Craigslist.
Subject: Start Up Web Series!
A small production studio is gearing up for a geek-themed web series! We will be holding auditions in _____, Georgia on January 12th, 2011. While we are still small, we have accomplished a couple of awesome projects. Check out our environmental spots at our website, www._____.com!
Send your headshot and resume to _____@__.com!
It sounded legitimate. For someone spent their mid-winter mornings in their pajamas, ingesting pots of coffee and whatever resided in the back of the fridge, it definitely sounded legitimate. The professional auditions had dried up and the slim pickings were being eaten up by the larger agencies. I felt like a beggar - and beggars couldn’t be choosers.
After conducting a little research to make sure that these guys were an actual company, I forwarded them my headshot and resume. I received a reply within the hour that said,
Wonderful. Glad to see that talent is showing interest! We can see you at 2:00pm. Sound good?
“You got an audition? That’s great!” Clint said when I told him. “Through the agency?”
“No, through Craigslist.”
He was quiet.
“For what?” he asked.
“For a web series about geeky people. It sounds legitimate, but I still have to drive out into ____ for this thing.”
“Meth land?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“Jas, that’s where I am from.”
“It’s that far away?”
“Yeah. It’s literally in the middle of nowhere. And everyone is on meth. They have ... like... the biggest meth problem in the southeast. A few years ago the cops busted one of the largest meth labs in the country on a chicken farm out there.”
“So what should I do?”
“I mean, if you think you should go, then go.”
“Alright.”
“But be reasonably certain you could kill someone if you absolutely had to.”
“It can’t be that bad,” I thought as I drove past the perimeter of the city.
“I mean, I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” I said, driving past the first of the major suburbs.
“Surely it can’t be that bad,” when my exit came up and there was literally nothing there. “Oh my God,” I thought, turning onto a dirt road that ran by a dilapidated chicken house. It looked like someone gassed it and tossed in a working blow-torch.
The roads still suffered from a coating of ice and snow that lingered from the great Snowpocolypse of 2011. My directions took me on three different small, dirt roads - two of which were difficult to maneuver through. The other one was fit for driving, but I knew something was awry when I saw a women hovering around her driveway in a leather jacket and a nightie. She waved her arm to me and motioned me to stop. I pressed the gas pedal.
"Meeeeth!" I imagined her saying as the theme to the Wicked Witch of the West played through my brain, "Meeeeeeeth!"
I toyed with the possibility that my life could be in danger. What would happen if I died? How would my parents feel about my corpse showing up in a meth trench when the detectives had wrapped the case and discovered that I threw my life out the window over a Craigslist ad?
I had to drive up and down the road a few times before I found the number on the mailbox. The description of the house he had given me was useless - all of the houses looked the same. I eventually realized that his house was tucked away behind a long driveway and a wall of trees. I felt my stomach creeping up into my throat as I realized that no one would hear me scream if these people decided to hold me hostage.
The excellent condition of both the house and the yard surprised me. A brand new, red Porsche sat in the driveway next to a golden Toyota. Hanging on the door was a wooden carving of a rabbit with a bow around its neck that said, "WELCOME!"
I rang the doorbell. Inside, I heard the unmistakable sound of a small dog. Footsteps. Approaching. The sound of a man walking on carpet.
"Coming!" I heard from inside.
The door swung open.
I almost fainted.
Standing right in front of me was a 5'11" white guy with a gappy grin, graying teeth, aged tattoos up and down his arms, a cut-off t-shirt, and earlobes that begged for their plugs back.
"You're right on time," he said happily, ushering me into his home.
~End Part II~
Monday, July 25, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
My phone voice brought a man to his knees. Not that I actually saw it.
I was going to fill you in on Part Deuxsies of my journey into the GA Meth Lands to answer a Craigslist audition, but something pretty hilarious just happened here at my temping job.
I'll preface my story with this:
People tell me that I have a voice that belongs in commercials. Maybe I'm tooting my own horn here, but I have to agree. With a vocal register ranging from the tenor notes all the way up to the coloratura trilly regions, I'd say I've got one hell of an instrument on my person. (Hey, any badass teachers looking for a student? I'm looking!)
Want proof? Here is my demo that I recorded in my closet that totally doesn't sound like I recorded it in my closet:
In addition to enabling me to record a kick-ass homemade commercial, my voice makes me the ideal candiate to do the majority of the phone-answering where I work. One of the first things they complimented me on was the way I said,
"Good morning, The ___ Firm, this is Jas. How can I help you?"
They raved about it. That's right. Answering the phone. Apparently a people don't like to have a sassy, buttery, "Why, hello, there!" voice.
This brings us to the story.
A man called the office and asked to speak to one of our contractors.
"Sure! I'll connect you," I said, "Hold on one sec."
"Why, thank you," he said, in a lower voice this time.
Strange.
The phone rings again a few seconds later.
"Good morning, the___ Firm: this is Jas. How can I help you?"
"Jas, this is ____ calling again. I do believe that I was disconnected. Be a dear and re-connect me."
"Sure!"
Thirty seconds or so later, the phone rang again.
"Hey, forgot something. Reconnect me?"
"Of course!"
The phone rang again - and again - and again. Each time led to more excuses.
"I think I spelled ___'s name wrong. Could you spell it out for me?"
"Hey, so I may be coming in for a meeting. Where are you guys?"
"What's a good place to take the guys out to lunch?"
Finally, he says, "I'm sorry, but I have to be honest: you have the most incredible speaking voice I have heard on the phone in a long time. It's just like - Ah!"
I tried to not laugh, but come on! You know that you are causing trouble whenever a man drops what he's saying mid-sentance and caps it off with an Ah!
"Well," I said, my forehead nestled squarly in my palm, "Thank you. Thankyouverymuch."
Click.
I'll preface my story with this:
People tell me that I have a voice that belongs in commercials. Maybe I'm tooting my own horn here, but I have to agree. With a vocal register ranging from the tenor notes all the way up to the coloratura trilly regions, I'd say I've got one hell of an instrument on my person. (Hey, any badass teachers looking for a student? I'm looking!)
Want proof? Here is my demo that I recorded in my closet that totally doesn't sound like I recorded it in my closet:
(note: I'm not a paying Voice123 member.)
And that's just me messing around in a closet (closet jokes, #heyo!). Wait until I get the knockoff spot done for a big hardware chain. Ever met a friendly paint specialist named Jenni? Well, buckle up, kiddos: she's going to be on there sometime next week. Feel free to pass my demo along to those who need voices. I can whip up samples on demand. I also wrote the majority of the copy on my demo, too. Just saying. #icandoitallIn addition to enabling me to record a kick-ass homemade commercial, my voice makes me the ideal candiate to do the majority of the phone-answering where I work. One of the first things they complimented me on was the way I said,
"Good morning, The ___ Firm, this is Jas. How can I help you?"
They raved about it. That's right. Answering the phone. Apparently a people don't like to have a sassy, buttery, "Why, hello, there!" voice.
This brings us to the story.
A man called the office and asked to speak to one of our contractors.
"Sure! I'll connect you," I said, "Hold on one sec."
"Why, thank you," he said, in a lower voice this time.
Strange.
The phone rings again a few seconds later.
"Good morning, the___ Firm: this is Jas. How can I help you?"
"Jas, this is ____ calling again. I do believe that I was disconnected. Be a dear and re-connect me."
"Sure!"
Thirty seconds or so later, the phone rang again.
"Hey, forgot something. Reconnect me?"
"Of course!"
The phone rang again - and again - and again. Each time led to more excuses.
"I think I spelled ___'s name wrong. Could you spell it out for me?"
"Hey, so I may be coming in for a meeting. Where are you guys?"
"What's a good place to take the guys out to lunch?"
Finally, he says, "I'm sorry, but I have to be honest: you have the most incredible speaking voice I have heard on the phone in a long time. It's just like - Ah!"
I tried to not laugh, but come on! You know that you are causing trouble whenever a man drops what he's saying mid-sentance and caps it off with an Ah!
"Well," I said, my forehead nestled squarly in my palm, "Thank you. Thankyouverymuch."
Click.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Warning: Cool Beans Coffee Roasters may actually make you say, "Coolbeans!"
Psst! Maybe you didn't know this, but I'm a huge coffee shop nerd. No, really. I go out of my way to seek out a locally owned shop before I resort to a chain. I reserve the 'Bucks and the 'Bou for emergencies or the airport.
Big Red's one hell of a gal: that was some of the richest, strongest espresso I have ever had.
Verdict? Cool Beans has that artsy, laid back vibe and smooth blends reminiscint of all the best coffee shops from the city. Except Cool Beans is not in the city. This little gem is nestled on the outskirts of Marietta Square. It really is where all the cool kids hang out.
"This is pretty much the cultural mecca of Marietta," the barista said.
Pretty much? I'd say that Cool Beans has it in spades.
Cool Beans Coffee Roasters
31 Mill Street
Marietta, GA
770.422.9866
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The Adventures of Jas in Methland - Part I.
I would like to preface this by saying that I do not normally answer Craigslist auditions.
At least, that's what I would have said before I answered one.
After Disoda-Soda cut the umbilical cord to my temp contract, I saw my sudden swell of free time as an opportunity to try and book some legitimate film or commercial work. I looked forward to answering an audition or taping request without having juggle my schedule or switch shifts without worrying if I was causing someone to go into overtime. Disoda-Soda had sniffed out my distaste for violent men and lazy tourists who at perused the attraction on motorized scooters and decided to cast me out onto the streets? I'd show them. I'd go out and be that much more successful!
My progress can be described by saying, "Yeah. Well."
My initial vigor died over the course of two months.
On this particular morning, I realized that I had exhausted all of my job leads. My agent had only received two taping requests and one in-person audition that led nowhere. Here I was: a supposedly young, attractive person in the middle of a city that boasted an influx of creative work. Where were the gigs that supposedly accompanied all of this booming business? The commercials, the movies? Where did my sanity go?
I aimlessly walked around my apartment in my underwear for two hours, drinking coffee straight from the pot and marveling at the chronically filthy state of my apartment. I flirted with the idea of satisfying my desperate need to go grocery shopping as I emptied the crumbs from the bottom of a bag of corn chips directly into my mouth. My hair was mussy and my face showed signs of stress and sleepless nights. The optimism and hope that I first felt when I lost my job had long faded in favor of a grim future - and I found myself saying, "I will audition for anything - even holding a sign on the side of the road."
I don't know why I thought it would be worth my time to look through the Film/TV section of Craigslist. Originally, I only logged on for the Missed Connections. I have checked them religiously ever since a few years ago when I found one specifically looking for me. Back then I worked in a pet store and, apparently, had such a profound effect on one customer that they took their enamored state to the internet and typed:
Subject: Pet Store Girl
You: work at the pet store on ___ road.
Me: Glasses. Converse sneakers. long hair.
You: Braids. Strawberry blond hair. Blue co-op t-shirt.
Me: I had a lab mix.
You: Amazing.
I couldn't stop checking them. Unlike the slightly more sophisticated PostSecret, whose process for submitting confessions included creating your own postcard and mailing it off to the world, Missed Connections didn't exactly require creativity or effort. You only needed a keyboard, a working internet connection, and an optional grasp of language. For the most part, missed connections amounted to little more than a pile of nonsensical crap.
Occasionally, though, you would find something sticking out of the wreckage.
The same thing can be said about finding auditions on Craigslist. Sometimes you can find a legitimate opportunity amid the internet garbage.
The ad for the web series wasn't quite garbage. It wasn't quite a shining beacon of legitimacy, either.
It was, however, enough to persuade me to drive straight into The Meth Capital of Georgia.
- End Pt. 1 -
At least, that's what I would have said before I answered one.
After Disoda-Soda cut the umbilical cord to my temp contract, I saw my sudden swell of free time as an opportunity to try and book some legitimate film or commercial work. I looked forward to answering an audition or taping request without having juggle my schedule or switch shifts without worrying if I was causing someone to go into overtime. Disoda-Soda had sniffed out my distaste for violent men and lazy tourists who at perused the attraction on motorized scooters and decided to cast me out onto the streets? I'd show them. I'd go out and be that much more successful!
My progress can be described by saying, "Yeah. Well."
My initial vigor died over the course of two months.
On this particular morning, I realized that I had exhausted all of my job leads. My agent had only received two taping requests and one in-person audition that led nowhere. Here I was: a supposedly young, attractive person in the middle of a city that boasted an influx of creative work. Where were the gigs that supposedly accompanied all of this booming business? The commercials, the movies? Where did my sanity go?
I aimlessly walked around my apartment in my underwear for two hours, drinking coffee straight from the pot and marveling at the chronically filthy state of my apartment. I flirted with the idea of satisfying my desperate need to go grocery shopping as I emptied the crumbs from the bottom of a bag of corn chips directly into my mouth. My hair was mussy and my face showed signs of stress and sleepless nights. The optimism and hope that I first felt when I lost my job had long faded in favor of a grim future - and I found myself saying, "I will audition for anything - even holding a sign on the side of the road."
I don't know why I thought it would be worth my time to look through the Film/TV section of Craigslist. Originally, I only logged on for the Missed Connections. I have checked them religiously ever since a few years ago when I found one specifically looking for me. Back then I worked in a pet store and, apparently, had such a profound effect on one customer that they took their enamored state to the internet and typed:
Subject: Pet Store Girl
You: work at the pet store on ___ road.
Me: Glasses. Converse sneakers. long hair.
You: Braids. Strawberry blond hair. Blue co-op t-shirt.
Me: I had a lab mix.
You: Amazing.
I couldn't stop checking them. Unlike the slightly more sophisticated PostSecret, whose process for submitting confessions included creating your own postcard and mailing it off to the world, Missed Connections didn't exactly require creativity or effort. You only needed a keyboard, a working internet connection, and an optional grasp of language. For the most part, missed connections amounted to little more than a pile of nonsensical crap.
Occasionally, though, you would find something sticking out of the wreckage.
The same thing can be said about finding auditions on Craigslist. Sometimes you can find a legitimate opportunity amid the internet garbage.
The ad for the web series wasn't quite garbage. It wasn't quite a shining beacon of legitimacy, either.
It was, however, enough to persuade me to drive straight into The Meth Capital of Georgia.
- End Pt. 1 -
Saturday, July 16, 2011
So what kind of music do you like?
People use this question with me to break the ice all the time. I usually reply,
"Oh, I'm one of those 'I like it all' kind of girls."
The truth is I'm one of those individuals who coasts by on Pandora or my weird ass collection until I stumble upon something that POPS. Then I listen to it over and over.
I heard this song on a fading radio station today. I had to find out what it was. I managed to remember a few of the lines and Googled them until I found it. Lo and behold - it's not just an awesome song, but it's an awesome video.
It's so funny; when I went to get my hair cut earlier today, the stylist asked me to describe myself with a song and I couldn't think of a good one. What is me? What's going on in my life right now? What kind of question is this?
Either way, I find it funny that I discovered this little gem on my way home. It describes my frame of mind.
"Oh, I'm one of those 'I like it all' kind of girls."
The truth is I'm one of those individuals who coasts by on Pandora or my weird ass collection until I stumble upon something that POPS. Then I listen to it over and over.
I heard this song on a fading radio station today. I had to find out what it was. I managed to remember a few of the lines and Googled them until I found it. Lo and behold - it's not just an awesome song, but it's an awesome video.
It's so funny; when I went to get my hair cut earlier today, the stylist asked me to describe myself with a song and I couldn't think of a good one. What is me? What's going on in my life right now? What kind of question is this?
Either way, I find it funny that I discovered this little gem on my way home. It describes my frame of mind.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Wear a cow suit and get free food? Actors aren't above that! (Guest Post by Jono)
Hey, guys! I'm busy writing up some articles for the blogs Allison Writes and Hello Atlanta, but I just wanted to share a story with you.
A few days ago, one of my RENT castmates posted a picture of himself dressed as a cow on Facebook. Hours later, he posted a picture of a lifetime supply of chicken sandwiches.
"Actors gotta eat," he said.
"Actors gotta eat," he said.
It reminded me of when I lost my job at Disoda Soda and had to resort to a variety of odd jobs to be able to pay my rent and survive without completely burning up my savings. If I had been able to do what Jono did, then I would have done it and kept my grocery money in the bank.
I asked Jono to put together a special guest post for you guys and he happily obliged!
--
It started off four years ago.
Truett Cathy, founder of Chick-fil-a, created a day called "Cow Appreciation Day". Poor actors rejoiced. The rules are simple: if you paint your face like a cow or wear a cow mask, you get a free Chick-fil-a sandwich. However, if you dress entirely head-to-toe like a cow, you'll receive a free Chick-fil-a combo (entree, side, and drink).
The first year, I tested the waters. I dressed foolishly like a cow (honestly, I looked like a dalmatian) and, lo and behold, I got a free meal. No catch at all.The second year, my friend and I tried our luck and went to two Chick-fil-a's and received two meals.
By the third year, we realized that Chick-fil-a and Truett Cathy couldn't stop us from going to as many restaurants as possible on his Cow Appreciation Day. We made it to 10 Chick-fil-a's in about six hours.
This year, I went all out. I dazzled my cow outfit in glitter and wore a silver cowbell. My friends and I went on a Cow Tour across the metro-Atlanta area. With a cooler in the trunk and about 11 cupholders, we managed to reach 15 Chick-fil-a's in a matter of eight hours. (This was accomplished before, in between, and after work too.) By the end of the night, we collected over forty combo meals. As much as it sounds like we capitalized on Cow Day, please remember that we are the epitome of bargain shoppers. Most actors don't have the luxury of eating out every day, even if it's fast food. In fact, we were very honest to all of the Chick-fil-a's that we visited and told them of our Cow Tour. Some thought it was a good idea, some laughed in hysterics, no one was annoyed. It was, once again, a very friendly experience...and now I have free Chick-fil-a for a month!
Quote from the day:Random stranger in line: I'm totally judging you for wearing that...
Jono: You're judging me?! I'm judging you for actually having to pay for your food!
And who says nothing is ever free?
- Jono
*Jono Davis is one of the only Asian actors in the Atlanta market. He is also one of the most awesome actors in the Atlanta market. Catch him in Thoroughly Modern Millie at the Atlanta Lyric Theatre this fall!
*Jono Davis is one of the only Asian actors in the Atlanta market. He is also one of the most awesome actors in the Atlanta market. Catch him in Thoroughly Modern Millie at the Atlanta Lyric Theatre this fall!
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Karaoke Ring of Death Time!
HEY-OH!
For those of you who don't know what the Karaoke Ring of Death is, let me explain: KRD is when a bunch of bloggers pick a theme for the month and choose a song that follows that theme. Then they either get drunk and/or silly and record their own version. It doesn't matter if you have instrumental music or not - in fact, most of them just sing right along with the recorded artist.
Then, you send them all to an email address and this awesome woman named Sara scrambles them up and gives you someone else's video to post. It's a ton of fun.
I have long wanted to participate in KRD, but I never could find the time.
Until now. Ladies gentlemen, this month I am hosting the Tsaritsa from over at The Tsaritsa Sez.
The Tsaritsa:
Hey there, readers of the bloggyverse! My name is Alexandra and my
blog is called the Tsaritsa sez (http://www.theTsaritsasez.
where I talk about pop culture, Gen-Y life, politics, and the
experience of trying to break out as a writer in this digital age. I
hope you check it out. Jas is a new blog friend of mine and I have to
give her major props for posting this video, my very first intoxicated
round of the sacred Ring O' Death. I had my girlfriends over the other
night and while we were sitting around my kitchen table sipping
mimosas and playing "Never Have I Ever" it was suggested that we make
a music video. It was my friend Evy's idea, but it ended up working
out perfectly for me. I warned the girls that what we were about to do
was going to go on the internet and hit record. I hope you enjoy!
Ladies and gents, isn't she great?
If you want to see my video, the word on the street is you should head on over to the equally great Sara from Sara Swears a Lot. She's the creator of the KRD and you should read her blog anyway because it's fantastic.
Yes, I am saying you should.
For those of you who don't know what the Karaoke Ring of Death is, let me explain: KRD is when a bunch of bloggers pick a theme for the month and choose a song that follows that theme. Then they either get drunk and/or silly and record their own version. It doesn't matter if you have instrumental music or not - in fact, most of them just sing right along with the recorded artist.
Then, you send them all to an email address and this awesome woman named Sara scrambles them up and gives you someone else's video to post. It's a ton of fun.
I have long wanted to participate in KRD, but I never could find the time.
Until now. Ladies gentlemen, this month I am hosting the Tsaritsa from over at The Tsaritsa Sez.
The Tsaritsa:
Hey there, readers of the bloggyverse! My name is Alexandra and my
blog is called the Tsaritsa sez (http://www.theTsaritsasez.
where I talk about pop culture, Gen-Y life, politics, and the
experience of trying to break out as a writer in this digital age. I
hope you check it out. Jas is a new blog friend of mine and I have to
give her major props for posting this video, my very first intoxicated
round of the sacred Ring O' Death. I had my girlfriends over the other
night and while we were sitting around my kitchen table sipping
mimosas and playing "Never Have I Ever" it was suggested that we make
a music video. It was my friend Evy's idea, but it ended up working
out perfectly for me. I warned the girls that what we were about to do
was going to go on the internet and hit record. I hope you enjoy!
Ladies and gents, isn't she great?
If you want to see my video, the word on the street is you should head on over to the equally great Sara from Sara Swears a Lot. She's the creator of the KRD and you should read her blog anyway because it's fantastic.
Yes, I am saying you should.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Can I please drop everything that I am doing and jump on this?
Every actor needs to be a member of three big casting sites: 800 Casting, Now Casting, and Actors Access.
Actors Access is my favorite because they list more non-union projects and I have actually booked something through them. I also enjoy Actors Access because they regularly send me breakdowns for all kinds of crazy ass projects. Imagine my glee and surprise when I came back from my lunchbreak and saw this sitting in my inbox:
Yeah!
Monday, July 11, 2011
I won something! An actual, physical something!
Hey guys - I have a real post coming soon, I promise. However, I can't keep this to myself right now. I stumbled upon Christa.Jae, an awesome blog belonging to a lovely photographer/designer/all around lovely individual, and discovered she was hosting a give-a-way of one of her first prints!
And I WON! I have never won anything before in my life. I may as well have just won the lottery. Check it out! I screen-capped the blurb on her blog:
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The odd job queen will strike again!
Finding a job in a city that you have never been to before you pack up and move there is difficult. It's considerably more difficult when you have a resume like mine; my resume screams, "I worked hourly jobs during college! I got my degree in theater!"
Since I still plan on heading out to Los Angeles around August/September, I have been trying to secure some kind of gig or employment so that I'm not solely trying to survive on my savings when I get out there.
Check out what I came across today:
It's not enough to pay rent by any means, but isn't that crazy? People will pay other people to sit and entertain their parents for one or two hours a week.
I mean, I'd learn to play bridge for $75 dollars an hour.
Since I still plan on heading out to Los Angeles around August/September, I have been trying to secure some kind of gig or employment so that I'm not solely trying to survive on my savings when I get out there.
Check out what I came across today:
It's not enough to pay rent by any means, but isn't that crazy? People will pay other people to sit and entertain their parents for one or two hours a week.
I mean, I'd learn to play bridge for $75 dollars an hour.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Jas discovered Foursquare. Watch out, world!
If you spoke to me a year and a half ago, you would have never thought of me as the type of girl who had a smart phone with a ton of apps. Oh the times, they are a changin', however, and I went and bought me one of them fancy iPhone machines. It would be some time later before I discovered Foursquare.
Let's talk about why I love Foursquare:
I know that I'm a little late jumping on the bandwagon, but how can you not like an application that lets you check into Trannyville Midtown Atlanta USA?
In addition to your run of the mill places, I can also check into places like liposuction clinics, funeral homes, and stores that people know I can't afford to shop at!
Can we say "cool beans?" Yes. Yes we can.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
I'm up for Blogger of the Month
Just a heads up - if you read Smile Big and Pretty and you happen to be a member of Twenty Something Bloggers, the awesome Lorraine of Late to the Party just nominated me for the August featured blogger! I have been a member of the community for about a year now and I'd love to see SBAP conveniently featured at the same time I head out to Los Angeles.
I'd appreciate it immensely if you popped by the thread that says:
Plus, I would be this happy if you did:
I'd appreciate it immensely if you popped by the thread that says:
AUGUST FEATURED BLOGGER: Vote here!
and voted for me. I post a direct link, so if you're in 20sb then you know where to find it. I can't win if you don't vote, so if you have a free second, I'd be stoked if you popped on by and second-ed-ed or third-ed-ed the nomination.Plus, I would be this happy if you did:
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Things that people undoubtedly say
In the kitchen sits a multi-compartmental bin that houses several different kinds of gourmet coffees, teas, and powdered specialties. Each has its own, single use bag. Beside it: an industrial strength coffee machine with a control panel that lets you choose from several different ways to brew your beverage.It is my sincere belief that, if a person pressed the right combination of buttons on this coffee maker, they would open the door to The Digital World from Tron.
I stand in front of this coffee maker as the hot, caffeinated elixir pours into my glass. Three employees sit behind me. They aren't the employees that say, "Good morning, Jas!" when they walk by my desk. They are the employees that live in their cubicles, the ones who rarely make an appearance; the ones who make gruff, unenthusiastic replies whenever I dial their extension to tell them that they have a delivery.
"Look at her," they're thinking.
"God, just look at her drink her coffee with three stirring straws."
"Yeah, what's up with that? Doesn't she know that those straws are for stirring?"
"Apparently not."
"Yeah, apparently not. Good job, Temp."
"Hey, did you see she actually wore makeup today?"
"Yeah, what's up with that? Does she think she actually works here or something?"
"She thinks she works here enough to take three stirring straws!"
"I know! Who does that?"
My paranoia knows no bounds.
I drink things through a straw because cold drinks hurt my teeth and hot drinks simply feel strange in my mouth. Stirring straws are possibly the dumbest, most counterproductive accessory to coffee in the history of mankind; they are too small to sip with the kind of vigor that an average person approaches their beverages with.
In reality, my flair for the dramatics proved to be less than accurate. I turned around, prepared to defend my three straws, but all I saw were three men desperately trying to decipher the last clue in the crossword puzzle. They hadn't even noticed my straws.
Later that day, I took a five and hauled to the ladies room. The woman from the firm across the way came in. I identified her by the sound of her heels on the tiles. This was a woman who wore a perfectly coordinated outfit every single day and bore a striking resemblance to Joan Rivers circa her third plastic surgery.
This was also a woman who possessed an uncanny knack of trying to barge into whatever bathroom stall I happen to be in. Without fail, Joan 2 needs to pee whenever I need to pee and she will automatically go to my chosen stall. I tried switching up my stall of choice to throw her off. I have tried using the handicap bathroom. Today was her fourth attempt to invade my relief space - and she almost did it. I forgot to lock the door. I realize this as soon as her heels touch the floor and I reach for the knob, trying so hard to push the button before it was too late.
Suddenly it was too late.
"SOMEONE'S IN HERE," I said, frantically trying to swat the door shut. The look of horror on her face said everything.
"Lock the door!" she yelled and stormed out. I remained in my stall to digest the events.
She knows what I look like.
She knows what I look like when I'm using the bathroom. I could only imagine the conversation she must have been having with her colleagues at that exact second.
"God, would you listen to what the temp from next door just did? She was using the bathroom with the door shut but not locked. Can you believe that?"
"Who does that?"
"I don't know, but you can bet your ass that she's the kind of temp who uses all the coffee stirring straws, too."
"Of course she does. Are you kidding me? The girl doesn't even lock the bathroom door!"
Then, on my way back to my desk, I peeked inside the firm across the way and saw Joan 2 standing in front of a television, yelling. I couldn't hear her, but reading lips is easy enough when the phrase is as simple as,
"But she's guilty!"
There are far worse things that people could think about you other than your straw usage and door locking habits.
There are far worse things that people could think about you other than your straw usage and door locking habits.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Happy Fourth of July! + Video blog + I got guest-posted
First, a little message from yours truly:
Before I surrender my holiday to the clowns and carnies, however, I wanted to show you some photos that I took with my new camera. I haven't really learned to do anything super cool yet, but I did manage to grab some great shots of my niece proving that we are related. My niece is always asking, "Aunt Jas, can you do the funny faces?"
And I will contort my face-ulars into a variety of strange expressions which always delight her. She has since decided to challenge my funny faces with a slew of her own:
Proof #2.
Proof #3.
Clint and I took a small detour last night to Brewhouse. We won't have the chance to really celebrate the 4th of July tonight.
He'll be working at Disoda-Soda and I'll be working at a carnival - yes, I said it; I will be working at a carnival. I hope that it's a real carnival, but the memo said that I would be reporting to a country club golf course, which means that it's probably a pretend carnival for rich suburbanites.
I'm practicing my "ONE DOLLAR THROW, TWO DOLLAR THROW!" voice either way.
--
Oh - before you go and harass your elderly neighbors with firecrackers and exploding whistlers, you should check out dELLEctable - I recently wrote a guest post for her series on dealing with creepers. Elle's a righteous Betty to boot, so definitely check out the rest of her blog!
Before I surrender my holiday to the clowns and carnies, however, I wanted to show you some photos that I took with my new camera. I haven't really learned to do anything super cool yet, but I did manage to grab some great shots of my niece proving that we are related. My niece is always asking, "Aunt Jas, can you do the funny faces?"
And I will contort my face-ulars into a variety of strange expressions which always delight her. She has since decided to challenge my funny faces with a slew of her own:
Proof #1.
This is Dad's "Pop Pop" t-shirt. My crafty sister made him one for Chrstmas.
Clint and I took a small detour last night to Brewhouse. We won't have the chance to really celebrate the 4th of July tonight.
Clint's photogenic!
I wasn't feeling so photogenic, so I created a makeshift hidey-hole.
He'll be working at Disoda-Soda and I'll be working at a carnival - yes, I said it; I will be working at a carnival. I hope that it's a real carnival, but the memo said that I would be reporting to a country club golf course, which means that it's probably a pretend carnival for rich suburbanites.
I'm practicing my "ONE DOLLAR THROW, TWO DOLLAR THROW!" voice either way.
--
Oh - before you go and harass your elderly neighbors with firecrackers and exploding whistlers, you should check out dELLEctable - I recently wrote a guest post for her series on dealing with creepers. Elle's a righteous Betty to boot, so definitely check out the rest of her blog!
Friday, July 1, 2011
That time when an Atlanta politician tried to chase me down and wipe Carmex on my lips.
This is a long one. But it's worth it.
I would like to preface this story with the following:
In my adolescence, I dreamed of the day when I would join the ranks of the professionals and partake of the theatrical art form. As a professional, I would be light footed, charming, and bright eyed and bushy tailed all of the time. All of us actors would get along smashingly! We would hobnob with the musicians and burst out into musical numbers that were impeccably executed on the fly. When the show drew its final curtain, we would all drink champagne and smoke cigars and ride off into the night in limousines. All theater would be shine like Broadway and we would sparkle with life and love.
Considering that I was only fourteen and my vision already included alcohol and cigars, I should have known that I was well on my way to becoming jaded and comically depressed.
Now that I have closed show my second show, I know better than to believe that the symphony erupts out of this air while we clink glasses of Moët. (Side note: Thank God.)
My experiences took me to a fork in the road: the right side, which had the unicorns, sparkles, Cuban cigars and Tête de Cuvée, was blocked by orange cones and a massive sign that looked like this:
The left side, the side filled with fake books, coffee, incense, dirty clothes strewn about the apartment, sleepless nights, and crumpled up pieces of paper that represented the agonizing question, “Am I using the right head shot!?” had it’s own carny standing at the entrance, ushering the artists in by whooping,
“Step right up, step right up: This is real life right here, Folks!”
Now I know where the actors go.
We go to the bar.
--
In this case, it was the Marietta location of La Parilla, a Mexican franchise known for actually serving jumbo shrimp when the menu says they have jumbo shrimp and also for having a Mariachi bands on the weekends.
I met up with the box office manager in the parking lot. We both arrived late; she had to make sure the set technicians were fed and I decided to pre-game and grab a drink with the director and one of my former college instructors.
"My boyfriend is going to be so mad at me," she laughed, "I didn't tell him that we were meeting up with theater people."
The sheer force and volume of the drunken songs and conversation was enough to propel us into a parallel universe. The majority of the cast had assembled at one giant table in the center of the restaurant. Drinks upon drinks laced the table, and more were coming. A mariachi band played La Bamba as half of the cast danced around the table. Phrases like, "Play Ring of Fire!"and,"YES, PAPI, YES!" resonated throughout the restaurant as the other patrons cast disapproving glances toward the thriving example of our kind. This was what the box office manager had meant when she said theater people. (Side note: Thank God.)
We grabbed some seats at the smaller table with the stage manager and her sassy, flamboyantly wonderful roommate. I felt perfectly content to apart from the happily intoxicated; I couldn't endive enough alcohol to even approach their level. My plan was to save the drinking for the after party, when the alcohol would be free.
"Anything for you, Senorita?" the server asked.
"Just water, thanks," I said, scanning through the menu.
"Oh my gosh. Jas," whispered Paul, the sassy red head, "Raise your head and look to the left, but make it look natural and not too, ‘look at me turn my head on purpose."
"Why?"
"Because that man is totally staring at you!"
"Really?"
"Oh my god, he totally is!" the stage manager whispered, "On second thought, don't look. Creepy."
I wore a spaceman t-shirt and my face still had bright yellow and blue eyeshadow crawling all the way up to my eyebrows. Out of all of the gorgeous women in our group, I don't know why this guy targeted me.
"He looks really trashed," Paul said.
"Oh god!" said the stage manager, "He's sending his wing man over - quick, duck!"
I saw her face clench with a look that screamed, “Too late!” as I felt a foreign hand embrace my shoulder.
"Excuse me, miss?"
I slowly turned to the side; the way one might do in a sitcom when they have been caught doing something very obvious, and said,
"Hi.”
"I have a little wager going on with my gentlemen friend over there," he said, pointing to the man who started it all, "as to who you are."
Who I was? Did this guy really just say ‘a little wager?’
"I'm sorry?" I asked.
"We were just talking and we wanted if you were somebody famous."
"He wants to know if you're a hooker!" Paul whispered.
"No, I'm not famous yet," I replied.
"Oh! 'Yet,' you say?"
"I'm an actor."
"Are you a singer?"
"...Yes."
"Like back-up singing?"
"I mean, I can."
Clearly, he expected me to elaborate, but I just sat there laughing - nervously. I laughed he kind of laugh that someone laughs when they’re actually thinking, Please God: Make this person go away.
"Well,” he said after an awkward, lengthy pause, “I’m going to go back over to my friend now. You, ma’am,” he grabbed my hand and clasped it in his own, “have a very nice evening.”
Then he took his grey hair and Hawaiian shirt back to the bar. After a moment of silence, the whole table erupted into fits of snickering. What the hell seemed to be the general consensus.
“And he’s still looking at you,” said the stage manager, “God, they’re not even trying to be secret about it.”
“Maybe he’ll anonymously pay my tab,” I muttered.
“Wait - what is Clifford doing?” she said. I looked over. The two men had flagged one of my cast mates down on his way back from the mens room and how rested their elbows on his shoulders, gathering as much information as they could.
“Clifford, don’t talk to that man!” Paul whispered. We saw Clifford nod and walk over.
“No!” Paul said.
“Jas,” Clifford said, putting his hand on the back of my chair, “Were you making eyes with anyone?”
“No.”
“You don’t have a crush on anyone at the bar?”
“No! Why?”
“That man was asking about you. He says that you are the most beautiful girl he has ever seen and he wants to know all about you.”
“Tell him no!” said Paul.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“His name is Something Kale. and he’s a Politician. And he wants to dedicate a song to you.”
“His name was Something?”
“I didn’t catch the rest. Just Kale. Like the leafy greens. What song do you want?”
“Jas, just say the word and Paul here will put his arms around your shoulders,” whispered the stage manager, keeping her focus on the two men, “Or I will. Actually, no, I won’t; he’d probably like it too much.”
--
“Hey, Jas,” said Toodle, another cast mate from the larger table, “Do you know that there’s a guy at the bar who keeps looking at you weird?”
“YES!” said my table.
“Is he creeping you out?”
“Toodle, come put your arms on Jas’s shoulders. Make it look like she’s taken,” said the stage manager. By this point, the man with the glasses had been staring and pointing for an hour and I felt mortified. As Toodle literally stood guard behind my chair and planted his hands on my shoulders. I just stared at my food.
Toodle eventually had to go home to his real family, but assured me that he would call out something like, “See you at home, Honey!” on the way out so that Politician Creepy Kale would hear and hopefully back off.
“Score!” said Paul, “Did you see his face? So pissed. Go Toodle!”
--
“Oh, look at that,” sneered the stage manager, “he already has another woman. Good riddance.”
I peeked over. Sure enough, Politician Creepy Kale had lassoed a blond woman to his side. I took this as a sign that I could safely get up and go to the restroom, but as I made my way back to my table from the ladies room, Paul said,
"Politician Kale just slowly undressed you with his eyes."
"What?"
"He stripped your clothes off and threw them around the restaurant."
"I think it's time to go," I said.
"I think I'd agree," he said.
We flagged down our server and he took our cards away. Politician Kale must have sensed out imminent departure because all of a sudden, the stage manager says very seriously,
"Jas - you had better get ready. Paul, go chase the waiter down and grab her card. Sign the receipt if you have to."
The next two minutes rank near some of weirdest situations I have ever encountered in my adult life. Clifford had been summoned yet again - this time, to introduce me to the creepy politician. I watched in horror as he led the drunken buffoon toward me and said,
"Jas, this is ... Kale. He's a politician."
Politician Kale sauntered to my left and stood between the stage manager and me. He took my hand.
"Who ARE you?" I asked. He didn't say anything; he just brought my hand to his mouth and kissed it.
"Who ARE YOU?" I asked again. He remained silent.
Then he did it.
He reached into his pocket and produced a small container of Carmex. He dabbed some with his finger and slowly brought it toward my mouth. As the gooey tip of his finger neared my face, I abruptly turned the other way and said, "EW!"
Paul darted over and shielded me with his arms.
"Back off," said Paul, "She's off limits!"
The drunk Politician Kale either didn't hear or didn't care, because he then tried to swoop in and kiss me. He didn't go for a peck on the cheek, either. He opened his mouth and dived toward my face with the intention of cracking me open and crawling inside. When that failed, he grabbed my head and planted a nasty, wet kiss on my forehead.
"Dude, back off!" said Paul, "Off limits means off limits!"
"Why don't you just get the fuck out of the way?" said Politician Kale, trying to push past Paul.
Quiet fell over the area and the stage manager's face changed instantly from annoyed yet amused to livid. As if it weren't enough to get drunk off your ass in public and slobber over strange women, he wanted to swear at the stage manager's sassy bestie?
"Jas, just go toward to door," she ordered. She motioned for the approaching server to meet me at the door with my receipt. Politician Kale grabbed my arm as I tried to make my way to the door, but Paul stepped in, ready to Patti Lupone his ass if necessary.
---
"Clifford, what on earth were you thinking when you brought him over?" I asked him when we had safely made it outside.
"He said he wanted to meet the girl with the long hair and the white legs, so I said ok!"
"So not cool," said the stage manager, "I can't believe that just happened."
"Does anyone know who that guy was? Clifford, did you even get his whole name?"
"All I got was Kale."
"I have got to find out who this guy is."
--
I went home and immediately Googled every single keyword combination I could think of that would lead me to a politician named Kale. I'm almost certain that he gave a fake name.
Part of my still jokingly recalls the horrifically embarrassing event, but part of me feels that legitimate anger from being accosted by a pig of Douglas Reynholm proportions.Like I said earlier, I used to think that when people finally began to recognize me an artistic being, they would become enamored with my personality and feel a symphony of intoxicating side effects. Now? I'm old enough and jaded enough to know that the sensation I once dreamed about has another name: it's called being horny.
---
Post note:
The stage manager has video footage of the Carmex moment on her phone that I am feverishly pursuing. I'm not kidding. There is video of this asshole trying to dot my lips with his pocket lint-Carmex.
If you know any man in his late 30's/early 40's with a tan, brown hair, and thick rimmed glasses that dabbles in politics and wear wear shirts and and stupid, multi-colored, argyle patterned, frat man shorts, tell him to keep his Carmex where the sun don't shine.
I would like to preface this story with the following:
In my adolescence, I dreamed of the day when I would join the ranks of the professionals and partake of the theatrical art form. As a professional, I would be light footed, charming, and bright eyed and bushy tailed all of the time. All of us actors would get along smashingly! We would hobnob with the musicians and burst out into musical numbers that were impeccably executed on the fly. When the show drew its final curtain, we would all drink champagne and smoke cigars and ride off into the night in limousines. All theater would be shine like Broadway and we would sparkle with life and love.
Considering that I was only fourteen and my vision already included alcohol and cigars, I should have known that I was well on my way to becoming jaded and comically depressed.
Now that I have closed show my second show, I know better than to believe that the symphony erupts out of this air while we clink glasses of Moët. (Side note: Thank God.)
My experiences took me to a fork in the road: the right side, which had the unicorns, sparkles, Cuban cigars and Tête de Cuvée, was blocked by orange cones and a massive sign that looked like this:
The left side, the side filled with fake books, coffee, incense, dirty clothes strewn about the apartment, sleepless nights, and crumpled up pieces of paper that represented the agonizing question, “Am I using the right head shot!?” had it’s own carny standing at the entrance, ushering the artists in by whooping,
“Step right up, step right up: This is real life right here, Folks!”
Now I know where the actors go.
We go to the bar.
--
In this case, it was the Marietta location of La Parilla, a Mexican franchise known for actually serving jumbo shrimp when the menu says they have jumbo shrimp and also for having a Mariachi bands on the weekends.
I met up with the box office manager in the parking lot. We both arrived late; she had to make sure the set technicians were fed and I decided to pre-game and grab a drink with the director and one of my former college instructors.
"My boyfriend is going to be so mad at me," she laughed, "I didn't tell him that we were meeting up with theater people."
The sheer force and volume of the drunken songs and conversation was enough to propel us into a parallel universe. The majority of the cast had assembled at one giant table in the center of the restaurant. Drinks upon drinks laced the table, and more were coming. A mariachi band played La Bamba as half of the cast danced around the table. Phrases like, "Play Ring of Fire!"and,"YES, PAPI, YES!" resonated throughout the restaurant as the other patrons cast disapproving glances toward the thriving example of our kind. This was what the box office manager had meant when she said theater people. (Side note: Thank God.)
We grabbed some seats at the smaller table with the stage manager and her sassy, flamboyantly wonderful roommate. I felt perfectly content to apart from the happily intoxicated; I couldn't endive enough alcohol to even approach their level. My plan was to save the drinking for the after party, when the alcohol would be free.
"Anything for you, Senorita?" the server asked.
"Just water, thanks," I said, scanning through the menu.
"Oh my gosh. Jas," whispered Paul, the sassy red head, "Raise your head and look to the left, but make it look natural and not too, ‘look at me turn my head on purpose."
"Why?"
"Because that man is totally staring at you!"
"Really?"
"Oh my god, he totally is!" the stage manager whispered, "On second thought, don't look. Creepy."
I wore a spaceman t-shirt and my face still had bright yellow and blue eyeshadow crawling all the way up to my eyebrows. Out of all of the gorgeous women in our group, I don't know why this guy targeted me.
"He looks really trashed," Paul said.
"Oh god!" said the stage manager, "He's sending his wing man over - quick, duck!"
I saw her face clench with a look that screamed, “Too late!” as I felt a foreign hand embrace my shoulder.
"Excuse me, miss?"
I slowly turned to the side; the way one might do in a sitcom when they have been caught doing something very obvious, and said,
"Hi.”
"I have a little wager going on with my gentlemen friend over there," he said, pointing to the man who started it all, "as to who you are."
Who I was? Did this guy really just say ‘a little wager?’
"I'm sorry?" I asked.
"We were just talking and we wanted if you were somebody famous."
"He wants to know if you're a hooker!" Paul whispered.
"No, I'm not famous yet," I replied.
"Oh! 'Yet,' you say?"
"I'm an actor."
"Are you a singer?"
"...Yes."
"Like back-up singing?"
"I mean, I can."
Clearly, he expected me to elaborate, but I just sat there laughing - nervously. I laughed he kind of laugh that someone laughs when they’re actually thinking, Please God: Make this person go away.
"Well,” he said after an awkward, lengthy pause, “I’m going to go back over to my friend now. You, ma’am,” he grabbed my hand and clasped it in his own, “have a very nice evening.”
Then he took his grey hair and Hawaiian shirt back to the bar. After a moment of silence, the whole table erupted into fits of snickering. What the hell seemed to be the general consensus.
“And he’s still looking at you,” said the stage manager, “God, they’re not even trying to be secret about it.”
“Maybe he’ll anonymously pay my tab,” I muttered.
“Wait - what is Clifford doing?” she said. I looked over. The two men had flagged one of my cast mates down on his way back from the mens room and how rested their elbows on his shoulders, gathering as much information as they could.
“Clifford, don’t talk to that man!” Paul whispered. We saw Clifford nod and walk over.
“No!” Paul said.
“Jas,” Clifford said, putting his hand on the back of my chair, “Were you making eyes with anyone?”
“No.”
“You don’t have a crush on anyone at the bar?”
“No! Why?”
“That man was asking about you. He says that you are the most beautiful girl he has ever seen and he wants to know all about you.”
“Tell him no!” said Paul.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“His name is Something Kale. and he’s a Politician. And he wants to dedicate a song to you.”
“His name was Something?”
“I didn’t catch the rest. Just Kale. Like the leafy greens. What song do you want?”
“Jas, just say the word and Paul here will put his arms around your shoulders,” whispered the stage manager, keeping her focus on the two men, “Or I will. Actually, no, I won’t; he’d probably like it too much.”
--
“Hey, Jas,” said Toodle, another cast mate from the larger table, “Do you know that there’s a guy at the bar who keeps looking at you weird?”
“YES!” said my table.
“Is he creeping you out?”
“Toodle, come put your arms on Jas’s shoulders. Make it look like she’s taken,” said the stage manager. By this point, the man with the glasses had been staring and pointing for an hour and I felt mortified. As Toodle literally stood guard behind my chair and planted his hands on my shoulders. I just stared at my food.
Toodle eventually had to go home to his real family, but assured me that he would call out something like, “See you at home, Honey!” on the way out so that Politician Creepy Kale would hear and hopefully back off.
“Score!” said Paul, “Did you see his face? So pissed. Go Toodle!”
--
“Oh, look at that,” sneered the stage manager, “he already has another woman. Good riddance.”
I peeked over. Sure enough, Politician Creepy Kale had lassoed a blond woman to his side. I took this as a sign that I could safely get up and go to the restroom, but as I made my way back to my table from the ladies room, Paul said,
"Politician Kale just slowly undressed you with his eyes."
"What?"
"He stripped your clothes off and threw them around the restaurant."
"I think it's time to go," I said.
"I think I'd agree," he said.
We flagged down our server and he took our cards away. Politician Kale must have sensed out imminent departure because all of a sudden, the stage manager says very seriously,
"Jas - you had better get ready. Paul, go chase the waiter down and grab her card. Sign the receipt if you have to."
The next two minutes rank near some of weirdest situations I have ever encountered in my adult life. Clifford had been summoned yet again - this time, to introduce me to the creepy politician. I watched in horror as he led the drunken buffoon toward me and said,
"Jas, this is ... Kale. He's a politician."
Politician Kale sauntered to my left and stood between the stage manager and me. He took my hand.
"Who ARE you?" I asked. He didn't say anything; he just brought my hand to his mouth and kissed it.
"Who ARE YOU?" I asked again. He remained silent.
Then he did it.
He reached into his pocket and produced a small container of Carmex. He dabbed some with his finger and slowly brought it toward my mouth. As the gooey tip of his finger neared my face, I abruptly turned the other way and said, "EW!"
Paul darted over and shielded me with his arms.
"Back off," said Paul, "She's off limits!"
The drunk Politician Kale either didn't hear or didn't care, because he then tried to swoop in and kiss me. He didn't go for a peck on the cheek, either. He opened his mouth and dived toward my face with the intention of cracking me open and crawling inside. When that failed, he grabbed my head and planted a nasty, wet kiss on my forehead.
"Dude, back off!" said Paul, "Off limits means off limits!"
"Why don't you just get the fuck out of the way?" said Politician Kale, trying to push past Paul.
Quiet fell over the area and the stage manager's face changed instantly from annoyed yet amused to livid. As if it weren't enough to get drunk off your ass in public and slobber over strange women, he wanted to swear at the stage manager's sassy bestie?
"Jas, just go toward to door," she ordered. She motioned for the approaching server to meet me at the door with my receipt. Politician Kale grabbed my arm as I tried to make my way to the door, but Paul stepped in, ready to Patti Lupone his ass if necessary.
---
"Clifford, what on earth were you thinking when you brought him over?" I asked him when we had safely made it outside.
"He said he wanted to meet the girl with the long hair and the white legs, so I said ok!"
"So not cool," said the stage manager, "I can't believe that just happened."
"Does anyone know who that guy was? Clifford, did you even get his whole name?"
"All I got was Kale."
"I have got to find out who this guy is."
--
I went home and immediately Googled every single keyword combination I could think of that would lead me to a politician named Kale. I'm almost certain that he gave a fake name.
Part of my still jokingly recalls the horrifically embarrassing event, but part of me feels that legitimate anger from being accosted by a pig of Douglas Reynholm proportions.Like I said earlier, I used to think that when people finally began to recognize me an artistic being, they would become enamored with my personality and feel a symphony of intoxicating side effects. Now? I'm old enough and jaded enough to know that the sensation I once dreamed about has another name: it's called being horny.
---
Post note:
The stage manager has video footage of the Carmex moment on her phone that I am feverishly pursuing. I'm not kidding. There is video of this asshole trying to dot my lips with his pocket lint-Carmex.
If you know any man in his late 30's/early 40's with a tan, brown hair, and thick rimmed glasses that dabbles in politics and wear wear shirts and and stupid, multi-colored, argyle patterned, frat man shorts, tell him to keep his Carmex where the sun don't shine.
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