Fake it Till You Make It

I had submitted for a casting online that called for experienced basketball players. It was a small independent movie that would pay about $5,000 for the role. With this amount of money on the line, I mentioned in my submission that I was an excellent basketball player who joined pick up games regularly here in New York City. The following day, I got the call. As the director wanted very realistic action in the film, the audition would be more like a basketball try-out than anything else. "Come ready to play," the casting director advised. Then, in a cautious tone, she prodded, "Are you very good at basketball?" I responded "Very, very good," with more confidence than General George S. Patton. But she needed to be convinced. "We're having NCAA level players come in tomorrow. I just don't want anybody to be injured. It'll be very intense." This, sounding like a threat, caused me to falter for a second. "Ugh... well, yeah," I said, trying to come up with some authentic street cred, "I played Varsity in High School, as well as on several AAU teams." She seemed won over, and told me to come to the West 4th Street Basketball court the next morning to show my stuff. What she didn't know as she hung up the phone, was that sinc the 6th grade, the only instances in which I've touched a basketball have been while rummaging through the sports closet in my parents' basement, which is where I kept my bong.

I called up my buddy Colin, who played lacrosse in college, and actually is athletic. Since I couldn't show up wearing hip, impractical Vans, I needed to borrow basketball shoes. Although I'm 6'1" on a good day, I have tiny feet, and putting on Colin's Tarheel Blue size 13 Jordan's was humbling, uncomfortable, and probably dangerous, like when a child tries to shave a nonexistent beard when daddy is at work. My feet jumbled around his shoes when I tried walking in them, so I decided that I'd wear my superthick wool hiking socks for the occasion. The rest of my costume was finished in a similarly hodgepodge fasion-- a Red Sox t-shirt and my faded high school lacrosse shorts. Far from looking like an athlete, I more closely resembled a guy who was about to paint his garage. That night, thinking of $5,000 and another athletic humiliation, I barely slept. A powerful storm came upon the city.

Early the next morning I found my way to the West 4th Street court through a rain that had lightened up from the previous night. When I arrived, several African-American men, none under six feet five inches, were playing aggressively on the puddled asphalt that seemed to gently and menacingly steam in the summer humidity. The sight of furious elbows, slam dunks and the casual verbal harassment that typically accompanies pick up games on this court terrified me. First, for some context.

According to Wikipedia, this court is called "The Cage." The entry goes on, "Because it is so small, more emphasis is given to 'banging inside,' or tough physical play...West 4th's talent is big, but the court's too small to contain all the flying elbows. To some tourists, this may look like a steel-cage wrestling match. 'If you don't like a physical brand of basketball,' says A-Train, 'stay away from West 4th.'" Thinking of the parent-refereed, "everybody gets to play" contests back in my hometown of suburban Manchester-by-the-sea, I clutched my Riptide Rush Gatorade, and entered, wishing I could just give a monologue from Henry V.

I signed my name, and gave the casting director my height and weight, both exaggerated. When she asked me whether or not I could dunk, however, I decided to stick to the truth. I got a number and stood behind the camera for my group to be called to the slippery court. I sized up the other "actors," and taking note of what they were doing, attempted some perfunctory stretches. One of them, a tall white guy with a bandage on his face, had to excuse himself from the audition due to a broken nose. I looked around at the other guys and smirked at this excuse, yeah, right pal... get into the cage with the rest of us. Of course, he produced a highlight DVD for the casting director which featured his four years playing for NYU, as well as extra footage of his professional career over in Europe, where his nose injury had occurred. Show off.

My number was finally called, and with paralyzing temerity I bumped through the ranks of waiting men to see with whom I would be playing. It was a random lottery, based on when you showed up. I had been especially fearful of a seven footer--either French or African-- whose cryptic exchange with the casting director consisted of phrases such as "me here to play ball," and "can I slamdunk? ha-ha what you think?" But when I got on the court, I was elated. Probably the scrawniest kids of the day were stretching their hamstrings and shaking hands with one another. From that point on, I became invincible in the actor's default defense mechanism, egotism. I am perfect for this part, and nobody can take it from me.

Whistle. From nowhere a behind-the-back pass. All of a sudden, yes, a lay-up. Did I really make that behind-the-back pass? Shit, the ball skipped off that puddle. Another lay up? What the hell am I doing? Box out, first rebound... once more into the breach. Is it illegal if I put my elbow there? Wow, this kid really sucks. Ball so slick. Thank God-- the whistle.

And before I could process it, panting and elated, I had survived. I actually faked it, and did well. As I walked off the court, a few of the other guys waiting to play, once brutes and villains, congratulated us, even wished us luck, probably not without sarcasm. But I couldn't tell. For a minute, I fooled myself into thinking I had the part. Then, as I was chugging my Gatorade, one guy wearing a John's Hopkins practice squad jersey came over and asked me a question that brought me back to the ridiculousness of my situation. "Hey man, what's the deal with those socks?"

Beauty and the Greeks

Here's something I wrote that started to be a monologue, but just got too long. If you can't tell, I had been reading Homer's "Odyssey" when I wrote this.


"Beauty and the Greeks"

Hi-- I'm here for the audition. Um, I was told it is a new reality dating show... "Odyssey of Love II: The Suitors of Fair Penelope," I believe. I was told to talk to the producer... are you Mr. Homer? Oh, just Homer. That's cool, that's cool. A showbiz type. I can respect that. Funny story, when I was at Crete State, there was this guy who rushed Phi Delt with me-- big Greek culture there, obviously. And anyway, we just called him Boner for four years. Isn't that wild? Just "Boner." We didn't know his real name till graduation. It turned out to be Agisthos of Sparta. Son of Androcles, and a goose.
Why do I want to compete on the show? Well you know, I heard it was a good gig. Free heady wine, as much roasted lamb and goat as I can eat. And Penelope-- well, she's no Helen of Troy, but she sure launches my ship if you know what I mean. I wasn't particularly looking to settle down, but hey, I just graduated with a degree in shipbuilding, and with this economy, maybe shacking up with a well endowed widow isn't a bad option. I'm thinking that, or taking some time off to plunder Egypt. I guess you could say I'm exploring my options, trying to find myself. And wouldn't Odysseus want a young guy like me to keep his wife warm anyway?
As for experience? Like I said, I rushed Phi Delt, so I've done alot of competitions with other guys. Regular stuff-- archery, tossin the disc, wine funnels. I'm totally addicted to "Zeus and Fates Plus 8," it's just a great program. Oh, and sophomore year, I played Chorus member # 4 in a well-reviewed production of "Oedipus the King," so I guess you could say I have a flair for show business. Also, I have spectacular abs.
I guess I only have a couple of questions. First off, is Telemachus going to be there for the taping? Because he is such a whiny turd. He's going to be all complainy-- like, "stop drinking my daddy's wine, stop trying to bed my mom, leave my palace, blah blah." I just think he wouldn't test well with audiences. And, I guess I have another, more nitpicky question. I'm no lawyer, but on the waiver I signed, you mention something about liability for "An act of (the) god(s)-- i.e. Athena's 'man-destroying shield of thunder'" and an unlikely return of Odysseus, resulting in "slaughter, slashing left and right/and grisly screams...from skulls cracked open." I know reality shows are, let's say, "coaxed" into certain directions, but this just seems bizarrely specific. Maybe I'm just paranoid because an oracle prophesied I'd die in the final season of an epic reality show, but I figured I'd be on the cautious side and just ask.

Manifesto: Destiny

Struggling to hide his globular pot belly was a black t-shirt featuring a picture of four vaguely confused rifle-wielding plains Indians, and a caption that read "Homeland Security: Fighting Terrorism since 1492." Thick, square-lensed glasses rested snugly on the tip of a bulbous nose. His tongue painted his lips and his crowded yellow teeth with saliva repeatedly, until it became such a presence in the early morning subway car that it took on its own small but distinct personality, like a nosy hand puppet in a children's television show. Bumpy, the Tongue.

Two things confused me as I watched this man on my way to to the restaurant where I work. The first was his t-shirt. Was he pro-Native American? Or did he find their security methods inefficient and reveled in mocking them via message t-shirt hundreds of years later? Implicit in the t-shirt was his opinion that the pioneers who settled America were terrorists. So he was pro-terrorist, right? Then the true tragedy of the situation occurred to me-- "Oh my God. This man can vote."

This is my roundabout way of saying that democracy is inherently flawed. Just as I don't want this psychopath with his tongue and his canvas bag stuffed with back issues of The Village Voice to select the leaders of my country, I don't think everybody who pays for internet access buys the right to publish whatever they want. I never read blogs because there is no discrimination between what is aesthetically or culturally significant and what is uninformed opinion or drivel. The internet has leveled the playing field-- everybody is encouraged to publish whatever it is they're thinking, regardless of the consequence. Hey, you may even become a celebrity!

So why is it that I've started a blog? Because I'm an egotist looking for recognition. Just like millions of lonely, pretentious, tech savvy people out there, I've fallen victim to the lie common to democracy and the internet: I am important, and what I say counts. I guess.

More directly influencing my decision to start a blog is my sister's blog. It's fun, and harmless. When I read it, I witness no great tragedy of the hyper-connectedness of the internet generation. Nor do I see the pathetic assertion of her ego. It's fun to read and keep up with what's going on in her life.

I wrote that just because you pay for internet connection doesn't give you the right to publish whatever it is you want. Well, I'm too broke to pay for the internet anyway. I steal wireless from some guy in my building with the network name "PFlood3128."* I am really fortunate that my parents paid for my education, effectively giving me the opportunity to try an become an actor here in New York City. I truly am here on borrowed time. With no loans to pay, I figured, why not give it a try, at least it will be fun.

That's how I feel about this blog thing-- I'm here on borrowed internet, and it looks like fun. Why not write about what it's like trying to make it as an actor and see what comes of it?



* If you are reading this, and your wireless network is called "Pflood3128," assume it is just a coincidence and do not password protect it.