Showing posts with label Fame Kills. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fame Kills. Show all posts

Saturday, January 18, 2014

Fame, Priorities and Little White Lines

(Ooh White Lines) Vision dreams of passion 
(Blowin’ through my mind)


Priorities - c/o Tyler Shields


Lines. Do you do or say things that you might mean instead of doing or saying them? I always wondered that. It's better to do what you'll say you do and be honest about things. But that rarely happens so I think it's almost better when people do not and then they have the aftermath of their consequences do deal with. I've certainly been there and most of you have too. Anyhoo, you can actually lie about what you're gonna do or say but you can't actually lie after you do it. It's better just to do it. Don't you think? 

It's always nice to think you inspire someone. It's a surprise when you actually do. It's more of a surprise when they think to credit their source. I love to mention people, not to push my own agenda so much, but so others will enjoy what they do. But I'm digressing. 

Well I was fascinated by an image last year and you can find it here and shared an image of mine that accompanied an excerpt from the novel The Inauthentic Life/Perspectives. My image was nothing impressive but I was excited by the line in his composition and linked back thinking that perhaps he'd respond. [**he never responds but people do track back occasionally] Needless to say a year later I'm fascinated by an idea from the same artist... the concept of Lines. And I'm wondering after seeing these new compositions... Did he enjoy my excerpt? I'd like to hope so. It looks like he may have the grasp of a point which others so very meticulously missed when reading it. If he had read it, I'm extremely humbled. If not: Cheers, doll! I'm still using & crediting the images anyway because I think they capture the spirit & true essence of the excerpt. 

Enjoy! Kisses, m.


Fame Kills - c/o Tyler Shields


Lines

Arrogance isn’t a pretty shade of lipstick. Take it off.” This is what he says to me. So I’m taking it off. I’ve excused myself to the bathroom and actually wiping this color off along with my attitude.

He’s been here for ten minutes I can’t tell what he wants exactly, but he always wants something. It’s never that deep.

While he flips through a copy of Italian Vogue he becomes a bit nostalgic and is telling me about his trip to Italy if you can call twenty-four hours of binge drinking, drugs and anonymous whores a trip. Anyway he says that there’s this mosque that I have to see… “Oh but Jemma, it’s best if you do a line first.”

This morning I woke up promptly at 7:15 am to the sounds of Spandau Ballet dancing in my head before the alarm went off. Of course it’s early… Fred said to be ready to jump into character by 11:15 am. That’s the time for my callback. It’s some flat around the corner on the fourth floor at a leased out building. Of all places, it’s probably the nicest meeting I’ve taken in a while. 

And I’ve spent this morning listening to 80s music for my 80s book. This is me calling it ‘getting into character’ when it's not really like that at all. But what else is it like? It’s all for this 80s script that my agent sent over in a flash three weeks ago along with the book. A book I haven’t read until now. I know enough dialogue to pose for the audition, but the director saw my tape and wants to meet me. I’m completely wrong for the part, but they keep telling me otherwise. Tell me how does a pasty brunette play a sun-tanned blonde? So I keep telling myself that the book is better at identifying motivation than the script. Through reading it I will understand the how’s and why’s of this person and looking in the mirror means nothing about becoming her. This is how I get into character.

Why do they make movies about books? Because people are too lazy, of course I mean too busy, to read. It’s like a public service for those who aren’t able to find the time to read.

As I wipe off the lipstick and reach into the medicine cabinet to get his coke I decide that I’m dumping it down the drain. Down, down, down while the water runs. I hum a line of Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire while stopping to fix my eyes. He can wait. If this is why he really came, then there’s no reason to come back again.

“So what are you doing here?” I ask him while re-emerging with a smile.

“Jemma, you look really good, have you gotten some sun?” Always changing the subject. And of course back to where we started.

It is always an awkward conversation between awkward people who haven’t seen each other in six months. He’s thinking that I’m thinking we’re still sleeping together. I slept alone last night.

It all started when he came in. The moment when I answered the door and almost didn’t let him in. Hello’s that are forced out with an imaginary gun to the back of your head. Hugs that might feel less uncomfortable if it were a stranger. Then there’s a pause. That kind you make only for the Witnesses handing out flyers. You never let them in. No matter what. But I let him in. Smiling and laughing a cracked out grin that smells of tequila and gin at 10am with his awkward greeting.

It’s not that his story about Italian mosques wasn’t fascinating. But I find it necessary to try cutting through the red tape of the last fifteen minutes and get to the point before he starts telling me about the viewing of street art in Paris subways during the middle of April.
“Adrian to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
 “What?” He looks at me with irritation.
“Darling what do you want?”
“My gram.”
“It’s been six months… it’s gone.” Is he hard up? No one carries anything like that. He couldn’t have possibly come for a gram let alone remembered he left it.
“Wow Jemma, that script looks massive. Big part? Little part?” The sidestep to avoid.
“It’s a part.”

And he stops to look around before telling me about driving on Sunset last night. Telling me that there’s a faded line in the middle of the lane that causes him to feel like he has to make a choice. I tell him that’s not Sunset and that he should have just switched lanes. It sounds more like there’s another story I haven’t heard. I stop to wonder how Adrian has a car. But he interrupts me before that becomes an inquiry.

“Jemma, can I? He waves his hands up at me while pointing towards the sink.

 I nod and he heads into the newly painted kitchenette. His voice raises slightly as he rolls up the sleeves on his button-down brilliance before starting to wash his hands. “Don’t worry about the gram I have more. You don’t need? Cause I can…” With a flick of the wrist and the perfect timed punch line of a comedian he produces a small object.

“That’s quite alright Adrian.” Away it goes. Poof. Thin air.

The whole time he’s watching me try to cover my pages and hide the book. Washing and washing longer than is humanly necessary he asks me to tell him about the script and my basis for portrayal. I know he doesn’t care, but I start talking.

It isn’t long before I realized I’ve given him too much and it sounds like bragging. I wasn’t but it doesn’t matter. It’s enough.

Arrogance isn’t a pretty shade of lipstick. Even on you Jemma. Take it off.

This is where we are now.

Lines are like the things that people might say or do only they don’t but you might understand why they might say or do them.

On page 26 my character is having an existential crisis. “Who am I?” she cries in the middle of it all. Between the black characters in front of the white background she can not find herself. Today I know who I am. Arrogant and wearing the wrong shade of lipstick. At least I know it’s not me and that it’s really the bleach blonde tanned bimbo trying to find herself in between the pages while listening to really bad music.

“Have you seen Alex?”
“Alex? Isn’t he up in San Francisco? You must see him more than me.”
“No. He’s here in town. We’re supposed to catch up. I just thought…”
“Adrian. How long have you been here?”
“15 minutes.”
“It’s been more like 25, but I meant in town. How long?”
“I don’t know. How long have you been a superficial stuck-up starlet faking tans with lines to read?” He smiles and laughs. This is the part where I’m supposed to have a sense of humor and smile.  But I just can’t today.

I put my hands through my hair with a feeling of overwhelming frustration. There’s got to be a point to his damage, I just can’t figure it out. I think I’m going to be late and there are still 15 pages left.  I want to get angry and scream at him when he does this. I want to scream aloud and tell him that I may be a superficial starlet but at least I’m really being me. I want to scream and tell him that he’s a poor man’s shadow, excuse for someone who used to be real, someone who is faking their way through everything. But I don’t. Cause I wouldn’t mean it.

“You don’t mind?” He looks at me with his eyes bugged out and waves a pocket mirror. Adrian is always prepared in a crisis. I wonder what he’d do in the event of a water landing. Take it chilled or on the rocks?

I just shake my head. He knows I don’t care. And I’m supposed to be the arrogant one.

He does lines, like I learn them. With the exception that sometimes his escapades land him in the bath room of a cherry colored bar doing lines of blow off a naked stripper’s bare breasts whereas my performance might land me a part in the next big picture from the next big hot-shot director.

 “Let’s do lines together!” He announces. To this I can smile and giggle.

He does a line. I read a line. He does a line. I read a line. Then another. And another. Until I decide… “I can’t do this.”

“Come on, Jemma. What’s wrong? Want something? It’ll make you feel better. Loosen you up.”
“I’m good. I just can’t. Not now. I have to go to this callback and I think I’m going to be late.”
“Cattle callback?”
I laugh and tell him, “Why yes, with other superficial stuck-up starlets whose teeth and mouths are too wide.”
”Why? What? When?”
“In like 20 minutes.”
“Oh fuck. Let me call the driver. I can have you there in 10.”
“It’s only just around the corner. You can come if you want.”

Adrian is too pretentious sometimes. All morning he’s been riding around in a town car with a driver called Chaz calling it a stretch. The driver barely speaks English and prefers to call us for directions instead of talking or turning around. Adrian has already taken out his mirror to offer the driver a line after telling him about it on the phone. I’m more surprised when the guy doesn’t take it. I keep reading lines. I must look pissed. He won’t make eye contact and now he’s taking out that small object again. Shit. We’re going to pass the place. I’m getting out even though the car is still moving.

On page 27 my character has a breakthrough moment. A door opens and she walks through it. This is the scene the director wants me to read. I keep thinking back to Spandau Ballet and how the only reason this is a movie is because someone wrote a book. Playing my part as a public servant. Helping make the population literate.

This is ‘The Director’ a million girls want to work with and will accommodate in anyway. I should have done the line. But I didn’t. I understand why I said no and may have wanted to. ‘The Director’ likes my face. He told my agent this. This man that a million girls want to work with likes my face. I want him to like my acting. Take me seriously for this part. Because this is why I’m here. Instead my face got me here.

All of this is me ‘getting into character’ while I’m trying to remember my lines. Remembering those things that I might say or do only don’t so that they might understand why they are said or done.



We’re in a stretch. Although it isn’t. This is what they call a stretch in the city; here it’s a town car. It’s almost 11:00 and the driver keeps calling my cell for directions.  I’ve made this arrangement with the driver and offered him something for the road.  He declines. Jemma looks pissed, but I can’t help that she’s in a bad mood today. I offered her some candy. It’s too bad she doesn’t want to play. She’s so much more fun when she falls in the water. Maybe she will after this cattle audition for mindless blonde bimbos with superficial tans and weekend Daddy’s to pay their bills. Jemma is too good for this. I wonder if she still thinks we are sleeping together. I’m thinking of taking another hit as she opens the door. The stretch hasn’t quite stopped. This is what I’m thinking… I’m going to call Alex again.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Inspiration: 15 minutes and Style Icon Tyler Shields take on Fame

Apparently drugs kill and so does fame...  I always thought FEAR was the worst four letter word drug out there but for the most part I stand corrected...

Fame Kills c/o tylershields.com




"Everyone will be famous for 15 minutes. " Andy Warhol 


When I think of Andy Warhol coining that statement, I don't think he had in mind the unbridled rampant narcissism of society that we deal with now. Everything in moderation. One of my own personal favorite style icons, photographer Tyler Shields, has for the moment it looks, reinvested himself in a series of Photographs that speak volumes without saying much. The latest comes with armed with one of the worst 4-letter words and a statement warning any of those who want to be famous instead of successful. His statement begins like this: 

"The real dirty side of glamour goes a little something like this:  Hollywood is a place that can take the most fragile and wonderful of creatures and turn them into ice cold metal. This is a land where the weak are eaten by the lying, ravenous monsters who prey in the night and suck the blood of the young. Hollywood is not a place. It’s a state of mind.. A mind which is controlled by a weapon of mass destruction. This weapon is the worst four letter word you will ever know: “FAME.” That evil word that destroys the beautiful and innocent. It can take the best part of you from yourself. Fame makes you believe your own hype you believe the lies the vampires tell you about yourself so they can feed off of  you. Fame is a cancer. It is a bacteria. It spreads through you and gets a hold of you. It is a drug that changes your DNA. It eats at you until there is nothing left and then spits you out broken, alone and a shell of the person you used to be." 


Read more here.

Shields statement makes me recall a story I once wrote. It had little to do with fame and more to do with our incessant urge to feed on the demoralization of others. But it feels appropriate. It was a favor to my little sister and I once explained the story and my personal opinion on the matter of FAME. Please take 15 minutes or less of your time to read Mr. Shields statement and if you would still love to read my story feel free to. They have little to do with each other but I'm always reminded of Andy Warhol when I hear about people wanting to be famous. 

I just want to be fabulous... So I am. How about you? Can I ask you: do you want to famous for 15 minutes or successful for the rest of your life? 

Enjoy 
Kisses, m.



15 Minutes
(12-12-09)

The spotlights hum as the stage is redressed and set for another day. The cameras have begun rolling capturing every behind the scene tidbit for later cut-away candid moments during the show. Everyone wants their 15 minutes. Fame. The world is practically split into two factions. There are those who possess the potential, the talent and the drive followed by those who do not, could not and should never. The plain Joes, outnumbering the gifted few, each wanting just a glimpse of star attention and craving a mere moment to shine in the spotlight. Longing for the love that needs not be returned. That selfish love. Despite the desire, most of the poor ordinary fools will never be noticed. Unable to walk out into the warm spotlight or have a voice that will be heard. And in all honesty, that’s the best thing for them. A simple life of anonymity. It is a better fate to be known for nothing than remembered for just anything.

Anyone can get on TV; it’s the reality of circumstances. Anybody who is somebody is on TV. Why be ordinary when you can be somebody? It’s better to be interesting than ordinary. Far more interesting if you’re sleeping with your half sister or cousin. Even better if your live in lover happens to be a man masquerading as a woman having an affair with your half-sister or cousin. The tendency to produce more obscure and deviant oddities is what sends the ratings through the roof. Before there was the invention of reality television, the channels were populated by the self help talk show gurus in the business of creating Real moments populated by Real people. All of which insisted they were in it to help the poor helpless victims sort out these derelictions and deviations. Your problems = Our help for the entertainment of the masses.

“Manny can make it happen!” screams the crowd wrangler as the audience fills into the seats. A recorded answer prompts via the speaker system surrounding the stage as the wrangler continues his voice cues to the audience.Manny can! “Who can?”Manny can! “CAN DO! NOT CAN DON’T!” Manny can! “Ladies and gentlemen Manny Creed…” The host misses his cue for the impromptu rehearsal. Our host, invisible to the audience, is the small man exit stage right screaming into a phone about today’s show. Today’s show isn’t about unwed mothers, disappearing genitalia, or the rapid mobilization of drugs into the streets by the Catholic Church; in fact it wasn’t going to be introduced until the taping went live. Even Manny was going in completely unrehearsed. Producers were longing for an opportunity to liven things up a little and a candid very Real show seemed like an unusual creature to tackle.

Manny Creed, the man behind the mission and possibly the man behind the next somebody’s 15 minutes of fame. The man who has become the pinnacle of the trash talk show wasn’t always the savior of the afternoon and late night television. Manny used to be a traveling salesman and son of a preacher man. By no means was his father a man of the cloth. Manny’s dad was one of the first revolutionaries to tap into evangelism turned profit. Monty Creed, a friend of fair weather blowing into town by town preying on the hopes of the few in trade for any monetary collections. Which from the looks of things, this rotten apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. Day after day the show produces segment after segment about the freak aberrations of human culture while gaining popularity among the masses in trade for profit accumulated by its advertisers. Manny promised hope to the undereducated, unimportant, and unheard minorities of the world.

It’s a funny thing to prey on the souls of the faceless victims. What’s the harm when you never have to face someone again? They get those 15 minutes, while you continue to profit and propel forward away from that moment. The moment when they’ll live forever and you’ll keep going. Not sort of the thing one would want to be remembered for. Yet there’s a million people waiting to air their dirty laundry, tell that hidden secret and confess to living a sham for the sake of celebrity. Not so harmless when you know the people on the other end of the stick willing to hang you out to further extend their moment of fame.

500th episode. Nearly in syndication, The Manny Creed Show is a household name and climbing. The producers want a special show. A show to top the other dogs in the game. Mareska Donnells, empowering women. Antivar James, tackling the tough issues. Hallahan, with his cheesy gimmicks. None of which had ever contemplated a show like this. Today the audience would be wowed and dazzled to the hidden intricacies of Manny’s life. Manny’s was livid. His childhood spoken from the mouth of his father, reuniting with the brother he never had growing up, praises and accolades from his beautiful wife of 12 years among other surprise guests. Producers had spent months in planning to hide the details until it was too late to do anything. Twenty-Five minutes before air a mere assistant places a convenient call that fuels a wave of emotional panic. However the show must go on and Manny finds composure within as he closes the cell phone. Reaching out he trades the phone for a microphone and proceeds out on stage. There would be no way of knowing what would ensue. One thing for sure, Manny knew this better than anyone else, the audience was going to love this.

Proceeding out on stage as the audience cheers the veteran on, the teleprompter cues Manny to deliver his warm remarks and thanks to those participating in the special event. Cameras pan around the room as Manny spins around shaking hands. The stage is set and the guests are already seated. There’s no way of knowing what hell on earth would be like but as he looks at the panel without breaking his fake, Manny understands that this is the day he will be held accountable for actions in this life. The Real. Farthest to the left sits his mistress, now a man, with the twin bastard children he fathered, followed by his wife and her best friend in flagrante as the audience cheers on, a man that could be his older fatter twin seated next to a common whore, and lastly on the far right sits his father Monty Creed, a homosexual preacher who molested thousands during his spiritual journey, now dying of AIDS. Truth. The scariest of realities.

Teleprompters push and prod the host to confront the demons before him.

The infidelity of his wife with her lesbian lover. Both professing love and openly sharing the sham of their 12 years together in marriage. The former Mrs. Creed screaming “I never loved you! You piece of scum! I’m here to make sure the public knows the truth about your lies.” She concludes her say by setting fire to a wedding album.

The affair with a transgendered man that resulted in the birth of twins. A six year union that he carefully hid from the public scrutiny now openly out on display for the masses. “Carefully I’ll choose my words, as I know the public frowns upon gay marriages. But please understand, my Manny isn’t gay. Our love produced these two beautiful children. I can’t change who I am and I’m glad Manny helped me see that.” Despite his loving former partner’s kind words the audience gasps and boos.

The older brother he never knew, sitting before him with a prostitute he married and continues to sell for sex. Funds which in turn help to profit a pornographic bookstore that has been shut down repeatedly for fronting as a brothel. “Yo, I can’t help it if I’m the straight one in the family. A man’s gotta stand up for what he believes. You know what, little bro, I love you, gay or whatever the hell, even if we didn’t grow up together you got my support. And if you ever wanna discount let me know, I can take care of that. The name of the place is the Hook-Up on the corner of Frank and Fitz. The number GL5-5555 for anyone else looking to HOOK UP.” Producers love this shameless self promotion as the switchboard lights up with calls.

Lastly sits the father who molested thousands of children years before contracting AIDS and bilking the everyday man out of millions all in the sake of Christianity. Accusations of BLAME and questions of WHY and HOW COULD YOU escape Manny. His father effortlessly gives an enigmatic response, “Son the Lord is a forgiving man, but at this time in your life he holds you responsible for your loved ones.” Manny looks away in pure disgust as the man of God, with his simple mind, now speaks in riddles.

Teleprompter reads: Time to take a few calls, but Manny isn’t reading it anymore. Manny isn’t saying anything now. Cut away fast. As the she-male and bastard twins look for comfort. Cut back to Manny. As his wife holds the burning wedding album while embracing another woman. Wait for it. His brother with the prostitute wife. Wait. Gay father dying of AIDS. Watch. The man offering hope, promises and bad advice crumbles. Face breaking. There it is. No non-refundable love. The true moment of clarity unraveling within 15 minutes. There it is your life is up on stage and confronting you. Life answers in a scream and then waits for a response. Can you handle it? Manny can’t. Can’t Do It. No he can’t.