This is Day 15 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in a classic film of my generation, Animal House.

I did not start out here in Hollywood as a hot commodity. To do that without being well-connected you have to be:

1. exceptionally young
2. exceptionally beautiful
3. exceptionally weird looking
4. exceptionally funny

Some people might argue that “exceptionally talented” should be on that list. I, on the other hand, would argue that everyone thinks he’s exceptionally talented, so what’s the point? There’s one Meryl Streep; there’s a million people like you…getting off the bus…every day.

But I digress.

I was none of those things. But even though I was 33 when I got my start, I was fairly funny and in target range looks-wise for a gigantic commercial type (i.e., “Young Mom,” 24-34). And I was connected, thanks to the Groundlings Sunday Company and my old career as an adhole, so between the resume at Groundlings and a casting director I’d worked with many times on Gatorade, I got a commercial agent.

I even booked a spot. A horrible test-market spot that went nowhere, but still, a booking. My agent seemed pleased.

So when she got a better gig across the street and was only taking her “bookers,” I was stunned to hear I wasn’t included. And, well…hurt. Yes. I was hurt.

Ordinarily, I would have gone off in a huff with my hurt feelings (”I’ll show her”) but in one of his more useful moments, my dad told me flat out what to do: go to her and ask her if she could recommend me to anyone else. To my great surprise, she gave up four names. I put packages together, sent them off, followed up—and nothing.

And then one of them called me. He is Cris Dennis of Film Artists Associates, and he is one of the greatest guys in the world. It doesn’t usually happen and it’s certainly not a prerequisite of doing business, but we genuinely like each other and call each other friends. He and his wife, Martha, were my staunch defenders while I was sick and then recovering from Crohn’s, offering any help they could and insisting I take off as much time as I felt like, and to hell with it. For years after the onset (because these things are really up and down, especially until you learn to manage them), Cris would accept my “not up to it today” without so much as an audible sigh. Complete, unwavering acceptance and support.

But before all this loveliness developed, I was just the new schmo on the client list. Going out time after time, and not booking. I was so upset at the six-month mark, around the Christmas holiday, that I fell over myself apologizing when I stopped by his office to drop off the only gift I could afford: some small plant or a mixtape. Pathetic. And he could not have been more gracious: “Don’t worry—it takes time. It’ll happen.”

When you are low and desperate, this means almost as much, if not more, than the validation of a booking itself. Someone believes in you. Someone is laying out time and money every day because he believes in you. I never forgot it.

I certainly didn’t forget it two years later, when another agency started courting me—hard. Because Cris had been right: I did start booking. And I had spots running everywhere. Class A, network commercials—good ones, funny ones—with me front and center. Selling cars and tacos and I don’t remember what else. A crapload of crap. I was lousy with TV presence.

The agent who’d been assigned to my case confided that my name had come up in their weekly meeting as a hot person they wanted on their roster. Who is she? Who is she with? Find her and get her here.

Who was I?

I was that person who sent you a head shot and resume two years ago. When I had only the good name of my previous agent and a few paltry credits to recommend me. When I had no spots running and nobody knew my name and no one was willing to take a chance on me.

Well, no one but Cris Dennis. And if you think I’m leaving him to come to you, you’re out of your mind.

I was nicer about it, of course. Even while I was marveling over having this conversation—the dream one, the one where the object of unrequited desire comes crawling back on all fours—I couldn’t be mean. What would be the point, other than giving someone fodder for calling me bee-yotch.

But it was, I confess, a glorious moment. One I never would have had—along, quite possibly, with a career and a great friendship—had I not been shitcanned.

So thank you, old agent, for shitcanning me. And for being gracious enough to pass along those names.

Sometimes, you really do get to see karma in action…

xxx
c

Image by Scott Beale / Laughing Squid via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

TOPICS: 21 day salutes, Los Angeles, thank you sir may i have another.

This is Day 2 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in the comedy classic of my generation, Animal House.

One side effect of carrying around a few extra el-bees is a proportional increase in the chestal area. For the first time since…oh, hell—high school? college? (maybe some of you lurking ex-es could chime in), I have significant boobage.

From the cultural cues that surround us, you’d think this would be a good thing. In most respects, however, it’s a colossal pain in the assets. I’ve always liked small boobs, both from an aesthetic and practical point of view. As have my various partners. (At least, as far as I know. Lurker exes?) Not only did my tiny breasteses look great in and out of clothes, but unlike those of my well-endowed sisters, my own girls required virtually no maintenance from a containment perspective.

No more. I’ve been sensing for a while now that my old “bras” (aka a wardrobe of dago tees) weren’t cutting it anymore. No matter that I wash and dry them on the hottest settings, replace them dutifully each spring, and wear a fresh, tight one each day: I’ve moved from a barely-A to a big man-handful, and no amount of cotton ribbing and denial is enough to keep things under control. And the few actual brassieres I bought for Casual Mom audition drag are a good six years and 1.5 cup sizes past their usefulness.

Because brother, I hate bra shopping almost as much as I hate bra-wearing. From a physical or political perspective, they’re equally annoying. Why the hell should I have to sacrifice time, money and comfort for the sake of propriety, otherwise known as the reigning sex’s inability to keep their eyes off the prizes? If I don’t mind my tits winding up the low-hanging victims of gravity, how they dangle should be my own damned business.

Alas, I live in a world where others will look, either askance or lecherously, and I’m not enough of a booby buddha to not let it get to me. So for all my feminist decrying, the bottom line is that mainly, I’ve just been too cheap and too lazy to do anything about it.

Until yesterday. I had an errand to run in that hideous sprawl just east of Los Angeles known as the Inland Empire, home to the biggest IKEA in all the Southland as well as, it seems, some of our more revolting specimens of masculinity. Despite my very obviously being dressed so as to not solicit attention of any kind—baggy cargos, loose, long-sleeved tee and the ubiquitous dago underneath—many of these charming gents gave me the surreptitious once-over. Whatever. Some people really don’t have enough excitement in their lives.

Then, in the parking lot of an adjacent mall, one of them openly stared straight at my boobs and—before he was out of eyeline, much less earshot—cracked to his equally vile friend, “See? Like those, bouncing all over the place.”

At first, I was incensed. This roly-poly cholo—this marginalized weeble in oversized baby clothes—dares malign me and my few extra ounces of bouncy old lady-flesh? Fuuuuuuuuuuck you, esé. I’m the revolution, baby; I’m an Agent of Change. I’m your mother, your sister, your daughter (well, more like your abuelita, really); how would you feel if some punk piece of trash guero caught one of them in their own vile line of fire?

And just as quickly, the flame of anger burned off and I realized the truth: I was no better, and arguably far worse than they. My lowest-common-denominator thinking, my impulse to objectify them rather connect with any common humanity was as foul as anything I was condemning in them. So what if I wasn’t as out-loud-obnoxious about it? That sprung from common sense and an instinct for survival, not anything noble.

Plus, there was the stark physical truth that they had pointed out, however rudely: my containment system was overtaxed, my meatflaps were flopping all over, and if I wanted to continue to fly under the radar, it was time to walk into Ross Dress for Less and, er, take matters in hand. Which I did, albeit in a grumbling sort of way. (If bra shopping is ever fun, it is not under these circumstances.) The universe, sensing my delicate mood, graciously directed me to six models on the tangled rack, three of which not only fit, but set me back a mere twenty bucks total. I did a patented actor change in the car, and poof! back under the radar I went.

Teachers: wherever you are, I thank you. I thank you for reminding me that I, too, am a pig, that some hills are not worth dying on and that sometimes, the solution is actually crazy simple.

Two boobs from the barrio put two boobs in a bra.

Nice symmetry, that…

xxx
c

Image by wolfheadfilms via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

TOPICS: 21 day salutes, Los Angeles, Rants, thank you sir may i have another.

Believe it or not, it’s been over a year since I’ve been on a stage. Yup, one whole year (and a summer) since Shane Nickerson organized the first L.A. blogger performance thingy I’d ever heard of, “Subject Line Here.”

Since then, Leah Peterson of LeahPeah has taken on the heinous task of riding nerd herd patrol. I was unable to attend the first gathering of L.A. Bloggers Live! because I was busy being inducted as Chief Nerd, but–gawd help us all–I’m doing this one. (I have no idea what I’m doing yet, but oh, well!)

Here’s the line up as of now:

• Julia Frey
• Abigail M Schilling
• Liz Rizzo
• Kevin Charnas
• Bonnie Gillespie
• Colleen Wainwright
• Carly Milne

Tomorrow, Wednesday the 22nd, at Tangier. 4 bucks cheep. Be there or be square.

Oh, wait—if you’re reading this, you probably already are…

xxx
c

TOPICS: communicatrix, Los Angeles, performance, Shameless plugs, Theater.

1. small but passionate band of artists form company in 1995
2. entire company sucks it up/busts hump to help build amazing reputation/following
3. reputation/following grows
4. reputation/following grows
5. reputation/following grows
6. heartless capitalist landlord gives band of artists the heave-ho
7. awesome (loaded) members of company contribute huge sums of money, buying the theater a home to live in
8. awesome (not-loaded) member of company contributes huge amounts of sweat equity and genius to create sterling reputation in local theater community to raise the theater’s profile
9. entire company sucks it up/busts hump to help build amazing reputation/following
10. reputation/following grows
11. reputation/following grows
12. reputation/following grows
13. grumbling in the ranks about too much sucking it up/hump-busting, particularly as regards being cast in plays
14. outright denial of unfair treatment by management
15. miscommunication builds
16. miscommunication builds
17. miscommunication builds
18. sides are taken
19. loaded members take ball and go home
20. not-loaded members take mailing list and go live out of (metaphorical) shopping cart
21. website mysteriously vanishes
22. former member/webmistress/general design lackey comes out of hiding to save “vanished” website, purchasing new URL, redirecting to new server
23. former member/webmistress/general design lackey, peeved over having to spend time needlessly recreating work because of childish vendetta, propagates new URL all over the intertubes to get Google rank back up, then shamelessly requests others to come to her aid and do same

xxx
c

P.S. The new home of the ER online is evidenceroomtheater.com. Pass it on…

TOPICS: evidence room, List-o-rama!, Los Angeles, Theater.

1. Conveniently located to Los Angeles’ fashionable East side.
2. Get to watch Vegas-style timed musical fountain whilst walking to/from personal transpo device.
3. Better porn than Hustler store.
4. Retro-calming, Holly Golightly-esque, “Nothing bad could ever happen to you in a place like this” design vibe.
5. No rats.
6. Close proximity to wide variety of foods legal on the Specific Carbohydrate Diet.
7. New! Urban equivalent of Wal-Mart greeter at front door!
8. New! Validated parking with ANY purchase!
9. New! Apple staff can ring up (credit card) purchases via handy/scary device around neck.
10. New! Apple staff can print out receipt on spot or email it to your .mac account.

Which leaves only one question: what is keeping you PC boneheads from drinking the Kool-Aid and getting down with the program?

Silly PC users…

xxx
c

Image by Chet Yeary II via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

TOPICS: 21 day salutes, Apple, List-o-rama!, Los Angeles, Nerd Love™, The Grove.