This past Saturday I--around 1p.m.-- discovered there was a cattle call audition @ Lily's Talent Agency. This entails stuffing whatever advertised demographic they need into their office for a quick one-line, meet and headshot dropping off process that is, in fact, much like herding cattle--opportunistic, self-absorbed, wistful little cattle. On this particular day, they need On-Camera kids and adults. So I'm there, gussied up and gleaming, tethered between a flock of weather-worn mothers whoring their children for a crack at some kind stardom; a fabled, better life. But it's really fucking funny: there's cranky mothers; there's hyperactive and misbehaving, miscreant little ninnies; we have twenty-something employees of the agency (almost exclusively female) cordially guiding us from point A to point B over there to point--I felt they were especially nice to me; there's one lines to memorize! One-liners are the crux of product placement commercials i.e., "I ate Quaker Outs for 30 days--took my cholesterol down 10 points! QUAKER OATS, warms your body, and soul."
I'm finally upstairs, towards the end of this I-really-need-an-agent-but-am-too-lazy-to-mail-shit Sojourn, I have 2(!) of these one-liner deals memorized. There's been patience--Gandhi-like Patience towards this mother and her 2 offspring--3 and 5 respectively--who in union harness this uncanny ability to disrupt yet intrigue everyone around them. This woman, around my age, maybe a little older, early 30's or something, she's engaged in this unyielding, imminent threat of her kids just going completely ape-shit, and there's no progress, no solution, no ultimatum, because-- She's having them memorize one-lines. Of course. That's why they're present, but these ones...these compact, little Bastions of the American Dream, they'd hear keys in the corner and most likely combust, poof!, up in flames from excitement. Overstimulation.
But we're near. I've placed more emphasis on an American Express jingle I feel better suits calculated, distinct affect of my voice, of certain pronunciations that would obviously place me in the upper-crust of anyone who can even form words or syllables, propelling me to exclusive representation.
I fuck it up. Yeah...they were so memorized once I started delivering the line, I felt a shard of cloudiness and panicked; I was shocked by my memory failing me. I still finished the line, and this was in the office, the finishing-line, in front of 2 ladies and 2 guys, both gay I believe, and, 'Thanks!' was the feedback. I grabbed my bag in the adjacent room, my jacket, and trotted downstairs, laughing, more than likely still, representing, myself.
Saturday evening there was a party. People dancing--many not to the music, by that I mean out-of-sync; people watching me spew these political harangues on the "Intellectual Divide in this country,"; one party-goer carried an oppressive odor about him.
Sunday there was a medley of detoxification. There was thai food and tim spent laughing, lying supine.
Now I'm weighing out the relationships of Thomas and Jane, the two main characters in Apartment Hunting. While the overall calamity remains in tact (you'll have to wait to read what said calamity is) the real question, even in a dark-comedy, how emotional do we want to get? It's a narrative tug-of-war because the relatable aspects people cling to will, in ways, bleed into the absurdist comedic elements too. There is a balance. But there is a need to keep it primal, especially in a short film, less time to meander. Lessons learned find themselves a smidge more palpable in these situations as well. Thomas' humanity would reverberate louder against the sillier humor too, I hope.
Made cous-cous combined with oatmeal for breakfast; in the end, it was dry and unseasoned.
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