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
Sunday, April 5, 2009
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...
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...
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
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
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"
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"
Friday, November 7, 2008
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.)
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.)
Sunday, October 19, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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
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
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