Wednesday, October 31, 2012

I'm Bad At Things...

I'm not good at things.  And I'm not trying to be dramatic or anything, I'm literally just terrible at all things.  While the general public is good at things like being employed, creating new offspring and not spilling mayonnaise on their pants, I’m attempting to not contract any more obscure liver diseases or purchase cars with my debit card.  I assure you I'm failing on both counts – I'm bad at things.

This belief was solidified by a recent string of auditions.  Much like all other areas of my life, I am failing at acting.  It's like watching a toddler trying to feed itself.  It's messy and disconcerting and elicits a lot of pity, but also a smidge of joy, from curious onlookers.

Let's start last week when I was called in to audition for a new sitcom on Fox.  I was elated!  I knew this was going to be my big break.  I got the script and began to memorize when I noticed something was off.  There was a reference to licking feet and I thought maybe I had missed something.  I had.  Turns out I was auditioning for the role of "transvestite."  IS THIS A JOKE?!  Do you know what that means?  It means the fine people of said Fox sitcom released a description of a transvestite into the ether, my agent then read this malarkey and thought, "Oh my God…we have someone who's perfect" and then submitted my picture.  Fox then agreed that I was indeed transvestite material which brings us to the audition portion of things.

Me: Hi.

Casting Agent:  Can you lower your voice?

Me: Um…I mean…I can but this just in, I'm actually a woman.

CA: Sure, whatever, just talk lower buddy.

I mean…I guess the thing that's most upsetting here is that I didn't get the role and I thought, "HOW DARE THEY!  I AM A GREAT TRANSVESTITE!  I'M BASICALLY A MAN!  I WAS PERFECT FOR THAT ROLE!"

It's complicated and embarrassing.  A few days later, I was called in to audition for a commercial that contained a lot of text.  I'm not sure if you heard but I was a theater major.  Lots of text = no problem.  I spent the day memorizing.  I insisted on reciting my lines to anyone who would listen.  I called everyone I knew and rehearsed my lines into their voicemails.  I. Was. Ready.  When I arrived at the casting agency I looked around at the room of desperate women – women who spend their days counting calories and dodging gluten.  While these women were starving themselves and scouring through racks of half-priced tunics at Ross, I was studying my craft.  I had gusto and sustenance and I thought it a shame that all these bitches had struggled in traffic just to have their asses handed to them by a chubby Midwesterner. 

When I went into my audition, lines ready to go, the casting agent gave me some instructions.

CA: Ok great, so you're going to walk from over here with this bowl and this apple, sit down at this table, address your imaginary daughter, show this card to the camera and smile!

Me: Got it.

CA: Ok…action!

Me While Slowly Ambling Around The Room Like A Deer Caught In The Headlights: Ah ga ga ga ga ga aahhhhh ga gaaa ga ga gaaa ga ga gagaa

CA: *stunned silence*

Me: *horrified expression*

CA: Ok great, we'll let you know.

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED IN THERE!  I was distraught.  I literally turned actually retarded as soon as I got into the room.  Apparently I'm the type of actor WHO CAN'T HOLD AN APPLE AND SAY WORDS AT THE SAME TIME!

It was demoralizing.  Today was no different when I drove to Santa Monica to audition for the role of "conservative put-together mom."  As you can imagine, this took a lot of work and I was pretty impressed by the results.  As I strutted my stuff down Santa Monica Blvd., I was feeling totally in control.  I was wearing a very cute and conservative dress, my hair was coiffed, my make-up was set, and my pearls were dangling demurely.  I got into the waiting room and smirked – once again, I have outdone myself.  It was at this point that I noticed my ankle was itching.  As I looked down, I realized it was covered in blood – CAUSE I HAD ATTEMPTED TO SHAVE MY LEGS THIS MORNING – LIKE A MOTHER FUCKING LADY! 

AHHHHHHH!  It's pointless.  Some people are just bad at all things.  It's not my fault really.  I mean it's not like I'm not trying!  Sure…maybe it's a sign from God that I should be doing something different with my life.  But I assure you, I've tried!  I can't cook, I'm terrible at being attractive, and I'm horrible at men.  The only areas in which I've ever excelled are sex with strangers and a bevy of narcotics which further proves my point THAT I WAS PERFECT FOR THAT TRANSVESTITE ROLE!  Ugh… 

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Dear France:

I fucking hate you.  Seriously France, what is your problem?  Listen, I get it….YOU'RE SUPER FIT AND ATTRACTIVE.  Does that make you better than me?  PROBABLY FRANCE!  Paris is a scam France!  It was created solely to make Americans feel badly about themselves.  I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY FRANCE!  I doubt I'll be able to afford anything in your super swanky cities.  God you make me so sick.  TRÈS MALADE FRANCE!  Betcha didn't think I knew how to speak French did you France?  Well I don't!  And I'm sick of you pointing it out!  UGH...STOP BONJOURING ME FRANCE!  Are you too good for Hello?  Is that it?  I know you speak English France and we both know I'm American so why don't you cut me some mother fucking slack. YOU CAN'T FOOL ME FRANCE!  I know you're glaring at me France…THIS IS A CHICAGO BEARS T-SHIRT FRANCE!  GET OVER IT!  I wear clothes that look like pajamas because I can't fit into pants.  I CAN'T FIT INTO PANTS FRANCE!  I bet that makes you real happy doesn't it France.  You sick son of a bitch.  YOU HAVE AN EATING DISORDER FRANCE!  Seriously, get your shit together.  Your accent is stupid France…it's disgusting.  You sound like a fucking idiot so why don't you just cut the crap.  I get it France!  You're super unique and laid-back.  I AM FREAKING OUT OK FRANCE!?  I HAVE A JOB FRANCE!  While you're bulking up on espressos in front of some French-speaking café I AM GOING TO MY MOTHER FUCKING JOB.  Did you get that France?!  Your Marlboro Reds taste like Marlboro Lights France…and that…is fucking…bullshit.  I hate you.  I literally hate you France.  You better watch your mother fucking back.