So my first success of being in LA is registering for a basic improv class at the Groundlings improv theater. As you may remember, this was my first audition. I wouldn't call it a competitive environment- basically, they got twelve people in a room together, and each of us did two scenes with each other, giving us a scenario.
My two scenarios were
- Being a figure skater in the locker room with another figure skater after a competition
- Being a roommate with another roommate cleaning up after a party.
Not too hard, right? It wasn't- nobody bombed.
They essentially explained that they were screening people to make sure they had the basic ability to stand up in front of people and not choke.
But here was my big discovery that day:
I'm EXACTLY the kind of person they tell you to watch out for at an audition. I hate myself at an audition. I turn into a sort of opposite werewolf-- on the outside I'm all smiles, an unusually friendly, at-ease presence in the room. On the inside, I will kill anyone who crosses me and give anything to watch someone fail.
Here is some insight into my vampire mind:
As soon as I got into the lobby, before I entered the lobby even, I entered an animal mode in which I scanned the area for any of the others who might be auditioning, sniffing around, trying to intuitively sense who the newcomers were, who was exuding any traces of fear or confusion.
I found the auditionees to stand out for various reasons-- there were the wanders, who paced up and down the lobby hallway, looking at pictures on the wall that they had undoubtedly been looking at for the past 15 minutes. They got here 45 minutes early for the audition. Too early. That early shows that you have nothing else to do but audition for the Groundlings. Come on, not even a day job? If you catch their eye, you can tell they're hungry for conversation, but it is absolutely essential to remain friendly but not too friendly. You might break your focus and forgot the most important nugget of truth: everyone here is your enemy.
There are some other auditionees that are easily identified because they sit, looking down at their resume or the empty 3-ring binder they brought purely to transport their resume. They are not thinking about their resume. They are thinking about their inadequacies. This is good. If they look at you, smile so they can think that you are much nicer than they are.
There are a few confident auditioners who want to talk, mostly to try and show off. They talk about funny television, or at the Groundlings, they talk about improv shows that they've seen and particularly off beat indy comedy films that will brand the watcher as particularly hip and knowledgable. These people are the ones that I especially want to demolish. I want to walk on stage and blow them to pieces with my ease of performance, with my timing, with my uncanny ability to create a character while simultaneously supporting my scene partner and lighting up the audience with laughter.
It is also easy to identify the auditionees because everyone is wearing a nametag.
I hate every one of these people as we meet the person running our audition, and I especially hate them as we cross the street and they smile at each other with false hopes of their own stardom. I especially hate the one who holds the door for me on our way into the audition room. She is in very good shape, and she is definitely showing off that she's "nice too."
I hate them while we do our warm up exercise, noting that I'm much more of a pro at walking like an old lady, or like a baseball coach. I'm much better at thinking in my head what these characters might think.
I'm much better at replying "here" when the auditioner calls my name-- everybody else tries to show off when they do it. I just say it with conviction. Come on, losers, man up.
And by the time we're ready to actually audition, I've written off everybody in the room-- that girl is too nice, I'm suspicious. The girl with the cool hair cut had to get a cool haircut cause her face looks dumb. The guy who made a joke did it becuase he's insecure. Everybody here thinks they're going to be famous. They don't know that I'M the one who's going to be famous.
Except when we start to audition, everyone is pretty good. Some people are decidedly better than me. And I give an okay audition, and then I go home.
The build-up is really the meat of the situation.
I was deciding between two improv theaters- Upright Citizen's Brigade (UCB) and The Groundlings-- word on the street is that UCB is a much more collaborative place, a place that's about learning improv as a group activity that's about supporting each other and building a community. It's more about the art of improv, whereas Groundlings is about learning to build a character and improv yourself as an improvisor- it's less group oriented and more egotistical.
You have to audition to get in and then you have to be passed through each class to the next-- as someone said to me once, "Groundlings is a cutthroat environment."
To be totally honest, that sealed the deal for me. I start classes in two weeks.
Until next time,
The bloodthirsty maniac,
Madeline
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
I will post!
I will post tomorrow night- I have been busy (a novelty in this new location) and I have much to report. I'm sorry for being slack. But now you have something to look forward to! (right.)
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Surf Your Balls Off
Today I went to a coffee shop called "Stir Crazy" in Hollywood. It was dark and smelled like cigarettes and it only had one staff member, an girl who would periodically take a break from the counter to smoke with one of the patrons or to practice on a skateboard. The wireless pass code was "surfyourballsoff" I thought that was kind of cute, I guess. I don't think that it was in a particularly good neighborhood because a sign outside read "no laptops on the patio after 7." I sat on the patio for awhile but couldn't hear the other end of a phone call because of the cars whizzing by. But I was pretty thrilled all in all to find this sort of creepy place because I felt like I'd finally discovered a semi-distinctive place here in LA-- before today, I could only find chain coffee shops that all looked the same and all had nowhere to sit. I'm not sure that I'll go back to Stir Crazy, as several of the patrons also seemed to be leering at me for some reason. But I'm glad I was there.
I was also sitting there long enough to overhear a couple of conversations about people's web series or acting classes or movies people should see. All the people are dressed in funky clothes, like scarves and cool big necklaces. All of these people are actors/writers. It's bizarre to see how a city has become catered to a population of people who kill time. People who don't necessarily have a job, but always have "stuff" to do-- emails to write, casting notices to look at, an industry to "read up" on.
This can be nice, this flexibility, this ability to set your own schedule, but it can also be maddening. For most of this week, I've felt totally weighed down by the "stuff" I have to do-- I have to go to work for enough hours to pay my rent, I have to arrange to meet with kids from high schools in the LA area, I have to read a book about acting in LA, I have to print some headshots, I have to get new headshots, I have to look up open call auditions, I have to drive my aged landlady to the airport. (She's taken a trip, and her small dog Joey is now heavily depressed. He sits on her bed and mopes, unless I come in the room. Then he growls. If he weighed more than three and a half pounds, I'd be really nervous. Things as they are, I'm only moderately nervous.)
I'm sick of being busy, I'm tired of being tired-- I feel like I wake up tired and weepy to face the day, because I feel like my day is filled with bits and pieces that don't add up to anything. At least if I was working a dull 9-5 I could at least tell people what I do for a living. These days, I feel like I've been consumed by everything BUT trying to navigate this world as an aspiring actress. I spent 2 hours max reading about good places to print headshots. That's it. All week.
I'm officially working full time on all my part time jobs.
Which brings up another interesting development-- I'm finally learning what it's like to work with an hourly wage- I've only ever been in college, or on a salary in my life. When I work hourly, the time seems to go by more slowly, and suddenly, it cost me an hour of sitting in front of a spreadsheet to park last night. An hour of my time for parking? Come on. It makes my time such a commodity, and doesn't honor how fast or slow I do things. I'm usually fairly efficient, becuase I often save things for the last minute. These days, I've been quite good at pacing myself because slowness is a virtue when every minute is money. I also let my conscience get the best of me, because I keep my own time. If I check personal email during work, if I play scrabulous too much, if I spend too much time looking out the window, I feel like I have to deduct time from my time card. Working for an hourly wage totally feeds into my already-existing neurosis about wasting time, but now wasting time is wasting money, almost too literally. I feel like I can watch my life slip away before my eyes, quantified in moderately-priced dinners and cheap skirts and yet another valet's tip. Everyone should be salaried.
I think I'm becoming anti social also. I went to an improv show with a friend last night, and she brought another friend with us. As the night began to wane, he said to me, "You look exhausted." I didn't disagree, and I let him send me on my way home. That's ridiculous though- why should I, who doesn't even work from 9-5 each day, be exhausted? Maybe it's my mindset. LA is starting to make me feel a bit like George Costanza. Neurotic, tired, and constantly complaining.
I won't complain tomorrow though- I just need to get some sleep.
Until next time,
George
I was also sitting there long enough to overhear a couple of conversations about people's web series or acting classes or movies people should see. All the people are dressed in funky clothes, like scarves and cool big necklaces. All of these people are actors/writers. It's bizarre to see how a city has become catered to a population of people who kill time. People who don't necessarily have a job, but always have "stuff" to do-- emails to write, casting notices to look at, an industry to "read up" on.
This can be nice, this flexibility, this ability to set your own schedule, but it can also be maddening. For most of this week, I've felt totally weighed down by the "stuff" I have to do-- I have to go to work for enough hours to pay my rent, I have to arrange to meet with kids from high schools in the LA area, I have to read a book about acting in LA, I have to print some headshots, I have to get new headshots, I have to look up open call auditions, I have to drive my aged landlady to the airport. (She's taken a trip, and her small dog Joey is now heavily depressed. He sits on her bed and mopes, unless I come in the room. Then he growls. If he weighed more than three and a half pounds, I'd be really nervous. Things as they are, I'm only moderately nervous.)
I'm sick of being busy, I'm tired of being tired-- I feel like I wake up tired and weepy to face the day, because I feel like my day is filled with bits and pieces that don't add up to anything. At least if I was working a dull 9-5 I could at least tell people what I do for a living. These days, I feel like I've been consumed by everything BUT trying to navigate this world as an aspiring actress. I spent 2 hours max reading about good places to print headshots. That's it. All week.
I'm officially working full time on all my part time jobs.
Which brings up another interesting development-- I'm finally learning what it's like to work with an hourly wage- I've only ever been in college, or on a salary in my life. When I work hourly, the time seems to go by more slowly, and suddenly, it cost me an hour of sitting in front of a spreadsheet to park last night. An hour of my time for parking? Come on. It makes my time such a commodity, and doesn't honor how fast or slow I do things. I'm usually fairly efficient, becuase I often save things for the last minute. These days, I've been quite good at pacing myself because slowness is a virtue when every minute is money. I also let my conscience get the best of me, because I keep my own time. If I check personal email during work, if I play scrabulous too much, if I spend too much time looking out the window, I feel like I have to deduct time from my time card. Working for an hourly wage totally feeds into my already-existing neurosis about wasting time, but now wasting time is wasting money, almost too literally. I feel like I can watch my life slip away before my eyes, quantified in moderately-priced dinners and cheap skirts and yet another valet's tip. Everyone should be salaried.
I think I'm becoming anti social also. I went to an improv show with a friend last night, and she brought another friend with us. As the night began to wane, he said to me, "You look exhausted." I didn't disagree, and I let him send me on my way home. That's ridiculous though- why should I, who doesn't even work from 9-5 each day, be exhausted? Maybe it's my mindset. LA is starting to make me feel a bit like George Costanza. Neurotic, tired, and constantly complaining.
I won't complain tomorrow though- I just need to get some sleep.
Until next time,
George
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The Pretty Good Day
Explanation: in my first three days here, I became frantic and fearful that I would never find gainful employment, so my kind host posted some ads online for me as a babysitter. I received several inquiries, and one of them hired me not to take care of her daughter but to re-organize her daughter’s toys, etc… after a home renovation.
She didn’t realize how much I adore organizing.
It’s my guilty pleasure, something I’ve had to stop myself from doing because it’s so much more fun that doing real work—putting things on shelves, rearranging files, sorting pencils. My grandfather built me a desk when I was 16—I drew him detailed plots of compartments that I needed inside my drawers, including the dimensions of each, so I had a place for pens, post-it notes, thumbtacks, sticky tack, miscellaneous items, chapstick, filing labels, etc..
Organization has also always been a positive way for me to channel my anxiety. Semi-positive. My first night at college, I stayed up the entire night. Literally the entire night, filing the non-existent papers I had. A year later, while cleaning out my drawers to move out of the dorm, I found a file labeled “meal plan decision.” Inside was a lone piece of paper, upon which I had written a multiplication problem to calculate how many meals I planned to consume per week, leading me to decide which weekly meal plan to buy.
So anyway, I surprised myself with how much I enjoy this job, and today, I had the privilege of converting a junk closet into a toy closet and converting a shed where you could not walk into a shed with quite a bit of floor space and even more room for suitcases and old artwork. Creating space where there was no space give me a rush, makes me feel strangely competent. And that is a good feeling at the moment.
After cleaning, I took another stab at pushing my college admissions services on the religious communities of LA—today I called the Methodist Churches and began every phone call by saying, “I’m new to the area, but I’m a member of the
They were much more receptive, and to my pleasant surprise, I found that nearly every one of them does indeed have a bulletin board. I am not so far from home after all!
I then scheduled my first…..audition. Don’t get excited. It’s not like an audition audition. It’s an audition to be able to take the most basic improv comedy classes at the Groundlings, an improv theatre in
After, ahem, booking an audition, I went to see a really interesting performance in a really neat place—this guy named Charles Phoenix (who I had never heard of before—I can’t pretend to have such hip taste- my friends brought me) buys slides from garage sales and thrift sales—they’re mostly slides of Southern California from the 40s, 50s, and 60s—and they’re really interesting. During his shows, he flips through the slide show and narrates it, saying things like, “Mr. Tweed suit isn’t sure about this one. Put on a shirt, Lucy!” This might be narration of a slide where a 60’s era woman is wearing a bathing suit, and a man in a tweed suit seems to be perplexed. He was very funny, although he had a strange tick where he would constantly say, “ I know!” with a frequency that bordered compulsion. It was his response to every audience reaction. We would laugh, he would say, “I know!” We would say “awww,” he would say “I know!” We would say nothing, he would say “I know!” It’s an odd verbal habit, and one that does not speak wonders to one’s listening skills. Other than that though, it was really wonderful—it made me feel a bit closer to
And now, I am home, back in my cozy room, preparing for my big audition by going to sleep, and of course, writing this blog. This is my first blog, by the way, and I’m kind of enjoying it.
Until next time,
The Southern Californian,
Madeline
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The Post About Traffic
So I don't mean to be trite, but I sat in traffic for the majority of the day. I know it's not even interesting because everyone knows there's a lot of traffic in LA, and that is, in fact, the reason that most people told me not to go to LA. That and the fact that it's really expensive. Both of those concepts proved to be true today. I'll give you a run down.
8AM- I wake up.
that's a lie.
8:20AM- I wake up, needing to be at work at 9:00. This drive takes me about 20 minutes each day. It would take me 15 were it not for light traffic on the way. I do not have time to go running this morning. Running has become a necessity for me, not necessarily for fitness reasons, but for anxiety management reasons. Put very simply, if I don't run in the morning, I feel like I will have a heart attack. I also need to do it in the morning, because then I start my day feeling like I've accomplished something- a feeling that quickly dwindles as the hours pass. I essentially run around the block for thirty minutes each morning. I used to be more exploratory, but my last adventurous run lasted an hour and a half and ended with me asking a postman how to find my very specific address, which he knew exactly. During this run, I ran down a street with the same name as mine and stumbled upon a field of flowers and plants that stretched as far as I could see. Above the plants, there was a strange buzzing sound, as though they were being electrified. Nobody was around. What likely happened is that I accidentally ran into a different dimension and the postman kindly directed me back to human earth, circa 2008.
9:10 AM- I go to work at the print shop. I can never get there on time. I can never get anywhere on time. I am wearing a silly outfit because I have to go to visit a fancy private high school today--As I've mentioned over and over, I do recruitment and admissions for a scholarship program, so occasionally I have to visit high schools for this reason. I seem to have left all of my business-casual attire somewhere on the east coast, so I have to settle on an ill-fitting Brooks Brothers skirt and a pink sleeveless sweater shell, with green low heels. I look like a receptionist at an eye doctor's office. Jose at the print shop tells me I look great, and I appreciate his encouragement.
11:30 AM-
I drive to the fancy school, which happens to be located in Brentwood. My drive is pleasant, good even, and I arrive with time to spare. When I ask for a cup of coffee, they offer me lunch from the cafeteria, saying, "You probably don't want it. It's taquitos today." And the terribly embarassing thing is-- I do want it, and I take some taquitos, and a salad, and some corn salsa, and some guacamole, and a cup of iced tea-- this is like Chipotle, it's wonderful! Except then I have to meet with three eager high school students with a plate of taquitos. The administration sits me down at a picnic table to finish my food with one of the gym teacher, a woman who seems quite disinterested in my existence. The receptionists in the college guidance office treat me very nicely until they find out I want to be an actress. When I say that, one of them stands up and sayd, "Well, the only thing I can tell you is good luck. You know how hard it is." She doesn't even disguise her absolute disbelief that I will ever be remotely successful, which is refreshing in a way, but also made me want to get famous just so I can come back to school and say, see here, Ma'am. You're wrong about the world!
1:30:
I leave the school, after three meetings with stellar students- I mess them up a little bit by talking to much, mixing up my words a bit, forgetting my business cards so instead I have to write my email address on index cards for them, messing up my email address on the index cards so I have to cross out the mistake email address.
2:00:
I go to Westwood Park, so I can indulge my compulsion to run constantly. you see, I brought my running clothes today! I go for a run in Westwood, which is actually quite lovely- I stretch on the field in the park until a group of Asian college students begins throwing a football where I'm trying to remember hip flexor exercises.
3:30-
Hell begins. I get in my car. I waver a bit about whether to go home and relax, take my shoes off and do some work trying to get hired as an independent counselor (remember the manic poster.) , or to sit in a coffee shop in Brentwood. I drive to Brentwood, I drive around the little town. I'm looking for a coffee shop that's a little more....dark. Everything here is a little too clean and well-lit. There's no illusion of kitsch in the coffee shops- they all look like Starbucks to me. (except the Aroma cafe, but that's another story.) I park, I pull out of my parking space, I circle the town, decide to go home, I park again, I leave and decide to go home again. By the time I decide to go home, traffic is in full swing. I stand still. Stand still trying to get on the 101. But when I near the entrance, I am one lane over and I get honked at. I am always getting honked at, and sometimes yelled at out of windows. I don't move quickly enough when making a left turn into wild oncoming traffic, apparently. I pass the 101, missing my window of opportunity. I scoot, almost imperceptibly moving down Wilshire. I snail through Beverly Hills, and at this point I am screaming at the top of my lungs inside my car, the windows rolled up tightly:
"F*ck you Los Angeles! I hate every last inch of you! F*ck you GPS- you've never done a damn thing for me! F*ck you LA- the stupidest-ass city in the whole f*cking world. What a piece of sh*t you are!!!! F*ck you, f*ck you, f*ck."
I was directing most of this verbal abuse at Lee, my australian GPS narrator, who was incessantly telling me to turn right and move back toward the 101, which I was not about to do. Not to get burned again."
5:30- I get home. I eat carrots, hummus, cucumbers, a grilled cheese, tomato soup, a diet caffiene free Dr. Pepper. My roommate/surrogate Grandmother Virginia tells me that I should never drive during these hours. I feel exhausted by my own inability to accomplish anything.
7:08- I leave to see a show at the Groundlings. I sit in literal stand still traffic going "over the hill" on Highland.
7:50- I arrive and park 6 blocks away from the theater. This is a "good" parking space.
[the show is quite good]
9:45- I walk to my car, drive to a bar/mexican restaurant named "El Coyote," to meet my friend (friend 1 of approx 2). I then pay someone 5 dollars to park it in a parking lot that I could have easily parked in myself. Valet makes me feel like I'm living way beyond my means-- every time I use it (three times), I feel like I'm putting money down for a house in Maui or something. I feel like the ball is going to drop on my crazy overspending any minute now. I also feel pissed that there's no parking in all of this massive urban sprawl.
10:30- I leave to drive home. I sit in stand still traffic. I have time to look at the building-sized builboard of the charcoal sketch of Shia Labeouf. Billboards weird me out here, because most of the people on them live here. I wish that's how it was in all towns. If my neighbor Luz was on a billboard, yelling at my little brothers for breaking her birdbath, that would be a riot. There is an excessive level of Billboard in LA. I cannot wait to be on a billboard.
11:00-- I arrive home.
And I have exhausted myself.
Until next time,
The driving lady,
Madeline
8AM- I wake up.
that's a lie.
8:20AM- I wake up, needing to be at work at 9:00. This drive takes me about 20 minutes each day. It would take me 15 were it not for light traffic on the way. I do not have time to go running this morning. Running has become a necessity for me, not necessarily for fitness reasons, but for anxiety management reasons. Put very simply, if I don't run in the morning, I feel like I will have a heart attack. I also need to do it in the morning, because then I start my day feeling like I've accomplished something- a feeling that quickly dwindles as the hours pass. I essentially run around the block for thirty minutes each morning. I used to be more exploratory, but my last adventurous run lasted an hour and a half and ended with me asking a postman how to find my very specific address, which he knew exactly. During this run, I ran down a street with the same name as mine and stumbled upon a field of flowers and plants that stretched as far as I could see. Above the plants, there was a strange buzzing sound, as though they were being electrified. Nobody was around. What likely happened is that I accidentally ran into a different dimension and the postman kindly directed me back to human earth, circa 2008.
9:10 AM- I go to work at the print shop. I can never get there on time. I can never get anywhere on time. I am wearing a silly outfit because I have to go to visit a fancy private high school today--As I've mentioned over and over, I do recruitment and admissions for a scholarship program, so occasionally I have to visit high schools for this reason. I seem to have left all of my business-casual attire somewhere on the east coast, so I have to settle on an ill-fitting Brooks Brothers skirt and a pink sleeveless sweater shell, with green low heels. I look like a receptionist at an eye doctor's office. Jose at the print shop tells me I look great, and I appreciate his encouragement.
11:30 AM-
I drive to the fancy school, which happens to be located in Brentwood. My drive is pleasant, good even, and I arrive with time to spare. When I ask for a cup of coffee, they offer me lunch from the cafeteria, saying, "You probably don't want it. It's taquitos today." And the terribly embarassing thing is-- I do want it, and I take some taquitos, and a salad, and some corn salsa, and some guacamole, and a cup of iced tea-- this is like Chipotle, it's wonderful! Except then I have to meet with three eager high school students with a plate of taquitos. The administration sits me down at a picnic table to finish my food with one of the gym teacher, a woman who seems quite disinterested in my existence. The receptionists in the college guidance office treat me very nicely until they find out I want to be an actress. When I say that, one of them stands up and sayd, "Well, the only thing I can tell you is good luck. You know how hard it is." She doesn't even disguise her absolute disbelief that I will ever be remotely successful, which is refreshing in a way, but also made me want to get famous just so I can come back to school and say, see here, Ma'am. You're wrong about the world!
1:30:
I leave the school, after three meetings with stellar students- I mess them up a little bit by talking to much, mixing up my words a bit, forgetting my business cards so instead I have to write my email address on index cards for them, messing up my email address on the index cards so I have to cross out the mistake email address.
2:00:
I go to Westwood Park, so I can indulge my compulsion to run constantly. you see, I brought my running clothes today! I go for a run in Westwood, which is actually quite lovely- I stretch on the field in the park until a group of Asian college students begins throwing a football where I'm trying to remember hip flexor exercises.
3:30-
Hell begins. I get in my car. I waver a bit about whether to go home and relax, take my shoes off and do some work trying to get hired as an independent counselor (remember the manic poster.) , or to sit in a coffee shop in Brentwood. I drive to Brentwood, I drive around the little town. I'm looking for a coffee shop that's a little more....dark. Everything here is a little too clean and well-lit. There's no illusion of kitsch in the coffee shops- they all look like Starbucks to me. (except the Aroma cafe, but that's another story.) I park, I pull out of my parking space, I circle the town, decide to go home, I park again, I leave and decide to go home again. By the time I decide to go home, traffic is in full swing. I stand still. Stand still trying to get on the 101. But when I near the entrance, I am one lane over and I get honked at. I am always getting honked at, and sometimes yelled at out of windows. I don't move quickly enough when making a left turn into wild oncoming traffic, apparently. I pass the 101, missing my window of opportunity. I scoot, almost imperceptibly moving down Wilshire. I snail through Beverly Hills, and at this point I am screaming at the top of my lungs inside my car, the windows rolled up tightly:
"F*ck you Los Angeles! I hate every last inch of you! F*ck you GPS- you've never done a damn thing for me! F*ck you LA- the stupidest-ass city in the whole f*cking world. What a piece of sh*t you are!!!! F*ck you, f*ck you, f*ck."
I was directing most of this verbal abuse at Lee, my australian GPS narrator, who was incessantly telling me to turn right and move back toward the 101, which I was not about to do. Not to get burned again."
5:30- I get home. I eat carrots, hummus, cucumbers, a grilled cheese, tomato soup, a diet caffiene free Dr. Pepper. My roommate/surrogate Grandmother Virginia tells me that I should never drive during these hours. I feel exhausted by my own inability to accomplish anything.
7:08- I leave to see a show at the Groundlings. I sit in literal stand still traffic going "over the hill" on Highland.
7:50- I arrive and park 6 blocks away from the theater. This is a "good" parking space.
[the show is quite good]
9:45- I walk to my car, drive to a bar/mexican restaurant named "El Coyote," to meet my friend (friend 1 of approx 2). I then pay someone 5 dollars to park it in a parking lot that I could have easily parked in myself. Valet makes me feel like I'm living way beyond my means-- every time I use it (three times), I feel like I'm putting money down for a house in Maui or something. I feel like the ball is going to drop on my crazy overspending any minute now. I also feel pissed that there's no parking in all of this massive urban sprawl.
10:30- I leave to drive home. I sit in stand still traffic. I have time to look at the building-sized builboard of the charcoal sketch of Shia Labeouf. Billboards weird me out here, because most of the people on them live here. I wish that's how it was in all towns. If my neighbor Luz was on a billboard, yelling at my little brothers for breaking her birdbath, that would be a riot. There is an excessive level of Billboard in LA. I cannot wait to be on a billboard.
11:00-- I arrive home.
And I have exhausted myself.
Until next time,
The driving lady,
Madeline
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
A Taste of Rejection
Today was filled with cold calls, disappointments, and the occasional glimmer of hope-- from the synagogues of the greater Los Angeles area.
Let me explain-
While I was vaguely planning to come to Los Angeles last year, I was also working in selection for a scholarship program. This gave my dad an idea:
"Hey- you should be one of those people who works with high school students applying to college!"
This was an excellent idea for one reason, maybe two: you can get paid $200 an hour to do this. The secondary reason is that it would be relatively gratifying, unlike working at a topless bar or in a coal mine.
So, today, I printed out fifty flyers at my other day job at a print and copy shop. They read,
I'd love to help.
Let me explain-
While I was vaguely planning to come to Los Angeles last year, I was also working in selection for a scholarship program. This gave my dad an idea:
"Hey- you should be one of those people who works with high school students applying to college!"
This was an excellent idea for one reason, maybe two: you can get paid $200 an hour to do this. The secondary reason is that it would be relatively gratifying, unlike working at a topless bar or in a coal mine.
So, today, I printed out fifty flyers at my other day job at a print and copy shop. They read,
"Anxious about the college application process?"
[Then, I put this photo of myself, looking terrified]
I'd love to help.
I'm not sure who my target audience was for this, but I will admit, I had the nearly subconscious thought that a casting director might see this flyer, and say, "Wow- she'd be perfect for Scary Movie 5! Or The Other Sister 2."
After printing out 50 color copies of this manic portrait, I began calling down a list of synagogues and private schools in the LA area. I googled "Temples in Los Angeles" and started on my way.
My first attempts were met very frostily.
Temple Israel of Hollywood does not advertise for outsiders.
University Synagogue gave me a flat-out no. There was no sugar coating.
Wilshire Boulevard Temple transfered me to a dubiously real voicemail and said I could put something in their newsletter.
Temple Adat Shalom will let me put a business-card sized ad in their newsletter for 35 dollars.
I realized that I thought I had a fail-safe plan with this synagogue strategy- I was envisioning the bulletin board outside of Fellowship Hall at my hometown Memorial United Methodist Church, where I grew up- that bulletin board was always covered with flyers, the kind with the pulll off phone number tabs that you could tear away and put in your pocket when it came time to call a babysitter. That single image that I saw so many times while I was waiting for my parents to stop schmoozing and take me home just about formed the foundation of my action plan for rolling in dough in LA.
My mom left me a voicemail today and said, "It's around 7:00 right now...in the real world." The time difference rubs it in- I'm really far away. I'm far away from my family, from my boyfriend, from my best friends, from the people I don't even like that much, from the work that I'm doing, from all of the places I ever spent longer than three weeks of my life. I drove around with the delivery guy from the Print Shop, a guy named Jose, who came here from Guatemala when he was 17. He said, "You're on an adventure," and I told him he went on a pretty big adventure himself. He didn't seem to agree. He said he'd like to travel one day when he's old and his children are old- I told him to move to North Carolina. He said he thought he'd take some acting classes. I thought there was an unusual amount we had in common.
It's lonely here today, and I feel upset for some reason. I have too much to do, but not enough to do. I could work endlessly, trying to paper all the synagogues in southern california, signing up for classes to learn improv and acting, working 8 hour days at the print shop, writing emails to network until the cows come home-- I can't seem to focus on anything long enough to feel satisfied.
Like right now-- I want to eat, I want to write, I want to email, I want to read about printing costs in a large trade notebook, I don't want to spend money on food, but I really want in n' out burger.
So- what I'm doing is going to the movies. I haven't done that since I've been here. It seems awfully silly to come here to be in the movies and not actually go.
I ordered my ticket on Fandango so I have to go.
It was 12 dollars, which is ridiculous.
I'm going to see The Women.
Until next time,
I'd love to help,
Madeline
After printing out 50 color copies of this manic portrait, I began calling down a list of synagogues and private schools in the LA area. I googled "Temples in Los Angeles" and started on my way.
My first attempts were met very frostily.
Temple Israel of Hollywood does not advertise for outsiders.
University Synagogue gave me a flat-out no. There was no sugar coating.
Wilshire Boulevard Temple transfered me to a dubiously real voicemail and said I could put something in their newsletter.
Temple Adat Shalom will let me put a business-card sized ad in their newsletter for 35 dollars.
I realized that I thought I had a fail-safe plan with this synagogue strategy- I was envisioning the bulletin board outside of Fellowship Hall at my hometown Memorial United Methodist Church, where I grew up- that bulletin board was always covered with flyers, the kind with the pulll off phone number tabs that you could tear away and put in your pocket when it came time to call a babysitter. That single image that I saw so many times while I was waiting for my parents to stop schmoozing and take me home just about formed the foundation of my action plan for rolling in dough in LA.
My mom left me a voicemail today and said, "It's around 7:00 right now...in the real world." The time difference rubs it in- I'm really far away. I'm far away from my family, from my boyfriend, from my best friends, from the people I don't even like that much, from the work that I'm doing, from all of the places I ever spent longer than three weeks of my life. I drove around with the delivery guy from the Print Shop, a guy named Jose, who came here from Guatemala when he was 17. He said, "You're on an adventure," and I told him he went on a pretty big adventure himself. He didn't seem to agree. He said he'd like to travel one day when he's old and his children are old- I told him to move to North Carolina. He said he thought he'd take some acting classes. I thought there was an unusual amount we had in common.
It's lonely here today, and I feel upset for some reason. I have too much to do, but not enough to do. I could work endlessly, trying to paper all the synagogues in southern california, signing up for classes to learn improv and acting, working 8 hour days at the print shop, writing emails to network until the cows come home-- I can't seem to focus on anything long enough to feel satisfied.
Like right now-- I want to eat, I want to write, I want to email, I want to read about printing costs in a large trade notebook, I don't want to spend money on food, but I really want in n' out burger.
So- what I'm doing is going to the movies. I haven't done that since I've been here. It seems awfully silly to come here to be in the movies and not actually go.
I ordered my ticket on Fandango so I have to go.
It was 12 dollars, which is ridiculous.
I'm going to see The Women.
Until next time,
I'd love to help,
Madeline
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Madeline in La-La Land
I've been here for two weeks now- and I've decided that it's time to record my experiences, if for no other reason than they will begin to feel real. So far, I've found a place to live in the Valley, my landlord is a steadily working voice-over artist who does the voice for Jimmy Neutron and was the body double for the boy in Free Willy, and I've found a day job working in marketing at a print and copy shop- also in the valley. Both of these things were found through the kindness of incredible people who have taken me under their wings. The apartment was found by the lovely Sarah, the matriarch of my family away from home, especially for my first week in LA, during which they lent me their couch to sleep on and gave me endless advice on where to live, what to do, where to see shows, and how to feel less overwhelmed at this monumental move. Did I mention they also got me about 4 babysitting jobs? The print job was found by the head of a rehab center where I once volunteered. You know what they say- it's all about networking.
So- instead of giving you a play-by-play of weeks 1 and 2 (here's a snapshot: crying, apartment hunting, babysitting, seat filling for the network telethon "Stand Up to Cancer," crying, apartment hunting, babysitting...), I'll muse a little bit.
I looked up the phrase, La-La-Land online, because I thought it was cute slang for Los Angeles, but wanted to make sure, so people did not think I'd had a quick change of heart and gone to Lala, Iran or a small gift shop named LaLa Land in Southern Illinois. As fortune would have it La-La Land, is indeed a pet name for Los Angeles, and this pet name was further elaborated on below:
1. Los Angeles, California (often abbreviated L.A.). This expression pokes fun at the alleged eccentricities of the city's inhabitants. For example, What do you expect? Frederick has lived in la-la land for ten years and it has rubbed off on him. [Slang; c. 1980]
2. A state of being out of touch with reality, as in I don't know what's going on with Amy--she seems to be in la-la land. [Slang; c. 1980] Also see cloud-cuckoo land; never-never land.
As I read this definition on "Answers.com," after being embarassed that I no longer own a dictionary (I left it on the East Coast, with my book-chic scarves and glasses), I thought about how well this anonymous online dictionary writer captures this strange (strange) new place where I now live.
Now, as I am prone to do, I shall elaborate:
- This expression pokes fun at the alleged eccentricities of the city's inhabitants.
Yes, this city is allegedly quite eccentric. But the strange thing is, unlike a lot of geographic stereotypes, this one is true. Everyone here is crazy. But the strangest thing of all is that everyone acts as though they might not be crazy. Everyone has an air of importance, an air of authority, an aura about them that makes you look twice and say-- is this guy hitting on me in Starbucks because he's a little off-kilter, or because he's actually Quentin Tarantino? Isn't Quentin Tarantino a little odd-looking? I sort of remember his nose....and I wouldn't want to be rude to Quentin Tarantino....
I've not met Quentin Tarantino yet, but I have been accosted by several strange men who feel the need to tell me about their writer/producer/director/musician careers and their websites. Then, tell me what a great "look" I have and give me many encouraging words about how I'm going to make it as an actress. Somehow, I feel compelled to lie to these men, telling one of them that I was married, and telling the other one that my boyfriend is a 24 year old screenwriter who lives in LA and works at a different Starbucks.
[My boyfriend is a 21-year-old playwright who lives in North Carolina and is much cooler than any of my alias boyfriends.] It has become a problem in my work schedule, because I go to these coffee shops with the intention of working and using their free wireless, and I am accosted by crazy people, who, in the fashion of crazy people, do not stop speaking to me until I leave, computer in hand, one email written, if I am lucky.
The second, less specific definition of "La-la land," is, of course "a state of being out of touch with reality." This is also true, since this is a town of crazy people pretending to be famous people. And, of course, I'm now a part of this machine. I found myself quite flattered when a vaguely European "producer/writer/director/musician" in a Coffee Bean compared me favorably to Marilyn Monroe. I think the words actually crossed my mind, "I'm really gonna make it here." Forget foreign oil- this is a city fueled by compliments. And I'd pay $3.95 per gallon for some good compliments any day.
In my Craig's List Quest for an apartment, every possible roomate that I met swore that they were "in the industry," from 65-year old woman who came to the door wearing a wholly transparent shirt to the indecipherable Korean woman who told me that I could rent from her but must tell the building's landlord that I was just a visiting friend. The man renting out a room on his estate in exchange for "light housework" was not in the industry. However, I also had the sense that he was not being entirely truthful about his motives for renting. (Did I mention he only wanted female tenants and require a picture with all responses?) He was also very vague about his occupation, saying that he did "some different kind of work here and there."
Speaking of La-La land, that's another thing that I've noticed- people have very odd answers when you ask them what they do. They often answer this question with such enigmatic responses as "What I am doing now, you mean?" or "I do some writing, some producing, some directing...I'm in a web series....," or the simple, pitifully true statement, "I don't really know."
Which is where I suppose I am. I work at a print and copy shop, yet that's not "what I do." I write emails, desperately trying to network, yet that's not "what I do." I hope and I dream and I plan for a joyful future as an actress, but I'm not comfortable telling that to the guy with the ponytail at Peet's Coffee. So, it's a hard question to answer. And that's part of the magic of this place. It's a city of people hoping for something, working toward something ultimately uncertain and often unlikely. It's a place filled with people who never grew out of their childhood dreams of red carpets and fabulous clothing and applause from all angles. In this way, it's an incredibly indulgent town, a town filled with people who want something for themselves. In this way, despite its reputation for superficiality, it's also a strangely, honest and vulnerable town.
And even though sometimes it seems like "never-never land"-- like you'll never make it big, never stop living paycheck to paycheck, never feel settled or happy or fulfilled, there's something just human about Los Angeles. Just wildly, absurdly human. And I like that.
The last definition of "La-La Land" was "Cuckoo-Cloud Land." I don't understand that. It is never cloudy here.
So, until next time,
signing off,
the writer/producer/director/musician/look at my website,
Madeline
So- instead of giving you a play-by-play of weeks 1 and 2 (here's a snapshot: crying, apartment hunting, babysitting, seat filling for the network telethon "Stand Up to Cancer," crying, apartment hunting, babysitting...), I'll muse a little bit.
I looked up the phrase, La-La-Land online, because I thought it was cute slang for Los Angeles, but wanted to make sure, so people did not think I'd had a quick change of heart and gone to Lala, Iran or a small gift shop named LaLa Land in Southern Illinois. As fortune would have it La-La Land, is indeed a pet name for Los Angeles, and this pet name was further elaborated on below:
1. Los Angeles, California (often abbreviated L.A.). This expression pokes fun at the alleged eccentricities of the city's inhabitants. For example, What do you expect? Frederick has lived in la-la land for ten years and it has rubbed off on him. [Slang; c. 1980]
2. A state of being out of touch with reality, as in I don't know what's going on with Amy--she seems to be in la-la land. [Slang; c. 1980] Also see cloud-cuckoo land; never-never land.
As I read this definition on "Answers.com," after being embarassed that I no longer own a dictionary (I left it on the East Coast, with my book-chic scarves and glasses), I thought about how well this anonymous online dictionary writer captures this strange (strange) new place where I now live.
Now, as I am prone to do, I shall elaborate:
- This expression pokes fun at the alleged eccentricities of the city's inhabitants.
Yes, this city is allegedly quite eccentric. But the strange thing is, unlike a lot of geographic stereotypes, this one is true. Everyone here is crazy. But the strangest thing of all is that everyone acts as though they might not be crazy. Everyone has an air of importance, an air of authority, an aura about them that makes you look twice and say-- is this guy hitting on me in Starbucks because he's a little off-kilter, or because he's actually Quentin Tarantino? Isn't Quentin Tarantino a little odd-looking? I sort of remember his nose....and I wouldn't want to be rude to Quentin Tarantino....
I've not met Quentin Tarantino yet, but I have been accosted by several strange men who feel the need to tell me about their writer/producer/director/musician careers and their websites. Then, tell me what a great "look" I have and give me many encouraging words about how I'm going to make it as an actress. Somehow, I feel compelled to lie to these men, telling one of them that I was married, and telling the other one that my boyfriend is a 24 year old screenwriter who lives in LA and works at a different Starbucks.
[My boyfriend is a 21-year-old playwright who lives in North Carolina and is much cooler than any of my alias boyfriends.] It has become a problem in my work schedule, because I go to these coffee shops with the intention of working and using their free wireless, and I am accosted by crazy people, who, in the fashion of crazy people, do not stop speaking to me until I leave, computer in hand, one email written, if I am lucky.
The second, less specific definition of "La-la land," is, of course "a state of being out of touch with reality." This is also true, since this is a town of crazy people pretending to be famous people. And, of course, I'm now a part of this machine. I found myself quite flattered when a vaguely European "producer/writer/director/musician" in a Coffee Bean compared me favorably to Marilyn Monroe. I think the words actually crossed my mind, "I'm really gonna make it here." Forget foreign oil- this is a city fueled by compliments. And I'd pay $3.95 per gallon for some good compliments any day.
In my Craig's List Quest for an apartment, every possible roomate that I met swore that they were "in the industry," from 65-year old woman who came to the door wearing a wholly transparent shirt to the indecipherable Korean woman who told me that I could rent from her but must tell the building's landlord that I was just a visiting friend. The man renting out a room on his estate in exchange for "light housework" was not in the industry. However, I also had the sense that he was not being entirely truthful about his motives for renting. (Did I mention he only wanted female tenants and require a picture with all responses?) He was also very vague about his occupation, saying that he did "some different kind of work here and there."
Speaking of La-La land, that's another thing that I've noticed- people have very odd answers when you ask them what they do. They often answer this question with such enigmatic responses as "What I am doing now, you mean?" or "I do some writing, some producing, some directing...I'm in a web series....," or the simple, pitifully true statement, "I don't really know."
Which is where I suppose I am. I work at a print and copy shop, yet that's not "what I do." I write emails, desperately trying to network, yet that's not "what I do." I hope and I dream and I plan for a joyful future as an actress, but I'm not comfortable telling that to the guy with the ponytail at Peet's Coffee. So, it's a hard question to answer. And that's part of the magic of this place. It's a city of people hoping for something, working toward something ultimately uncertain and often unlikely. It's a place filled with people who never grew out of their childhood dreams of red carpets and fabulous clothing and applause from all angles. In this way, it's an incredibly indulgent town, a town filled with people who want something for themselves. In this way, despite its reputation for superficiality, it's also a strangely, honest and vulnerable town.
And even though sometimes it seems like "never-never land"-- like you'll never make it big, never stop living paycheck to paycheck, never feel settled or happy or fulfilled, there's something just human about Los Angeles. Just wildly, absurdly human. And I like that.
The last definition of "La-La Land" was "Cuckoo-Cloud Land." I don't understand that. It is never cloudy here.
So, until next time,
signing off,
the writer/producer/director/musician/look at my website,
Madeline
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