The Wyrd Sisters

I GOT THE PILOT!! 

My house is a mess, I have 15 different projects on my plate, and I’m starting to feel that anxious there’s something I should be doing, but I’m not sure what that is… feeling ALL THE TIME now.  I have got to get organized.

But that’s not what I’m here to write about.

The thing that’s really on my mind–so much that I dreamt about it all night, then woke up at 5am thinking about it, fell back asleep and dreamt about it again–is that I am up for a television pilot and I’m 90% certain I got it.  That freaking 10% is the shit that’s driving me crazy.

Of course, talking about it now is probably the best way to make certain I don’t get the part.

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Fuck it.

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So last night I went to the callback for this pilot (which I won’t name here, otherwise ensuring my jinx), but I didn’t really have much faith that I would get it.  I showed up at 4pm, and based on the first audition, I knew I would be in for a long haul.  The two writers and director really took their time with everyone–they tried me out in different roles, took me in for a reading, sent me out, brought new people in, sent them out, took me back in with new people, sent me out again… and on and on for hours.

It’s an ensemble show, so they really wanted to make sure the people they cast have good chemistry.  I didn’t think much about the fact that I was still there until we got to about 8:40pm and the director politely sent about 8 people home, leaving me and four other people.  Bear in mind, the show calls for a five person cast.

The five of us were there for another hour, reading three scenes and finishing it all up with a pretty rad improv.  Maybe it means nothing that I was there in the last group.  But as we were sitting there after the improv, the whole situation suddenly felt very significant to me.  I thought for sure, as they asked us to wait in the hall one last time, that they would emerge a few minutes later, all smiles, saying, "We just had to confirm what we already knew–you guys are it–you’re our fantastic cast.  Congratulations!"

Of course what they said instead was, "Thank you so much.  You guys are all great.  We’ll let you know Friday."

There were still smiles and much back patting, but it comes down to them not saying anything for sure.

I guess I’m so fixated on this because I felt like it was so close.  I could practically taste it, sitting up there on the stage, imagining what it would be like to be on a TV show.  I let myself think I had it, and it was such a let down to not know anything for certain. 

If I had been asked to leave just an hour earlier, I would have felt good about my performance, rated myself at a 30% chance of getting it, and called it a day.  I’m used to rejection at this point, and I save myself a lot of grief by not pinning too many hopes on any one audition.

But in moments like these, I realize what a romantic sucker I still am.

This is a hilarious article on the Unitarian Jihad.  Thom and I have been to a few Unitarian services–I knew there was a reason we liked those crazy kids.

Check out Oh My God It Burns! for an experiement involving vodka, brita filters, and some nerdy drunks.  Good times.

Man, it’s weird looking at your own face on film.

I did the second shooting of this student film project at Holy Cross this afternoon.  The first time we shot, "technical errors" wiped out the entire session.  Luckily, it was a mock-news broadcast that required one set and one actor.  So it was easy enough for me to come back a second time to finish the project for the director.

After we shot, she took a look at the tape to make absolutely sure all was copasetic, and as I looked over her shoulder, I realized how strange it is to see yourself talking.  Normally, you look in the mirror when you brush your teeth, check your clothes, do your hair/make-up.  And while you’re looking, you’re making the most attractive face, looking at the best possible you. 

You’re not talking.  You’re not creating dimples where there aren’t usually dimples.  You’re not forming your mouth into shapes you’ve never seen before.  In short, you’re not looking like the most ridiculous thing imaginable.

But no one ever tells you how silly you look when you talk.  You have no clue until you see it for yourself–guard down, completely truthful.  Not the self-conscious pep-talk you give to yourself or the comic, "You talkin’ me?" routine.  The dirty, flawed, utterly strange You.

Of course, no one thinks you look strange, because that’s how you always look.

It’s really disturbing.

I suppose I better get over it if I want to have a chance at a film career.  After all, look at Paul Giamatti: he’s pretty funny-looking and he’s on top of the world now.

(No offense, Paul.)

I should really be working on lines for this industrial I’m filming in two days, but it’s so gorgeous outside right now I’m having a hard time focusing.  So instead of going outside and taking a walk or sitting at a cafe to people-watch, I’m sitting inside, avoiding lines by surfing the web.  Real productive.

This is the problem of not having a 9-5 job (not that I’m complaining!)–you really have to be self-disciplined.  I’m usually pretty good about making use of my time, but when your workday isn’t defined by getting in your car and "arriving" and you don’t have a boss looking over your shoulder, it’s hard to know if you’re doing to best you can.

I’ve tried making a structured plan for my days before, but it’s never really worked out.  Either an audition or job interrupt it or I just get bored with the plan.  That’s part of why I chose a career as an actor–I love the variety.

So, for today I’m going to make a compromise.  Out to the deck, where I will dutifully work on both my script–and tan–lines.

I just realized that I’ve maintained this journal for a month!  Yeah!  Go me!

(some moments later)

… And now that momentary sense of victory has been crushed by a fruitless half hour search for a stupid piece of clipart.  I found the picture (cute little dancing party hats and balloons), but was thwarted in my attempt to post it here.  Now I can only mark the occasion with the mingling scents of stale pride and pungent shame.

Enjoy.

I love the recent MoveonPac contest regarding Bush’s social security plan:

Bush in 30 Years

It’s a fun and informative source for the anti-privatization view.  I’ve gone back and forth on the idea myself.  I’m inherently skeptical of any plan of Bush’s, but the idea of creating private accounts for retirement didn’t initially seem off the mark. 

After all, I think this country has become too dependant on the government taking care if it.  It’s one thing to have a safety net and another thing entirely to feel entitled.  People don’t take responsibility for their own situation.  Social security shouldn’t be treated as a retirement fund—we’re supposed to create those ourselves.  Social security should boost people out of hard times, to care for those who have had suffered unforeseen misfortune and can turn to no one else for help.

But I also think there are better ways to deal with the problem than scrapping the system and gambling that money on the stock market.

I just really wish this country could have an intelligent conversation about real issues instead of screaming matches, fought by two minority extremes who will never listen to each other.

I’m actually starting to feel like a working actor.  Not that I’m getting paid, but I’m working nonetheless.

I went on three auditions this weekend and booked three jobs.  One is a student film and I’ll be the principal in a newscast-type deal.  Another is work as background/atmosphere in a short indie set in the 20s–not such a challenge, but probably worth it just for the costumes.

But the coolest opportunity came on Saturday by an utter fluke.  I was needed for a role in an indie short to be submitted to a festival by Wednesday.  I met with the director and other actor Saturday night, rehearsed for a couple hours, and showed up to film Sunday morning.  We were at it for 15 hours yesterday and came up with a product that I hope will be very good.  It’s a pretty scandalous comedy, which I’m sure will make me blush to watch it, but I was glad to have a chance to push my boundaries.

The best part was that the director really seemed to know what he was doing–he focused so much on the performance and not just the camera work.  It was a rare treat.  The other actor was great and made me laugh, and I feel really great about the experience.

My feel are killing me, though.  That many hours in freaking high healed shoes and I can barely walk today.

So after much nail-biting we’ve come to find out that Edgar has had some sort of "vascular accident" which is much less severe than the "spinal lymphoma" that was also a possibility.  Essentially, he will have a tough time using his back leg for a while, but eventually should recover most of his mobility.

It’s amazing to me that cats have the ability to repair damage to their spinal cords so that limbs that were once paralyzed can become fully-functioning again. 

Crazy!

I’m so thankful that it’s not much worse than it is.  We could be looking at months of drugs and chemotherapy for our poor kitty.  I feel like we’ve dodged a bullet somehow.