Impressionistic

Q: So, Tyler, what's your impression of Los Angeles?

A: Sorry. I don't do impressions. (Tyler takes a cream pie to the face. Applause. This guy, and his very long awesome 1970's game show host microphone enters, and introduces the next comedy guest)



Los Angeles has taken some getting used to. Now, this is not to say that I'm totally "vibing" with LA right now. In fact, one of the most infuriating things for me is how to abbreviate the damn city. Is it "LA" or "L.A."? One looks like a note to follow so, the other is just too much damn work (because, like most people who try to type too quickly, every time I type a period, I instictively put a space behind it...so I end up having to backspace every time I type L.A.).

But I am picking up on some of the quirks here. I'm learning, adapting, failing, and crying in the fetal position as much as I possibly can. Here's some of the stuff I have learned, though...

1) Los Angeles drivers are the worst and the best drivers in the country...all at the same time. Sure, it's annoying to have someone sitting three feet off of your bumper going 75 miles per hour with two open lanes to your left...but hey, think about how much skill it takes to drive that closely. Then, for a surreal juxtaposition, when I was driving home today from the grocery store, there was a car sitting in oncoming traffic, diagonally, blocking both oncoming lanes. Just sitting there. Not parking, or anything (well, I'm assuming he was trying to turn or something...but he just ended up stationary in our lane). It looked a little something like this:



I'm actually pretty sure there was even a turn lane...but he was content to just use those two lanes that the oncoming traffic selfishly bogarts. It was unreal. And no one in my lane(s) honked, I guess because you've got to figure that everyone driving in Los Angeles is armed...so my fellow "oncoming traffic friends" just calmly drove around him and proceeded on our way.

2) Drivers in Los Angeles would rather spend 30 minutes circling a parking lot, then leave the lot and park 10 feet away on the street. I actually got to witness this at the DMV. I thought for sure I was cheating...or I was going to get ticketed...or something. But no -- they are creatures of habit. Parking lot = good. Street parking = parking ticket.

3) If you're lucky enough to find a strech of freeway that isn't experiencing gridlock, it's not at all uncommon to have someone pass you on the freeway who is going over 100 miles per hour. In fact, stay out of the fast lane if you're only balsy enough to go 80...because you'll barely be going the speed of traffic.

4) Women in Los Angeles seem to think that the "puffy upper lip" look:



...looks spectacular. As opposed to how it really looks: weird. Ladies, I'm begging you, stop it. Please. Upper lips are supposed to be thin. It's what God intended, and it's what looks correct.

5) Silencing cell phones is frowned upon. It's also just fine to see who's calling if you're, say, teaching a class...or giving a speech...or taking someone's food order.

6) If you want to see people shuffle aimlessly, make your way down to the 99 cent store and feast your eyes upon your fellow shoppers.. Those people are the finest shufflers I've ever laid eyes on.

7) Lots of hispanic people. But it makes sense to me...I mean...this place did belong to Mexico for the greater part of the last millenium. Also, it's named "Los Angeles," which is...if I'm not mistaken...Spanish.

8) When people find out you're new in town, it's actually a pleasant surprise for them, and they're quick to offer advice. That, I was not expecting. I'd thought the "Doe-eyed actor wanna-be" was enough of a cliche at this point that it would be exasperating for those who'd been in town for a while...but I found it's quite the opposite. Those who have been around for a while seem to want to impart wisdom to the newbies...which is awesome.

9) Chicken is the meat of choice in Los Angeles. Which is good, because I do love me some chicken.

10) 75 degrees is beach weather in Seattle. When we went to the beach on a 75 degree day, it was deserted...and freaking freezing. Don't know how that works...


So that's my impression. Quick update: we've found a class that we want to take, from This Dude. We're also getting headshots from This Lady. And I was to buy apples from This Guy. Nothing much else new to report. So I leave you with this neat little blue ball machine:

Lifestyles of the Out of Focus

So the four of us signed up with a little company called "Central Casting." They are, according to them, the 1 Background Casting Agency in Los Angeles. This is because we need two things now that we're here: money, and a SAG card. Central Casting offers the opportunity for both…though the money is a pithy $62 for an 8 hour day, and the SAG card only comes after you manage to collect 3 vouchers (which are rarely offered to non-union actors). But it's a chance, at least – I'm not getting any farther in my carrer playing Xbox and fighting the myriad viruses attacking my frail body.

Now, once we got there, and filled out the paperwork, and waited in line, we got a chance to have our digital photo taken by a professional for a scant $25 (because, as we all know, it costs about $25 to take a picture with a digital camera). But it was here that I got my first little precious L.A. actor moment. The photographer's assistant (the one who took my money) asked me if I work out.

"Um…yes. I do."

"Great, well, sometimes we do shoots on the beach, and we need people who have beach-friendly bodies. Could I get you to lift up your shirt?"

"Well, I'm not toned or anything," is what I caution as I'm lifting up my t-shirt and polo.

"No, that's fine. We just need normal looking people…everyday people." My shirt has been raised to my chin. "Oh, you look great! That'd work perfect. Just go ahead and take off the shirt and put it on the chair over there."

I do as I'm told, and they take a (what I'm sure is) very sexy picture of me…sans shirt. Now, don't get me wrong…there was no humiliation here at all. One of the questions they asked on the registration form was "Are you willing to do nude work?" I was the only one in our little household that marked "Yes" on that line (because, heck, if anyone wants to see a naked me, then it's their problem, not mine). It seemed like one of those horror stories that you hear about…where the actor is pressured to do something he/she doesn't want…which I thought was just awesome (they didn't ask that of Erika and Lindsay, for those of you who were curious).

So now that we're in the system, we have to call a hotline to see if there are any extras needed around town. We let the "casting director" know that we're interested, and if we fit the bill they send us out to the location, and we get our $64. I figure, at that rate, I'd have to work about 20 days a week to earn the basic "per monthum" that I've allowed myself. Of course, that's not realistic, as exactly two jobs that I'm eligible for have been posted, and I've booked exactly zero. But, maybe once this blasted strike ends, extra work may be enough to stretch out what remains of my savings. Fingers crossed.

You Give Me Fever...

Well, in a twist that can only be described as "completely and utterly evil," I have managed to get sick yet again. I've managed to contract a fever of exactly 100.8 degrees, which is just peachy.

Now, I hadn't had an actual "fever" for some time...and of all the ailments that one could contract, this one always seemed like the most appealing. I mean...you're just really tired, and you have these wicked crazy thoughts going through your head. For instance, I've had John Mayer's "Your Body Is A Wonderland" running through my head for about 3 hours or so. A song I really, really loathe. It's awesome.

And then with it come aches and pains...and the constant shifting and shivering in bed...and a constant headache. It's delightful. I was totally set on "man-ing up," and going without medication (because my dear old mum told me that you need to let the fever attack...whatever it is that's causing it)...but I broke down and popped two Advil, for the aches. I didn't go full-on NyQuil yet (there'll be plenty of time for that) because it's too late now (I'd wake up with NyQuil cobwebs tomorrow), and NyQuil is supposed to subdue the fever...which I'm told is "good fer me."

So...to soothe my fractured mind, I thought I might blog a bit. But I think the typing is keeping Erika awake...and plus, the Advil should kick in any minute now.

But we're all auditing a class tomorrow...and it would be great for my career if I were to "call in sick" the first chance I get. I'm sure that'd sit well with Mr. Instructor person should I desire to continue working with him.

Well, back to bed I go. Let's hope I'm more successful for the remaining 5 hours that I get to sleep than I was for the first 3. Oh good...the runny nose has started now too. Wonderful. Wonderland.

When I Grow Up

(ed. I think this is the longest entry I've ever entered…so if you've got somewhere to be, you may as well stop now, before you get too far into it. And if you're tired, perhaps a nap would be a good idea, so you don't nod off at some point. I'm just sayin'…)

When I was very little, I decided very early on that there was only one vocation for me: I wanted to be a fire truck. I wasn't sure exactly how to go about doing that…I assume that it took several years of schooling, and a thorough transmogrification of some kind…but dammit…I was going to make it happen.

Luckily, I outgrew that stupidity, and decided that I had one goal in life: to become a full-time, professional bus driver. This was for two reasons: 1) you got that intercom system you could use to talk to the kids on the bus, and 2) you got that radio you could use to talk to other bus drivers. I mean…how cool is that? Two methods of communication in one vehicle? Holy crap! Awesome!

Finally, when I realized that every bus driver was an unhappy drug addict who would chain you to a seat in the back of the bus after all the kids had exited and read you the lyrics of Led Zeppelin songs (or maybe it was just that one guy…I can't remember too well), I needed to change my future profession. That new career: firefighter. I chose a firefighter because, in the fourth grade, a firefighter came to our class for career day, and at the beginning of his presentation he asked with excitement, "Okay…so who wants to be a firefighter when they grow up?" And no one in the class raised their hand. It was a good two count, before I saved him from his embarrassment and raised my hand. I didn't want to leave a brotha' hanging…but, because I just knew that he was going to hold me to my word, it became my new occupation of choice.

That is, until at least until a couple of months later, when our very career-centered fourth grade teacher Mrs. Quackenbush (this is the same one who left the teaching profession the year after I was in her class…which I suppose means that she was punishing us for the poor career choice she had made) gave us the assignment to "job-shadow" someone whose job we wanted when we were older. I decided that I wanted to be one of those "signal stick guys" on an aircraft carrier…because I liked the movie Top Gun, and those guys just seemed really cool…with their little flashlight things all waving around. But, really, I think I just wanted to find a job that would be impossible for me to job shadow, thus getting me out of the assignment (I ended up just copping out and job-shadowing my Dad, who had a computer programmer job at an insurance agency at the time).

Actually, now that I think of it, I can't remember ever really wanting to be a professional actor growing up…or, more precisely, never thinking it was possible. I used to visualize me sitting on my ass for 8 hours a day, then going home to a wife, kids, and crippling gambling addiction. Being an office drone sounded like great fun – I'd have my own computer…and cubicle walls…and a phone. I mean…what else could a man ask for (besides two ways to communicate to people in a vehicle)?

I don't think I actually really considered a job as an actor to be feasible until my senior year of high school. And even then, the prospect of sitting on my kiester all day in a cubicle sounded much more plausible…and respectable.

Honestly…even now, it doesn't really seem like a possibility that I might be working as an actor in Los Angeles. I have vague ideas that maybe I'll make a little bit of money (for example; apparently you can get ~$64 a day just working as an extra), and maybe attend a couple of auditions. But…a real, actor-type person, making a decent living wage? It doesn't seem likely to me.

Now, don't get me wrong, in the deep recesses of my brain, I can visualize a "Day Player" turned "TV Guest Spot" turned "Recurring Character" turned "Supporting Cast Member" turned "Feature Film Working Actor…" a career arc something along the lines of a Phillip Seymour Hoffman…or a John C. Reilly…or a William H. Macy…or some other character actor with a middle name/initial. Heck, I think a good goal would be one of those guys whose face you kinda' recognize, who works a lot, but whose name you probably don't know…like this guy. Or this guy. Truth be told…I'd be totally jacked to have a two-line waiter gig on Passions. But…shoot for the stars, right?

I thought you should all have a little background on me now that I've made this bold move to Los Angeles; I've never really pictured my name in lights. I don't expect to get hounded by fat foreign guys with cameras. I'm not convinced that I'm destined for greatness and fame. Heck, I'd be surprised if I actually manage to even appear in a movie or television show. But the more I learn about how things work here, and the more I learn about the business, the more I think it just might be possible.

Now, I don't mean this to sound like I'm copping some kooky defeatist attitude here. I'm sure there are some blowhard motivational life-coaches out there who would read this, comb the cookie crumbs out of their moustaches, then berate me for not believing that I can achieve my goals…not visualizing myself as rich and famous. But to tell you the truth, I'm not trying to get rich and famous. I mean…I wouldn't turn rich (or Rich) down…but that's not what I'm aiming for…or expecting.

Holy Burritos this blog entry is getting epic in size. I'd wager 90% of the people who started reading this didn't made it this far…probably dropping out right around the time when I said that I never wanted to be a professional actor. Blah blah bloggity-blog, right? I guess the point I'm trying to make here is…I don't have any expectations going into this. I'd love for this whole thing to work out…to become a successful actor. But if it doesn't, then it's not like I'll move away with my tail tucked safely betwixt my legs. It'd be: "I gave it a shot…it didn't work…I'll never stop acting, but making money in Los Angeles just wasn't in the cards."

I'm Not Funny...and I Have Proof

First off, I really try to avoid poignancy in this blog…or "deep thought-provoking observations" of any kind, because I'm not that kind of writer. I also try to avoid deliberate attempts at comedy – comedy may happen from time to time, but it's rarely something I aspire to.

For instance, I did a show called "3 Guys Naked From The Waist Down" back in my wilder, early-college days. During rehearsals, I was called upon to compose a stand-up routine (in direct violation of the show rights, I might add) for my "surly stand-up comic" character. And…under a fair amount of duress from our director, I sat down and typed out a monologue, which was more of an irritable modification of what was already written for the show...with a couple of extra curse words thrown in for good measure. During rehearsals I got up and read it for them…and the two other "guys" seemed to like it. The director asked if I'd soften the edges a little bit…and I tried to do so…but they seemed generally pleased with my efforts.

But the problem was: it wasn't very funny...and more importantly it was a little mean. See, when I actually sit down with the intention of "writing comedy," I'll either end up being "asshole-ish" (sorry Mom…this blog may include some swears at certain points), or far too impressed with my own sense of irony to actually be able to capture any element of humor.

So, inevitably, about a week before "Three Guys" opened, James (our director/second "guy") delicately pulled me aside…and informed me gently that Ben (the third "guy") had re-written my monologue, and I needed to memorize that for the show. James seemed fairly nervous that I'd throw a fit…and for a moment I considered it…but after some thought I realized that Ben is much, much funnier than I am (when we're trying to be funny). I had no problem with that, especially after reading the new monologue which was (as advertised) much funnier than what I'd written.

The point is: I never sit down here in my comfortable leather computer chair and try to pen hilarity. Or, when I do, it's usually a miserable failure. Except when I fill out surveys. I don't care what y'all say, I make myself laugh with those.

As goes my "poor comedic ability," so goes goes my "aversion to poignant statements." I'm not the kind of guy who looks at a sunset, and reflects on how that sunset is like the sands of time and a homeless guy walks by and it makes me think of how fragile life in the balance and I saw a butterfly land on a leaf and the sands of time tick by so suddenly life changes and my own life seems so insignificant sand through an hourglass people just going through their daily routine never stopping to really notice how the world slips sand hourglass time fragile sunset unicorns.

I did have one observation that verges on poignancy today, and I'm hesitating to put it on here because of my distaste the "this is how you should live your life because it's how I live my life" style of writing. But I'll plow ahead regardless, with no fear. Okay, a little fear, but not enough to stop me.

So, yesterday the four roomies drove out to the Santa Monica pier, through the heart of Hollywood & Beverly Hills. And, even though we weren't "in the hills," we drove by some pretty impressive, undoubtedly "very expensive" houses. As I was sitting in some delightful Los Angeles traffic, I looked around at all them nice domiciles. I thought I was pretty sure that 99% of the aspiring actors who drive by those homes dream of some day owning one. Y'know, something with an actual lawn…and a big-ass wall to keep prying eyes away. I was, of course, one of those daydreaming actors…imagining myself buried deep in the bowels of one of those homes, blogging about how awesome it is to be a frigging millionaire while Erika catches some sun on one of our four sundecks. Or by our big ass pool.

The reality, of course, is that I currently live above a man who is a regular on a TV show, and he's renting an apartment directly below four newbie actors. He's in his late thirties...with all kinds of success already, and he's worked as an actor for a decade to get where he's at now. Don't get me wrong – his place is much better than ours, and he drives a much nicer car. But, he's not chilling in a Beverly Hills mansion (or even a place of his own) as a neophyte like myself would think he would. He's doing well, but that myth that "all those people on TV have houses in the Hills" has inevitably been banished. And I so cherished that myth.

Here's the thought I had...read with caution: I'd think the appearance of wealth might be a problem in Los Angeles. Actors arrive in this city every day, and the sky is the limit on how successful a person can be. Then on their way to the beach they'll drive by all of these successful people (and their houses). But 99.999% of those actors will never achieve that kind of financial success…and even if they do manage some success, they don't get that "Beverly Hills" kind. I imagine it'd drive some people mad – especially after years of chasing fame and getting none.

This would be the moment where everyone reading this column goes "Duh!" all at once. It's one of the main reasons why I try to avoid poignancy – I'm no good at it. I come to these realizations that everyone else realized years ago, which makes me think I should stick to what I do best: mundane observations of the day's minutia. Such as, "Well, we went to the grocery store today and bought some vegetables. We were running low. We didn't buy a whole lot of stuff though, because we were walking, and we're going to take the car on Thursday so we can buy the big stuff." Ah…that blog would be sweet…and so much easier to write.

Starstruck

So, I know this will pass...but I'm currently one of those schmucks making eye contact with every person driving a nice car in L.A., trying to see through the limo tint and catch a glimpse of celebrity. It's annoying...and pretty embarassing (wow...I don't think I know how to spell that word...that's embarrasing) to admit to. But I am. I make eye contact with every person in the supermarket, hoping that I'll catch a castmember of The Office...or something.

Just yesterday we decided to go to an Upright Citizens Brigade show in Hollywood...because it cost a dollar. I thought to myself, "Oh...a dollar. That's fine. We'll get to see some enthusiastic college-aged kids on an "improv team" do a harold-format show. It'd just be good to get out of the house."

Well, we show up, and there's a line filled with hipsters and their hipster girlfriends (many hoodies, casual neckties, uncombed hair, plastic rimmed glasses...that kind of thing). We get our seats (it's a tiny little theater that they jammed with at least a hundred people...which had "fire code violation" written all over it), and when the show starts, freaking Matt Walsh and Matt Besser, the two founders of the company, come strolling out and start warming up the crowd. Holy crap...these are two guys who I'd seen on TV and in the movies dozens times, were onstage in this crappy little theater...about 5 feet from me. I was tickled.

Then they introduced the "special guest," who was none other than Jeff Garlin. Again...my eyes were replaced by little cartoon-y stars.

The show itself? Freaking hilarious. Made me want to be all hip, and go get the original series on DVD.

But enough of that. Basically, the point is, there's famous people here...all over the place. Right now I realize that I'm being very un-cool and giggly, but in Seattle the closest I got to a bona-fide celebrity was seeing David Cross doing stand-up at Bumbershoot. I'm sure the "jaded" will appear sometime soon...but for now...I'm just tittering like Perez Hilton.

Here is Your Update, My Good People

It's been a while…I know some of you are starved for details. Some of you might be just idly curious. Some of you may not have heard we've moved to Los Angeles (well, we have). Finally, some of you don't even know who I am, or why I keep sending you advertisements for ringtones (sorry about those…but seriously, just check them out – they are pretty great deals. I mean, 49 cents? That's unbelievable!!!).

But for the "starved" or "curious" ones, I'll ladle out a healthy portion of "What's Up" soup. Hell, I might just include a hearty handful of "What's on Deck" to go with that ("I don't know – THIRD BASE!").

So, here's the skinny. First up, there was a little unfortunately nasty business with our landlord (or, more to the point, his assistant), regarding our departure time. We had thought it would be good to leave on January 4^th. We told them this at the beginning of December, and there were no problems with it at all…until the evening of December 31^st, when they called us in Idaho to let us know we had to vacate our place by January 2^nd. Of course, our apartment was not packed or cleaned, and all of our moving reservations were set on January 4^th. Needless to say, there was much gnashing of teeth, and rending of garments…before we finally settled on an uneasy truce.

Now, maybe it was my wonderfully optimistic (read: naïve), rose-colored outlook, but I had thought the move down was going to be a snap…maybe two snaps…maybe, if we were terribly unlucky, it'd be three snaps up. However, this move was not a snap, but rather a steady series of punches to the testicles…spaced about 2 minutes apart…for an entire week.

First off, I got sick. That happened around midnight of December 31^st (HAPPY NEW YEARZ!!!!). This sick wasn't the cute little sick that grandma knitted for you on the porch in late April. This was the kind of sick that boxes your ears, and makes your head ESPLODE!

And does so for two full weeks (I'm still sick now). And all the DayQuil and NyQuil in the world (and I feel like I ingested just that much) will only make you barely functional.

This means that I got to pack the house, load a small truck (up and down 4 flights of stairs), unload a truck, load larger truck (that's a whole 'nother blog entry), then load the large truck some more, spend 3 days driving down a snow/rain slicked I-5 corridor, unload the large truck (up and down 4 damn flights of stairs…again…no stairs at the next place; mark my word) while steadily coughing up most of my lungs through my throbbing throat, and dribbling out most of my brain matter through my chafed nostrils and into a waiting Kleenex. Sorry if that description was gross…but I wanted to give all of you fine people an inkling of the hell that has been the last two weeks.

Luckily for me I have an awesome wife, two awesome roommates, and a rotating cast of awesome friends and family who helped at every step of the way. To those of you who took time out of your day to help us, holy crap, thank you for the depths of my soul…and I'm sorry if I accidentally got any of you sick. Helping people move is analogous (in my mind) to providing an alibi to a friend who was recently brought up on murder charges. Anyone who does either of those things is a-ok in my book. Thanks, especially, to you ..>Mr. Dennie…who helped us two nights in a row. You're a saint, my friend…and one of the good ones.

Long story short (too late!!! HA HA!!! Get it!!?? Because I've already been talking for a while…and for me to say…um…), we're here now. We made it, and the house is almost completely unpacked/assorted/decorated/stored away. Where, you may ask? Good question! Here's a shiny blue star that you earned for asking such a good leading question! Well, it's in Silver Lake, and (according to Wikipedia) it's the home of many musicians and homosexuals. Though, I don't believe he was either one of those thing, our apartment (at one time or another) was the home to this guy:

And this guy:

(he'd be the one on the left)

And this guy:

And, if he was here, she was here too:

But, best of all…currently, this guy lives below us:

Now, he's not actually a homeless guy, he just plays one on TV. Here's what the handsome devil actually looks like:

Of course, I don't know if any of you watch The Wire (if you don't you should...because it's fantastic), but he's a cast member on that show. Like, a real, bona fide, honest-to-god working actor, living right below us with his wife and kid. It's pretty cool. If he ever gets big (he loaned us the first season of The Wire…and I must say, he's actually very, very good…so I think it's quite possible), then I can sell some seedy stories to the Enquirer for serious cash. Like…for example…he listens to some kind of hip-hop music! And he plays it LOUD! And…um…he's really into Asians (he even MARRIED ONE!). And he owns golf clubs! GOLF CLUBS!!! Oh boy…that payday is going to be sweeeeet…

As for us? Well…we don't have any internet connection (we're "borrowing" a signal temporarily) or television until the 21^st. We've all decided to take this first week (we arrived on the 8^th) to just acclimate ourselves to this wacky city, and get our house in order. But starting on Monday, we're going to start doing what we came here to do – try to make money from acting before we all go broke. That's the plan, anyway…we'll see how that turns out. Wish us broken legs…but not real broken legs, because we have no health insurance. I'm talking about the wacky broken legs that you wish upon people who pretend to be other people for money. Mmmmmm…