Earlier this week I joined Central-Casting in Burbank, CA. They're the largest extras company in the country, providing worthless, talentless stand-ins for hundreds of movies and television shows in Los Angeles. You sign up by turning in your application and proof of residency, getting your photo taken, and then calling their hotline every morning to see if there's work available.
It only pays $50-$80 per day, but since no one in this entire city will hire me for anything, including flipping hamburgers and selling women's shoes, I really have no choice. At this point, getting $50 for 12 hours of work almost seems like a luxury. That's how little money I have. Poverty has apparently turned me into an illegal immigrant. In two months, I'll be selling oranges by the freeway.
This Central-Casting opportunity had me excited. The chance to turn an empty day into a few dollars seemed great. Unfortunately, for the past five week, the only extras the company seems to have needed is Vietnamese men who have experience shooting machine guns. No, really.
Hello, and welcome to the Central-Casting hotline. Today's non-union jobs are as follows: (long pause) A production is looking for Vietnamese men who have experience shooting guns. Specifically, automatics and machine guns . . .
(I press the button for the next listing)
A production is looking for African-American men with large hair . . .
(Press button for next listing)
A production is looking for Vietnamese men with gun skills . . .
(Press button for next listing)
A production is looking for men age 18-30 (That's me!) with a height of 5'9" to 6' (Yay!), shaggy hair (Yesssss!), who are Vietnamese and can shoot a gun (Son of a bitch!).
When a man is desperate for work, such disappointments are enough to make him want to punch someone, preferably an old person who can't fight back. That's why I titled this column "I can punch you in your goiter". It doesn't make sense, but neither does every studio in town wanting Vietnamese assassins on the same day. My only hope is that somewhere there's a Vietnamese guy with a machine gun who's been waiting his entire life for this grand opportunity.
Of course, most people couldn't identify a Vietnamese person if their life depended on it, so the people who got the roles were probably Koreans or Japanese people. But I have hope for the Vietnamese person with a machine gun. Someday I'd like to have a beer with the Vietnamese person who owns a machine gun. And I'd say to him, "Vietnamese person with a machine gun, did you get any of the roles?" And he'd say, "No. Some freaking Japanese person got it." And then I'd say, "That sucks man," and I'd excuse myself to the bathroom and escape through a window, stiffing him with the check.
Why? Because I'm poor. Haven't you been paying attention?
