Tag Archives: agents

A Prayer to My Fat Ass

Awaiting a train on an immaculately clean subway platform the other day…  What’s that?  Subway?  Yes:  There is a subway in LA-LA City.  Mostly ridden by brown people and Downtown’s business types, this magical recent innovation has saved V a lot of headaches caused by the convoluted parking rules, one-way streets, obnoxiously priced valet lots and traffic-congested roads—that look like parking lots—in that happening zip code of ours.  On the other hand, I’ve had to confront the utter lack of control and manners on behalf of this city’s male contingent when they express their desire to not only speak to me—but to touch me.  What can I say:  A walking woman is somewhat of a rarity around here!  Yet, still I insist on contributing my coins to the spanking brand new subway ticket machines and reveling in a system with visible time schedules and audible announcements about any possible delays or detours.  (Hear that, New Yorkers?!  I’m just sayin’.) 

Anyway.  While chilling on a subway platform the other day and trying on my best Dontcha Fuckin’ Dare Speak to Me face, I was devouring a book by a brown writer…  What’s that?  A book?  Yes, I still read books

So:  Reading a book, on a subway platform, I was brought back to reality by the clickety-clack of stilettos that absolutely had to belong to a beautiful woman.  Understandably:  V looked up.  Poorly balancing in her heels, the young creature wobbling in my direction looked like Bambi.  She was blonde and pretty—a perfect newbie in LA.  Yet everything about her screamed of wanting a little bit too much and trying a little bit too hard.  I’ve seen these creatures in casting sessions before.  Fuck:  I’ve been one of these creature my first year of auditions!  Albeit her prettiness, she hid behind too much make-up, applied by a hand of a four-year old who had stolen it from her mother.  The blonde hair was teased to shit into an asymmetrical bouffant completed by a mousey ponytail.  Her short black-and-white dress and a pink pashmina made her appear overdressed and utterly unaware of what it takes to navigate this city on foot.     

“Clickety-clack…  Clack!  Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack,” she went past me, nearly tripping over her own feet.

“Oh, honey,” my heart moaned in a half-prayer as it does when witnessing another innocent creature equipped with nothing but her dreams to survive this chaotic, slightly schizophrenic town.  But it was only a half-prayer—because I don’t have the time or the strength to adopt and rescue every young soul.  And because she had chosen her path—god bless her!  And because already having difficulty balancing in those big-girl heels, she could do without the pity by the jaded skeptics like me tripping her over.  Besides:  Who the fuck am I to project my own failures and embarrassments in LA-LA Land onto a young woman courageous enough to be idealistic? 

Oh, but I would leave her alone, my comrades, and return to the hilarious words by my brown writer; but the young girl, who has parked herself on a wooden bench a meter away from me, shook the pink pashmina off her shoulders and revealed a frame so thin, my stomach growled like a guard dog at the gates of GULAG.  The view that I got from where I stood was her nearly transparent back with every rib and every vertebra ripping through the bluish-white skin.  She slouched a little, in that way of a crying child or a young girl embarrassed of her budding new breasts.

“Oh, baby-boo,” my heart moaned—that stubborn organ that always gets me to go against my better, self-protective judgment.  

“Uh!” 

It was grunt by a black guy.  C’mon, we all know it:  that chesty, sexual, laconic groan that only a brother can pull off which usually means, “I gotta get me some a dat!”  Honestly:  It’s one of my favorite sounds.  Because, in my experience, a black man is hard to discombobulate out of his chill by any woman; and if he is moved, he’ll take his time before actually touching the honey.  Prior to the physical contact, however, there will be a dance of slow, self-possessed struts, accompanied by somewhat primal sounds.  Like the “Uh!” my brown bystander granted the Bambi on the bench. 

I looked over to him:  Over 6-feet tall, clad in New York black, with his skin glossy and gorgeous, the man—was a warrior.  He noticed me, held his gaze—fucking balls!—smiled ever so slightly, pouted, shook his head and said: 

“I dunno.” 

I tilted my head, meaning:  “Bring it.”

Tuned in, he licked those endless lips of his, formulated the words and said:  “Too skinny.”  Maybe I nodded a bit too enthusiastically, but the brown creature elaborated:   “I like a woman with a little ‘uh!’”

Yep.  Well said, comrade.  The reason the Bambi jacked up my empathy that afternoon was the utter deprivation with which she treated her young body.  Because past all that desperate glamour and paint, hid a self-induced violence by her poor self-esteem which was most likely already reconfirmed by the self-loathing scumbags of this town (i.e.:  agents, managers, boyfriends).  Because you see, my comrades, around here—it’s difficult to be enough!  There is a permanent hum of advice that hangs above women’s heads along with LA-LA’s smog:  Too Fat / Too Old / Too Brown / Too Foreign / Too Brunette / Too Smart / Too Something.  (Those are my favorite old tags.)  It takes oh so much fucking work to never let go of your authentic self; because if you do—one un-fine day, you’ll wake up as a washed-up cocktail waitress with blistered feet and soul, realizing that your two future solutions are:  1.  to go back to school; or 2.  to bait yourself a rich guy who’ll buy you your Happily Ever After.  

So, here comes my prayer, my comrades, for the sake of my own self, the women I know and the Bambi’s I wish I’d known before their fall:  May the very womb of our Mother Fuckin’ Nature grant us the courage to hold on to our fat asses!  May the armies of our shrinks and girlfriends shield us from being chipped away by those who live in hatred of themselves!  May we wake up to the mirrors that sing in the voice of Maria Callas:  “You are the fairest one of all—and I love your ass!”  And may we be lucky enough to be accompanied by men who worship our fat behinds, and when the schizophrenic voices chime in—shag some sense into us.

“You Mad? I Thought that You’d Be Happy I Made It!”

Clearly, my “little rant blog,” as tagged by a former lover a few hours ago, has been invoking reactions.  There has been an occasional validation from complete strangers—young women, older wives, heartbroken lovers, married couples, and gay men—my adored readers continents and time zones away that make my artist’s ego revel in the illusionary and ever-so-fleeting thought of:  “At least, my art matters!”  It’s like honey to the inflamed larynx of a screaming revolutionary!  But then:  I get up again, at some ungodly hour of the morning, put the compliments in my back pocket, clock-in and begin at ground zero:  Regardless the moody cunt of Inspiration, I publish prior to one of my four survival jobs.

The reaction of some friends and most exes, however, has been less than enamored:

“You’ve reality lost your humanity!” I found on my voicemail today.  Try swallowing that pill with your morning coffee!

My art gone public has tested my comrades—people that have a certain degree of an in with me.  Most have known me for years because, despite my wanderlust, I don’t lose track of human hearts.  Sometimes, to my own fault (and to the expressed puzzlement of my beloveds), I’ve kept in touch with my exes, if only for the mere benefit of recollecting a mutual story down the road; because, despite being a storyteller, genetics have granted me with the most pathetic short-term memory.  So, my people—are my memory keepers.  As for the woman in me, the scorned lover gives room to forgiveness quite quickly.  I accept the humanity of those who acted less than kindly in my past and eventually hear the long-awaited apology from them.  But by then, the forgiveness has already been granted pro bono, and I’ve moved on—to other loves and newer pages.

For years, I have written in silence.  Years! It was a closeted activity—like a mute’s challenge to the world every morning.  During those forming years in New York City and LA-LA Land, my people would chime in:

“What are you doing with your life?”

“What are you doing with all these jobs?!”

And my favorite:  “You know what you should do?,” followed by an array of unrequested advice.

Well, here I am, comrades, I thought on the first of this year:  Finally, doing it, just like y’all recommended!  I am not half-ass-ing it either!  I am not working on the next Good Will Hunting as every other regular at my local Starbucks, praying to be discovered by an accidental agent ordering his or her morning latte.  I am not venting to some similar wannabe at a late night dingy dive, both of us getting lost in a forest of empty beer bottles.  Neither am I drowning in depression while listening to my friends’ rants on the topics of casting scams and shady agents.  I don’t pity them—or myself—during the self-loathing routines about being insignificant.  Instead of wasting my breath on “What I’m gonna do”—I fucking do!  And I tell my colleagues to do the same.

“So, here I am,” I thought, on day one of 2011…

Oh, but what’s this?  Silence and spite?!  Didn’t expect that!

Forty days and forty-some blogs later, some of my people are falling by the wayside:  Shocker!  All those well-wishers with written proposals on my predestined career paths—have suddenly gotten quiet.  Where the fuck did they all go?!  As for my formerly beloveds, suddenly my friendship they’ve been “so grateful for” is not something they can handle:

“You just sound so angry and hurt,” they attempt to hide behind another set of fake intentions.

No fucking shit, Sherlock, I’m angry!  But please do me a favor and keep the pity card in your own stack.  If you’re suffering the stings of your guilty conscience or fear of being exposed—despite the anonymity of my blog’s characters—don’t project your shit onto me.  I’ve moved on, remember?  I am NOT interested in your apology—just your kindness.  Or your friendship.  But if you must run away, I must thank you for exposing that your love for me was never unconditional; that my success was not one of your interests; that to this day, you haven’t learned the lesson and remained equally self-involved as you were back in your selfish twenties.  Do move on, my darlings—and although disappointed, I mean it in the best of ways:  God bless—and get the fuck out! Another forty days and forty-some blogs later, I hope to find myself surrounded by the selected and the stubborn few who’ve made the wellness of my heart and the success of my work their daily prayer.  Those who behold for me, never calculating in the “what-if” of my failure—just because it’s not a fucking option!—those are welcome to come along.

As for my “little rant blog” to myself, it goes like this:

You’re an artist, bitch!  It’s hard!  The competition is brutal.  The jobs are few and far between.  You work your ass off at some part-time gig where you’re painfully overqualified and underpaid; but when the morning comes—you better start your saleswoman routine again, doing enough legwork to earn permanent calluses on your feet and bruises on your knuckles from knocking on doors.  This ain’t your little home village in the Motha Fuckin’ Russia, where you were the prettiest and the smartest girl!  There are thousands like you here!  And another thousand on the next day’s Greyhound!  Some hotter and smarter and better equipped, with mamas and papas to support their dreams.  So, the only way to make it past the depression and the competition and the rejection and the loneliness—is to keep going!  Failure—is not an option here, as your actual friends will remind you.

As for the white noise of the well-wishers and the manipulations by other cowardly hearts:  “What’ya say?  I can’t hear you!”