Bloodbath. The opening scene of Blade. It’s a celebrity party and I’m part of the atmosphere. I’m in a white boiler suit and a skintight string vest. My home is a perspex box with a shower head. I have excellent fangs stuck on. I’m absolutely covered in blood. As the guests come in I’m showered in more lukewarm blood. It trickles down my back and eventually puddles in my shoes. The only solution is to dance harder. It’s a cold night. The boilersuit is cotton. It’s a two hour gig. I like dancing. I tell myself it’s perfectly justifiable to go mental to keep myself warm, as people take selfies with me for Instagram or whatever. One man comes and stands in front of me for a while, looking. I hiss at him, and at the time they’re playing drum and bass so I’m dancing hard in my little box. “He’s fucking crazy,” is his considered review to my friend. Yep, to be honest I probably am a little. But it’s fun, huh? I can think of worse ways than this to earn a living while I wait for the real jobs. Despite exposure it’s actually relatively anonymous. They’re looking at the costume and the blood. The character. The mask. Not the actor. So I felt at liberty to go mental, and I did. A good dance really gets the endorphins flowing. Two hours flew by. Now I’m in an uber home, covered in fake blood and starving. But happy from dancing. Stupid work is still work.
It came through Lyndon, who was in LA with me coming up two years ago for a glorious couple of weeks. He’s building parties now when he isn’t acting, and providing work for actor friends that he trusts as he goes about it. It’s interesting to be part of the entertainment side, when more often in that context recently I’ve been the one wearing the smart suit checking the performers are on site when they’re supposed to be, and making sure nothing goes wrong. When I came off at the end of the gig and was thanked by a complete stranger in a black suit I had a momentary world shift when I saw myself as her and her as me. She’ll still be there at 4 supervising the get-out and probably taking down lights in her suit if she’s anything like me. I get to go home. Covered in blood. The only shower in this venue that we can access is the one that pissed lukewarm food colouring into my shoes.
I’m home now. I got an uber whilst horridly tricked with total gules. The driver took it in his stride and dropped me off. I got the fangs off my teeth successfully – (I’m always worried they’ll take my teeth off) – and I stuck myself into the shower, but the problem with food dye is that it dyes the skin. I’m going to look like I have a tan for a few days before it wears off. Still. Weird but fun way to earn a crust.