m
p
nt) adj.
Clearly, "rampant" means "king lion pawing you with his tongue out."
Economic times have been tough; you've got to make sure you've got at least seven pairs to complete the set. I just hope this recent posting in my neighb isn't trying to pass as installation art. LACC, after all, isn't too many blocks away.
Squirrels must be smarter than all other urban wildlife; they must have figured out that if they slow down in the least we will tame and hoard them as our pets. They must sense how desirable their big fluffy tails and bright money eyes are and how much we love them. One eyed me from the cafe garden gates, and if it had winked, that wink would have been all-knowing.
Meaning that I asked myself existential questions while cleaning house and watching past episodes of "Mad Men." If the walls to the spirits were thin last night, my dearly departeds got a good glimpse of what it means to clutter-clear without face paint or a naughty nurse costume.
Hey there, enormous lady insect right outside my apartment door. I've heard tell you sometimes feel like eating men, mice, and hummingbirds, and do. Hence the confusion over whether to refer to you as "praying" or "preying." You've got good front limbs for being reverential, though, with or without some leafy temple. I wish you had access to the internet, so you could fill me in on which of the meanings I should ascribe to your sudden appearance: the importance of stillness and patience before making the right move? A sign that the opportunity I've been awaiting is arriving now? That I need to wear more green, or get my biceps in better shape to audition for that girl pirate movie coming up? 
Today's round of audition notices-for-the-masses in Hollywood were especially fruity. 
To unwind from a long, exhausting set of circumstances, my friend Gemini and I spent the afternoon at a Korean day spa for women. The moment I realized everyone gets to just walk around naked everywhere I relaxed, but the moment I realized the toilet paper was covered in cartoon drawings of squirrels on skateboards, I swooned. Having a place where you can float in a giant cup of mugwort tea or get massaged by a middle-aged woman wearing nothing but a black bra and underpants (if they're not taking their watermelon snack break) is very special, even if all you end up doing is lying on a heated jade floor. "Cuddle up under a blanket printed with heart-shaped ladybugs," the spa is saying. "You don't need that silly job anyway."
Question: why is the guy the one in the tower, as if to be rescued? Is Arlene pissed off, or flirting? And where did Garfield get such a great vest-and-shirt combo?
I got this notice rubberbanded to my door after coming home from pretending to be an antelope-feasting lion in the jungle for the head of casting at SONY. Only $14.95? Do they also do foot soaking shoulder and paws?
The latest virus to hit the mouths of people scrambling for the end of a sentence is the phrase "and what-not." Want to convince someone of your credentials but don't actually have any? Drop the one thing you have done and conclude with "and what-not." Want to suggest an array of things you wish you were into but aren't? End with "and what-not." Even, dare I say, wax philosophical, and in conclusion, "and what-not." Say, I've done lots of acting, like improv, you know, and what-not. Say, I'm into all means and modes of weekend activity, like lemonade and what-not. Say, Jean-Paul Sartre really did know what he was talking about when he talked about nothingness...and what-not. If it was a show about fashion, it'd be And What-Not to Wear.
Those not privy to the actual questions that run through the minds of those in Hollywood might like to know that we are not just thinking about the sheen of our hair. We are doing higher mathematics mentally, trying to suss out the route to the best possible outcome. For instance, an agent wants to see an actor such as myself perform a scene in his office. After hunting for such a scene and coming up with a few alternatives from film and television, a real-life Hollywood question is, "Is it better to do this scene in which a character rants about the 'if it's yellow, let it mellow' rule, or this scene in which a heartfelt confession of love ends in a lecture about the value of soy cheese?" (Note that in the above headshot, I do not yet know the answer.)
...go twin ugly. Thank you, coworker, for this wise advice. Now I am twice as hydrated.
In times of packed schedule and overwhelm, the answer to "What's up?" needs a subtitle. Does it mean to relay the depth and breadth of seismic activity in one's sphere, detailing career strategems and pawns lifted and moved? Or is all that's wanted a chipper quip about how the night before last I dreamt I ate a hot lemon-glazed donut? There was a huge tower of such pastries, actually. When I awoke I didn't crave a single one. Oh, and then the whole bit in my waking life about climbing the ladder in Hollywood. Less frosting, more monologues.
Some people see food as just a biological need or a form of entertainment, but I have a relationship with it that is operatic. Witness me nearing lunchtime, ye disbelievers! I believe in fresh, organic ingredients and attentive, tender care of them much more than I believe in medicine, doctors, diagnoses. I put produce through my juicer religiously; saute vegetables and arrange meals with speed and artistry; plan what I'll make as if I'm running my own restaurant. I am, and I really like what the chef makes. Whether it's spinach lasagna made with tofu ricotta, barbeque tempeh, mushrooms, and swiss chard, or a spicy Thai curry, I...drool, drool...I gotta go cook. Welcome to my kitchen. Where I will never have to wear a hairnet.
And if you're too stupid to see what's in front of you, you miss out. Thankfully, there are things upon which we can always count, such as the month of October used for puns related to beer-drinking. Such as corporate America wanting its employees to write and not say their opinions. And yes, such as an ever-present disturbing glove left near my car at various points in the neighborhood. How do these things relate? You try dressing up as a deli worker for a Halloween party with a keg hosted by your office. You just try.
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.
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.
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?
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'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.
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.
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.
Cockatoos are often called "the Velcro bird"...but when was the last time your zipless closure nuzzled you and tried to eat your earring?
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?
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.
Empathy can, perhaps, be taken too far. Such as this weekend when a viewing of "District 9" resulted in pain in one of my arms for hours afterwards. Let's just say that just because a character on the silver screen grows a claw-arm doesn't mean that one ought to feel the sensations that one is also growing a claw-arm. Luckily my sense of caring stopped short of producing black liquid out my nose (see the movie). 
This weekend I triumphed in successfully making my very own Vietnamese fresh spring rolls. No longer will I have to rely on takeout for these soft rice paper-wrapped vegetable appetizers. I even can stand proud on the dipping sauce front. 
Just when I got done celebrating my mother's birthday and pulled into a gas station to fill-'er-up, there was a giant Mexican tuba band with a ventriloquist clown practicing in the lot. And for that, I am grateful.
Albino denim, why do you plague me so? If it wasn't bad enough getting accused of trying to mimic Britney Spears back in 2001, there's a new crop of tween stars who would serve as apparitive warnings were I to gain a new pair. While rehearsing for an Irish play I managed to end up with part of a raw egg on the back pocket of my Gap jeans, yellow against creamy twill. My character warned her brother of the "green-toothed girls of Antrim" in the words of Martin McDonough, while my rear dripped albumen. What is it about this August 2009 that has me considering another jaunt, pre-Labor Day? Moments I feel adolescent, or wish to fit in at Kundalini? I slip into my indigo skinnies: more my style. But still the voice of Amy Sedaris haunts me, enthusiastic and mocking: "I have no questions. I think I'll wear white jeans!"
There is a television series in America titled "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant," and it is reenactments of real-life stories about women with just that experience. I met the casting director of the show tonight, and she shot down my and others' refutations of why this couldn't possibly occur. This proved to me that not only is life as a female capable of strange heights, but that people are even more disconnected from their bodies than I thought. What about a show called "I Didn't Know My Mouth Was Open and I Was Talking or Singing Along to My iPod?" If you've ever been to my gym, you know this phenomenon is not uncommon. Or "I Didn't Know I Owe A Credit Card Company Money"? Bank of America and Capital One sure do think I'd be on that show, because why else would they call me every day? Even "I Didn't Know," in which a whole lot of people could try to get out of responsibility for stuff by lollygagging, their blank stares in lieu of an apology.
You know the day's going to be alright when you pull up outside of work and across the street is a free-for-the-taking giant painted cat portrait. Why would someone let a few tiny sugary-brown splotches get in the way of a lifetime with this 4 x 6 foot objet? A tiny turtle gazes back up at the looming pasty-mauve kitten, as if to say "Why ask? You already know how awesome you are."
If I was a 70 year old Armenian man driving way over the speed limit, I would not have given me the finger. In order to determine his identity, I asked him to complete a nationality quiz. Unfortunately the man filled it out by drawing a picture of his hand giving me the finger while he gave me the finger with his real hand.
When you embark on something you really want, but haven't yet experienced, you can seize up. Your heart beats faster, you sweat, you want to run. Sometimes you do, and end up posing as a pig farmer or a lanyard expert or a lover of steins, just to avoid what you're really after. Your nervous system interprets going after the real deal as a threat, as serious as life or death. It's like a giant bear is chasing you through the forest. But there's no bear.
I'm type A! I have things to do! I say, and then wake up in gnome-print pajamas and sleepily roll over. I am embarking on the next big steps of my career! Followed by putting on a fluffy pink robe and pressing my own juice. I am so hardcore! As I drink the juice out of a cup with a face on it. Get me in a suit and when I'm on, I'm on, but in the meanwhile, you can find me goofing off with homemade puppets, like a cross between the world's best mom and the children she'd have. Or possibly just a human Muppet.
It's on: the countdown until the end of the week when the season three premiere of "Mad Men" airs. What comes of the Sterling Cooperites in the year 1964? I'm taking out my excitement about those unsolved mysteries on a tube of Dior lipstick, as I sashay through the office up to no good.
Dear Teacher, 
"Oh my gosh, I didn't know what to wear since it was going to be 1960s!" the French baby lady gushed at my audition on Friday. "So to research it, I watched Grease, because that took place then, during 'Flower Power.'" She then modeled her getup: a far cry from the 50s of Grease, the 60s of 'Flower Power,' the 60s that the film actually suggests, or the more modern times the film is actually set in. One thing to do a vintage mash-up, as in a photo shoot I did where the 50s were suggested but not articulated on a literal, exacting level. Another entirely to pick up a banana, and since it is fruit, consider it a pineapple. While those aspiring young actors are out reading their very first tome, may I also recommend a picture book of changing fashions-by-era. "This is 80s!" I imagine little Girleen at a second Industrial Revolution sort of audition. "1880s," sighs the casting director, "Nice neon tights."
"Let me tell you first how to pronounce this word," the reader at my audition on Friday said. "None of the other actresses knew it." He pointed to the sides: patriarchy. You can't make this kind of thing up, can you? A friend suggested to me that someday, when I'm on a panel at the Screen Actors Guild giving advice to young actors, suggest this: Read a book.
Last night I had a dream about two ponies that had built-in stilts for legs. Then it turned out that one was a man and one a woman, each wearing a pony suit. They danced together while a giant herd of cows came running through the field. This was all some kind of relief, which goes to show you that three days in a cubicle really can make you feel like an animal in a box, chewing on carrots to pass the time.
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