My Day as an Extra: Part 1

I'm going to chop this little thing into two bits...because it's 11 single-spaced pages long. A bit much to digest all in one sitting. Anyhow, here she is:

Well, for those of you who don't know, I have a sister. A sister with a blog. A sister who, at one point, wrote a blog about "her day." Now, because there's not a clever bone in my body (nay, I have merely 64 bones, and they're all quite dull), I figured I'd just hijack her idea and give it the "Tyler Twist."

Many of you (by "many" I mean "perhaps one or two," and by "perhaps" I mean "merely," and by "by" when I said "and by" the first and second times, what I meant to say was "also") may be curious as to exactly what a day as an extra is like. Many more of you, I'm sure, are not interested in the least. To those people I say, "Nuts!" Because that's what I say when I have nothing else to say.

Anyhow, to wit: I have "signed up" with four extras casting directors (I'd guestimate there are about 20 dedicated background casting agencies…of varying influence), all of which are programmed into my home phone: Sandy Alessi Casting, Central Casting, Jeff Olan Casting, and Burbank Casting. A few weeks back, I hit the speed dial for Jeff Olan Casting.

"Hello, you've reached the casting hotline for Jeff Olan Casting. It's 4:45 PM on Monday, and we've got a couple of things casting today. First off, we need all ethnicities, ages 18-45 to work on [a popular medical drama]…"

Just a note here…before I get carried away. I decided, late in the writing of this, to remove the name of the show I worked. I realized that I said some things that are…less than flattering about some (mainly two) members of the crew…and, being as I'm very interested in working background again in the future…I decided to make things more anonymous by changing names, not telling the name of the show, stuff like that. Maybe I'm just being paranoid…but there's a chance that one of those two I mention may Google something along the lines of "[The Show I Worked]" and "Background" and "Tyler Twist." May not happen…but better safe than sorry, yes? I'm sure some of you super-sleuths can figure out which of the eighty seven medical dramas out there I'm talking about…and to those people, I give a doff of my cap. In fact, while I'm at it, I'll doff my sweater as well, because I'm feeling punchy, and (also) I'm wearing a sweater.

All right...back to the story. Being as I met the criteria of "any ethnicity," I left a message on a separate line with my last name and phone number. Then I waited.

I did not wait very long – Jeff Olan himself (that's right…the legendary legend who goes by the name of "Jeff Olan") called back 20 minutes later and asked me if I was still available to work. I was. He gave me a third and final number (to get the details of the shoot), a booking number, and a call time of 7:00 AM…which is known (by me, inaccurately) as "The Witching Hour."

Flash forward to the next day (that is, unless you want to hear some very uninteresting details about how I spent the rest of the night watching Janice Dickinson's Modeling Agency reruns. No? Well…maybe some other time…). The only wardrobe I was required to bring was a pair of "Non-white tennis shoes," because they were going to outfit me in scrubs (and "what have you") at the studio. So, at 5:15 in the godforsaken AM, I rolled out of bed, showered, strapped on my shoes, and skittered out the door (because I love skittering).

I decided that, since my car is on the Fritz (poor Fritz…his name will always be synonymous with being atop broken crap), and since the studio was about two miles away, I did what no other Los Angelino has ever done in the history of movie making – I decided to walk to the studio.

A brisk 45 minutes later, I skittered up to the security gate. A friendly man sporting the studio lot "rent-a-cop" outfit checked my I.D., and directed me to "base camp."

I'm not sure exactly how to describe being "on the lot" to someone who's never been. Back when I was threshing grain in the wheat fields of Seattle, I held a good deal of mysticism about the art of movie making. This mystique (can I use both those words interchangeably? I don't think so. Sharla?) has gradually diminished the more I'm around it (which is a topic I've been meaning to blog about). But, to those of you who have never been on an actual studio lot, it pretty much looks like a bunch of shapeless office buildings, surrounded by big ol' warehouses. Littered liberally among the warehouses (or "stages") are dozens of trailers, and usually a bunch of really nice cars. The dozens of trailers house the hair, makeup, wardrobe, production staff, and actors for whatever T.V. show or movie is being filmed. The really nice cars are owned by the people occupying those trailers.

So, as an extra, those first 10 minutes when you walk on set are the most chaotic and weird time you'll have during a typical day. "Background artists" are paid to follow directions and keep quiet. So, when there is no one to give directions, or shush us when we talk, it's a little unsettling. You could ask someone, but the grips (the surly men and women, often identified by a roll of gaff tape on their belts, and an "I don't want to talk to you" look on their faces) feign ignorance when an extra dares to speak with them. And asking other extras usually just results in an Olympic-length shrug-fest (Olympic Shrugging – London, 2012). In fact, it's not unusual to see a half-dozen lost-looking extras, hauling wardrobe bags or clothes on hangers…searching desperately for "a person to tell us what to do." This person, generally, has a walkie-talkie, and a clipboard. He or she is known as the "2^nd Assistant Director." Or, as I call them (inaccurately), the "Extras Wrangler."

Today I located the base camp and saw a lone woman sitting amongst the trailers on a camping chair, reading a newspaper. Extras who bring their camping chairs with them to set are people who have been doing extra work for a long time – long enough to warrant the purchase of portable furniture. Some of them are quite pleasant. Some of them are arrogant braggarts who are "really proud" of their long history of background artistry, and the fact that some of the crew members know them by their first names. I made a pledge to myself early on – I will never be one of those extras who brings a camping chair. Something about that just seemed…unseemly to me. Can I use "seemed" and "unseemly" in the same sentence? I don't think so. Sharla?

After about 10 minutes of quiet waiting, my savior – the 2^nd A.D. (a woman by the name of Stephanie…which isn't her real name…OR IS IT?!) arrived with a folder full of "vouchers," which are basically an extra's time card, that has a couple of stapled carbon copies stapled to the back. Stephanie greets the four extras sitting around me by their first names, and even hugged two of them. Stephanie is probably in her late 20s to early 30s. She's got what could only be described as a "cap" on her head, a greasy flat face, horn-rimmed glasses, and short hair. She appeared harried (always a bad sign first thing in the morning, personality-wise), and she had a touch of the "abrupt but condescending" approach to speaking with the background actors (at least…those she doesn't know personally…which would mean: "me"). My defense against the "easily stressed condescender" style 2^nd A.D. is to find out their first name (so they'll humanize me…in the same way you're supposed to humanize yourself if you're ever held hostage), and be overly polite, punctual, quiet, and professional. And to try not to ask any questions – people who are easily stressed out seem to hate answering questions, as they'll typically automatically assume that the asker is stupid, and gleefully treat it as an opportunity to condescend.

After greeting each extra by name, and personally handing them their vouchers she returned to her perch on the back of the wardrobe trailer. Either she didn't notice me, or she ignored me – either way, it was odd. So I walked up to her, and without looking up from her print-out she asked:

"Number?"

"Four. Uh…number 4." (this was the "booking number" assigned to me by Jeff Olan) "Tyler Rhoades?"

She looks at her sheet. "Ah. There you are." She hands me my voucher. "Fill this out completely, and wardrobe will come out when she's ready for you all."

I fill out the voucher with my name, phone number, and other boring "fill out this form" information. Stephanie returned and looked at my half-filled-out voucher.

"You need to put your address down, and the production company is [whatever production company she told me…I don't remember now]."

I hadn't finished filling out the form yet, but I responded, "All right. Thanks." Trying out my polite.

About ten minutes later I'm assigned a set of "gray scrubs" (which apparently means I "work the catheter") by the wardrobe lady – a young, stylishly dressed brunette in Ugz slippers, a tight ponytail, and jeans. She jokes about how she's "so stressed" about having to outfit five extras (a joke, apparently, because she's normally tasked with dressing at least 50 extras)…but that weak attempt at humor aside, I get the sense that she's another one who gets easily ruffled. But 'tis no matter – the only times one typically has to deal with the costume department is first thing in the morning (to get your outfit, or have the wardrobe you brought approved), then right before you leave (to return your outfit).

Stephanie (whom I will henceforward refer to as "Steph," because it's easier, and it sounds like "Staph," which is funny) instructs the lot of us that we'll "be filming on stage nine today." I look around – apparently I'm on stage infinity (since I'm outside in a parking lot, and not near any stage), and I see nary a stage number in eye-shot. But I figure if I just follow the crowd, I'll be all right.

The only problem is that there was no crowd. After I'd changed into my grey "catheter person" scrubs, I came out to see the trailers deserted. In fact, the entire studio seemed to be deserted, except for a tumbleweed bush that rolled in a clichéd fashion in front of me. So, trying like hell to look like I knew what I was doing, I started walking. I don't know how many times I've been on a set and "tried to look like I knew what I was doing." I'm guessing somewhere in the million billion billion millions!!!!

Of course, inevitably, several terrifying minutes into my brave walk, I saw another person in scrubs and followed her. It was then I saw my first stage number of the day – stage number 7. Two stages to go, I supposed (though studios don't really like to place things in "logical numerical order," for whatever reason). Eventually the woman I was tailing arrived at stage 9…then walked right past the door with the big sign that said "Stage 9" on it. "Well," I thought, "When in Rome," then I stopped thinking, because I have not been to Rome (yet). I had figured she was heading to a different, better door to enter – maybe some secret portal only the "regular" extras knew about. Perhaps something closer to the actual set? So I followed.

As luck would have it, when I was about 20 feet past the Stage 9 door, Steph (who I will now only refer to as "Staph," because as I discovered earlier, it's much funnier than "Steph") pulled up behind me in a golf cart and whistled at me (as one would whistle to a Labrador) and barked (as a Labrador would) "Hey, where you going?" She then waved me at the stage door. Oops – there goes my air of cool professionalism. Oh well.

I followed Staph into the stage, and she told me abruptly to put my stuff down, and to "Make sure you've got your voucher." Well…of course I had my voucher – it was in my bag. Why wouldn't I have my voucher? So I went to follow her (she was walking at a break-neck pace, because she wanted to give me the impression that she was working really hard), then I realized quickly that she wanted me to "bring my voucher along with me." Oops again. I skittered back to my bag, grabbed my voucher, and promptly lost sight of her. She appeared (magically) at a door to the adjoining stage, and beckoned me over (as one would beckon a poodle), muttering, "C'mon, c'mon." I gave her as "cross" of a look as I could manage in the early dawn hours, and sigh audibly as I pass her. Screw "polite," she was being difficult…for no good reason.

See, the reason I was supposed to bring my voucher was that I had to give it to the props department (so I wouldn't walk off of the set with something like a sweet, sweet free stethoscope). The prop dude…a friendly, nondescript guy with a dirty blonde ponytail gives me a name tag, a strange security clip-on tag, and a folder containing x-rays. I attempt to return to the set, and promptly get lost again. Eventually I find Staph, and she guides me to the extra's holding area (actually the waiting room of the hospital).

Staph finds me in the extras holding area, and tells me that the disgruntled costume lady (I'll call her Lucy, because it sounds silly) will be outfitting me as an anesthesiologist (thank you spell check). Apparently folks of the anesthesiological (no thank you spell check) persuasion at this hospital like to wear dark blue. Fine by me. Now I'm the crazy drug doctor in blue.

Once I've changed, I'm brought to the set. I'm in a scene with two doctors, who are operating on a little girl (for some reason…probably because she's sick or something), and it's my responsibility to pretend to look at a screen that has her vitals, oxygen levels, drug levels, etc., and write stuff on a clipboard. I guess that's what anesthesiologists do – I always thought they injected people with syringes (or fiddled with knobs or somesuch) then left to go drug up other people. But apparently they just scribble on a clipboard while the real doctors do all the difficult bloody work, with the cutting, and the pulling, and the clamping. But I tell you what, if I were to ever get into doctoring full-time, I figure anesthesiologist'd be a good way to go.

Here I had my third brush with Lucy – and it turned out my initial impression of her was depressingly accurate. She was outfitting me with a neat-o surgical cap to wear during the procedure. As Lucy was a bit shorter than me, I bent at the knee to help her reach the top of my thinning dome. As I did this, she snapped: "Stand normal, please." I'm not really sure why it bothered her so much…she wasn't short enough to have an inferiority complex. Perhaps she just liked snapping and embarrassing people? Who knows.

Anyhow, a different crewperson got me into place (this person is one of the two "Production Assistants" or PAs, who are generically responsible for the extras' background movements).

I wish I could talk more about the magic of the filming process…but it's actually one of the more unremarkable parts of the day. There's a guy standing by the camera who is the "1^st A.D.", and when everything is ready he called, "Background…and…action," (sometimes the director makes this call…though they're typically out of the room watching the scene through a headset and a bank of monitors). When I hear the word "background," I'm supposed to come to life, so that when the actors start on "action," they've got an active scene that they can just jump into…as opposed to having every start at once. Helps with the editing.

Since I started doing this I've been able to watch some of the best actors in the world working, and while you're watching them live you realize quickly that what you see on the T.V. screen isn't really what happens in the studio. T.V. and film acting is usually done in about 30 seconds chunks…several times in a row, and then repeated from a different angle. Most actors come into a scene barely knowing their lines (and the vast majority of them will forget at least part of the scene during rehearsal and the first couple of takes). This is in contrast to theater, where the scenes can last up to an hour and a half…and there are no take-backs. Film acting is still something of a mystery to me, honestly…but maybe some day it'll make sense, and I'll be freaking famous or something. Probably not…but it'd be cool.

Eventually the angle I'm in is completed, and I'm booted out, and replaced by a large light aimed at the actual "actors" (and the camera flips to a new angle – a two-shot of the two doctors). I return to the holding area, and decide, "Hey, wouldn't it be cool to do a running blog entry of my day?" So I start writing on my laptop. I figure I'll be writing most of the day…at least, until my batteries run out. Then I'll have to find something else to do. Maybe strike up a conversation with some of the other actors? Naw…

After an hour or so of sitting around, typing this blog, another crewmember came over and asked me my name.

"Tyler."

"Hi Tyler, I'm Chelsie. We're going to use you in this next shot, so would you follow me?"

"Of course."

Finally…someone nice. Chelsie (henceforth to be called "Chelsie," because she was nice) walked me through my movements for the next scene (I was to start walking away from the camera…then turn around and cross back toward the camera – if you pay attention to the background actors in many of these T.V. shows where there are shots of a hospital or a street, you'll probably catch same extras crossing back and forth multiple times). I can't even hear the scene that's going on; I just know that when the dude (that's my name for the 1^st A.D. – please do try to keep track, because I'll probably forget at some point, and will have to scroll up to remind myself) calls "background," I start walking. Stop. Wait five seconds, and then start walking in the opposite direction.

This, my friends, is the extent of the skill required to be a background actor. Keep your head down, bring several options of clothes for the costume people, listen to very simple instructions, and try not to get bored. I'd say that this is one of the best jobs I've ever had, but the truth is, in addition to not paying well, it's also very inconsistent work (I worked one day last week. At that rate, I'd make about $225 for the entire month – a little less than half of what my rent is).

Now, I do want to speak to something. I'm afraid that just maybe I've been a little unfair to my good friend Staph (but not nearly as unfair as I'm going to get). See…the problem with background acting is…there are a lot of really dumb people doing background work. Of course, I'm hesitant to use the word "dumb" when I describe other people, because it's almost like bragging that I'm "not dumb"(and I'm just as dumb as the next guy…evidenced by my passion for America's Funniest Home Videos and Janice Dickinson's Modeling Agency), but I really don't know how else to put it. I mean…I'm friends with all of you people – especially those faithful readers of this here blog. So, I can say with authority that none of you are dumb people (because dumb people make awful friends). But some extras can be really…really dumb.

Having made that broad, sweeping, completely unfair and unjustified generalization, I must now state that – having mocked Staph et al, they really have a tough job. I don't know how many ignorant, inattentive, and (frankly, to repeat myself ad naseum) dumb extras I've had the pleasure of working with…I just know there are a lot. And so, when I hear a 2^nd A.D. speaking in a condescending, repetitive tone…I kinda' get it. Peoples' responses to the scourge of dumb are varied (like the beautiful rainbow…or a flower with different colored petals…or a bird flying over a rainbow and pooping on a toadstool) – some people get aggressive and frustrated, some people get mad and yell, some get sarcastic and snippy, some get sing-songy and condescending, some deal with things calmly and professionally, and some ignore it until it's a problem. Me? I stab. But that's just me.

Chelsie calls me back – now I've got the Herculean task of pretending to write on a medical file of some kind (the one I got from props, with the x-rays inside), then I was to follow two actors through a door…which means that I was stationed near the two doctors in-between takes…which really means…GOSSIP TIME!!!

Okay, time to gab. Guess what, people?! The stars are JUST LIKE US!!! What did they talk about? Oh…you know…the woman doctor joked around with a male doctor, saying he was acting like a CRAZY PERSON!!! The two women doctors near me discussed their CUES, and whether they were LEAVING TOO EARLY after ACTION was called!!! One of them talked with the hairstyling ladies about BUYING SHOES!!! And how she DIDN'T LIKE IT when women wore TOO MUCH HAIR SPRAY!!! Then she told a story about how, when she goes to an AWARDS SHOW she HAS to buy new SHOES!!! And how, one time, her STYLIST got her shoes that she COULDN'T WALK IN, and she was UPSET WITH HIM!!! The other one FLIRTED with a P.A., and asked a COSTUME LADY to cut off the TAG on her SHIRT!!!

Yep, they're just like us. Except famouser.

Stay tuned tomorrow for Part Two. Little hint -- one of the people in this story WILL BE DEAD BY THE END OF THE DAY.

Not really. But that'd be a sweet cliffhanger, wouldn't it?

Knick Knacks, Jim Cracks

I have nothing specific to report now...but here's how it works. See, I've got three or four full-length blog entries muddling about on my laptop or desktop hard drives. Someday I'll get around to actually posting two or three of those (I have a very nit-picky editor).

But in the meantimes, stuff happens...and it tends to fall by wayside. So I'll throw together a little mish-mash of topics that need a brief covering. A kind of "news in brief." The only problem is, the "news in brief" tends to take a couple of hours to write out...and then I'll usually forget stuff anyway.

Regardless I shall plunge ahead...with no fear.

First up there's Europe. For those of you who have been living under a rock (and if you are under a rock, what the hell are you doing? How do you check your MySpace? I want to know more! MESSAGE ME WITH DETAILS!!! LOL!!!), or for those of you who weren't aware because we hadn't told you yet, Erika and I are taking a trip to Europe for 21 days. Starting in Paris, then to Munich, Lucerne, and Rome. Now, my intention is to keep a daily journal of our days in Europe. Whether that happens, and whether I'm able to actually update and post a blog a day...well, that remains to be seen. I shall try...but...I mean...I'll be in Europe, and Erika will no doubt yell at me if I'm hunkered over a laptop surfing the web when I should be gazing slack-jawed at all the artistic majesty and junk around me.

Secondly...well...a couple of months ago I was asked by several extras casting agencies if I would "go nude." I put "hell to the yeah" on those applications...because...well, if someone wanted to pay me to see it, I'd gladly oblige. It's not so much that I'm free-spirited or anything...just really indifferent.

Yesterday I finally got my chance. There was a re-shoot for the upcoming movie "Yes Man," that involved a large conference room filled with naked people...for reasons that seem a little far-fetched to me. Regardless, I volunteered for this nude duty...partly because there was a handsome pay bump...partly because it beats a day of "non-descript New York street pedestrian" that has become my speciality...and partly because I knew there'd be naked chicks there (sorry 'bout that last one Erika...but it had to be said).

Anyhow, I went there with my good buddy Mr. Ben Dunn (also volunteering for the arduous duty), and...well...it was pretty unremarkable. Most people were sporting nude-colored tube tops or boxer shorts, but a few select members of the audience (the ones in the front row, and on the aisles) had to sport pasties, flesh-colored g-strings, and (I don't know how else to phrase this than) a cock sock (no hyperlink...I'll let you use your imagination). I got the boxer short treatment. My only real problem was that I was among the most lily white guys there. But...I mean...just imagine every shape, color, and size person...and they were represented. And I had no one laughing and pointing at any part of my body (that I could detect anyway), so all-in-all...it was a good day.

Let's see...what else...what else... Some quick celebrity gossipy crap -- turns out Tom Hanks is every bit as fun, approachable, and friendly as he appears on camera. Roommate Chad worked on his latest movie, and had nothing but glowing things to say about the guy. I worked an episode of The Office last week, and the people I saw there (Ed Helms, Angela Kinsey, Oscar Nunez, and Steve Carell) were all "bite the insides of the cheeks to keep from laughing" funny. On a 100+ degree day in the valley, Tony Shalhoub of bought the entire cast and crew of Monk (including the extras) ice cream from a nearby store.

Hmm...I had other stuff...but I've completely forgot it. Ack. Oh well...maybe I'll tack them on to the next blog update-y thing. Until then...

*UPDATE* Oh right, I remember one now. I've been privileged enough to view two enigmas up close and personal. The first one is the Verizon Guy, who I got to see from a huge background call being "In The Network." He seemed like a pretty neat guy -- he chatted with a couple of the extras about how being in the commercials was a pretty easy gig. The other enigma was "the banker" from Deal or No Deal. I was standing in the back row of the audience, and I happened to see him exiting from his little booth and heading backstage during one of the breaks. And you know what -- even though the guy is just a black silhouette on the show, the actual banker looks like his persona -- grey haired, sallow sunken-in eyes, white, and kinda' angular in the face. It was almost like the did the guy's make-up even though he's never actually seen in good light. Though, I'm pretty sure all of the caustic things he's credited with are actually Howie Mandel (who is the definition of "artistically corrupt," "dead inside," and "mailing it in" on that show) lashing out at the contestants.

Okay...that's all for now...unless I remember something else and add another update...

A Word

I feel I may have...let's say..."misrepresented" myself with my last blog entry. A bit. I do appreciate the swell of concern for my well-being this last week -- heck, it's good to know that people are paying attention when you seem "distressed." But I want to assure you, there's no cause for alarm...things have just been a little shitty recently.

I forgot about the word shitty. It's a classic...doesn't get around much any more...but I like it. And here it seems totally applicable.

So this has been a rough month -- probably the roughest one I've endured since I moved down here (followed closely by the Vegas melt-down). Heck, this may be as bad as the winter of my Sophomore year of college...where I subsisted entirely on Ramen and PBJ sandwiches (Seriously. That's all I ate. Ask Jason and Koby, they'll tell you...). That Winter I was placed on academic probation during the one quarter when I only took a "light load" of three classes (flunking one because I missed the midterm, and barely passing the other two). At that point I hadn't had a girlfriend in two years (or any likely prospects...or attention from women, really). I was completely broke...with no income to speak of...living in a closet-sized room...and just starting to lose my hair. To top it off, I wasn't getting cast in any shows at the University. That was a rough time. This...?

Well, this isn't so bad, really. I eat better. I'm married to a total fox. I got my degree. Y'know...it's easy for me to lose perspective here (as I think I've said nearly seventy dozen times on this blog), but really...when I step back...I think I'm doing all right. I won't bother listing off my accomplishments, because I don't want to be seen going from "semi-depressed" to "bragging" in the blink of an eye. But I mean it when I say, "I'm okay."

All the same, though...I'll make this pledge to you -- I'm not going to be deceptive about the state of things in my life. Best advice Pops ever gave me (borrowing from Polonius' speech to his son): "To thine own self be true." And, I figure, just as important are the next two lines from that speech: "And it must follow, as the night the day / Thou can not be false to any man."

Accordingly, in this sacred digital place, I'm not going to hype up my acting experiences if they've been lousy, or downplay the good things that may come. My last blog entry was sort of a product of that attempted honesty -- I wanted to deliver an update on stuff I was up to, but the reality was that I really wasn't up to much...and that led me to speak about my professional frustrations (something occupying a good deal of my brain at the moment). I'm really not interested in going to one extreme or the other -- either bragging about the gigs I've booked, or wallowing bitterly in my failures. I'm just trying to lay it on the line...as honestly as I'm able to do.

Because I'd like to have some kind of written record here. Even if I fade off to obscurity when I'm gone, at least I've got this -- 117 posts of me talking about crap. This is a subject for another blog entry, but I've been working multiple hours working on my family tree. When I'm gone, and that poor schmuck who has decended directly from me wonders aloud, "Hey, so who exactly was my great-great gradfather?" he doesn't have to squint at old hand-written census entries and try to connect the dots. He can just fire up MySpace and take a jarring stroll through the ramblings my feeble brain.

If only I could read the diary of the mystery men and women I decended from...a German named Andreas who boarded a ship he thought was heading to Austrailia, but ended up in Texas instead...an Irish man fleeing the potato famine who made his way to New York, eventually winding up with 13 children...the bricklayer of unknown parentage who inexplicably added an "A" to the name "Rhoades," and passed it on to his children...the woman fleeing religious persecution in Luxembourg, coming to the US only to be mistreated by her husband and eventually institutionalized...the Texas farmer's wife, recently immigrated from Germany, bouncing from small town to small town with six children in tow. If only I could go somewhere and read about their lives, their personal struggles, their triumphs -- I just think that stuff is fascinating. Instead...all I get are census records...the occasional photograph...and a lot of empty space.

Wow. Digression. Anyhow, it's way past my bedtime -- I actually have an audition tomorrow for a musical -- I'll let you know if anything comes of it. Life goes on...

What Am I Doing?!

The movie Idiocracy is about future of the US, where it has transformed into a "dystopia where marketing, commercialism, and cultural anti-intellectualism run rampant and dysgenic pressure has resulted in a uniformly stupid human society." The most popular T.V. show is called "Ow, My Balls!" And it features an actor getting repeatedly hit in the balls...in a variety of different situations.







Me? I just spent 6 hours watching people pick random suitcases. Then, once all the suitcases were gone, they got money. Then another person got up and did the same thing.

I'm speaking, of course, about the show Deal or No Deal. 14,600,000 people watch this show every week. Apparently scientists have researched the show highlighting it's complexity in decision-making and probability. But to me, it was about as much fun as watching someone slowly scratch a lottery ticket. I remember when game shows required some kind of skill, or intelligence to play (even Press Your Luck had a round of trivia questions). It seems that a disturbing number of shows now are more interested in the personalities of the contestants than the actual competition.

But I've digressed terribly (and preachily). The point is, today I went crawling back to "audience work," and subjected myself to 6 hours of boredom.

Now, I don't want to step on any toes here, but things are going fairly well in this household of ours. Chad has received all of his SAG Background vouchers, and is now eligible to join the Union. Erika has also gained eligibility...but I'll let her tell you how (don't want to get in trouble for breaking big news before she gets to). Lindsay has secured her first (of the three required) SAG voucher, and is now taking classes at the Groundlings, and working pretty consistently in background gigs (including a semi-regular spot on the show Greek).

Then there's me. I watched Deal or No Deal for 6 hours, and got paid for it. I have zero SAG vouchers. The registration on my car has been expired for 2 months, and I don't have enough money to get it renewed (plus there is an exhaust leak, and a slowly dying starter and alternator). I earned a "King's Bounty" of "Just under $400" working Background last month. I've had one audition since returning from Bellingham. I've only worked once or twice a week as an extra since moving back.

All in all...things are not going well. But I don't say this to whine (although it sho' do feel good), just to let you all know where I'm at. I wish I could report happier things, but when the family clamors for updates (as is their right), I'm afraid I'm just not full of real great news at the moment. The household seems to be doing very well...but yours truly is in a bit of a rut at the moment (and not the awesome deer sex kind). Hopefully I'll break out soon -- damned if I'm going to let this business break my spirit. I just hope it's sooner rather than later...

As for specifics...well, here's what I know. I'll be appearing in my awesome blue blazer in a Benihana during the show 'Til Death, airing on September 24th. And that's all I know for now (there will be other shows, but the new seasons haven't started up fully yet).

But enough of that. Man...I go to make a simple update, then I get all whiny and weepy. Terrible.

LOL!!!

Greetings, ladies and GERMS!!! LOL!!! Guess WHO!?!! That's right, it's your old pal FRENCHY!!! Comin' at ya' like a heart attack! Mixing rhymes like Purina mixes their GRILL!!! Mmmm...wow, I really got hungry for a second there! I wonder if it's time to eat yet?! Hmm...let me go meow like a demon at TYLER!!! BRB!!!

Whelp, apparently I ate less than an hour ago. Whoops! Must have been the after-dinner nap I took! Felt like a slept FOREVER! Like I'm Rip Van Frenchy! LOL!

Well, I tell you what, this has been a CRAZZZY couple of months for your good friend Frenchy! Guess what happened!?!!? You'll never guess!!! Chicken BUTT!!! Wait, I think I did that wrong. Anyhow, Tyler and Erika (I call them "The Ones That Feed Me" for short) abandoned us for what seemed like 900 years! I swear, one morning I'm resting comfortably on my back in the hallway, I wake up, go to the kitchen expecting a nice dinner of Mixed Grill cat food, and...boy, I must have waited for somewhere close to 900 years! Finally, for some reason, the handsome guy with the black hair woke me up and fed me. Talk about SHOCKING! Who is that guy, anyways? LOL!

So yeah, this continued for at least a good 900 years...always with the same pattern. Either the good looking guy or his good looking wife would feed me over the next 900 years while my real owners were away. It took a little getting used to (my guess -- I was okay with it after about 900 years), but eventually I plum forgot about those two people who used to feed me.

Finally, shockingly, THEY RETURNED!!! I was napping at the foot of the bed one morning, when lo and behold, they came in carrying two interesting bags which I suddenly became very interested in climbing on, and digging my claws into!!! Well, things returned to normal pretty quickly, which is good, because I'm a creature of habit. Or, as I like to call it, "Cat-bit." Hmm...that doesn't quite work, does it. Oh well!!! LOL!!!

But this isn't to say that I've been resting on my furry laurels! No siree, I've been getting pretty serious about breaking into this "acting" business. I mean...just THINK about it! Who was the last famous cat actor you can think of?!?! Bela Lugosi? NOPE!!! He wasn't a cat, he was a HUMAN! Man, and Tyler calls ME stupid! LOL!!!

Well, before my owners (like you can even own a Frenchy...for reals!!!) left, they spent about 900 years reading these little green and yellow books...and talking to each other while holding these books. Took me some time to figure it out (about half of 900 years...whatever that is), but I finally realized that they were MEMORIZING LINES!!! Now, me personally, the last thing I memorized was the quickest path from my sleeping basket to the LITTER BOX (HINT: it's through the bedroom door). But, being as I'm trying to take this thing a little more seriously, I tried my hand at MEMORIZING!!! Chikkity-check-check-check, check it out!!!!


Here's me, doing what I do best: napping with my mouth open.


No TV for me, please! I've got some READING to do!!!


Man...it was actually pretty tough to focus for a while there.


A little too tough. It was high time for a CAT NAP!!! LOL!!!


But I tell you what was really tough?! Getting past that COPYRIGHT page!!! Boy oh boy...those are some BIG OL' WORDS!!!


My angsty ACTOR pose!!! Look at me really FEELING my emotion!!!


Boy, all that FEELING was enough to make a cat TIRED!!!


All this memorizing is making me crazy!!! CRAAAAAAAZY!!!!!!!! LOLOLOLOLOL!!!!!!!!


Just because I'm memorizing, doesn't mean I will neglect my BASIC HYGIENE!!!


Do you MIND?! I'm taking a BATH here!!! LOL!!!


Hey, who's THAT guy? What is this, a public bath?!?!


That's IT!!! I've HAD IT with these M******ING SCRIPTS ON THIS M*******ING BED!!!!! LOL!!!!

As you can plainly see, maybe I'm just not cut out for the "actor's" wacky lifestyle. Plus, I'm not entirely sure I can READ!!! I don't know...I'll have to remember to ask Doody about that...after I take a nap! LOL!!!

Scattershot

Sometimes I figure it's in my best interests to just write. Nothing planned, nothing germinating...just lob some lousy words out to the information superhighway. I figure I'd see if anything interesting happens.

First off, I'll brag a little bit...or more accurately, "gab about famous people I've seen." In the past couple of weeks I played poker with Harold Perrineau from Lost, saw Andy Dick coming out of a video store in Silverlake, and got to watch Scott Bakula, Candice Bergen, Eliza Dushku, Joss Wheden, Brad Garrett, and Michael Hitchcock work on set. Some of those guys I've only known recently, but some of them were pretty much icons for me growing up (I must have watched nearly every episode of Quantum Leap). It's something I almost take for granted now -- working and living in and amongst famous people. But, I still get googly eyed around the right folks...which makes me feel terribly uncool.

Second off, my 10 year high school reunion happened sometime last week, I think. I don't know...obviously I didn't go. Several of my MySpace friends did go, apparently...though the party seemed to mainly consist of people I was "friendly" with, but not my actual high school friends. High school was an interesting time for me -- I never really identified with a single group. I did drama, but I never really got into the culture, or socialized with my fellow theater people outside of school. Same goes for band. My actual close friends were mainly a loose-knit association of intelligent, sarcastic wise-cracking nihilists -- not the sort of people who you'd see lining the walls of the 10 year reunion. But I'm sure the people who attended had a good time -- perhaps The Hunt can elaborate further...when he's back from Burning Man.

Third off, I'm still waiting patiently for the upswing of the "great wheel of good fortune" to come 'round again. This month has been difficult -- I'm not going to lie to you. Most of my problems are really just money-related, but stressing over that has surely been responsible for this nasty infestation I seem to have sprouted on my temples:



For those of you without advanced degrees in trichology, that is a series of several gray hairs that have begun an invasion...just above the ear. Maybe it's the climate here, maybe it's the worry, or maybe it's just my dastardly genetics (thanks ma and pa). Either way, my body is slowly deteriorating; gravity always wins. And to top it off, somehow, unfairly, I happen to have married a woman who just gets prettier and prettier...

Fourthly, my professional career seems to have stalled for the time being. I want to blame things on the possible SAG Strike, or my own personal lack of funds, or me putting things off until I return from Europe. But the reality is that...try as I might, I'm just not making any discernable headway at present. I dunno'...it'll take more than this little dry spell to fully discourage me, but it is a teence frustrating...honestly.

But, this whining goes contrary to the "pump it up" blog I posted in Bellingham, so I will cease and desist. But really...does anyone "desist" something without first "ceasing" it? I mean...has desist ever been used in a sentence independant of "cease?" Apparently, only by the California Department of Corporations and India.

But enough is enough. I promise I'll post something with better updates next time -- you may get to see me on BOSTON LEGAL! ISN'T THAT GREAT!?!?!? Stuff like that...it'll be amazing. Until then, here's a picture of a flapping hippie bird:

Advice Time

A lot of people (no one) writes to me and asks, "Hey Tyler Rhoades! How about some advice for me?! I'm moving to LA! AND I'M JUST A CAT!!!! LOLOL!!!

Well, I'll tell you what, I'm no teacher. There was a traumatic time when I pretended to be a teacher at a Vacation Bible School...when I was about 17. See...my sister was the real teacher, I was just her lackey who pretended to be an authority figure, but really just wanted to play with all of the awesome preschool toys (I still wish I had some of those toys today).

Anyhow, Sharla had to leave about 20 minutes early from class...leaving me with a room full of 6 year olds, no sense of real authority, and a classroom filled with cool toys. So what did I do? I broke out a bucket full of "bean bags." No real game plan...just, "Hey kids! Here's some bean bags!!!"

Of course it started slow...kids trickling over...curious. Little tosses in the air turned to longer tosses across the floor. Pretty soon, an entire handfull of beanbags was being thrown 10 feet in the air, landing dangerously in and amongst the rabid, bean-bag-starved children. Over the shrieks and cries of pain following bean-bag-sized welts, I commanded: "Okay everyone! Beanbags back in the bucket!"

I suck at teaching.

But, I do have a few nuggets of wisdom to dispense.


Do Not Assume That All Stand-Up Comedy Will Be Funny. Recently our group went out for a a fun, frivilous night of karaoke. To our horror, we realized that, from 8-10 PM at Sardo's Bar and Grill, there is something called the "Casting Couch Comedy Show." This is where one of eight "comedians" gets up on the "stage" to perform comedy for the other seven "comedians" in the restaurant, and anyone unfortunate enough to stumble in during their act.

Well, our group of six just happened to be victims of that second group. And, because there were six of us, and we obviously weren't there to see the "comedy" going on (due to the presence of three attractive women in our group), we were singled out by two of the the drunken drug-users posing as "stand-ups,"and very sloppily "roasted." A few hilarious, biting critiques (censored for my sweet, doe-eyed, innocent family members):

-- "Hey man, what are you drinking tonight?" "Um...water." "Water? Jesus Christ [son of God]! What a [feline]!"

-- "So are you guys married? Or are you just [fornicating]?"

-- Regarding a woman who went to the restroom. "If she's in there for more than four minutes, she's taking a [poop].

And, when they decided to take a break from their hilarious rip-job, they told a couple of "hilarious" jokes. The two examples I can recall:

-- So, I'm [breast] [fornicating] my [female dog] girlfriend the other day, and I [finished the act untraditionally, above the neck]. She asked me "Why don't we ever do anything I like doing?" And I said, "Fine, I'll stop punching you in the face."

-- You guys ever [fornicate] with a[n] [obese] [baby hen]? It's like moving a couch!

I'll pause for a little bit while the gale of laughter dies down. Anyway, if you loved those little bits of comedy, check out more from Robbie Pickard (the breast-fornicating Mitch Hedberg wanna-be) and the "headliner" Fader Fowler (who drunkenly handed our entire table a bunch of his business cards during karaoke).

Needless to say, the rest of my night I was a little off-put. Not because a couple of comedians had had the audacity to make fun of our group, but because they had done so without being funny. I think "Bad Stand-Up" has just replaced "Bad Improv" as my new least favorite performance art.

Finally on to my second piece of advice:

If Someone In A Crappy Pickup Nudges Your Car While You're Sitting At A Red Light in Inglewood, Let It Go. Yes, after about 8 months surrounded by the worst drivers in the United States, my little Prizm finally made contact with the enemy. A red truck that was actually stopped harmlessly behind me at a stop light gave what could only be described as a "love nudge" to my rear bumper. I waved in what I hope was interpreted as a "Don't worry about it!" way, and continued on my way. Seemed like a no-brainer, but in case you are faced with a similar dilemma...feel free to just drive away from that little fooferaw.

Anyhow, it's late, and I've got to appear on Private Practice tomorrow...so...for now...adios from the Angel of Los!