Big New Comedy Week

So – in honor of almost the one year anniversary of not writing in this blog, I thought I’d…start writing in this blog again. A lot has happened in the past year, and I will not waste your time by giving you an in-depth update on everything I’ve done in the meantime. I’ll pick up in the now and if I need to give some contextual information to make something make sense, I will. I also won’t beg you to trust me that I’ll post regularly again, because that would be unfair. I’m not a consistent poster. I will try to be, but I don’t want to build any expectations that are too high.

So—without further ado—the continuation of…my silly little blog where I give too much information about my day to day endeavors to act and write and exist in LA-- today, I will tell you about...

My First Job:

So—a note of context—at the end of January, I signed with a commercial agent, and I’ve been going on (as you can probably gather) commercial auditions. The world of commercial auditioning has been, in a word--- short. Every audition is short. Extremely short. I had an audition last week wherein I drove to Santa Monica in almost rush hour so I could literally pretend to pump gas for ten seconds. I was supposed to pump gas with an attitude that was “Pleasant. Not necessarily smiling, but happy. You’re in a good mood. Not amazing, but good.” I did get the chance to try it more than once— the second time around, I was asked to move my eyes a little bit. I did not get a callback for this role.

But this story is not about the gas pumping audition— it’s about the first (and so far the only) commercial job I’ve booked—It was the second commercial I auditioned for, a promo for CMT’s “Big New Comedy Week.” CMT as in Country Music Television. In this audition, I read for “girl in bar,” and I did this:

Girl in Bar:
Why can’t I meet the right kind of guys?

CMT Spokesman:
Here try this- it’s CMT’s Big New Comedy Week in a Can!

Spokesman then hands me a large can (or in the case of the audition, a tiny Dixie cup) of water, and my job is to take a sip and then do a spit take, laughing uncontrollably and saying “that tastes funny!” They had a plastic trash can filled with water for us to spit the spittakes into. It was a really fun audition because I was instructed to “make it big,” or to over-act…which I’m quickly learning is the only kind of acting I really do. I’m shooting a web series with some friends right now, and as I watch the footage, I’ve realized that I have an unfortunate acting tick—some people blink too much while acting, some people take unnecessary deep breaths, some people mumble—I embody a full-on crazy person. In about half of our takes, I look like I’m trying to re-enact one of the more intense scenes of Shutter Island.

Anyway—I hit a wonderful stroke of good luck and booked the Comedy Week Commercial—I was obviously thrilled— my first paying job, my first commercial, my second commercial audition booked— I was on cloud nine.

I was also excited to be cast in the role of a cute girl in a bar—I thought, "take that, Hollywood, with all of your unfair standards of beauty and body. Take that—I thought I’d only be eligible for character roles and especially forgiving roles of “cute indy girls.” But no—I can be a regular girl, looking for love in a bar. Just a normal, reasonably attractive girl. In a bar. That’s me."

On the day before the shoot, I got a call from the wardrobe guy, and I was ready for him to tell me all the kinds of cute girl in bar clothes that they were going to fit me for, and all he said was, “Well, it looks like you’re going to be in a hospital gown. So, bring clothes that you could wear under a hospital gown…and maybe some business clothes too.” I imagined a surreal version of this commercial, in which I was actually wearing a hospital gown in a bar, and the CMT spokesman was in a chicken suit, and he handed me a balloon full of water that I popped all over everyone before the frame flipped upside down and a soundtrack of Mahler's Fifth started to play.

That’s not what happened in the commercial— What actually happened is that I arrived at a warehouse of a lot in Downtown LA, and I discovered that I was actually playing a person in the hospital. The hair and makeup people put me in pale makeup and pulled my hair back in a messy sick person ponytail. Then, I went to wardrobe, where the wardrobe lady tried a blue hospital gown and a yellow hospital gown before settling on the blue. I had to put on a pair of men’s boxers underneath the hospital gown so I wasn’t in my underwear. She gave me a down dive jacket to wear between takes because it was about 40 degrees inside the warehouse.

The scene went like this:

Doctor:
You know what your problem is?
You need to laugh more.
Here- try this.

(he hands me the big can of comedy, filled with seltzer. I take a sip, spit it out, trying not to ruin the thousands of dollars of camera equipment surrounding me, and say…)

Patient:
That tastes really funny!

Doctor:
Also, you have gout.

(I laugh even harder at the fact that I have the disease once known as the “disease of kings.”)

That was it— it went well, and it was fun. We did another scene where I reacted to the doctor’s spittake, and that was also fun. The rest of the cast and crew was talented, the directors were both really nice, and it was overall an incredibly positive experience. Until the gynecology stirrups. The final shot, the coup de grace, was a shot of the doctor facing the camera saying, “As an actor playing a doctor, I can tell you it really works!”

My legs are propped up in the background on the infamous stirrups used for spreading a lady’s legs so a doctor can look at her unmentionables. What you can’t tell from tv is that my legs are certainly unshaven and that behind that hospital down is a loose pair of men’s boxers. And that opposite my spread-eagle legs is a grip trying not to make eye-contact with me—which I appreciate. And my line is, "Actor?!?!?" Because I'm upset/appalled that the guy who just gave me a pap smear wasn't actually a doctor. Get it?

This was the unexpected part of the shoot, and it taught me lesson #1 of being a “working actress” in Hollywood: Always shave your legs, because you never know when you're going to be put in a hospital gown and stirrups.

And, as a reward for those of you that have read this entire, rambling post, here’s a link to the commercial, recorded off my teeny, tiny TV. Take the crappy quality as a confirmation that this was in fact on TV. (mostly during “Extreme Make-Over Home Edition.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ljwlg5kSITg

Until next time, thank you for watching,

The One With Gout

Girlesque

As I put all of these things in order, it becomes increasingly clear that I only audition for things that sound like porn. This was my first theater audition, and it was at a theater which is part of a three-stage consortium called “Papoosian Stages,” because they are owned by a guy named Jon Papoose.*
*I change the names of the people in this blog because I don't want to be a jerk.

The three stages are actually three small theaters in the top of a strip mall on La Brea Avenue, next to an insurance agent and across the street from a Burger King. The audition description for “Girlesque” describes an all-female musical revue in which girls take off enough clothes to make the audience happy and leave enough on to keep their parents happy. My boyfriend was especially opposed to my auditioning for “Girlesque,” because, in his words, “What are people going to think when that’s the only credit on your resume?” I thought that he was probably right. I was, after all, embarrassed to tell people that I even had this audition. I just lied and told them that I was doing something else. But, again, saying yes to the universe sometimes means saying yes to “Girlesque,” so on a cloudy Sunday afternoon, I walked up the steps to the second level of the “what’s it called?” shopping center, and found an auditorium full of eager women sitting in pew-style seats, looking at a pear-shaped man with shoulder length, heavily blown-dry hair, and a khaki vest with many pockets that closed by Velcro. This was Jon Papoose.

He opened this meeting of the minds with a hearty welcome:
“Welcome to Papoosian Stages. My name is Jon Papoose. And I bet your asking yourselves, ‘How much is this going to cost?” And I’m here to tell you that being in a show at Papoosian Stages is 100%, with no exceptions, Free. I know…you’re all like, “What? It’s free to perform here?” And I’m here to say, “Yeah. It’s about talent here. Not paying to play.”

Jon Papoose’s assumed inner monologue somehow did not match my actual thoughts, which were closer to, “Why would you have to pay to be in a play? That’s retarded.”

I looked up and these women were entranced. They laughed, they nodded vigorously, they looked at each other knowingly. Jon Papoose was in rapture.

“So….the show here is called Girlesque. And no, it’s not a strip show. Will you have to strip in this show? Yes. Will you have to dance? Yes. But have parents come see this show? Yes. Even boyfriends have come see this show. Friends, everyone can come see this show. And also…I’m in a committed relationship. So…” He then relayed a funny story about a woman played the nurse in a previous production of the play. The costume that she'd bought for the play malfunctioned, exposing her nipples to the whole crowd. What fun.

My thoughts wandered to the fact that parents will see anything. My grandparents saw me in an all-female play about the men of the French Revolution. I kissed a girl, caressed another one, spoke at length about the world being a “festering wound, with creation as its rot,” and was guillotined with a symbolic chopping block and a bucket of red paint. And they’re not even my parents. They’re once removed.

Jon Papoose goes on. “So the show isn’t about stripping. It’s about the various female fantasy characters…you know…the nurse, the French maid, the housewife, the stripper…all coming together to tell their stories. So, it puts a face with the fantasy really. They’re all united by this central character, Madame X. She’s also a stripper. I know these things because I wrote the play.”

Jon Papoose seems to write an awful lot of his own material. For example, I was also invited to Dark Side of the Moon, an interpretive, wordless theater piece set to the music of Pink Floyd’s Album of the same name. John Papoose wrote that too.

Now, we begin— a very softspoken redhead, dubbed by John Papoose as the assistant director comes onstage to teach us the dances that we will be doing for our auditions. The audition only consists of dancing. I am sensing a theme.

30 women crowd onstage to learn this dance, and I try to commit, but my mind is bouncing between various distracting thoughts:
“Where did all of these capable-looking, attractive women find this audition posting?”
“That girl can really do a high-kick. She’s, like, a real dancer!”
“I really don’t know how to dance. This is going to be awfully embarrassing.”

The red-headed dance instructor teaches us a routine that strings together a variety of high-kicks, 360-degree hip gyrations, and the coup de grace, a move in which one juts one’s chest out while simultaneously raising one’s arms perfectly vertically. She says, “If any of you have ever stripped before, you’ll recognize this one.”

Throughout all of this, John Papoose sits in the back of the room, at his computer. He retreated with the reassuring words, “Don’t worry. I won’t watch you.”

After about 30 minutes of learning this routine, we are put into groups of 4 to perform this dance. I perform twice. I again, am reminded that I am NOT a triple threat. I leave. I am still amazed at how many women, how many talented, beautiful, women will fight for roles in Girlesque.

This brings on my first pang of panic…I really am in a big city, filled with a huge number of people who want to do exactly what I want to do, and who are all following the same plan that I’ve made. I knew that before, but I hadn't necessarily experienced it yet. Not tangibly. In my mind, this was all meant to go very differently. I was supposed to audition for something very low-profile, get cast, and then do it, standing out as the clearly brilliant rookie, the one whom everybody talks about, saying, “Wow…she’s really talented…have we seen her on television?”

Instead, I’m auditioning for something not only low-profile but demeaning, and half of the city has turned out. I feel like the blind wandering along with the blind, and most of these blind people have more stage-presence and movement ability than I do.

This experience left me feeling...creepy. I thought I could walk into this place, feeling snarky and superior, get some writing material out of it and move on to something more my speed. Now, I feel like I’m at the dark and confusing bottom of a totem pole that diverts in such a way that I don’t even know how to get to the top.

I had to stop wallowing quickly, because I had to go to an audition for a play called “The Knight Who Was Afraid of the Dark.” This one required no dancing, but singing. And after that, I was off to audition for a UNICEF Public Service announcement, and a silent student film in which I had to move my lips to look like I was speaking French, and an independent feature about a guy who accidentally takes a Viagra and has to go through a zany day with a constant erection.

Still at the bottom, but looking up. (?)

Until next time,
The Girl who was Afraid of Girlesque

Panic at the Shower

After my schoolgirl’s try at auditioning for a music video, the other audition requests kept rolling in. It was like some things in the universe aligned in such a way that resulted in many auditions over the course of two weeks. Before giving you the snapshots of these auditions, I must refresh you on my policy: Say Yes. To everything. (within wide limits).
The point? To tell the universe: I am here, and I am ready for anything! Translation: Beggars can’t be choosers.

So….after I danced for Vetiver, I went to a smattering of other auditions, the following posts should act as a verbal photo album of the weeks of February 7th-14th.

Snapshot #1: Panic Shower
Despite the name, this was not a production company making snuff films. It’s actually a pretty interesting company doing web shorts that I thought were really cool—you should check out their website, which is www.panicshower.com. This audition was for a web series entitled “The Windsor Park Series,” in which people sit on a park bench in Glendale and have conversations while a security camera is on them. I read for the part of “Miranda, cute, quirky, and in love with her new boyfriend.” My lines were things like, “Fine…I’m gonna put mayonnaise all over your pillow,” and other flirty things that would make any onlooker (or security guard ordered to review these security tapes) feel rather nauseous. It was a good script. I prepared diligently, memorizing the lines rehearsing my movements, just as Michael Caine told me to do in his book on acting for the camera. I prepared as he prepared for the movie Zulu or any other movie he did. You know…Batman. Other British Films. Michael Caine is very big on preparation, just FYI. The auditions took place in a law office in Pasadena, I, along with many other actors, sat in the waiting room for around 40 minutes. A possibly mistake of Pad Thai for lunch made the proximity of a nicely furnished restroom a nice amenity. I went in, did my thing, got some good feedback, and read another scene for good measure.

Later that evening, I was called on my phone by one of the nice guys running the audition saying, “We think you’re great, and we’d like you to come back for a callback.” I was happy, but not thrilled. I had not yet discovered the rarity of the words, “We think you’re great.” But I’ll tell you now….I haven’t heard them since that night.

Until next time,
Leaving you with a cliffhanger...

I Go To My First Audition

I submitted on LA Casting for about a week. Possibly five days, and I didn’t hear anything from anyone. Possibly because of patience and possibly because I reduced all of my physical measurements by a few more pounds/inches, I began to get audition notices. They came slowly at first, and one of them was not an audition but a very strange letter asking me my views on whether human beings have souls and where these souls go when we die.

The first actual audition I got came on February 4th, 2009. It was for a music video for a band called Vetiver, an indy, folksy, country-infused band with an audible aura that seemed to tell me, “Take a rest. You deserve it. I know how hard you’ve been working.” The lead singer looked a bit like he’d steal your parents’ liquor.
Take a look, they’re actually quite good:
www.vetiverse.com

I know what the band sounds like, what the lead singer looks like, and an embarrassing amount of additional information because I, with the zeal of a first-time, eager to please, somewhat clueless auditionee, did as much background research as possible on said band. Did you know that Vetiver is actually a type of grass that originates in India? Or that musicians such as Joanna Newsome (a favorite of mine), and the Fleet Foxes were featured on Vetiver’s first album? Or that the casting director auditioning me took improv class at Upright Citizen’s Brigade with a friend of mine and has done video work on the “Tim and Eric Awesome Show Good Job!” I found all of this information on the internet. I was taught that one must do research on a role. The type of research that I did is perhaps indicative of my lack of experience.

However, armed with much personal information about many people peripherally involved in this music video project, I drove to Hollywood on a rare rainy day for my big audition. 3:30 PM. I arrived at 3:00 PM, at the latest. I parked and then walked down the street to a Mobile gas station to use the restroom. In the process, my shoes, canvas flats resembling ace bandages in their color and resilience, became soaked to the point of no return. I too became soaked, because it never rains in California. So, somehow, I’ve entirely forgotten how to prepare myself for the rain. I was wearing a very short (sleeved and otherwise) dress, which was also soaked by the end of things.

However, I arrived with enthusiasm, finding my way into an empty office at around 3:20. Nobody was there. I waited on the landing, pretending to arrive a couple more times, until I heard voices upstairs and finally, two young men emerged, wearing jeans and plaid button downs, hair unkempt, ironic scowls on their faces.

“You’re early,” the chubby one said.

“I know! I’m soaked. I was like, waiting outside, and I was totally unprepared for the rain, and it’s like, my feet are so wet. Yikes! I was waiting downstairs, but it’s like…I’m here. Right? Hahaha…” I thought that acting like the adorably flustered-yet-suprisingly-talented young female archetype would steal their hearts and win me the role in this music video.

“Oh. Sorry to hear that,” the one with the thin face said.

“I can wait downstairs. I’ll just go back downstairs.” I started walking down the stairs.

“Don’t worry about it.” They began looking at me as though I might be entirely out of my mind.

“Can I help?” I watched as the thin-faced and chubby hip guys began to move tables and chairs around in the office, putting two tables on top of each other.

“First you wanted to leave, and now you want to help? Make up your mind.”

“Hahaha…okay.” I stand and watch.

They finish moving furniture and lead me into a smaller off-shoot office where there is a camera on a tripod.

“How long have you been here?” Thin, hip, up-and-coming music videographer asks me. Code: Have you ever interacted with another human being before?

I tell him. Five months. He nods. He now begins to instruct me for the audition. I am to look longingly, as though I’m waiting for a long lost love to come to me, but he never shows up.

20 seconds passes. I try to long for someone.

“Ok. Great.”

Now, I am to dance.

This is the problem. It’s not so much that I don’t dance, it’s that I can’t. I have rhythm, but it’s the kind of rhythm that enables me to tap my toes in time with a song or clap on cue. Once, in my representation of Judah in “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” I was nominated for an award for my standout performance in “movement and song.” It took me months to learn the jazz squares required of me, and I use that chapter in my life to claim that I have “dance/movement experience” when asked.

Music is put on, I am asked to dance, as though said-lost-lover has returned. I smile, I raise my hands in the air in my traditional “I’m confident enough to dance,” gesture reserved for select parties, and I…dance.
After giving them a final requested demonstration of a “bad girl,” I leave. I give them my “theatrical” headshot, and someone says that I look like I’ve seen a ghost. In the headshot. Then, I leave, feeling pretty good about the whole thing, for some reason.

I do not get a call. But still, I feel triumphant. I am an actress in Los Angeles, because I have done what actresses do in Los Angeles: they audition! Who cares if I got cast? Plenty of actors, the best actors audition a TON and don’t get cast! I am living the dream.

Until next time,
Everything’s Coming Up Roses

I Join LA Casting

On February 4th, 2009, I went to my first audition in Los Angeles. Yes. That is correct. The first audition, other than my audition for my Groundlings Improv Class, which I eventually failed. Perhaps due to karma’s response to my decidedly bad attitude during the audition process. Perhaps because when I started an improvised scene, my teacher’s most frequent note for me was, “Don’t look like a deer in headlights.” Here’s another apt characterization: Toward the end of my six-week class, we did a somewhat catty exercise in which we did imitations of everyone else in the class. My impressionists stood very rigidly in front of the class and began to scream. Not everyone in the world of Groundlings Improv passes each level. So, for the fist time in my life, I was ordered to repeat a grade.

That is neither here nor there. I am, after all, planning to talk about my first real audition. Here’s how it happened. I came back to LA on January 4th, after a refreshing Christmas/New Year’s time in New Jersey, committed to fulfilling my New Year’s resolution, which was/is “Act.” In as many ways as possible. So, the way that one gets auditions in LA when one has no agent, no union membership, and relatively no resume is through a lovely little site called “LA Casting.”

For only $9.99 a month, $25 for my first uploaded headshot, and $10 for each additional headshot when added at the same time as original headshot, I am now the proud owner of an LA Casting profile. This consists of a heavily-retouched headshot of myself smiling, a less-retouched photo of myself asking the camera “what the fuck are you looking at?”, and a resume that tries its best to pump my community theatre experiences into robust credits. For example, if you are a friend of mine who happened to work with me on, say, an informal musical performance at the Wesley Foundation Student Methodist Chapel, congratulations! You are now a credited director of “Behold The Lamb of God, a Christmas Cantata.”

You can also find out my height (I added an inch), weight (I subtracted six pounds), and my bra, waist, and hip size (I tried to measure these using a tape measure, and then I made them up). I’m fairly certain that most people do this, because I often stumble upon profiles and headshots in which people (women) state that they are 5’10’’ and 102 pounds. That’s pretty much physiologically impossible, and in their photos, these women rarely look like they have terminal illnesses. If you’re going to lie about how tall and thin you are, you have to be smart enough to know how thin is too thin. Like literally, too thin to make any sense.

Anyway, if you’re curious, you can see my LA Casting Profile at
www.lacasting.com/madelinewalter .

All I ask is that you refrain from ridiculing me too much…because the thing about LA casting is that this profile is what gets me in the door to an audition. Any audition. Every day, I get about 30 emails notifying me of auditions that fit my demographic, which is “Caucasian Female, 18-30.”

Some of these roles are somewhat appropriate for me:
Louisa in “Sex, Relationships,and Sometimes...Love”- Lead - Female / 25 to 50 / All Ethnicities - This part is a jewish Lesbian who has breast cancer, she is from Brooklyn and through it all has an enormous sense of Humor.

Some of them are stretches:
Booty Girl in “Hip Hop Video”- Featured Female / 18 to 24 / All Ethnicities - Prominently featured. Must be a strong/confident hip-hop dancer. Sexy. Willing to wear GoGo style outfit.

Many of them are mildly degrading toward women:
The Slut in “Phone Sex Grandma”- Supporting - Female / 25 to 40 / All Ethnicities - The small-town local town slut

Some of them are clearly scams:
Variety Acts - Guest-Star - Male or Female / 10 to 50 / All Ethnicities -We are looking for great talent here. Do you sing? Dance? Act? Tell a a good joke? Have great songwriting skills? Able to bust a move or rap? If you think you have what it takes, then we want to hear from you! PLEASE LET US KNOW YOUR TALENT IN YOUR SUBMISSION!

Some of them are clearly porn:
Nymphs in “The Plunge of Icarus”- Featured Female / 22 to 29 / African Am, AfricanAm, Asian, Caucasian, East-In, East-Ind, Middle-East, MidEastern, Mixed - The nymphs are all presented in extreme body paints/nude with masks and elaborate headresses and jewelry. (Must be legally 18 and older to participate) Nudity (in body paints) with simulated sex in surreal orgy scene(s). Will consider male partner/spouse/associate (on approval) for photo model partner on camera (submit photo also). Minimal shoot days - estimating 1 day

Some of them are incredibly eye-opening:
Twins in “Weight Loss Drug Ad” - Guest-Star Female / 20 to 65 / All Ethnicities - I am looking for real identical twins! One must be obviously heavier than the other...this is for our "before and afters" of our product. This is a wieght loss product...so the twins must look like the same person..just after shedding the extra weight.

And I submit for nearly all of them. Other than auditions calling for nudity, an "androgenous physical build," or a "booty girl," I submit, based on the philosphy that now is my time to say yes to everything, to take it all in, use it all as a learning experience, to keep buying small lottery tickets from the universe, because you never know when it's your time. I didn't come here to be a snob. I came here to start at the bottom of a ladder that I've always wanted to climb. And sometimes, fate requires you to submit yourself as a "jewish lesbian with breast cancer." Sometimes.

Until next time,
NOT the small-town-slut in "Phone Sex Grandma"

The Post Where My Brain Explodes

So- I just wrote an email to a friend, trying to give him an update on my life here. What resulted was a mess of internal dialogue with myself, more of a venting process than a true "update," or a stream-of-consciousness update, or something like that. One of the things that I spilled out in this email was, "I think I'm getting tangled up in my safety nets." Which is exactly what I'm doing. I'm completely and utterly overwhelmed by my day jobs. By my four day jobs. I wake up and spend at least half of my day brainstorming ways to sell more copies at the copy shop where I work, often sneaking away to write emails to the producer of the promo video that I'm managing for the scholarship program on the east coast that I work for, and I feel guilty for taking days off from the print shop to travel to places like San Diego and Idaho to do high school recruitment, also for the scholarship program. On the East Coast. And all the while, I've been trying to "start my own tutoring business," which has fallen by the wayside as I've been trying to make a good impression at the print shop, because it's my most consistent paycheck and trying to keep up with my scholarship jobs because I have a personal connection there and a desire to please.

So, my initial financial safety net plan, the tutoring, is being pushed aside by my second safety net, the print job, which is being jeopardized by my first safety net, the scholarship work.
And then sometimes I'll run into people who are acting or writing, and I'll look at them like their from this foreign world and say something like, "Man, I wish I could do that."
Wait-- is that not why I drove my car 3,000 miles through Ohio, Kansas, Missouri, Indiana, Nevada, Colorado, Utah, and some other states I'm forgetting? I wake up feeling old, I get in my car and drive to a job where I'm surrounded by people who have resigned themselves to their lives, who have been doing the same thing for 10 to 40 years, and I try to relate to them, but I feel like I'm suffocating.

For my print job, I've been interviewing all of the employees to write bios of them for our website. Nobody pretends to be excited. Everyone has a couple of hobbies, and goes to work for the paycheck. And here I am, totally wracked with anxiety, trying to extract "fun memories" my boss has had in the past 40 years that she's had this job, and she can't think of anything, nobody can think of anything. I'm working in a time warp, trying desperately to move forward, but I'm in my own timewarp that I've created. I can't let go of anything. I can't let go of my old job from last year, which was an extension of my college scholarship, which was in some ways an extension of my over-achieving high school identity. My life is a cluttered apartment of ceramic cats that I bought at gas stations and pictures drawn by children only vaguely related to me. Nothing goes. I managed to leave a lot of my favorite clothing behind during my trek to the West Coast, but I was unable to leave any of my jobs, any of my anxious attachments, any of the classes that I took or the desires I had behind. I crave expulsion, just to purge myself of so much of this heavy, banal, cargo. I guess this is what people mean by baggage, huh? But it's not so much baggage as it is junk. Junk stuffed into the same bag, until the zipper breaks and you're dragging a half-empty suitcase around the airport, and you're always nervous about losing something when you roll over a bump, leaving something in the overhead compartment.

I feel like I'm slowly going crazy. I feel like I'm forcing myself further into irrelevance. I feel like I'm living in a pocket of Kansas in the middle of the most industry-saturated city in the world. I feel like an aspiring writing tutor in the middle of a city of actors. I feel incredibly isolated, like I'm running out of my potential, like I'm turning into every character that Philip Seymour Hoffman has played in recent distopic movies.

By the way-- I'm not even succeeding at being a writing tutor. I've missed my window-- the first round of college applications is over. I've worked on a couple of people's essays, contacted a couple of counselors, and I have contacts hanging in the wind now, waiting for me to fulfill them. I'm not in any way putting even 50 percent of my time into "building this business." I'm putting more than 50% of my time into the job that I told myself was the least important thing I'm doing here. And I spend more than 50% of my copious anxious energy worrying about doing insufficiently in that job.

I suppose the thing to do would be to quit that job. Of course, I'm nervous that I won't get another one that pays that well. I'm nervous that the tutoring won't pan out enough to pay my rent, and I won't get the print job back when I go broke and need it. I'm nervous that I don't know where to start with this acting thing, because that's the truth also:
I have NO idea what I'm doing.

I met with an agent a couple of weeks ago, and she told me that I literally wasn't in Los Angeles yet. Until I had my look down, until I knew how to sell myself, knew what I wanted, I wasn't even here. I took that to heart. So now I live nowhere. I'm not here. I'm not in LA. I'm in North Carolina, I'm in my room that I rent, I'm in the print shop where I work, I'm in the living room of one of the two students that I tutor. Those are safe places. Those are places where I'm not afraid to fail because I didn't risk anything to get here. I care a lot about what happens when I arrive in LA. And I've literally driven across the entire country, and I'm STILL putting it off.

And so we return to the beginning- I'm all tangled up in the many safety nets that I've laid for myself. I should have known this would happen.

I'll keep writing as I cut the strings.

Until next time,
The Kvetching Queen
*(Who, existential angst aside, is THRILLED to be part of this country while we move forward with a president that I am SO proud to be associated with.)

I Buy a Pair of Tight Pants

So- it's been over two weeks since my last post, I believe. Which, to be perfectly honest with you, is a good sign. It means that I've been getting out of my house (room) a bit more. It means that I've been feeling slightly less sorry for myself on a daily basis. It means that I've been dealing with slightly less pent up nervous energy that I need to expel by typing frantically for thirty minutes so I can fall asleep.
BUT-- since I've received some positive feedback from some people reading my blog, and since I am addicted to compliments, I am going to continue to write, if only to feed my ego. *Note: If you ever want me to do ANYTHING, tell me I'm good at it. I will not be able to help myself. I'm very nearly not exaggerating about this.

Anyway-- Since my last post, several eventful things have happened:
- I took a trip back to North Carolina and saw people and places and changing weather that I love. (and ended up crying in a Qdoba on Sunday night because I didn't want to leave.)
- I began picking up clients for college essay coaching, and feeling like that was rolling in the right direction.
- I started class at The Groundlings.
- I started going to a "writing circle" of excellent people who get together every week to discuss...writing. duh.
- I started going to a church, which hooked me by giving me pomegranates to take home the first Sunday I was there.
- I went to San Francisco.
- I started feeling 10% more settled and 20% less lonely.

BUT- instead of elaborating on any of these fascinating milestones, I'd like to reflect on another important event of the last two weeks, something that I feel is not a milestone, but something that I've been thinking about with absolute disproportionate frequency:
I bought a tight pair of pants.

Yes- it's true. After at least years of wearing jeans that drooped or sagged or fit in the store but got really baggy as soon as I wore them out, I decided: "no more. I will buy a pair of pants that is so tight in the story that I'm 90% sure they are too small. But I will buy these pants, regardless of the way they cut me in an unflattering and uncomfortable place in my waist. I will buy a pair of pants that leaves nothing to the imagination, that makes it difficult for me to sit down, and nearly impossible for me to bend my knees to tie my shoe. I will buy a pair of...skinny jeans!"

Oh, and I did. And I have to say, I love them, despite the logistical problems they present. For example, at work, I have to try and sit on the tall stools so I can leave my legs almost straight, so the jeans don't cut off my circulation. I have to wear shirts that are slightly loose around the waist because the jeans cut me directly at muffin top point. I cannot, under any circumstances, put anything in my pockets.

So-- they are not practical, but-- my butt looks really good, I think.

And more than that, I feel like I fit in a little more in SkinnyJeanTown. (Also known as Los Angeles.)
Oh, and since most of my clothes are semi-baggy, it makes me look like I've lost a ton of weight. Which is always a fun mark of accomplishment when you haven't really accomplished anything of note in the recent future.

I should be clear: I haven't lost a ton of weight. And any weight I have lost has been nearly accidental. The non-accidental parts come from running in the morning to stave off anxiety attacks and eating more vegetables because I had been on a pretty strict processedfoodetarian diet for awhile. (I should also be clear. I love fast food. I love fried food. I do not pretend to enjoy almost any vegetable and I do not pretend to hate or be grossed out by french fries, cheeseburgers, or chicken fingers. One thing I love about LA is that it is the birthplace of drive thru windows. I feel like somehow, I was destined to come here only because of that. I have decided to become slightly more health concious because I have recently developed a slightly augmented fear of dying.)

The accidental parts come from never leaving enough time to pack a lunch at work and often eating the following for lunch:
- dry cereal, potato chips, a nectarine, carrots
That usually happens on a day where I eat Cheez-its for breakfast.

So- the moral of the story is that I have lost possibly 2 pounds, seriously, but when I visited North Carolina, everyone seemed to think that I was America's Biggest Loser.
My Grandma, literally, said, verbatim:

"You look so little! You're losing weight! Lose more weight! Five more pounds! Ten more pounds! Look at this picture of you- you're so much thinner now!"

Comments like this make me want to beef up big time as a big "fuck you" to the establishment. They also want me to lose ten more pounds because I get the feeling it might win me a Nobel Prize.

Which is the strange thing that everybody has identified but still lives on-- in LA, in North Carolina, in everwhere-- I'm torn between wanting approval, wanting to go against the grain, and wanting to be happy. The third option falls somewhere between the first two. Oh- right- and I also don't want to have a premature heart attack. So, that precludes me from totally buying into or totally rejecting the bizarrely obsessive health-conscious culture I'm surrounded by.

I feel like I meet versions of myself when I was an obsessively-dieting 17-year-old - a neighbor approached me the other day and told me what she had eaten that morning. My Grandfather asks me what I'm eating and whether I'm excercising when I talk to him on the phone. There is a place across the street from my work that is called "The Cookie Diet." I thought it was an ironic name for a bakery, but I looked more closely, and it's actually a place that will put you on an 8-cookie a day diet.

And...the point is, I guess, completely unoriginal, but it is that I still can't believe that people are spending so much mental energy thinking about food and exercise. I know it takes effort to take good care of yourself, but I wish we could just integrate it into our routines enough to set it on autopilot, to stop talking about it so much, to realize that as long as you're not in a danger zone, it just isn't that big of a deal. Or, at least, I don't care so much about hearing what you ate this morning. I'd rather here you tell me how good I look in my new skinny jeans.

Until Next Time,
Oh, I should just write a tiny op-ed for Marie-Claire,
Madeline

Success #1

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

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.)

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

The Pretty Good Day

Today I had a pretty good day-- I cleaned a shed and a closet for seven hours.
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 Methodist Church……and I want to advertise my money-making scheme to your congregation.”

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 Hollywood. But, there’s always the chance someone there will just happen to be casting for Saturday Night Live and say, “Forgot Basic I, this girl needs to be on television! Tonight! I don’t care that it’s Friday! Put her on!” I’ll let you know what happens, or you can just see me on TV- tomorrow during a special production of Saturday Night Live on friday.

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 Southern California to sit with a room full of people and look at Tarzana in the 50s and think “I went to Tarzana. I met a babysitting client at a Peet’s Coffee!”

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

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

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,

"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

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

Day Four

I had to write a bio for my job-- my job is working in selection for a scholarship program. Anyhow. This is the story of how I decided to be a movie star. In case you want to know my backstory. Oh, how silly.

Madeline Walter, from the state of New Jersey—an active high school student who was a jack of many trades at her large public high school. Not technically a “leader” coming from high school, she knew how to work hard, get impeccable grades, and try new things—like playing varsity field hockey or running the science fair. She also loved acting. After several summers volunteering with her church to repair homes, she also realized that she cared a great deal about the world around her and wanted to change it, to fix it. Not knowing how, she stumbled upon the Robertson Scholars Program (in the midst of 13 college applications, to Ivy League Schools and other private “top tier” institutions), which promised her the tools to change the world. She was accepted and enrolled.

Starting college with plans to learn how to change the world, she tried studying political science, cultural anthropology, documentary film, and finally public policy as her major. She committed to these things. She spent her first college summer at in Southeastern Kentucky. She became absorbed in her community, and despite her limited training (one class at the CDS), spent 6 weeks (of many sleepless nights) shooting and editing a documentary called “Loud and Clear, Voices of Kentucky’s Mountains,” – a 12-minute short with original interviews of 7 anti-coal activists, still used by a grassroots group to organize, and screened at a couple of small festivals.

She returned to school deciding that she was a “documentarian,” and so she wanted to do something “big.” She worked with some student, and created the first ever joint Student Documentary Festival at her University—it was actually quite cool and ran for two years. During her sophomore year Spring semester, she also became the organizer of a student group called Students of the World—she organized and led a trip to China for thirteen students to document the cusp of the Chinese AIDS crisis. She had never been out of the country before—she’s rather addicted to doing things she shouldn’t know how to do.

That summer, she also went to South Africa and made promotional videos for the Amy Biehl Foundation—this included editing nights in the District Six Museum, where Madeline made a friend who had Final Cut Pro.

BUT—she wasn’t excited about documentaries and AIDS in the way that she had always been excited about acting— not for the principle of the activity, but for the process of the activity—it was the only work she could remember feeling such a sense of purpose and a lack of doubt while she was doing. So—she decided to drop what she was doing and start acting—but not before starting another chapter of Students of the World, which is still up and running.

She lost a lot of sleep wondering if she was still doing God’s work on the earth. She decided maybe God wanted little people to be happy.

The Robertson Program encouraged this change, and funded her to spend her third Robertson Summer going to an acting conservatory in New York City and interning with a Broadway production company. She enjoyed that.

Her senior year, she produced a play at her school, which then went to the New York Fringe Festival, where she (and her sweet parents) raised 12,000 donated dollars in three months, hired a cast of eight, a publicist, and a director, and sold out several shows, moving on to the Fringe Encore Series. She’d sure as hell never done that before. Her website is www.marybrigit.com -- you can read reviews there. Some of them are good. The play will be performed next in Rhode Island in December of 2008 by a community college.

After this experience, she went to work for her scholarship program because she wanted to give back. They’ve given her time during her 9-5 job this year to do the following things (in addition to her selection job):

- Assistant Direct Topdog/Underdog at a professional Rep Theatre

- Star in the literary play George

- Get an agent and two auditions in Raleigh, one of which was for a short film about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.

- Teach a writing and theatre class for a group of women at an INCREDIBLE drug and alcohol rehabilitation center.

- Get ready to go to Los Angeles to become a movie star—with a great deal of encouragement and support—including contracting me to supervise our promotional video project for the next year while I’m in LA.

Until next time,

The woman with the bio,

Madeline

Day Three

I spent the past four days largely in bed-- I got my upper wisdom teeth out on Friday, and I spent the next several days recuperating under the care of my grandma, who, appropriately, lives in a little city called Graham(a).
She is not thrilled about my upcoming trip to Los Angeles. Neither is my mother. My mother with good reason, as she has experienced firsthand the ups and the downs of the ruthless entertainment industry, and while extremely talented, was not herself a movie star. However, a great deal of their concerns come in the form of grim pieces of information I absolutely know already.
Such as:
"You'll need to lose ten pounds. Unless you want to be typecast as the fat happy girl. You don't think so? Fine! Let an agent tell you!"
"You're going to need to know people out there. It's all about who you know out there."
"You'll have to drive a lot in Los Angeles! A lot of cars there!"
"Hmmmm....you're not going to have the health benefits that you have in your current job (which, by the way, has some of the best health benefits available). That'll be another hard thing."

I'm not sure what they want me to do exactly. I'm sure if I told them I'd decided to stay in North Carolina and continue to be an admissions officer they'd say,
"Lots of paper cuts, reading those applications. It's hard work!"

But, they echo my inner thoughts about the difficulty of moving-- in fact, only now do I really appreciate how hard it is to relocate-- not as a college student leaving the nest of the university and jumping into a job in a new city, but as a person, leaving the security, the familiarity, leaving the ways you've learned to be a good person in one setting and trying to re-learn how to be a good person in a place that has nothing to do with you, a place where nobody needs you, and you need something, but you're not even sure what it looks like yet. That's the scariest intangible part of this jump-- the fuzziness of it. I can't quite make out what my difficulties or what my saving graces will be. So much of it will begin the moment I get in my car and get far enough from the East Coast to be on a day trip.

BUT-- the intangible is coupled with some very tangible obstacles, further confirming the fact that art and money are inextricably linked, and for an artist, making her living is just as vital as creating her characters. Take for example, health insurance-- getting two measly teeth out cost me 98 dollars on Friday-- without insurance? $981 dollars. Which is about one quarter of all of my savings-- which, after working for a year amount today to $3,172. Am I a compulsive spender? No way-- but I eat, and I had to buy a car. In one sitting, I wrote away a quarter of my savings just for the warranty. Which brings me to the question of making a living at all-- if a full time, low-wage job puts me almost at even in one of the cheapest places to live in the country, what about in one of the most expensive places to live? Another one of the post-college shocks-- people don't just make bold moves because they have the balls. It's usually because they have parents who are still taking care of them-- mine are-- how do you think I got the car that will get me to Los Angeles? Who do you think is paying for the through-the-roof, under 25 insurance? And come next year, when I'm not gainfully employed, more of that parental support will be shed.

Simply meaning, for a lot of real reasons-- like reasons of health and risk management, this is a stupid move, an irresponsible move, a move very typical of my generation and station in life, a group of people that believes in following our dreams because we've never remotely had to work for survival.

I'm still doing it, I'm still going. I just don't have delusions of myself as queen of the wild frontier. So what? Dreaming is not for the stupid.

Until next time,
Slowly but Surely working the Vicadin out of her system,
But still a little sore and loopy,
Madeline

Day Two

I'm selling my car-- which is only peripherally related to wanting to be a movie star-- but related because I just bought a new car. A 2008 Nissan Sentra. A car for reliability, economy, maneuverability, and safety. Because I plan to drive it across the country. To move to Los Angeles. To become an actor.

Since I finally bought a new car (after a month of obsessive comparison shopping), I have to sell my Old Car. Let me provide a resume for my Old Car:
Name: Buick LeSabre
Birthdate: 1992
Qualifications:
Good Engine
Couch-like Seats
Surprisingly large amount of storage space
Peeling Paint on the ceiling
Needs new struts/a tie rod (translation: you can't drive it unless you get it fixed)
Passenger side lock only works manually
Tape Player (broken)
Cracked Windshield
Busted Front Tire
Okay Other Tires But I Bought Them Used, So Drive At Your Own Risk

Asking Price: $995 (like $1,000 but I'm tricking you.)

So-- put yourself in this position: you are looking through Craig's List and you see a car that looks something like the one above. You decide it's exactly the car you need. That's because you're desperate.

Over the past day, I've gotten constant calls from people in bad enough situations to want to buy a nine hundred dollar broken Buick. Yesterday a man named Earl called-- he was going to take a day off of work to drive 2 hours and get my car. He just finished chemotherapy. A woman named Laura called me today-- her car just got stolen. Another woman just called-- her house was foreclosed and she needs somewhere to stay.

That last phone call didn't happen. BUT- can't you see how I feel like I'm preying on the victims of fate? So-- every time someone says they want the car, I make sure to say, "It's not really driveable, you know that?" I feel like I'm turning a blind eye to people who need more than a nine hundred dollar car-- I'm close to giving them my new car.

Oh well. Today I also made a calendar for my website's construction. This website will have all sorts of goodies on it-- such as videos of me acting. It will be quite a romp.

Until next time,
The Merciless Weasel of a Saleswoman, Me

Day One

I've been killing lots of bugs with my bare hands recently-- I think it's bad karma. But for some reason, there have been a great deal of small bugs in my room-- last week, I discovered a clan of ants pouring out of a hole in my ceiling, crawling down the edge of a poster, trailing down the side of my shelf. I blasted them with a large can of "Black Flag," but there are still occasional ants that crawl across my desk. I've gotten into the habit of just crushing them with my fingers, as though it's no big deal to be taking three lives a sitting.

I'm worried about karma at the moment because it seems to be the only thing that I have to count on. Today was my first day sitting down and really "planning" my move to Los Angeles. My plan? Go to Los Angeles, become a movie star. My reasoning? I've always wanted to. I haven't always admitted that desire, but when I was younger, I remember myself imagining myself answering questions on David Letterman. Hell, now, I imagine myself answering questions on David Letterman-- and I want to be in US Weekly-- I want to be chased by paparazzi, I want to be scrutinized about my weight so I can make a public statement empowering women. "A size 8 to 10 is NOT fat."

So- off to Los Angeles it is. I'm leaving on August 18th-- mark my words, it will happen. I've even planned to travel with my lovely friend Michele, who must be back in Boston by August 26th to continue getting a PhD in clinical psychology. I do not have a place to live. I do not have a concrete idea of what becoming a movie star entails, but I've committed myself to spending two full days a week "planning."

Today, I spent most of my day listening to myself hyperventilate. I woke up at 10:30, postponing my anxiety ever so slightly, and then spent most of my day doing the following things.
- Making a list.
- Sending three or four emails to people who currently live in Los Angeles in order to ask them questions about Los Angeles.
- Ordering a book off Amazon entitled, "Acting is Everything: An Actor's Guidebook for a Successful Career in Los Angeles."

I feel like I might die. I'm spending an incredible amount of time in planning limbo-- am I wasting my time by reading a book about acting? Am I just writing emails because it creates the illusion of taking action? Probably.

Oh yes, in true LA fashion, the other thing I did today was go to the gym. And I had the best workout I've had in weeks, because my heart was already racing as I pumped on the elliptical machine, trying to justify to myself why I've chosen to pursue acting instead of writing, as I listened to the refrain of a song overhead singing, "Love me, love me, love me, sex machine." Maybe I should be a writer.

For my second day, I plan to write a few more emails to a few more people, I plan to read some of my book that I ordered off of Amazon, and I plan to write a little bit-- write some video sketches perhaps, that I might be able to film and post on a website of sorts.

That's the most terrifying part though-- the writing part-- I'm very afraid of writing. I'm afraid of becoming absorbed in something and not finishing it. I'm sick with the possibility of becoming invested in something that I won't see through-- and I'm really quite frightened of writing something good and not knowing what to do with it, not having of sense of where to send it, where to put it, keeping it on my hard drive and maybe showing it to a friend. That is, I'm sure an unhealthy concern.

Alas, we all have our vices. Until next time,
the future Marilyn Monroe