Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Prepare to Have Your Mind BLOWN
Hey friends,
You know how I like to keep some white men in my corner, just in case these monkey moms try to bring back slavery. Well, it would seem that many of my back-up freedom fighters have actually learned a thing or two from the blacktress. Case in point: the music video below. I got this straight from the producer, y'all! He's a southern ginger with a Jewish sensibility, and the only heterosexual male friend I've never made out with. And now, with the production of this video, he has made a blacktress proud...
For those of you who are not familiar, Big Freedia is a leader in the "bounce" scene--a genre of hip hop developed in New Orleans.
Perhaps Lafayette from True Blood isn't quite so fictional after all. (Which I hope is true, because I think he is the greatest character--and Nelsan Ellis, the finest blacktor--of our time.)
LOVE HIM!
When my Confederate friend told me he'd moved to N'awlins, I was a bit wary at first, wondering if he was just trying to bed vulnerable brown women with the line, "Hey girl, are your levees still broken???" and call it "working for habitat for humanity." But he's actually being of service and getting his filmmaking on with reputable talent. Guys, this music is so real, the New York Times even wrote about it! I am kind of obsessed, and my only regret is that JJSiii hadn't alerted me to this sensation sooner.
When I asked him how on earth he got involved in this gender-bending rap world, he looked at me with his head held high and his back straight as an arrow and said:
"I said to myself, Michael Gottwald, you can't come home to your family for Christmas in Virginia with your head held high unless you can say with confidence, Mom and Dad, I produced a heavily psychedelic music video about an 80-foot transgendered African-American queer man demanding that small white folks, spandex-clad black folks, and Max Goldblatt dance to a sexually explicit, New Orleans strain of hip hop called 'bounce' in the only way the genre allows: by shaking their ass with tremendous vigor.
Also, Freedia was all like 'Where the downtown at?' and i was like, Here!, HERE Freedia! Here I am! Let me produce a video for you!"
Bless his cotton socks!
You know how I like to keep some white men in my corner, just in case these monkey moms try to bring back slavery. Well, it would seem that many of my back-up freedom fighters have actually learned a thing or two from the blacktress. Case in point: the music video below. I got this straight from the producer, y'all! He's a southern ginger with a Jewish sensibility, and the only heterosexual male friend I've never made out with. And now, with the production of this video, he has made a blacktress proud...
For those of you who are not familiar, Big Freedia is a leader in the "bounce" scene--a genre of hip hop developed in New Orleans.
Perhaps Lafayette from True Blood isn't quite so fictional after all. (Which I hope is true, because I think he is the greatest character--and Nelsan Ellis, the finest blacktor--of our time.)
LOVE HIM!
When my Confederate friend told me he'd moved to N'awlins, I was a bit wary at first, wondering if he was just trying to bed vulnerable brown women with the line, "Hey girl, are your levees still broken???" and call it "working for habitat for humanity." But he's actually being of service and getting his filmmaking on with reputable talent. Guys, this music is so real, the New York Times even wrote about it! I am kind of obsessed, and my only regret is that JJSiii hadn't alerted me to this sensation sooner.
When I asked him how on earth he got involved in this gender-bending rap world, he looked at me with his head held high and his back straight as an arrow and said:
"I said to myself, Michael Gottwald, you can't come home to your family for Christmas in Virginia with your head held high unless you can say with confidence, Mom and Dad, I produced a heavily psychedelic music video about an 80-foot transgendered African-American queer man demanding that small white folks, spandex-clad black folks, and Max Goldblatt dance to a sexually explicit, New Orleans strain of hip hop called 'bounce' in the only way the genre allows: by shaking their ass with tremendous vigor.
Also, Freedia was all like 'Where the downtown at?' and i was like, Here!, HERE Freedia! Here I am! Let me produce a video for you!"
Bless his cotton socks!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
A Dream Deferred--And Decoded
Have I told you guys about how I have reality-nightmares? As KWalsh can attest, my most frightening dreamscapes don’t involved faceless killers, falling into an abyss, or snakes on a plane. I often wake up hyperventilating over things that could very likely happen, but the timeline’s a bit off. Take, for instance, last night’s nachtmare:
I was at home with my mother, and the house looked the way it did before she moved out (you know, furnished), but she was just visiting. She’d spent the night, and we were watching TV. Just then, I look at my Google Calendar (yes, Google even invades my dreams) and realize that at 7pm I've gotta go perform the role of Puck in a production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”—and I totally don’t know my lines!
I remember that we’d done the show a month ago, and even then I was shaky (which was a callback to a dream I had last week, in which I was in a play—that took place in my high school auditorium—and didn’t know any of my cues or lines. How the hell is my subconscious getting self-referential?). My mom had asked me if I wanted to go shopping, and I said I couldn’t because I needed to learn the lines—and I needed to print out the script, cause I couldn't find it! I’m in a frenzy, as I figure out how to get it printed, and somehow, my mom prints it in her old office which no longer exists. I sit down to start reading and ask her to help me when she heads for the door. She says she’s going shopping and has no patience for running lines. I get angry and whiny, like a toddler, saying, “Please, help me. I’m sorry I can’t go shopping and I completely forgot about this and I need help. You’re not even coming to see me? No one’s coming, not [Jewboo], not you. Why doesn’t anyone love me or want to support me???”
I wake up, not shaken as much as depressed. Guys, I really just feel like I’m….always stuck in second gear, like it hasn’t been my day, my week, my month, or even my year—you know? I don’t know what to make of the random dream, so let’s go to the good ol’ Dream Dictionary to get some answers.
To dream that you are reading Shakespeare, signifies your literary aptitude. You are well-read and knowledgeable. Consider which Shakespeare novel you are reading and how the plot line may parallel a situation in your waking life.
Um, I’m not reading any Shakespeare right now. I'm already a bit wary of their misuse of a comma, but let’s see what a dream about a script means:
What if I don’t know any of the lines of my script? According to this logic, it means I don’t have the power to control the direction and path of my own life!!!!
To dream that you are in a theater, signifies your social life. Consider how the performance parallels to situations in your waking life. Observe how the characters relate to you and how they may represent an aspect of yourself. You may be taking on a new role. Alternatively, the dream is a metaphor that you are being too theatrical or too melodramatic. Are you being a dream queen?
They may be on to something. However, they have nothing under the heading of “performing,” yet they do have an entry on “Pepperoni”:
To see or eat pepperoni in your dream, indicates that you need to add a little pizzazz and spice to your life. Alternatively, it denotes wholeness and completeness.
Okay, this DreamMoods.com ain’t makin’ a lick of sense, as my G-unit would say. Do I need to add pizzazz or am I whole and complete? Am I being followed and manipulated by a fairy king? Oberon, is that you?????
I don’t know what’s up, guys—one minute Everything’s Coming Up Blacktress, and the next minute my own boyfriend can’t make it to my show, my mom tells me she Googled me yet again and “found nothing bad, like last time. You did what I told you to do, great”, and as soon as I walked in the office, my coworker greeted me with “you had an interview this morning, didn’t you?” just because I’m dressed slightly above average.
For the record, I didn’t have an interview, and am only dressed this way because I’ll be attending a watercolor organization’s reception tonight (blacktress + geriatrics = awkward times and racial slurs).
How y’all been?
I was at home with my mother, and the house looked the way it did before she moved out (you know, furnished), but she was just visiting. She’d spent the night, and we were watching TV. Just then, I look at my Google Calendar (yes, Google even invades my dreams) and realize that at 7pm I've gotta go perform the role of Puck in a production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”—and I totally don’t know my lines!
I remember that we’d done the show a month ago, and even then I was shaky (which was a callback to a dream I had last week, in which I was in a play—that took place in my high school auditorium—and didn’t know any of my cues or lines. How the hell is my subconscious getting self-referential?). My mom had asked me if I wanted to go shopping, and I said I couldn’t because I needed to learn the lines—and I needed to print out the script, cause I couldn't find it! I’m in a frenzy, as I figure out how to get it printed, and somehow, my mom prints it in her old office which no longer exists. I sit down to start reading and ask her to help me when she heads for the door. She says she’s going shopping and has no patience for running lines. I get angry and whiny, like a toddler, saying, “Please, help me. I’m sorry I can’t go shopping and I completely forgot about this and I need help. You’re not even coming to see me? No one’s coming, not [Jewboo], not you. Why doesn’t anyone love me or want to support me???”
I wake up, not shaken as much as depressed. Guys, I really just feel like I’m….always stuck in second gear, like it hasn’t been my day, my week, my month, or even my year—you know? I don’t know what to make of the random dream, so let’s go to the good ol’ Dream Dictionary to get some answers.
To dream that you are reading Shakespeare, signifies your literary aptitude. You are well-read and knowledgeable. Consider which Shakespeare novel you are reading and how the plot line may parallel a situation in your waking life.
Um, I’m not reading any Shakespeare right now. I'm already a bit wary of their misuse of a comma, but let’s see what a dream about a script means:
To read or write a script in your dream, signifies the character or persona that you portray in your waking life. The dream is telling you that you have power to control the direction and path of your own life.
What if I don’t know any of the lines of my script? According to this logic, it means I don’t have the power to control the direction and path of my own life!!!!
Hm....that is pretty much the problem. These kids are good. Being a blacktress, I have to look up what “theater” represents:
To dream that you are in a theater, signifies your social life. Consider how the performance parallels to situations in your waking life. Observe how the characters relate to you and how they may represent an aspect of yourself. You may be taking on a new role. Alternatively, the dream is a metaphor that you are being too theatrical or too melodramatic. Are you being a dream queen?
They may be on to something. However, they have nothing under the heading of “performing,” yet they do have an entry on “Pepperoni”:
To see or eat pepperoni in your dream, indicates that you need to add a little pizzazz and spice to your life. Alternatively, it denotes wholeness and completeness.
Okay, this DreamMoods.com ain’t makin’ a lick of sense, as my G-unit would say. Do I need to add pizzazz or am I whole and complete? Am I being followed and manipulated by a fairy king? Oberon, is that you?????
I don’t know what’s up, guys—one minute Everything’s Coming Up Blacktress, and the next minute my own boyfriend can’t make it to my show, my mom tells me she Googled me yet again and “found nothing bad, like last time. You did what I told you to do, great”, and as soon as I walked in the office, my coworker greeted me with “you had an interview this morning, didn’t you?” just because I’m dressed slightly above average.
For the record, I didn’t have an interview, and am only dressed this way because I’ll be attending a watercolor organization’s reception tonight (blacktress + geriatrics = awkward times and racial slurs).
How y’all been?
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Taxicab Confessions/ A (Street) Car Service Named Desire
Hey gang,
I’m sitting in on a 2-hour conference call, which is as good a time to blog as any. Apparently Monday's post was a bit morose, so I am here to make amends. Although nothing much has happened in the last 20 hours, I completely forgot to tell you about my most recent cab ride, which was wonderfully inappropriate:
It was Saturday night at about midnight. I was coming from Jewboo’s house in the depths of Greenpoint, and I was quite emotional. I was tired, pissed off, and even had a bit of a cry on the steps when I was waiting for the car to arrive. I just wanted to get home and sleep so that the annoying night would be over. Because I’m in broke-ass Greenpoint, I can’t just go out and hail a cab—I have to call a car service. It started off easily enough, as I hop in and tell him to take me to a train station in downtown Manhattan (economy is rough, y’all, gotta watch the wallet!). He asks me where I’m ultimately headed, and then offers to take me to to my home in Harlem for a rather low fee. My spirits perk up as I totally pull a Blanche Dubois.
As I’m texting a friend to pass the time, the cab driver starts chatting me up.
RandoCabDriver: How was your night?
Me: It was okay.
RCD: Did you have some drinks?
Me: No.
RCD [turning on the radio]: Do you watch cricket?
Me: No?
RCD: No, you don’t?! It’s the world championships.
Me: Who’s playing?
RCD: My country, Sri Lanka. We will win, I feel it.
Me: That’s good.
RCD: You going to your boyfriend’s house?
Me: No [note the use of one-word answers—which I hope will let him know I’m not trying to talk].
RCD: You don’t have boyfriend?
Me: I’m going home. [note my attempt at changing the subject]
RCD: You have some drinks tonight?
Me: No [Why does he keep asking me this? I start to wonder if he’s projecting just as he starts speeding down the highway.]
RCD: I like you. You are very innocent.
Me: I am? [clearly years of cab driving hasn’t taught him how to read people].
RCD: I can take you out?
Me: What? [when faced with a question that should never be asked, I’ve found it’s best to feign stupidity.]
RCD: I cook you dinner. I am a very good cook.
Me: Really? [I don’t know what else to say. Notice I did not reply to his invitation.]
RCD: yes, yes, I am very good. What kind of food you like to eat? You eat meat?
Me: Yes
RCD: You eat chicken? You eat lamb? You like lentils?
Me: I like chicken.
RCD: I make very good chicken. Last night I make a delicious rooster.
Me: Oh! [from watching Criminal Minds and "To Catch a Predator", I’ve learned that when faced with a potentially dangerous delusional person, it’s best to agree with them and return their interest—within reason—so as to ensure one’s safety. How did homey go from chicken to rooster?]
RCD: Yes, yes. I went to a farm, and I got it fresh. You like that, huh?
Me: Uh….
RCD: We have some rooster, we have some white wine.
[He’s really getting into this non-existent date. I keep looking up at the street signs to make sure we’re still headed in the direction of my home.]
Me: I don’t like white wine.
RCD [sighs]: Okay, okay. You can have red.
Me: Um…thanks
RCD: I like you. You are very sweet. I know you are very pure.
[Does he think I’m a virgin? I laugh lightly.]
RCD: You fight with your boyfriend?
Me: No.
[Why do I believe that lying will make this easier?]
RCD: I never fight.
Me: Except with roosters! [I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood]
RCD [suddenly sharp]: No! I don’t fight them. I cook them!
Me: Okay.
[We get within five blocks of my crib. I can now spend the rest of the ride giving him directions. I pay him the agreed upon fee and open the door.]
RCD [in a sing-song voice]: Good night Pure and Beautiful. You sure you don't want some rooster and white wine?
Me: No thanks!
RCD: You are so nice, thank you, good night!
He drives off. I’m left outside my door, wishing I could be as pure as he wanted.
I’m sitting in on a 2-hour conference call, which is as good a time to blog as any. Apparently Monday's post was a bit morose, so I am here to make amends. Although nothing much has happened in the last 20 hours, I completely forgot to tell you about my most recent cab ride, which was wonderfully inappropriate:
It was Saturday night at about midnight. I was coming from Jewboo’s house in the depths of Greenpoint, and I was quite emotional. I was tired, pissed off, and even had a bit of a cry on the steps when I was waiting for the car to arrive. I just wanted to get home and sleep so that the annoying night would be over. Because I’m in broke-ass Greenpoint, I can’t just go out and hail a cab—I have to call a car service. It started off easily enough, as I hop in and tell him to take me to a train station in downtown Manhattan (economy is rough, y’all, gotta watch the wallet!). He asks me where I’m ultimately headed, and then offers to take me to to my home in Harlem for a rather low fee. My spirits perk up as I totally pull a Blanche Dubois.
As I’m texting a friend to pass the time, the cab driver starts chatting me up.
RandoCabDriver: How was your night?
Me: It was okay.
RCD: Did you have some drinks?
Me: No.
RCD [turning on the radio]: Do you watch cricket?
Me: No?
RCD: No, you don’t?! It’s the world championships.
Me: Who’s playing?
RCD: My country, Sri Lanka. We will win, I feel it.
Me: That’s good.
RCD: You going to your boyfriend’s house?
Me: No [note the use of one-word answers—which I hope will let him know I’m not trying to talk].
RCD: You don’t have boyfriend?
Me: I’m going home. [note my attempt at changing the subject]
RCD: You have some drinks tonight?
Me: No [Why does he keep asking me this? I start to wonder if he’s projecting just as he starts speeding down the highway.]
RCD: I like you. You are very innocent.
Me: I am? [clearly years of cab driving hasn’t taught him how to read people].
RCD: I can take you out?
Me: What? [when faced with a question that should never be asked, I’ve found it’s best to feign stupidity.]
RCD: I cook you dinner. I am a very good cook.
Me: Really? [I don’t know what else to say. Notice I did not reply to his invitation.]
RCD: yes, yes, I am very good. What kind of food you like to eat? You eat meat?
Me: Yes
RCD: You eat chicken? You eat lamb? You like lentils?
Me: I like chicken.
RCD: I make very good chicken. Last night I make a delicious rooster.
Me: Oh! [from watching Criminal Minds and "To Catch a Predator", I’ve learned that when faced with a potentially dangerous delusional person, it’s best to agree with them and return their interest—within reason—so as to ensure one’s safety. How did homey go from chicken to rooster?]
RCD: Yes, yes. I went to a farm, and I got it fresh. You like that, huh?
Me: Uh….
RCD: We have some rooster, we have some white wine.
[He’s really getting into this non-existent date. I keep looking up at the street signs to make sure we’re still headed in the direction of my home.]
Me: I don’t like white wine.
RCD [sighs]: Okay, okay. You can have red.
Me: Um…thanks
RCD: I like you. You are very sweet. I know you are very pure.
[Does he think I’m a virgin? I laugh lightly.]
RCD: You fight with your boyfriend?
Me: No.
[Why do I believe that lying will make this easier?]
RCD: I never fight.
Me: Except with roosters! [I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood]
RCD [suddenly sharp]: No! I don’t fight them. I cook them!
Me: Okay.
[We get within five blocks of my crib. I can now spend the rest of the ride giving him directions. I pay him the agreed upon fee and open the door.]
RCD [in a sing-song voice]: Good night Pure and Beautiful. You sure you don't want some rooster and white wine?
Me: No thanks!
RCD: You are so nice, thank you, good night!
He drives off. I’m left outside my door, wishing I could be as pure as he wanted.
Monday, March 28, 2011
BlacktressFail
Guh.
It’s Monday.
I felt slightly better after consoling myself with Pinkberry, but my return to the office was met with hours of work that apparently only I could do. This isn’t even possible. World-domination-coworker–Code name: Buzzkill—is really weird sometimes. Like, he’ll be quick to point out every mistake you make, but won’t really take initiative on something if it interferes with his lunch time. He regularly spends the hour at his desk watching Internet videos, and will shut out any and all responsibilities during that time. If that’s the case, go sit your ass in the Barnes & Noble up the street.
I began today with an awesome email from a reader regarding some typos in the latest issue of the magazine I’m in charge of. She writes:
I have only reached page 31 and am ready to toss this month’s issue through the window. Either you only use spellcheck or English is your second language. What am I going to find as I keep reading? Shame on you!
Awesome. Good morning.
Apparently my lack of investment is starting to show in the finished product. So, in summation: I’m shitty at my job and shitty at blackting.
To maintain the will to live, I keep reading the reply I got from the Gotham booker in response to my thank-you email. It keeps me going strong:
Very nice to meet you as well. Glad you found the notes helpful. I think you have tremendous potential. Keep writing and performing. You can make it in this business. Will keep you in mind for anything you'd be good for at the club.
This makes me feel a lot better about eating 4 pieces of cinnamon raisin toast for breakfast.
It’s Monday.
Every night I tell myself to shake off the previous day, and resolve to go into work fresh, relaxed, and free. I promise to focus on my responsibilities, telling myself that the day will go faster if I just keep my head down and get it done. I vow to let go of the anger I feel toward my coworker who I’m convinced is planning total domination of this magazine (why else would he, at 26 years old, be so anal retentive and condescending? He’s clearly trying to show his dominance so that when he becomes the next EIC, no one’s the wiser.)
And yet here I am, 2.5 hours into the day, and I’m already asking for the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.
I’m still reeling from the tragedy that was Friday’s callback. I was awkward as all get-out, and just didn’t know how to loosen up. I’ve vowed to chalk it up to a learning experience, but I just don’t know—I mean, how many times can I suck/”learn and get used to the process” (as my optimistic friends say) before they just stop calling me in for auditions? This isn’t some community theater production of Our Town—this is television, people! TV, the medium-sized screen! The place with commercial breaks and the highest stakes! The place where the only people with my skin tone are in Tyler Perry productions! As I stood in the elevator crying, I thought about “A League of Their Own”—you know, when the coach says “THERE’S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL!!!!”
There is no crying in callbacks. If I keep this up, I’ll end up more dehydrated than an African orphan. I’ve gotta man up.
There is no crying in callbacks. If I keep this up, I’ll end up more dehydrated than an African orphan. I’ve gotta man up.
I felt slightly better after consoling myself with Pinkberry, but my return to the office was met with hours of work that apparently only I could do. This isn’t even possible. World-domination-coworker–Code name: Buzzkill—is really weird sometimes. Like, he’ll be quick to point out every mistake you make, but won’t really take initiative on something if it interferes with his lunch time. He regularly spends the hour at his desk watching Internet videos, and will shut out any and all responsibilities during that time. If that’s the case, go sit your ass in the Barnes & Noble up the street.
I began today with an awesome email from a reader regarding some typos in the latest issue of the magazine I’m in charge of. She writes:
I have only reached page 31 and am ready to toss this month’s issue through the window. Either you only use spellcheck or English is your second language. What am I going to find as I keep reading? Shame on you!
Awesome. Good morning.
Apparently my lack of investment is starting to show in the finished product. So, in summation: I’m shitty at my job and shitty at blackting.
To maintain the will to live, I keep reading the reply I got from the Gotham booker in response to my thank-you email. It keeps me going strong:
Very nice to meet you as well. Glad you found the notes helpful. I think you have tremendous potential. Keep writing and performing. You can make it in this business. Will keep you in mind for anything you'd be good for at the club.
This makes me feel a lot better about eating 4 pieces of cinnamon raisin toast for breakfast.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Everything's Coming Up Blacktress!
Happy Friday, Gentle Readers!!!
So much has happened over the last few days, and you’re the only people I want to share it with. Let's get to it.
Tuesday’s commercial audition was a lot of fun. It was for a rental car company, and called for “subtle comedy.” This was my second professional audition ever, and I felt nervous, like when you're about to go on a date with someone you've already slept with. It was at the same casting studio as my first audition, so I knew what to expect and wasn’t all sweaty and awkward. Although my call time was 2:15, I didn’t go in for about 30 minutes. That would have normally given me tons of time to freak out and judge everyone else, but I actually didn’t go there, instead choosing to text Jewboo, and chat up a friendly gay sitting next to me. Turns out he also does improv and was super sweet. We're totes fb friends now.
When my name was called, I went in and just had fun. I didn’t even notice that the “Employee” character for which I was auditioning had a line until about 5 minutes before I was called in (the photocopy was a hot mess--it looked like the remnants of a cave drawing). I even had to play a male character—complete with a Boston accent—so that the agent could see my scene partner say the “Employee” line. It was all of 3 minutes, but it was fun, and I made the agent laugh—which I took as a good sign seeing as he’d spent the last 5 hours hearing the same three-word line over and over. I walked out feeling happy that I got out of my own way, you know? Blackting is reacting, and I did what I could do.
He was all business, in a fierce suit and spectacles that said “I got my eyes on the prize.” I’d seen him taking notes throughout the entire show, so I knew he was serious. When I went in to meet him, I was slightly nervous but I could tell he liked me—probably because he offered me a bottle of Perrier (poppin’ bottles, y’alls!). He proceeded to break down my set, and really, his only direct suggestions were “Slow down, take your time. You’ve got a lot of funny stuff there” and “I want to hear more about the magazine, more about Jewboo, more about Caucasia.” I was like, honey, if I had more than 7 minutes, you’d get the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!
On my way out of the house yesterday morning I saw that payment for some freelance work I'd done had finally arrived--nothing says “it’s gonna be a good day” quite like unexpected money, y'all. I knew the commercial was shooting on 3/31, and figured they wanted to lock it down ASAP, so when I didn’t get a call on Wednesday, I thought that was that. Although I walked out feeling good, it's all a crapshoot, you know?
Then, at 5:00pm yesterday the unthinkable happened: I saw I had a missed call from the agent who sent me out. I knew she wasn’t just checking in. I listened to her message:
“Hey Blacktress, it’s [Mariel], you got called back! Call me back and let me know you’re available!”
Yes, y’all!!! Blacktress goes in today, at 12pm EST to bring the funny!!!
I’m blogging now so that you can say a little prayer for me. Imagine: you’ll turn on your television screens and see the BLACKTRESS on the regular!!! I’m trying not to be nervous and just go in and do me, but this entire morning is a wash. I can’t be thinking about fruit in bowls and landscapes when I need to get ready for my close-up.
xoxo,
So much has happened over the last few days, and you’re the only people I want to share it with. Let's get to it.
Tuesday’s commercial audition was a lot of fun. It was for a rental car company, and called for “subtle comedy.” This was my second professional audition ever, and I felt nervous, like when you're about to go on a date with someone you've already slept with. It was at the same casting studio as my first audition, so I knew what to expect and wasn’t all sweaty and awkward. Although my call time was 2:15, I didn’t go in for about 30 minutes. That would have normally given me tons of time to freak out and judge everyone else, but I actually didn’t go there, instead choosing to text Jewboo, and chat up a friendly gay sitting next to me. Turns out he also does improv and was super sweet. We're totes fb friends now.
When my name was called, I went in and just had fun. I didn’t even notice that the “Employee” character for which I was auditioning had a line until about 5 minutes before I was called in (the photocopy was a hot mess--it looked like the remnants of a cave drawing). I even had to play a male character—complete with a Boston accent—so that the agent could see my scene partner say the “Employee” line. It was all of 3 minutes, but it was fun, and I made the agent laugh—which I took as a good sign seeing as he’d spent the last 5 hours hearing the same three-word line over and over. I walked out feeling happy that I got out of my own way, you know? Blackting is reacting, and I did what I could do.
My new way of looking at these things is this: an audition is a chance for me to leave this hellish plantation and do what I love to do, even if it’s just for 60 seconds. It doesn’t matter if I get it, because I’m having fun. I’m not letting the massa define me, or these crazy artists run my show!
With that fun feeling, I went into Wednesday night’s Gotham Comedy Club show with high spirits, but a bundle of nerves. It was my first time at the venue, and it turns out there was industry watching. I went up and the crowd loved it (Apparently, we can all relate to wintercourse)! I got accolades from total strangers (many of whom were middle-aged members of Caucasia), and even had a one-on-one notes session with the manager of the club.
With that fun feeling, I went into Wednesday night’s Gotham Comedy Club show with high spirits, but a bundle of nerves. It was my first time at the venue, and it turns out there was industry watching. I went up and the crowd loved it (Apparently, we can all relate to wintercourse)! I got accolades from total strangers (many of whom were middle-aged members of Caucasia), and even had a one-on-one notes session with the manager of the club.
He was all business, in a fierce suit and spectacles that said “I got my eyes on the prize.” I’d seen him taking notes throughout the entire show, so I knew he was serious. When I went in to meet him, I was slightly nervous but I could tell he liked me—probably because he offered me a bottle of Perrier (poppin’ bottles, y’alls!). He proceeded to break down my set, and really, his only direct suggestions were “Slow down, take your time. You’ve got a lot of funny stuff there” and “I want to hear more about the magazine, more about Jewboo, more about Caucasia.” I was like, honey, if I had more than 7 minutes, you’d get the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!
He was shocked that I had only been doing comedy off and on for a few years, and told me to just keep writing and keep getting up there. It was so gratifying, and I went home—well, after a stop at the Donut Plant and Lucky’s Burgers—on cloud nine.
On my way out of the house yesterday morning I saw that payment for some freelance work I'd done had finally arrived--nothing says “it’s gonna be a good day” quite like unexpected money, y'all. I knew the commercial was shooting on 3/31, and figured they wanted to lock it down ASAP, so when I didn’t get a call on Wednesday, I thought that was that. Although I walked out feeling good, it's all a crapshoot, you know?
Then, at 5:00pm yesterday the unthinkable happened: I saw I had a missed call from the agent who sent me out. I knew she wasn’t just checking in. I listened to her message:
“Hey Blacktress, it’s [Mariel], you got called back! Call me back and let me know you’re available!”
Yes, y’all!!! Blacktress goes in today, at 12pm EST to bring the funny!!!
I’m blogging now so that you can say a little prayer for me. Imagine: you’ll turn on your television screens and see the BLACKTRESS on the regular!!! I’m trying not to be nervous and just go in and do me, but this entire morning is a wash. I can’t be thinking about fruit in bowls and landscapes when I need to get ready for my close-up.
xoxo,
Blacktress!
Monday, March 21, 2011
I Am Not Limitless
Happy Monday, guys!
I’m really trying to blog more regularly, but sometimes I just don’t know where to begin. At the risk of ranting, I must share my latest un-handle-able truth:
We should have been the ones hit by a tsunami. Let me explain.
Reason 1:
On Friday afternoon I got an e-mail from Ticketmaster.com, alerting me to the availability of tickets to Charlie Sheen’s “My Violent Torpedo of Truth” tour. Apparently, for just $575 I can get a seat in the first 10 rows, an autographed photo of the CauCRAYsian, and shake his chapped, cracked, Gollum-like hand (I’m just assuming).
Why on earth would I want to do this? What skill does Sheen have that would warrant a live tour? Is he just going to get on stage and yell at people? Will he be offering to leave angry messages in the voice mailbox of audience members’ exes? Apparently this tour is already sold out.
Punto Numero Dos:
Half an hour later, I was sent a “music” video of “Friday Night,” by tween sensation Rebecca Black (I’d hyperlink you to it, but I don’t want to give her the press). With such lyrics as “Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday / Today i-is Friday, Friday … / Tomorrow is Saturday / And Sunday comes after ... wards,” I feel as though society is getting dumber, and can no longer tell the difference between talent and delusions of grandeur. Sadly, today’s tweens have very few options, as the covers of “Celebrity” magazines often feature teen moms from the MTV series. We all know I love the 16 and preggos, but since when has being a teenager mother warranted several magazine spreads? Do note that these headline-grabbing moms are CauCRAYsian. When one can be equally famous for having rich parents, winning an Oscar, or getting knocked up by a 16-year-old who works at StopNShop, I think it’s time to reassess our priorities as a nation.
Point the 3rd:
I left work on Friday to meet up with my girl Scribe to see Brad Cooper's latest flick Limitless. I hadn’t been to a movie in ages and was ready to be entertained--even though I do find Cooper to be a bit slimy (doesn't he seem like, before he was famous, he was the guy who'd corner you in a bar, going on and on about his "eye-opening experience" helping Hurricane Katrina victims, and then after bedding you that night, tells you "I've gotta get up really early tomorrow for a life-drawing class, so you might want to get a cab home now"?).
He then gets dumped by his boo, which we don’t even care about because we never see them together. This makes him good and vulnerable when he’s offered a clear little pill that makes everything…. LIMITLESS. Suddenly the slacker can remember everything he’s ever heard, learn languages in a day, and learns the stock market (Move over Shia Leboeuf! I bet the ink's still wet on the script for Wall Street 3: Coop Never Sleeps!)
I won’t go into more detail, but basically he goes from zero to hero in three days, becomes a billionaire, and then starts to feel the side effects of this non-FDA-approved black-market drug. Without it in his system, he doesn’t remember a damn thing, and he’s basically an addict in need of 12 steps within the first 30 minutes of the film. At one point, he’s in such a bind that the only way he can save himself is to drink the blood of a Russian mobster that pools outward from his dead body.
Ew.
As Scribe and I walked to a post-movie dinner, we were so busy chatting we momentarily forgot about traffic laws. We almost stepped out in front of on-coming traffic, but I looked up and put my arm out. “We are not limitless,” I said. “But we do have options.”
And that, folks, is where I’m at today. I am not limitless like Sheen and Rebecca Black and Cooper’s latest character, but I do have options. The world is not owed to me (and oftentimes behaves as though I took out a loan and am in forbearance) but I know on which side my bread’s buttered—the worlds of blackting and blogging.
Was this a rant? I don’t know. My brain feels a bit fuzzy because I just spent 15 minutes on the phone with an elderly reader who mailed in a printed page of her Google search for a book from our online store—she made sure to underline “YOUR SEARCH DID NOT MATCH ANY DOCUMENTS” before writing, “I followed the instructions in the issue with NO SUCCESS. PLEASE HELP!”
It took me 12 minutes to explain to her—and then her husband, who she put on the phone—that she can’t type the URL into a search engine, but must instead type it into the nav bar. The call ended rather oddly:
Do you think he'd been sitting in the dark with his wife for days, wondering what season it was?
I’m really trying to blog more regularly, but sometimes I just don’t know where to begin. At the risk of ranting, I must share my latest un-handle-able truth:
We should have been the ones hit by a tsunami. Let me explain.
Reason 1:
On Friday afternoon I got an e-mail from Ticketmaster.com, alerting me to the availability of tickets to Charlie Sheen’s “My Violent Torpedo of Truth” tour. Apparently, for just $575 I can get a seat in the first 10 rows, an autographed photo of the CauCRAYsian, and shake his chapped, cracked, Gollum-like hand (I’m just assuming).
Why on earth would I want to do this? What skill does Sheen have that would warrant a live tour? Is he just going to get on stage and yell at people? Will he be offering to leave angry messages in the voice mailbox of audience members’ exes? Apparently this tour is already sold out.
Punto Numero Dos:
Half an hour later, I was sent a “music” video of “Friday Night,” by tween sensation Rebecca Black (I’d hyperlink you to it, but I don’t want to give her the press). With such lyrics as “Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday / Today i-is Friday, Friday … / Tomorrow is Saturday / And Sunday comes after ... wards,” I feel as though society is getting dumber, and can no longer tell the difference between talent and delusions of grandeur. Sadly, today’s tweens have very few options, as the covers of “Celebrity” magazines often feature teen moms from the MTV series. We all know I love the 16 and preggos, but since when has being a teenager mother warranted several magazine spreads? Do note that these headline-grabbing moms are CauCRAYsian. When one can be equally famous for having rich parents, winning an Oscar, or getting knocked up by a 16-year-old who works at StopNShop, I think it’s time to reassess our priorities as a nation.
Point the 3rd:
I left work on Friday to meet up with my girl Scribe to see Brad Cooper's latest flick Limitless. I hadn’t been to a movie in ages and was ready to be entertained--even though I do find Cooper to be a bit slimy (doesn't he seem like, before he was famous, he was the guy who'd corner you in a bar, going on and on about his "eye-opening experience" helping Hurricane Katrina victims, and then after bedding you that night, tells you "I've gotta get up really early tomorrow for a life-drawing class, so you might want to get a cab home now"?).
Alas, I found myself uncomfortable and confused much of the time. (SPOILER ALERT!)
The movie starts off with Bradley Cooper (or, as I like to call him, Coop) playing a struggling writer—not struggling because he can’t catch a break or because his work was plagiarized on Wikipedia, but because he just can’t seem to get anything written!!! AAAHHHH, SO HARD BEING A CAUCASIAN MALE!!! What to do with my book advance? Writer’s block is sooooooooooo hard to overcome! Maybe I’ll use it to buy pizza and grow my hair out really gross and scraggly.
He then gets dumped by his boo, which we don’t even care about because we never see them together. This makes him good and vulnerable when he’s offered a clear little pill that makes everything…. LIMITLESS. Suddenly the slacker can remember everything he’s ever heard, learn languages in a day, and learns the stock market (Move over Shia Leboeuf! I bet the ink's still wet on the script for Wall Street 3: Coop Never Sleeps!)
I won’t go into more detail, but basically he goes from zero to hero in three days, becomes a billionaire, and then starts to feel the side effects of this non-FDA-approved black-market drug. Without it in his system, he doesn’t remember a damn thing, and he’s basically an addict in need of 12 steps within the first 30 minutes of the film. At one point, he’s in such a bind that the only way he can save himself is to drink the blood of a Russian mobster that pools outward from his dead body.
Ew.
How does this relate to my rant? Well, quite frankly, Coop’s insistence that he have skills he was too lazy to cultiviate is an example of CauCRAYsian hubris! He’s no better than Charlie “I am the warlock of your destruction” Sheen. Who said you get to be limitless, Bradley? So what if you’ve got baby blues that I could drown in and a devilish smile that’s probably concealing herpes simplex I? If he was down and out at the start of the film and needed the money for, let's say, a liver transplant, or to get his mom in rehab, I might have rooted for him. As it was, when he laid there lapping up the dude’s blood I wondered why it was okay for Bradley Cooper to drink AIDS.
As Scribe and I walked to a post-movie dinner, we were so busy chatting we momentarily forgot about traffic laws. We almost stepped out in front of on-coming traffic, but I looked up and put my arm out. “We are not limitless,” I said. “But we do have options.”
And that, folks, is where I’m at today. I am not limitless like Sheen and Rebecca Black and Cooper’s latest character, but I do have options. The world is not owed to me (and oftentimes behaves as though I took out a loan and am in forbearance) but I know on which side my bread’s buttered—the worlds of blackting and blogging.
Was this a rant? I don’t know. My brain feels a bit fuzzy because I just spent 15 minutes on the phone with an elderly reader who mailed in a printed page of her Google search for a book from our online store—she made sure to underline “YOUR SEARCH DID NOT MATCH ANY DOCUMENTS” before writing, “I followed the instructions in the issue with NO SUCCESS. PLEASE HELP!”
It took me 12 minutes to explain to her—and then her husband, who she put on the phone—that she can’t type the URL into a search engine, but must instead type it into the nav bar. The call ended rather oddly:
Husband: What's your name?
Me: Sojourner
[I have to say it three times before he gets it, spells it back to me, and tells me to go on. I have nothing left to add.]
Husband: And this is about the flowers?
Me: I believe so, that's what your wife said.
Husband: And today's date is?
Me [silent. I'm not sure if he's testing me or what]
Husband: Hello? Today's date is?????
Me: March 21.
Husband: And the time is now????
Me: 3pm.
Husband: Okay, thank you, bye-bye!
Do you think he'd been sitting in the dark with his wife for days, wondering what season it was?
******TIME LAPSE******
AAAHHH, sorry to be so all over the place, but I just got a call from the agent, sending me in for an audition tomorrow!!! EEEPPPSSS.
I better go get my hair did. Blacktress out!
AAAHHH, sorry to be so all over the place, but I just got a call from the agent, sending me in for an audition tomorrow!!! EEEPPPSSS.
I better go get my hair did. Blacktress out!
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