Thursday, February 17, 2011

I Was Drunk When I Wrote This

Ok, people will tell you one thing that matters in this town is playing it cool with egotistical ASSHOLES! That said, anyone with a camera or a stage seems to think you owe them a compliment and a coca-cola. Well, I am out of coca-colas.

I worked for some real fucking assholes in production and distribution, and can tell you, no matter how many hours you put in, no matter what side projects you take on, they will NOT give you a pay raise or a title change. There are some people out there that simply want you to be a measure of where they stand at Hollywood Sea Level. Well, after being fired from my last job, I just don't see the point in kissing privileged ass anymore. Just because your parents' trust funded your distribution company, or funded some theater over a strip mall or PAID for your bullshit education, does NOT mean that I am your waitress/ego depository for this evening.

SO FUCK YOU!

I have long been a believer that people who make things too personal are wasting my time, so I coined my phrase "Ego Over Efficiency." Their ego is worth more than the net profit of their company, the well being/job security of their employees, and the execution of the project. EGO over EFFICIENCY.

I have dealt with it in multiple facets of the industry, it happens. Usually, I bite my tongue. But after feeling victimized over the last four years of my career . . . I am not biting my tongue any fucking more.

Today, I was in a decent mood. I wasn't in a great mood either.

A few days ago, things were already intense with my boyfriend. I was venting about the endless audio on my pilot which is far too complicated for anyone to work on for free. While asking Abe about my performance on stage, he snapped back that I was too loud. In addition, he said, "You are a seasoned actress. Can't you gauge your own performance by now?"

I said, "No, asshole." And shut down.

I don't argue anymore since Not-for-Profit. All arguments led to pushing. I just don't desire aggression. I prefer silence.

So it was my fault I shut down. He expounded on his one main criticism, ex. his ears were ringing because my voice was too loud in a small theater. Blah fucking blah. FUCK. I mean . . . FUCK!

I kept asking everyone if I was too loud. From the beginning, I have modeled "Jolie" over the woman who helped me learn how to train my pit bulls. Her name is Lori, and she is tall, intimidating and strange. She said, with her rescue pitties, she would occasionally throw a heavy phone book down hard on the ground to get their attention- just to keep them on edge and aware that she is present and unpredictable. They pay attention. That was my strategy with the character.

Of course, Abe's cold critique was followed up by the ultimate, heartwarming question "Is it all worth it?" He asked me just yesterday, "How long will you be trying to act and me trying to crew before all of this stops?" I have been trying for over a year and getting somewhere. How can he relate that to his experience of not trying and getting nowhere?

Gawd, I was pissed. Again, the more pissed I am . . . the less I say.

I wasn't talking to Abe when he pulled into his Grandmother's driveway Friday night for Shabbat's dinner. While we were there, I refilled his soup bowl, I bragged about him, I complimented his hair cut, and I held warm conversation with his family.

When we left, he expected the same performance. No. That's not how it works. I turned off and went home immediately afterward.

He thinks my recent depression has been indicative of my interest in other men. He discovered droplets of foreign urine on the inside of my toilet seat. Somehow, he has assembled a conspiracy theory that I am acting depressed (NOT because I am broke, unable to make rent and my cat died) but because I am trying to break up with him to be with someone else. Now that makes a lot of fucking sense!

For Valentine's Day, we put everything aside to be together. After a weekend of hanging out with my friends, playing with dogs and calling it "work", I promised all my attention would be on him. No casting breakdowns. No phone calls. No rehearsals. No auditions. No work. Just Abe.

We made love about five times. Drank a few mimosas. I was supposed to make him pancakes, but I kind of stopped at the mimosas while he made breakfast. We took the dogs for a hike, came back and made love some more. Then got dressed and went to a club to watch MORTIFIED! A show I was looking forward to all month.

Of course, when we made it in, halfway through the performance I fainted. Reasons unknown. Could it be that I was dehydrated, oversexed, my knees were locked or I had a little more than a nibble from a prescription edible . . . who knows. But I turned into him and blacked out. For about a minute, I was unconscious. I remember my ears ringing and opening my eyes only to see black.

I thought I heard Abe's voice, but just asked, "Where am I?" I came to, and security was escorting me out with a water bottle. I wasn't allowed back in without talking to the manager and I had 3/4 of a pot cookie in my purse so . . . nevermind. We decided to leave.

Somehow the experience has made me all the more attached to him. Fainting into someone's arms actually made me feel needy. Or maybe it was the voice drawing me out of darkness. Go figure.

Abe stood by my side and kept saying, "Don't scare me like that, baby. I was really worried."

Later, Abe said, "Are you sure this isn't some weird manipulation to keep me from leaving?" Sigh. I just don't know how to teach that boy common sense. We all get insecure when intimacy reaches a certain, unforseen level but COME ON.

Wednesday, was our second show of Reservoir Bitches.

I was depressed anyway. The DMV is fining me an extra$107 for late payment on my car tags. My hair modeling gig from two weeks ago informed me they will take up to 50 days to send payment. I was also feeling unhealthy since passing out; sore throat and fatigue. I kept eating and sleeping and hydrating, but I was still a little off.

Before going on stage and getting into character, I told myself to get in the groove. I imagine a needle falling on vinyl, and that delicious silence just before static and then . . . music.

Get in the groove.

I kept having to urinate and said, back stage, "I can't believe I have to pee again."

Pink said, "Phantom pee."

Brown said, "Yeah, don't believe it. Its not real, that's just the phantom pee."

Then Pink said, "Its me that smells back here, by the way."

I said, "Actually, its my right arm pit. I don't know why, but it constantly perspires more than the left. And my arm pit hair grows twice as fast in there, too."

Evie said, "I am having my period next week, so be prepared."

I said, "I thought you had your period last week."

She said, "I am always having my period."

We did a speed read and nailed down our lines. In the actual performance, I still throw out an unexpected line or two, to keep it invigorating. What was I going to change up this week?

Our musical cue came on. "Foxy Lady" . . . You look so ... good. We filed on stage.

ME: "I will go pay the bill. You girls leave the tip. It should be about a buck a piece. And you, when I come back, I want my book back.

MS. WHITE: "Sorry, Jolie. Its my book now."

ME (to Ms. Blonde): "I changed my mind. Shoot this cottage cheese queef."

(laughter from the audience) Yeah . . . that's what I want. The laughter, not the silence.

Ms. Orange was missing lines and picking up later in the scene.

All of us were stuttering, starting a sentence over, low energy. It wasn't a great performance.

My monologue was maybe its best.

"Under no circumstances, do you tell anyone who you are or anything about yourself. That includes, where you're from, what size dildos you keep at home (improvised), the date of your last period (improvised), how many live births you have had (improvised), where you may have done time, some bank in St. Petersburg you may have robbed."

I guess you have to go to a gynecologist once a year to get some of those jokes.

At the end, I scream at Ms. Pink, "I will move on when I am fucking ready to move on. Jesus Christ, you bitches are hurting my singing voice (improvised)" Now, no one laughed last week because I left it at that. My idea was to test my vocals with a little "Do Re Me Fah So La Te" but Em said she didn't like it. Of course, at the bar after opening night, her husband suggested that I do just that.

So I did something in between, "You bitches are hurting my singing voice. Ahhhh. (lower) Ahhh. FUCK! Let's go to work." Lights fade. Laughter. Yeah, there it was. Tweeking for comedy.

There was a little wine sipping. Some crackers. Some cigarettes between scenes.

Evie came in and said, "I just asked Ms. Brown to watch our stuff while we were all on in the next scene, and the director (the FAT FUCK Albertson mentioned in my previous blog) said, 'Hey everyone, steal their stuff."

Just so happens, my prop address book was stolen twice. Em's jacket was stolen. As was all of our prop guns.

Now, the last time we asked for a place to keep all our props, the fuck said, "Hey, we have three productions going on here at all times, including rehearsals and auditions, and an AA meeting. SO TAKE ALL YOUR PROPS HOME!"

Now he was joking about stealing our stuff. I get it, but, you don't give us any percentage of ticket sales, make us buy our own costumes and props and replace the stolen props out of pocket ... THEN make a joke about it. Pardon me, but fuck you, asshole!

So after we did a total cluster fuck over the final lines and our three way execution, I asked him, "Hey, a few of our things were stolen during the last production. I heard you made a joke about stealing our stuff, but could you be sensitive about that since-"

He cut me off, "Why didn't you bring this up before?"

I said, "It doesn't matter, I am only asking-"

He said, "You are waiting to complain to me about it now instead of last week when you should of."

I said, "I am not complaining about it."

He continued, "What did I tell you? Take all your props home. Now you are going to whine to me about it being stolen."

His voice got louder. My cast and another cast were changing in the dressing room.

He continued, "Figure it out. It was great talking to you!"

He walked out the door. I closed it and said, "Yeah, it was wonderful."

He burst back through, "Excuse me? What did you say? What's your name?"

I said, "Smiette." I was tipsy and meant to say Miette from "City of Lost Children."

He said, "Alright Smiette, one more word and you are fired. That's all it takes. Anything to say? I will fire your ass."

I said, "Ouch."

He said, "That's it, you are fired."

I said, "Oh bummer."

He said, "You are easily replaced. No problem."

I sipped my wine. Fuck this guy.

Pink got in front of me and begged him to take a breath, give this some space, collect ourselves.

He said, "Why is she standing back there with a smirk on her face? Believe me, I have dropped in during your performance and she ain't much. If I replace her, trust me, I am doing you a favor."

This fat fuck hasn't dropped into anything but a Dairy Queen, ok? It was so pathetic and unprofessional, I really wasn't offended. I mean, this piece of shit playhouse doesn't even register on Facebook when I try to check-in. Really? Do I care? Honestly, no.

Honest to God, the first thing I thought of was the ability to book work on Wednesdays.

He kept barking at me like his small dick could only get bigger and told me I was banished from the theater forever. He ordered me to leave. Whatever. I said, "I am waiting to help carry down props."

He said, "Why? You clearly can't keep track of them." Yeah, since they were stolen out of your halfway house? Again. Is that supposed to hurt from someone who makes plays WORSE? I mean, really, I know high schools that execute more sophisticated performances.

I should say here, I was biting my tongue. This guy reminds me very distinctly of a character on the Lifetime series, "Human Trafficking". A Russian sex slave is dragged up and thrown in front of this fat fuck to give him a blow job. Instead of performing, she throws herself out a second story window. Yeah, that's this guy. An immigrant would rather DIE than suck him off.

At this point, it threatened to pull the plug on the entire production. The other girls seemed upset by that so I gracefully bowed out of the conversation.

I grabbed the box and started leaving.

He said, "You will never work my theater again."

I said, "You call this theater . . . HA!"

He kept saying "Get her out!" like there was some invisible security team escorting me out.

Mitchell, our director, screamed "Stop!" before retiring to his booth to rub his temples and get misty eyed over the whole thing.

I mean, really? Its a shitty play. WHO CARES!?

Down at the Woods (the bar below) everyone cared. The cast's guy friends were outside smoking while I waited for Em. They kept apologizing for the drama like it mattered. I waved my hands in the air and said, "What? To lose a role at this theater house? Please. Like this elevates my career."

They laughed.

We went down and Pink bought me a beer. She said, "If I were you, I would be crying right now." I said, "Why?"

I mean. . . its mystifying to me. Who the fuck cares? I left four years of the film industry so I wouldn't have to suck air out of assholes for a few dollars. Now, this douche was putting me in that same position for no money. Really, I had nothing to lose.

Everyone kept consoling me. It was exactly like being fired from my assistant job at a third rate distribution company; everyone thought I was in denial or hiding my true despair. Honestly, the smegma (look it up) who push me around, push actresses around in lieu of a sex life, are so pathetic and comical, I am truly perplexed why anyone would give a blue nut WHY I am excused from the burden of performing in some trough trying to pass off as a urinal.

Evie said, "You have to know when to talk to these guys. Power of the pussy. You ask them when they are down after a show, not when they are high in the middle of the show." She was right but who the fuck cares. I asked him when I had time, as a professional.

What I was more upset about was meeting Pink's "Baby Daddy" with no understanding of why he wasn't engaged to her. I asked Em to help watch myself with him, I could feel the anger rising as he tickled her ear from across the bar. They had a four year-old girl, for Christ's sake.

White, Brown and Pink all worked on me to apologize to this piece of shit. They had families and friends coming to the next two shows and needed me to be there. We all got a round of champagne and Em dumped half her glass into mine. A few cigarettes and I was feeling good enough to confront Pink's Baby Daddy.

I said, "That Pink. She's a good girl."

He said, "She is."

I said, "So why aren't you married to her?"

He said, "Uh, a couple things are missing."

I said, "You have a beautiful baby and . . . is she the love of your life?"

He said, (thoughtful at first) "Yeah, she is."

I said, "Well then, what could be missing with a gorgeous baby and the love of your life?"

He said, "She isn't sexual enough. I mean, since she had the baby."

I said, "That's it?"

He said, "I can't believe I am opening up to you about this, but yeah, a few things are missing and I want to be 100% before committing to a woman."

I said, "I already know you knocked her up through the withdrawal method, so don't worry about opening up too much. Everything can be worked out if the love is solid and she deserves a ring."

He said, "She knows why I won't propose and she is cool with it."

I said, "Every girl wants to believe that she is worth marrying. And that girl is worth marrying."

He said, "Yeah, she deserves better than me."

I told him that was a lame excuse shortly before I was dragged back into the Woods. I couldn't help but wonder if all my venom had to do with my boyfriend. He isn't ready to move in, even though I am facing losing my apartment. When would he be ready? We have been together for almost a year? I am over 30. Like, you stop fucking around after 31, you know? Mother Nature ain't pressing pause on the remote control. I wasted time on Not-for-Profit, I am not eager to spin my wheels with someone else.

Not to mention, moving in kind of loses the 'Go Team' sentimentality if I am rich and stable, and more importantly DON'T need the support. What the fuck? I need him now. I am worth it, right?

Back inside, I was told to "cow tail" and "eat humble pie". Small Dick Albertson and Mitchell asked the cast to return at 11pm, after the last performance in this strip mall dump. So, the cast begged me to pull it together and put on the "performance of a lifetime" and "apologize". WHY!? WHY!??????

I really don't feel obliged to appease people who have absolutely no credibility in the industry anyway. So you scam actors and own real estate in Hollywood. Congrata-fucking-lations!

Em said, "To get a new Jolie NOW, with no rehearsals . . . are you kidding me? You have to stay on!"

Christ. The cast aside . . . I care more about the reoccurring hair on my chin, than this piece of shit.

Pink said, "Ok, put away the prop gun now. Put it away." Oh, yeah. I was talking and waving the thing around a public bar.

The girls lead me up the staircase to the theater. I stopped at a homeless person lying in the corner and said, "I have to apologize to a douche bag, any tips?" They pulled me away.

I smoked half a cigarette and waited. Then I had to pee . . . again. So I did and came back to the lobby. One of Evie's admirers was sitting in the lobby and said, "Have a seat. They have been fighting in there for you."

I said, "Great. I don't know why."

I was led in by Em. She said, "Come on. He is being very nice." I guess he should get a fucking award for what everyone else does ALL THE TIME.

I came in and someone held my right hand while Em held the other. I had a smile frozen on my face and said, "I am sorry things got so intense."

He said, "Come have a seat, sweetheart. What's your real name?"

Sweetheart? You disgust me. I told him my name.

He said, "Look, no apologies needed. We are both at fault."

Swallow.

He continued, "Let's put this all behind us and continue for the good of the theater." Honestly, I tuned him out and kept that smile frozen.

His fat belly spilled through the seam of his pants. His legs were slightly spread to balance the weight for his minuscule testicles. I swear to fucking Gawd, I was looking to see if he was packing ANYTHING in those mustard stained khakis. This piece of shit had nothing on me.

Blah fucking blah. The other girls laughed, added in a word or two, and we all left all rosey posey.

Pink bought me another beer for biting my tongue.

Evie said, "Like he said, put it all behind us."

I said, "Are you kidding? I couldn't put the moon behind that fat asshole. Somethings are scientifically impossible. Its like trying NOT to cross streams for the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Fucking Impossible."

I took a swig.

Em said, "We have to leave soon." We carpooled.

I confided in Pink that I confronted her man. She said, "I know. He told me. Look, I see you and you see me. I respect that. But I don't want to get married, so don't worry about me."

I said, "You deserve anything you want."

It was a good moment. Pink, for some reason, has turned into my Magic Mirror on the Wall. I see myself- 33, quirky, acting, obligated to everyone else, and still not promised to. FUCK!

Yeah, pretty girls and actresses in this town are a dime a dozen. That's true. But me, this girl right here sitting at her computer in the middle of the night, sobering up with a couple pit bulls and a glass of water, she is worth a little bit more.

So eat me.

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