You’re gonna meet some creepy people there

So here we are on day 3 of the Great Cali Excursion. While today and yesterday contained far fewer auditions than I would have liked, I learned (from the horses mouth) how a non-union actor should approach an Equity audition. Now I know, and Hasbro toys has something to say about that.

I am less than two days away from registering with an extras casting agency, the work they can give me will allow me to learn my way around a TV/Film shoot. Tomorrow I audition for yet another production of My Fair Lady. The show repulses me, so many problems. But it’d pay. And I’m a kickass singer, and the dancing in the show is light, and my English accent, while still pure unrefined BS, is at least fresh.

My time in the Hostel, while far less painful than the movie may suggest, has reintroduced me to some of the fun and games Dorms once offered.

Men are idiots.

These guys watch ESPN endlessly, making me wonder what schmuck is asleep at the wheel that steers that network. One of the guys is real special though. He is flat out awful. He loudly giggles like a madman at the movies on HBO. He watches this foolish mess of an 80’s beachbum movie, about a beer swilling bum who owns a Bikini shop, and his straitlaced brother who moves in with him, to the chagrin of his spoiled, rich-girl fiancée. During the gratuitous parades of Bikini clad (and unclad) beauties, he touched the TV screen, saying “Baaaaby! Oh Baby!”

“Where are you from” he asks me
“Vegas” I say
“Yeah? Whats it like out there?”
“Ok. Its hot.”
“Lotta women out there?”
“I dunno”

I hope this man dies in his sleep

“How long are you staying here?” he asks
“About a week”
“Oh. I thought you’d be staying here long”

I hope I die in my sleep.

It makes me wonder though. Consider the legitimate genre in film, that of the stoner/sex comedy, the low brow. American pie, National Lampoon, Apatow, etc. often gross, rarely clever. Still, its there. And this miscreant slug is the target audience. I never realized that I may often sell my wares to people I would not like if we met. Their money is as good as anyone’s, right? Who should I please? The critics? The Masses?

Andy Kaufman whispers in my ear, and says “Work to please yourself.” Well said, Mr. Clifton.

I went out to Venice beach, my first major confrontation with LA’s Freeways. I got sand between my toes, walked down the blacktop and looked out to the Pacific, waded out into the water, crashed with the waves, Swam, floated for a while, and let all the built up heat of this summer, of Vegas out into the sea, where it bled into nothing. Through a pair of 10 dollar sunglasses I watched the red sun set on the American continent, on its way out to Japan I guess.

I got hopelessly lost on my way back, and briefly entertained fears that I would stumble into Compton and be summarily executed. I found an onramp leading the right way, and lost my fear in the beauty of the passing skyscrapers, lit against the now darkened sky.

I come “home” and find my bed, Made before my departure, ruffled. The adventure continues!