Does a Prison ID Count?

It's been a while since I've posted on this blog. I almost forgot I had it! Untill the repeated ring of "recession" in the news and my own new-found poverty extremes reminded me of something...my adventures in cheapness must continue in blog form!

And boy do they continue...only better! I now live in Los Angeles. It's a new, shiny city with all new quirks and glitches. There are strange and grimy, and sometimes beautiful adventures around every turn. Plus, I get to meet some of the weirdest people in the world. No joke.

I've been here 3 months and have yet to find a job. It's not my fault. The economy is in shambles. It doesn't matter that I can type 95 words a minute (is this even possible?) or have a perfect score on the Miscrosoft Word 2003 Prove It! (TM) Test. These days, you can't even sleep your way to an entry-level position with long hours, shitty pay, and no benefits.

Which brings me to the job that you CAN get. Extra work. Anybody can get this job. You don't have to be sane. You don't have to be able to carry a conversation. The only job requirement is to look "general" while out of focus. (Spoiler alert: Anybody can do this!)

The extras fall into two basic categories:

1. Wannabe actors that can't get a job.
2. Ex-cons, degenerates, and the mentally deranged.

I don't want to be an actor, so I guess I fall into Group Two!

Now, actors may be annoying, and bottom of the barrel, delusional wannabe actors are often even more annoying, depending on your taste. Being a little wierd and aggravating is one thing. They talk about new-age religion, goal-setting, and positive thinking. There are numerous references to "The Secret." But really, they're not going to murder you in your sleep.

But who will murder you in your sleep?

There is something lower and grimier than extra work. Something that makes extra work look like a luxurious cruise on an ocean-liner...in comparison to say...drowning. If you are looking for somebody to: perform a cheap assassination, get you some meth, stalk you, or _____ (fill in blank), there is only one place to go...

The exhaust pipe of Hollywood: AUDIENCE WORK.

You know when you watch a TV show and everyone seems to be having such a great time? Those people are the extra-super-duper-unemployed of the world, working for $8 cash an hour and a chance to make some good dope contacts.

After being rejected at the Starbucks Job Fair (too qualified?) and applying for 100+ jobs without success, I now find myself being an expert of the audience work world.

There are many deprivations. Denial of pee breaks. Lack of food and water. Sore hands from clapping. Mornings waiting in the hot sun.

But there are also tricks of the trade. I tried using a book for a sun shield. The glue on the spine melted, but I saved myself from a nasty burn. When water was denied, I lapped it up from the sink. Knowing that every show is overbooked, I arrive early to wait without pay and make sure I get in.

By far the biggest hazard is the other people. I have learned not to talk to anyone. All questions are answered with "I don't know." Any indirect questions are returned with a look of boredom and disinterest. If someone is staring at you, refuse to make eye contact. If they are sitting next to you and staring at you, turn your body and give them the back of your head. Don't be fooled by anybody who strikes up a conversation and seems normal. Remember, there are only 2 categories, both of them disasterous! And there are no exceptions! If someone seems normal, you just haven't talked to them long enough. But make no mistake, extras never stop talking. Never.

One day I found myself in an I-20 t-shirt in the audience of the game show Bingo America. If one of the contestants won using our #, we got $25.00. (These days, that is a exciting offer! I no longer go to bars, buy dinner out, engage in the purchase of "miscellaneous items." I have my eye on the rent. Period. $25.00 used to be a few drinks after work. Now it's a week's food budget.)

While we stood in line to go inside Bingo America, we were told that in order to be paid, we would have to possess a valid ID- drivers license, what have you. The man behind me yelled out with no sense of irony or embarassment, "Prison ID okay?"

It was and it wasn't. Prison acceptable as proof of identification, yes. Prison acceptable as general mode of operation and behavior? Even Bingo America has its limits.

During the first show, the gentleman in question, who I'll call G-46, became convinced that G-44 was sent by the devil to kill him. He went on a tirade of insults designed to spur G-44 to stand up and fight him. Example: "You're pathetic. What have you ever done in your life? Nothing." How does he know all this? G-44, unfortunately, was unable to follow the wandering monologue and understand what was happening. I-19 was offended by all the swearing and prayed to Jesus for assistance. G-43, the victim of much botched plastic surgery, attracted the attention of an audience coordinator. This guy is a familiar face in the crowd staffing world, widely ridiculed for appearing to be on coke early in the mornings. Without emotion, without curiosity about the altercation, he escorted G-46 out of the building.

Hours later when we were leaving the show, G-46 was still standing outside the studio. I watched from a distance to see what he was up to. Turns out, he had been waiting all day for G-43 and G-44. He felt bad about the whole sour episode, all a misunderstanding really. He wanted to make amends, and to ask G-43 out on a date. To my surprise, G-43 accepted, and off they went.