continued from previous post...
...Before you know it, you're there. You take a deep breath and think to yourself how happy you are that you were able to come. You have a feeling this audition will teach you to not feel so bad about your imperfections and to celebrate the natural woman in all her beauty.
The door opens, and lo and behold, a room full of...
PERFECTLY GORGEOUS WOMEN?!?! Great turtle poop! What is this madness?
Where are all the Plain Janes, ugly ducklings and all-out freaks?! You check and double check the sign at the door. You're definitely in the right place...but why don't you look like them? Are they all simply genetically superior? Or...
Aha! You knew it was too bad to be true. These ladies are wearing MAKEUP! Well, that's certainly against the rules, isn't it? No matter how good they look, they most definitely won't fare well in the casting room on account of their lack of direction-following skills--one of the most important things in the biz!
While the other women in the waiting lounge are smiling smugly at you because they know they look prettier, you smile smugly back at them because you know they're not going to get the part. This smug-off continues until the door to the audition room swings open. All heads turn to see the results. If the gal who exits sports a bright beam, she's done well (or is simply an overconfident bimbo). If she averts her eyes and mutters quietly to herself as she shakes her head, she has most likely performed in a less than stellar manner (or has social anxiety disorder).
You try your best to suppress your diabolical laughter, though you have a sneaking suspicion that any second now, your less-than-competition will run out, her tears leaving expensive mascara stains down her cheeks as the casting director chases after her, berating her for disobeying orders.
But the lady who walks out does so confidently--with no mascara dribbling down her face. It could be of the waterproof variety...but then she turns and waves goodbye to the casting director, then, quite happily, flashes her lipgloss-bordered pearly whites to all of us in the waiting lounge.
What the floop? Is this opposite world? Makeup at a makeup-less audition = happy fun time instead of self-doubting sorrow time? As the next delightfully done-up actress enters the audition room, a light bulb goes off in your head. 'No makeup' doesn't really mean no makeup...what it really means is to slather on a sensible, non-slutty amount of face paint.
Good God. This is worse than the time you ate all those table decorations at that swanky Chinese restaurant (how were you supposed to know they weren't for consumption purposes?). No matter how much those waiters stared, you kept self-righteously munching away on those hand-carved, artificially-preserved carrot-doves as if they were a rare delicacy. Likewise, you've been exposing your bare mug to the entire dolled-up population of this waiting lounge as if it were a thing about which to be proud. Your smugness rapidly melts away and you suddenly feel cold, frightened, and vulnerable to a piping hot chicken nugget attack.
More beautiful girls enter and exit the audition room, and all too soon, you're on deck. You discreetly turn and face the corner as you squeeze and pat your cheeks and bite your lips in a desperate attempt to bring some color to your pale countenance. Your name is called and you collect yourself, enter the room, and let your face shine with all its magnificent glory as you smile unnaturally and pretend to massage in mystery face cream #678 in front of four total strangers. This doesn't feel stupid at all.
Within a couple minutes, it's all over. The ever-so-important people in the room thank you and you thank them as well, all properly and cordially, though you're pretty sure you won't get the part because--let's face it--you normally don't, and the fact that you came sans makeup probably didn't help much either. You could make a pitiful plea to them about how you deserve the part because you're the only one who followed instructions, but that'll just make you seem pathetic and crazy. Now, you normally wouldn't care if someone thinks you're pathetic and crazy because--let's face it--this is true. However, around casting directors, an actor must always be on his/her best behavior and leave a sparkling impression, because who knows when they'll think of you and call you in for another audition! (This is pure naïveté; you'll never see these people again.)
So, you exit the room, and when the next batch of auditioners look up and try to read how the audition went by studying your reaction, you throw them off by smiling and looking down and muttering to yourself at the same time.
As you leave the audition, you convince yourself that your embarrassment was worth it; you've learned a couple of valuable lessons today. Firstly, in the acting world, 'no makeup' is a myth. It's best to reserve your bare face for eating nachos at home and sexy time in the dark. Also, the Scooby Doo in you has discovered the mystery behind mystery face creams: makeup--and a non-slutty amount of it.
So the next time you're at home watching a facial cream infomercial featuring a girl with glowing skin--spare your wallet! Chances are, she's wearing makeup, and in fact got the part by cheating at her audition.
Home Shopping Network: you won't be getting any more of my hard-earned money! Hmph.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
MaKeUp MiSsTePs: part one
Chances are, if you're an aspiring actress, you've received an audition notice from your agent for some sort of cheesy infomercial testimonial about the miraculous, age-defying wonders of mystery face cream #678.
The audition notice will indubitably contain two requirements, the first of which states: "MUST HAVE GORGEOUS SKIN!"
So, you take a moment to look at your reflection in the semi-clean spoon with which you're devouring some tasty fat-free pudding. Hmm. Gorgeous skin? You've had a couple good acne-free years here and there, and on certain days you wake up, gaze into the mirror, and think you look fantastic (until you put your glasses on...). But gorgeous? The last time anyone called your skin gorgeous was way back when you used to flaunt it--all of it--on top of the dinner table after your nightly bath. (Mom and Pop used to think it was reeeaaalllll cute...now, however, not so much.)
You begin to wish you were one of those girls whose DNA is made up of Barbie parts and magic silk. But before you descend into a bout of universe-cursing and sniffly self-loathing, a faint jingle makes its way into your head:
Maybe she's born with it.... Maybe it's Maybelline.
For once, your many years of wasting away in front of the ol' boob tube have paid off. Of course! You can hide your numerous facial flaws with a thin coating of foundation and a smattering of powder. You'll make it look natural, but it won't be. Muahaha...HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Voila! Problem solved. You scroll down in the email, looking for the address to the distant whereabouts of the audition, when you notice the second requirement, which will prove to be much more problematic than the first:
"BE SURE YOUR CLIENT COMES IN WITH ABSOLUTELY NO MAKEUP ON!"
Uh-oh. This completely flushes your sneaky Maybelline commercial plan down the toilet. No makeup?! None whatsoever?! That's like asking a runner to ace a marathon sans shoes-- s/he can try, but the results ain't gonna be pretty.
My makeup is my shield. With it on, I can deflect the noxious blows of 104 piping hot chicken nuggets flung my way, or the stinging cuts of 72.8 insults regarding my mediocrity. But without it??? Face as naked as the day my mama ejected me from her sweet, warm burrow? I am powerless. Bare. Vulnerable.
But yet...
Bold. Brave. Confident. INDESTRUCTIBLE!!!
I mean, if you think about it, it takes a smart and sassy lady to realize she's beautiful without her pesky makeup on, so by my calculations, a lady who shows up to an audition in such a manner = bonus level.
So, what the hell. You gobble up the last of your pudding and resolve to kick some major ass at this thing, all without the aid of fancy paints and colorful goop.
When audition day arrives, you wake up bright and early, (too bright and too early), then realize you don't need to allot time for the application of makeup, so you do a little in-bed jig and abuse the snooze button for what should be another fifteen minutes but what turns out to be another forty-five. Whoops.
After a groggy and abbreviated audition prep routine, you check your reflection in the mirror before you head out the door. Hmm. You look...nice...but audition nice? Not so much. It's more of a socially-introverted-day-at-home-with-instant-mac&cheese look. Something catches your eye. It's your makeup bag, lonely and abandoned. You stare longingly at your old friends: eyeliner pencil and mega-shine lipgloss. It's tempting, but, you resolve to follow the directions outlined in your audition notice exactly, like the good little muffin that you are. (Unfortunately.)
On the drive over, you wonder about all the mystical things you might see at this audition. (After all, a bare-faced dame in Hollywood is quite a rare sight.) Perhaps your eyes will be greeted with a delightful assortment of warts? Or a colorful collection of under-eye bags? Chapped lips...non-existent eyelashes...pimples galore? The possibilities both frighten and excite you.
to be continued....
The audition notice will indubitably contain two requirements, the first of which states: "MUST HAVE GORGEOUS SKIN!"
So, you take a moment to look at your reflection in the semi-clean spoon with which you're devouring some tasty fat-free pudding. Hmm. Gorgeous skin? You've had a couple good acne-free years here and there, and on certain days you wake up, gaze into the mirror, and think you look fantastic (until you put your glasses on...). But gorgeous? The last time anyone called your skin gorgeous was way back when you used to flaunt it--all of it--on top of the dinner table after your nightly bath. (Mom and Pop used to think it was reeeaaalllll cute...now, however, not so much.)
You begin to wish you were one of those girls whose DNA is made up of Barbie parts and magic silk. But before you descend into a bout of universe-cursing and sniffly self-loathing, a faint jingle makes its way into your head:
Maybe she's born with it.... Maybe it's Maybelline.
For once, your many years of wasting away in front of the ol' boob tube have paid off. Of course! You can hide your numerous facial flaws with a thin coating of foundation and a smattering of powder. You'll make it look natural, but it won't be. Muahaha...HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Voila! Problem solved. You scroll down in the email, looking for the address to the distant whereabouts of the audition, when you notice the second requirement, which will prove to be much more problematic than the first:
"BE SURE YOUR CLIENT COMES IN WITH ABSOLUTELY NO MAKEUP ON!"
Uh-oh. This completely flushes your sneaky Maybelline commercial plan down the toilet. No makeup?! None whatsoever?! That's like asking a runner to ace a marathon sans shoes-- s/he can try, but the results ain't gonna be pretty.
My makeup is my shield. With it on, I can deflect the noxious blows of 104 piping hot chicken nuggets flung my way, or the stinging cuts of 72.8 insults regarding my mediocrity. But without it??? Face as naked as the day my mama ejected me from her sweet, warm burrow? I am powerless. Bare. Vulnerable.
But yet...
Bold. Brave. Confident. INDESTRUCTIBLE!!!
I mean, if you think about it, it takes a smart and sassy lady to realize she's beautiful without her pesky makeup on, so by my calculations, a lady who shows up to an audition in such a manner = bonus level.
So, what the hell. You gobble up the last of your pudding and resolve to kick some major ass at this thing, all without the aid of fancy paints and colorful goop.
When audition day arrives, you wake up bright and early, (too bright and too early), then realize you don't need to allot time for the application of makeup, so you do a little in-bed jig and abuse the snooze button for what should be another fifteen minutes but what turns out to be another forty-five. Whoops.
After a groggy and abbreviated audition prep routine, you check your reflection in the mirror before you head out the door. Hmm. You look...nice...but audition nice? Not so much. It's more of a socially-introverted-day-at-home-with-instant-mac&cheese look. Something catches your eye. It's your makeup bag, lonely and abandoned. You stare longingly at your old friends: eyeliner pencil and mega-shine lipgloss. It's tempting, but, you resolve to follow the directions outlined in your audition notice exactly, like the good little muffin that you are. (Unfortunately.)
On the drive over, you wonder about all the mystical things you might see at this audition. (After all, a bare-faced dame in Hollywood is quite a rare sight.) Perhaps your eyes will be greeted with a delightful assortment of warts? Or a colorful collection of under-eye bags? Chapped lips...non-existent eyelashes...pimples galore? The possibilities both frighten and excite you.
to be continued....
Monday, November 1, 2010
At Long Last
This morning, I awoke from my misery-filled slumber to find an inbox surprise: an audition. Yeah, it’s been a while.
The logical reaction? Excitement! Jubilation! Joyous merriment jamboree! A raindance-esque celebration ceremony ensues in which I proclaim my love for the art, my devotion to the steadfast belief that if you stay positive, good things will happen and in which I bask in the almighty power of the rejuvenation of the soul.
The literal reaction? Uh…do I have to? *scowl* *sigh* *grumble grumble*
This audition totally messes up my flow. Day after day of moping around and questioning the purpose of my existence gets kinda comfortable after a while, ya know? I can’t have this pesky speed bump on my depressive road to self-destruction suddenly pop up and throw me out of my comfort zone. It could lead to productiveness and even (God forbid…) success.
Sometimes, artists and pseudo-artists spend so much time dealing with rejection and closed doors that they curl up into their own heads like wiggly little worms and keep curling up tighter and tighter until there’s no easy way to unwind themselves if the opportunity ever arose, and if it ever did, they’d be too exhausted from all the curling up to take it anyway.
And why should they? Anyone with half a brain would understand that they’re leaving the nice, warm, dark little shelter they’ve created for themselves to re-enter the dodgeball tournament that is the entertainment industry.
So, no. No, no, no, no, no. You’re not going to suck me back in, audition. I’m smarter than that. I don’t need you to reject me because I can simply reject myself! Ha!
But, then again...yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. It’s common knowledge that all actors are completely batty. As such, they view this seemingly (and most likely literally) unwinnable little game of ‘hard to get’ as a completely conquerable daily activity. While most sane people would count their blessings and quit while they’re ahead, [pseudo-] artists will continuously jump face first into the flaming, projectile monkey sh!t festival until they drop dead from some sort of bacterial infection, or perhaps from lack of showering.
Sometimes, you’re stupid and you know it. But, what the heck. Tighten my saddle, hand me my riding boots, and call me stupid. I’m going to an audition.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
OMG, you look AMAZING!
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh shut up. No I don't. Wait, let me back up. Yes, I do, biotch, but I know you don't really think so. (Not you, the reader...you, the various phonies I've encountered less than four times each now floating around idly in my head.)
What is it about Hollywood that turns people into compulsive liars? Perhaps they feel genuine pity for those they deem less hot/talented/utterlyperfectineveryway than themselves. Perhaps they've learned that sycophancy gets you places, and since you never know which schmuck in this room full of schmucks is the next big writer/director/producer, you might as well suck up to them all. Or, perhaps they honestly meant what they said.
Nah.
I'll admit that I'm a closet pessimist, but I'm really not staring at a half-empty glass here. How can I tell? Choice of adjective. It's always amazing, isn't it?
"Wow, you look amazing tonight!" -skinny bitch with huge tits and negligible waist. Uh, thanks, but I'm pretty sure my mighty locks of frizz and sun-starved skin aren't up to your sleek and sexy standards.
"Your photos look amazing!" -fat pro photographer who works with real models on a daily basis (the kind who indulge in air for midnight snacks and stop traffic with their ferocious faces). Really? Really? My photos are amazing...even this one, with the hint of back fat peeping out the side of my dress? And this one, where I look about as comfortable as a mathlete at a stripping competition?
Hmm. Come to think of it, amazing-itis doesn't stop with just looks.
"You did an amazing job!" -casting director who said the same thing, post-audition, to the over-confident, under-talented performing arts school dropout to my left and who is now enthusiastically ushering me out the door.
I don't get it. Insincerity is oozing out of these people like sap from trees. Why they feel the need to exaggerate is beyond me. What's wrong with just telling the truth, or, if that's too harsh, a watered down, generic brand version of it? It's not that hard. In fact, I'm sure there's some sort of mathematical equation for it. Here:
Blatant Hyperbole - (What They're Really Thinking) = Back-Handed Compliment
So, if we apply this equation to the previous examples, we get:
1. "Wow, you look amazing tonight!" - (Keep trying this hard and maybe one day you'll look half as good as I do, honey) = "Whoa, you look nice! Is that a push-up bra?"
2. "Your photos look amazing!" - (Definitely can't use this sh*t for my portfolio, but maybe she can recommend me to her hot friends) = "These'll look great once I retouch them!"
3. "You did an amazing job!" - (We'll never pick you because you look like a tree frog) = "Okay, thanks for coming in! Good luck with everything!"
See? And I'm not even that good at math.
It'd be nice to think that everything I do is amazing, (and, let's face it, it is...but only in my imagination), but the truth is, if that word isn't coming out of the mouths of my mother, father, or close friends (all of whose jobs require them to butter me up and feed my ego), or someone who's absolutely infatuated with/borderline stalking me, then it's about as believable as a shady porcupine trying to sell me genuine down pillows.
Which would be totally amazing, by the way. But alas, too good to be true.
What is it about Hollywood that turns people into compulsive liars? Perhaps they feel genuine pity for those they deem less hot/talented/utterlyperfectineveryway than themselves. Perhaps they've learned that sycophancy gets you places, and since you never know which schmuck in this room full of schmucks is the next big writer/director/producer, you might as well suck up to them all. Or, perhaps they honestly meant what they said.
Nah.
I'll admit that I'm a closet pessimist, but I'm really not staring at a half-empty glass here. How can I tell? Choice of adjective. It's always amazing, isn't it?
"Wow, you look amazing tonight!" -skinny bitch with huge tits and negligible waist. Uh, thanks, but I'm pretty sure my mighty locks of frizz and sun-starved skin aren't up to your sleek and sexy standards.
"Your photos look amazing!" -fat pro photographer who works with real models on a daily basis (the kind who indulge in air for midnight snacks and stop traffic with their ferocious faces). Really? Really? My photos are amazing...even this one, with the hint of back fat peeping out the side of my dress? And this one, where I look about as comfortable as a mathlete at a stripping competition?
Hmm. Come to think of it, amazing-itis doesn't stop with just looks.
"You did an amazing job!" -casting director who said the same thing, post-audition, to the over-confident, under-talented performing arts school dropout to my left and who is now enthusiastically ushering me out the door.
I don't get it. Insincerity is oozing out of these people like sap from trees. Why they feel the need to exaggerate is beyond me. What's wrong with just telling the truth, or, if that's too harsh, a watered down, generic brand version of it? It's not that hard. In fact, I'm sure there's some sort of mathematical equation for it. Here:
Blatant Hyperbole - (What They're Really Thinking) = Back-Handed Compliment
So, if we apply this equation to the previous examples, we get:
1. "Wow, you look amazing tonight!" - (Keep trying this hard and maybe one day you'll look half as good as I do, honey) = "Whoa, you look nice! Is that a push-up bra?"
2. "Your photos look amazing!" - (Definitely can't use this sh*t for my portfolio, but maybe she can recommend me to her hot friends) = "These'll look great once I retouch them!"
3. "You did an amazing job!" - (We'll never pick you because you look like a tree frog) = "Okay, thanks for coming in! Good luck with everything!"
See? And I'm not even that good at math.
It'd be nice to think that everything I do is amazing, (and, let's face it, it is...but only in my imagination), but the truth is, if that word isn't coming out of the mouths of my mother, father, or close friends (all of whose jobs require them to butter me up and feed my ego), or someone who's absolutely infatuated with/borderline stalking me, then it's about as believable as a shady porcupine trying to sell me genuine down pillows.
Which would be totally amazing, by the way. But alas, too good to be true.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
oh, sweet depression
Today, I hit rock bottom. No, I didn't flunk a class or smoke a whole pack of cigarettes in 13 minutes; I didn't OD on heroin, commit a sex felony or get a DUI... worse, much worse...
I skipped out on an audition.
Granted, it was only paying $50/hour for what was sure to be a half-hour gig, but still, usually I'm up for wasting $11.53 in gas and three hours of my life prepping, prettying up, and passively sitting through rush hour traffic for the 1/1000 of a chance that a) nothing about me offends the casting director, b) the director doesn't think I remind him of his psychotic ex-girlfriend, c) the producer doesn't prefer blondes, and d) they collectively offer me this part that'll effectively secure my place in oblivion.
Right now? I just don't care.
Why not? Well, it's that time again. No, not the delightful monthly rendezvous with my menses -- I'm talking about the cyclical emotional recession every struggling artist, and pseudo-artist alike, must go through in this screwed up endeavor to make our dreams come true. In other words, a slump.
This is when it physically hurts to be optimistic, when you're too tired to smile, and when you just don't give a freakin' hoot. Ironically, I've actually booked a couple of jobs with this crappy attitude, so take THAT, self-help books!
Now, I know it's not just me and that I shouldn't check myself into a psych ward (for this, at least). I once met a working, professional actor who said that he would periodically quit the biz, then come back to it when he was good and ready. Perhaps a good week or two off from all this constant rejection, b.s. and deflation of hope would do the trick.
Only, I just took a vacation (from which I feel I need a vacation), my manager dropped me over a month ago and I still haven't booked that amazingly fantastical, Oscar-bound feature film role that warrants me shouting, "IN YOUR FACE!" (in the privacy of my own room, of course), and the void left by my recently-deceased, darling grandmother hasn't exactly provided me with the energy to go out and get 'em. In other words, it's been a while since I've worked.
Quitting just isn't an option. Besides, I know I would only come crawling back to it like a spineless floozy who's just been kicked out onto the streets by her fat, domineering pimp.
So, I'm going to have to ride this out. My drug of choice? Sh*tty food combinations and sitcom-escapism.
Eventually, my body will tire of all these PopSecret butter popcorn bags, microwavable enchiladas, cans of grape soda and packages of Double Stuf Oreos. And there's only so many episodes of "The Office" left to watch. But for now, nom nom in my tummy and plop plop on my couch.
Besides, according to Isaac Newton and his glorious apple, what goes down must come up. Oh. Wait. No. According to him and that wretched apple, what is up must come down.
Well, forget that. In my experience, life has proven to be a never-ending sine wave. When you're riding high, it's inevitable that you'll soon tumble downhill and wind up in a trough. Conversely, when you're stuck in a rut, it's a long, uphill climb back to the top, but you eventually make it. And you relish that joyous feeling for all of two and a half days until the next ditch swallows you whole. Or you die. But that's beside the point and that hasn't happened to me yet.
My point is, I really shouldn't be worrying about anything right now. If anything, I should be excited because, according to my theory, something good is on its way. I'm down in the dumps, which means I've no other direction to head in but that of success! If this were a post about how insanely elated I was that I just booked a prime time television series, however, it'd be a different story altogether. I'd be worrying about them breaking their contract and replacing me after only one episode or some imminent, horrible car accident or my hair catching on fire or a cockroach crawling into my mouth in the middle of my slumber and laying 800 eggs...the list goes on and on, and I've got a pretty wild imagination so it's a pretty long list.
So, for now, I'm going to sit and smile about my future happiness until my burgeoning pot belly prompts me to actually get up and go attain that future happiness.
Time for another Oreo.
P.S.: I know it may sound as if I'm rotten and have nothing better to complain about in the absence of real problems, but I am extremely grateful for the people in my life and for where I am today. I'm just a bitch sometimes and I like to whine. This month-and-a-half-long headache and the incredibly energetic, incessantly stomping Chinese kids who live in the apartment above me aren't helping much either. I like Mexican food. The end.
I skipped out on an audition.
Granted, it was only paying $50/hour for what was sure to be a half-hour gig, but still, usually I'm up for wasting $11.53 in gas and three hours of my life prepping, prettying up, and passively sitting through rush hour traffic for the 1/1000 of a chance that a) nothing about me offends the casting director, b) the director doesn't think I remind him of his psychotic ex-girlfriend, c) the producer doesn't prefer blondes, and d) they collectively offer me this part that'll effectively secure my place in oblivion.
Right now? I just don't care.
Why not? Well, it's that time again. No, not the delightful monthly rendezvous with my menses -- I'm talking about the cyclical emotional recession every struggling artist, and pseudo-artist alike, must go through in this screwed up endeavor to make our dreams come true. In other words, a slump.
This is when it physically hurts to be optimistic, when you're too tired to smile, and when you just don't give a freakin' hoot. Ironically, I've actually booked a couple of jobs with this crappy attitude, so take THAT, self-help books!
Now, I know it's not just me and that I shouldn't check myself into a psych ward (for this, at least). I once met a working, professional actor who said that he would periodically quit the biz, then come back to it when he was good and ready. Perhaps a good week or two off from all this constant rejection, b.s. and deflation of hope would do the trick.
Only, I just took a vacation (from which I feel I need a vacation), my manager dropped me over a month ago and I still haven't booked that amazingly fantastical, Oscar-bound feature film role that warrants me shouting, "IN YOUR FACE!" (in the privacy of my own room, of course), and the void left by my recently-deceased, darling grandmother hasn't exactly provided me with the energy to go out and get 'em. In other words, it's been a while since I've worked.
Quitting just isn't an option. Besides, I know I would only come crawling back to it like a spineless floozy who's just been kicked out onto the streets by her fat, domineering pimp.
So, I'm going to have to ride this out. My drug of choice? Sh*tty food combinations and sitcom-escapism.
Eventually, my body will tire of all these PopSecret butter popcorn bags, microwavable enchiladas, cans of grape soda and packages of Double Stuf Oreos. And there's only so many episodes of "The Office" left to watch. But for now, nom nom in my tummy and plop plop on my couch.
Besides, according to Isaac Newton and his glorious apple, what goes down must come up. Oh. Wait. No. According to him and that wretched apple, what is up must come down.
Well, forget that. In my experience, life has proven to be a never-ending sine wave. When you're riding high, it's inevitable that you'll soon tumble downhill and wind up in a trough. Conversely, when you're stuck in a rut, it's a long, uphill climb back to the top, but you eventually make it. And you relish that joyous feeling for all of two and a half days until the next ditch swallows you whole. Or you die. But that's beside the point and that hasn't happened to me yet.
My point is, I really shouldn't be worrying about anything right now. If anything, I should be excited because, according to my theory, something good is on its way. I'm down in the dumps, which means I've no other direction to head in but that of success! If this were a post about how insanely elated I was that I just booked a prime time television series, however, it'd be a different story altogether. I'd be worrying about them breaking their contract and replacing me after only one episode or some imminent, horrible car accident or my hair catching on fire or a cockroach crawling into my mouth in the middle of my slumber and laying 800 eggs...the list goes on and on, and I've got a pretty wild imagination so it's a pretty long list.
So, for now, I'm going to sit and smile about my future happiness until my burgeoning pot belly prompts me to actually get up and go attain that future happiness.
Time for another Oreo.
P.S.: I know it may sound as if I'm rotten and have nothing better to complain about in the absence of real problems, but I am extremely grateful for the people in my life and for where I am today. I'm just a bitch sometimes and I like to whine. This month-and-a-half-long headache and the incredibly energetic, incessantly stomping Chinese kids who live in the apartment above me aren't helping much either. I like Mexican food. The end.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Two-Headed Nature of Headshots
I don't know about you, but I have a love-hate relationship with headshots. It's just part of the gig, right? Commercial, theatrical, character, smile, no smile, slight smirk, even bigger smile, closed-mouth smile, unsure of yourself smile, sexy smoldering look, innocent school girl/boy look, happily surprised look, trying to stand out by doing something quirky look, dumb annoying look, I'm getting tired of this look, are any of these even coming out well look, I'm so sick of smiling look, I'm dying for a hamburger look, seriously this is the last look look.
You get all dolled up, go out and by some brightly-colored new clothes with no patterns or logos that are still eye-catching and flattering (not an easy task), spend a fortune on hair that you could never do yourself and make-up that you would never wear normally, empty out your bank account for a photographer who has celebrity clients and the attention span of a Jack Russell Terrier on speed and whose shabby garage studio looks deceivingly amazing in his photographs, who's used to working with seasoned pros and who, when he asks why you looks so uptight in your photos, has no idea that you've never felt more nervous and uncomfortable in your life except for the last time you did this...all in an attempt to capture the "real you" in a perfect headshot -- that million-dollar photo that'll give casting directors that tingly feeling in their no-no regions and that'll have you gracing the cover of Entertainment Weekly in no time.
The problem is...wait...I mean, the problems are: 1) that's not what you really look like, 2) there are 2,117 people who look exactly like the you in that headshot (who we all know is not really you), 3) there are 2,117 people who look exactly like the real you in real life in case you actually DO get called in, 4) the top casting directors have their list of top agencies from which they make their selections. You are most likely NOT on this list, unless you're sexier than a nipple, have been doing this for a really long time, have a magic penis/vagina that has propelled you to the top, have rich parents who have rich friends who know powerfully rich people who make amazingly rich things happen, or, 5) are the devil. So, all that hard work and hairspray might as well have been applied to an ass-shot. A big, shiny picture of your ass where your smiling mug should be WOULD garner lots of attention. Hmmmm....
But you wouldn't do that. No. Because you have big dreams and a heart of gold and you believe in yourself like they do in children's books. You're like a freshly-baked cupcake straight out of the oven who's been placed out on the counter but is determined to stay warm. AND YOU WILL. At least, you feel like you can on most days. Some days. Other days, you might wish someone would come along and place you in their acid-lined stomach, digest you, then poople you out just to take all this pain away. But that's only certain days. Bad days. Sober days. Well, Monday through Friday. And Saturday nights.
At any rate, you shake hands with the photographer and thank the hip and trendy make-up and hair gal and stick your photo CD in your purse. You drive home full of hope and excitement and enough foundation to last a week. You stumble into your studio apartment, struggling to carry the seventeen outfits you brought with you. Then, when you're all settled in, you happily insert the photo CD into your barely functioning laptop and prepare to be dazzled by the most gorgeous photos you've ever seen in your life.
Aaaaannnndddd maybe this first look wasn't my best. After all, I was still warming up... Oh, gosh, do I really look like that from that angle? I guess I DO have a good side... Ooo, forgot to suck it in, but nothing a little photoshopping can't fix... Am I supposed to look this scared?...I wish I wore my push-up bra...Why does smiling with my eyes instead of my mouth make me look like an angry trout? ...Dammit. I need a nose job.
You wearily close your laptop and collapse into a heap of headshot-sorrow, exhausted from searching and re-searching for a good photo. Just one! It's abysmal. But before you jump off a twenty-seven story building, you realize that it's actually better this way. It's actually more convenient for you that most of your pictures turned out looking like crap. This way, it'll be easier to find that one special, standout picture -- you know, the one that'll make everyone propose to you while throwing wads of cash in your face.
You go through the photos again and again and again and again until your eyes are wobbling and finally find seven good shots. Out of four hundred and fifty-three. This one's a little fuzzy, so it's out. Down to six. This one's too close to my face. Out. This one's showing too much of my ear...but we can photoshop that. If I tilt my head to the right and squint my eyes, this one looks great, so it's a keeper. I look like an asshole in this one, so no. Okay so how many is that now? Four. Perfect!
Now you only have to ask for a bank loan to pay for retouching, printing and posting them up on LA Casting and Actors Access. But you're happy, because you look great in these headshots. They are fantastic, amazing, invaluable pieces of art. They really are. At least, you think they are until the agent you're interviewing with says they're terrible and hands you a list of recommended photographers. And she's right, too. I mean, if I stare at this one long enough, I end up looking like a donkey.
...Soooooooooo, guess it's time for new headshots again! How exciting!
You get all dolled up, go out and by some brightly-colored new clothes with no patterns or logos that are still eye-catching and flattering (not an easy task), spend a fortune on hair that you could never do yourself and make-up that you would never wear normally, empty out your bank account for a photographer who has celebrity clients and the attention span of a Jack Russell Terrier on speed and whose shabby garage studio looks deceivingly amazing in his photographs, who's used to working with seasoned pros and who, when he asks why you looks so uptight in your photos, has no idea that you've never felt more nervous and uncomfortable in your life except for the last time you did this...all in an attempt to capture the "real you" in a perfect headshot -- that million-dollar photo that'll give casting directors that tingly feeling in their no-no regions and that'll have you gracing the cover of Entertainment Weekly in no time.
The problem is...wait...I mean, the problems are: 1) that's not what you really look like, 2) there are 2,117 people who look exactly like the you in that headshot (who we all know is not really you), 3) there are 2,117 people who look exactly like the real you in real life in case you actually DO get called in, 4) the top casting directors have their list of top agencies from which they make their selections. You are most likely NOT on this list, unless you're sexier than a nipple, have been doing this for a really long time, have a magic penis/vagina that has propelled you to the top, have rich parents who have rich friends who know powerfully rich people who make amazingly rich things happen, or, 5) are the devil. So, all that hard work and hairspray might as well have been applied to an ass-shot. A big, shiny picture of your ass where your smiling mug should be WOULD garner lots of attention. Hmmmm....
But you wouldn't do that. No. Because you have big dreams and a heart of gold and you believe in yourself like they do in children's books. You're like a freshly-baked cupcake straight out of the oven who's been placed out on the counter but is determined to stay warm. AND YOU WILL. At least, you feel like you can on most days. Some days. Other days, you might wish someone would come along and place you in their acid-lined stomach, digest you, then poople you out just to take all this pain away. But that's only certain days. Bad days. Sober days. Well, Monday through Friday. And Saturday nights.
At any rate, you shake hands with the photographer and thank the hip and trendy make-up and hair gal and stick your photo CD in your purse. You drive home full of hope and excitement and enough foundation to last a week. You stumble into your studio apartment, struggling to carry the seventeen outfits you brought with you. Then, when you're all settled in, you happily insert the photo CD into your barely functioning laptop and prepare to be dazzled by the most gorgeous photos you've ever seen in your life.
Aaaaannnndddd maybe this first look wasn't my best. After all, I was still warming up... Oh, gosh, do I really look like that from that angle? I guess I DO have a good side... Ooo, forgot to suck it in, but nothing a little photoshopping can't fix... Am I supposed to look this scared?...I wish I wore my push-up bra...Why does smiling with my eyes instead of my mouth make me look like an angry trout? ...Dammit. I need a nose job.
You wearily close your laptop and collapse into a heap of headshot-sorrow, exhausted from searching and re-searching for a good photo. Just one! It's abysmal. But before you jump off a twenty-seven story building, you realize that it's actually better this way. It's actually more convenient for you that most of your pictures turned out looking like crap. This way, it'll be easier to find that one special, standout picture -- you know, the one that'll make everyone propose to you while throwing wads of cash in your face.
You go through the photos again and again and again and again until your eyes are wobbling and finally find seven good shots. Out of four hundred and fifty-three. This one's a little fuzzy, so it's out. Down to six. This one's too close to my face. Out. This one's showing too much of my ear...but we can photoshop that. If I tilt my head to the right and squint my eyes, this one looks great, so it's a keeper. I look like an asshole in this one, so no. Okay so how many is that now? Four. Perfect!
Now you only have to ask for a bank loan to pay for retouching, printing and posting them up on LA Casting and Actors Access. But you're happy, because you look great in these headshots. They are fantastic, amazing, invaluable pieces of art. They really are. At least, you think they are until the agent you're interviewing with says they're terrible and hands you a list of recommended photographers. And she's right, too. I mean, if I stare at this one long enough, I end up looking like a donkey.
...Soooooooooo, guess it's time for new headshots again! How exciting!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Her boobs might be bigger, but my BRAIN is bigger. (I think)
All right, so you walk into the casting studio, sign in for Room A and go over your lines in your head for the role of "Real Girl #2." A poorly-timed sideways glance at Room B and suddenly your confidence is completely shot, you feel 76 pounds heavier and decide to run to the bathroom to put on another five layers of make-up. It just so happens that auditions for "Perfect 10 Bombshell" are going on right across the way. You know what I'm talking about; girls that'll make your boyfriend wish you were out of town. And it doesn't just apply to us girls. I'm sure there are guys out there who've gone in for the role of "Schlubby Schlub McGee" and have come out a wee bit envious of the bare-chested Calvin Klein underwear models next door.
So, what do you do when your self-worth is dangling on the edge of a cliff with its pinky? The first thing that comes to mind is name-calling. 'Bitch,' 'slut,' and 'two-bit whore,' are a few of my personal faves. But remember, keep it in your head, 'cause those bitches usually have long nails and if they hear you, they WILL scratch.
Once the anger subsides, the next thing you should partake in is some good, old fashioned positive reinforcement. So what if her skin is flawless, she can actually walk in three-inch heels, her hair is silky-smooth and her boobs are the size of your head? You've got personality...and SPUNK! That's important in this town. Your seventh grade history report was displayed prominently in the school cafeteria's "Kids Who'll Go Far" glass case. You got up to a yellow belt in karate. You can leave the house without make-up on and not give a sh*t. You have a high tolerance for alcohol. You graduated college magna cum laude. No one can cook that black pepper macaroni dish like you can. Your nails and hair don't fall off after six weeks and your skin color doesn't wash off after too many showers. You can find something to talk about other than yourself. You know how to work an electric drill and, most importantly of all, your parents actually love you.
Let's face it--you're a winner. Yes, it's normal to want to trade in all of the above for a day in the body of a sex kitten, but no, you really shouldn't do that because a) that would be impossible unless you make a deal with the devil (highly unadvised), b) it would cost a lot of money and c) you're better off the way you are. Someone out there has a mad, raging, unbearably hot crush on you RIGHT NOW. Yes, you, with your crooked nose, your uneven teeth, your pasty skin and your non-fashion sense. So wear your imperfections proudly. It's sexy and it's the only way to live. Stop hiding in the bathroom and show those casting directors how real this Real Girl #2 can get. And if they don't cast you..............well, that's an entirely different post altogether. ;)
So, what do you do when your self-worth is dangling on the edge of a cliff with its pinky? The first thing that comes to mind is name-calling. 'Bitch,' 'slut,' and 'two-bit whore,' are a few of my personal faves. But remember, keep it in your head, 'cause those bitches usually have long nails and if they hear you, they WILL scratch.
Once the anger subsides, the next thing you should partake in is some good, old fashioned positive reinforcement. So what if her skin is flawless, she can actually walk in three-inch heels, her hair is silky-smooth and her boobs are the size of your head? You've got personality...and SPUNK! That's important in this town. Your seventh grade history report was displayed prominently in the school cafeteria's "Kids Who'll Go Far" glass case. You got up to a yellow belt in karate. You can leave the house without make-up on and not give a sh*t. You have a high tolerance for alcohol. You graduated college magna cum laude. No one can cook that black pepper macaroni dish like you can. Your nails and hair don't fall off after six weeks and your skin color doesn't wash off after too many showers. You can find something to talk about other than yourself. You know how to work an electric drill and, most importantly of all, your parents actually love you.
Let's face it--you're a winner. Yes, it's normal to want to trade in all of the above for a day in the body of a sex kitten, but no, you really shouldn't do that because a) that would be impossible unless you make a deal with the devil (highly unadvised), b) it would cost a lot of money and c) you're better off the way you are. Someone out there has a mad, raging, unbearably hot crush on you RIGHT NOW. Yes, you, with your crooked nose, your uneven teeth, your pasty skin and your non-fashion sense. So wear your imperfections proudly. It's sexy and it's the only way to live. Stop hiding in the bathroom and show those casting directors how real this Real Girl #2 can get. And if they don't cast you..............well, that's an entirely different post altogether. ;)
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