Love You Bunches

I take classes at a place called Act Now!, which invites casting directors to teach exactly what it is they look for and expect during an audition. I took a class with commercial director Chris Game, whose body of work has included commercials for Swiffer and Shell. When waiting in the hallway a couple of weeks later for another class, Chris came up to me.

"I was going to call you," he said. Really? "I want you to audition for this film I'm casting, called DONNER'S PASS. It's for the lead." ... Deal!

I had already planned a trip that weekend to San Fransisco with my college soccer teammate Jen and her roommate Gwen, both of whom now live in San Diego. This means that I first read the script on my iPhone, sitting up in a sleeping bag between beds in the girls' hotel room. I returned to LA on Sunday, only to be just as distracted on Monday by the excitement of seeing my wonderful mother, who was invited by friends to visit San Clemente and took a day away to come and visit me. We all saw Bonnie Hunt, who gives you a free hot dog and root beer just for showing up! Anyway, I digress. Tuesday, the day before the audition, Whit and I drove out to San Clemente to see Mom's view of California. Poor Whit - I made him run through lines with me the entire drive there and back (which worked out well, since the longest of the three scenes I had to memorize included the girl behind the wheel). My only goal, being the first feature film I had auditioned for, was to get a callback.

And I got a callback.

The callback consisted of only one other girl and myself switching in and out of the audition room while several others auditioned for the remaining roles. In a week I found out that the other girl, Desiree (pronounced Des-uh-ree, not ray) won the role. Shucks.

Today I received a call from Chris Game - firstly, because he is currently acting in a play called Love Bites at the Elephant Stage Theatre (I happily bought tickets to see him perform this Sunday); secondly, because he wanted to tell me that he was very impressed with my overall audition for DONNER'S PASS. He said that Desiree had been under that director for the past five years, and that a large group of girls had auditioned for the role. To have been selected in the Top 2 was really saying something. Obviously, I emailed this news to Mom. And her response is really the only reason for this entire blog.

"YEAH! Good for you! That's a big deal that he'll keep you in mind for future stuff!

It was really nice of him to call and tell you that, huh? If the other girl really has been training for 5 years, I guess it's about time she got a role in a film.....

YOU SHOULD BE VERY PROUD OF YOURSELF! Give yourself a BIG hug. And then another BIGGER one for me.

Love you bunches!!!!!"

Now, wouldn't every daughter be so lucky to receive such a vibrant and caring letter from their mother? I couldn't be luckier. And, for the record, I love her bunches, too.

Miss California USA

I am a member of two internet sites that post casting calls for actors. Every day I receive an email looking for my type: Caucasian, early 20s, girl-next-door type, etc. I submit to most posts without giving too much notice as to what I'm submitting for, since they all pay. In January I got a call from Raquel Beezley, a representative of K2 Productions, who was in charge of the Miss California USA 2011 Pageant. Apparently I had submitted to the pageant sometime back on one of the websites, and apparently they wanted me to come in for an interview.

What the hell, I figured. My roommate, Kramer, as well as Whit were baffled.
You really want to do this? / No offense, but you're not exactly the type.
Oh, but I can pretend to be that type, I told them, smiling. This should be good.

The interview took place in - surprise, surprise - Beverly Hills in Suite 1012 in a building that - what a shocker - performed plastic surgery. I spoke with a man in his forties whose Blackberry constantly buzzed and who immediately decided I would not be a good candidate until we started talking. He'd very slowly and clearly make a reference to the contest and the rules that we'd have to follow, and I very quickly and sarcastically made a reference to the types of girls that he must meet every day in order to be speaking to me at such a lethargic pace. He laughed, and I pretty much owned the room for the remaining time we had together. He said I'd have to work on my arms and legs, but that the rest of me was fine. Golly, he sure knew how to get a lady. As I stood up, he did a double-take and told me that actually, I didn't have to work on the legs. BAM. Damn right I don't. I left the room knowing that he probably was checking out my butt as I went. Ugh, what an experience.

A week later I got an email that boasted at the top:

Congratulations Jamie on being accepted as a contestant for the

MISS CALIFORNIA USA® 2011 Pageant!

Oh, no.

During the interview I got to choose two cities (one major, one not-so-much) within Los Angeles as well as an LA landmark that I would represent. The email congratulated me on becoming Miss Hidden Hills, representing LA Live. Why? Because I work at ESPN Zone LA Live and because I randomly Google Mapped a cool LA city name, and that's what popped up. The only next thing I had to do was find sponsorship, fill out a bunch of forms -- and, oh, pay $1500 for entry costs. Um, jigga-what? Very soon I made the decision to not be Miss Hidden Hills. So sad to see you go, they replied.

A couple weeks later I got an email that boasted the headline:

Discount of $1,250.00 for returning contestants ends this Friday.
Save money for other expenses!

Nope, I'm good.

Flash forward to today. My mom emails me this link.
Well, as Whit told me, didn't I get out just in the nick of time.

This is just as funny to me as it is ridiculous for a number of reasons:
1) No one could understand why Miss Beverly Hills was able to claim such a title when, in fact, she was from Pasadena. (As I mentioned, every girl could choose any random city they want to represent, and if it's taken, she could choose another - like picking a username for your Bank of America account.) This selection process has been going on for a while, now... No one noticed?

2) I think the mayor might have forgotten that Americans have the freedom of religion and the freedom of speech. Oh, and

3) A decade ago, Miss Beverly Hills would be disowned for saying that she did think gay marriage was okay, not the opposite.

What can I say? People are nuts! Or, at least, LA people are nuts. I can't believe I willingly moved from Normalsville, Illinois, to this crazy town. (ASIDE: Here is where I was going to write "Planters" and link the word to a website with the phrase "Relax. Go nuts," their catch phrase, as a clever finish to this blog. Instead, I could only find the following Planters catch phrases:

"Instinctively good."
"There's a whole lotta snack goin' on."
Ummmm???

Sigh. So it goes.)

Going GREEK

After a friend from junior high wrote on my Facebook wall "Jamie!! holy crap! did i really just see you on today's episode of greek!??!" I figured I should check out this week's episode. I had worked on the set of GREEK five times from August through December of 2009, so I had completely forgotten when each episode aired! Lo and behold, I found... well... me. In several places! The episode begins in a classroom (see Picture 1), leads its way into a Valentine's Day Dance (Picture 2) and ends in the dorm hallway (Picture 3, in my jamie jammies!). Qué bueno.

Jury Duty, Moment 2

On Tuesday, 2/23 Whit dropped me off at the CJC and I made my way to Dept. 124 on the 13th floor at 10:30am. Both the security line and elevator ride weren't nearly as tedious as the time before, thank goodness. I read BORN TO RUN until the bailiff summoned us at 11:00am. Before Judge Champagne interviewed the final six selected jurors, she reported that we had an additional juror in the room by mistake. She took roll call and asked the remaining juror to raise his or her hand. A hand went up at the back of the room.
"Weren't you excused yesterday?" she asked.
"Well, yeah, but I wasn't sure."
"Please report back to the 11th floor, where you had first reported, to get your paperwork." He left to do so as she shook her head. Crazy.

The seventh juror didn't seem to have too many problems, except that his sister-in-law's kids were in trouble with the law and one had been deported back to Armenia.
"How do you know the sister-in-law?" the judge asked. "She's married to--"
"An alcoholic," he replied. The audience could not contain its laughter. "My wife's sister," he corrected. Crazy.

The eighth juror seemed normal enough as well: single, dating a girl who worked at Walgreen's, had a 16-month-old with her, worked baggage at LAX.
"Have you known anyone to be a victim of a crime," the judge asked, "or to be convicted of one?"
"My girlfriend was raped when she was eight years old," he replied, "and my cousin was convicted of murder." Crazy.

The ninth juror was a normal girl like me, who probably found being there a large inconvenience and had no choice but to stick it out as quietly and quickly as she could. Poor girl.

The tenth juror's friend's baby boy was beaten by the father, lacerating the baby's liver before he fled. Oh, and the juror himself was arrested for assault and tried in court. Apparently he was jumped in high school by a gang, got the better of one of the guys and beat him so badly that if the Sheriff hadn't showed up when he did, the juror would've probably killed him. Since becoming a public bus driver for the past 10 years, his only problem with the law was getting pulled over by a cop for speeding. Apparently the cop pulled behind the juror, who was riding his motorcycle at a legal speed, and pulled up so close while putting on his high beams that the juror sped up for his own safety. The cop pulled him over. When the cop even grabbed his taser during one point in their conversation, the juror decided to fight the ticket - after all, it would affect his job as a public driver.

During this point of the interview, a woman's cell phone went off, ringer and all. We waited through the moment when she could quickly silence the ringer and hide the phone in a purse for the vibrating voicemail, but instead a voice resonated through the phone's speaker and throughout the whole courtroom: "Giiiirrrrrl, answer yo' phooooooneee!!!" The judge turned to see a flash of pink running out of the courtroom, still in a panic to end the call as she shook her head. Not so much crazy, but my gosh.

The eleventh juror had friends six years prior that were picked up by a stranger. The stranger killed one, raped the other?, and was sentenced to prison. As far as the juror knew, even though he admitted he really wasn't sure, the stranger was out on parole, somewhere. Oh, and the juror's uncle molested a child and has been in prison since the juror was an infant. Crazy.

"Every year I've been called," the twelfth juror began, before continuing a little less audibly, "Every single year..." The majority of the audience heard and responded with a chuckle. Except me; I laughed a bit more audibly than perhaps I should have. What can I say? It was a funny comment. He was a husband and a helicopter pilot, transporting children to hospitals within the LA area. Oh, and his girlfriend in high school was molested in her youth. (Oh come on!)

At noon we were all dismissed. "Except," said the Judge, "Can the lady in pink please stay for a moment?" Oh, yeah, the cell phone interruption. I looked over to see Sleeping Beauty seat herself in the front pew. Ha! Crazy.

After the lunch break, the kindergarten teacher as well as the very persistently annoying, pessimistic juror were released. The kindergarten teacher was replaced by a juror whose wife was molested by a former employee. His brother was arrested for shoplifting and his sister was arrested for something else. The annoying guy's replacement was an Armenian man who spoke such little English that even the stenographer and translator had to ask him to repeat himself numerous times.

During this time, I had to deal with whom I'd like to call "Chatty Kathy." She sat right behind me in the pew and would make a comment on everything each juror said, hoping that she wouldn't be sitting up there next. "Stop saying because," she'd say, "just yes or no." Another juror was excused (I have no idea why) and a new juror took his place ("Phew," Chatty said, slouching back in the pew). He was an outreach educator for a museum (oh, good. excellent) and had two tickets (uh-oh) but overall didn't mind the court process (thank goodness) but minded the jury process (why would you say that?!) and his girlfriend was raped three years ago (well, looks like he's gone).

Juror 4 is excused - the man who had been raped in his childhood. A "nice Jewish boy," as Chatty put it, sat in his place. Out next was Juror 5, the incomprehensible Armenian man. His replacement was molested as a child at age 6 and had been through 8 years of "heavy duty" therapy. And she had two cops demand to enter her apartment on claims of violent crime when it was just her and her two cats. When they demanded to use her phone, she figured she wasn't a fan of the LAPD. Needless to say, she was excused immediately. New girl is a medical assistant, much like the normal Juror 3. Poor girl.

To Chatty's dismay, the nice Jewish boy was excused. His replacement couldn't be understood by anyone. He's a letter carrier for the USPS, and had no idea what his daughter did. Had he ever been in a courtroom? No, he said. Well, yes, he said: he was in court once before on ground of divorce because they claimed he did domestic violence. He said it was untrue. Had he ever been in a court room otherwise? No, he said. Well, yes, he said: for child support.

Even though it was only 4:00pm, the Judge sighed and decided to call it quits. Dismissed again, come back tomorrow.

Damn. At least I got $15 for it.

Jury Duty, Moment 1

"2010 is going to be a great year," I told myself as I unlocked the front door to my Los Angeles apartment. In my hand I grasped two weeks' worth of mail, which I began tearing into after dropping my suitcase on the living room carpet. "2009 wasn't fun for anyone, really -- but 2010: this is the year of opportunity!" And I was right. The first letter I opened was a professional but personal invitation to something I had never before dreamed that I would do, especially at my age. Stamped and confirmed by the Los Angeles Supreme Court, I now had the opportunity to serve Jury Duty.

Ugh. There's never really a good time to be a juror, especially when you are living and working in Los Angeles. After working late Sunday night, I did not realize until mid-afternoon Monday that I needed to have been at the Courthouse by 9:30am. (Thank goodness there aren't any legal ramifications or anything! Oh, wait, yes there are...) After embarrassingly phoning in to report my absence, my call date was pushed two weeks -- to today. I'm not compensated through my part-time waitress job; I'm only paid $15 a day, not including today, and I have to wait to get the check in the mail. To think that I had to decline an audition this morning for a potential $450 day spot. Fantastic.

Luckily, my boyfriend Whit offered to drive and drop me off at the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center (plugging that title into my iPhone map was fun). Otherwise, I would've had to park at the Walt Disney Concert Hall, validate, take a bus near the CSFCJC and then walk the rest of the way. In the elevator on the way up to the 11th floor, after mentioning to a nearby lady that she and I had the same pair of black non-slip non-laced Sketcher shoes, the lady responded, "Oh, they're perfect for my 70-year-old self. And let me tell you, after taking the subway here, it was a long walk after!" I had to stifle my surprised cough as I watched her hobble next to me, gripping her cane for support. As Whit's Southern mother would say, bless her heart!

For those who don't live within the City of Angels' walls, just know that our Court has the largest caseload in the country. They pride themselves on it. And the first thing they want every potential juror to do first is walk through a security line, not all that different from what you would stand through before boarding your Southwest flight. This time, however, half the people are not expecting to be scanned, and half of those people have to sadly watch as their nail clippers and sewing needles are thrown into a trash can, never to be seen again. Thank goodness I didn't wear any bobby pins with my french braid this morning; I mean, who knows?

A not-so-quick, jam-packed elevator ride up was next on the List of Things That Can Drive You Crazy At 9am. Other than the 11th floor, apparently jurors were also called to the 5th, 7th and 9th floors as well. And fingers crossed that an unassuming juror would not press the "Up" button in haste as our doors were closing - unless we all wanted to hear Vicki from I, ROBOT declare "Go. Ing. Up." a thousand times over as the doors flutter and we all make our way nowhere.

I checked in at the front desk at 9:30am, which was two hours later than I would have needed to arrive if I didn't complete the 2-hour dated orientation video over the weekend. Boy, was that online experience a blast. I had to watch a series of 12.3 minute videos of random judges reading forced jokes from a teleprompter (or, judging [ha!] from the time period, from huge cue cards). Then I'd have to answer 5-10 questions about what I was supposed to have watched when instead I was heating up some Easy Mac. Even if I got the answer wrong, I could move on in the orientation process. Wonderful checking system they have there.

I found a cozy space adjacent to the big assembly room and scrunched myself in the corner. An hour later, at 10:30am, The Calling Of The Names began. Respond only with a "Here" or "Yes," please. Speak up. Sorry if we mispronounce your name. Antonia Sumuhad. Andres Gonzales. David Ready. (This last name perked my ears up, since David Ready is also a producer with Lorenzo Di Bonaventura's company, which did the TRANSFORMERS films, among other things. I emailed an assistant that works for Di Bonaventura, who said David was definitely still in the office. Shucks.) 30 names called, and none of them mine. Breathe Out, Take 1.

11:00am approaches quickly, as I'm nose deep in Christopher McDougall's book BORN TO RUN. If you're a runner, read it. If you used to be, read it. If you like being barefoot, read it. Troy Conrad. Tu Trong. Manu Shock Potrizikan. Roy Lee. Roy Lee? Is Roy Lee not here? Jamie - (Enter quickly racing heart) - Galvin. Phew. 30 names up, 30 names down. Breathe Out, Take 2.

11:15am: Robert Coz, Holly Biando ("Yeah," she muttered.) Jack Black ("Here," she said.) Out of the 9 of us in that little adjacent cozy, only two other people remained: a Mexican woman and an Asian guy in glasses with faded white off-brand sneaks. Oh, whoops, actually there were three: an African-American woman coughed herself awake, hiding under her heavy jacket. Plus me. Breathe Out, Take 3.

11:41am, and I've flown through 90 pages of how a 70-year-old man can finish 100-mile races in nothing but sandals and a long blouse, tied at the waste. Davie Kwan. "Here," the Asian guy said. Erica Vialba. "Yes," the Mexican woman said. Robert James. Ruth Castillo. Did she say Captain Joe? What? Donny McDonald. Kin Maak. A long pause, followed by: That's all. It's just Sleeping Beauty and me. Breathe Out, Take 4.

The announcer lady announced that the last group may break for lunch and return at 1:30pm. As they made their way to the exit and the rest of us waited for further instructions, an African American man spotted Sleeping Beauty and shook his head, chuckling and calling her lucky: she could come back after lunch and just sit around until dismissed, but he had to come back from lunch and, well, stay. As he left, Sleeping Beauty told me that she was called in last year and never had to report for duty. She didn't plan on being called in this time, either. "It's a political thing," she said, smiling, "If you don't go in, you'll suffer as long as they want you to." We wait for our lunch break dismissal, until they unexpectedly piped over the speakers to make one last call.

Jacquelin Kelly. "Here," Sleeping Beauty said with a sigh. Well, that was quick.

Stephanie Chaw. Rafael Soriano. Fung Lu. Jamie Petitto. $#!+. "Here."

Fine. Report to Dept. 124, 13th floor, at 1:30pm. Go eat lunch now, Slaves. I headed to Starbucks and ate a chicken wrap and Protein Power Plate packed with grapes, apple slices, a hard-boiled egg and tiny bagel with beurre d'arachides.* I headed back in the beautiful sunshine to place myself amongst countless others in the chilly hallway on the 13th floor in booth slabs that made me and my laptop slip and slide like water on wax paper.

"Are you ready?" I looked up to find Sleeping Beauty, aka Jacquelin Kelly, smiling at me.
I yawned. "Almost. You had to do this last year?" She nodded. "I postponed for months and months. But to avoid jury duty you have to be dead, and if so you have to bring your death certificate." Whit's really good at Photoshop... I mean, maybe...

As I pondered my pseudo death, I heard someone softly say my name. Maybe they were looking for whats-her-name, Jamie Galvin? "Jamie!" I turned to see Jordan Ballard, a friend and former colleague from my stressful days at International Creative Management. Well, ain't that a small world? I hadn't seen him for a year! Anyway.

The bailiff calls Dept. 124 into the courtroom, about 50 people in all. All were excused for a half-hour but those who thought jury duty would cause financial hardship. Jacquelin came by my side a few minutes later and told me that she tried to get out of it by mentioning a previous surgery accompanied with a doctor's note. Didn't work. Poor Jackie.

We head back into the courtroom, and after the longest introductory speech ever - including that the judge herself had gotten a jury notice, that it happens to the best of us, that the court was not asking us to join the Peace Core or go into battle, but merely to look at the facts, at evidence - 12 jurors were called to their place. The reason for 50 potential jurors is that at least 20 can be excused from the courtroom for one reason or another; the Court was just playing it safe. The case involved a man who had 22 counts of treating children the way they shouldn't be treated. Out of the first six jurors, one had been molested as a child, another was a fourth grade teacher and thus a protector of children... and the last guy, wow: He worked for EDD until 2002, when he left due to physical and mental reasons, as he puts it. He immediately told the judge that he couldn't be on the panel, since there were child cases that upset him on the job. She asked, rhetorically, if he made objective choices for EDD to decide whether or not someone was eligible for unemployment, regardless of his sympathy for them. He begrudgingly said yes. She asked if he knew any police officers. Three, his nephews. She asked if he automatically would give credit to a police officer's testimony over that of any other person on the stand. He very hastily said yes, yes. She finally responded, "You really are trying to get out of this, aren't you?" Silence.

And then the judge dismissed us all at 5:00pm with the order to return at 10:30am the next day -- which is, in fact, tomorrow.

To Be Continued.

* Peanut Butter