An Hour and Thirty Minute Slice - garblesnix - (Sept. 13th, 2005 -6:45p.m). Sitting in a small room, barren walls painted a light sea-foam green, waiting for the Casting Director workshop to begin. It is the room in which I auditioned when I first came to Reel Pros, seven months, 12 workshops and one “Malcolm In The Middle” booking ago, so I feel comfortable. I sit in a different chair from last time, in the right front row, in the middle, on a chair with one large, faded stain on the back left corner of the cushion, which appears to have spawned five asymmetrical stains, each progressively a shade lighter than the one next to it, as they form a path to the right front corner. Because only coffee and water are allowed in the room during a session, I question my decision to drink the coffee. Water would not do such damage. I choose to sit in a different chair because it’s good to not sit in the same place everytime, as some of my fellow actors do, because that breeds contentment, which is death to an actor. We (I) function best when we (I) “live in the moment”, when we “feel the now”, when we “embrace the blank page of the next second of your life” and other such actory words. (Sept. 13th, 2005 - 6:58p.m.) The possibly toxic coffee is brewing in a finger-stained, white Mr. Coffee machine. The machine makes a sound that brings to mind the image of a tubercular Third World coal miner. I will drink the coffee because it is free, it is close, and it has caffeine. Because I am above ground and in America. And it is free. I could as easily have walked the block and a half to the Starbucks, but I might sweat, which would make me uncomfortable in my first-time-worn Nordstrom’s Rack (blessings be upon its four walls and all that is within) suit. My plan is to wear the suit, alternating with its 4 siblings, also new bought at Nordstrom’s Rack (blessings be upon its four walls and all that is within), as often as possible, to be able to appear as though I wear clothes like this everyday. To be an Actor in Los Angeles is more about what others think you are, rather than what you really are. It’s the game, it pays very well indeed, and selling my soul holds no great moral dilemma because, according to my Catholic upbringing, the sins I’ve committed thus far are so beyond forgiveness that Hitler and Jeffery Dahmer have been personally assigned to construct my place in Hell. (Sept. 13th, 2005 -7:12 p.m.) As usual I am 30 to 40 minutes earlier than anyone else. My “day job” is very flexible, so I can leave early, and relax in my truck for an hour before I go in. I try not to think actorish thoughts. I like the feeling of going into a session a blank, so I don’t worry over things over which I have no control, like the fact a Casting Director has more control over my life than I feel comfortable giving, causing me to sweat, thus experiencing unease and ruining the confident feeling my new Nordstrom’s Rack (blessings be upon its four walls and all that is within) clothes provide me. (Sept. 13th, 2005 -7:22 p.m.) Tonight the CD is from the show “West Wing”. I am wearing an Eisenhower grey suit [see: “Nordstrom’s Rack (blessings be upon its four walls and all that is within”), above)], a Mormon white shirt, and Sears black tie. My socks, Tommy Hilfiger/T.J.Maxx, are black, as are my obsessively polished Cole Haan shoes, the one part of the wardrobe that could, if the Casting Director has any sense of style, give me away as being something more than the midlevel government functionary I am trying to suggest. I could have gone with Florsheim, Dexters, or even a nice Nunn Bush, but when I tried on the Cole Haans one day two months ago while drifting around Pasadena, I had a vision. In this vision, I saw an ancient cobbler, in Babylon maybe, but definitely somewhere sandy and Biblical, cobbling a pair of shoes, the very shoes now on my feet. As she began to cobble the various elements together, she in turn had a vision: of me, or at the least, my feet. As she worked, this vision was her guide as to how these shoes would envelop, would caress, would cherish my feet, as though my long, thinnish Morton’s-toe feet were on the bench before her. In both visions I tipped her very well. (Sept. 13th, 2005 -7:43 p.m.) The other actors begin to fill the room, ebbing and flowing as urinary necessities, nicotine addictions, and nerves take their toll. I sit quietly, serenely, because I no longer smoke, and the possibly polluted coffee has yet to pass my lips. As well, I feel no pressure performing tonight. I know I will not be considered for any major roles, with lots of lines, and lots of pressure, and lots of money. My acting experience is minimal so the best I can hope for at this point is a co-star part, one to five lines. Midlevel functionaries on a show like the “West Wing” usually say things like “Mr. President, the Ambassador from Lichtenstein is waiting for you in the Jefferson Library” or “Sorry Mr. Lyman, I haven’t seen Donna” or “Mr. Ziegler, I’m the mail guy, not your personal barista.” The money isn’t Martin Sheen money, but it’s better than Mayor McCheese money. Plus I get fed, I get something cool to put on my resume, and I get to work on a major television show, which is why I’m in Los Angeles. (Sept. 13th, 2005 -8:15 p.m.) The CD has finally arrived. He comes into the room, apologizes unconvincingly for being late, and passes out scenes. I have to stop writing because it’s time to act. And I am in love with acting.