So if you’ve been following my blog for any time, you’re probably wondering: "why doesn’t he post more often?" And to you, I say: "why don’t you comment more often?"

I’ve been spending my time of late working on a couple of things, most notably representation (someone to send me on more auditions) and commercial auditioning (through said representation). Last week I started working with a manager here in New York (Ingrid French Management) and have been freelancing with commercial agents for a few months. In New York, you can work with multiple agencies#–in LA and in most other markets, this is a major no-no. I have a great agent in St. Louis (Diane at Talent-Plus), but it’s hard to get auditions in one market through an agent in another. That’s just the way things work.

So what is a commercial audition? Well, it depends. Lately, it’s been my experience that a commercial audition consists of my getting punched and or kicked by either a real or imaginary assailant, or delivering a blow myself. I digress. A commercial audition begins with an agent or manager. Why? Because the whole process is so quick that it’s nearly impossible to get these kinds of auditions on your own. So the agent calls you on Tuesday evening around 5:45PM and leaves a message on your phone (because you’re underground in the subway). The message asks you to confirm your appointment for the following morning (Wednesday, 11AM) before the office closes at 6:00PM. Of course, you don’t get the message until after 6:30, so you leave a message for the agent, hoping you haven’t screwed up somehow by not confirming before they closed for the night. You stress a bit because you didn’t get to ask any questions (how should I dress?) and figure that because it’s a beer company, you should probably be casual. But the spot said something about a wedding, so maybe not. But you’re going to be "moving", so be comfortable. Hmm.

You wake up a bit earlier than usual to make sure you have a good close shave, no stray nose-hairs, that sort of thing, and then head out the door having had a good breakfast and a cup of coffee to make the whole process seem all the more normal. You show up at the audition, where everyone else seems very quiet and one guy is stretching in the floor as though he were getting ready to run the high hurdles#–you start to think "am I in the right place?" A sheet of paper awaits your signature, SAG number, racial designator, and what meeting number upon which you are about to embark (1st, 2nd, 3rd). You’ve brought your own pen to write this information, because you know how un-cool you look using the pen provided by the casting agency#–the one with the plastic spoon duct taped to it to keep a poor actor from running off with it. You also know not to provide your SAG number or Social Security number, and instead to write "avail" in the space provided (not "available", that’s not as cool as "avail").

You take a seat, which is either a tiny foldout chair that seems so cheap you’re a little weirded out by it, or if it’s another office, a behemoth of a sofa/couch that probably costs more than your entire bedroom set. Invariably, you’re called earlier than you expected so you’ve had very little time to look over the copy, or you’re called an hour and half later than your appointment time so that you’ve not only committed the copy to memory, you’ve also done a complete Aristotilean analysis, breaking the text down into logical dramatic beats. This is when you start to really think about the skydiving mentioned in the description, or the tae-kwan-do.

A casting associate calls your name, and you break out the semi-gloss headshot with stapled resume, just in case your agent (or manager) didn’t provide one (other actors have forgotten theirs, and come across as amateurs#–you’ll laugh at them later while you tell your actor friends "Can you believe they forgot a headshot?"). Just as you enter, you remind yourself to relax, this is a commercial, not Hamlet, and you try not to come across as too "actory". You hold a small (or large) piece of paper in front of you, slate (state your name and agency) and begin the audition. Of course, in some auditions you will be holding your sides (audition copy), in some you will be reading from a cue card, in some you will have the text memorized, and in some (my favorite) there is no copy at all#–you are only giving a reaction (or you’re getting your ass kicked by an invisible black belt#–GO!). This is also the time the director might decide you are totally wrong for the part you’ve been preparing, and ask you to do something completely different. Which, in my case, also means I will be fighting an invisible black belt. Or ninja. Or I will be hitting on a girl in a bar, who punches me in the gut. Because she’s a ninja.

You part with a witty comment, realize you probably just looked like a DOOFUS, and head back to the waiting room#–you’ve asked another actor to watch your stuff, because carrying a bag and a jacket into the room with you is incredibly uncool. You’re now worried that someone stole your iPod, so you check your pockets for everything you can think. This reveals your breathmints, toothbrush, and little makeup compact (hey, men get unsightly blemishes too#–but actors are expected never to have this). You shoulder your load, salute the forty-six other people who could be your cousin, brother, or in some cases twin, and head out the door.

Congratulations! You’ve just auditioned for a commercial! Try to forget about it, because you’ll probably never hear another word about it. Getting a commercial is akin to winning the lottery. You always buy a ticket, know a lot of people who’ve won (usually only a few bucks), and hear stories about uncles and cousins, best friends and hated enemies that hit the jackpot (a national).

In the past month I’ve been on hold (made it to the final stages and asked to reserve the shoot date#–which is only four days away) for four commercials. This is considered a good thing. Very good. And now I’m on hold for another. Sweet!

I’ll let you know what happens next…