Posted by Amy T on April 13, 2012 - 2:42pm
Hour 1: Spend 30 minutes driving from Los Feliz to the studio in Culver City. I then spend another 20 minutes searching for parking on the streets surrounding the studio despite assurances from the casting associate that "there is plenty of street parking." Not having found this mythical land of plentiful parking, I finally admit defeat and pull into a 1-hour maximum parking spot and start the 10 minute walk (in heels) to the studio sign-in area where I am booked to be an audience member for We the People with Gloria Allred. Rate? $8 an hour, paid in cash at the end of the day.
Hour 2: Attempt to check in with Rob, the Extras Wrangler--a man who undoubtedly pulled the short straw at that morning's team meeting--whose job it was to sign in and control 100+ of LA's walking wounded (Read: out-of-work actors, musicians, writers, ex-cons, escaped mental patients, hobos...and me.)
CHECK-IN TRANSCRIPT:
Me: I'm Amy Nathan
Rob: **blank stare**
Me: I'm checking in?
Rob: Your name?
Me: Amy. Nathan.
Rob: **Finds my name** Do you have your cell phone?
Me: Yes.
Rob: You do?
Me: Have my cell phone? **utterly confused** Yes.
Rob: Why? Didn't you listen to the hotline message?
Me: No. I didn't call the hotline. I didn't have the number.
Rob: **suspicious** Then you're not actually booked!
Me: **Since he just saw my name on the booking sheet** Yes. I. Am. Tiffany (casting associate) called to book me but then hung up before she gave me the hotline number (but not before telling me to call the hotline...thanks again Tiffany).
Rob: **incredibly suspicious** Then how did you get this address?
Me: I found it on Facebook. (After searching for an hour and guessing that the address might be the right one. I should be a detective. And I deserve some credit for not just staying home.)
Rob: **nonplussed and still strangely suspicious of my right to be there despite my dropping Tiffany's name AND being listed on his booking sheet** Go take your cellphone to your car. You can't bring it in.
***FAST FORWARD THROUGH MY 20-MINUTE RETURN TRIP TO/FROM THE CAR TO DROP OFF THE OFFENDING CELL PHONE***
Me: Okay. I'm back. No cell phone.
Rob: Name?
Me: Amy. **gritting teeth** Nathan.
Rob: You're lucky. I have one spot left.
Me: (yes jackass, it's MY spot. I was booked!!) Thank you.
Hour 3: Waiting in the security check-in line with the rest of the booked audience members, I'm standing right behind a man who looks and sounds exactly like Eminem (dear God, please let Marshall Mathers be so down on his luck that he's also stuck in this experience with me. Misery. Meet company. Don't judge me.)
Security screening for our admission into the studio is so stringent, I'm wondering if the production team has actually received some sort of threat. Are we all in danger? While Fake-Eminem is discussing (at the top of his lungs) his love and affection for all things PlayStation, IHop, and Sizzler, I watch as we are ushered one by one through a metal detector and then forced to empty purses and wallets as the lone security guard checks under bills and opens cosmetic compacts diligently maintaining a level of safety one might expect at the White House or a Justin Bieber concert. Certainly unlike anything I've ever experienced at an actual airport.
When it's my turn up at bat, the metal detector buzzes me into extra precaution territory (probably set off by the iron in my bloodstream). The security guard pats me down so thoroughly I’m on the brink of demanding flowers when he suddenly finds my Nook and raises an alarm.
SECURITY TRANSCRIPT:
Security: You can’t bring that thing in here.
Me: **resigning myself to being utterly confused for the rest of the day.** What thing? My Nook?
Security: **calling Rob – Extras Wrangler extraordinaire—over** Rob, she’s trying to bring this in.
Rob: **now validated in his suspicion of me** You told me you took your cell phone back to your car.
Me: I. Did. Take. It. Back. THIS is a Nook.
Rob: **still suspicious** What? (Dear God, is it possible he doesn’t know the difference between a Nook and a cell phone?)
Me: A NOOK. You know. Like a Kindle?
Rob: **blank, suspicious stare as he nervously paws the device much like a chimp or my grandparents**
Me: It’s an electronic book. **long pause.** It’s not a cell phone. ** long pause ** Or a computer. **long pause.** I can just leave it in my purse.
Rob: **Finally recognizing words he knows.** Yes! Just leave it in your purse.
After claiming the rest of my things from security I notice that my paperwork (release form to be turned in to claim my pay at the end of the day) has been accidentally switched with someone else’s. No doubt they picked mine up accidentally as I was explaining the wonders of literary technology to Rob the Extras Wrangler. *Sigh*
Hour 4: The paperwork mix-up, I am told, must be communicated to Ricky, or as I like to call him, the inside-the-studio version of Rob. As I attempt to explain why I’m handing Ricky someone elses’ paperwork he is perplexed.
PAPERWORK MIX-UP TRANSCRIPT:
Ricky: Where’s your form?
Me: It was accidentally picked up by someone else.
Ricky: Who?
Me: I don’t know. I was talking to Rob.
Ricky: Well you have to get it back.
Me: Um…ok.
FAST FORWARD THROUGH 5 MINUTES OF ME SCANNING THE HEAVENS FOR SOME SORT OF DIVINE SIGN THAT WOULD EXPLAIN WHERE EXACTLY IN LIFE I TOOK THE WRONG TURN THAT LED ME TO THIS PLACE. SINCE NO SIGN OR ESCAPE ROUTE MATERIALIZED, I RETURNED TO RICKY CLUTCHING THE WRONG PAPERWORK.
Me: Look. Can I just turn this in? Obviously the person who switched their form with mine already turned it in to you so what’s the difference. It all works out in the end.
Ricky: **patiently explaining as if to a 5-year-old mentally challenged child.** OK. But. You. Should. NEVER. Give. Your. Information. To. A. Stranger. It. Has. All. Your. Information. On. It.
Me: Um, right. I know. (What Ricky doesn’t know is that—having worked on production crews—I know exactly how lax they are with paperwork and there is no way in hell I would write my social security number and driver’s license on paperwork that may or may not end up sitting on a desk for days.) *Sigh*
Hour 4 (Continued): Finally we are all ready to be placed and seated in the audience of the daytime TV court show called We the People with Gloria Allred as the “judge.” Since my fellow extras are dressed in an array of “business clothes” ranging from black spandex leggings and thigh high boots (perhaps she is in the business of prostitution?) to a mulch-brown dress most accurately described as “sister-wife formal,” I think that my ensemble of natty striped trousers with matching vest over a blue dress shirt will put me smack in the middle of camera range. I thought wrong. Because my dress shirt is “too blue” I am re-positioned 4 times until the producer admits defeat and just tells me not to move and distract from the action. Frozen in place, I attempt to have an out of body experience and find myself wondering how I could go from being an Associate Producer on The Jerry Springer Show to an audience member on We the People. And for that matter, how could Gloria Allred go from an illustrious career as a high-profile lawyer to acting as a fake judge for fake Peoples-Court style court cases? Is it possible that Gloria has fallen on hard times? Did she lose a bet? Is this payback time for some Faustian-style deal?
Hour 5: We are told over and over that the most important thing we as audience members can do is look alert and interested and Not. Fall. Asleep. When that directive is repeated over and over I start to realize that production team assumes that the sort of person with nothing better to do on a Thursday than be a part of a fake court room audience for $8 an hour cannot be trusted not to fall asleep in the middle of the show. They are not wrong. Not one but three different people are reprimanded over the course of the day for falling asleep. In fact, it’s all I can do to remain frozen in place so as not to distract from the fake court cases unfolding before us. Each of the six cases (20 minutes each) are acted out so unconvincingly I find my mental state faltering and flowing along unconventional lines: does Gloria cry herself to sleep every night? Who did her plastic surgery, she looks great! Why does the person sitting next to me smell like creamed corn?
Hour 6: After the third court case Ricky passes out candy and takes audience members to the bathroom. (Seriously.) In a last minute grab for my quickly departing pride, I decline the candy and stay in my seat; determined to see this day out without killing myself or anyone else. I suddenly understand and am grateful for the stringent security. At the conclusion of the last fake court case (known as the case of the faulty sex swing –thanks to some over stimulated studio writer) I join the mad dash out the studio door toward payment and freedom wondering where it all went wrong. I’ve made upwards of $200 a day in my professional life. I have lead actress IMDB credits. I hold two advanced degrees. I shower daily. How did I end up in the line waiting for $48 dollars?
As I start the long walk back to my car clutching my cash, I ask myself: Did I fall off the path the first time I quit a job? Or how about the 46th job I walked away from in search of something better; a more interesting story, an intriguing career path, an exciting new city. When did Gloria Allred wake up and say goodbye to a career fighting for women’s rights and hello to the lowest common denominator? How does this happen to people? And how can I turn things around? Hang on Gloria, when I figure it out, I’ll send help.
Hour 2: Attempt to check in with Rob, the Extras Wrangler--a man who undoubtedly pulled the short straw at that morning's team meeting--whose job it was to sign in and control 100+ of LA's walking wounded (Read: out-of-work actors, musicians, writers, ex-cons, escaped mental patients, hobos...and me.)
CHECK-IN TRANSCRIPT:
Me: I'm Amy Nathan
Rob: **blank stare**
Me: I'm checking in?
Rob: Your name?
Me: Amy. Nathan.
Rob: **Finds my name** Do you have your cell phone?
Me: Yes.
Rob: You do?
Me: Have my cell phone? **utterly confused** Yes.
Rob: Why? Didn't you listen to the hotline message?
Me: No. I didn't call the hotline. I didn't have the number.
Rob: **suspicious** Then you're not actually booked!
Me: **Since he just saw my name on the booking sheet** Yes. I. Am. Tiffany (casting associate) called to book me but then hung up before she gave me the hotline number (but not before telling me to call the hotline...thanks again Tiffany).
Rob: **incredibly suspicious** Then how did you get this address?
Me: I found it on Facebook. (After searching for an hour and guessing that the address might be the right one. I should be a detective. And I deserve some credit for not just staying home.)
Rob: **nonplussed and still strangely suspicious of my right to be there despite my dropping Tiffany's name AND being listed on his booking sheet** Go take your cellphone to your car. You can't bring it in.
***FAST FORWARD THROUGH MY 20-MINUTE RETURN TRIP TO/FROM THE CAR TO DROP OFF THE OFFENDING CELL PHONE***
Me: Okay. I'm back. No cell phone.
Rob: Name?
Me: Amy. **gritting teeth** Nathan.
Rob: You're lucky. I have one spot left.
Me: (yes jackass, it's MY spot. I was booked!!) Thank you.
Hour 3: Waiting in the security check-in line with the rest of the booked audience members, I'm standing right behind a man who looks and sounds exactly like Eminem (dear God, please let Marshall Mathers be so down on his luck that he's also stuck in this experience with me. Misery. Meet company. Don't judge me.)
Security screening for our admission into the studio is so stringent, I'm wondering if the production team has actually received some sort of threat. Are we all in danger? While Fake-Eminem is discussing (at the top of his lungs) his love and affection for all things PlayStation, IHop, and Sizzler, I watch as we are ushered one by one through a metal detector and then forced to empty purses and wallets as the lone security guard checks under bills and opens cosmetic compacts diligently maintaining a level of safety one might expect at the White House or a Justin Bieber concert. Certainly unlike anything I've ever experienced at an actual airport.
When it's my turn up at bat, the metal detector buzzes me into extra precaution territory (probably set off by the iron in my bloodstream). The security guard pats me down so thoroughly I’m on the brink of demanding flowers when he suddenly finds my Nook and raises an alarm.
SECURITY TRANSCRIPT:
Security: You can’t bring that thing in here.
Me: **resigning myself to being utterly confused for the rest of the day.** What thing? My Nook?
Security: **calling Rob – Extras Wrangler extraordinaire—over** Rob, she’s trying to bring this in.
Rob: **now validated in his suspicion of me** You told me you took your cell phone back to your car.
Me: I. Did. Take. It. Back. THIS is a Nook.
Rob: **still suspicious** What? (Dear God, is it possible he doesn’t know the difference between a Nook and a cell phone?)
Me: A NOOK. You know. Like a Kindle?
Rob: **blank, suspicious stare as he nervously paws the device much like a chimp or my grandparents**
Me: It’s an electronic book. **long pause.** It’s not a cell phone. ** long pause ** Or a computer. **long pause.** I can just leave it in my purse.
Rob: **Finally recognizing words he knows.** Yes! Just leave it in your purse.
After claiming the rest of my things from security I notice that my paperwork (release form to be turned in to claim my pay at the end of the day) has been accidentally switched with someone else’s. No doubt they picked mine up accidentally as I was explaining the wonders of literary technology to Rob the Extras Wrangler. *Sigh*
Hour 4: The paperwork mix-up, I am told, must be communicated to Ricky, or as I like to call him, the inside-the-studio version of Rob. As I attempt to explain why I’m handing Ricky someone elses’ paperwork he is perplexed.
PAPERWORK MIX-UP TRANSCRIPT:
Ricky: Where’s your form?
Me: It was accidentally picked up by someone else.
Ricky: Who?
Me: I don’t know. I was talking to Rob.
Ricky: Well you have to get it back.
Me: Um…ok.
FAST FORWARD THROUGH 5 MINUTES OF ME SCANNING THE HEAVENS FOR SOME SORT OF DIVINE SIGN THAT WOULD EXPLAIN WHERE EXACTLY IN LIFE I TOOK THE WRONG TURN THAT LED ME TO THIS PLACE. SINCE NO SIGN OR ESCAPE ROUTE MATERIALIZED, I RETURNED TO RICKY CLUTCHING THE WRONG PAPERWORK.
Me: Look. Can I just turn this in? Obviously the person who switched their form with mine already turned it in to you so what’s the difference. It all works out in the end.
Ricky: **patiently explaining as if to a 5-year-old mentally challenged child.** OK. But. You. Should. NEVER. Give. Your. Information. To. A. Stranger. It. Has. All. Your. Information. On. It.
Me: Um, right. I know. (What Ricky doesn’t know is that—having worked on production crews—I know exactly how lax they are with paperwork and there is no way in hell I would write my social security number and driver’s license on paperwork that may or may not end up sitting on a desk for days.) *Sigh*
Hour 4 (Continued): Finally we are all ready to be placed and seated in the audience of the daytime TV court show called We the People with Gloria Allred as the “judge.” Since my fellow extras are dressed in an array of “business clothes” ranging from black spandex leggings and thigh high boots (perhaps she is in the business of prostitution?) to a mulch-brown dress most accurately described as “sister-wife formal,” I think that my ensemble of natty striped trousers with matching vest over a blue dress shirt will put me smack in the middle of camera range. I thought wrong. Because my dress shirt is “too blue” I am re-positioned 4 times until the producer admits defeat and just tells me not to move and distract from the action. Frozen in place, I attempt to have an out of body experience and find myself wondering how I could go from being an Associate Producer on The Jerry Springer Show to an audience member on We the People. And for that matter, how could Gloria Allred go from an illustrious career as a high-profile lawyer to acting as a fake judge for fake Peoples-Court style court cases? Is it possible that Gloria has fallen on hard times? Did she lose a bet? Is this payback time for some Faustian-style deal?
Hour 5: We are told over and over that the most important thing we as audience members can do is look alert and interested and Not. Fall. Asleep. When that directive is repeated over and over I start to realize that production team assumes that the sort of person with nothing better to do on a Thursday than be a part of a fake court room audience for $8 an hour cannot be trusted not to fall asleep in the middle of the show. They are not wrong. Not one but three different people are reprimanded over the course of the day for falling asleep. In fact, it’s all I can do to remain frozen in place so as not to distract from the fake court cases unfolding before us. Each of the six cases (20 minutes each) are acted out so unconvincingly I find my mental state faltering and flowing along unconventional lines: does Gloria cry herself to sleep every night? Who did her plastic surgery, she looks great! Why does the person sitting next to me smell like creamed corn?
Hour 6: After the third court case Ricky passes out candy and takes audience members to the bathroom. (Seriously.) In a last minute grab for my quickly departing pride, I decline the candy and stay in my seat; determined to see this day out without killing myself or anyone else. I suddenly understand and am grateful for the stringent security. At the conclusion of the last fake court case (known as the case of the faulty sex swing –thanks to some over stimulated studio writer) I join the mad dash out the studio door toward payment and freedom wondering where it all went wrong. I’ve made upwards of $200 a day in my professional life. I have lead actress IMDB credits. I hold two advanced degrees. I shower daily. How did I end up in the line waiting for $48 dollars?
As I start the long walk back to my car clutching my cash, I ask myself: Did I fall off the path the first time I quit a job? Or how about the 46th job I walked away from in search of something better; a more interesting story, an intriguing career path, an exciting new city. When did Gloria Allred wake up and say goodbye to a career fighting for women’s rights and hello to the lowest common denominator? How does this happen to people? And how can I turn things around? Hang on Gloria, when I figure it out, I’ll send help.
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