Location : the Theatrical Institute - movie school.
Time: 5 PM - a time usually spent looking at Seventh heaven because the father is so incredibly hot that the theme song makes my toes curl into tight tight fists.
Reason: audition for a speaker role in some student project.
I'd never been to the Theatrical Institute before. It was a place, which I'd thought was the land of young pretto asspains with strange looking flowered scarves and cups och mocchacino surgically attatched to their henna-painted hands. I was relatively wrong, I admit. I actually
am that big, yes.
One of these - the sound guy Thomas, I beleive - led me through a maze of hallways and nooks to a small room with the typical recording devices, and placed me in a BOOTH to my absolute terror. I don't freeze up in front of a microphone, but I can't stand Booths. The year-long job in the booth at the central station has got me so shell-shocked I still try to push Andreas bus tickets in my sleep. Somewhere inside me is the deep and very real fear that that stepping behind a glass wall means that every camera-carrying tourist within a ten-mile radius will seek me out and prod me, like I were a piñata of exciting and wonderful things that smell good. That they will simultaneously run up to me and tell me strange things or ask strange questions.
If them having a lazy eye entitles them to a disability discount. If I want to sneak behind the booth and do the nasty...Am I a
lesbian? Why does the time-table on the wall of the booth not correspond to the one they thought they saw once on the back of a milk carton their friend found in a ditch that time they dreamt they were in Mexico.
Fortunately, this sound technician was neither sexually deviant or lazy eyed. He was neat. Recording was neat. The whole experience was neat. But it was gosh-darn hard to keep from not cracking up. First off - I had time against me. A ticket to Star Wars that had been bought weeks and weeks earlier was sweating in my pocket, reminding me that the clock was ticking by, that my freinds had probably already finished eating the popcorn they'd bought for themselves but
meant to share with me - and were moving into the M&M's. Because of this I didn't dumb down the language I was using per se but I
did limit my verbal repotoire to the words I was to recite and three-word sentences, when asking how the lines were to be recited. Suddenly, everything turned from clean to kinky.
"Likeitfast or slow?" "More passion? Pah-shooon?" "Soft or hard?" (tone)
Kinda proves what I've known all along - the film industry will make a two-dollar ho out of anybody. Either you're making love to the camera, to the director, or to the sound equipment. Me, Denzel, Connery, everybody. And once you're tied up in one deal, you have start turning down the others. Me, Pitt, Jolie, here's a shout-out to you guys: it's a
hard life. We should form a support group and watch each other naked, all day.
And back to the rest of you commom people, who I very much prefer in a clothed state: I came an hour late to the theatre. I missed final check-in. Missed snuggling with And. Missed oggling Hayden (CALL me). And the M&M's?
Naught but the stuff of dreams, my lovely.
And quickie marts.
