How to Not Make It in America: Be an Extra on the Show

What: Playing Club Member 27469418389032 on How to Make it In America
Where: 1Oak
Who: Hundreds of aspiring actors and a few paid ones

During this stint to try new things I made the terrible mistake of applying to be an extra on the new television show, How to Make it In America. This was prior to having a full time job and I had the notion that this would “mix it up” a bit. Having no understanding of the process that goes into making a television show I thought it would be a fun and exciting experience.

Wrong…I was so wrong.

After applying through Craigslist, I received several phone calls telling me where and when to meet. I was required to bring two outfits for a night club scene.

I showed up to a holding area at 11AM and waited in the thirty person line to have my outfits checked for approval. There were over one hundred extras, all of whom appeared to be in their twenties. I sat at a table with several other twenty something’s where I found out that they were all actors, or actors in the making. Each one of them told me about other shows they had done (Gossip Girl, CSI, Law and Order). Some had moved to LA for a while, couldn’t make it there and moved back.

After an hour of waiting in the holding room I found a few other people who were not dead set on becoming actors. There were a couple laid off investment bankers and a few unemployed young adults who had just graduated college.

Finally, they told us it was time to go to 1Oak, a popular nightclub that was a few blocks away. I hesitate to use the word popular since I have only witnessed tools and late night fist pumpers frequent this establishment. The drinks are overpriced, the people are going to be looked at, and the overall environment is not that appealing.

All one hundred of us walked down the street to the entrance of the club where we were paired up with a member of the opposite sex (apparently homosexuals do not frequent this club or are in this show). I got paired up with a lovely girl who had dark Italian features and absolutely interest in being an actor either.

Once inside the club all of the ‘actors’ were vying to be in the front near the paid actors of the show, Lake Bell and Jason Pendergraft. My partner and I steered clear of the commotion and tried to get to the back of the club so we could sit at a booth. Naturally, the director picked us to be in the front of the scene where we would be on camera. We rolled our eyes at each other dreading this. It became increasingly worse when we realized we were going to be required to dance the entire time. Not only did we have to dance, but in order to shoot the scene there cannot be music, so we were dancing to silence, I have never felt like more a fool. To top it off, all the extras glared at us for being chosen to dance in front. They knew we had no interest in the industry and apparently were not shy to resent us for our ‘luck.’

The scene involved Lake and Jason having taken ecstasy and Jason kissing two other “featured extras”, one of whom turned out to be a male…so I guess some homosexuality crept into this club. The director went around looking at the extras through the camera and when he got to me said, “Bad face.” A few foul words came to mind, but I refrained (something rare for me). The other extras assured me it was my skin tone paired with the lighting. Regardless of what he meant, I’m not offended, although I do have a few thoughts on his show that are about as positive as his comment.

Lake was somewhat peppy and telling all the extras “Good job, you’re doing great!” It appeared to be her way of talking down to everyone rather than building them up…at least in this extras mind. She incessantly gave the directors tips on how to shoot the scene which I found wildly amusing. Last I checked she is an actor (at least by the standard that she is paid to speak words), not a director. After the 8th take, the director said “I think you are getting the hang of it,” to Lake, Jason, and the two featured extras.

Getting the hang of it??!! I thought, it has been 8 takes, what the hell? Aren’t you supposed to be professional actors? This is ridiculous.

The only thing that turned out to be more ridiculous than the acting was the food they served at lunch. It was the equivalent to a high school cafeteria, one that Jamie Oliver should make healthier on his new Food Revolution television show.

After a brief lunch we were required to go dance again for a total of 8 hours. Eight hours of dancing, while a great cardio workout was terrible. My feet ached, I was sweating profusely, and I was exhausted. At this point they asked who would be willing to shoot another scene of everyone lined up outside the club…I ducked under a table…no really.

Finally I was free to run for my life. Never again will I be an extra, never. The show aired on HBO a couple weeks ago (it is episode 5), I am in the scene twice for half a second each, and while it was short lived, my face looked fine, good even. The entire scene itself could not have lasted more than a minute; even though it took over 8 hours to shoot…Maybe they weren’t getting the hang of it? And the outside of the club was never shown, those poor extras that stayed.

A new thing I just recently did was shot a pilot for a reality show series. I will blog about that when I am not under contract to not discuss. Seriously, what am I thinking?

Goals Accomplished:
1) Being filmed for television is new
2) Aching feet, sweat, and glaring eyes are not comfortable
3) Learned that I never want to be an extra or act for that matter

Dinner at DBGB and a Semi-Date (But not really)

What: Dinner
Where: DBGB Kitchen and Bar
Who: Me and my Ex


Tonight was a list of firsts. It was the first time my bosses told me to go out to dinner and expense it to the company (as a thank you for the work I do…both kind and surprising). It was the first time I went out to a fancy restaurant in New York. It was the first time I had ham hock. And it was the very first time I went out with an ex (something I usually dread more than if the dentist, the eye doctor, and my physician wanted to infiltrate my being at the same time).

The atmosphere in DBGB (owned by the famous chef Daniel Bouldon) is fantastic. The mirrored walls are lined with writing: definitions of French words, names of cocktails, and any other food or beverage related item you can think of. We sat in the front room by the window on a bench (next to each other). In theory this sounds surprisingly awkward, but it was quite pleasant, that is unless, of course you detest the person you are with.

Against all odds, I do not detest my ex in the least; rather I enjoy him very much. I asked him to accompany me to dinner because he is the only person I know in the city that enjoys food as much as I do. Throwing our cares about calories to the wind we ordered the ham hock for an appetizer. It was delicious, our server told us it was part the shoulder of a pig, but upon further investigation I found it was part of the leg.

I ordered the duck, and it was the first time I had duck that was not oozing with oil (and yes I have had duck in Paris, not that I am an expert by any means). It had the consistency of a soft steak and was delicious. My ex ordered what they are famous for, a dish with sausage that was fantastic as well.

I knew I had picked the right person to fine dine with when he insisted on ordering dessert and lattes; the fatties within both of us bonded. We had dark chocolate ice cream with homemade cookies in it. It was amazing.

The food, combined with the wine and the atmosphere made one of the best evenings I have had thus far in New York. And yes, I will give credit to my ex where it is due, he is a superb conversationalist.

And while I am not a food snob (you can often times find me at McDonalds (http://www.mcdonalds.com/ - yes this deserves a link too) at 2 in the morning after a night of cocktails and dancing) I have to give this restaurant a definite “go there”. I do not believe in stars or any other silly thing like that. Telling me a place as two, three, or four stars does not make me want to eat there. Telling me that I should “go there” does. So go, indulge, throw your diet to the wind and have a wonderful evening.

*And lastly, since I can safely assume my sister is reading this, Yes I went to dinner with him, we can talk about it later. Love you.

Goals Accomplished:
1) I have never been to a nice restaurant in NYC or gone out with an ex of mine to dinner
2) I think I missed the mark on this one, but if I want to grasp at straws I was nervous to go out with my ex
3) I like duck more than I thought, this restaurant is fantastic, and oh yeah - my ex is pretty cool (consider this last one a rediscovery)

When You Turn 26 You Become 'Sir'

What: Frisbee
Where: Central Park
Who: Me, a few of my friends, a few strangers

Even though I have lived in New York twice before for 3 months at a time over the summers between college I had never been to Central Park. One time I had tried to find this small, elusive park, but when I reached the East 60’s I followed signs that said “Park”, thinking it would lead me to the landmark, and instead found several, partially empty, parking garages.

Now that I live a mere six blocks from the park, I figured there would be no way I could miss it. On a particularly warm Friday after work a few friends and I decided to play Frisbee in the park.

They told me to meet them at “Sheep’s Meadow.” Finding the park was a breeze since I realized it is across from the Apple store I used to frequent when I was dating my ex. However, finding Sheep’s Meadow without the aid of a Smartphone proved more difficult. But after stumbling through a few green pastures that turned out to be nothing more than playgrounds for squirrels I found the meadow.

Much to our dismay it was still closed for the season. But being the BAMF’s that we are (Google BAMF+Dane Cook if there is any confusion with the term), we decided to hop the fence and pass the Frisbee.

It only took 30 minutes to get kicked out the first time, but an hour and a half to get kicked out the second.

This little piece of land in the middle of the city is an oasis all its own. It takes you out of the city, slows everything down, and makes nature seem real again. The city skyline in the background reminds you that you are still close to the hustle bustle, but far enough away not to care.

I was amazed at how few people were in the park. For a city with a population creeping up to 9 million, I did not understand where they all were. Granted I had not been to this park before, but now I couldn’t understand why.

We made a few friends and tossed with them. These friends did not come from the Bramble, which I am told to steer clear of if I value my belongings and my innocence. But they definitely had interesting personalities. The two were young hipsters that approached us from the other side of the meadow.

"Sir?" asked the girl to my roommate (a mere 26 years old). "Can we play with you?"

As I almost doubled over in laughter, he obliged them to join our group.

He later told me he has never felt older than that moment. I found it refreshing to be referred to with wisdom.

This time was cardio in the park, next time a picinic...with wine.

--

Goals Accomplished:

1) I have never been to Central Park

2) Making friends with strangers is always uneasy for me

3) Found an oasis in the city...and to never enter into the Bramble

“Flashing lights, lights, lights”

What: Fashion Week Art Exhibit Opening
Where: Soho
Who: Me, my date, and dozens of people dying to be photographed for page six...and my date's mom

Fashion week had always been a concept to me until last night. The thought of the glitz and glamour is great, but the idea of mingling with people who care about it bores me. A guy that I had gone on one date with invited me to what he called ‘an art opening’ that night. Coming from my marketing firm in Soho I warned that I was in a green polo and jeans, to which I was told that it would be fine (lies).

Before now the only art openings I had been to were in Connecticut and usually consisted of several platters of cheese, a few bottles of wine, and people generations older than myself talking about art in ‘their day’. It was low key, quiet, and sometimes eerily reminiscent of a funeral.

Walking closer and closer to the destination I could see a flurry of lights and people. There was a red carpet, paparazzi, and several people with lists. I continued past this spectacle in the assumption/hope that I had the wrong address. The next few buildings were empty so I doubled back and sidled up to the velvet rope watching as one man with a list took the names of the people ahead of me and let them in.

He then turned to me.
“Can I help you?” he asked appeared to look my clothes up and down.
I knew I was dressed too casual for such an event.
“Umm yeah, my name is Greg *******,” I said.
“Hmm, Greg, Greg Greg,” he said running his finger down the list. “I don’t see you on here.”
“Oh, umm I’m Mike ******’s plus one,” I said lacking any confidence.
“Oh Mike?” a woman standing behind the man chimed in. “He said you would be coming, come in.”

Shocked that these people knew who my date was I walked hesitantly in waiting to see if they were going to kick me back out again; a cruel trick that maybe they were playing on someone who appeared out of place. I walked past the red carpet, but not on it. While part of me wished they wanted to photograph me, I had a strong inkling that they were waiting for more recognizable people. Past the carpet was a dark hallway, and while you could see a light at the end (cliché, but true) you could not see inside the tunnel. I bumped into at least three people inside this space, whether they were one of the waiters or one of the celebrities, I have no idea, but preferably the latter.

Once inside I really understood just how big of an event I was attending. There were dozens of waiters with champagne, water, and other various drinks. All of the waiters were models and I even recognized one of them from an old print ad. I did not realize that modeling involved so much tray carrying. Camera crews surrounded certain individuals to get their perspective on the art.

Unsure what to do with myself I stood at the entrance until Mike spotted me and came over.
“I’m so sorry, I had no idea it was going to be like this. I thought it was just a regular art opening. I forgot it was fashion week”
“No worries,” I said.
We were the only two in the room not in black, he was in red and I was in green. Together we were a Christmas tree awkwardly on display in the middle of a funeral where the casket should be.

The art was modern and combined photographs with spray painted figures on buildings. One artist had combined his photographing ability with another artists spray painting abilities. It was interesting and new. Not being wildly versed in art I could not tell you much about it, other than I enjoyed viewing it. And that there were even a few pieces I would put in my home (if one day I own one). I got to meet one of the artists (there were two). He was an older gentleman who was kind and warm, it seemed odd in the given environment.

It appeared that most guests were just looking around to be looked at. They wanted to see if there was anyone important in their midst, and more importantly, if they were being stared at. A slew of celebrities came through. I had imagined it more exciting to see them and I kind of wish it was. In recent years I have come to view them as just people who work a job, generally prettier people, but people nonetheless. Most of the other guests hovered around each celebrity like dogs plotting to pounce on a bone.

I felt slightly out of place. It seemed that I should care more about my appearance, or who was near me. Mike, having grown up in Manhattan, did not seem phased by the people who cared about these things, nor did he care about them himself. A fact that was proven when he declared his feet hurt and took off his shoes (I joined him to make him feel more comfortable). It was humorous to see people stare at us trying to understand what would compel two young men to go shoeless in Christmas attire at a fashion week art opening.

We stayed for about two hours viewing the art and seeing the various celebrities get hounded for photographs, pictures, and interviews. For the first time I can say I am glad that no one knew who I was. After leaving he surprised me by taking me to dinner…with his mother…shoot me.

Goals Accomplished:
1) Fashion week was definitely new to me
2) I was nowhere near comfortable most of the time
3) Learned that fashion industry and celebrity is not for me

The New Blog

Within a few months everything has become new again. After a mere twenty-two years of aging I did not understand how new life could become.

New degree.
New city.
New apartment.
New roommates.
New job.
New me.

It is exhilarating and frightening all at the same time. And in a moment of desperation, a moment of feeling completely and utterly lost in this huge world without a clear direction towards my goals I have decided to try as many new things as I can. I am taking myself out of my comfort zone and forcing myself into new, and most likely uncomfortable situations, to prove to myself that I can, and hopefully will find my way.

My three goals for each experience:

1) Have it be something new
2) Get out of my comfort zone
3) Learn from it

After a brief stint this summer in Denmark I have moved back to New York to rediscover the city and myself. (The cynical side of my personality wants to walk into traffic for phrasing it that way...)