The Green Room

I was standing there, as stand-ins tend to do, pretending to be Chris Evans, running lines and blocking with a woman pretending to be Scarlett Johansson.  The cameraman trained his lens to our positioning; The Nanny Diaries lighting crew adjusted bulbs and shades from every conceivable angle.  While pantomiming an exchange of roses, the assistant director called out over his walkie, "Let's get Dave some stunt flowers." 

Stunt flowers.  You know the union situation is out of control when even the flowers have stand-ins.  Who, incidentally, do their own stunts.  You know, in case the script calls for the flowers to narrowly avoid a missile attack, catch on fire, jump from fifteen story building, land in a hotel pool, and then emerge from the water to flight a horde of sword-swinging ninjas and their combat trained shibu inus.

On a side note, for those of you who secretly desire the chance to woo Scarlett: based on the one song that she sang over and over and over, I have a sneaking suspicion that she likes piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.  Or maybe she just likes to sing.  The same song.  Over and over and over.  Poor girl's iPod must have gotten stuck on repeat.

Let's get this over with as quickly as possible.  My nickname in high school was Spanky.  It's a long story (as to how I acquired the name) and it would disappoint you.  Let us just say that the events that led to the bestowing of names did not involve any activity that would allegedly make me go blind.  However, in perspective, Spanky marks a milestone in a minefield of embarrassingly appropriate nicknames.

My track mates in junior high called me Goose; not after the macho, yet boyishly charming, fighter pilot a la Top Gun - but rather, after the migratory bird and how it must look when it runs.  In college, I entered with the label Nice Guy Dave.  I graduated to chants of Dirty Uncle Dave.  And since my office mates learned that I spend my days off as an actor, I have acquired such names as Show Biz, Broadway, and Hollywood.

Nicknames reflect upon a person.  Sometimes, they show us that we are mistreated and bullied.  Some shine on the fact that we are revered, or at least befriended.  On occasion, a unique bodily trait is highlighted in a nickname.  On other occasions, a less fortunate name too easily resembles a term referring to one or another gender's genitalia.  Like Deloris.  Or Mulva.  Or Svetty Vallsack.

I would like to think that Show Biz, Broadway, and Hollywood are reflections of encouragement - that though my successes are few, and my screen credits are fewer, my cubical companions find inspiration in one person taking a chance.  I think they do.  And I look forward to the day that I can give each of them an inspired nickname, too.

In my opinion, and from my experience, there are three types of auditions.  And only because I can, I have given each type its own birthday-party code name.  Pony ride.  Piñata. Clown. 

All actors love pony rides (and I'm not talking about the casting couch).  The casting director sends you a script three days in advance, you take your time memorizing and rehearsing, and then you just saddle up and show 'em what you got.  If the first run's a little bumpy: no problem, kiddo.  Everyone gets a second ride.

The piñata, on the other hand, leaves you feeling like someone beat the candy out of you, and continued to beat you until there was nothing left except your poor, mangled, brightly-colored head.  At a recent audition for a government industrial: I was handed a script, given approximately two minutes to prep, and then told that I would be reading the lines from a TelePrompTer.  Easy, right?  Even George Bush can read his lines from a TelePrompTer.  But did you ever realize that he sounds like a redneck version of an animatronic Disneyland ride about to break down and spew flames at any second?  Not so easy.  The first take was enough to pop me wide open.  After about six takes, I was ready to crawl into bed and suck my thumb.  It was like that bad dream where I walk into class and everyone's taking an exam.  And then I realize: I didn't study for an exam. 

Except this time, thankfully, I wasn't naked.

And clowns: they'll freak you out and give you bad dreams, but most will find a way to make you laugh. Prior to a Maryland State Lottery commercial audition, I received an email containing two video clips: one of a hairy-chested, Travolta-poser flashing finger-pointing disco moves; one of a white-clad, red-belted Italian hopping and twirling in an oddly intricate, bee-sex dance pattern.  I had to pick and learn one.  Adverse to risky behavior that could result in a groin pull, and, well, bee-sex, I unbuttoned my shirt and queued the Bee Gees.

After a week of preparation, I showed up at at the audition and was promptly told by the casting director that the producers, director, and writer of the commercial were all present and all equally convinced that I was the perfect fit for the Italian dancer.   With only moments to spare, I snuck out into the parking lot and started hopping and twirling my ass off.  In ten minutes, I accomplished nothing more than a glistening sweat.  I then walked into the audition room and, under the scrutinizing eyes of a dozen prospectors, performed what can only be described as an interpretive dance of the neurological disease epilepsy.