There's nothing wrong with stretching the truth. We stretch taffy, and that just makes it more delicious.But then there’s just a flat-out cover-up. My agent’s assistant called me Friday about a Saturday audition. She didn’t know who the client was, only that it was for “Purple Casting,” and I needed to dress nice casual.
The next day I arrived at a plain, white-walled space off of La Brea. And when I asked the three people sitting behind the sign-in table what this audition was for, they wouldn’t tell me. All I eventually found out was that this was for a print ad.
So I have nothing to worry about, right? Besides the fact that the audition took place on a Saturday, when normally this entire town shuts down for the weekend. And that it was held in a nondescript location. Or that the casting company chose a color to conceal their identity, like Michael Madsen’s character in Reservoir Dogs before he cut that cop’s ear off.
What the hell kind of nefarious operation have I gotten myself involved with? The Catholic Church? BP? The New England Patriots?
I’ll take any and all suggestions.
*Side note: babysitting over the weekend went off with few hitches. I did have to change a diaper, but I also learned an important lesson about getting my nephew to stop crying: just smack his sister on the butt and he’ll laugh like hell. It's fool-proof, and kills two birds.
