The Scum of the Earth

When I was young, "Two-Face" was the name of a not-particularly-attractive villain on the kick ass "Batman" kids' cartoon.

As I matured into a furry young adult, however, 'two-faced' came to describe a great bulk of the people with whom I associated, from seemingly upstanding classmates, to back-stabbing friends, to two-timing boyfriends (Oh, the boyfriends.  More like boyenemies if you ask me).

I quickly learned that people are horrible creatures and instead sought the company of squirrels.

And after two years of seclusion, (or rather, "squirrel-clusion"), my cynical old heart had once again softened and I was ready to re-enter the human world with the understanding that young people are quite often stupid, act stupidly, and do stupid things because their mushy brains haven't fully developed.  Surely all that stupidity would fade away with age.  I buried my past fears of social interaction like squirrels bury their acorns and was genuinely excited to work with adults in the career of my dreams.

...And no sooner had I begun my journey into the entertainment field than my excitement had spiraled into sadness, disappointment, and frequent urination.  Like squirrels digging back up the acorns they had buried, I unearthed my misanthropic attitude of yesteryear and stuffed my cheeks with it for safekeeping.

Had I somehow traveled back in time to the days of acne-ridden teenage angst in high school?  No, that's impossible.  Time machines won't be invented for at least another couple months.  Which means, quite simply, people are even worse than I remember them to be.

And seriously, what's up with that?  Life is supposed to get better after high school, isn't it?  At least that's what I was banking on.  Well, that and this incredible get-rich-quick program I once purchased from an infomercial I saw in a hypnagogic daze at four in the morning.  (Speaking of which...why haven't I quickly gotten rich??  I'm going to have to examine the warranty on that thing...) 

This business is like a collection of ego-maniacal hypocrites just waiting to trample over you to get two steps ahead.  Much like a supercilious driver in a shiny new sports car who zooms by at 70 miles per hour in a 35 zone, cutting off seven cars and nearly turning an unsuspecting pigeon into road kill, only to be the first to arrive with a screeching halt at a red light.  It's pointless and it makes the guy look like an idiot.  And he knows it, but his pride will never let him admit it.  Instead he'll greet you with his favorite finger as you slowly creep up next to him at the same red light in your used-but-still-kicking jalopy.

From the cheap talk to the oozing desperation to the utter disregard for integrity, this gig just really ain't my thing.

But then again, it seems there isn't a field out there devoid of jerk-offs, a-holes and [if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all].  It's not like I'm going to be canceling my LA Casting subscription any time soon to pursue the noble occupations of a lawyer or a stockbroker.

So I guess it's safe to say that while there are undesirables lurking in every office, this field has the one of the greatest concentrations of slime buckets in a single area, and I'm unfortunate enough to be right smack in the center of it all: Hollywood. 

So what is it about the entertainment business that attracts some of the smelliest scum of the earth?

I'm gonna go with power, control, the feeding into one's vanity, the social aspect of meeting all sorts of eager, impressionable people, the excitement of not being confined to a regular 9 to 5, the ease with which one can create a dazzling new persona, lust, and loneliness. 

As everyone in their right mind knows, no matter what kind of fancy, elaborate facade those in this biz put forth, the majority of us are living with disabling levels of insecurity.  Just sit down to a meal in any San Fernando Valley restaurant and you'll see what I mean.  You know that balding guy in the corner table reciting a monologue at ear-splitting decibel levels to his bored-looking female companion about his time on set with Tom Cruise?  While he's trying to broadcast to the entire population of restaurant patrons that he's a bad ass Hollywood hotshot, what he's actually accomplishing is alerting the public that he's an insecure chump trying to get laid while going through a mid-life crisis.  

....And let me tell you, it's not a very pretty sight....

*shudders*

And while being constantly surrounded by a bunch of self-centered creeps can be more than a bit disheartening, the good news is, once you can recognize scum when you see it, you also gain the ability to spot pure gold.

While many can paint themselves pretty and call themselves golden, there are only a handful of the real thing in this town.  They're really hard to come by, so once you find someone of the real variety, you'd better hold on to him or her like you'd hold on to your post-meal gas while interviewing for a job.

Luckily for me, I've panned a couple pure-gold nuggets amidst a river of murky scum.  Without them, I'd surely go nuts.

I mean, even more nuts than I already am, of course ;)

Extraordinarily Ordinary

Allow me to introduce myself:

• I'm weird.  No, really.
• If embarrassing myself were a profession, I'd be financially set for the rest of my life
• I like shiny things
• If I could describe myself in one word, that word would be, "Huh?"
• I'm a slave to my hungry stomach
• My exercise of choice?  Fidgeting.
• I only smile a lot to compensate for the fact that in its resting state, my face looks like it's out to get you
• How do you eat without getting food stuck in between your two front teeth?  I haven't mastered that technique yet.
• For some reason I always look fugly in pictures.  Probably because I look waaayyyyyyyyy better in my imagination.
• I don't retain knowledge.  In fact, my knowledge regresses with each passing day.
• A major pet peeve (and this happens A LOT): when kids fart near me and then other people walk by and I'm soooo sure they think it was me.  Little punks.
• I'm *really* clumsy
• I have an exceptional ability to drool--asleep, awake, mid-snore and mid-sentence.
• I procrastinate because I'm a perfectionist.  Or at least I'll say that so you don't think I'm lazy.
• I once found a quarter on a tree branch and excitedly announced, "I guess money really DOES grow on trees!"  True story. 
• Squirrels excite me beyond comprehension
• I've tripped both down AND up stairs
• A major fear of mine is getting stuck in a freeway shutdown when having to pee
• I'm impulsive and lack self-discipline, as evinced by my dusty, unused Zumba DVDs.
• In correlation with the above point--I've gained weight
• Board games?  Yes, please.
• Also, banana.   
 

Yep, that's me in a nutshell--a goofy, fun-loving, pint-sized oaf; a perfect candidate for an exciting life of channel surfing and gummi bear-snacking.  Alas, neither of these awesome activities has the potential to earn me any income, unless of course a reality TV show about little, hungry couch-potatoes comes knocking on my door...(the sad thing is, this might actually be a real show).

I know I'm no super model, artistic genius, or world-class singer, but, for the most part, I was finally starting to love myself for the mess that I am.

That is of course, until I entered the entertainment business, a place where you're not good enough unless you're a combination super model/artistic genius/world-class singer who eats sparingly, can literally blind people with your veneers and whose face is stuck in a permanent smile due to excessive botoxification.

Let me tell you, working with impossibly beautiful and talented people all day long takes its toll.  One mere glance at another actor's headshot, with their perfect hair, teeth, and sickeningly photogenic face, can make me want to avoid mirrors for up to a month.  Checking out another actor's resume, whose 'Special Skills' section is chock-full of amazing feats of physical, vocal, instrumental and linguistic prowess, can send me straight to the psychiatrist begging for a lifetime supply of self-esteem pills.

I begin to wonder...why wasn't I born with green eyes, a size C rack, perfect hand-eye coordination and a symmetrical face?  Why can't I back flip and land into the splits, then break into a pop and lock routine after drop-kicking a bad guy?  Why didn't I practice piano like my parents told me to?  Why do I sing like an American Idol reject?  Is my vampire-pale skin really that offensive?  Female body hair is considered desirable in some countries, isn't it?

The self-loathing thoughts play on repeat until I realize how shallow I'm being.  If I'm going to whine about my under-achievements and lack-ofs, looks and performance skills should definitely not be at the top of my list!  My focus shifts to academia.

How does a computer work?  Why can't I do math quickly in my head?  Why do I prefer Spark Notes to classic literature?  Why can't I understand astrophysics?  Wait...why can't I understand regular physics?  Why can't I develop a cure for cancer?  Or at least a cure for morning breath?  Which way is north?  Why can't I remember anything I learned in bio 101?  Hold on...did I even take bio 101??? 

I guess what all my whining boils down to is this: all my life I've wanted to be someone extraordinary--you know, someone who excels at something, someone whom people admire and look up to, someone who makes a positive difference in others' lives on a grand scale.  Growing up, this desire would consume my every waking moment.  Instead of paying attention in class, I'd daydream about being an important person, whether it be making decisions in the White House, ice-skating for a gold medal at the Winter Olympics, treating patients as a world-renowned doctor, or dazzling onscreen as a critically-acclaimed starlet.  (Well, I'd daydream about all that, plus ice cream cake and DragonBall Z, to be perfectly honest).

Now, however, as a dreaded adult, I'm constantly reminded that I'm anything but extraordinary.  Unlike my friends, co-workers, ex-classmates and fellow actors, I've got nothing to brag about; I haven't accomplished any of the lofty goals I had originally set for myself and I'm nowhere near being an expert at anything in any field.  (Now that I think about it, I probably should've spent all those years paying attention in class instead of drooling over desserts and imagining how I'd look as a Super Saiyan).  I'm no brainiac, athletic prodigy, or superstar.  Heck, I can't even bake a cake or change a tire.  I was always so obsessed with the idea being amazing at something, anything, that I neglected to acknowledge what it takes to actually reach that coveted level of extraordinary: talent, time and devotion.

Since I was born with a condition called "untalenteditis," which renders me completely talentless at anything I try, I'm already lacking one of the key ingredients to extraordinariness.  But I can make it work with two out of three ingredients, right?  Well, if I had two out of three, that is.  My devotion levels drop significantly when I'm made fun of, have gas in public, or bump my funny bone.  And time...time is a tricky thing.  Lately I've been so busy working my day job I barely have time to think about all the things I'd do if only I had some free time.  But when I do have free time, I spend it on the couch in a supine position thinking about how much I wish I'd get some work.  (I then proceed to chomp on a burrito.) 

Whether it be a lack of self-confidence, a fear of failure, an under-developed passion, a slow brain, or just plain laziness, I think I've finally come to the realization that I'm extraordinary at only one thing in life--being my silly, dorky, smelly, weird self.  And after spending my entire life wishing I could be something more, I think it's time to start being satisfied with the me that I am.  Time to start giving more weight and importance to the things that I have rather than what I have not.  I'm extremely grateful for and plan to enjoy the mobility, vision, hearing, freedom, and sanity (at least partial) I've been blessed with while I still can. 

And who knows?  Maybe my new and improved attitude will help me stumble upon (literally stumble...remember how I said I was clumsy?  Well, I wasn't kidding.) the path to some newfound skill that'll turn out to be the perfect cure for my untalenteditis.

Or, more likely, I'll just end up embarrassing myself like I always do.

Anyway, here's hoping this new year brings happiness, a healthy attitude, and an abundance of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups to you and yours.  Happy New Year!  :)