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. 

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.   

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.