Giving Love a Bad Name

I woke up at 5:30 a.m. and sat straight up in bed. Luckily for my sleep-deprived eyes, the first thing I saw was the pale pink of an unclouded sunrise over the Lake. The tops of the still-bare trees at the shore weren’t swaying—the wind and gray horror are gone, at least for a day. The sun came up and the city was gorgeous.

Too bad I’ll be stuck indoors most of the day suffering through more ridiculous auditions. We’re casting the movie, searching for the kid that’s going to bust our brains wide open, hunting for The Natural. So far all we’ve seen are a bunch of thirty-somethings who think they can still play a seventeen year-old. Maybe on a stage, but not on camera.

All the grown men who want to play teenagers do their best impersonation of what they remember a teenager to be: short spiky gelled hair, ringneck tees, faded jeans and Chuck Taylors. The actual teens have Bad News Bears hairdos—like Dorothy Hamill after 6 months without a hairdresser (Awful. Awful! Use some product, at least). They wear huge baggy faux football tees and soccer shoes, or body-conscious, tight, untucked button downs—both shirts find their accompaniment in a too-tight strand of leather and a pendant at the neck, choker-style. Some kids sing N Sync. Some sing showtunes. One kid sang Bon Jovi from the era when I was his age. It was hard not to get the giggles at that one.

Even though the auditions are crazy and the vast majority of hopefuls are truly terrible, it’s a fun process. I’d rather be doing this American Idol: All the Losers than working stuck in a fucking cubicle. (Though I will admit being stuck in a cubicle would pay a whole lot better.)

The sun is bright now, brilliant over the water. How have I lived so long with nothing ever to look at, neither nature nor man-made wonders? I feel I’ve finally come home. To the Lake.

It’s time to get to work. Cell phone, laptop, lipstick—I’ve got everything it takes. Who needs an office?