Casting Call (A Metaphor)

**WARNING: This post is not what you're used to. Read on and bear with the blacktress, or wait for the next post, which will hopefully be funny. **

So, I've been alluding to a certain young gentleman in a few of my October and September posts. And, as is usual for the blacktress -- and, as the hit song goes -- another one bites the dust.

I take these things harder than one probably should. I agonize in ways that, although can be HI-larious (where's my book deal?!), they can also drive me cray. And, I think I've finally figured out why I freak out. This information is nothing new, but as it goes with Sojo, I need to write out the TRUTH for it to set me free.

I am great on first dates. First dates are, for me, similar to an audition. I walk in effortlessly, taking a shot in the dark, and that energy and devil-may-care attitude is appealing. I play with my lines, I swallow my direction whole and give it back, because...well, why not? This person doesn't know what I've got, has nothing to compare my behavior to, and we're just gonna have fun for a couple minutes. Sometimes it doesn't stick, and I don't get the part. But that's usually okay, because I never knew more than those 3 or 4 pages of dialogue I had to audition with.

But then there are the callbacks. The second, third, fourth--and, if i'm lucky, fifth--dates, where I'm getting to know more about what I'm up against. Where I start to imagine myself in the role, see the possibilities, and get excited.

And I become terrified. The stakes are 40 stories high because I actually have a shot. It means he sees something in me that is better than the majority. So the sweat begins. The pacing, the worrying, the babbling. My lines no longer flow, because I've got one eye on the director, checking his response before I continue. Statements previously made with ease now end in question marks.

"I really like Ani Difranco? [Unless that intimidates you, in which case, I won't bring up music at all, and deflect to your interests.]" Things I know in my heart to be true, I become afraid to say, because in the past, it's been the "wrong direction for that character."

Don't get me wrong. My sense of self is strong. I know who I am, and sometimes I'm a hot-ass R. Kelly-style mess, and other times I'm RuPaul fabulous. I cannot change my core, and I don't aim to when I put myself out there. I just see myself as malleable, able to win over all sorts of people--depending on the order in which I choose to show you my range.

Because, when you're in a callback--when you're really being considered--the difference between scoring the role and not getting a phone call comes down to the minutiae. It's not that you don't fit--it's that you don't slide in effortlessly.

It could come down to your height. Or the way the camera captures you. Or the tiniest tick or gesture that, when magnified, suddenly becomes grating. Or it could be the way you turn a phrase that reminds the director of someone they hated, and now, no matter what, there's that association. Or it could simply be the color of your hair. And, although you could dye it (you'd still be yourself, it'd still be your skill), they don't really need you to when the girl two seats down is a natural. And although you've got the goods, they don't quite see you in their big picture.

Remember that this is a metaphor--forming relationships isn't this simple, and the status differences inherent in a director-desperate actor relationship are not always the way the get-to-know-you phase is constructed. And, as most people know, half the battle of "getting to production" is the deep desire to create something in the first place. It's the desire to put up with the difficulties.

So I know these are broad stream-of-consciousness strokes that don't get at the details. But I find the end emotion is similar because, when you consciously date, you present yourself. You package yourself in the most attractive way. You are a product, and you're trying to prove that product's worth. The frustration for both actors and lovers comes from knowing that you've got the goods, that you are good, and yet you don't have your shot yet. So do you keep on getting up and out there, knowing that all you can do is your best? How do you keep bringing your best stuff when you know that most times your best won't be good enough?

Or do you just stay in the bubble of acting classes and rehearsals, talking it out with friends and doing exercises that strengthen both your skills and your resolve?

I don't know.

So, I guess I don't really have a point. Just a different kind of post.

Forget Confucius—Blacktress Says…

So, I’m done with the Kiwi. After not calling me for 4 days—when he specifically said he would—I just lost interest. I mean, I don’t ask for much, but at the very least, do what you say you’re going to do, you know? Or, if you can’t do it, at least have a good reason. His excuse for not calling me: “I got really wasted all weekend and couldn’t call.”

Really? Really? That’s the best you got? Honey, in those kinds of situations, lie to me. tell me you lost a limb and needed to get it reattached before you could see me. Tell me you’ve been smoking too much and they had to amputate your fingers (like the lady in the NYC Subway ad about quitting smoking) and you couldn’t text me. Come up with some good shit!

When he finally resurfaced, he promised to make it up to me by cooking me dinner at his place. Never one to turn down a free meal (Mama didn’t raise no fool!), I went over there Monday night—and I think I might find his roommate more interesting than him.

Not a good sign.

When recounting a story about one of his coworkers (who he referred to as his “little black brother”), the Kiwi couldn’t remember the guy’s name. He’s trying to figure it out, and he looks at me and goes, “What’s a black name that begins with a ‘J’?”

Sweet god in heaven, am I on candid camera?

Normally, I can shake off foreign ignorance, but when the person puts their p in my v, my tolerance becomes much lower. I looked at him and said, “Um…Jay-Z?”

Anyway, after a decent dinner (made more delicious by the fact that I didn’t have to cook it or clean up afterwards), we chatted a little bit—or, rather, I listened as he talked. After a lackluster makeout session, I headed home. As I rode the bus (doing my part to help the environment and my wallet), I realized that the Kiwi may be a lighthearted distraction, and even though he’s quick to feed me a meal, he’s not actually bringing anything to the blacktress’ potluck.

Let me explain.

Sojourner has a theory--a philosophy, if you will (will you?). I first developed it a couple of years ago when I former female friend of mine started dating one of my exes who’d hurt me real bad. As I thought about how to handle the situation, I looked back on our friendship up until that point. Over the 4 years I’d known her, she’d slept with one of my crushes, and, when I offered to take her home one night when she was drunk-crying (you know, the worse kind of tears), she put her head in my lap and PUKED ON ME.
We were on minute 7 of a 45-minute car ride.

As I sat in her vomit that night, I knew that this was not someone who was good for me. It wasn't until later that I was able to sort out my feelings.

See, the thing is, life is like a potluck. And the question is: What do you bring to the table in the potluck of my life???

Think about it:

You have a gathering of friends, and tell each one to bring a little something—and what they bring to the table is very telling.

First off, you’ve got the friends who roll up with a main dish—maybe some pasta with pesto, or a hearty salad—maybe even a meat dish. Those are the people you can count on. They’re bringing some sustenance to your table, and by extension, your life.

YUMMERS!!! This kinda goodness comes from a bestie, who knows that you need to be fed--both emotionally and physically.

Then, you’ve got the people who roll up with a couple bottles of red wine—I like them. They may not be the ones you go to when the chips are down, but when you want to know where the party is, they’ve got it. And that, my friends, is vital.

Wine-bringers are the folks who will tell you to go up and talk to that hot guy who is eye-fucking the shit out of you, and if he doesn’t holla back, they’ll buy you a shot. God bless ‘em.


Then, there are the folks who come by with some sort of Entenmann’s cake they clearly got at Duane Reade on the way to your house. I mean, I appreciate the effort, but that’s a little lackluster. It’s like, they forget they had a place to be and at the last minute ducked in to the place near the atm; they know they should bring something, but it’s not really what anyone wants to eat—and it’s full of trans fat, which will kill you.

NOT DELICIOUS. THAT ICING HAS BEEN ON THERE SINCE 1997!

I’ll still take an Entenmann’s cake person in, cause at least they tried, but they won’t be on the permanent party list, if you know what I mean (and I think you do).


Then, you have, like, the people who bring a half-empty bottle of Pepsi that’s going flat and some hummus dip. Those two things don’t even go together! It’s like they were cleaning out their fridge and thought you’d like the leftovers! These are the kinds of friends that dump all over you, give you their crap.
NOT OKAY.

I thought an image of The Hoff humping pepsi would really get my point across. If this image isn't wrong, I don't know what is.

Then, you have the bitches who have the nerve to roll up to your place empty-handed, LATE, and then when they leave they take a plate!!!

[No image on the interweb can describe this horror and disrespect. You will have to imagine it for yourself]

OH HELL TO THE NO!!

You know the ones I’m talking about. The bloodsuckers. The ones who will date your ex and then ask you to tell them it’s okay. It ain’t okay!! That’s not cool!!

I think the Kiwi would fall into the Entenmann’s category. He tries, and brings a little something, but it’s not quite rounding out the meal or bringing a new and exciting flavor, you know? I’ve decided from now on, people need to be coming with some main dishes or wine!! Do not come late and take a plate from my potluck!!

I think I should have majored in Philosophy.