It’s that dratted chaotic network pilot season and I’ve heard a lot of my actor peers panicking because they don’t have an agent. So this very extensive article is for you actors in Los Angeles. This can most likely applied everywhere else but the documents I attached are specifically LA-based. It’s a wee bit long but it’s everything I know how to do and it has worked for me. Hopefully it will work for you as well 🙂
Just to let you know, although my language in this article will refer to agents, all of this applies to finding a manager as well.
Fight, fight, fight, fight! That chanting is so boisterous, it’s one of the only things that could pull attention fucked hormonal kids from their school room soap operas, and pull them into an arena of animalistic captivation. (God damn dude, I need to chill out on the words) I just had a faux fight with my girlfriend. Nothing that requires flowers, or consolation prizes for being a dick, but the kind of fight you have just to show there’s still some fire in your belly. HEY! I STILL LOVE YOU! YELL WITH ME! Weird, right? I mean clearly it really didn’t mean anything because we’re both on the couch waiting to go to the movies, killing time watching J-Lo in “My Husband Beat me, so I killed Him – Part 7”. What is it about us that requires us as a species to just beat on each other? We riff on the people we love, we pick fights with our relationship partners, we crave puffing our chest out and beating it with a stick. What is it about this primal form of affection we crave? I think it’s because we’re afraid of admitting to ourselves one simple truth: We are animals. For some, those words are like the boogey man chilling in a dark alley way while you’re alone with a giant wad of cash. They are waiting to mug you and prey on your world till it turns everything upside down. It’s scary to think we might not be as cultured and sophisticated as we want to believe. Why? I couldn’t tell you a straight answer but I like to think that if we realize that we’re all animals then it kind of takes away these false levels of society we’ve created. It kind of evens the playing field; which means that one time you ignored that homeless person, or that time you told that stranger to fuck off with your soul-less dead cow eyes, you were just being a dick. No other excuse. You weren’t better. You weren’t more civilized. You were just an asshole. Truth is we’re all assholes sometimes. We want cover to hide behind when we decide to be shitty, rather than just admitting to ourselves that we’re all capable of being a gushing poop hole of a person sometimes. Maybe thats why when there’s a chance to act primal like in a fight we jump on it? Maybe thats why “internet bullying” is such a big thing? It allows us to get out or “lets beat shit with a stick and a rock” ape thoughts out with some anonymity and lack of direct consequence. What is bothering to me however though is this idea of false sophistication that leads to being offended and then reacting like a total fuckwad. Oh, you said something that is “offensive” let me now act like a total ass and say the most disgraceful, nasty, toxic shit I can think of.How I acted and what I said isn’t offensive because I’m some social warrior making sure animals like you now you’re an uncultured insensitive jackass. I saved us. Makes a lot of sense I guess, I think I just need a tumblr to understand it? Alright guys, I gotta run. Trevor Noah just said some old dumb stuff on twitter and I need to let that fucker know what’s up!
Tomorrow I have to work and all that keeps running through my head is the idea that there has to be more, or at least I hope there’s more. It’s a Wednesday that feels like a Monday, that feels like where the road meets the sky. That part of the picture where everything starts to blur together and you’re not sure how you got there while your friends are blaring some Macy Gray or some shit in the car. Thank God thats not whats on right now. Instead, Sublime is playing, and all that keeps punching my eardrums is “Laying in my plastic bed thinking how things weren’t so cool to me”. Bradley Nowell died from heroin addiction almost 20 years ago and I can’t help feel the world was done a massive injustice. I’m not just saying that like some sad fan who can’t buy some more stupid shit but as someone who is searching long and far for some deeper meaning to it all. I can relate to Brad. Not in the sense of heroin addiction, but in the sense that I’m stabbing my arm trying to reach that truth. Obviously I’m not talking in a literal sense here. I think we all have our own types of needles that we’re using to navigate through the shit. It’s ultimately about freedom. We’re all trying to be free in some truth that seems to constantly elude us. All we are is the dog chasing the car and I guess the question becomes do we eventually catch it or does it lead to our demise. In cases like Brad’s it takes everything out of you and leaves you in the gutter like that crumpled bag of flaming hot Cheetos. Why is this chase so vital? Is this “freedom” fictional? I don’t think so, and I think thats why the world was done a massive injustice in Brad’s death. There are blinding glimpses of the shine of truth found in his music. I’m not talking about truth like “Oh hey, yeah that happened here it is in a song” I’m talking about universal truth. A touch, or a brush of real freedom. Listen to Boss DJ and tell me you don’t see it, or feel it. If you can say that then we’re just different people I guess. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say anymore, these are just keystrokes on a page. A needle in my arm. A shot at truth. A jump at freedom. Or something…eh, whatever. I’m gonna go get some chicken fries. Till next time guys.
I’m terrible at this blog thing. I’m also terrible at this writing thing. I’m terrible at not smelling like ball hair sweat. Anyways, I figured I’d post on here weekly because lets be honest, I need more to do than playing WoW and gauging my body odor.
It’s just shy of Noon. You know, that cool time where all the badass stuff happens in all the badass movies of badass badassery or something like that. The only thing resembling those stoic scenes from the Chuck Norris prequels is that I am currently drinking a beer. Yeah, you read that right folks. I just popped open a bottle and am sipping my way right into an after school special. Why? The truth is, I don’t know. I don’t really know anything anymore or the more likely scenario is, I never really knew much of anything. Perhaps I’m drinking so early because I’m hungry and to lazy to cook some ramen in my pantry. Maybe it’s because I’m trying to save water in this apocalyptic California drought. It could also be because I am a very depressed individual who is coming to terms with the banality of his life.
When I was a little kid my grandma would always tell me “God damn it Daniel! You think everything is a fuckin’ joke! You’re an asshole now and you’re always gonna be an asshole!” Fast forward to 6th grade. My teacher Mrs. Holiday would always push me to write new stories. Be a writer she would say as she poured over these new works and praised me for my imagination that lead to classics like Gargoyles Don’t like Water or Mr Potato Steals Drugs from his Cousin. (Obviously I was cheated on the Pulitzer Prize but hey…life goes on) I liked telling stories but I guess I wanted more. When I was in High School my teachers pushed me to be an actor. They told me I was great, they praised me for my ability to pretend. My friends would always make me sit there and tell me stories till they coughed up their burger saying you need to be a comedian! While I love all these things, and I tell people shit like, “oh yeah I’m an actor, or I’m a comedian or GUYS, GUYS! I just booked a pro/am show guys! I made it!” Am I really these things or am I an asshole? Why is it so hard for me to tell people, nah man I’m just a waiter a bubba gumps? I refill sodas and make sure you have your BBQ sauce.
I’m starting to think that perhaps my grandma was right and I’ll just always be an asshole. Here’s why. This entire time I’ve been pulling you along into my whiny, depressing, masturbatory, talk on who the fuck I am (which is incredibly selfish by the way) there is an entire world out there that keeps on moving. California is a year away from not having any water. That isn’t some metaphorical sentiment to try and scare people into not watering their lawns. That is real hardcore scientific data that is saying that in less than 12 months now we’re all going to be drinking our own piss just like on the Discovery Channel. Not scary enough? Jeb Bush, who is likely to be a Republican candidate, wants to abolish the federal minimum wage. That means, there are people in this country who exist that think people essentially don’t have the right to be able to afford to live, But hey Dan please tell me more on why you’re a depressed little asshole who is having an identity crisis.
What the fuck happened to us? What happened to me? Honestly, I think we’re all assholes. Assholes with our own agendas and that’s fine I guess. I mean if you actually think I’m going to give up my World of Warcraft you are fucking with the wrong raccoon my friend. (I think that’s a saying in the south, and if not then it fucking should be) Maybe we all think that we’re more important than we actually are. Why is my existential crisis so much more important than yours I have to write about it. Doesn’t matter. While we’re running out of water with a contingency plan of “Please rain?” or while a small minority of blood sucking shitwads actively try to destroy hundreds of years of societal progress lets all just wake up early and pop open that beer wondering why we’re here.
It’s currently 6:07pm on a Thursday night and here I am sitting in bed drinking stale soda, smelling like stale Cheetos and realizing that I must like the word stale because I just used it 3 times in a sentence describing my general state of being at this very moment. Reflecting upon that last sentence I might conclude that maybe I’m stale. After a brief second to pause and take a swig on my soda I have come to concur the recent conclusion I have had on myself. I am stale. I mean that has to be the reason why I’m typing to a screen for a blog that probably myself and maybe some poor guy who was just out there looking for Katy Perry’s tits. So now that Katy Perry tit guy has figured out there are no tits on this page (except for mine) I am left alone to wonder how I wound up here writing this passage on staleness and self loathing. Well I’m going to give it to you straight internet, it’s because I had a limp dick. Now in all honesty is that all surprising? I mean it only makes sense the dude who has a blog titled “crying in the corner” would have a pocket full of limp dicks. You’re probably sitting there right now thinking this dude has to be the fucking Rockefeller of ball sag. He probably passes by every homeless gentlemen he sees and says “Hey you good sir, sorry for your miss fortune. Here have a limp dick on me!! There’s plenty more where that came from!” Now as close to that might come to the truth I can’t say that I have a lot of experience with the little train that couldn’t. It is a problem though. My girlfriend got pissed and I can’t say I blame her. Who wants to go swimming only to find that your pool noodle doesn’t float? It’s disappointing and it’s frustrating, and it’s just the way life is sometimes. With larger dreams and aspirations and the stresses of the daily monotony of life sometimes the pool closes down. Sometimes you don’t have enough limp dicks to give around. (Sorry pizza guy, you’re just gonna have to find your own limp dick) There is only thing that is for sure though….We will not go quietly into the night! We will not give up without a fight! We’re gonna live on, We’re gonna survive, Today, we celebrate our Independence Day!