I Feel Petty

There is a Hell on Earth and it is a Nike call-back. Yup, that commercial I auditioned for almost two weeks ago. Apparently, over the course of eleven days, the monkeys at Nike have finally reviewed the audition tapes, thrown some feces at the wall, and narrowed down their choices of potential singing doormen... to ten. Ten!? That's not a call-back, that's a passing of society's delinquents through a sieve.

Regardless, I figured the audition at least reinforced my Warm-Up Technique of Death. It's where I imagine my fellow auditionees in their final moments, when God tells them that they've led a meaningless life filled with extra looks in the mirror and an unnatural attention to the sound of their voice. As with every audition, this fantasy had plenty of inspiration. Again, the waiting room had "I Feel Pretty" playing out of a boombox on repeat. I assume this droning ambiance was to make sure we hadn't forgotten the melody after the first 58 times. Brainiac that I am, I felt insulted by this pandering... until I realized that this was a room filled with actors, so I ceded this point. The true suffering came from the guy across from me. He resembled a handsome android and was singing his heart out on every turn of the song, furrowed brow and all. Of course I said nothing nor looked his way, since I'm actually a scared little boy with a spine of jello. But who was this guy to remind me of that?

Stand on the Line

I had a "print" audition today. These are the ads you see when you're thumbing through a magazine, looking for something interesting to read. Or, in the case of Cosmo readers, this is why you read the magazine. Print auditions are known in the biz as "Go-Sees," as in, "Go See all the tall people with delicate noses!" Now, other than that, all it takes to enter the inner circle of Grandmaster print models is an ability to stand on two feet and open your eyes. The rest is magic... fun magic! They stick a number on your shirt like a branded cow and put you in front of a photographer. She'll usually tell you have a relaxed smile and to pretend that you're at a poolside party with hot friends and cold cocktails. She's obviously never been to my round-the-clock crackfests at the flophouse. I could cook her up a mean brew. She'd maybe puke after the first two hits, but after that it'd be a slow, sweet descent to the floor.

H is for Humility

My favorite thing about auditions: pets. It's rare that you'll find one in the actual, glamorous audition room (those usually just contain a shiny camera and a few wasted souls), but lately, I haven't been to a casting studio without a tiny cat or dog tinkling it's ass around. The positive spin would be that the casting directors just want to keep things warm and casual in an arena fraught with tension and insecurity. My take (and, ahem, the cynical one) is that the dream slayers who run these studios still find portions of their life to cheap out on. Ms. Casting Wench might ponder, "You know, I don't want to keep Spanky cooped up in my Co-Op all day, but that dog-walker is so pricey and would never give Spanky the attention he deserves. And those Doggie Day Cares are total shit pits. I know! I'll keep him with the actors!"

What's worse is that all around me are people encouraging this dog/actor balance. All this cooing and baby talk and belly rubbing. Just stop it. Get in the room, show your teeth and go home. I know, dear actors, the world is bleak and furry things make life worth living, but save it for the bedroom. (ABOVE: Your next audition monitor.)

We Feel Pretty

Had an audition today for Nike's new campaign, which is essentially a pep rally for Maria Sharapova (she's a professional tennis ball swatter). Me and thirty other guys of various ages, shades and sizes were auditioning for the role of Doorman. And there was a cursed stereo playing the commercial's theme song, "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story, on repeat. Over and over and over again until it seemed like most of the men were totally pleased to let their out their inner musical theater star. One serious brute of a fella was smiling as he rehearsed the lyric. I wish I could have turned that grin upside down, then shove a corroded septic pipe into it. Sure enough though, my quiet, brooding act came to a close once I got into the room and had to sing on camera. That's when I let out my true self - a newly castrated choir boy asked to sing for his sister's sweet sixteen. I left the room, grabbed my stupid messenger bag, and puked on the elevator.

I hope I book it.

Crack is Back

I was in a pizzeria the other day, ducking out from the punishing storm outside. It's this packed little place on 22nd street called Maffei's Pizzeria and they've got some good cheeses mingling on their slice. Yum, melted dairy. Anyway, this Hispanic customer was leaning over the counter much in the style of a drunkerd slouching at the bar, hoping for an open ear. So, as this guy's waiting for his slice, he starts telling the pizza man that his lady left him but he's going to be just fine:

HISPANIC GUY: Yeah, man she just left me.
PIZZA MAN: You're wife left you?
HISPANIC GUY: She's not really my wife, but she left me.
PIZZA MAN: What the hell happened?
HISPANIC GUY: She's a crackhead, man.
PIZZA MAN: What!?
HISPANIC GUY: She left me for a crackhead.
PIZZA MAN: Why don't you just start doing crack with her? She'll come back.

Nobody can break it down for you like a dough stacker.

Actors, aka Woodwinds

Had two auditions today at the same time and same office! After filling out useless information on the sign-in card (hat size? hips?) and getting my polaroid taken by a casting assistant, I sat in a corner, took out a big history book and read none of it. They called my name for the first audition and I went into a room with two other "actors." We were faced with a semicircular table, three cups of water and a stack of polaroids. Before I could figure out the riddle, the casting guy had us slate our name and get down to commercial business. We improvised a scene of three buds hangin' at a cafe, checking out pics and drinking tea (Lipton!). My co-stars were a tall & lovely Japanese girl with four exhausted brain cells and a guy who wished he was in a retarded Strokes cover band. Needless to say, I swept everybody in the room off their feet with my breezy wit and dynamic line inflections. Then I felt like hanging myself. But I had another audition! Just down the hall! So, I put off plans for a sweet goodnight as I was called in for the next casting.

This time, we went in in twos: me and lovely Japanese girl. We played a very likely couple out for a drive (in a Ford!). The sweet thing could hardly make out the cue cards. Though I must say, that the copy twice made the error of spelling "schmooze" as "smooz". Honest mistake for little lady Tokyo, plus she must be new to this dazzling country. On camera, our dialogue must have sounded like hiccups. She's got her pronouncing and reading issues and then there's me, hamming it up like a kid in special ed. I totally booked that shit.