Letter to an LA Newbie

FINDING AN APARTMENT

http://www.westsiderentals.com/ is the main company people use. I’d suggest Craiglist though if you don’t know the city and don’t have a job yet. You wouldn’t want to sign a year lease on an apartment in Santa Monica and then get a job in Pasadena.

One of the big mistakes when I first moved to LA was not understanding just how bad the traffic is. I got an apartment in the South Bay, which on the MAP is like, 10-15 miles from the city, but in actuality is probably 1-2 HOURS away. Here is a breakdown of the neighborhoods, depending on your personality and taste:

West Hollywood: Very nice, expensive, lovely condos. Pricey! Location-wise its awesome, close to everything except freeways (but if you lived here, you’d take surface streets and freeways wouldn’t matter much). Sunset strip, the fancy clubs, nice restaurants and swanky brunch places. This area has the rooftop bars and hotel pool party places where you need to be on the list to get in. 

Hollywood: cheapish, depending. There are some scummy areas and some nice areas. Parking is a bitch. Parking is kind of a bitch everywhere though. The vibe of the people here: kind of club-ish, snotty, lots of tourists and girls in skirts that could also double as headbands. Not really my scene. The people who go to clubs here are usually from out of town or Orange County. There are some cool bars to check out though: Stout, Piano Bar, Velvet Margarita. 

North Hollywood/Valley: Parking and traffic: less of a bitch! Cheaper affordable housing, still 10 minutes from Hollywood, easy access to the 101/170/405. There are lots of neighborhoods within the valley like Studio City (very nice), Sherman Oaks, Toluca Lake, etc. This is where I’ve lived for the past year and I think it’s a good place for new people to live. The vibe here is very down to earth. 

Downtown/Koreatown: You can find some super cheap housing here. Downtown used to be scummy but now there are lots of awesome condos and flats. The arts district is super cool, i used to work there and the people are just amazing. This definitely has the big city vibe, skyscrapers and whatnot, but it doesn’t have the energy of New York. There are still lots of homeless people and skid row is kind of scary. Parking sucks in the main downtown area, and its hard to navigate with lots of one way streets. Its also kind of a pain to get to the west side and will take you a while.

Echo Park: is close to downtown but also to hollywood via surface streets. I love Echo Park and would love to move there. It’s an up and coming neighborhood so housing is still relatively inexpensive. Lots of diversity, hippies, hipsters, families. Beautifully old houses built into the hills. Parks. Cool diners, bars and restaurants.

Silver Lake: Hipster central. If you don’t have skinny jeans and a mustache and hate pop culture, they’ll eat you alive. People who live there live and die “Silver Lake!!” If it’s a fit for you, you’ll never leave. Cool bars, restaurants, etc. Good shopping.

Los Feliz: Gorgeous, east of Hollywood, very upscale trendy, lots of celebrities and high rise condos. Gorgeous. It’s where grown ups and rich people live.

Hollywood Hills: Beautiful, amazing. You can actually find some affordable deals. I’ve had friends live in Laurel Canyon as well and it feels like you’re in the middle of the woods, even though you’re in the middle of the city. The hills divide the valley from the rest of LA, which is why you’ll hear people say they’re going ‘over the hill’ (or more likely that they don’t WANT to go ‘over the hill’). 

Beverly Hills: if you have money to live in Beverly Hills, God Bless.

Santa Monica: amazing, gorgeous, expensive as hell and really tough to get anywhere else in town. West side traffice sucks!!

Culver City: south of the major areas, cool bars and shops, very diverse, affordable housing, good access to west side

there are areas called “Midtown” and “The West Side” and “West LA” and plain old “Los Angeles.”

The general rule is the further South or East you go (away from the ocean) the cheaper apts will be. Unless you get as far East as Pasadena, then it gets expensive again.

Speaking of East: Eagle Rock, Glendale, Burbank – all affordable.

JOBS

Jobs, indeed. The economy sucks and California’s economy sucks worst of all.  Even restaurant jobs have lines out the door. You can do freelance work off craigslist, and look on Mandy.com too. You can always do background work, which pays $8/hour if you’re non-union. It’s totally shitty but it’s something. It’s what I did when I first got out there.

Here’s what the main challenge is, as far as living and working in the city and in the business: LA has the highest cost of living in the country next to NYC. You HAVE to have a job to survive. For the past four years I’ve been working odd jobs, freelancing, and working part time in restaurants, never knowing where my rent was coming from. It’s a miserable existence. It’s fine at first, when everything is new and exciting and you feel like a starving artist in that romantic sort of way. But after awhile (or you turn 30) you’re like “Fuck! What the fuck am I doing with my life?” 

Anyway, you’ll have different challenges if you’re not acting. I was writing and producing as well, but the difficult part about acting is that you need to have your days free to audition, then you need to have your nights free to take workshops, then you need to have your weekends free to shoot stuff….notice that there’s now no time to, um, make money? It’s a tough balance!

So, if you’re not acting, you’re already ahead of the game! That’s great! And if you’re a writer and a FEMALE, hooray! You’re even further ahead, there aren’t that many of us. The writing world is male-dominated and male-centric, both business-wise and content-wise. So you will have less competition and that’s a great thing out there. 

Here are the things you will need to be successful:

Openness and flexibility: which i think you have, since you mentioned you’d be willing to PA, etc. However, I have a warning for you!! You wrote “I’m willing to start from the bottom with PA jobs and such.” The sentence seems to indicate that PA jobs are bottom of the barrel, and perhaps, easy to obtain. (Maybe that’s not what you meant, but I wanted to address it in case). The jobs that you may consider lowest of the low – PAing, internships, etc – ARE EXTREMELY DIFFICULT TO OBTAIN!!! There is competition to work for free! There is competition to get someone coffee! Probably not even someone of consequence! Which leads me to the next quality you need to be successful:

HUMBLENESS: You’d think you’d need confidence, right? You need to show Hollywood how great you are, how talented, what you can go, show them that you can hang, you’re strong, you’re good enough. Guess what? Hollywood doesn’t give a fuck about you unless you can make them money. That’s not bitter, it’s not negative, it’s just a fact. It’s a business. It’s a game. If you can relinquish your ego, you may get to play. If you can come into town with an attitude that says “I’d LOVE to do a PA job, THANK YOU SO MUCH!!” you will be able to work. If you come in with an attitude that says “I’ll just do this PA thing to get in the door until I can do what I REALLY want to do,” you’re shooting yourself in the foot. Even if it’s subconscious, if you carry an attitude that says “I’m above this,” people will smell it. 

Cuz guess what? There are THOUSANDS of people who want your job, and ONLY your job. They want to PA. FOREVER. THAT is your competition. So if I’m a producing, and I have a choice between you, who is doing this as a means to an end, and Eager Dude, who honestly wants to do this job, guess who I’m gonna pick? 

That’s what you have to remember: THEY HAVE A CHOICE. Always. There will always be someone else who’s willing to do it for free. It’s unlike any other industry. You will come across many opportunities – some of them wonderful – where YOU will have to pay THEM in order to get your work seen. 

EXCELLENCE – you need to be excellent at what you do, all the time. You may not fuck up. You may not have a bad day. If you have made a studio millions of dollars, then you are entitled to 1.5 mistakes and one bad day. The more you make, the more people are willing to put up with. (Charlie Sheen, Christian Bale). But before you’ve done anything, you need to BRING IT, ALL THE TIME. No attitude. No complaining. No mediocrity, and no need to be praised. Excellence is the minimum. Everyone is talented. Everyone who is working is either very good, or has figured something out that you haven’t. So stay away from telling yourself “I’m really good, so I won’t have a problem.”  Talent doesn’t mean shit, because everyone is talented. Talent is the MINIMUM. The way to become special, to become “someone,” is to realize that you’re not. 

The longer you’re there, the less you will judge others. The less you will think things like “that script is AWFUL,” because you’ll learn that writers have hardly anything to do with what ends up on the screen. You’ll learn about network executives, studio heads, ghostwriters, and all the other ways your work gets changed to the point of being unrecognizable. And this will cultivate compassion for your fellow writers, and acceptance that your own work will, at some point, be sacrificed to the Box Office and/or Ratings gods. 

Hard to Swallow Section:

No one cares that you have a degree.

Breathe, feel the indignation and resistance welling up inside you, sputter, justify yourself. Take as long as you need. When you’re calm, come back and read it again.

No cares that you have a degree. But don’t worry, it’s wonderful that you have an education. You have experience. You have training. You have something to bring to the table. The thing is, many of the people making gazillions of dollars don’t have a film degree. Again, this is one of the only industries where you don’t need any kind of specific training. What matters is what you can do, and what you’ve done in the past. If someone happens to ask, you can tell them you went to film school. But I wouldn’t open with that. Everyone’s gone to film school. Or not. No one cares. Keep what you learned close to your heart, marvel at the ways it serves you, and the ways it could never prepare you for this town. (Unless you went to USC, in which case I retract the above paragraph. Can you get me a job please?)

No one cares what you did in Ohio. (I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know). But no one cares. Don’t talk about it. You have your experience. You can say, “I just finished working on a web series with this awesome director.” Leave the Ohio part out. Fair or not, anything done “out of town” is somehow looked down upon as less than. Especially the Midwest. It’s kind of scoffed at, to be honest. So take what you’ve done, your experience, and use it! It’s great! But just know that in the eyes of LA, it doesn’t “count.” 

As a writer, you need to HAVE STUFF. You need to have at least two feature length scripts, two pilots, etc. For pilots, you need to have an outline of exactly what happens to every character over at least five seasons. You don’t need to have every script written, but you need to know where the series and each character in it is going. If you can get someone to read something, they are going to say “What else do you have?” And you better have something! 

I guess my main advice would be to be open to what life brings you, to work with what you’re dealt instead of fighting against it. Find joy in the PA jobs. Have fun. It’s a game. Hollywood likes to take itself very seriously, but at the end of the day, it’s a giant machine creating entertainment. We’re not curing cancer. (And if we were, they’d probably figure out a way to make residuals off of each cancer cell they could eliminate).  

I have loved living in LA. I’ve met amazing, down to earth, talented, driven, positive people that I hope to always have in my life. The town is what you make it. Do you want to make it shallow, fake, cutthroat? It will be. Or a place where people flake and never follow through? Sure. Do you want to make it suburbia, or a big city, or a wonderful place where all yours dreams come true?  It can be that too. It’s so big, it has so many different aspects, that it really can be whatever you want. Which is what I love about it. 

Finally, take advantage of your newness. The energy and hope you have when you’re new in town is unlike anything else. Your light cuts through the jaded masses. You are always present, eager, ready to go. If you can keep that energy, that excitement, that freshness, I have no doubt that you will be successful in whatever you do. 

How to Throw a Super-Diva Hissy Fit

We’ve all done it. Whether it was on set, in a production meeting or rehearsal, or even – yikes – at the audition, the big bad actor demons have reared their ugly heads at the most inappropriate times. And understandably so. We poor little actors have a lot of s%#& to deal with! No matter where you are in your career, there are frustrations and pressures that, at the time, can seem overwhelming and insurmountable. Whether you’re just trying to get an audition, have been passed on for yet another network pilot, or keep losing the Oscar to that damn Meryl Streep, the subsequent frustrations are bound to surface eventually. If you’re lucky, it will be while you’re sitting in traffic or alone in your crappy studio apartment/mansion in the Hills. If you’re like me, or Christian Bale, or Mr. Sheen, it may happen for all the world (ok, in my case, everyone in my world) to see.

My Super-Diva Hissy fit happened the first year I was in LA. I was very excited to be getting paid to do theatre. A rate, which I might add, I would most likely scoff at nowadays, but fresh out of college it seemed like quite the accomplishment. There was touring involved, and multiple venues, and I was the stahhhr. One of the curses of completing your training in a professional conservatory program is that they instill in you a die-hard sense of professionalism.

Thou shalt NOT ARGUE with the director. It is YOUR JOB to make sense of his abyssal notes.

Thou shalt be ON TIME, and PREPARED, and ask questions at the appropriate times.

I am actually completely grateful to the University of Miami for teaching me how to conduct myself in a professional working environment. The problem I encountered after leaving the program was that no one else I was working with had gone through the same training I had. And instead of leading by example, I became frustrated to have to work with ‘such amateurs.’ Those who didn’t know proper professional protocol irked the bejesus out of me. I became incensed, probably because I felt that I belonged somewhere better, but had somehow screwed up and ended up here. Can you smell a recipe for disaster cooking?

Now to this day, I believe I did at least an ok job of masking my discontent. I tried my best to be polite and accommodating to people I considered absolute buffoons. Although my fiery rage was growing within, I could still sleep at night knowing that I wasn’t completely ruining my reputation with the folks who’d hired me. Until one night…

It was our dress rehearsal. And our tech. And set load in. All…on the same….night. Yup. Right there I’m sure you can tell that this was a non-union affair. Actors were building sets, tech people were wearing actor’s costumes – it was madness! We waited and waited for the set to be finished. Our run through was scheduled to start at 8pm. Now keep in mind that we had never even stepped foot in this space before, and the following evening was our opening night – with an audience! No cue to cue, no blocking rehearsals, we’d had nothing. We sat there in our period costumes, wondering how we were going to climb up and down the balcony stairs (can guess which play it was now?) in super tight corsets and gi-normous hoop skirts.  This wasn’t safe. We needed time. The wings of the stage were dark, we didn’t know where props were kept or where our entrances and exits were going to be. The night wore on as my fellow actors and I continued to sweat.

It was 10:30pm. Our executive producer sighed. “Alright guys, let’s call it a night.”

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm……………….excuse me?!!!!!!!!!!

Silence. I looked around. Had she really just said that, or had I imagined it?

I can’t remember if it was me or someone else who spoke up first. I don’t suppose it mattered much, since we were all thinking the same thing.

“But what about our run through?”

“It’s already 10:30pm.”

YEAH? SO?!

“We’re tired from building the set. Let’s get some sleep and we’ll see you tomorrow night.”

WHAT WHAT WHAAAAAT?!

My mind raced. I looked around frantically at the rest of my fellow actors. Was no one going to SAY anything? Were we actually being expected to OPEN A SHOW in front a PAYING AUDIENCE, having NEVER ONCE rehearsed the show on set, in costume? What the hell is this, improv?!!!!

A few mumbles began here and there. “I’m  happy to stay and rehearse.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I don’t care how late we’re here.”

Ok, cool. At least the cast was on board. The cast wants to stay, we should be good to go right?

“I don’t think so. Let’s clean up so we can lock up and go home.”

My jaw had to have been on the floor. Let me get this straight – we, the people who have to get up there and actually DO the damn SHOW, are willing to stay late into the night in order to get s$%# done. And you’re not going to allow us to do that?

It was sheer lunacy, I tell you. And in the face of sheer lunacy, I snapped.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I remember feeling very hot and on the verge of tears, and feeling like I was embarrassing myself. But I didn’t care.

“I am NOT going on tomorrow night without a rehearsal!” I spewed. When no one spoke up, either to challenge or defend me, I stormed off to my dressing room (isn’t this just textbook?) to sob and seethe.

Wowzah! I had done it. A full on diva fit. I may as well have thrown in a “Don’t you know who I am?”

When the smoke cleared, we still did not get our stage time. The cast caravaned to our rehearsal space and stayed up until 2am working and running lines. Except that was not what we needed. We needed to be in the space, in costume, with full lights and sound. You know, like ya do. The producers came to my dressing room and spoke in soft, soothing voices, but I could tell that their perception of me had changed completely. And so had the cast’s.

See, the diva fit isn’t about getting your way, so much as making everyone not want to work with you again. It DOESN’T MATTER IF YOU’RE RIGHT. In fact, you probably ARE right. I suspect that Christian and Charlie probably had to put up with a fair amount of bs, enough to drive them to explode in ways that will continue to haunt them for the rest of their careers. It doesn’t matter what they were/are upset about, because that’s not what people remember. People remember behavior. And when you behave badly, regardless of it being justified, you have no one to blame but yourself.

It was my choice to work with this company. Now, I couldn’t have foreseen just how unprofessional they would be. However, in those fleeting moments when rage was threatening to unravel four years of professional conduct training, it would have behooved me to have stepped out, taken a deep breath (perhaps of a cigarette), and calmed the f&%$ down before deciding how to respond. And not necessarily because I would (ever) want to work with certain members of the group again, but because my own reputation and personal integrity were dragged through the mud….by me. Don’t do it. EVER. I don’t care who it is, or how right you are. The only one who comes out looking like the asshole is you.

That being said, we NEED to protect our precious, precious unions. Such lunacy would never have been allowed on a union production. We were not safe, and were being asked to do things that were not just damaging to the quality of the production, but were potentially physically harmful to ourselves. Climbing up an eight foot ladder, in the dark, in a 5 foot-wide hoop skirt that you’ve never worn before? That is a ridiculous, unsafe thing to ask an actor to do. In a moment like that, when you’re forced to decide whether to stand your ground, disappear into the background, throw a diva fit or walk away, I encourage you to take a deep breath and a few minutes. Then go online and give money to AEA, and thank your lucky stars that unions exist.

How to Tell if you’re Hot (in Hollywood)

First, let’s clarify what we mean by hot. I’m not talking about the Will Ferrell-in-Zoolander “Oh my God, he is so hot right now.” I don’t mean box office pull or the latest IT girl or guy, and I’m certainly not talking about your IMDB starmeter ranking. I’m talking about good ol’ fashioned HOT, as in sexy. The kind of people that creepy Craig’s Listers try to entice into a “trade for pics” photo shoot in their unfinished basement. The quintessential fantasy girl imagined by young, pimply adolescents in advertisements for products like Doritos or Axe Body Spray. Go ahead and picture the stereotype in all its glory: lean, mean bodies that haven’t seen a carb since ’01; tanned, firm skin wrapped around long legs, flat abs and perky (most likely fake) breasts. Ooh la la! If I’m not careful, this is going to turn into an homage to Sex with V-Ness!

Now, there is another IT factor that is IMPERATIVE for Hollywood hotties to have. Yes, of course, you’re bod needs to be suh-moking, you need to be YOUNG, and you need to be willing to shake that thang and show it off. However, there is something I think a lot of actors making the move out to LA don’t realize: you also need to be the HOTTIE TYPE.

My friend was making the move from Chicago. A guy next door in his mid 30s, he was fantastic at playing the sheepish nerd who somehow manages to get the girl in the end. He was sweet, and kind of dorky, and anything but cool. So when we met for drinks and I asked him how things were going out here, he said “I’m excited to take new headshots. I figure I’ll be ready in a couple of months.”

A couple of months?! Why the long wait?

“I have to get in shape.”

Uh-oh. Another case of what I like to call Carrot Top Syndrome. Have you seen Carrot Top lately? I have, in person, and lemme tell y’all, he is BUFF. His muscles have muscles, and he rides around Winter Park, Florida on his motorcycle with his shirt off, his snowy white skin blinding those unfortunate souls who happen to be passing by.

Now here’s the clincher: Carrot Top does not NEED to be that ripped. He is goofy looking, and his comedy is DORKY. He is a big ol’ nerd with red hair! It is not “on brand” (thank you Bonnie) for him to be sporting a beefcake body. And guess what? Like my procrastinating Chicago buddy, you probably aren’t hot enough to be hot!

What do I mean by that? Hollywood Hot is light years away from real world hot, and EONS away from real world sexy. In the real world, people with average bodies have sex. (Even when they have – gasp – cellulite!) In the real world, people with great personalities and high levels of intelligence are considered sexy. Ladies, how many times have you heard a guy friend or significant other mutter “Yeah, she looks great, but then she opened her mouth.” Real world Hot is a different animal entirely. And when you’re RWH, it can be very easy to get it confused with Hollywood Hot.

Let’s take me, for example. I certainly wasn’t the best looking girl in school or anything, but I have never lacked for male (and sometimes female!) attention. I have always been RWH, especially when I was a bit younger. Granted, many of the compliments and observations that lead me to acknowledge my RWH status were in reaction to my conversational – or other – skills. (Mad skills, I might add). But these real world encounters gave me the kind of confidence that leads an unsuspecting victim to believe that they have what it takes to be Hollywood Hot (HH).

When I arrived in LA, I was over 19 years of age. Strike One, and a big one at that. I was already too old to be HH. Strike Two: I had a pretty good body. Next! Pretty good? Um, no. A true HH is not only underweight (in order to look normal on camera), she has had professional physical assistance in order to enhance areas that need enhancing (a nicer way of saying BITCH GOT WORK DONE!). My 25 year old breasts could never compete with a teenage boob job. Botox. Hair Extensions. Eye lift. Nose job. Do you have the money it takes to be a true HH?

Ok fine. Let’s say you have the money to go under the knife, you’re working out 12 hours a day, and its been so long you can’t remember what the word “pizza” even means. The third, and most important thing to take into consideration when developing your HH-ness is as follows: DO YOU HAVE THE REQUISITE HH PERSONALITY?

When I arrived here, I was cute. (Not hot, not sexy, cute). “But” I whined, “but all the boys think I’m sexy. I get laid all the time, I swear!” I had to make peace with the fact that I am RWH, not HH. And what’s worse is that now, a mere three years later, I’m not even cute! I’m character!!!! A few pounds, a few years, and a few wrinkles later, I am a character actress. In my 20s. So fine. Character all the way to the bank! (Again, Bonnie). But besides not having the funds for surgery or the time to craft a goddess-like body, I truly think the most deciding factor that has created my character-ness has been my personality. My essence, if you will.

We can all look HH if we work hard enough at it. Elderly women in Beverly Hills can attest to that. With enough money, make up, and good lighting, just about every one of us could fit into the mold. However the defining factor, the thing that we have no control over, is whether or not we have the Hollywood Hottie personality.

Are you intelligent and articulate? Sorry. Not gonna work.

Does the idea of licking your lips at the camera while giant fans blow your hair make you giggle? Not gonna cut it.

Are you truly confident enough to treat men in a sub-human way that says “You’re welcome” every time they look at you? Well, good. Now we’re getting somewhere.

Honestly, you need to be a little bit dumb. You are an archetype, the sex goddess. Your physical perfection and sexuality is what you’re selling, and other personality traits are superfluous. You only need to be a) dumb, or b) kind of bitchy. If you happen to be charming, witty, funny or smart, they’re just not gonna know what to do with you. I got called in to audition for so many roles off my HH headshots when I first moved here. Yes, even in my cute days I got all gussied up and tried desperately to be something I thought Hollywood wanted. And it got me in the room. Until I opened my mouth, and said something clever, and I’d instantly see that clouded over look in the casting director’s eyes that said “She’s good, but she’s not right for this.”

Finally, if you are still in doubt about whether you are or should try to be HH, let’s talk population. Hollywood is full of actors and actresses who ARE this type. They personally, as human beings, want to look like Barbie or Ken. They enjoy looking fantastic and putting in the time, effort and energy it takes to do so. They naturally respond to the opposite sex in the exact way that is needed in the show or film being cast. Why are they going to cast a RWH trying to be an HH, when this town is filled to the brim with genuine, bonified HHers?

I wish my friend would heed my advice. She is bursting with personality! She is funny as hell, super smart, motivated, aggressive and headstrong. She also now has a brand new nose and breasts. Now again, I’m not anti-surgery. That’s a whole other ball of wax. But I do think that she doesn’t need to mold herself into an HH when her RWH personality is so incredible! The roles she will shine in are served just as well – probably better – with a big ol’ schnoz and saggy titties.

So if you are making the move to LA, calm down and take a deep breath before you start some insane new exercise regimine or begin starving yourself or googling surgeons. Do you know what Hollywood wants and needs you to be? Just you. That’s all. The you-est you you can be. Cuz while they have thousands of hotties and pretty faces and perfect bodies, they don’t have a you. And they need you, desperately. After all, there is only one of you available, so you are a very HOT commodity.

‘Aspring Actress’ and Related Semantics

I always sort of despised the phrase “aspiring actress.”  It conjures images of pathetic Hollywood starlet-wannabes waiting for things………waiting in line at clubs, waiting tables, waiting despeartely to be ‘discovered.’ Waiting for the industry and the world to validate their existence and their dreams. And worse, this label seems to be placed on any poor female who is pursuing an acting career and who has not yet “made it.” And what does that mean, to have “made it” in Hollywood? Considering that the most frequent question I get asked when someone finds out I’m an actor is “What have I seen you in?,” the answers seems to be the achievement of either a household name, or at least a household face.  But be warned, you civilian types – we actors do not (and SHOULD NOT) define ourselves, our work and careers by what you or may not have seen us in. It is completely possible to be working professionally all the time without being a recognizable figure, and I really wish we could somehow dissociate celebrity from the profession, and craft, of acting.

So no, I’m not an aspiring actress. (Ugh, makes me shudder just writing that). I am an actor. (Or actress, which seems to be the more popular term in Hollywood. Again, haven’t been able to use that word without flinching since freshman year theatre history class, where we learned that back in the day it was interchangeable with “whore”).  And what that means is that sometimes I work, and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I get paid, and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes it’s something you can see online, or on TV, or on DVD, or in a theatre. And sometimes it’s something you wouldn’t see unless you flew to a totally remote part of Canada to attend a completely obscure film festival whose audience will include you, me, and my mom, if I’m lucky.

Acting is perhaps the only profession I can think of where trying to find work is the work. I take that back – I suppose that is the case with many independent contractors. We spend hours of our time preparing for and getting to auditions. And these auditions can be HUGE! My friend, who you’ve most likely never heard of, was just up for a series regular role in a pilot on network television. She is right on the cusp of being someone you would never have to ask “What have I seen you in?” Alas, this particular gig did not work out, but there are thousands of actors just like her just one role away from the kind of work that (finally) puts them on the map. We can go on that way for years, you see. That is the life we have chosen, and there can be fulfillment found in the pursuit. There must be, in fact, if you don’t want to go completely insane. When I say I’m an actor, it has much less to do with the jobs I book and my resume than with the daily grind of living the life. It means submitting myself for jobs daily, auditioning whenever I can, taking classes, networking, writing screenplays and web series for myself, helping friends with projects, performing in my improv troupe, doing plays and staged readings, going to see theatre and films, doing (tons) of research, reading everything I can get my hands on related to my field, going to casting director workshops, creating and distributing marketing materials………phew, sounds like a lot, doesn’t it? It’s a full time job. And notice that I didn’t even mention actual bookings, jobs or shoot dates.

So no, I’m not aspiring to be anything. I already am, even though there may be a few people out there who haven’t heard of me. Yet. (:

Weekend Whirlwind

Decompressing after a long weekend of work. And by work, I actually mean working, and getting paid….as an actor! For four days in a row, I have gotten up at excruciatingly early hours, reported to set, sat in the hair and make up chair, and waited to be called to do my thing. After 12 or 13 hours of takes, set ups, touch ups and break downs (thankfully not mine), I have driven home, or been driven back to the hotel, to greedily indulge in a few hours sleep before getting up to do it all over again.

Before the client nixed the knee socks – whoops, too sexy!

And I’m in love. This is it. I’m DOING it. And sure, a hospital welcome video may not be the epitome of glamor or Hollywood glitz, but I’ll take it. I submitted MYSELF for this gig, got called in, read for the role, was submitted along with three other actresses, and was chosen by the client. It feels very satisfying to go from start to finish in the process. Our crew was young, hungry and totally professional. We had the joy (and sometimes the…challenge) of working with many non actors, as many of the actual hospital staff were used in the shoot. Watching their reactions to what we take for granted was so eye opening. I think the comment I heard the most throughout the weekend was “Wow, this is actually hard.” Yup. It is. Sighs began escaping the lips of nurses and doctors as we set up to do take three, four, seven. “Again?” they’d whine. Yup. Again.

One of my favorite moments happened when we were shooting a scene between me and two of the staff surgeons. They had to walk and talk, not look at the camera, hit their marks and exchange dialogue with me. (Oh, and not LAUGH at me being completely ridiculous in my nurse get up!) That is a lot to learn in zero time when you’ve never done it before, but they were total pros. After a few takes, the doctor turned to me and said “I’d rather do surgery. It’s much easier.”

A Night at the W: Part 2 (or, the excitement and thrill of perfectly executed indifference)

While being ushered towards the correct entrance, I am whisked past lines of chaffing, sweaty twenty-somethings who, despite their best efforts, will seem cheap and mealy compared to the filet mignon that is……..The W. Hotel. Lobby.

When one thinks “hotel lobby,” images of cheap paintings, thick outdated carpeting and soft Muzak come to mind. In an instant, every preconceived notion of “My boyfriend’s jazz band” in the “lobby” is shattered, as if the dripping chandelier serving as the band’s backdrop had crashed to the floor in one glorious, perfectly-timed, celebratory cascade.

I stand, amazed and sheepish in my black cotton dress, cheap sweater and Payless flats. I have entered the beautiful abyss, the cave of wonder, the rainbow’s end. A five piece jazz band adorns the stage, the musicians banging away with the audacity of big name rock stars. The singer is the kind of blonde woman whose hair color and body type will never let her look a day over 30 from afar, yet somehow rather masculine up close. Her voice bellows through the speakers, cutting across the din of a room filled, just filled, with sparkling near-mythic creatures.

The place is packed. Plush backless chairs massage the backsides of the evening’s most VIP guests. The main floor in front of the stage is sunken, like a living room from the 1970s. The crowd sits, stands, moves, dances, pulsates continuously. They act as one chaotic unit, simultaneously glorifying and shunning the entertainment. There is a sense of “Look at me appreciating jazz music. I am so. Cultured.” At the same time, the clinking of glasses and shouts to be heard indicate that the band and the singer are merely the hired help for the evening. One must be seen listening, but there isn’t much need to actually focus on the music.

And how could you? There is so much to look at! Gazelles in gothish couture. Lithe bodies that haven’t seen food in days. Cheap and expensive suits, perfumes. Women with the same number of surgeries as birthdays. Eyes darting every which way. Who is here? Who is looking at me? At whom am I looking? Should I look away? When to talk? Stay silent? Walk? Drink? Laugh?

The energy! The glow! The excitement and thrill of perfectly executed indifference. “Oh my God,” I think, amazed to be having the next thought: “Everyone who’s anyone, is here.” As ludicrous as it sounds, there is a sense of being “where it’s at” in this moment. When I was younger, I might have felt like everyone in the room was in on some kind of secret. The wealthy models holding hands en route to the bathroom held some sort of pertinent information, and if I could just get that, clutch it….whatever ‘it’ was…..I would be ushered into the secret club, given riches and jewels and a never-ending, perfect career, and live out the rest of my days in a perpetual state of orgasm.

Alas…I have grown. I have aged. The magical curse of thinking the grass is greener has been lifted. I watch, with a tiny smile, as men try desperately to pick up women. Women try desperately to appear cool, nonchalant. Girls create drama and boys don’t even notice. Unimportant people lie themselves into oblivion. Starlets knowingly take the bait. No one slouching, lounging, standing or sitting is anywhere close to content. Everyone feels like everyone else knows something they don’t. Everyone wants to know the secret. And the secret is that no one – not even the “someone”s – know a thing.

The music swells. I shout with my friends. A spotlight from the stage spills into the seated, sleepy audience, their chatter ever growing in competition with the band. The number swings with life. The singer’s deep alto reaches higher and higher, her voice like a chunk of dark chocolate, too rich to be consumed in one sitting.

I am introduced to a famous singer. In high school I would cut class and listen to her hit single on the radio while my friends and I drove to our favorite diner. We’d sit for hours drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, and on the way back to class there she’d be again. I loved that song. I loved her name. I loved remembering what it felt like to have never met a celebrity, and the kinds of fantasies I held about famous singers and actors. About Hollywood. Tonight, some ten years and thousands of miles later, this particular singer shakes my hand, her eyes drifting slightly as she looks into mine. Her head nods, she cracks a half smile, and as we all plead with her to join the band, “Just for one song!”, I realize that she is higher than I’ve ever been on something that I could never afford. What makes me the saddest, in this moment, isn’t the fact that someone I’d grown up admiring does some serious drugs, but that I didn’t even bat an eyelash at it. I am nostalgic for my innocence.

Two of our friends decide to dance, elbowing their way through the crowd to the lip of the stage.They begin a sexy salsa to the big band swing. The mixed genres are somehow perfect. The woman wears a clinging red dress, her full figure pushing the fabric out in all the places the models have puked away long ago. The man’s hands guide her effortlessly through turn after turn. As they spin, pull away, then into each other again, they dance in and out of the spotlight. I imagine the hotel’s lighting designer calling a special rehearsal just for them, and the W’s event coordinator sifting through reel after reel to find the perfect couple to plant in the audience.

The woman’s hair is coming undone, and the man is beginning to sweat. They breathe together, the sex palpable and mounting between them. They are alive in the night, in the music. All of the humanity that has been masked by the expensive clothes, the drugs, the flat-ironed hair and designer handbags and smart phones and car keys and cigarettes and coke and Grey Goose and after parties and MAC make up and valet tickets has been UNLEASHED. It has been channeled through the dancers. It pounds, quakes. They are alive for every single one of us. I cannot take my eyes off of them. I am watching myself, free from Hollywood, free from all desire for fame, success, money, recognition, respect. All that matters in this moment is joy, and fun, and love and music and sex and laughter. For a moment, I can fucking breathe.

The song ends. The fresh air catches in my lungs, and for a moment or two I cough and sputter. It was almost too much, to feel so free. To be reminded of all that I have given up to be here. How I’ve had to change myself to find glory in the realization of a scene. To find beauty in the smog.

A Night at the W: Part 1

One of my favorite phrases to repeat to people who don’t live in LA or have never been here, is “It’s nothing like its reputation.” Images of blonde bombshells with fake boobs and boxy-shouldered studios execs driving Bentleys around and screaming at their assistants is just not my LA. My friends are nice, down to earth. They drive Civics and Priuses (Pri-ie?). They work hard and drink beer and eat at Little Toni’s and search out the best Happy Hours and sushi places in town. But every once in awhile, I’m reminded that there is, in fact, a whole n’other world out here. To me, it seems elusive. The “real” Hollywood is hiding behind patent leather back doors, velvet ropes, and a bouncer who can smell fear, real breasts and cheap threads from Forever 21. My latest dose of that reality was last Sunday, at the W Hotel in Hollywood.

I was going to see my friend’s fiancee play jazz. Sounded harmless and up-my-alley enough. And on a Sunday night, I imagined that Marta and I would be about 50% of the entire audience. I pictured a smallish, dark room with low ceilings, a bored bartender making himself cocktails in between getting me beers, and a sad, sinking feeling that the poor musicians are really just playing for themselves.

As Hollywood has proven to me time and time again, OH, how very wrong I was.

The W Hotel is on Hollywood Boulevard at Vine, across from the Pantages Theatre. I had never been inside either place, unless you count the fact that the entrance to the W is also the Hollywood Metro station, which I have patronized exactly one time. The Pantages across the street causes me wistful glances, as I yearn to be performing there while simultaneously shunning my musical theatre past. I park where I usually park when I’m going to do something that’s a little more “me”: see a friend’s improv show at IO West, drink $3 beers at Dillon’s, consume 5 orders of cream cheese wontons at Kung Pao Kitty (RIP Kitty!)…and I walk into the hotel. The lobby is sparkling in golds and shiny silvers and – wait. Wait, a second. It wasn’t quite that easy.

See, the W Hotel is so exclusive, it doesn’t even have a DOOR. Looking at the oddly shaped structure from the street, it impossible to tell where you, um, go in. It’s sort of like visiting Tiburon or Beverly Hills, when there is truly nowhere to park because they don’t want you there, unless you live there. And if you lived there, you’d already know where to go.

My only saving grace was a streaming pack of early, early 20-soomethings who seemed to be drawn upstream towards an unseen entrance like salmon spawning in spring. They all kept giggling, and I couldn’t seem to figure out what was so funny. Was there some kind of new iPad chip that could be implanted directly into your brain and allowed you to watch episodes of Seinfeld that no one else could see?

I followed the sexy gigglers to a velvet rope freeway; it’s lanes and crannies more complicated than the 405 at rush hour. (I hate that expression. When is it NOT rush hour on the 405?) There was a VIP lane, a guest list lane, a lane for people who wanted to buy drugs or receive therapy, or both. I wished my bank would come up with something like this. Nipping at the heels of a particularly giggly couple, I tailed them up to an enormous, parrot-like bouncer who had nothing to say except “VIP? VIP? Ladies, VIP?”

“Hi. Um. I’m here to see my friend play jazz?”

“VIP?”

“Ha. Um. No.”

“Where’s he playing?”

My mind races. It hadn’t occurred to me that there would or could be more than one place.

The bouncer lists several important-sounding rooms in which the jazz could be taking place. I gaze up at him helplessly. He takes pity on me, unclips the velvet freeway divider, and passes me off to another bouncer who seems to be the innermost level of security. He mutters something into his own ear, hand poised in the air like I’m some kind of security threat in need of clearance. He pushes through a giant glass door and ushers me in to…..

Hollywood Heaven.

(……to be continued……..)