to be too mired in mourning or for Malvolio to hold a grudge for long.”

(THAT IS CORRECT!!! NEITHER ONE OF US WILL DO THOSE THINGS!!!)

The writer loved the music, loved the concept, loved the fact that we were openly having a ridiculously good time, mentions three of my cast mates as having particularly kicked ass (because, let’s face it, they do, hard)…and then, the self-concerned sporadically self-conscious actress in me, that one who hasn’t done a play in a year and a half, that actress read the article a second time.  Read it, and thought:

Oh. But, where’s my name?  She mentioned my character, but not my name. …Does this mean I actually sucked?

…I did.  I thought that.  I went to that place.

Dumb.

And then, I realized that that was my “grad school”-place.  That place in my stupid actor brain where I need obvious and undeniable approval of what I’m doing in my role.  Publicized love for who I am and what I bring to the table.  That place where somehow, I will not know if I’m doing well unless someone tells me as much.

I hate that place.  Living there isn’t healthy.

Reviews are great, reviews are an awesome pick-me-up and a super gauge of how what you’re doing is reading to the masses.  I will always read them, always.  I will.

But.  I won’t live by them, won’t let them add or detract from what I’ve brought to the table.  I can’t.  And just shouldn’t.

When you own something, no one else needs to tell you how great it is.  You already know. 

Isn’t that why you took ownership of it to begin with?

http://www.libratheater.org/12th-night.html

A Starving Artist on 'Funny' (Take One).

OK, guys, so here’s the deal, and I mean to say this in the politest of ways and as gently (and emphatically) as is humanly possible:

Do not try to be funny.

Don’t.  Just don’t.  Ever.  Because I assure you that it won’t work, for A, and, for B, your doing so is bound to make an entire room of people dually uncomfortable and pissed-off.

When you’re trying to be funny, it behooves absolutely no one.

I understand that this might sound crazy coming from me, a chick who has recently enrolled in Improv classes in an attempt to better learn the art of ‘funny’.  “What the shit are you getting at, Angela?  Stop not making sense.”

OK.  Well, thing is that there is a distinct difference between ‘actual funny’ and ‘funny that is forced’.  According to Merriam Webster (… … …):

actual funny (n):  the end result of having taken an actual real life situation and releasing the absolute truth of it, thereby revealing the comedy within it (i.e: anything on Cheers or Modern Family, anything to have ever come out of Mitch Hedberg’s mouth)

forced funny (n):  the end result of having taken an idea that you think is hilarious and is, in fact, not to anyone older than eight years of age, and running with it (i.e: those nine guys you saw doing stand-up/begging for therapy in the basement of a coffee house in Prospect Heights, anything to have ever come out of Seann William Scott’s mouth)

Makes sense, right?

I can talk to you like an expert on this because I have ample experience in both funnies.

…

Once upon a time when I was in undergrad, I was cast in a production of Neil Simon’s Rumors (…it’s cool, fellow theatre nerds, you can chuckle/shake your head in dismay).  I played Cookie.  If you are playing someone by the name of “Cookie”, you can easily assume that bitch be crazy and, in fact, she is, bitch is crayyyy and, in fact, you only really need to stick to the truthfulness of the script and legitimately engage with the people onstage with you in order to reveal just how crazy she is.

That’s it.  Just do what’s obvious and work with what’s in front of you.

…

WELL, that was not enough for 20 year-old Me.  I wanted her to be more than that.  I wanted our audiences to walk away saying “That was bitch wasn’t just crazy, she was crazy and hilarious!”  And I knew I could make that happen, and I knew just what to do…

…ADD SOME SHIT!!!!

I busted out every zany voice and warble I had in my back pocket and used them, all of them, every single performance.  I milked every punch-line so hard so that the audience could not only better hear how hilariously I was saying every single word, but so that they had more opportunity to see the various hilarious expressions on my face as well.  While everyone else was running all over the stage like chickens with their heads cut off (because that’s what you’re supposed to do in a farce…), I was taking my time to glide through the space like an oafish grand dame, metaphorically winking at the audience, thinking Yessssssss.  Love me, bitches.  I am the funniest damn woman in the universe and I’m gonna make you look at me.  …You like that?  Do ya?  Do ya?!

‘Twas a disaster.  I looked goddamned bonkers.

Shortly after our run, I had an intelligent conversation with my friend who had played Claire (and was, incidentally, hi-fucking-larious):

It was weird, I don’t really feel like I ever found my groove in the play, and I don’t get why I wasn’t funnier.

“Well.  I mean, you were never really playing with us.“

What?!  Nuh-uh!  Yes I was.

“I mean, no, not really.  You were always doing your own thing.”

Oh.  …Huh.

Rule #1 in ‘Funny’:

--Actively play with whom and whatever is in the scene with you; don’t just do your own thing.  (Slash ‘Don’t be a jerk’.)

Great.

So then in grad school, we did an honest-to-goodness unit on clowning. 

…OK, OK, look, I know that some people are afraid of clowns, and with good reason.  But, in their defense, not all of them are Tim Curry from It and not all of them drive around rusty old vans scoping out the neighborhood kids.  Most of them are just wonderfully weird and wear red noses.

And they’re supposed to make you laugh.

For five weeks, we explored what it meant to be a clown, what it took to get the audience wrapped around your finger and how to turn a simple little act into something totally engaging to watch. 

(Brief Sidebar:  I love that this is how I earned my Master’s degree.)

We also had time to discover and flesh-out our inner clowns, figure out some idea of whom and what our weirdest inner funny might be.   Some of us were silent stalker-like clowns in Batman-costumes, some of us were bossy manipulativey-types like Lucy from Peanuts.  While working on his clown a year later, my boyfriend discovered that his was a chap named Syrup:  a bossy prick with Mel-Gibson-in-Lethal-Weapon-hair who spoke like the ringmaster at a circus and dressed as if he had just beaten-up an 11 year-old girl and stolen her clothes.   (Draw that picture for yourself.  Come on.  Do it.)

He was.  The sexiest.  And every time I looked at him, I peed my pants and died.  And let’s be honest with ourselves, if you can make yourself into an honest-to-goodness sight gag, that is in itself a comedic achievement.  PROPS TO THAT GUY I DATE!!!!

I had Bumpy.

Bumpy was an ambiguously-gendered 8 year-old who had a perpetual cold in its nose and pseudo masturbation problem.  Its hands were always sneaking down towards the crotch of its footy pajamas (a dingy gray pair of footy pajamas with these lumps all over them—Were they sleeping polar bears?  Were they mounds of yellowish snow?  Who knows!—and the words WILD! & RUGGED! scattered everywhere) which were tucked into a pair of ivory kitten heels.  There was a sequined mint green bowtie, there was a huge hulking black and red striped stocking cap…I looked like a cross between a GloWorm and a fucking sausage.

It was awesome.

Bumpy wasn’t the world’s most talkative clown and so when it did speak, I felt that the words needed to be special.  I was having the worst time figuring out what that something special was, and I was spending so much time thinking about what Bumpy could potentially say, that I wasn’t taking the time to figure out what it was that Bumpy actually did. 

So, then this terrifying day in class came around when our instructor gathered all of the clowns in a circle and said:

“OK.  One by one, you’re going to go to the middle of the circle and you’re going to be funny for us.  Get up there, do something funny, and make us laugh. The rest of you:  no sympathy laughs are allowed.”

…DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW POSITIVELY TERRIFYING THAT IS?!?!?!  TERRIFYING!!!!!  “Go be funny.  We’ll just be over here, cold as ice.”  WHAT?!  We all looked around the room at each other; there were seven of us, seven clowns, and seven examples of impending epic failure.

Not a one of us had any idea what to actually do. We all had an at least decent idea as to who we were, but had determined absolutely nothing beyond that.  Henceforth, we all just picked random activities that we thought could be maybe (rather ‘hopefully but most likely not’) funny.  Or, at the very least, almost cute.

Some people tried to pick their nose, some people tried to tell a joke, some people tried putting their ankles behind their head when their bodies were anything but flexible…all without any rhyme or reason as to why, but just to do something.

Me:  I just stood there with my hands in my crotch, waiting for enlightenment.  Story of my life.

We were bloody disastrous.

Rule #2 in ‘Funny’:

--You have to actively do something, and you have to be actively doing something that makes sense in regards to who you are in the scene.  (Slash ‘Don’t lack a purpose.’)

There are about a zillion and a half other “do nots” in this regard.  I have been yelled at for countless of them and over time, I have thankfully amended some of my ways and managed to transform a good chunk of my comedic blunders into absolute triumph and SHEER GENIUS.  (Too much?  Maybe “Mediocre Awesome” is more apt.)  However.  I am delighted to report that I have never been a culprit to the following gruesome act of comedic injustice:

…

Now.  Any and everyone who has ever taken any kind of Improv class will tell you that there will be one guy, at least one guy in the room who will think that he’s hilarious and will have signed-up for the class for no other reason than to prove as much to everyone there.  Somehow, we won’t be able to stop talking about his jokes, his wise-cracks, his razor-sharp wit, his pizzazz, his Je ne sais quoi, and he will be undoubtedly skyrocketed towards stardom a week into the class.  This guy believes this.

This guy is horribly and shamefully wrong.

I really did not want to believe that such a person existed but, indeed, they do, and indeed, he is in my class. 

For the sake of anonymity, we will refer to this guy as “Creepy Leibowitz”, Glary BigHead’s uber slimey Jewish cousin.  He was like the odd man out at their family reunions, left by himself to play Magic the Gathering while the adults were gossiping over G & Ts and Glary BigHead was off rolling her eyes and puking…somewhere. 

Similarly to his cousin, Creepy Leibowitz is not one to take direction well.  Or listen…at all.  Rather, Creepy Leibowitz already knows that he’s funny (HILARIOUS) and doesn’t need your help in the matter.  He just wants you to stand by and watch him weave some comedic magic.

Instructor:  “Creepy Leibowitz, who are you in this scene right now?”

Creepy:  “Um, uh, yeah, well, you know, I’m uh…I’m my Grandfather, who’s an extractor of vampire DNA.”

Instructor:  “Ummm…”

(Creepy Leibowitz just smiles at him.)

Instructor:  “I don’t know your Grandfather, but I feel like he probably isn’t actually…that.  That’s not a real thing.”

Creepy:  “Oh, um…my Grandfather, and maybe he does taxidermy on babies?”

Instructor:  “No.  Nope.  Try again.”

Creepy:  “Oh!  Oh right, no questions, we’re not, uh….we don’t ask questions in Improv. … I am my Grandfather, and he does taxidermy on babies.”

(Creepy Leibowitz smiles at this triumph, we cringe)

Welcome to my fucking nightmare.

Creepy:  “Hey there…Georgie…Georgie-boy, HEY there!  Why don’t we, uh…why don’t we take a stroll and look at some houses together?”

Nice Quirky Guy:  “Francis, I don’t know why you have to take us on this walk around our neighborhood every Sunday to do this, it’s gotten really old.”

Creepy:  “That’s ‘cause your house is so bad.”

(Creepy Leibowitz does a take out to the class, smiles)

Instructor:  “Don’t break the scene.”

Creepy:  “Oh.  OK.  So…hey there.  Hey.  Look, uh, look at that house, it’s so small and….awww, it’s crazy looking, with all of the…you know.  Stuff.  That’s awful, only a group of Asians could possibly live there.”

(smile-take to us, we all gasp…including the girl form Beijing in the front row)

Instructor:  “O.  K.  Subtle racism—well, all racism has absolutely no place in this room, alright?  So.  Let’s agree to not to go to that kind of place, no matter how, uh….funny it may be.”

(…and Creepy Leibowitz hasn’t flinched, hasn’t stopped smiling, hasn’t flinched)

Instructor:  “Creepy Leibowitz?”

Creepy:  “What?”

Great.

These creepshows?  No one wants to work with these creepshows.  We have had four sessions and already, everyone in class is avoiding working with him like the plague.  It’d be one thing if he just didn’t get it—obviously, OBVIOUSLY there are plenty of things that I don’t get—but he’s stubbornly sticking to his own shit, his own shit which is AWful and polarizing everyone in the room by doing so.

Instructor:  “Creepy Leibowitz.”

Creepy:  “Yeah?”

Instructor:  “So.  Your best friend really work in an office like he did in this scene?”

Creepy:  “Yeah.  Yeah, he does, he’s in charge of, uh…of…like…”

Instructor:  “Does he really have slaves like you said?  Like you said in the scene?”

Creepy:  “Well, uh, you know.  Sorta…like…”

Instructor:  “No.  Really.  Does he?”

Creepy:  “Uhhh… … …”

Instructor:  “And has he really ever used anyone as an ottoman?  Like you said, in the scene?”

Creepy:  “Oh.  Oh, yeah, you know, just uh…just like on your average ordinary Tuesday.”

(Creepy Leibowitz smiles.  Proud of himself.)

DON’T BE THAT GUY!!!!!

Rules #3/#46/#722 in  ‘Funny’:  DON’T! BE! THAT! GUY!

It sucks.  He sucks, that guy just sucks and he sucks both the life and the funny out of the room.  So DON’T!!!!

And listen: If you’re funny, really funny, truly honestly funny, then god bless ya.  I mean it.

If you’re not:  look at the people who are (Kristen Wiig), look at the shit that is (vajazzling), and learn from all of it.

Stop trying so hard and just be open to…everything.  (Pot-kettle-black.)

But ABOVE ALL: 

--Don’t be a jerk. 

--Don’t lack a purpose. 

--… & Don’t be that guy.

A Starving Artist in Class

So.  Three days of Improv have happened.

GUYS! GODDAMMIT! IT IS SO! GOOD!  IT IS SO GOOD!!!  I'm nine hours into this world of awesome and already, it's all I want to do.  All of the time.

...

OK, so potentially a slight exaggeration.  I'm in a play right now, too (!!!!!!!!!FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!...also, another topic for another time...) and it's pretty glorious, so I don't think I'd want to give that up.  Also:  spooning.

But, point is I love this shit.  I LOVE it.

I kinda caught myself off-guard the first day because I felt like the most eager girl in the room, (I very well might have been, and I guess that's not so out-of-the-ordinary for me, now that I think about it...I'm a generally eager chick...That's a good thing, right?...), and I thought to myself Shit, I hope that I don't seem too obnoxious to these people.  I hope I don't look so over-eager that I'm, like, alienating everyone else in the room with my excitement and want to just kinda do everything and ohfuckitIdon'tcareIjustwannaDO this LET'SDOTHIS!!!!!

So, I did.

The first two days, admittedly, I felt pretty much like a badass.  We were doing all of these various exercises, learning the basics about "Yes" & "Yes AND", selling imaginary products, becoming Experts on Everything, and I was fucking KILLING it.  KILLING!  IT!  I knew that I was getting it, I knew that the material and I were jiving with each other and that I was somehow creating some pretty clever pretty funny shit.  (Without forcing it, of course.  No one likes a person who tries to force the funny, it's just bad news.  But again, another topic for another time...probably next time...).  And it felt awesome.  I heard a future conversation between my instructor and Amy Poehler in my brain:

"And, I distinctly remember thinking right off the bat that she just got it.  That Angela just understood what Improv was and what Improv could be right from the get-go.  It was crazy.  Bitch is good.  And smart!  But, I mean, I guess that's why she's so busy now doing..."BlahBlahBlahBlahBlah, and yes, I know, I got way ahead of myself, two days into class.  It's fine.

So, two classes/the first six hours in, the world felt great.

...

The beginning of class on Wednesday, the air started to feel different.  The vibe in the room was still ultra positive, I was still inexplicably amped and excited but still, there was some kind of thing happening in the room that felt newer and scarier almost.  Foreign.

But, I paid it no mind and moved through the first half of class with the same eagerness and uber-confidence that I had owned and exuded the previous two classes.

Hi!  Can I have a suggestion from the audience please?
"Feather."
Feather!  Thank you.
...
Sweetheart, look at all of the beautiful birds out here in the park today.
...
"...Honey, I just wanted to tell you...I slept with someone else.  Yesterday.  ...A man."
You slept with a man? Yesterday?...Here?  In the park?!
HAhahahahahahaha!!!

(BOOM!  Look at me!  I OWN setting up a scene post-suggestion!!!! TAKE! THAT!)

(PS, When I became this person who talks to herself like some competitive asshole jock-type, I have no idea...and it's weird for me.)

We took a ten minute break and upon our return, a new idea was introduced:  The Gift.

In Improv, The Gift is a choice that you make about your scene partner, an indication of who they are and where you are, and should be solidified within the first two to three lines of the scene.  It doesn't have to be hilarious, but needs to generous so that you are your partner are 100% clear about where the scene is jumping off from.

Sounds simple enough, right?

Also:  I like giving gifts.  Sounded to me like a delightful piece of cake.

We initially took turns going down a line and coming up with classical pairs of people, just to establish that whomever you are needs to completely correspond with whomever your partner is:

*"I am a stoic security guard."
And I am a saucy female bank robber.

*I am a disgruntled housekeeper.
"What's 'disgruntled' mean?"
Angry.  I am an angry housekeeper.
"Oh!  I'm the trophy wife who hired you."

And then, we swapped and assigned the roles to one another:

*You are my SAT-tutor.
"And you are my prize student."

*"You are a neurologist."
And you have a tumor the size of a watermelon.

And then, we were told to assign the roles to one another through dialogue...and, for some reason, that's when shit got tricky:

*"Doctor, I just wanted to thank you for the lovely colonoscopy this morning."
... (...Uhhhh...Wait.  Wait a second.  Why am I blanking?!)
Hey...Patient.  Dear sweet Patient...I really wish you wouldn't try to seduce me over my colonoscopic skills...here...in this hospital, here.

(...Um...what the fuck was THAT, Angela, and when did you start to talk like an ESL-student?) 

And then, before I had time to really think that over, we progressed from there into full-fledged scenes, using the precisely same idea:

*"The suggestion is Camaro.  Thank you."
... ... ...(Crickets...crickets chirping...no ideas...anywhere...)
"Hey, there, little lady, why don't you come on over this way so I can show you our fancy new Camaro.  It's a great first car for a great young lady."
OK.
"Isn't it nice?"
It's beautiful! 
"Now, I know you don't have a lot of money."
No, I don't have a lot of money.  But, my dad sure does.


And then, our instructor brought the scene to an abrupt halt:

"Angela."
Yes?
"Where's his gift?"
Oh!  Shoot.  (FUCK!)
"He gave you the gift that you're a young girl shopping for a car in a car lot, right?"
Right...
"So, what are you gonna give him back?  You gotta give him something back."
Oh.  Shoot.  Right, you're totally right.
"Also, you told him No."
Oh no! I did?  (Oh NO!  I DID!!) 
"So, you've essentially made the scene all about you."
Oh. (OHHHHHHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!)

I felt embarrassed.  I felt selfish and embarrassed, and was pretty sure that I was blushing...which inherently means that my entire face turns bright red.  I felt like everyone in the room was looking at me with a "What the fuck is happening to you?"-kind of glaze.

 "Try again."
OK.
"Your new suggestion is speed bump."
...Speed bump.  Thank you.
... ... ... ...And I spontaneously squat down to the floor.
Dad, can you help me fix this tire on my bike?
"Angela, where are you?"
Dad, can you help fix this tire on my bike out here in the garage?
"Better."  (Phew.)
         "Sure, Honey."
Thanks, Dad.

And there's silence while he comes over and mimes checking out my bike.

"Can you go grab me my tool box?"
Oh.  Sure.  (Wait.  Where's my Gift?)
"Don't drop it this time."
OK.  I won't.  
"It's heavy."  (Where the hell is my Gift, man?)
Here you go.
"Thanks.  Now, can you go grab me my cup of coffee over there?"  (OK, seriously, where is this going?)
OK.  Sure, Dad.
"Don't drop that either, you're always dropping stuff."  (WHERE'S MY GIFT?!) 
I got it.  Here, Dad.  ... ... ...
... 
...
So.  I drove really fast over that new speed bump up the street, I'm sorry.

And, once again, the scene screeches to an abrupt halt:

"Angela, you didn't drop anything."
Wait.  What?
"He said that you're always dropping things, so why didn't you drop anything?"
Oh.  (Oh. ...Wait...)  So, um, was that my Gift?
"Of course!"  (Aw, shit.)  "Here.  Let's let another pair get up there."

GOD! DAMMIT!!!!  Goddammit.  I had felt like I was doing so well and kicking so much ass and now, all of a sudden, I was failing, epically, and in front of everyone.  And over a concept that sounded so simple.

WHY WAS I NOT ALREADY MASTERING THIS IDEA?!?!?!?!

We tried a series of other exercises throughout the remainder of class, all within the same vain, and all of which I met with the same sense of bewilderment.

I felt like a douche.

I called that boy that I date immediately post class and vented to him about my epic fail and complete and total embarrassment over my piss-poor showing.

I had looked so good the first two classes, and then I ran into this stupid fucking road block today and I just looked like an idiot, Honey.  
"No, you didn't."
It was AWful!  Yes I did!  I completely had no idea what I was doing and couldn't wrap my brain around anything and it all sounded so simple but it wasn't at all, and...
"You're being retarded."
...What?!
"Angie, you're not failing, you're learning stuff!  You took this class to learn stuff, remember?  Of course you're not gonna be good at everything or understand it all right away, you've never done anything like this before!"
(...Oh...)  Oh.  Right.
"Right.  Cut yourself some slack.  It's new, you'll get it, try to have some kind of patience with yourself for once."

It had been such a long time since I was in an actual classroom, that I had forgotten just what a perfectionist I become in that regard:  I am a complete and total impatient perfectionist.  This is true in everyday life as well (although you guys knew that, obviously, you did), but that feeling essentially quadruples when I'm in a class.

I don't know why. ...

...No no no, I do:

I want to be good at pretty much everything and I don't want to accept the fact that that can't happen right away.  I don't like knowing that I have to go through an awkward clunky phase before things get pretty and fluid.  I feel like no one will be interested in watching me stumble, they'll only be interested in seeing me having my shit down.

...Well.  That is just dumb.  And impractical.  And is in absolutely no way going to happen with this Improv-thing.  I'm not going to be able to avoid stumbling.

This class is, again, the complete antithesis of everything else that I've learned up to this point; that's a good thing.

And, for as much and I hate not knowing things, I've never been one to turn down getting a little messy...

Ah.  Fuck it.  In I go.

A Starving Artist CAIIIIIIIIIN'T SAYYYYYYYY "No"

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

Good.  Good for you.

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

This is excellent news.

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

(End.  Of.  Story.)

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

(...Wait a minute...)

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

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

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

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

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

It, in fact, happened.  Tuesday.

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

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

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

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

"Hair."
Yes.  Unfortunate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

GBH:  They're out of chronological order.

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

GBH: ...Yeah?

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

(!!!)

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

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

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

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

"Say Yes.  To everything."

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

 

A Starving Artist & the Word of the Fey

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

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

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

Tina Fey's Bossypants.

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

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

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

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

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

How.  Ever.

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

I feel like I found this book just in time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They took it.

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

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

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

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

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

...So, she wins.

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

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

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

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

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

And I won't fucking care who likes it.