Bringgg, B-b-bring

I wonder who's on the other end of the line on this phone? If it's 1962, I want my sweet domestic life back.

Talking to You is Better Than a Rape Dream

Ye collegiates contemplating minoring in Communications: consider the major, lest ye someday be told that talking to you is better than a rape dream. Which, in verity, I did tell a fellow actor with such credentials tonight. Truth be told, the dream was awful, I spent the whole morning crying, and work was no let-me-buy-you-a-lemonade. Yet after class, a humorous conversation ensued. And I, who neither majored nor minored in Communications, shared my appreciation as ably as a person with such licensure would.

Nine Times Eight

How often does one almost get hired to portray a real-life slutty nanny on national television? Talk about Hollyweird: I spent a chunk of my afternoon on avail for a sketch comedy role on "Jimmy Kimmel Live!". The producers decided to go with the option that was more "ethnic," about which I wondered why my mother couldn't have been from El Salvador and not just born and raised there. But I wanted to be on television today, I could say to her. How often does one get to play a character who had sex nine times with a dad of eight?

Question: Am I Turning Into a Squirrel?

Pondering this serious question, I huddle over a bag of pistachios, cracking and cramming them into my mouth. Never before one to go for nuts, I feel for a newly-grown fluffy tail. Fantasizing about living in the UK, I wonder: do they have good trees there for running up when a neighborhood cat scouts me? I reflect on a dog recently lunging at me, a casting director's critique that I hunch over too much, my bright eyes. It doesn't take a rocket scientist. Pass the acorns.

It Happened Last Night

It's one thing to walk outside and find a used condom next to your car, but a single glove? Maybe my VW inspires the use of latex. But I still don't like thinking of Mickey Mouse or a magician or a prep cook lingering in the streets after hours, leaving signs of where they've been like Cinderella on the lam.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

I admit to being jealous of this dog. 1) His level of inner peace is soaring. 2) With those long legs, he's always going to be in demand. 3) He looks amazing in stripes.

Tranny like Sunday Morning

Sunday morning: the time of the week when I listen through my open window to the trans community sing to Jesus at the corner church, learn my lines about how my character came on to her half-brother, and drink homemade iced espresso.

My Sneaker Wants to Hug Me

Cockatoos are often called "the Velcro bird"...but when was the last time your zipless closure nuzzled you and tried to eat your earring?

Show Me Show Me Show Me

The grand conclusion to the acting class I taught tonight was just show me. I had the actors work on one-line auditions, and quickly had them drop their sides to book the role without saying a word. So much of it is in how you stand. How do you move? Where does your gaze fall?

Like a kindergarten mantra, show, don't tell; or at least don't just tell. The family portrait and the history lesson. The weekend getaway and the "I love you." The visual and the voice.

Your body in relation to space. At least that's what the man in nothing but a trench coat argues to get out of jail. But it's also the dividing line in something happening or not. Being he-who-acts.

Dressing for Work

My mother used to model, way-back-when. I associate that hustle with wearing a one-piece in a 1960s catalog called The Ski Inn or The Snow Inn or Mommy in a Blanket. My own brief foray into modeling, on the other hand, involved a lot of colored tights, studded fur, and a chain-mesh halter. There's the person you look like, and then the costume you don. And if they've got you gussied up in a unitard for the winter, your beauty really is your smile.