states of being
a commercial actor named randall and i went to tennessee on that audition. he's an easy going type, so there was plenty of yammer. i spent the better part the road-trip to toronto not speaking. not because there wasn't anything to say. mostly, adam slept and, mostly, rene played music. for six days.
in nashville, while randall was getting ready and memorizing lines, i went to a taco bell on the same block as the hotel where the audition was being held. immediately, the woman at the cash register greeted me with "how are you doing, sweetie?" in fact, all of her sentences ended with sweetie. behind her, another employee (in that purple shirt and those black pants i knew so well in my days as taco expediter 'omesh') began laughing. the cashier asked him what was so funny. he told her how much he loved her. and hugged her.
i was inside a retarded taco bell.
the tacos were made to perfection and tasted as fresh as mexico. the service was unparalleled. but the place was a mess. one special employee attempted to straighten up the soggy fountain drink area. orange drink spilled onto the napkins, little wads of straw paper soaked in syrup. she was interrupted by a regular customer. they hugged and laughed and talked. for a long time. it was the most adorable excuse for not working imaginable.
walking back thru the lobby of the hotel, i stepped passed a man in a suit and his demonstration: two yards of grass plugged into frames, a pair of scissors, and unbagged clippings. he was selling something.
upstairs on the mezzanine floor i signed in. they asked us to do the script once and then improvise it in our own words. the director had a long pony tail, and his shirt was too small. actually it fit everywhere except his exceptional belly. as he turned his body, his cell phone, clipped to his belt like a satellite, knocked over a cup of ballpoint pens. there were rubber bands in his beard. maybe.
during my turn to tryout for the spokesguy, i read the words off a cue card that was fit over the lens of the camera. a hole was cut out in the middle of the card and, therefore in the middle of the paragraph. i was standing only a few feet away, so i couldn't really fake as though i were looking into the lens. i read the copy and when i got to the hole i said "hole".
in my improv, i simile-ically likened the internet to a lonely highway in the desert and their company as an oasis. it really felt like a hundred degrees. and there really was sand in the waistband of my underwear.
in nashville, while randall was getting ready and memorizing lines, i went to a taco bell on the same block as the hotel where the audition was being held. immediately, the woman at the cash register greeted me with "how are you doing, sweetie?" in fact, all of her sentences ended with sweetie. behind her, another employee (in that purple shirt and those black pants i knew so well in my days as taco expediter 'omesh') began laughing. the cashier asked him what was so funny. he told her how much he loved her. and hugged her.
i was inside a retarded taco bell.
the tacos were made to perfection and tasted as fresh as mexico. the service was unparalleled. but the place was a mess. one special employee attempted to straighten up the soggy fountain drink area. orange drink spilled onto the napkins, little wads of straw paper soaked in syrup. she was interrupted by a regular customer. they hugged and laughed and talked. for a long time. it was the most adorable excuse for not working imaginable.walking back thru the lobby of the hotel, i stepped passed a man in a suit and his demonstration: two yards of grass plugged into frames, a pair of scissors, and unbagged clippings. he was selling something.
upstairs on the mezzanine floor i signed in. they asked us to do the script once and then improvise it in our own words. the director had a long pony tail, and his shirt was too small. actually it fit everywhere except his exceptional belly. as he turned his body, his cell phone, clipped to his belt like a satellite, knocked over a cup of ballpoint pens. there were rubber bands in his beard. maybe.
during my turn to tryout for the spokesguy, i read the words off a cue card that was fit over the lens of the camera. a hole was cut out in the middle of the card and, therefore in the middle of the paragraph. i was standing only a few feet away, so i couldn't really fake as though i were looking into the lens. i read the copy and when i got to the hole i said "hole".
in my improv, i simile-ically likened the internet to a lonely highway in the desert and their company as an oasis. it really felt like a hundred degrees. and there really was sand in the waistband of my underwear.
posted by ablebody at 11:26 PM
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