Craigs List Scandal

Crafty

            Being on set is equivalent to grocery shopping on an unlimited budget: by the outset of the day, my bag is filled with an assortment of granola bars, candy, and condensed pastries.  Although I feel no shame in my endeavors, I remain sly in my food collection scheme; I neither wish to upset the crew nor the editor, who ultimately controls my film fate.  I begin my three- step process by navigating toward crafty, grabbing a granola bar, and quickly meandering back to my purse.  I then slip the bar into my purse, and wander purposefully around the set.  Finally, within a five minute interval, I engage in deep conversation directly behind crafty.  I now have easy access to crafty, and begin the collection process once anon.

            I willingly participate in unpaid student films because A, the production values are surprisingly large, B, my school’s program is highly respected in the professional realm and festival circuit, and C, the free food.  I oftentimes hear students complain about craft service’s low quality food options, but I am thoroughly pleased by the bags of McDonalds French fries, five- thousand calorie Cinnamon Rolls, and unlimited Capri Suns.  Despite the continuity issues that this type of crafty poses, (as I, undoubtedly, put on significant amounts of weight within each six day shoot,) I can’t help but cherish the exorbitant amount of Kit Kat bars and pizza for lunch.  And while half the crew prays to the porcelain goddess that is the on- set toilet, I hold down excessive amounts of crafty.

            By the outset of each shoot day, we are several hours behind schedule.  This becomes a non- issue once the producer ‘accidently’ adjusts the shoot hours, maintaining a twelve- hour façade.  At the onset of each shoot, I promise to respect myself and insist on leaving at the outset of the twelve hours.  Yet, by the end of each day, I willingly stay the extra hours, skip class, and slowly but surly make it out alive. 

Sexy Inanimate Objects

My favorite union affiliated breakdown on actorsacces calls for a 'female, dressed as a sexy chicken, who stripteases while a watermelon pours honey on, and licks honey off, her body.'  Hollywood, for the win.   

Although I cannot fathom a single benefit reaped from wearing a chicken costume and simulating pornography, I respect a lady who succumbs to this character in hopes of resolving financial issues, passively aggressively sniding their significant others, etc etc and so forth.

I stray from roles which A, include the term 'sexy' in a character's name, and B, are inanimate objects.  As much as I love simulating oral while portraying a necklace...

My acting teachers embrace inanimate object roles, imploring us to spend hours a week exploring one inanimate object and then presenting our portrayal of that object in class.  

I had the 'honor and privilege' of developing the role of 'candelabra'….  

How the fuck do I play a candelabra?  

WAIT!  What's a candelabra?

           Perhaps the sexy chicken role isn't so bad after all...

      

My trusted encyclopedia, (faulty wikipedia,) describes candelabra as a traditional term for a set of multiple decorative candlesticks, each of which holds a candle on multiple arms.  In humanizing said object, I adorn myself in intricate jewels and walk with a regal strut... just kidding.  In preparation for the assignment, I lie on the couch watching Chelsea Lately, and snag an A for my 'eloquent presentation of the candelabra'.

These activities make me wonder where my life is headed...

Just Kidding.

But in all seriousness, I pay thousands and thousands... and thousands of dollars to replicate inanimate objects and crawl on the ground? 

Perhaps my educational experience is not fruitful in terms of knowledge acquisition, but I can assure you that I have more fun than the average business major.  

Screen Test Surprise

I survived the dog- eat- dog/ "survivor style" audition procedure for a feature film co- directed by, and costarring, a major Hollywood celebrity.  The celebrity's identity remained a secret, but I immediately embraced the notion that two- years my junior megastar, Justin Bieber, was said celebrity. Admittedly, and unfortunately, I caught a sorry case of Bieber fever and, in preparation for my screen test, imagined myself greeting Mr. Bieber with professionalism and grace instead of passing out or puking. Alas, I was met with a roller-coaster of emotions, (confusion, disappointment, fear, excitement, loss,) when I discovered that my screen test partner was, in actuality, Will I Am from 'The Black Eyed Peas'.

This was my first feature film audition with my new talent agency, and, after somehow stumbling through several rounds of callbacks, one fuck up at a time, I beat out thousands of ladies and secured one of two possible screen test slots for the female star.  I waited eagerly next to my screen test nemesis, a blonde, knowing that, at this stage in the process, a particular 'look' determined who secured the role... an unusual casting circumstance unbeknownst to most industry insiders.  I considered begging the director and his crew, on hands and knees, for said role, professing some unimagined and non- existing love for Will I Am's music, or duking it out with blondie, but concluded that any and all of these methods of persuasion would produce an opposite effect.  Thus, I popped blondie's tires.. just kidding... I proceeded into the room, took my position next to Will I Am, and acted the shit out of the sides...

Several days later, I was met with disappointment when blonde domination came to fruition, and I, in a depressed flurry, subjected myself to the couch with two jars of buttercream frosting.          

Why do I keep subjecting myself to this bullshit?

Simply because I thoroughly enjoy eating, and my unsuccessful endeavors justify said binge eating habits.

In short, Will I Am, I implore you, please, reimburse me for the parking meters, and send me a personal trainer.  As much as I enjoy fueling the economy, one callback at a time, I'll send you a bill in the mail... Perhaps we can discuss logistics over coffee because I am, admittedly, slightly offended by your string of callbacks, leading me on to believe that I, indeed, secured a role in your feature.

Kindly,

(soon to be blonde,)

actor kid

TOURISTS

Tourists get off on star gazing; they hop on these TMZ tour buses like rabid bunnies going into heat, and push and shove each other to obtain a window seat.  In an orgy of sorts, tourists grind up against one another, dripping in the summer heat, just to catch a glimpse of Snow White's star on the Hollywood walk of fame.  Dignity and shame evaporate into the toxic waste bucket that is Los Angeles as adults run wildly through the streets, disposing of their clothes, imbibing le liquor, and taking pictures of each other holding fake oscars.  Time and time again, visitors troll the Hollywood and Highland mall, hoping for one celebrity spotting, and waiting patiently by the stars of their deceased idols, praying for a resurrection.  In viewing their public displays of insanity, obscene and unnecessary sexual acts, and disillusionment, I feel completely and absolutely violated!  

I love to hate the Hollywood and Highland mall.  I frequent the location on a weekly basis, and find myself both incredibly delighted and stressed by the outset of my visit.  On any given day, the mall attracts celebrity seeking tourists, aspiring superstars, screaming children, and the occasional prostitute.  Each and every human labels himself either an actor, director or producer, although experience demands otherwise.  I once spotted a homeless man whip out his package and, while occupying a public bus bench, fondle his genitalia in the middle of bustling traffic.  Passerbys were unfazed by this display, continuing their friendly banter as the man violently thrusted his pelvis into the air.  Although I experience shock with each similar display, the tourist bubble blocks this behavior, focusing only on finding and caging of celebrities.  

Few celebrities occupy the Hollywood and Highland mall, choosing, rather, to indulge in a steak at CUT in Beverly Hills, shop along Rodeo Drive, or hike the Calabasas hills.  Every so often, though, a B list actor, looking to rectify his ego, casually struts across the mall, nonchalantly addressing his fans and pocketing compliments.  This pathetic display is thoroughly entertaining; I pull up a portable seat and nibble at my cupcake as tourists engulf the somebody actor.   

Public Displays of Affection

I witnessed a man squat down on a patio bench, with a euphorically cynical grin upon his face, and defecate on the front porch of privately owned property.  Now it's not everyday that you see a fifty year old man, in a fedora, spreading his fecal matter on an unfortunate and unassuming household in the middle of Los Angeles… just every other day.  Not quick to judge, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, attributing his unusual behavior to the new 'pay to pee' system overtaking the Los Angeles community.  In several public vicinities, a toll box adorns the bathroom door, and an easy fifty cents buys you a pee.  So I commend you, fedora man, for having the balls to negotiate this disillusioned system and develop your own form of free urination alleviation.     

I can't decide if I love or hate Los Angeles, but one thing is certain: I haven't seen this much diversity since 'Who's Line Is It Anyway'… just kidding (that show had no diversity).  But I absolutely love people- watching here, and oftentimes wonder how such an eclectic and distinctly unique set of individuals troll the Hollywood streets on the same day, at the same time.  On any particular afternoon, a slightly grungy/ borderline homeless man might approach you, with pot in hand, and invite himself to dinner with you and your friends.  And on said occasion, all you will consider is how this man has not been arrested for blatantly smoking pot at the busiest intersection in Hollywood.  This is just another average afternoon in the Hollyhood, one filled with the uncertainty of survival, unforeseen adventures, and debauchery…

My first day as an LA intern, after being instructed to enter the office via a conveniently located doggie door at the eastbound corner of Sunset Blvd, I spent a third of my day retrieving and delivering various orders from el pollo loco for my boss and her staff.  At approximately twelve thirty p.m, I, in my Jeffrey Campbell litas, walked the half mile distance down Sunset blvd to said destination, ordered exactly six chicken hard tacos and, with food in hand, strutted back to the office.  After completing my service, my employer reprimanded me for neglecting to check the order; the tacos were soft, and she refused to eat this sub- par food.  Minutes later, I was back on Sunset blvd, receiving cat calls while walking the route to el pollo loco once anon.  And as I struggled with the el pollo loco manager for approximately five minutes, pleading with her to compensate for her error, then returning to work and receiving instructions to get a second round of food from el pollo loco, I questioned my current pointless state of existence as the unpaid in- office food retriever/ bitch.

In exchange for my time as an unpaid intern, I expected compensation in the form of knowledge.  Perhaps my expectations were far too broad; I secured an entertainment- industry internship but only learned two irrelevant lessons: 1, how to walk in platforms down Sunset Boulevard without eating shit and 2, how to fend off uninvited accompaniment.  On my first walk to el pollo loco, a street creep, noting that I have a "pleasant face and sick shoes," followed me from the office to el pollo loco, then waited as I ordered my food.  After housing myself in the bathroom for a half hour, I exited the facility stalker free.  On the second walk, a fellow, in his car, offered me a ride around town… I quickly darted off before he could snatch me up.  Finally, on my third walk down Sunset Boulevard, a delusional man decided to grab at my clothing but I forcefully pushed him away.  I then found sanctuary, at the outset of work, a mile down the road, just hidden behind the Chik- fil- a riot, within the nail polish section of Rite Aid.  

My Night With Steve Tyler...

Blurry photo of me and Mr. Tyler

In a strange confluence of events, I showed up at an --undisclosed name-- lot for a live taping of an --undisclosed talk show-- and ended up at an exclusive Hollywood premiere party, sipping Ginger Ale next to Steve Tyler while watching Johnny Depp serenade an audience.  After overcoming the initial shock of receiving an invitation to the premiere itself, and then exchanging glances with Michelle Pfeiffer en route to the after party, I watched my boyfriend attempt communication with Tim Burton, calling him the "saving grace of the studio system".  Tim Burton nonchalantly rejected this exchange, and continued shmoozing with his glass of something- or- other.  And as I came to terms with this reality, and accidentally elbowed Chloe Moretz on the dance floor, I navigated toward the dessert buffet, casually opened my bag, and shuffled a tray of treats inside (just kidding, but the desserts were phenomenal).


In short, I know some people who know some people and, under the influence of my date- en- arm, I skipped the taping in favor of venturing the --undisclosed name-- backlot.  On our journey, we delivered resumes to the head of recruitment, stopped by various casting offices, and negotiated our way into a free screening.  Once the screening finished, and after chatting up Adam Levine outside 'The Voice' taping, downing two double shot espressos at the on- lot Starbucks, and successfully strolling the entire surface area of the lot, the boy and I wandered back towards my parked vehicle, discussing our shared inspirations and passion for all things entertainment related.  We then received the call: "you kids available in an hour to see such- and- such 'Premiere' in Hollywood?"  Thus, an hour later, we entered the Chinese Mann Theatre and took our seats behind Johnny Depp's camp.

I, a twenty- year old go-getter and uninhibited dreamer, sat amongst Hollywood's elite entrepreneurs,  coveting their successes and achievements.  I formulated various universally acceptable introductory phrases, yet I remained silently star struck when approached by any and all individuals!  I recall navigating the route from the Chinese Theatre down Hollywood Boulevard and to the party destination, and immediately spotting Steve Tyler at the onset of the party.  I silently shadowed Mr. Tyler for a good half hour, cultivating various acceptable approaches.  

Alice Cooper

My first attempt to talk with Steve Tyler was unsuccessful; I opened my mouth, and felt an unfamiliar pinch rising up my throat...  I then shut my mouth, regained my composure, and wandered the party premise like a bewildered child at Leggo Land... I hit up the sundae tray and watched Alice Cooper perform as my of- age boyfriend stabilized himself with a kettle one on the rocks, and then we reconvened by the cheese fondue fountain.  I promised my bf to approach Steve Tyler if he approached Tim Burton, and thus, an unwavering deal was made.  On my second attempted interaction, no words came out of my open mouth, and my presence in Tyler's sphere of existence was intercepted by three models.  Finally, I approached Steve Tyler, got a quick picture, a subtle pat on the back, and, in a matter of seconds, scurried off in sheer ecstasy.  That, my friends, was my night with Steve Tyler.     

THE Commercial Audition

I spend an hour and a half navigating the twelve mile distance between my house and the audition location.  Once I arrive at the location, with just ten minutes till the audition, I drive aimlessly in circles, searching for an open parking space.  Now, with only two minutes to spare, I park my car in a 'permit required' zone, cross my fingers, and dart into the building.   And after a fifty- two second audition, (slate, profiles, 'catchy one liner' and/ or ridiculous physical gesture,) a parking ticket sits mockingly on my dashboard. 

The whole commercial audition process is relatively degrading… Firstly, you have the limited parking options of either A, paying exorbitant amounts on public parking for a potential 4 seconds of fame, or B, donating to the local economy via a parking ticket.  Next, for a majority of commercial auditions, preparation consists of locating your barcode… I repeat, B-A-R-C-O-D-E.  With the car situated and a barcode in hand, you wait in a room with fifteen other ridiculously attractive individuals, their families, and their families' families, all vying for the same role.  Finally, after you've successfully counted all the lines on the floor three times through, and received a personal history of the child sitting to your right, the intern calls your name.

The audition plays out as such: you enter a room, hand the camera man your barcode, and hit the mark on the floor.  The camera man scans your barcode, then instructs you to engage in an activity, i.e: improvisational bathroom activity.  On this note, ladies, do not, i repeat, do NOT pretend to brush your teeth… you will get a callback, but for all the wrong reasons!  You then slate your name, give your profiles, "brush your hair," and exit the room in under a minute.  Slightly bewildered by the rapidity of your audition, you travel back to your vehicle… but can't remember where you parked it.  

A Rant: Drama Mammas

I intern at a talent agency, and today, I witnessed a six year old child projectile vomit on the elite head of the company.  This episode occurred in five beats and is, undeniably, the highlight of my in- office experience thus far: First, the premiere talent agent introduced himself to both the child and his guardian.  Second, the guardian, with an affectionate guise, placed her hands upon the child's shoulders and forced the child into a seated position.  Third, the agent asked the for the child's name, and extended his hand .  Four, the unresponsive child turned a watermelon pink, and the agent asked for a name once again.  Five, the child opened his mouth, and a perfect trajectory of vom spewed from his tiny mouth, bathing the agent from head to toe.  

The guardian, in forcing her child into the entertainment industry, effectively objectified and emasculated the kid, who was not extended an offer for representation, and was quickly escorted out of the office by said drama mamma. 

Drama mammas: a group of sexually frustrated and peri-menopausal women who, after relinquishing their goals and dreams in pursuit of familial incentives, live vicariously through their children.  Spotted occupying the local coffee shops off the corner of Hollywood and Highland, and the casting offices on Ivar and Formosa, these women force… persuade their children, with candy incentives, to pursue acting careers.  I oftentimes encounter these women prior to casting sessions, as I enter an office and they follow behind me, hand in hand with child, dragging the thing through the door like an object on leash.  

There are two types of drama mammas: the first comprised of mothers who, disillusioned by some fantasy of fame and wealth, push their children into the entertainment industry.  The second group includes the braggarts, who, at auditions, chat relentlessly about their child's successes, or lack- there- of.  I find both sets equally obnoxious, and valiantly avoid such women at all costs.  But, to no avail, I encounter such women on a daily basis.

Mothers undeniably have their child's best interests at heart, but let me enlighten you: being obnoxious does not lend itself to success, intimidation tactics don't work, and if your child detests this business, then by all means don't force the child into it!  So moms, congrats on birthing the kid- now let it live a little independently.         

Hollywood: A Glamorous Love Story

My car halts at a stop sign on the corner of Sunset and Highland, and a man on the corner welcomes this action by banging twice on the hood, opening the passenger door, and entering my vehicle.  With his body dangling halfway in and out of my car, and both pedestrians and drivers ignoring this unusual display, I frantically wave my left arm in the man's face and, panic- struck, press on the gas pedal.  The passenger door swings back, and the mumbling man flails his legs in the air.  I close my eyes- (I could drive this route in my sleep, and have, mind you)- and thrust my arm forcefully into this... creature.  The man then falls completely out of my car, and I proceed down Sunset Boulevard, uninjured and unharmed.

If you haven't ascertained by now, Los Angeles is a cultural melting pot of upstanding, agreeable, and selfless citizens, all vying for the American dream.  Energized by the easily attainable goal of fame, people come together, hand in hand, willing to do anything within moral reason to achieve success and prosperity.  Work reaps rewards; gifting suits and lavish parties occupy each night.  And after all is said and done, and the Kettle one stops flowing, the naturally beautiful people recluse to their perspective mansions. 

My sarcasm radiates out of your computer screen. 

Those folks are outliers, the elite one percent who, endowed with luck and by providing various favors, (largely sexual,) live fruitfully in the lap of luxury.  Naturally, Los Angeles welcomes a wealth of delusional dreamers, (who admonish one another to boost their own egos,) manipulators, and narcissists, all of whom occupy one tiny apartment room in Studio City.  I have fallen victim to such scammers, forking over extravagant amounts of cash in compensation for instantaneous success.  And, as I mourn the empty wallet on my desk, and view the crappy headshots I exchanged for $500, I recall the extremes I have gone to achieve success in this unpredictable industry.

This blog serves as a platform for me to share my experiences as an actor, intern, and person in Hollywood.  Learn from my failures, share in my successes, and laugh at my life (because it could very well be a hidden camera show... still looking for those cameras).  I send you warnings not to frighten you, but to enlighten you.  Rise above: Be passionate, persevere, and throw yourself full throttle into what you love-- because life is short, and haters gonna hate.