luck be a lady, please

Alright. I’m starting to catch on. Somewhere along the line I fell under a cloud of bad luck. I’m almost loathe to say this, for fear of jinxing myself by complaining about what is all in all a damn good life – but if God’s Comic is annoyed by an honest evaluation of things – let come what may, baby.

I have a Chinese Food fortune on my wall here at work. It says, "If the odds are good, take that risk you’ve been considering". I got that one back in March and used it as the final impetus to go get myself a puppy. I was worried about all the added responsibility and being tied down and blah blah blah, but getting this fortune with my order of Orange Chicken and Spring Rolls gave me that little push I was waiting for. Dumb, you say, to let my life be ruled by Panda Express? Yeah, well, maybe…

If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know that my puppy died of a fairly rare virus 3 weeks after she joined my little household. Bad luck? I then decided to take a Casting Director Workshop for the first time ever, though it went against everything I felt about acting and the business and my tentative place in it. The workshop was a mess. I got a partial credit and applied it to another workshop that began last night. This casting director, this bitch-ass casting director, waddles in late, sits down and asks if we have any questions. A few people asked questions. Really informative questions like: "What’s the address of your casting office?" and "How do you spell your last name?" She mentioned briefly what her suck-ass office was working on. Three independent films, was the answer, one starring Donnie Walburg and Robert Forrester (Donnie, mind you. Not even Mark.), another with Heather Locklear and Emilio Estevez (this is a guy who envies Charlie Sheen’s career), and the last starring Fred Dryer. It took me a minute to get a lock on Fred Dryer, until I remembered: that’s fucking Hunter. Wow, stunning credits lady. Then she paired us up randomly and handed out scenes. These were obviously scenes from the three aforementioned projects. If there was any doubt as to the rococo nature of Hollywood logic, here was proof. The most retarded, pointless-ass movies are being made. Right here in Hollywood! While other great scripts (like mine) are sitting on shelves or on the bottom of 4 foot high "to read" piles on agency desks all over town - brads falling out, covered with Starbucks and Chin-Chin stains.

Rejoining the fold after that brief tangent, I rehearsed with my older, male scene partner, (who was alright), for a while. We then went back into the room, and bitch-butt was sitting down with no expression on her face, and with no words of encouragement, advice, warning, told us to go one at a time. So the first scene went up, finished, and she said…

Thanks. Next.

That’s it. So for the next 45 minutes we did our scenes. Bam bam bam. "Next!"

Mine went quite well. Naturally, it was a comedy, and I hit it. Every joke. Every beat. Twists. Turns. Interesting line readings. Whatever. The whole damn thing. And then the class was over. It lasted all of about an hour, and bitch collected her 300 bucks and went home to crack open a pint of Chubby Hubby and watch some soft core porn on Cinemax.

So my luck, I get two shitty CD workshops - which I feel bad for taking in the first place - in a row.

My bad luck expands into many many different arenas. Just tonight I found out that my editor has taken a different job and now is having trouble finding us an Avid on which to edit.

I won't even go into my first foray into the stock market just yet...

This is where I let Larry King take over my body for a few minutes.

Red Red Wine...I'm reading a book on Groucho Marx's last years on earth. Fucking depressing...I'm quite impressed by other online journals I've been discovering. Kudos, seriously...I'm not sure, it might have come from outside, but I think my computer just screamed...Did anyone see Chan Ho Park put a karate kick on some first baseman the other night...