What a week this is turning out to be, three auditions! Yesterday I auditioned for a television commercial where I had one line. Only one line you ask, what is so exciting about that? I'll tell you, not only was this one line sung, it was delivered direct to camera! That's how exciting it was. I played a dodgy bell-hop and I would love to tell you more however I signed a confidentiality clause. The call-backs were today and I didn't get called back but I'm cool with that. It was a dumb commercial and the product it was for is stupid and if I got it I would be typecast and it would ruin my career and all of you who saw it would have thought I was dumb and not read my blog anymore.
Today I auditioned for a television series! I had lots of lines but they weren't my lines, they were the lines of another actor who hadn't done a very good job so they needed someone to say his lines for him betterer. I would love to tell you about this television series however I signed a confidentiality novel and this ship is so tight people with loose lips can't sink it because their lips have been severed with a sword swung by Kirk Douglas while he rogers Xena Warrior Princess. Ha ha! I have dropped numerous clues into the previous sentence as to the identity of the mysterious TV series, see if you can work it out. If you do you'll probably be killed by an American TV executive so be careful. Anyway, I was auditioning with six other men and after two hours was told I wasn't betterer enough to deliver someone elses lines better than them and was released. 'Released' is a technical term for being free to say yes to all the other film/TV/theatre/childrens show/wandering around dressed as a woman work I am always inundated with. I don't care. It's going to be a dumb worldwide phenomenon that will make all involved very famous and get them on the covers of Woman's Day before they are forced to become Scientologists and roger Tom Cruise in John Travolta's cockpit.
My third audition is on Friday and this one is really really exciting because I have no lines! I hate learning lines so small parts are right up my alley. The smaller the part the happier my alley is so at the moment my alley is positively creaming itself with anticipation. This one's all secret squirrel as well so I'm sorry, no matter how far up my alley you probe you won't get a hot scoop. I really hope I get it, unless I don't when I won't care because it was dumb.
I should go down to Christchurch for eight weeks more often. I think my agent may have forgotten who I was and assumes I'm new on their books and will make them 10% of a small fortune or maybe there's just a spike in the 'quirky and distinctive yet normal and likeable guy' demand curve. Who knows. Sometimes this whole acting business is like trying to fix a toilet with a fish and a tuba instead of shitting in the tuba and wiping your arse with the fish.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
All allergies all the time
According to wikipedia an allergy is, 'a disorder of the immune system often referred to as an atophy.' I have never heard anyone refer to an allergy as an atophy and I'm not even sure how to pronounce atophy correctly so wikipedia is looking dubious from the outset. Upon clicking the atophy link wikipedia informs me that it is (pronounced /ˈætəpi/; Greek ἀτοπία - placelessness) which clears things up nicely.
Atophy is a real pain in the arse. I've never had an atophy on my arse which is something I am very grateful for however I've had my fair share on other parts of the body. If I did have an atophy on my arse it would give me an excuse to drag myself along carpet on my bottom like a dog with worms which is something I've always wanted to do so it wouldn't be all bad. I have no problem doing something odd and threatening as long as you have a good reason for doing it. When I get an itchy throat I stick the index finger of my left hand in my left ear and jiggle it, scratch my head with my right hand and make a 'quoaaaaaarrrrrrr' sound from deep down in my gullet that sounds like a bit like the noise the Skeksis made in 'The Dark Crystal'. This video doesn't really give you much of an indication but it's still very funny and will hopefully bring back happy memories to those of you who still remember 1982.
I've had the old standard allergic reactions eczema and asthma since I was born. These two seem to go hand in hand to torment the world, like Foster and Allen, Hall and Oates and Country and Western. Luckily I've largely grown out of both. When I was young I would only have to enter a room that a cat had even thought about walking in and my extremities would puff up, my eyes would water and I would start wheezing. I would turn into an old crying wino who had smoked 40 fags a day before your eyes and then the cat who had thought about coming into the room would come in and sit on my face to show how sorry they were for causing my distress. What was and is even more distressing is that I love cats. I love dogs as well but they never seemed to be as much of a catalyst for my afflictions as cats. I could give you a list a cats that were catalysts purely to milk the pun but it's not worth the effort.
Being allergic to things one really likes is cruel and you start to wonder if your body is just taking the piss. I'm certain my hypersensitive immune system had a choice in what things would make it start activating my mast cells and basophilis so had a quick sniff in my brain to discover the things that would cause me the greatest distress and found cats, weet-bix and beer. Thank god I hadn't discovered my affection for KFC when I was young or my life would not be worth living. I'm not strictly allergic to beer but I am allergic to wheat which rules out some beers and all weet-bix. Giving up weet-bix was really hard. I had continued the long Cooper tradition of covering your dry weet-bix with just enough boiling water to moisten and soften them before pouring milk on top to create a nice wee warm milky puddle at the base before covering generously with sugar. Heaven! No bloody more though. Thanks to my immune system a family tradition that has strectched back hundreds of years to when my ancestors were making barrels for Vikings to put the fermented blood of their victims in has died.
I'm also allergic to bloody dairy products as well. Milk and cheese and wheat and cats and dogs and some beer...if I was Julie Andrews these would be nearly all of my favourite things. I found out I was allergic to dairy and wheat when a chiropractor put little samples of them on my tongue while I was lying on my back and then tried to press my left arm down. With all the other food samples...brussel sprouts, swede, rancid olives, affogatos I could resist his pressings with vigour however when the cheese and wheat were applied I gave way like John Key. I still don't understand why my lack of shoulder resistance meant that wheat would make me go red and scratch my inner arm and leg however my parents were paying an arm and a leg to find this out so no questions were asked.
A few years ago hay-fever decided to join the party, probably because my immune system was angry about having grown out of most of my asthma and eczema. I usually only get hay-fever when I go to Christchurch so I'm probably allergic to Christchurch as well.
Anyway, at the moment my nose is blocked and my asthma is playing up. I have two inhalers for asthma, one is red and one is blue. If I use the red inhaler, the preventative, I never learn the truth about the world of asthma and saunter oblivious through my life breathing freely. If I need to use the blue inhaler it means I am naked in a liquid filled pod with tubes coming out of every orifice feeding me ventolin. I've been using the blue inhaler a bit recently and my holes are getting sore so perhaps I do have an atophy on my arse. I'm hoping it's just adjusting to being back in Auckland, the humidity and change of season. It could also have something to do with a cat. Miss Charlie, or puss puss is a British Blue short-hair. She is gorgeous and naughty and likes to run with toilet paper. If she is responsible for my allergic flare-up I don't care. Anything this cute sitting on your lap is worth it.
Atophy is a real pain in the arse. I've never had an atophy on my arse which is something I am very grateful for however I've had my fair share on other parts of the body. If I did have an atophy on my arse it would give me an excuse to drag myself along carpet on my bottom like a dog with worms which is something I've always wanted to do so it wouldn't be all bad. I have no problem doing something odd and threatening as long as you have a good reason for doing it. When I get an itchy throat I stick the index finger of my left hand in my left ear and jiggle it, scratch my head with my right hand and make a 'quoaaaaaarrrrrrr' sound from deep down in my gullet that sounds like a bit like the noise the Skeksis made in 'The Dark Crystal'. This video doesn't really give you much of an indication but it's still very funny and will hopefully bring back happy memories to those of you who still remember 1982.
I've had the old standard allergic reactions eczema and asthma since I was born. These two seem to go hand in hand to torment the world, like Foster and Allen, Hall and Oates and Country and Western. Luckily I've largely grown out of both. When I was young I would only have to enter a room that a cat had even thought about walking in and my extremities would puff up, my eyes would water and I would start wheezing. I would turn into an old crying wino who had smoked 40 fags a day before your eyes and then the cat who had thought about coming into the room would come in and sit on my face to show how sorry they were for causing my distress. What was and is even more distressing is that I love cats. I love dogs as well but they never seemed to be as much of a catalyst for my afflictions as cats. I could give you a list a cats that were catalysts purely to milk the pun but it's not worth the effort.
Being allergic to things one really likes is cruel and you start to wonder if your body is just taking the piss. I'm certain my hypersensitive immune system had a choice in what things would make it start activating my mast cells and basophilis so had a quick sniff in my brain to discover the things that would cause me the greatest distress and found cats, weet-bix and beer. Thank god I hadn't discovered my affection for KFC when I was young or my life would not be worth living. I'm not strictly allergic to beer but I am allergic to wheat which rules out some beers and all weet-bix. Giving up weet-bix was really hard. I had continued the long Cooper tradition of covering your dry weet-bix with just enough boiling water to moisten and soften them before pouring milk on top to create a nice wee warm milky puddle at the base before covering generously with sugar. Heaven! No bloody more though. Thanks to my immune system a family tradition that has strectched back hundreds of years to when my ancestors were making barrels for Vikings to put the fermented blood of their victims in has died.
I'm also allergic to bloody dairy products as well. Milk and cheese and wheat and cats and dogs and some beer...if I was Julie Andrews these would be nearly all of my favourite things. I found out I was allergic to dairy and wheat when a chiropractor put little samples of them on my tongue while I was lying on my back and then tried to press my left arm down. With all the other food samples...brussel sprouts, swede, rancid olives, affogatos I could resist his pressings with vigour however when the cheese and wheat were applied I gave way like John Key. I still don't understand why my lack of shoulder resistance meant that wheat would make me go red and scratch my inner arm and leg however my parents were paying an arm and a leg to find this out so no questions were asked.
A few years ago hay-fever decided to join the party, probably because my immune system was angry about having grown out of most of my asthma and eczema. I usually only get hay-fever when I go to Christchurch so I'm probably allergic to Christchurch as well.
Anyway, at the moment my nose is blocked and my asthma is playing up. I have two inhalers for asthma, one is red and one is blue. If I use the red inhaler, the preventative, I never learn the truth about the world of asthma and saunter oblivious through my life breathing freely. If I need to use the blue inhaler it means I am naked in a liquid filled pod with tubes coming out of every orifice feeding me ventolin. I've been using the blue inhaler a bit recently and my holes are getting sore so perhaps I do have an atophy on my arse. I'm hoping it's just adjusting to being back in Auckland, the humidity and change of season. It could also have something to do with a cat. Miss Charlie, or puss puss is a British Blue short-hair. She is gorgeous and naughty and likes to run with toilet paper. If she is responsible for my allergic flare-up I don't care. Anything this cute sitting on your lap is worth it.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Fisting
Week seven of eight now and my two months of fun in the Christchurch sun are almost at an end. The Poe show is humming along nicely. We have decided to dispense with the dialogue and hum the entire script to the tune of 'Gloria' by Laura Branigan. The audience seem to be receptive although I don't like it when they join in for the chorus. I was a huge fan of Laura Branigan as a youth, I think her hit was on the Tracman 82 record that my brother and I went halves on, along with Electric Avenue by Eddie Grant and Eye of the Tiger by Survivor. Sadly Laura passed away in 2004 but not before guest starring on three of my favourite TV shows of all time, CHiPs, Automan and Knight Rider. She really had it all.Although Poe has been fun I would give my left ventricle to not do the show tonight. I haven't not wanted to do a show in Christchurch this bad since U2 were here on their Zoo TV tour and I walked out of the theatre after bemusing 18 people to hear the distant cries of "oh oh oh oh...oh oh oh oh...oh oh oh oh...oh oh oh oh." This was not the sound of unimaginative intercourse in Room D, (although that is not an uncommon occurrence), but the orgasmic cries of 70,000 Cantabrians singing the chorus of 'Pride (In The Name of Love)'. I looked in the 36 eyes of the 18 audience members as they left the theatre with malice and hate and they looked into my eyes with hate and malice and I wanted to ask them why they had bothered coming but they were to busy asking themselves why they had bothered coming while Bono was asking all of us what more in the name of love?
My reason for wanting to abandon the tens of audience tonight is to watch The Fight of the Century. If it's billed as the fight of the century you know it's going to be special, especially when this century is still wearing nappies and shitting in them every day. The previous one was in 1971 between a couple of journeymen called Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali. Apparently that 15 round epic was a rather good match however it happened before I was born so it doesn't count. My fight of the century is screening tonight and Ali is replaced by David Tua and Smokin' Joe is Shane Cameron. I'm sure it will easily match up to the fight of the century back in 1971 however I won't be watching it because I will be dressed as Edgar Allan Poe humming Gloria for 82 minutes. Gutted is not a word I use lightly because it's often used by sweaty sportsmen and slaughterhouse workers however I'm using it now...I am gutted. I'm pretty sure Tua will take Cameron out in three rounds but I'm still gutted. I am missing my fight of the century. I will not get to see another one in my lifetime because I will be dead.
I went to see Peter my boxing man this morning and we discussed the fight in earnest while he slowly crippled me. Pete knows everything about boxing, he coached Tua early on in his career and Shane Cameron stayed at his house for 12 days while he worked with him as well. As he whacked me in the head with his focus pads everytime I forgot to keep my hands up I wondered what it would be like to actually get whacked in the head with the fist of another man. I love boxing dearly and thoroughly enjoy the training and tradition of the sport however I have never actually been fisted by another man in the ring, or on the street. The closest I got was one Friday night many years ago in Christchurch.
As with all major moments in my life this took place at a KFC establishment, the slightly scungy one on Colombo Street. I think it was after a Scared Scriptless show and myself, Nic and Stu decided to soak up some of the many $3 beers we had consumed by indulging in some of the colonel's finest. As we sat at our table gorging ourselves I noticed two likely looking lads glaring at us from the opposite table with one two piece quarter pack between them. At first I thought they were just hungry homeless urchins of the Oliver Twist persuasion enviously eyeing our three three piece quarter packs. I was wrong. Nic and Stu decided they had to relieve their bladders of some of The Court Theatre's wonderously cheap alcohol and off they went to the toilets together. The eys of the urchins followed them keenly and I pulled Nic and Stu's quarter packs closer to mine just in case the famished duo made a ravenous grab for them. Upon their return from the toilets one of the young scally-wags let rip with a chortle and a cry of "Homos!"
I was all for turning the other cheek and filling it with chicken however Nic was having none of this and retorted with a witty repost implying that they might be pots calling the kettles black. This caused great consternation with the rascals and they lept over and began trying to punch us all in the head with little success. I think they were mainly trying to punch Nic and Stu in the head as my head was buried in my chicken box but they didn't get much of a chance as they were promptly dispatched onto Colombo Street by a very large security man who looked like he got paid in left-over chicken at the end of each night.
I hoped that was the end of the affair but it was not. The two hungry boys were now delirious with anger and hunger as they circled the door like sharks looking at the remains of two uneaten bits of chicken and the three of us filling our bellys. Nic bravely decided to go outside with their uneaten chicken as a peace offering but got punched in the head and ran back in. We considered asking the security man if he would assist but after careful inspection realised he wouldn't fit through the door.
We decided the only option was to make a break for it in different directions and take our chances. We ran from the KFC and suddeny all hell broke loose in the campest way possible. The two urchins had mutiplied into about 20 and suddenly all of Colombo Street was filled with young men fighting in the most embarrassing way imaginable. Air punches were thrown with gay abandon and I'm certain at least 1o of them were just hunched over clicking their fingers in unison. We looked just like this...
We really did. If you know Nic, Stu and I it will be obvious which one is which. Anyway, Nic took a blow and some reprobate kicked him in the head when he was down. Stu took a hit as well and was intending to come back and continue things after going home to put on his steel capped Doc Martins but thankfully didn't. I danced and clicked with the best of them but nobody was interested in me, probably because I was wearing glasses. We all took off and left them to it. I think I heard the strains of 'Gee, Officer Krupke' as the police arrived to break the rumble up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)