You're Never Weird on the Internet (Almost) (11 page)

“
Mosaic
? What’s that?”

I double-clicked and stared at a blank university database search page. There was a search bar in the middle with no instructions, no guide. That was it. Not user-friendly, even for a prototech native like me. I called over to the guy who worked there, “Hey. How do I use this browser thing?”

He said, “Go to AltaVista dot-com and just search for stuff.”

“Do I spell out the dot?”

“No, it’s a period. ‘www.altavista.com.’ ”

“Sorry. Can you type it in for me?”

He, rolling his eyes, marched over and typed on my computer.
I was about to get uppity and say, “Um, you don’t have to be condescending . . .” but as soon as I saw what appeared on the screen, I flipped out and forgot to be defensive and angry.

“OH MY GOD. I CAN SEARCH FOR ANYTHING BY TYPING IN THE BOX?”

“Um, why are you yelling?”

“Sorry, dude.”

It was like my childhood dial-up technology but better. A place with unlimited messaging, no expenses,
I could type to other people with a keyboard for free about anything I wanted! This browser was . . . and then it had . . . and I could . . . what?!?!?!?

My world was
transformed
.

After completely forgetting about whatever stupid scholastic thing led me there, it took me about two hours to plant my flag on the internet and create a personal university home page with cutting-edge green bubble GeoCities-like background art that I designed all by myself. Here’s the actual picture of my stunning artistry:

Amazing design. Perfect layout. (Font: default New Berolina. Oh, yeah.) True story, I ended up earning a spot on a “Babes of the World Wide Web” directory with this page. It was a disgusting and skuzzy website that compiled the URLs of the “hottest women on the internet.” And I made their top fifty list in 1998, yeah! If you blow up my head shot, you can clearly see the faint outlines of a mustache on my upper lip. In the early internet days, standards were definitely lower.

Before I left the lab, I made Condescending Guy show me how to dial up to this “internet” thing from my house using a program called Telnet, and after that I never looked back. Or searched for a social life for the rest of college. With this kind of technology, who needed it?!

Between my web browser, math degree, playing violin and video games, and never ever dating anybody, I had the most comprehensive, unsocial college experience in the history of man. But still, I loved it. I loved being on campus. And learning. And getting perfect grades. And being the little prodigy everyone took care of. I occasionally went to kung fu movie screenings at the college rec center on Friday nights (yes, my mom went with), and I prided myself on
knowing every out-of-the-way single-stall restroom hidden in the obscure campus buildings, like Archaeology, where I could poop in private. After four years I graduated as the valedictorian of my class and delivered an overly earnest speech on “Finding the Art in Your Science.” The whole time I was lucky enough to find work as a musician, so everyone assumed I would continue on to graduate school and have a great violin career, and all the expectations were heaped and heaped and heaped.

After graduating, I didn’t do anything with any of it.

Um, why?

There was a student in Mr. Frittelli’s class, I’ll call him Carl, who was from New York City and a “BRO!” personified. With an accent like a construction worker and hands like ham hocks, he was the most out-of-place guy you can imagine in the classical music world. And he wanted to play the violin more than anything else in his life.

Thing was, Carl was not good. He didn’t start early enough, he didn’t work hard enough, he sometimes brandished his instrument like a weapon. No one thought he could make a career of it. But he WANTED it so badly. You could see it in his eyes when he watched other people play who were better than him. It broke my heart.

All I wanted was to give Carl my abilities. Even though I had been devoted to music for so many years, I knew deep down that I didn’t want to play violin for the rest of my life.

I admire the crap out of Carl now, because he was doing something he loved more than anything. And he was determined to do it, regardless of how successful he was. Carl played the violin because he had a PASSION for it, and screw the rest of the world. Even if he had to get a day job that wasn’t musical after college, and was only able to pick the instrument up at night before bed, to play ONLY for
himself, it made him complete to have that in his life. And I think every minute he spent playing that violin was a moment he was spending his time right.

I wanted to find something like that for myself. I had a sense that I hadn’t found it yet, that there was MORE out there somewhere. I knew I wasn’t complete by playing Pachelbel’s Canon for the five hundredth time at a wedding. I knew I wouldn’t be satisfied by teaching adorable toddler robots “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” either. I wanted to find a dream that I couldn’t live without pursuing. Regardless if I made it or not. Just like for Carl, the “trying” of it would be worth it.

So after graduation, I moved to Los Angeles to become an actor. That was what my heart told me I needed to TRY to become. I knew I could do it.

After all, I had two Real Degrees. How could I fail?

- 4 -

Hollywood: Not a Meritocracy?

My adorably naïve history as an actor and why, in my mind, I was destined to “make it” in Hollywood based on several community theatre chorus girl parts.

For some reason I always knew I wanted to be an actor. I think it was because I read too many fantasy novels as a kid. There was always this nebulous feeling of destiny, like I was the
Chosen One
, foretold to vanquish auditions for
One Life to Live
and
Hannah Montana
with talent bestowed by the gods. In my heart I was certain: The sword of stardom would be mine!

My aunt Kate was the one who got me hooked on performing. She was the coolest person I’d met by the age of preschool, and that’s pretty frickin’ cool. With big permed ’80s hair, she drove a yellow Datsun fastback and let me ride in the front without a child’s seat. The sound track to
Cats
was permanently stuck in the tape deck, and we’d sing “Memory” at the top of our lungs when we’d sneak out after bedtime to get curly fries at Hardee’s. Together, at the ages of six and twenty-four, we were practically Thelma and Louise.

Aunt Kate had briefly moved to New York City to become a musical theatre performer after college but was forced to return home because of health reasons (type 1 diabetes, the worst). She got a job as a librarian but kept acting locally, because no matter how many times you have to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” for bored senior citizens at an Alabama dinner theatre, once performing is in your blood, you can’t get it out.

She also introduced me to the concept of a “work ethic” nineteenth-century-early. Aunt Kate developed horrible cataracts because of her disease, and for a summer became partially blind. She needed several surgeries to fix her sight but couldn’t afford to stop her job. She had to keep her health insurance. So, as a seven-year-old, I was recruited to go in every day and basically do her job with her. Shelving. Scanning in books. Chiding people:
“Mrs. Bertram, you have to return that new Danielle Steel. Someone else has been waiting for it for weeks!”
The best part is that her tiny branch was located
inside
the local mall (must have been a weird Alabama phenomenon), so she paid me for my time in items from the Hello Kitty store across the way. A Little Twin Stars pencil case was my first legitimate wage payment.

No job since has left me feeling so well rewarded.

When my aunt found out that a local Huntsville theatre group was staging
To Kill a Mockingbird
, she decided that I was absolutely perfect for the lead part of Scout. Mainly because my haircut matched the kid’s in the movie (through no fault of my own; again, my mom made bad choices).

“If you wear overalls to this audition, Felicia, you can become a star!”

I won’t lie. “Star” sounded super appealing to my seven-year-old self. If I couldn’t be reborn a princess, this sounded like the next best thing.

There was only one catch. “The audition paper says ages ten and above, Aunt Kate.”

“If they ask, just tell them you’re ten.”

“But that’s a lie.”

“You want them to hire you to be someone you’re not. So if you lie well, you’re showing them how great you’re gonna be at the job!”

I thought about it for a few beats and couldn’t argue with her logic. It was pretty confusing. So the next day I lied and got the part! It was a great lesson to learn so young: Never let the truth stop you from getting what you want.

Rehearsals started up, and I loved every minute of it. Not the work of acting necessarily, that was all right, but the feeling of becoming part of “The Theatre.” (Say it with a British accent, that’s how I wrote it.) No matter your age or race or background, all actors are treated pretty much equal, which is heady stuff for a seven-year-old: “equality.” I found out that being treated like I was important fit me like a glove!

The kid who played my older brother in the play, Jackson, was not so taken by my adorableness. He was thirteen and despised me because he didn’t
like my upstaging him with my dazzling performance. (At least that was what my aunt told me.) I was great at memorizing my lines AND his lines and never hesitated to yell out when he flubbed them. I couldn’t understand why he was so sensitive about it! After all, he was the old one who should have better neural connections; I was only SEVEN. (Revealing that at rehearsal one day was quite the hat trick. Everyone was impressed. Except Jackson. He hated me for that, too.)

During one dress rehearsal, he screamed “Shut up!” when I helped him out with his dialogue (“You forgot the ‘eats raw squirrels’ line again, Jackson, jeez!”), and after that incident, the line was drawn, Hatfields and McCoy–style. Our families started sitting on the opposite sides of the auditorium, and we referred to his mom as “Old Fat Thighs.” The atmosphere got tense.

It all caught up to me during our first matinee performance. There’s a section in the play where Jackson’s character says, “Run, Scout, run!” and he pushes me to get away from the scary Boo Radley dude who turns out to be . . . well, it’s only been fifty years, no spoilers. Anyway, this almost adult (in Arkansas) kid pushed me SO HARD that I flew eight feet across the stage, tripped, and hit my head.

THUMP!

The audience gasped. Time slowed. As I staggered up, I remember noticing how everyone was leaning forward in their seats. It was suddenly very exciting to be an actor.

“Is she hurt?” “Was it part of the play?” the crowd murmured as I stood there, stunned. My aunt had told me a true thespian never breaks character. So I decided to use the moment like Meryl Streep: I burst into tears and ran offstage yelling, “MOMMY!”

The screaming match between my mom and his after the show would rival any sweeps-winning episode of
Dance Moms
. Carnations and Chips Ahoy! were used as projectile weapons in the greenroom. The fight went on so long that eventually I started feeling guilty. Because Jackson looked so miserable sitting on the opposite side of the room and . . . okay, I’ll admit it. He was cute and I had a crush on him.