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.