I get the callback for the “rock star groupie” spot while at my mom’s house, having planned on spending the day in pajamas and drinking coffee until my blood vessels exploded. Surprisingly enough, the clothes I had been wearing for the last three days included a pair of recently hand-demolished jeans and a studded belt. I am so punk rock; I don’t even know how punk rock I am. The fact that they could use a good trip through the wash only adds to the authenticity of my purported groupie accessibility. The only thing I’m missing is a genuine drug habit and an incurable STD. Let’s hope I book this job.
When I enter the holding cell casting studio, I soak up my competition: a well-balanced combination of hookers with big boobs and cool chicks in boots. The director is definitely envisioning this going one way or another. Tommy Lee vs. Coldplay. Ridiculous and whoreish vs. Approachable in an I-am-famous-and-fabulous sort of way. The boys are tattooed, raven haired, skinny jeaned prepubescents that I would have had a crush on when I was thirteen, hormonal, and irrational. Back then I’d have gladly tattooed their names on my non-existent chest. “Brand me! Brand me, please!” I’d beg while my black polished fingernails clawed at their wallet chains.
A girl with fiery red hair walks in wearing tights and shiny blue Superwoman hot pants. I can see the half moon of her butt cheeks. She looks like Carrot Top’s rebellious and wayward sister. Across from me is another girl: one of the “hookers with big boobs” casting choices. In fact, she has the biggest boobs out of all of us. Each one is nearly the size of my head, and, for the record, I have a very large head. Her chest spills out of her white top; more boob coming out than staying in. What a treat!
Big Boobs gets up when her name is called and I am subjected to the closest I have ever come to full frontal nudity. The part of her underwear that wasn’t see-through was neon green. Above the green was a full display of just how much she shaved or didn’t shave – emphasis on the didn’t shave. It felt like that scene in Babel, except she wasn’t Asian and the act wasn’t on purpose.
Fortunately for me, the “body guard” from my initial casting didn’t make the cut. The ones that did passed the muster were huge. And when I say huge I mean gigantic, muscular, beastly things. I watched the tallest man I’ve ever seen bend over to sign in and then raise his four foot long torso, nearly hitting the ceiling. He had to stoop over to make it through the doorway. I tried not to stare as he made his way into a seat in the corner. His face was gentle from years of trying to be less imposing than his physical presence. The Green Mile comes to mind. The casting director addresses him by first and last name…last name being “Moore.” I look around to see if anyone else thinks this is ironic but alas, I am alone in my pursuit of the ridiculous.
His competition is smaller but fierce. I find “Mr. Big Man’s” headshot lying around. After being highly engaged by his front shot – Mr. BM superimposed in front of a white Mercedes – I decide to do some further investigating on this fascinating human. His resume is indeed impressive. Apparently, I might have better luck in this town as a giant African American male with a fancy nickname. He has appeared in such films as G-Mentality and Lovesong. And in television he has done quite well starring as Snoop Dog’s personal security for multiple seasons. If he was actually here I could bro-down about the time I threw rocks at Snoop’s apartment window back in ’94. Where were you then, Mr. Big Man?
This process is always so entertaining to me, especially when the roles are so character driven. You look around and you realize that everyone’s just trying to make it. Me, Mr. Big Man, Mr. Moore, Big Boobs. All of us are here, doing the same thing. We’re just different animals in this ridiculous circus called showbiz.