It isn't good when your dentist's first words to you are "Don't worry, the room is soundproof."
I wonder if David Copperfield ever feels an urge to pull out an uzi and wipe out the audience when he messes up a trick? After all, they'd tell others.
We are all time travelers, moving into the future at a steady speed of 60 minutes per hour.
Today's rapidly advancing technology allows us to create spaceships that can travel, unmanned, to other planets and send back stunning images of their extraterrestrial surfaces... and to play Halo with a 10-year old kid in Great Britain who beats us using a cheat code, then disconnects after pecking out a misspelled insult about our poor bandwidth and a P.S. to go fuck ourselves.
I'm waiting for the Broadway Musical version of "Godzilla vs. The Smog Monster." You know it's gotta be in someone's head besides mine!
Someone, somewhere, considers us both fucking idiots.
You cannot split infinity, because even if you do, both halves still go on forever in either direction, and the second half still just picks up where the first half left off.
The last cookie, donut, bagel, snack item in the container is the "half-life" one. Who ever comes upon it will break it in two, and eat half... so as not be the person who denies someone else a share. Even if it has been broken in half so many times that it is now a mere nugget. They'll still attempt to leave a portion... Rare is the self-confident individual who sees the last one and takes the whole thing. He or she knows they make more – and if someone comes along wanting one of whatever it was that's now gone, the answer is simple: Go buy another box of the damn things!
I'm beginning to wonder if my ship is being pulled in by a tugboat.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Memorable Auditions IV
YOU COULD HAVE KNOCKED ME DOWN WITH A MONKEY BALL!
There's a phenomena called the Standard Hollywood Epiphany. At least that's what I call it.
It happens elsewhere, to a lesser degree, but never like it does in Star Town. You go about your day, perhaps even following a routine that has remained unchanged for months, years. You run into someone who by odd chance, just happens to cross your path in some mundane, otherwise unremarkable way. And you get a strange feeling that you know that person, as if from a past life – in fact, you know them on some unnameable but nonetheless intimate level.
In Hollywood and its neighboring southern California communities, these sudden run-ins are worth craning your neck for – worth clicking on Google about, as soon as you get home.
Anywhere else, save perhaps New York City, London or Paris, this glancing encounter might be meaningless – your eyes playing tricks. In Los Angeles, it's more likely that you've collided with a celebrity on his or her off-hours.
As abstract as it may sound, you get used to it. It matters not that their last blockbuster was a smash, or only a semi-hit, or even a dud – or if they've been out of the A-list spotlight for some time. And even more strangely, your mind does an instant full circle – from realization, and a mental reference of their résumé, back around to an everyday encounter with a fellow human.
"Mr. Affleck, could I squeeze my cart past yours? I'm after a can of those stewed tomatoes."
The odds of these incidents becoming routine, goes up, when you are on the audition trail. But the dynamic is altered; for within those boundaries you're supposedly a pro, just as they surely are. You might even get to – briefly – talk shop with them.
You get to "hang" in their sphere. A temporary confidant. And in the first few days or weeks of one's foray into this alternate universe called show business, these moments are electrifying – yet one knows not to let the cork out of the bottle until safely home, frantically dialing pals to tell them all about it.
And then something changes. You are colored somewhat by a tinge in the atmosphere. It dawns on you – the "show" in show business is what the world outside sees, as opposed to what you are assimilating to, the "business."
Finding yourself in the same waiting room as that stunning tall-drink-of-water brunette you saw last night in a Macy's commercial takes on the same ambiance as passing a coworker in the hallway to and from the copier. You are both at work.
And forget the "opportunity" factor, Mr. Howly-Wolf. It's a non-issue – she likely has an engagement ring weighing down her demurely thin hand, given her by a 7-foot tall, bald and devil-goateed, Teutonic techno-geek named Vinn, who can make the cables on a Bowflex home gym smoke like an unoiled crankcase.
When in Hollywood, do not trust that old adage that extremely beautiful women likely have low self-esteem, and just want to be appreciated by an honest guy whether or not he's as attractive as she. That may work in Duluth – but here these ladies know exactly how beautiful they are, they take self-defense classes with an ironman gusto, and if she can't bitch-slap you back into your place, her boyfriend certainly can. Begin with "hi," and end with "nice meeting you." Make it out of this audition alive, even if the role is lost.
My round-about point is that finding yourself in line with someone famous, especially "at work" is a commonplace happening in America's media capitol, and as time wears on, it becomes that to everyone involved, at all levels. I stumbled upon this, at just such an audition, for a new video game, of all things.
Now I myself do not play video games anymore, so the new releases are as mystifying to me as they are to any old fart who say, still misses rotary phones. The video game commercial being casted was for Sega Monkeyball 2, which I imagine now is a well worn old hat to most gamers, but it was brand new and ready to hit the store shelves as I arrived to read my lines.
The conceit of the ad, was that thousands of people from all walks of life were raving about Monkeyball 2 as the ultimate gaming experience, even though the product had yet to be unloaded even from the first delivery truck. Much like those 1-1/2-star stinkers opening at theaters, yet already heralded by critics no one has ever heard of.
It boiled down to all of us doing improv, praising a video game we'd never even seen the box for, let alone played. Yes, it's a huge con-job, slapped together last-minute, by advertising execs who can't even spell "scruple," to sell a product with built-in obsolescence to people who have nothing better to do than flush their money away. Business as usual.
The waiting area was ornate, with oak paneling and plush leather divans lining both sides of the room. I had never been here before. I signed in, and simply sat for several minutes marveling at the surroundings. Serious folks, these. You hafta dress like it's dinner with Dracula just to audition here!
In minutes I became aware that I was sitting on the opposite end of the room as everyone else at the audition. In fact, everyone seemed huddled around one person, who was in essence holding court. Even more stunning, was that all the others were men about my age, wearing clothing similar to mine, while this attention magnet at stage-center was dressed in something other than what I'd consider "work clothes."
Let me describe him – as you paint his portrait in your mind.
A short, pudgy Asian man, with olive skin. Ragged cut-off jeans shorts. A tank-top that looked like off-the-rack at Goodwill. Plastic and foam flip-flops. An expensive looking watch. And not a single hair on his body, save his penciled mustache and not-quite-bald-yet comb-over. I mean, he was so hairless as to look uncatchable if he were soaking wet. Like an oiled up piglet.
No chest shrubbery poking out of the tank-top. Not even any light armpit fuzz. He was like a tanned water balloon from head to toe. Normally I wouldn't mention a thing like this, but in this case it wasn't just noticeable, but downright hypnotic – it was in fact, his body's chief feature.
A Cabbage Patch Doll.
And this little potato had his audience spellbound. Every word uttered by his round, smooth jowls was pure gold to those surrounding him. "Who is THIS guy," I wondered to myself?
Well, he did look somewhat familiar, the more I watched. I was mildly curious. But then I decided not to lemming this guy, whomever he was.
I wasn't here to sit at anyone's feet and absorb crumbs of gossamer wisdom like some transfixed opossum. I was here to work – here as a pro. Let those rubbing up against Mr. Backyard Swapmeet miss the point of being here – I'm in the hunt for a callback. Yet, I was still just a bit interested, for trivia's sake, to know this guy's identity – even though he looked like he was in line for a waffle-cone at the county fair, not auditioning for a TV ad.
Remember that the word "celebrity" is somewhat deceptive in the grand scheme of the media-entertainment business. It's hardly a matter of playing by any rules, written or unwritten. There are NO rules to this contest except "Be What They Want." Being a celebrity is not synonymous with being talented, or even attractive. It's having what the Casting Person wants, and in turn, having something that the public at large decides it desires. Pat Sajak, for instance, proved that he couldn't carry a talkshow for even one season, but as the master of a large, spinning, glitter-sprinkled wheel on a gameshow, he possesses an irreplaceable brand of charisma.
The front desk gatekeeper called a name out, which apparently belonged to one of the man's cadre of listeners. His turn to audition – he rose, and proceeded to the studio door. "Nice to meet you, Your Honor."
The guy was a judge. Okay... he's an important person from another profession, here for one of his fifteen minutes, no doubt thanks to some connection from across the bench. He let someone off the hook... his payback was a free pass to a brief moment in pop-culture. He was here without his black robe... dressed in his idea of Ellay Informal. It just happened to be Van Nuys Garage Sale. Then again, who's going to tell a judge what to wear to audition for a video game commercial?
Then the real bomb promptly fell. Another of the entourage was summoned into the studio. "A pleasure, Mr. Ito."
Ito? Judge Lance Ito. Who presided over the O.J. trial. The most watched and most recounted media event of, oh, the entire 20th century, shall we say?
I sat awestruck. This guy had told the World Media to sit down and shut the hell up, on national TV. He'd browbeat celebrated attorneys like Marcia Clark, Robert Kardashian, Johnny Cochran and Chris Darden with a rueful stare and a pointed finger.
After that, endorsing a video game ought to have been like scratching a chaffed nipple.
I stared across the carpet in silence, knowing I was NOT going to get this job.
Monkeyball 2 went on to some degree of success after that commercial, but I did not. Another guy who was there didn't even have to dress up for it, because in the world of celebrity status, he had the cheat code.
There's a phenomena called the Standard Hollywood Epiphany. At least that's what I call it.
It happens elsewhere, to a lesser degree, but never like it does in Star Town. You go about your day, perhaps even following a routine that has remained unchanged for months, years. You run into someone who by odd chance, just happens to cross your path in some mundane, otherwise unremarkable way. And you get a strange feeling that you know that person, as if from a past life – in fact, you know them on some unnameable but nonetheless intimate level.
In Hollywood and its neighboring southern California communities, these sudden run-ins are worth craning your neck for – worth clicking on Google about, as soon as you get home.
Anywhere else, save perhaps New York City, London or Paris, this glancing encounter might be meaningless – your eyes playing tricks. In Los Angeles, it's more likely that you've collided with a celebrity on his or her off-hours.
As abstract as it may sound, you get used to it. It matters not that their last blockbuster was a smash, or only a semi-hit, or even a dud – or if they've been out of the A-list spotlight for some time. And even more strangely, your mind does an instant full circle – from realization, and a mental reference of their résumé, back around to an everyday encounter with a fellow human.
"Mr. Affleck, could I squeeze my cart past yours? I'm after a can of those stewed tomatoes."
The odds of these incidents becoming routine, goes up, when you are on the audition trail. But the dynamic is altered; for within those boundaries you're supposedly a pro, just as they surely are. You might even get to – briefly – talk shop with them.
You get to "hang" in their sphere. A temporary confidant. And in the first few days or weeks of one's foray into this alternate universe called show business, these moments are electrifying – yet one knows not to let the cork out of the bottle until safely home, frantically dialing pals to tell them all about it.
And then something changes. You are colored somewhat by a tinge in the atmosphere. It dawns on you – the "show" in show business is what the world outside sees, as opposed to what you are assimilating to, the "business."
Finding yourself in the same waiting room as that stunning tall-drink-of-water brunette you saw last night in a Macy's commercial takes on the same ambiance as passing a coworker in the hallway to and from the copier. You are both at work.
And forget the "opportunity" factor, Mr. Howly-Wolf. It's a non-issue – she likely has an engagement ring weighing down her demurely thin hand, given her by a 7-foot tall, bald and devil-goateed, Teutonic techno-geek named Vinn, who can make the cables on a Bowflex home gym smoke like an unoiled crankcase.
When in Hollywood, do not trust that old adage that extremely beautiful women likely have low self-esteem, and just want to be appreciated by an honest guy whether or not he's as attractive as she. That may work in Duluth – but here these ladies know exactly how beautiful they are, they take self-defense classes with an ironman gusto, and if she can't bitch-slap you back into your place, her boyfriend certainly can. Begin with "hi," and end with "nice meeting you." Make it out of this audition alive, even if the role is lost.
My round-about point is that finding yourself in line with someone famous, especially "at work" is a commonplace happening in America's media capitol, and as time wears on, it becomes that to everyone involved, at all levels. I stumbled upon this, at just such an audition, for a new video game, of all things.
Now I myself do not play video games anymore, so the new releases are as mystifying to me as they are to any old fart who say, still misses rotary phones. The video game commercial being casted was for Sega Monkeyball 2, which I imagine now is a well worn old hat to most gamers, but it was brand new and ready to hit the store shelves as I arrived to read my lines.
The conceit of the ad, was that thousands of people from all walks of life were raving about Monkeyball 2 as the ultimate gaming experience, even though the product had yet to be unloaded even from the first delivery truck. Much like those 1-1/2-star stinkers opening at theaters, yet already heralded by critics no one has ever heard of.
It boiled down to all of us doing improv, praising a video game we'd never even seen the box for, let alone played. Yes, it's a huge con-job, slapped together last-minute, by advertising execs who can't even spell "scruple," to sell a product with built-in obsolescence to people who have nothing better to do than flush their money away. Business as usual.
The waiting area was ornate, with oak paneling and plush leather divans lining both sides of the room. I had never been here before. I signed in, and simply sat for several minutes marveling at the surroundings. Serious folks, these. You hafta dress like it's dinner with Dracula just to audition here!
In minutes I became aware that I was sitting on the opposite end of the room as everyone else at the audition. In fact, everyone seemed huddled around one person, who was in essence holding court. Even more stunning, was that all the others were men about my age, wearing clothing similar to mine, while this attention magnet at stage-center was dressed in something other than what I'd consider "work clothes."
Let me describe him – as you paint his portrait in your mind.
A short, pudgy Asian man, with olive skin. Ragged cut-off jeans shorts. A tank-top that looked like off-the-rack at Goodwill. Plastic and foam flip-flops. An expensive looking watch. And not a single hair on his body, save his penciled mustache and not-quite-bald-yet comb-over. I mean, he was so hairless as to look uncatchable if he were soaking wet. Like an oiled up piglet.
No chest shrubbery poking out of the tank-top. Not even any light armpit fuzz. He was like a tanned water balloon from head to toe. Normally I wouldn't mention a thing like this, but in this case it wasn't just noticeable, but downright hypnotic – it was in fact, his body's chief feature.
A Cabbage Patch Doll.
And this little potato had his audience spellbound. Every word uttered by his round, smooth jowls was pure gold to those surrounding him. "Who is THIS guy," I wondered to myself?
Well, he did look somewhat familiar, the more I watched. I was mildly curious. But then I decided not to lemming this guy, whomever he was.
I wasn't here to sit at anyone's feet and absorb crumbs of gossamer wisdom like some transfixed opossum. I was here to work – here as a pro. Let those rubbing up against Mr. Backyard Swapmeet miss the point of being here – I'm in the hunt for a callback. Yet, I was still just a bit interested, for trivia's sake, to know this guy's identity – even though he looked like he was in line for a waffle-cone at the county fair, not auditioning for a TV ad.
Remember that the word "celebrity" is somewhat deceptive in the grand scheme of the media-entertainment business. It's hardly a matter of playing by any rules, written or unwritten. There are NO rules to this contest except "Be What They Want." Being a celebrity is not synonymous with being talented, or even attractive. It's having what the Casting Person wants, and in turn, having something that the public at large decides it desires. Pat Sajak, for instance, proved that he couldn't carry a talkshow for even one season, but as the master of a large, spinning, glitter-sprinkled wheel on a gameshow, he possesses an irreplaceable brand of charisma.
The front desk gatekeeper called a name out, which apparently belonged to one of the man's cadre of listeners. His turn to audition – he rose, and proceeded to the studio door. "Nice to meet you, Your Honor."
The guy was a judge. Okay... he's an important person from another profession, here for one of his fifteen minutes, no doubt thanks to some connection from across the bench. He let someone off the hook... his payback was a free pass to a brief moment in pop-culture. He was here without his black robe... dressed in his idea of Ellay Informal. It just happened to be Van Nuys Garage Sale. Then again, who's going to tell a judge what to wear to audition for a video game commercial?
Then the real bomb promptly fell. Another of the entourage was summoned into the studio. "A pleasure, Mr. Ito."
Ito? Judge Lance Ito. Who presided over the O.J. trial. The most watched and most recounted media event of, oh, the entire 20th century, shall we say?
I sat awestruck. This guy had told the World Media to sit down and shut the hell up, on national TV. He'd browbeat celebrated attorneys like Marcia Clark, Robert Kardashian, Johnny Cochran and Chris Darden with a rueful stare and a pointed finger.
After that, endorsing a video game ought to have been like scratching a chaffed nipple.
I stared across the carpet in silence, knowing I was NOT going to get this job.
Monkeyball 2 went on to some degree of success after that commercial, but I did not. Another guy who was there didn't even have to dress up for it, because in the world of celebrity status, he had the cheat code.
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