Amy Aguilar, Special Assistant to Steve Jobs

Here's my latest and greatest project!

Amy Aguilar, Special Assistant to Steve Jobs

Who Would Play You

Everyone loves a round of "Who Would Play You," right?  You're having a casual dinner party, or chatting on the bus, whatever, it's a great game.  Someone chimes in, "Amanda Peet would play me."  Her friend says, "No, no, you're more of a Scarlet Johanson!"  Hilarious!  "Am I Dennis Quaid, or Mel Gibson?" he asks.  "Quaid, circa '83." A hearty laugh goes 'round.

It's all fun and games till it's the Asian girl's turn.  "Lucy Liu?"  Awkward silence.  "That girl from Sideways?"  "What about that new girl in the latest Terminator?" 

You get to be Amanda Peet, and I'm the girl no one knows from the latest/crappiest Terminator?

Ugh.  OBVIOUSLY, I would play me.  I would play me!  I just needed a dramatic way to bring up that they need me to play me.  C'mon, Hollywood!  Discover me already.

To Audition, or Not to Audition?

The usual trajectory of an audition (theoretically):

 

1.  Find Casting Call.

2.  Answer Casting Call with resume/headshot.

3.  Actual audition.

4.  Them: Yay or nay.

5.  You:  Yay or nay.

In actuality:

1.  Scour emails for casting calls.  Decide whether you'd like to play a heroin addict, a girl of "ambiguous ethnicity," or if it's worth it to take your chances with the sketchy Craigslist posting.  

2.  Review your resume and headshot.  Adjust margins to make resume look fuller.  Remove dates that look old; decide to remove all dates.  Give headshot a look over.  Wish you could afford to take new photos, wish you didn't still have reams of old ones.

3.  Wake up obscenely early.  Shower.  Blow-dry hair.  Pick outfit that does not type you as "sexy," "tacky," or "of ambiguous ethnicity."  Decide on black shirt and jeans outfit you wear to every audition.  Leave obscenely early.  Get lost.  Thank lord above you left obscenely early.  Get there obscenely early.  Sit there uncomfortably amongst actors/actresses "of ambiguous ethnicity" all dressed in black shirts and jeans.  Try to warm up without looking like an idiot.  Sweat until your name is called.  When name is called, walk into room.  State name.  State title of monologue.  Give 'em what you got for 60 full seconds.  Bow.  Exit room.  

4.  Them: Yay or nay.  Meanwhile, you ride adrenaline filled cloud-nine-like-elation.  Turn up music in car or in headphones.  Execute amazing dance moves.  Pat self on back for being best actor of all time who has just given audition to end all auditions on best day of life, ever.  Adrenalie leaves body.  Confidence quickly turns to tiny sliver of doubt.  Doubt multiplies with rabbit-like rapidity.  You enter downward spiral of panic.  "Maybe I'm not right for the role," gives way to "perhaps we didn't have enough chemsitry," which becomes "I should pick a better monologue for myself," to "I am the worst actor of all time," and finally, "If I happen to encounter a Shakespeare quote today, it will undoubtedly self-destruct in my presence as I am completely un-worthy of even speaking the Good Bard's name."

5. You: Yay - obviously.

Now, try that on for size a few times a week.... and start your own blog.

Casting Couches

I never really knew what the deal was with casting couches. I understand them in theory, of course, but practice is something I've (luckily) been unfamiliar with. However, yesterday was my very first "extra" experience, and I think my understanding of the ubiquitous couch has just reached a new level.

Make no mistake, I can throw my womanhood around with the best of 'em. I am after all an extrovert, an actress, and an aries (i.e. shameless flirt). But, I haven't really been in a profession where flirting was acceptable, let alone the tool-du-jour!

Yesterday was my first experience as an extra (videoblog to come, hopefully). And a primal sense awakened within me. Every time the director walked by me, I couldn't help but sit up a little straighter, uncross and cross my legs, pout a little pout-ier - you get the deal. I just kept thinking, if only I could get this dude to look at me and say, "There you are. My muse. Lo, how I have waited." (Or, something to that effect.) If only said dude would look at me and pluck me out of obscurity, we could ride onto the proverbial Sunset-Boulevard together! I could play Thurman to his Tarantino, Winslet to his Mendes, Klum to his Kors!

... Did I mention it was for a University of Phoenix commercial?

These are my options??

I think I'm a fairly talented lady. And, I've got charisma in spades. Let's not even talk about my (over) education.

Given that - imagine my reaction when I opened this job posting:
(character names have been changed, descriptions are completely un-touched)


Sara -- Female/18 to 30/Sara has accidentally overdosed and she must be saved.

Girl #1 -- Female/18 to 30/ Girl #1 rides man reverse cowgirl while topless, then gets knocked off. She lies in bed and says things for the rest of the film.

Holly -- Female/18 to 30/ Holly is doing coke, then pukes up condoms full of heroin at the end.



... THESE ARE MY OPTIONS?!?!?!
(Clearly, Girl #1 is who I'm aiming for.)

headshots

Of course, I have about 1000 8 x 10s of my mug (500 black & white - why oh why did I buy those?, and 500 in color). Not to mention the 500 colored business cards I have, with mini versions of my headshot.

Yes. I am sick of looking at it. Yes, I forget to bring them to about half the auditions I go on. AND, YES - I know it's a damn good picture of me. No - I do not look like that when I wake up. AND, YES - I know it's a damn good picture of me. You don't need to look at it, then back at me, then back at it and say - WOW. This is an amazing picture. I know that already.

Here's the thing. They're supposed to be what I would look like if someone (a professional) did my makeup. What I could look like if you hired me! Anyway, since I have approximately 5,000 business cards with my mug on them, I figure I should probably use them. So, I stuck one in my luggage tag. Big mistake. Now, people see my glorious/headshot mug and can compare directly to the "travel mug." Two words = not cute.

...but what I am supposed to do with the remaining 20,000 business cards?