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    Showing posts with label Twinkie Byrd. Show all posts
    Showing posts with label Twinkie Byrd. Show all posts

  1. Double Jeopardy By Rhonda Hansome

    Thursday, April 18, 2013


    When we left off last time:  Twinkie Byrd’s question put a halt to my stroll down memory lane.  She had spent the first four minutes of our five minute session making numerous notations on my newly revamped resume like a proctor grading an error ridden test paper.  Twinkie spoke and silenced the seven voices (I acknowledge) in my head.  Their yammering quieted quickly as they sensed my humiliation in the offing, much like sharks sense blood in the water. 



    The stealth of the casting director’s question was in its simplicity: “Where do you see yourself?”   I’m not quite sure if I spluttered, laughed or farted as I stalled for time with a goofy look on my face. 



    Did the multiplication table just challenge my math anxiety ass to a Calculus Olympiad?  Cheeze ‘n crackers!  Who knew there would be a quiz at this five minute interview?  “Where do I see myself?”  I should know the answer to this question!  Out of the blue in my mind and heretofore unknown, a shy acne scarred pre-teen bespectacled voice, from behind a volume of the collected works of Guy de Maupassant, whispered “Ask Twinkie what she means.”  I coaxed the goofy look off my face and feigned an air of normalcy

    “What do you mean where do I see myself?” 

    Twinkie regarded me with a glance reserved for those recognized with Asperger syndrome

    “In what television shows do you see yourself cast?”

    Okay, I got this now! 

    “I see myself as a comedy sketch player, a second banana to a comedy star…”

    She interrupted me

    “Like Vicki Laurence on the Carol Burnett Show?”        


    I sighed with relief. She got me! My head nodded as a smile approach my lips

    “Yes!”

    Twinkie hid exasperation well…

    “That show hasn’t been on the air in twenty years.” 

    My approaching smile slid downward as the truth of her statement sunk in.  She continued
    “What shows do you watch?”

    Totally misunderstanding the question I answered truthfully with an animated litany, literally 

    “Family Guy, Archer, American Dad, Bob’s Burgers … and the Daily Show.”

    “Do you have cable?”

    “Not any premium channels.”

    With a barely perceptible note of dismissal she said

    “Don’t worry about the cost, get those premium channels now and watch to see what roles you’d be cast in. Make these changes in your resume. And follow @CarleaseBurke on twitter.”

    Don’t worry about the cost?  I don’t even DVR because of the extra cost.  I have to buy premium cable channels to tell you what roles I should be cast in?

    Carlease Burke 




                                                                                            Carla Renata

         

                                                                 

    Yvette Nicole Brown


    and a bunch of other working black actresses, I don’t even know about because I can’t afford Starz, are doing the roles in which I’d be cast AND why the fuck should I follow Carlease??? – I silently fulminated.
      
    "Thank you."

    I said aloud as I clutched my freshly disfigured resume, choked back a tear, my ego and somehow found the door to exit the tiny studio where I thought my life might change.  

     Uber Casting Director 



    Twinkie Byrd 
    really did change my life because I now have to: 
    • Think about myself in this century because nobody cares or remembers that I killed on Arsenio Hall’s FIRST talk show and toured opening for divas Ross and Baker. 
    • I have to search beneath the surface of my stock answers twenty years old.  
    • I have to wake up from dreams of an uninterrupted flow of film and TV residual checks flooding my mailbox 
    • Look at my industry as the vastly changed landscape it is. 
    • I have to ring in on the Double Jeopardy answer revealed to me in the past five minutes.

     For $8.00 @ minute Alex, what is…

    Starting All Over Again From The Middle?






    Posted by RHC at 11:15 AM | Labels: , , , , , , , , , , | 6 comments | |

  2. Omarosa's Ambitions By Rhonda Hansome

    Thursday, April 11, 2013

      When we last left off, I was rummaging through mid-life choices like a bag lady on the “A” train looking for nothing in particular; while disturbing a bag’s contents in an urgent yet random search. Everything I touched took me deeper and farther from reality.

     My own personal 3 Stooges: 
      

    Coulda/ Woulda/ Shoulda,
    whirled in my head like hurricane Sandy leaving my mind a ravaged Jersey shore. In spite of the storm raging in my head I heard, (bewilderment, befuddlement, bemusement?) tucked beneath Twinkie’s nonchalant question, “Where do you see yourself?” Where do I see myself when I’ve decided to end my nearly decade long hiatus from the comedy scene? Making a list and checking it thrice. My “To Do” list rivaled the ambitions of
     Omarosa


    “Networking” 

    Hanging out and exchanging business cards with associates had changed -make that ended - make that dead ended. During my absence from the scene, the ubiquitous “business card” had disappeared faster than a Nubian Ibex in a flock of vultures.  



    Hanging out had morphed into a totally (I dare not say “totes”) virtual experience.  To gather (in a manor of speaking) with like minded people, I joined groups on LinkedIn and Face Book and engaged in vociferous conversations with people I did not know, like or care about.   
    I think I’m getting the hang of it now!


     “Electronic Presence” 

    While I was ‘away’ not only did business cards disappear, but so did the usefulness of live performance save for it being an opportunity to record and post to the internet on any number of ‘platforms’ and websites including YouTube.   I have lost count of the videos I’ve viewed that are poorly composed in bad or NO lighting, with crappy sound AND  inane content; all racking up tons of ‘‘hits’ & ‘comments’ – electronic presence currency.  I was told of one person whose “numbers” were through the roof.  His content consisted of taking a dump on camera.  Get out of my way I want in on this!  

    I got my website up, running & almost interactive.  I offer short comedy clips but WITHOUT an app that requires visitors to register or subscribe thereby “capturing the visitor’s contact info; my bad.  I lose 2 points. My website, www.RhondaHansome.com is a lovely sentence with a dangling participle. I’m on GigSalad where I consistently underbid on job possibilities and never book even one.  I ask every new friend (actually FaceBook strangers I would not know if on fire in front of me) to press the laugh button under MyComedyBook.com/RhondaHansome in hopes to be the featured comic in a corner of  cyber space populated ENTIRELY by funny people.

    “Social Media” 

    In spite of the fact I STILL have no concrete evidence that “social media” will lead to anything other than severe carpal tunnel syndrome; I threw myself into the social media fray with an abandon surpassed only by the enthusiasm of divers on Splash.  
                                                                         


    I actively post on twitter, FaceBook, tumblr, and have been asked by more than several online groups to limit or cease & desist my voluminous contributions.  Oh and if you are reading this there is no need to mention I blog.  Every damn THURSDAY I spew heart, soul and funny.  My little spoon hitting a tin cup in the clattering cacophony of the bloated blogosphere.  Well after taking a $400.00 course in social media, I became an overzealous convert determined to get my money’s worth…someday.

    “Engage Gatekeepers”

    And this is where Twinkie comes in.  I’d resisted paying to ‘interact’ with a Casting Director until I finally realized that if I did not pay I would not ever be seen and considered in the running for possible paying work.  


    Twinkie Byrd

    had a track record, she cast projects that actually hired black folks, and she had the most adorable name. What’s $40.00 for 5 minutes Alex?

    To be continued...







    Posted by RHC at 1:00 AM | Labels: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 comments | |


  3. When we left off last week:  During my expensive one-on-one session with the Casting Director at the top of my “To Meet, Impress, And Star In Her Next Project” list, my thoughts wandered in my head like an unleashed puppy in a brisket boutique.     



    Even with random bouts of severe childhood asthma I’d never missed a day of school or assignment from kindergarten to 8th grade.  I had been not just a girl scout but my troop leader. 

     “Always be prepared”, was more than a motto, for me it was a way of life.  So why today was I not prepared for my appointment with this woman, Twinkie Byrd who on IMDb has 33 films listed after her designation, Casting Director?  Do I present a 2 minute monologue, dazzle her in a-be-myself interview or ace a cold reading for my few minutes with Twinkie?  Yes, Twinkie is her name – google her!  I was flummoxed by her cool, commanding beauty and distracted by the silence that consumed the tiny studio in which we sat. She finally stopped marking my resume which under her pen began to look like a Basquiat reproduction.



    Hold up, hold up!  Did she just ask me where I saw myself?  “In the scene when a Fellini movie gets really weird?” would have escaped my lips if I’d not been preoccupied with a fulminating stroll down memory 
    (If /Then) lane.
                   

    If after yet another 2nd (or 3rd!) meeting regarding collaborating with a writer, I finally mentioned a Letter Of Agreement and got a baffled expression in response or if one more person (who asked me to direct her project) said, “Oh, I’ve never paid a director before.”  I was going to; well really Passion (not just another one of seven voices in my head, but a fully functioning physical manifestation of a theater director diva with her own business cards, curriculum vitae and website: www.DirectedByPassion.com) Passion was going to throw that AUDELCO Board of Directors Outstanding Pioneer Award out the window.  Wait, that can’t happen because I never actually got the physical Outstanding Pioneer Award!  Outstanding is great!  Award is great!  Was it the word pioneer that made the accolade sound like I was an ancient theatrical Harriet Tubman?  

      


    Yes, like TV adds 10 pounds, the honor of pioneer adds three decades.  But leave it to my lack of daddy love to compel my accepting the tribute, mostly to get a long coveted football size crystal like gewgaw engraved with my name.  I stuffed my ambivalent feelings about the AUDELCO Award in my rococo emotional armoire, already filled with conflicting sentiments, regrets and unanswered questions about my father; like who is he, why did he abandon me, and how 40 years later do I finally get the court appointed child support from a man who’s been dead and buried for more than a decade? 

    I navigated the twinkling staircase on the stage of Harlem’s premiere performance space, Aaron Davis Hall (now Harlem Stage) in front of hundreds in the audience to receive my award.  No one actually mentioned to me or to the fashionably attired thespian filled auditorium, what I’d done to achieve the status of Outstanding Pioneer.  Most of these theater folk didn’t even know I did stand-up comedy, and here I was on stage overwhelmed by the (long desired and yet now surprisingly) vague recognition Passion was finally receiving from her theater community.  More importantly, that jewel faceted award, that I had viewed with envy in the home or office of a black glitterati, would be concrete confirmation of my stellar sensibilities as a director.  



    Little did I know, the ceremonial object I got on stage was purely ceremonial.  With applause resounding, I exited to the wings and the glittering bauble was snatched from my hands by a harried assistant stage manager.  In a surreal flash I went from being overcome with gratitude to WTF???  Stunned and empty handed I somehow found my way home with no engraved gem like AUDELCO Award,  no plaque, not even a paper certificate saying the honor had been bestowed.  Twinkie’s repeated question brought my attention back to the present and our interview.  “Where do I see myself?”  Empty handed, on the sidelines, in the dust watching erstwhile comedy pals

                                 





    get guffaws and applause on TV.


    To be continued…






    Posted by RHC at 4:00 AM | Labels: , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 comments | |

  4. Impatient Yearnings By Rhonda Hansome

    Thursday, March 21, 2013


    When we left off last week:  I had only two minutes remaining in my five minute session alone with this noted black casting director.  I ignored the rambunctious voice in my head.  It was only Martha Baily Burnett’s histrionics about the $8.00 per minute I’d paid to see Twinkie, being more than many these days make an hour.  After successfully locking Martha in a rococo armoire, I took a very expensive moment to consider Twinkie’s arresting question.  Where do I see myself?  $4.00 worth of seconds later, I had nothing but rolling tumble weeds and the chirp of crickets to block the sound of Martha Bailey Burnett’s outsized clown shoes kicking the armoire door.  Nothing, zippo, goose egg, nada my recent all-purpose (too frequent) response to a major life question.  How can I answer Twinkie about the present when I’m preoccupied pondering questions from the past?  Like, why did I stop performing stand-up?  

    What could be better than filling arenas with laughter while opening for musical stars like Diana Ross, Anita Baker, James Brown and Aretha Franklin; 
                                                                                                        

    working out new material on the main stage in Catskills resorts  
    and Las Vegas casinos, the bonhomie of hilarious co-workers combined with free drinks?  Well, a lucrative three picture deal, my own hit TV show headed to syndication and never ending residuals or at least a string of financially rewarding failed pilots while I awaited lightning in a bottle.  I dreamed of being so successful that my comedy laurels would allow me to appear on any and every late night national talk show, promoting my latest movie, Broadway appearance or (tax sheltered) not-for –profit foundation, and never even crack a joke.  Perfectly styled and coiffed, I’d sit and reminisce with the host about our recent golf game (I don't golf but I can dream can't I?) , our early days in comedy clubs or my banner behavior of a comedy genius in full mental breakdown: running naked down Sunset Blvd. waving a gun.  


    “NEVER GONNA HAPPEN!” screamed Impatient Yearnings, a strident voice (among the seven) in my head.  Impatient Yearnings don't fool around.  She'd soon stride into my long gathering fog of marital angst and with Amazon strength toss a three decade marriage out the door.  Anyway, with uncanny expertise, she took advantage of my (admittedly short sighted) professional frustrations and single handedly cast a seventeen year comedy career adrift.  With my Brooklyn College School of Performing Arts B.A. assisted by additional training (Lincoln Center Directors Lab, Women's Project Directors' Forum, SDC, Frank Silvera Writers Workshop Directors, etc) as a serious director, I jumped from the lion’s den of comedy into the shark tank, NYC theatre.  I cast my net Off- Broadway, umm, Off-Off- Broadway; OK - a community playhouse hidden in the Roy Wilkins recreation center in Jamaica, NY.  Who knew in spite of my extensive theatre experience, I’d spend the coming years competing with new to NY fledgling director wanna-be’s, for non- paying positions! Where do I see myself?  I see me choking Impatient Yearnings.

    To be continued...




    Posted by RHC at 4:00 AM | Labels: , , , , , , , , , | 3 comments | |

  5. Pay To Play By Rhonda Hansome

    Thursday, March 7, 2013


    Where we left off last week: I was having trouble staying focused in what I hoped to be a dynamite meeting with a hot shot casting director, since at this point in my life only dynamite could break the log jam in my career…

    I watched Twinkie make marks from the top to the bottom of the paper in front of her.  From my side of the desk I guessed she was either constructing a six-set Venn diagram or designing a need- to- know flow chart of secret drone missions, on my resume. What the hell is she doing?  I was already uncomfortable with the whole pay to play with a casting director phenomenon that became a cottage industry in its self during my hiatus from comedy and performing.  Wasn’t that the purpose of showcase after showcase, the opportunity to be seen by an influential gatekeeper like herself? 
                                                                                                  

    Yes I am an unforgivingly old school by-product of the previous century, but faced with the prospect of being a non-income generating, middle-aged non-performing, performing artist, I sucked it up and stuck my toe in the now.  Paying to meet Twinkie was the iceberg tip of my adjustments.

    It was a huge adjustment returning to the place of my birth - Brooklyn’s Bed-Stuy - after homesteading, raising a son, reveling in Tribeca and then leaving divorced.  My lovingly supportive yet oddly passive aggressive marriage, to my high school sweet heart- fiancé- husband- parenting partner, began to chafe in its third decade.  In the fading afternoon sun of our art filled, book lined, homey apartment, Phil and I exchanged words that could not be snatched back. I was deeply in love with my husband.  Somewhere along the years I stopped liking him.  Our Dartmouth educated son was grown and leaving the nest.  Soon I’d be the next to go.  I’d grown apart from the man I fell in love with when I was 14 years old.  It felt like time to leave the most significant man in my life.

    At the time I was acting in a production directed by the renowned Woodie King Jr., on NY’s Theater Row.  I had in the offing an epic blues cantata, written by a longtime friend, sure to make my mark as a theater director of note.  I did not have a second thought about the comedy career I’d left in the dust.  But how do you adjust to leaving a lifetime of love?  I clutched my rising possibilities as an actress and director on the dramatic stage. In less than a month I was out on my own.  My timing was impeccable. I left Tribeca for Bed-Stuy, I signed the divorce papers and then right on cue, came the recession, years and years of recession.



    Posted by RHC at 1:30 AM | Labels: , , , , , , | 5 comments | |

  6. It's My Resume by Rhonda Hansome

    Thursday, February 28, 2013


    The look on her face clearly said she was at a loss without a hieroglyphics to English dictionary at hand.  The fact that Twinkie* stared at the object I’d placed on her desk with prolonged bewilderment, prompted my outburst. “It’s my resume.” I offered with my voice slightly cracking. Twinkie raised her eyes with sphinx like inscrutability and said without a blink, “I’m just taking it all in.”  

    So my mind races as the casting director stares at my resume.  It took me three months to construct a new/fresh/now resume of my comedy driven career.  If she can take it all in, more power to her.  Damn, that resume doesn’t tell half the story of my life onstage.  And off stage you ask?    Well, both on stage and off, it feels like I'm starting all over from the middle. 

     Divorced in 2005 from several decades of marriage to my high school sweetheart, I moved from our neighborhood, the center of the universe, Tribeca.  When hubby (now my ex) and I arrived, the Washington Market Area was barely maintaining daytime activity as a food distribution center.  At night it was a no man’s land unfamiliar to even New York cab drivers.  No stores, no street lights, we were pioneers settling on the windy far west of New York’s lower west side.  The abundant loft living space drew the adventurous; hubby and I were game for the hulking subsidized project that had real-people sized apartments and desperately needed residents.  As the area developed Washington Market became SoCa (South of Canal), but really hit its stride with the moniker Tribeca; and the ensuing gourmet restaurants, designer boutiques, lines of limos and film festival. It was literally Hollywood on the Hudson. Came the time, I could not go to Bubby’s on the corner for coffee without a hello to Robert Di Nero, John Kennedy or Lorraine Bracco, my neighbors.

    I came of age in the shadow of burned out shells, and litter strewn lots, the aftermath of insurrection aka “the riots”.  As a pre-pubescent aspirant to the middle-class, I wanted nothing more than to leave the gritty bleakness of the ghetto behind.  Hubby made that possible albeit with stops along the way in a ghetto of a different hue - Spanish Harlem (in the Young Lords' building) and a stint as sextons of a Lutheran church in Flatbush.  I’d made it all the way to the disco dotted, star cluttered streets of Tribeca and now I was back with head bowed on my original stomping ground.  It was a big adjustment returning to the place of my birth Brooklyn’s Bed-Stuy.  

    To be continued...

    *A real life, big time casting director


    Posted by RHC at 5:15 AM | Labels: , , , , , , | 8 comments | |