I know Brandon will be all over my shit for not posting the actual GOOD-LOOKING VS. ATTRACTIVE blog first, but frankly, I am so pissed at Dreamhost now, I can barely write straight*.

Besides, it’s too hot here in Ye Olde Time Los-Angeles-with-a-hard-”g” to think deeply. And I’m a former media maven. So I’m using my little corner of Le Web to crow about Liberty Mutual’s latest commercial—yes, COMMERCIAL—which makes me weep and soar and want to do everything including go back into copywriting (well, almost). Seriously.

I still haven’t figured out how to post goddam videos to my blog, but I’m posting the link to the YouTube upload here (and on the pic itself, natch).

Lovely, lovely, lovely. Almost makes up for that McDonald’s crime against humanity where Young Mom and her Lispy Daughter bond over their mutual fabulousness and a faux-healthy UnHappy Meal. Gack gack gack. Could we just dispense with everyone in advertising except the Liberty Mutual people and whoever does the VFX for the GAP and the geniuses behind the new GEICO campaign? Really. I’ll give up commercial acting; it’s a fair trade.

xxx
c

P.S. For the record, I could not disagree more vehemently with the board nerds who be hatin’ on the superfantabulous Charo/Bacharach/Little Richard ads. First time I’ve smiled at a GEICO spot since they stopped airing mine.

*And relax, Brando—it’s saved and ready for when I am. Before I leave for Parts North—I promise…

TOPICS: Advertising, commercials, Shameless plugs.

Today I auditioned for a spot I’d really like to book. The part is funny, the casting director is smart (meaning, the spots he casts are low in cheese factor) and—imagine—I could use the money.

Casting directors often give a group explanation prior to a string of individual auditions to save time and so we don’t stink up their tapes with super-creative, actor-y input. Today, after reiterating his usual acting directive, “Very small, very real, very ‘film’”—a directive which I now hear in some form from nearly every casting director on nearly every call, leaving me to wonder why there is still so much bad, over-the-top acting in commercials—this casting director drove the point home by letting drop that the director of this particular spot also directed Junebug. The implication being, if you know Junebug, you know what we’re looking for and if you don’t, you’re going to give a bad, over-the-top performance which we will waste no time in erasing from our tape.

Now, I have not, in fact, seen Junebug, but I am familiar with the vernacular the CD was tossing out. You see, I like to keep up with my worlds colliding, so I happen to know that Junebug was directed by one Phil Morrison, with whom I worked on a series of Wheaties commercials which I wrote in my previous incarnation as an advertising copywriter.

Normally, this ain’t no big thang. That life was long, long ago, and most people’s memories don’t extend that far, especially when it comes to remembering the copywriter, who is slightly less important than an apple box on a commercial set. In fact, we’re seen as so inconsequential, we’re frequently not invited to the shoot at all: I wrote a Gatorade commercial shot by the notorious Joe Pytka, but was subsequently hired as an actor on a couple of his commercials. Of course, I was not in attendance at the former and saw no reason to bring up the connection at either of the latter, so it really didn’t take much to fly under the radar.

The Wheaties commercials, however, were a slightly bigger deal. There were lots of verbal shenanigans in my tricky little scripts, so I was actually consulted on this or that more than once. Plus the spots starred Michael Jordan! Michael Effin’* Jordan!!! This was a huge break for the then-very-young Phil, whom we found via some groovy interstitials he’d done for MTV. Plus…Michael Effin’ Jordan! Surely Phil would remember every minute detail of that week we spent together on a Chicago soundstage, I thought.

That is, I thought until I uncovered this commemorative photo of me**, MJ, and an assortment of client-side and agency dorks:

Now not only am I certain Phil Morrison will not know me from Adam, I am also sorely tempted to submit myself to that Oprah show where they’re looking for people who look better today than they did 10 years ago.

Because (a) I am pretty sure I’m fugly enough in my high-waisted, reverse-fit jeans to win a free trip back to Chicago and (b) if they give me two round-trip tickets, maybe I can convince The BF not to break up with me for revealing my shame…

xxx
c

*And if his middle name isn’t “effin’”, I’d like suggest right now that he change it; my god, could he have a more appropriate middle name?

**If you can’t find me in the group, I would be the one on second from the left, doing my impersonation of a really unattractive lesbian. Good at it, aren’t I?

UPDATE: Link to larger sizes of my fugliosity at Flickr, here.

TOPICS: acting, Advertising, celebrity, commercials, communicatrix, DDB Needham, Michael Jordan, Phil Morrison, Wheaties.

I am just waiting for the day I get a casting breakdown specifying, “Unnatural, awkward talent only. Must be over-the-top with no ability at all to respond in the moment. Or dead. Dead would be good. Dead, with really, really bad comic timing.”

TOPICS: acting, auditions, commercials, Los Angeles, Rants.

I’ve taken 2 hours out of my very busy day surfing the interweb to audition for you.

I’ve driven 10 miles in the rain at $2.75/gallon with a cityful of rude assholes in luxury assault vehicles to get there.

I’ve suffered the indignity of holding up a magic-markered sign with my name on it as I smiled and slated my name for the camera like a talking fucking cow.

For the love of all that is holy, do not greet me with, “It is such a pleasure to see an actress brave enough to come in and audition in no makeup!”

Twat.

Photo by Marc Alan Davis used under a Creative Commons license

TOPICS: acting, auditions, commercials, Los Angeles, Rants.

At the beginning of my commercial career, I worked a lot with semi-animate objects: the Jack-In-The-Box antenna ball (it chatted me up about the Sourdough Jack and checked out my ass in the tag); the Pets.com puppet (before the dot.com bust sent him skidding downwards into low-rent car insurance commercials); the Jolly Green Giant, way, waaaaaay back when (see left above).

In general, I get cast as the Quirky Chick or the Freaky Neighbor or the Funny Mom, which puts me in a lot of off-kilter situations; I’m the wife calmly sipping coffee as her kitchen is jacked up 25º on a hydraulic lift, or the skinny broad in the conga line, or the clueless Gap-casual mom singing “Polly Wolly Doodle” off-key as my (teenaged!) son bangs his head slowly against the back-seat window. I make fun of myself—willingly, joyously—to keep myself in expensive graphics software and even more expensive health insurance.

In other words, I have long since given up any foolish notions of my day job taking me to exotic locations with the Eiffel Tower or breathtaking waterfalls in the background and some soap-opera-looking love interest in the foreground; I go to Santa Clarita stages and parking lots in Gardena and work with fat, balding guys* (if I’m Gap-casual mom) or the usual wagon of carnival freaks (if I’m playing Office Lady or Wacko Next-Door-Neighbor Lady or other garden-variety, Everywoman type). More often than not, any time I spend in hair-&-makeup is to remove the bags under my eyes—if the director even wants that much done. On a shoot for a business product last year, I overheard one assistant wardrobe stylist say to another, “Oh, don’t pull anything too cute; she’s supposed to be from the Midwest.”**

But yesterday, I hit rock bottom. Not only did I drive my own baggy-eyed self out to that glamour capital of the world, Pasadena, at 5am (on Sunday, people—the Lord’s day, the day of rest), I did it to play a librarian—in no makeup—with a kid, a mouse, a snake, a kitten, a rabbit, a gecko***, a big flappy bird of some type AND (drumroll, please) a baby alligator.

Yes, a live, baby alligator. And I was standing between it and the rabbit, for scale and no residuals (it was a PSA).

And I did it willingly. Joyously.

For the insurance and the money, yes, but because I really do love it—working with smart, funny people, making a film (albeit a really short one to sell something), playing someone else.

Playing. I love to play. I love that my work is something I would do for free. It’s why I potter around with two-cent design jobs and two-person shows and this here blog when I’m not dressed up in the frumpiest clothes the studio wardrobe departments have to offer: these ventures don’t feel like work; they feel like play. I’m hoping I get lucky with them, too. I’m hoping that my electronic noodling will eventually turn into some kind of self-sustaining thing—and in turn lead me to the next weird hobby I didn’t know I couldn’t live without.

Because the greatest way there is to make a living is the way that doesn’t feel like work at all—it feels like play.

Even when there are no carnivorous reptiles in sight.

xxx
c

*Unless the commercial is for a food/beverage product, in which case there isn’t a fat person in sight (Teamster portion of the crew excepting).

**This kind of behavior has really stepped up since I started checking the “40+” box. Maybe if I stop checking it, I’ll go back to at least wanting to buy the wardrobe off the spot. I really miss those souvenir half-off khakis.

***The gecko worked in a different scene, so I did not actually meet the gecko, but I did meet the kid, the mouse (they poop a lot…tiny, little poops), the snake, the kitten, the rabbit, the big flappy bird, the baby alligator and a shitload of animal wranglers.

TOPICS: commercials, Los Angeles.