Smile Big and Pretty.

Dammit. Guess I had better start working out again.

2012-01-27T22:20:00.000-05:00

One thing I noticed at Sundance after walking up the icy hill for the eleventy billionth time: "Wow. All of these women work out."

SBAP Video: The Noob's Guide to Sundance 4: Don't be a seat pee-er.

2012-01-24T21:38:00.001-05:00

Even MORE practical advice on how to help you not show your ass at Sundance!

I went to parties and made it out alive!

2012-01-22T17:33:00.002-05:00

I'm taking a break from giving you practical(ly absurd) tips on how not to show your ass at the Sundance Film Festival to let you know that I'm alive, well, and having a swell time!

SBAP Video: A Noob's Guide for Noobs at the Sundance Film Festival - Part 3

2012-01-21T17:48:00.000-05:00

SBAP Video: A Noob's Guide for Noobs at the Sundance Film Festival - Part 2

2012-01-21T04:12:00.002-05:00

SBAP Video Blog: A Noob's Guide for Noobs at the Sundance Film Festival

2012-01-20T12:03:00.001-05:00

Sundance Film Festival Blog: Part 1

2012-01-19T16:09:00.000-05:00

I knew that this trip held incredible potential the minute that my roommate and I set out for Hartsfield Jackson Airport. We turned on the rock station and let songs reminiscent of Eye of the Tiger serenade the journey onward. I hadn't slept for more than two hours the night before. The gears in my head had begun to turn and there was no stopping them. I knew that the trip would absolutely blow my mind away once I saw that I would be finishing up my flight in the Frontier Badger Jet. This level of excitement makes much more sense if you take into consideration that I once spent two hours creating a Facebook photo album comprised of badger pictures from Google Image and tagging them as my friends.

I took it as a sign of goof fortune. The Good Fortune Badger.

I tried to calm my nerves as I boarded the plane.
"In five hours, you will be flying halfway across the country to go to your first film festival," I thought, "and your first film festival is Sundance."

As of right now, I am standing at a little kiosk playing a game with myself as to who is from California and who is not from California. So far everyone who wears the jeans/blazer/indoor sunglasses combination is from California. As soon as some more of the crew gets here, we will all hop on a shuttle and scoot off to the house that the producer rented for everyone. And then the madness will officially begin.

I'm staring at the calendar I spent the last couple of weeks drawing up. My aggressive approach to RSVPing for events has paid off: I had at least one social event to attend every day - one of which was a massive karaoke contest at the end of the week where singers compete for three hours worth of distribution consultation for their film. I want to go just for the karaoke, but here's the thing: if I go to this little schindig and sing "Ballroom Blitz," then I will win. Scientifically speaking, that is the only possibility.

This is the energy that I intend to carry through the festival:

Sundance. 2012.

Holla.

SBAP Video Blog: Fairy Parties and Film Festivals!

2012-01-18T01:14:00.001-05:00

SBAP Video: Drugs and Auditions

2012-01-11T16:31:00.001-05:00

The sick from the previous SBAP video got so bad that I had to go to the doctor. He gave me a bunch of goodies to take - just hours before I had an audition.

The Waltz of the Cold Readers

2012-01-09T12:39:00.000-05:00

"... The hell is he walking all the way over there for?"

When you are an actor who has to audition for a play by cold reading with another actor, you find yourself in a situation very similar to the typical blind date. Both of you enter a stressful situation with the goal of throwing the best you have to offer at each other in front of someone who has the ability to let you leave your temp job for a couple of months.

If you must perform a cold-read with a partner, one of three things will happen:

1. You will fit one another and discover a nice little chemistry.
2. You will clash.
3. You will putter about, aimlessly trying to find a rhythm or flow with one another until the scene is over and neither one of you has done anything particularly impressive.

A few months ago I answered an audition invitation and found myself in a studio facing a man who looked too young to remind me of Count Chocula. The gray streaks, zipping up both sides of his head, seemed out of place amidst his grey t-shirt and sweatpants. Based on the way the conversation was going when I walked in, he must have already known everyone there.
"Yeah, the commercial went pretty well," he said, "but you know what? I mean, really, you know what? They took one look at my dog and they said, "We want him back next week." So I basically booked another two days because of my dog!"
While they chattered about this good twist of fortune, I did that thing where one feigns inclusion into a larger group by laughing along as if they had been in on the whole conversation. I did this as I silently pondered how I could acquire a magical, job booking dog.

"Ok, ok, ok!" The director began, pacing the front row as he stroked his chin. The conversation cut to silence as he approached us.
"You've read the scenes over?"
"Yes."
"Wonderful. Wonderful. Now, any questions for me?"
The Count and I looked at each other and shook our heads.
"Great. Going for it. Love it. Now, I want to see you create a whole world with these two characters. Really build the scene between you two. And go."

The Count immediately turned away, dramatically casting his glance to the side.
"Wait," I read, "Wait! You don't understand."
The man violently turned and faced me.
"Really?" he asked, "I mean, really? Why did you do that?"
He then turned and took three steps away from me, saying, "Why did you lie to me, Vanessa?"
"Because, Carl," I said, "I had to."

The Count took a few more steps away from me. I followed him. Only when I got to him and said my next line, he took off in the other direction! I had misunderstood something. Apparently, create your own world is theater code for, Your partner has rabies. RUN!

"I needed the money, Carl," I called out - when I could really only think, Dammit, turn around!
He compromised by turning to run backwards a few steps, his palms extended before him as if to say, "Back off, woman."
"You don't need anything," he said, raising his voice, "You are too young to know anything."
"I'm old enough to make my own decisions!" I replied.

He began to walk in a circle around me, stopping halfway as he breathed down my back. If I turned to face him, my back would be to the director. If I stayed facing the director, he would loom over my back. Not to mention that my mind goes straight to choking the second someone assumes any kind of authoritative position behind me.
Jas, my instincts seemed to say, He wants to choke you!

"I gave you everything," he growled.
He's going to choke you!
He didn't actually choke me. Instead, he finished his circle and fumed,
"And this is what you do!? You exploit yourself?"
I turned to confront him, preparing for a grand finale of some kind - and then he took off again, retracing his steps back to one.
Come back! I thought. Get back over here! We have to finish!

The director sent us back out into the lobby after the read was over, but I went straight to the bathroom and washed my hands in some cold water. I felt something similar to the sensation that two people feel when they discover that they have no idea how to have sex with one another.

I dried my hands and found the runner who had originally taken my headshot and resume.
"I don't think they need to see me anymore," I whispered. The runner went back into the studio and came back out.
"You're right," he said with a smile, "Have a good night."

I chuckled on my way home, almost wishing that he had actually choked me - at least then we would have stayed in one place.

*The audition dialog has been changed completely.

SBAP Video: The Hodgepodge Video Blodge (or "I'm Sick")

2012-01-07T18:24:00.001-05:00

It's flu season!

Watch me get hopped up on over-the-counter miracles and discuss the finer, philosophical points of babysitting (AKA bodyguarding), the films StepUp 3D and Grown-ups, auditions and why it's pointless to worry about them, and the things that I think about when I'm feeling under the weather.

It's pretty great. I wear a panda hat and a mustache. I also do an impression of Marcell the Shell with Shoes on.

"Hello?"

2012-01-05T11:41:00.002-05:00

My mother sat directly across from me, her head in her hands as she rubbed her temples with tired, circular motions. Heavy sighs squeezed through the cracks between her fingers and, finally, she brought her gaze to meet mine and said,

"You cannot continue to answer the phone like that."

I was around five and a half years old when I decided that, yes, the time had come for me to start answering the family telephone. This self proclaimed responsibility inspired feelings of elation when I imagined myself rushing to the phone and picking it up with a grand, sweeping motion before saying in the most articulate English accent,

"Hello."

My greeting would be spot on because I had meticulously prepared myself by obsessively studying Tim Curry's understated performance as Mr. Hector in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. I planned on debuting my first greeting for the day when I felt that I had fully mastered the fanciness and snidery in his speech. I fully immersed myself in what I then considered to be the epitome fanciness and class.

"Naoh Thehnk'hyuu," I said one night at the dinner table, refusing the dish of brussel sprouts that Mother had offered me.

"I daon't think I woohd loyk thaose, thehnk'hyuu."

Mom and dad shot each other a quizzical look as my sister snickered. Mother quietly set the dish down, cleared her throat, and said quietly,

"Sweetheart, this is the dinner table. This is real life. And you know what you're going to eat?"

I shook my head as my mother leaned in toward me and lowered her voice.

"Brussel Sprouts."

Never the one to let something like real life douse my aspirations, I quietly continued my studies until, one morning, I awoke to beams of sunshine pouring over my face ever so gently and I knew: the time had come. I spent the day looking for any and all excuses to keep my mother away from the side of the house which housed our family telephone, but it seemed that she was always conveniently close by every time someone called.

Then it happened.

I was watching cartoons while mom watered the outdoor plants and the phone began ringing. I listened for mom's footsteps - nothing. She had not heard. I ran to the phone, brimming over with excitement, and snatched the receiver in my hands. I took a deep breath.

Everything I had planned, everything I had practiced; it would all pay off in this one, magic moment. Except it didn't. I picked up the phone and said absolutely nothing. I couldn't even exhale.

"Hello?" said a male voice. I felt my chest beginning to flutter.

"Hello? Anyone there?" the voice asked again.

I slammed the receiver down and ran upstairs where I stayed for the next hour and cried.

I made sure to breath out on the second attempt. I used more caution and, in true Mr. Hector fashion, said something along the lines of,

"Hellew. How moay I help yew?"

The third attempt got my mother's attention. Apparently the caller had tried again, claiming that he hung up after a strange old woman with a weird accent had asked him about his dewey.

"Jas," she asked, "Are you answering the phone?"

I surveyed her for a second, taking note of her relaxed stance and complacent eyebrows. After deeming the situation to be non-hazardous, I replied,

"Yes."

"What a big girl," she said, clasping her hands. "Now. Show mommy you answer the phone."

Which brings us to the beginning of the story; the part where mom taught me to pick up the receiver and say, in the standard American dialect,

"Hello. Sams Residence."

When that would eventually become too monotonous, I would begin to try to emulate the robotic female voice on most 1-800 numbers. I tried saying,

"Good day. You have now reached the Sams residence!" with the same deep, formal qualities. It didn't last.

The greetings devolved over time until, one day, I simply answered by saying,

"Hello?"

It makes me wonder where the untamed imagination of my youth went.

If a flying shark is any indication...

2012-01-03T14:49:00.001-05:00

I often take meaningless occurrences in everyday life and force myself to interpret some kind of hidden meaning about the future. Therefore, when I arrived at my sister-in-law's house after the holidays to discover a remote control flying shark in the living room, I instantly knew that 2012 was going to be an exciting, fruitful year.

The two words in the English language that accurately describe 80% of all positive feelings currently happening in the state of Georgia are, "This exists."

Mark my words: Air Swimmers will single handedly save the United States economy. If an RC Shark isn't enough to convince you that 2012 is already off to an excellent start, then I have nothing to say to you.

What a convenient time for a positive sign. I can't say that I have gone on vacation with my family with the sole objective of staying out of the way or being easy to deal with, but this year's cluster of holidays brought new familial struggles that made me a little more than relieved to come back home and find simple things - giant, balloon versions of aquatic predators, for instance - zooming about the living room.

-

All things considered, I must admit that I led a pretty good year. I got to work with Dad's Garage in one of the funnest shows of my life.

Still from Scarlett's Web

That led to connections with some generous, talented individuals who hooked me up with David Bruckner and Studio Outpost, which in turn led to a role in a film that just got accepted into the 2012 Sundance Film Festival - not to mention even more awesome connections and friendships with Atlanta based creatives.

That led to a couple of big agencies taking me seriously enough to call me about having sit-downs with their staff. I have also cultivated some awesome friendships with industry professionals in Los Angeles. Needless to say, I have support when I'm ready to go.

2011 was most certainly a year of awesome connections. One of my favorites, however, was a sound designer (and pretty damn good actor, I should add) that I met on set one day.

Flying sharks. New connections. New Friends. New more-than-friends.

I think that this will be a good year.

Hippy Bathday!

2011-12-27T10:28:00.000-05:00

It's December 27th. You know what that means. It's time to become bright eyed and bushy tailed as I remember that, some time ago, my mother went to the hospital because of expansive food poisoning and came out with a baby.

December 27th also means that my good blog friend, writer of The Good Badger and recent accomplished Appalachian Trail Thru-Hiker Zach Davis, will be celebrating the same thing. Hopefully his parents were expecting.

(I'm just kidding. My mom knew.)

There are bound to be an influx of first time readers today, in which case: Welcome to Smile Big and Pretty. Here I write comedic essays and accounts of my life as I try to become a successful actress.

Speaking of which, I seem to be well on the way. My demo reel is now up and running, I had a great role in the film the just got accepted into Sundance, and now I'm getting interest from some of the biggest talent agencies in the Atlanta.

I am so, so, fortunate for the friends, connections, and relationships that I have made throughout the past year.

Since you're here, why don't you check out some favorite past posts? Here are some of my favorites throughout the history of Smile Big and Pretty:

1. The Summer Serial: This is what started it all. It also spawned a one-woman-show version of the same story. You should scroll all the way to the first one.

2. It's like standing up for yourself - only with animal waste: Some asshole decided he had the right to treat a friend and I badly. I literally found his shoes and filled them with ferret crap.

3. Casino Queen: I used to work at a soda museum. I subsequently got fired for writing about how funny it was that I worked at a soda museum. Among the variety of odd jobs I found to make ends meet? Dealing blackjack at holiday parties. I found it through Craigslist, the job board of champions.

4. Marshall of the Fitness Center Parts 1 and 2: I eventually found a job-job working in a 24 hour fitness center. Unfortunately, the owner was a misogynist who experienced untold pleasures by making little girls cry. Yeah, that didn't last. Scroll all the way down for Part 1.

5. A day in the life of an extra, as told by Catpaint: I extra'd once. Never again. I feel that everyone should do it at least once - the same way I believe everyone should wait tables for a stint in their lives. It's humbling if you are at all serious about what you do. Thank god for Catpaint.

6. The Scarlett's Web Video Blog: Dad's Garage Theater Company produced this delightfully gory take on the story of Charlotte's Web. I was able to work with an amazing cast, crew, and puppets! I miss it so much.

7. Things you think about when you're on the way to Louisiana to audition for a movie: I auditioned for a film and found out that callbacks were a few states away. Did that stop me? Hell no. Did I get it? You bet I did.

I have way more stories on here. If you like what you see, please share! I love new readers. And I'm always cooking up funny stories.

Here's to an upcoming year of writing, unwasted opportunities, gigs, friends, and general tomfoolery and happiness.

I have a feeling that this year is going to be a good one, you guys.

Merry Christmas from SBAP!

2011-12-25T16:48:00.001-05:00

Things that make me happy: Pictures from the Suzi Awards

2011-12-24T12:57:00.000-05:00

When it comes to theater, Atlanta is its own little universe. It has its own theaters, directors, and actors. With the exception of one or two theaters who have room in their budget to hire talent out of New York, the majority of the Atlanta theater bubble is self contained and hyper-local.

It also has its own annual awards show, The Suzi Bass Awards. It's like a little version of The Tony's. I got to go this year because I took park in a show that scored some nominations and, as a result, was invited to perform an ensemble number.

Moment of honesty #1: I was scared.

Moment of honesty #2: I became less scared when a random actress who may or may not have been hammered but apparently works a lot plunked down beside me, handed me a flask, and said, "Here. You should drink this."

With that said, here are the event pictures from The Suzi Awards:

SBAP Throwbacks: Jas's High School Journal

2011-12-20T15:22:00.000-05:00

"There is a pigeon in my freezer."

At fourteen or fifteen years old, you never stop to think about how you may want to look at yourself down the road with a (god willing) healthier and more mature perspective.

My friends and I kept a number of online journals from middle school all the way through most of college. Then I went off to college and found myself entrenched in a relationship with someone who found misogyny hilarious. Within a month of moving in, I was told that I had two options: I could either delete any and all traces of an online presence - or be homeless. I had pretty much lost any real sense of autonomy by the time I received that particular ultimatum and deleted everything with little struggle - including a journal that held five years worth of constant writing and documentation of what I thought, felt, loved, and hated. Dark times.

The thirty day recovery period came and went and I assumed that my writing had dissipated into cyber nothingness. A year later, when circumstances changed and I no longer had to answer to anyone in particular, I logged in for shits and giggles. It was still there; all five plus years of myself. Safe!

But oh how the weary road we travel takes its toll! We want young women to emerge from the clutches of abuse with enough anger to stay out, but not so much anger that they obliterate their brains and remaining sense of honor night after night before coming-to, half dressed, at the bottom of an empty swimming pool with a pulled thigh muscle and a sore ear. Even worse? Documented. It was all documented from the perspective of a crazy person. I deleted my journal again. Except this time, the company actually purged it from the servers.

A few days ago, I found myself with an hour to kill and a hankering to do some reflection/research for a script I'm writing.
"Man, I wish that journal still existed," I thought.
Then it hit me.
"Holy crap," I thought, "there is still one out there."
When I was in the tenth grade, I had created another account using an email address from a domain that went defunct. A few rushed keystrokes later, I stared at the last remaining sample of my writing. It had the same goofy layout. Same color scheme. Perfectly preserved and untouched for years. And though it's only a short snippet of my life, it does contain the dated thoughts, reflections, and answers to such poignant questions as,
"If your life had a movie montage, what would the accompanying song be?"

Without further adieu, here is a fair representation of of what 16 year old Jas was like.

#1.

"We have a dead homing pigeon in our freezer. Mom found it in the yard today. It has a ring from Australia on its right leg and a ring from Athens on its left. So mom picked it up out of the yard, put it in a bag, and put it in the freezer."

#2.

"That pigeon is beginning to freak me out. I had completely forgotten about it when I went out to the freezer to get a box of girlscout cookies, and that damn pigeon fell onto my feet and scared the SHEEYIT out of me.
Why can't she take it to the zoo or something? Honestly, it would do the Animal Society of Athens more good than in it would our freezer. It's not like I'm going to eat it anytime soon."

#3.

"I'm still bombarded with visions of that damn pigeon. That pigeon, with it's weird almost nonexistant eyes, that pigeon with the stiff legs and that smirk that says,
"I'm on top of your girlscout cookies and you have to touch ME before you can touch them!"
That pigeon that should be somewhere in athens other than in my freezer.
That pigeon that was too stupid to avoid whatever it ran into, that PIGEON, that is dead and in MY FREEZER."

#4.

MarJas: I'm uber tempted to take that pigeon out of the freezer and throw it in the yard for the lightning to strike.
Throwingmyself4: hehe
MarJas: seriously... that pigeon made me scream earlier
Throwingmyself4: why is it in your fridge now?
MarJas: it's in the outside freezer
MarJas: mom found it in the yard
MarJas: it's a carrier pigeon with tags on it's feet
MarJas: she said, "Someone might need this." So she put it in a baggie and put it in the freezer
MarJas: and when I was getting something out, it FELL on me and I screamed
Throwingmyself4: i would secretly throw it out
Throwingmyself4: or read the message, than throw it out
Throwingmyself4: or bury it
MarJas: there wasn't a message, just tags
MarJas: I'm not venturing out to the freezer in the storm
MarJas: I'll leave a note:
"Mom,
Take the pigeon out of the freezer to thaw and put it in the ground.
-Jas"

Why did I think that thawing the pigeon would make any difference?

Inside an English Egg, part 2.

2011-12-12T12:29:00.001-05:00

"Do YOU know how to FLUSH the TOILET?" I had asked.

After five rounds of toilet flushing, I took a minute to cool off and drink some water as they reset for the next shot, thinking, "This must be how DJ Lance feels whenever he tapes an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba."
My slight obsession with Yo Gabba Gabba occasionally treads that fine line between slight and super, leading me down dark, twisting paths where songs like, "I'm so sorry!" cross over with Biz's Beat of the Day. It's a riveting state of mind and it all came crashing down on me when I felt a subtle poke on my shoulder.
"Who-za-what!" I gasped, jumping up from my spot in front of the refrigerator. The director jumped back as well, equally as surprised.
"Sorry!" she said, muffled by her hands.
"No," I said, fanning myself, "No, it's ok. Are you guys ready for me?"
She rested her finger on her chin once again and said,
"Um. Um. Um," she furrowed her brow before turning to the bathroom and yelling, "Jebal dorawa juseyo!"
The translator ran out to me and said,
"We need to you to stay out here for a little while. We're just going to work with the girl right now. So you can rest!"
"Oh." Rest? Was over-inflection more taxing than I had originally thought?
A beat passed as we akwardly looked at each other.

I sat in silence on the couch and listened to the ticking of the clock as it lingered longer and longer with each passing stroke. From the other side of the wall I heard the girl yell,
"I can flush the toilet!"
Tick.
"I can flush the toilet!" she said five seconds later.
Tick, tock.
"I CAN flush the toilet!"
Tick. Tick.
"I can FLUSH THE TOILET!"
Silence.

When the translator called me back in, the little actress's head had been dotted with toothpaste, soap bubbles and other remnants of a morning routine.
"Is funny," said the director, "because you say, "Look Mommy, I can get ready all by myself. But you can't, not really."
It was funny- for all those reasons and more.

-

"So," said Miss Tracy's boyfriend as we were wrapping and preparing to leave, "What did you think?"
"I mean," I replied, looking for the right words, "obviously this is one of the greatest days of my life."

Inside an English Egg: Part 1.

2011-12-07T16:48:00.000-05:00

I have this friend who is a celebrity among South Korean children from well-to-do families. For the equivilant of eight hundred US dollars, South Korean parents can buy their children a box of books, videos, and role playing toys that feature my friend teaching their child to say key phrases like,
"Yes, I can!" and, "Hi! Hello!"

They call her Miss Tracy.

To the best of my knowledge, children simultaneously love, fear, and revere her image. I heard that she signed autographs at a promotional event and one child was so overwhelmed by her presence that he lost the ability to speak and sought refuge in between his mother's legs.

When I saw that Miss Tracy was going to Seoul to film some of the educational segments on location, I thought,
"That's so awesome. I wish I could do that. I have always wanted to be able to tell people that I ate silkworm larvae."

This thought made another appearance when she returned from her trip and posted pictures. The joy and slight envy subsided and life resumed its normal fashion - though I did lie and tell someone that I had eaten silkworm larvae not once, but twice. I reasoned that I would probably never get the opportunity to go to South Korea and, therefore, deserved that one small luxury.

This past August, however, Miss Tracy alerted me that she would be helping English Egg film some new segments in Atlanta and that I should forward her my headshot and resume. A couple of months later, she said,
"Congratulations, Jas! Koreans love you. You're going to be playing a mom. I have attached a script for you to study."

A week later, I was shaking hands with the director and her translator and waiting patiently as they figured out how to tell me and the actress playing my daughter what to do. Miss Tracy was not present because she had another obligation to tend to, but her boyfriend was acting as production coordinator in her stead.

"What do you mean she is going to be sitting on the toilet?" said the girl's real mother when the translator explained that the scene entitled, "Great job!" would entail her daughter flaunting her mad flushing skills.
The director blinked and then looked to her translator. They conversed some more and the director stepped forward and pantomimed flushing the toilet and said,
"Look, Mommy!" in a bright, cheery voice.
"That's all she needs to do," said the translator, "Flush, put her hands in the air, and be proud of flushing the toilet."
I turned to the girl and asked,
"How old are you?"
"Nine."
"Well, that's a good age to be able to flush the toilet all by yourself," I replied. I stuck out my first and said, "Pound it."
She enthusiastically bumped fists and said,
"Wow, you talk really cool!"

After the director and her translator had established that the little actress would be fully clothed and the toilet seat would be down in every shot, they seperated us and explained our blocking. From outside the bathroom, I heard the director say,
"You say, then I say. Then you say."
I could hear the little actress say, "Ok," and understood it to mean, "I actually have no idea what you are asking from me."
"O-kay. Ready?"
"Yes."
"Look, Mommy!"
"..."
"Now you say."
"Look, Mommy!"
"Mm," she said, putting her finger on her chin, "No... Like... LOOK, MOM-MY!"
It was as if cute, animated emoticons should have erupted from her mouth instead of actual speech.
I appeared behind her and made a big, over the top face and used my fingers to make spirit hands that erupted from my ears.
"Watch me," I mouthed. Then I dashed back to my starting spot before the director had time to turn around.

"Rea-dy?" she asked. I gave her a thumbs up sign.
"Oh-kay," she said, "Go!"
I took three steps, leaned into a bathroom, and with the enthusiasm of an entire season of Yo Gabba Gabba squared to the power of three and said,

"DO YOU KNOW HOW TO FLUSH THE TOILET?"

My demo reel is here!

2011-12-02T20:19:00.001-05:00

Guys. GUYS. Check this out!

Jas Sams [colon] Demo Reel from jas_a_frass on Vimeo.

We're going to Sundance.

2011-12-02T12:09:00.001-05:00

I had this funny piece about an English lessons video that I did for Korean children, but then something happened that made me post this to Facebook:

"I was fortunate enough to work with some wonderful, awesome, creative people on a film back in September. I'm not sure what I can/can't say, but I know that I can say that it was my first major role in a film and .... drumroll:

It just got accepted into Sundance!

How awesome is that?! I wish I knew the word for Congratulations X 1,000,000,000 to everyone involved. Because that's how I feel. We're going to Sundance, you guys."

Holy cow, you guys.

SBAP Video: Horror Films and Fairy Parties

2011-11-23T16:58:00.001-05:00

Pin-Up Shots by Dynamite Dames Photography!

2011-11-17T10:00:00.000-05:00

Perhaps you recall reading a hilarious anecdote of how I barged into a church meeting by mistake, waving a garter belt and pretty panties as I yelled,

"Let's do this!"

I was actually supposed to be heading inside a totally different location to shoot a series of pin-up shots with Dynamite Dames Photography and makeup artist, Cherry Dame. They have been super busy since that fateful day, but I am so excited to announce that they sent my edits way ahead of schedule!

I would like all of you to know that both DDP and Cherry Dame travel all over the country to do these shoots. Keep up with DD on Facebook and keep up with Cherry Dame on Facebook to see where they stop next. It might be near you!

Check it my shots below!

Headshots by Shannon Jenkins at Offhand Photography!

2011-11-16T17:26:00.001-05:00

Guys. Seriously. How lucky am I to know all of these crazy awesome photographers? Stacey Bode, Curtis Bonds Baker, Dynamite Dames, MAB Photography, and now Shannon Jenkins?

I had no idea that I was going to get so much positive feedback when I dyed my auburn hair blonde for the Godamsterdam pilot. Since then, I have been getting more auditions and, as a result, have decided to keep it for the time being. Unfortunately, I had no head shots to showcase the new change.

Enter Shannon Jenkins, an Atlanta based photographer and active member of the Atlanta improv scene. I'm taking his character building improv class at Relapse University. To say that I am jazzed - both about class and these amazing pictures - would be a complete understatement.

Shannon Jenkins, thank you so much!

A little acting update for you!

2011-11-15T16:00:00.001-05:00

Forty-eight hours ago I was submitting a taping for a popular television show. Nine hours ago I was wrapping my first day as a lead on a full length film project. Five hours ago I was auditioning in person at Screen Gems Studios for a popular television show.

The casting director was one of the nicest CD's I have ever met. Normally if I go to an in-person, the casting director wears a stone faced expression behind a table that is weighed down with forms, resumes, and the kind of mental anguish that one tends to feel if they watch actor after actor read the same sides for nine hours straight.

One time I had a man eat a bowl of Wendy's chili while I auditioned for him. Wendy's.

This casting director was absolutely lovely. She had her assistant come out and grab my headshot/resume to review and use to to incite conversation in the audition room. She had me read the sides two different ways and then took a minute to ask me where I was from, where my Alma mater was, where was currently living, and how I liked it.

One thing I have learned is that, in an audition situation, things go more smoothly when Party A (for Actor) stays positive and ends the exchange with a loving sigh followed by, "This was wonderful/super/fantastic/coolest/remarkable!"

I walked out feeling aces.

This has been a pretty decent little past couple of months for me, acting wise. I booked lead a role on my favorite project to date, Wasteland Film's Amateur Night (Formerly called Lily) and had an absolute ball. Great cast, great crew, great production quality - and my first great paycheck.
"Sorry that this is so low budget," the producer said when I was signing paperwork with her, "Normally we pay better. Much better. This is a tight production we've got going here. But what we can't pay you in money, we make up for in badass."
I looked at my contract, expecting to see a deferred pay rate or a 100/day rate, but instead I saw a number that made me choke on my spit. A number that could take care of rent for two and a half months with enough leftover for a sackful of Krystals.
"You alright?" the producer asked.
"Yes, yes," I coughed, "I'm amazing."

Amateur Night is still in the post production phase and won't be released for a little longer, so I can't show you anything having to do with set, costume, characters, etc. I can, however, show you some pictures that I had taken in makeup.

The makeup artist pictured is Lisa Carter.

She is based in Atlanta and has been doing hair and makeup on film sets for years. She made me look like a sexy badass.

She and the makeup supervisor, Fawn Ortega, also kept me looking like a sexy badass during and in between takes. Any director should be so lucky to have these lovely ladies on board!

I hope that you have enjoyed this little peek into my professional life. I don't always get to share everything I want because of ownership/copy write reasons, but I like to be able to share things with you every now and then.

If you are curious about Wasteland Films or any of David Bruckner's work, please check out his Vimeo here. He and the rest of the crew who utilizes Atlanta's own Studio Outpost are responsible for creating killer content and awesome opportunities in Georgia.

Fire Drill! Fire Drill!

2011-11-10T15:08:00.001-05:00

I have experienced the pandemonium that happens when you shoo one thousand working professionals out of a twenty story high rise. It's called a Fire Drill for Grown People (FDGP).

The office I temp at hosts a number of different companies. It's kind of like a college dorm except I share a floor with attorneys and financial advisers instead of athletes and philosophy majors.

I had already made the morning coffee and settled into my receptionist area when, all of a sudden, the double doors swung shut. I stood up with purpose. The doors had swung shut of their own volition? This was a job for the receptionist! I ran to the doors and tried to open them back up, but they were locked shut, trapping my inside with a floor of working professionals who would drink all of the coffee in a matter of minutes and, after it ran out, would revert to a feral and vicious state. How would I maintain order? What would I say when the attorneys and financial advisers asked why they couldn't get through the front door?

"Jas!"
I snapped out of my daydream. My boss trotted toward me with two bright, neon orange vests.
"It's a fire drill!" she whispered, handing me a vest, "Put this on and help me alert the tenants!"

My last fire drill occurred in high school. My drafting teacher, a husky old man named Mr. Hank, remained seated as he ate a sub sandwich and stared at his game of computer solitaire. My classmates and I shared puzzled glances as we wondered if he would even bother asking us to leave the room. Finally, he pounded his chest with his fist until he let out a loud belch. Only then did he lean forward to rise out of his seat and mutter,

"Alright, ya'll. Better git a move on."

Today, however, I was facilitating order in a massive evacuation. Within seconds I had transformed into Dwight from The Office and took long strides down the hallways as I knocked on office doors and announced,
"We are experiencing a fire drill! Please collect your things and proceed to the nearest emergency exit!"
Then, after realizing that there was only one emergency exit, I changed my announcement to:
"We are experiencing a fire drill! Please collect your things. ... The fire exit is near the freight elevator on the side of the building that faces the road!"

This way, boys and girls!

The tenants begrudgingly left their offices, some not even bothering to grab their purses or briefcases. Allgave me a look of pure annoyance that conveyed four words: Really? I mean, really.

Between the two of us, my boss and I had nearly evacuated the entire floor.

"Where are the Guy Brothers?" she suddenly asked. "I don't remember seeing them!"

I ran around the corner to the office of Joe and Jake Guy, Attorneys at Law, and knocked on the door. It was cracked open. After no one answered, I peeked in.

"Mr. Guy?" I asked. No one answered. Then I saw the foot.

"Mr. Guy, are you hiding under your desk?"

"No!"

"We're having a fire drill," I said.

"I'm not going!" he countered.

"It's for your safety."

"I have clients!"

I went back to my boss and explained that Mr. Guy would not be joining the rest of the floor.

"Are you kidding me? Where is he?" she said, heading back to the front. she returned a few minutes later, saying,

"Well, guess he's just going to burn. Let's go."

The escape route, a slim, poorly ventilated stairwell, was way more dangerous than any fire. With minimal wiggle room, I proceeded to make the trek down eighteen flights of stairs. In front of me: most of my floor and a couple of representatives from the sports PR firm on the 17th floor. Behind me: the entirety of The Center for Japan in Atlanta.*

The employees from the Center for Japan chattered calmly amongst themselves while an embarrassing number of Americans questioned the legitimacy of the fire alarm.

"I heard that we had a real fire!" someone said.

"Oh, no! We had better hurry!" said another.

"Isn't that crazy? A real fire happening on the same day as a scheduled fire drill? I mean, who would have thought?"

It took ten minutes to make it to the courtyard. Once we were outside, the building officials began to make the rounds and congratulate everyone on a job well done.

"You can all go back up now!" they said, ushering everyone back toward the stairwell.

"Excuse me?" I heard someone ask. "Am I to understand that you want us to actually go up the stairs?"

"Well, the elevators won't be working for twenty more minutes."

"You've got to be kidding me!" someone else yelled.

A cloud of fury over the courtyard that day as more and more people began to huff about having to hike back the way they came. I can now say that I have seen people reach the cusp of violence over the notion of having to go up the stairs or wait to take the elevator. As a crowd swarmed to the other side of the building to wait out the the lines for the boxes that would lift them back to their offices, the Center for Japan simply called a quick pow-wow where they talked quietly amongst themselves. Then, with one cohesive nod of the head, they walked back toward the stairs and filed back in.

"Want to go after them?" one of the attorneys from my floor asked.

I looked toward the rage and sadness that loomed over the elevator line. I looked back to the Center, making their way up the first flight of stairs. Balling my fists and gathering my resolve, I replied,

"Let's do this."

The eighteen story climb proved to be a faster option than the elevators. I had already returned to my perch as the other tenants trickled in by two's and three's.

"Pretty excited about that fire drill, huh?" one of them said.

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"'Cause you're still wearing that crazy vest."

I had done that on purpose.

"Well," I replied, "I just like looking official."

* Name changed

A Battle of Epic Proportions: My first stint in the world of indie wrestling.

2011-11-08T16:43:00.000-05:00

Jas at Platinum Championship Wrestling!Only in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine I'd be rolling around with another girl in the middle of a wrestling ring, screaming and pounding my head against the mat in front of an assortment of wrestling fans.

Then it actually happened.

I am happy to report that this is one of the first images that comes up when you Google "wrestling fans."

I became acquainted with Steve Platinum, owner of indie wrestling company Platinum Championship Wrestling (PCW), when I was fortunate enough to be able to participate in Scarlett's Web at Dad's Garage Theater Company. He worked with Dad's Garage to create what is possibly one of their best improv shows of the season, Samurai Davis Jr. Dim Sum's Super Mega Happy Fun Time Improv Show!

Scarlett's Web and Dim Sum ran simultaneously, so I would often come backstage during intermission to find Steve and the punishment gang readying the horrors for the losing teams. One evening, he approached me and said,
"Hey, would you be interested in shooting a couple of promo videos for PCW?"
I thought back to my first real exposure to the world of professional wrestling. Back then, I would spend my evenings hanging out with a trio of friends who all lived together. We'd drink and watch cartoons and, one evening, they suggested we watch Smackdown.
"Are you kidding?" I asked.
"Jas, have you even seen it?"
"No, but I knew this kid who wore a giant WWE t-shirt to 7th grade every day and I didn't like him."
"You can't judge a sport because of some kid you knew in middle school."
"Can I?"
"Just watch it."
"Fine."
At that moment, my life is split into two parts: the part before I saw the WWE and the part after I saw the WWE. I had now seen 7 foot tall man named The Undertaker headbutt a luchadore - and my life was forever changed* because of it.

*Kind of.

Going back to Steve's question: Would I be interested in doing some promo videos for PCW?
"Of course!" I said.

He contacted me again a few months later with another opportunity:

"It's PCW's anniversary and I'm bringing back my former wrestling persona, The Lethal Litigator," he explained, "except the woman who played the assistant, Miss Stiletto, is no longer in the picture. You wouldn't have to wrestle or anything; we'd just enter to some Black Sabbath and then there'd be this huge finale where you'd rush in and participate at the end. Like a sidekick. You want in?"

I made arrangements to see my first PCW show that Friday so that I could get a feel for the format.
As I approached the ticket booth, the owner of the theater came out from backstage and said,
"Oh, no no! Don't take her money. She's in the show."
"Excuse me?"
"You're in the show, right?"
"I... guess?"
"Come with me."

He led me backstage where twenty-five people, all decked out in their wrestling persona gear, stretched and warmed up for the show.

"Steve!" the owner shouted, "I got her for ya."
"Look at her!" Steve said, seeing my face, "She thought she was just coming to watch - little did she know she was going to be in the show."
"What do you mean when you say, 'in the show?"
"Well... I had this idea," he began.

-

The show neared the end of the finale match; a knock down, thirty minute battle between two of the roughest and toughest. Suddenly, though, the rival wrestling company ambushed the PCW ring, wreaking havoc over the PCW domain as everyone knew it. Multiple wrestlers from each company were fighting for control when, at last, it came down to two wrestlers: Steve Platinum and Rachel Tension.

They flew into an unscheduled battle, knocking one another around the ring until Rachel had her opponent locked in a headgrip of some kind and wasn't letting go.

That's when I got up and yelled, "NO!" as I bolted to the stairs. I swung under the bottom rope and darted into the ring, yanking Rachel Tension away by the hair. We dived to the ground, banging each other's heads against the mat and yanking each other's faces from side to side. Hair flew. Insults and furious screams resonated throughout the hall.

Finally, I escaped off to the side and her teammates came to lead her out of the hall as she yelled,
"I'm going to kill her! Let me at her! SHE'S A DEAD WOMAN!"

I crawled back onstage and stood up, smiling at her as she fought her restraints. I shrugged my shoulders and yelled,
"What!" as they finally succeeded in pulling her through the door.

You should have heard the audience when Steve announced that he was resurrecting the Lethal Litigator and that he would see the opposing team at the anniversary challenge that following Friday.

I couldn't help but feel invigorated as I combed the effects of the cat fight out of my hair that night.
Not too shabby for an impromptu lesson in stage catfighting.

Platinum Championship Wrestling goes down at The Academy Theater in Atlanta, GA every Friday @ 8pm! Buy Tickets!

I have to share this.

2011-11-04T15:38:00.001-04:00

Self explanatory. I win.

From Jas's OKCupid vault: Coney the Angry DDR Champ

2011-11-02T22:44:00.002-04:00

This post, in its original form, was posted as a contribution to a series of posts on "creepers" for Dellectable. It has been slightly edited for flow.

They say that we find ourselves most vulnerable to the proverbial "creeper" during a time of tragedy or prolonged sadness in our own lives. Perhaps this is what provoked my encounters with a string of creepers. At the age of twenty, I found myself in the midst of my own personal crisis as I recovered from a year in the kind of relationship where the term "unhealthy" would severely understate the ferocity of the offender's wickedness. One might think that emerging from these circumstances would inspire me to do better for myself - or at the very least, stay single for a nice, long while.

Not me. Not back then.

I didn't just "encounter" the creeper. We didn't run into each other through random misfortune and part ways, never to interact again. No, I knew that this particular person was a creeper and yet some part of my brain thought, "I will be attracted to this person. I could potentially allow this person to put their face on my face."

Encounter? Oh, no. I went back for seconds. And thirds.

Coney and I first made contact through the online dating site OkCupid. One look at the photographs that he knowingly selected to represent his best self should have provided enough warning. He donned a handlebar mustache in one picture and a complete cowboy costume in the other. You should have seen the hat.

I can't remember our first date in vivid detail. I know that it included a walk around the university campus near my parent's house. I distinctly remember one moment, though: Coney had sprawled out sideways on a large, marble stair ledge. He propped his head up with one arm and twisted a flower in his free hand. He looked like the everyman version the, "Ha, ha, I'm nude!" male models on the greeting cards at Spencer's Gifts.

"So," I asked, fishing for material, "What's up with that crazy cowboy hat?"
"Oh, that?" he chuckled, "That's my Dance Dance Revolution costume."
I nearly choked on my spit.
"Come again?" I asked.
"Oh, you should have seen that. It was one of my better ones."
"You dress up like a cowboy to play DDR on a regular basis?"
"Oh, yes. There's an entire DDR community out there. We're serious. I can show you some videos, if you want."
He gave me the link to his own personal YouTube channel that housed several of his most prized routines.
"The country western routine is the best, though," he said, "because I almost won first prize."
I felt my stomach churn as I watched the footage of Coney whipping a lasso in the air with one hand and tipping his hat with the other. His routine included lots of toe and heel tapping. His boots had spurs. He line danced on the DDR machine.

This. On a DDR machine. (Note: This is not actually Coney.)

"So who put together the routine that beat this?" I asked.
"Oh, a husband and wife team. They met at one of the competitions and decided to combine their talents," he sighed.
"Couple's DDR?"

Was he kidding me? Not only do costumed DDR dance competitions for non-Japanese people exist, but there are people so transfixed by another person's DDR-ing that they say to themselves, I want to spend the rest of my life with that person; the person who is wearing the long, plastic green wig and dancing to the Swedish remix of Butterfly.
"Couples DDR? Oh, God yes," he replied, "You should have seen them. Their routine had paper fans."
I was transfixed - but not in the 'I think that is so sexy and we're going to hook up tonight' kind of way. I felt transfixed in the, 'That person doesn't have a jaw' kind of way.
I just couldn't look away.

It took an hour and a half of enlightening me to the world of underground dance-machine contests, but he soon retired that topic in favor of the other present party.
"So," he said, looking squarely at me, "You said online that you just broke it off with someone?
I took the bait like a fool. I touched on my recent relationship woes like a novice, which he then used as a jumping off point into his own personal woes. If the constant stories about how his ex-girlfriend ripped his heart out didn't scare me away, then his weird proportions and handlebar mustache did. I knew within five seconds of talking to him that it would never work. Yet, two hours later, I slammed my car door shut and silently cursed,
"Why the hell did we just kiss?"
I had no desire to see him again, yet I allowed the proverbial 'goodnight kiss' to happen. Nothing fancy; just a prolonged peck on the lips, but a kiss nonetheless; and a kiss meant trouble.

The next day, he sent me an instant message.
CONEY1: I bought you something for your birthday!
JasMcJasFace: My birthday is a month off.
CONEY1: So? I think you'll love it.

One short date and he was already thinking about the day of my birth?
He sent me several messages throughout the rest of the week, each requesting that do something fun that evening. I told him that I was busy. I said I had other plans. I kept trying to spare his feelings in a way that only makes sense when you're that young and jaded. I was running out of ways to evade him when, all of a sudden, I reunited with my old flame. It had been a few weeks since Coney and I traversed the campus together.

CONEY1: What?? I thought you said you were over them
JasMcJasFace: No, I'm pretty sure I said the exact opposite.
CONEY1: Whatever.

I didn't see or hear from Coney for three months.

The reunion with the old flame didn't last too terribly long. When I inevitably found myself at a bar at 11:55 pm on a Friday because my friend decided to chase some tail of her own, I succumbed to the stupid patch in my brain and did something selfish and desperate. I took out my phone and began to text.

To: Coney
From: Jas
Message: Hey. What are you up to?

What followed was a skeptical yet flirtatious exchange that ended when I woke up the next morning at his apartment. I had a bruise. We dated for two months. He played a lot of Smash Brothers and spent Tuesday nights at the student center playing Risk. He proudly showed me more of his DDR triumphs. He even showed me his Livejournal.

I ended the whole operation for two reasons: I had begun to feel guilty about Coney's feelings for me considering that my own interest had feigned the second it started, but also because he was due to return to Japan where he had a girl waiting for him already. He failed to see why this disenchanted me even more.
"I don't understand why that doesn't mean we can't enjoy out time together now, while we are still here," he cried.
"You have a girlfriend overseas!"
"She's not my girlfriend!"
"You guys are going to shack up as soon as you get back there - I mean, I'd say that's a girlfriend!"

I tried to play it off as though I were extremely distressed, but in reality I was extremely annoyed. I gathered all of my things that had accumulated in his apartment and started staying with my parents again. In the meantime, Coney began to flood my phone with text messages.
"Come back," he begged.
"Let's just hang out, for old times sake," he begged.
"I hate you!" he said.
"I didn't mean it," he'd say.
"You are ripping my heart out!"
That last one was his favorite.
I fielded all outbursts and attempts at reconciliation with short and simple replies. Finally, though, he sent me something for forced me to meet up with him again in person:
"I have your camera."
"What? I have been looking all over for it!"
"Yeah, it was under my bed."
"Can you mail it to me?"
"I'd rather give it to you in person."
"Why?"
"Because I just... I need to see you."
"If I agree to meet with you, you promise not to guilt trip me?"
"Why do you have to be like that?"
"... Did you really find my camera under the bed or did you keep it to use as bait so that you could see me in person again?"
"Please."

I met him at a Waffle House. I had hoped for a quick handover in the parking lot, but from my car I could see that he had already taken a booth and ordered a cup of coffee.
"How nice of you to drop by," he muttered, sliding the camera across the table.
I reached for the camera and he put his hand over mine. I shivered and pulled away.
"Why are you doing this? We had something special."
"We dated casually for a few months. You were always going back to Japan."
"That doesn't matter."
"Dude, yes it does."
"I came here hoping that we could have a nice conversation and that we could sort this out!" He said, his temper escalating.
"No, you came here saying that you had my camera to give to me, which I now have, so -"
"I think you should go," he said, dramatically casting his glance off to the side, making his Spiderman 3 haircut billow from the breeze.

I did go. By the time I was home, I had five emails waiting for me - they would alternate between adrenaline fueled rants and sad apologies. I received text messages of the same nature.
My nerves skated on that thin line between cool and "I am about to destroy you."
Finally, I sat down and plunked out:

Coney,
This is your last warning. STOP.
Jas

Within minutes, I received a phone call from him. I picked it up, hearing static and silence on the other end.
"What?" I asked.
"I hate you for what you did to me," he spit quietly.
I hung up on him.

I never heard from Coney again - well, at least directly. Every now and then, I'd check in on his Livejournal. Every single entry for months after that phone call contained the words, "the girl from hell" or "the wicked demoness who ripped [his] heart out and stomped on it."

At first, I felt horrified at how he painted me to be such a villainous wench. Then I thought about it some more. This was all part of a plot to try and get me to retaliate - therefore initiating contact again. I stopped reading long ago, but I still think of him occasionally. The only part of him that I can even remember in vivid detail is that first picture that I ever saw of him - the one where he wore the fringed cowboy pants and ten gallon hat as he line danced his way to the top.

The Pin-Up Mix-Up (Alternate title: Those poor church goers.)

2011-10-26T18:10:00.000-04:00

I booked a pin-up photo shoot and ended up crashing a Ugandan church revival while waving a garter belt and a pair of lacy panties.

But wait: I'm getting ahead of myself.

(Yes, there is a teaser pic at the end of this post.)

-

I think that the voluptuous, fun, and often sailor clad pin-up models are a fairytale version of the ideal woman. They epitomize a time when a woman's shape projected personal power and femininity. Pin-up girls squeezed the cheekiness and comedy together and you know what they made? Sexy pictures that make sense with funny captions like, "Watch out, said that bird!"

I used to send my grandmother Betty Page postcards with fun phrases like, What's shakin', bacon? written on the back.
"Why do you keep sending your grandmother sexy postcards?" my mother would ask me.
"Because it's funny."
"Can't you send her a nice postcard?"
"No, I want to send her a postcard with Betty Page on it."
"She's not going to understand."
"She doesn't have to. She just has to get it in the mail and know that I'm thinking of her."
My mother apologized profusely on a couple of different occasions, but my grandmother, a certified badass and wife of an Episcopal priest, took the high road and said,
"I don't mind the sexy postcards! As long as my grand-baby is sending me mail, I'm happy!"

I have always wanted to have a pin-up shoot of my own. Luckily for me, there is an entire subculture/scene of pin-up and retro inspired photographers that traverse the country and set up photo shoots to transform you into a retro glamour goddess - and all for a reasonable price. This I discovered after a friend posted a photograph of her posing as an pin-up alien in a 50's space ship diner. I saw the outrageous wigs, green body paint, and "slightly perturbed while still being pleasantly willing" facial expressions and said,
"Who took these and how do I get one?"

I ended up booking a pin-up style shoot with Dynamite Dames Photography and make-up artist Cherry Dame after seeing a gorgeous shoot they did with my actor/comedian friend, ATL local Gina Rickicki.

The morning of the shoot was a particularly hectic one for me. Due to circumstances beyond my control and the subsequent maternal instincts which prevented me from leaving a child on their own after their parent seemingly fell off the face of the earth, I only had time to rush home, power nap, and take quick shower before I had to grab my wardrobe and hit the road again.

My eyes were puffy. My hair was still slightly damp. I had no curlers in my hair despite a very clear warning that a fee awaited the models who showed up without them.
"At least I will be on time," I reasoned.
At least I thought so until I realized my GPS had directed me to a rundown daycare center. I stared at the paint job: an array of beloved children's character knock-offs from Dora the Explorer to Barney and thought,
"This... can't be right."
I called the contact number from the confirmation sheet.
"Oh, sweetie," said the woman on the phone, "if you're by the daycare center, then you're literally right by us. We're the building with the white SUV in front of it. There are a few other cars, too."
The reception started going out, but I had everything under control. White SUV? Check.
I looked across the road and saw the prize: a shiny, white SUV parked with about four other cars in front of a seemingly abandoned church.
"Oh, it must have been converted into studio space," I thought, "How cool!"
I pulled up and grabbed my wardrobe and ran inside.

"I'm here!" I exclaimed, rounding the corner. I made a swift entrance, pushing open both doors and flying my garters with purpose.
"Ek wil sê dat God is 'n groot. God sal voorsien vir ons. God sal gee vark in donker tye!"
I stopped dead in my tracks before a group of African American men dressed in their Sunday best. They sat in a circle around an easel with a makeshift a Jesus Christ painted on it while they waxed religion in their native language. The discussion came to a screeching halt, however, as they all turned to face me.

An agonizing three to four seconds passed as we stared each other down. I felt an emotion similar to sheer horror at the realization of my error; they probably felt confusion and alarm at the sight of a young, puffy eyed woman yelling, "Let's so this!" as she held up a lacy bra, a garter belt, and a pair of the swankiest knickers they had probably seen all day.

I quickly turned the other direction and walked back to my car without saying a word.

-

In the end, I found the shoot location and had a fabulous time with the makeup artist and the photographer. I was amazed at how Miss Dame's mad hair and makeup skills transformed my tired ass into a gorgeous pin-up girl and absolutely wow'd by the photographs that Dynamite Dames Photography took. I can't wait to show you more of them, but I have to choose 6 for her to touch up - as if they even need it! Look at this little teaser:


Photo by Dynamite Dames Photography

I have seen the rest of the shoot and I've got one word for you: VA-VA-VOOM!

Whoa, Blondie!

2011-10-20T07:23:00.002-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, I was brought on for an indie pilot and began an extensive transformation from brunette to blonde. I spent the inbetween time with yellow hair that I had to wear in a bun because I could only wash it every three to four days.

"Yeah, sweetie," the my stylist friend said upon examination, "Your hair is in shock."
"What should I do?"
"Start wrapping it at night. Put conditioner in it."
"What about during the day?"
"Well, ideally, you should wear a big rubber cap filled with olive oil and never take it off."
"I can't do that."
"Oh."
She paused briefly, examining me as she mulled over more acceptable alternatives.
"Eh, just ball it up. Make sure the ends are conditioned."
"..."

Anyway, I went back to the salon yesterday to have the second step. Here are the results:

Important choices: apparently they remind me of the Chang twins.

2011-10-19T18:14:00.000-04:00

The elevator doors slid open and two attorneys walked out. The shorter gentlemen in the purple shirt waved at me and said,
"How are you?"
"Thank you!" I cheerily replied.
I realized my folly about three seconds too late; the two men had already made it three quarters down the hallway.

I was reminded of the Chang twins; two identical boys that had gone to an Episcopal preschool with me. They spoke virtually no English and, as a result, their mother instructed them to answer nearly all questions and statements with,
"Please?"

The Chang twins had an excuse. They were small and adorable and probably went on to tie for valedictorian at competing Ivy League universities. I had gone on to be a temp; a temp who answers legitimate questions with,
"Thank you!"

"Hey Jas, where's the bathroom?"
"Thank you!"

"Hey Jas, the mail come in yet?"
"Thank you!"

"Hey Jas, what's the difference between the morning roast and the Italian roast - and by the way, what are your ideas for a new exit strategy from Iran?"
"Thank you very much!"

It makes sense that as soon as I removed Smile Big and Pretty's official tagline, "Because the road to dignity is paved with compromise," from the banner, I would once again feel the pressure to go ahead and make a huge compromise of my own.

I have been temping at an awesome company for the past three weeks. I make a living wage and spend my time between legitimate office work and writing on my latest script. Unlike my previous stint at the architectural firm, the phone rings considerably more often than four times in a nine hour period. In other words, I don't get bored. Also unlike my previous stint at the architectural firm, my boss is not a seven foot tall, hot pink bra wearing Ke$ha clone. My current boss is a former Latter Day Saint with a cheery disposition who isn't afraid to call you out if you grab too many of the good pieces of candy from the bowl on Candy Friday. In other words, my current boss is awesome.

Sitting at a desk all day isn't really boring when you enjoy the people around you. It's easier to be positive about what you do when you earn wages that put you above the United State's definition of poverty for an individual. I had previously told my temp agency that I would no longer be accepting temp-to-permanent assignments because I wanted my weekdays open for auditions and freelance endeavors. Suddenly, though, faced with a living wage and the ever present need to save up money to achieve the ultimate goal, Los Angeles, I had to make a decision.

It was so hard, but I decided to keep going on with the kids entertainment gig and week-to-week temping. It would be so easy to take this job and say, "I'll keep doing this until I get this opportunity or that role." But what happens when you keep doing things just until? At what point does that stop?

My current temping gig is terrific, but I feel that my career is teetering on the brink of something awesome. I just have to figure out a way to be available for that opportunity.

Snoozing is the Devil's Favorite.

2011-10-12T16:41:00.001-04:00

There is something about the sound of an alarm at six thirty in the morning that transforms even the gentlest of sounds into hell sirens, effectively making you compare the sweet and subtle sound of a harp to the murderous wales of a harpy as voiced by Angela Lansbury.

There is no such thing as a beautiful sound at that ungodly hour. Once, when I was in high school, a classmate complained about the sound of her baby screaming during the night. The teacher, having recently become a grandmother herself, responded by calling the sound of a baby's cry "the sweetest sound in the world."
We stared her as if she had just said, "You kids sit tight while I urinate all over the floor and then call it the most beautiful sight you have ever seen."

I was chasing a van of mystery contents in the middle of an exciting and quite possibly erotic dream when I felt the pulling sensation grab me in the gut and yank me back to the waking world.
"No!" I screamed in dream world, "No! I have to know what happens!"
The world around me faded to nothingness until all that remained was the sound of the phone vibrating loudly on the floor as I fought to stay asleep. The sound of that cheery, whimsical chord meant nothing short of,
"I am in charge now. You are powerless to defeat me. You will get out of bed, you lazy bastard."
"No, no!" I groaned.
I rolled over and groaned into my pillow, remaining stationary for a good three to four seconds before I decided that I would roll over again. Then, because I hated myself, I decided that I would just go ahead and roll off of the bed.
After landing on the ground with a halfhearted thud, I drug myself to my phone and silenced it's evil buzzing and hateful jingle. Then, like a soldier in a trench, I crawled to the bathroom and pulled myself up to the sink. My reflection screamed, "You really ought to shower as soon as humanly possible."

I groggily stood beneath the water and reminded myself of the cold that awaited me the second I turned it off. As I finally got around to the actual showering part, I resigned myself to the realization that this could very well be the sort of day where the most pressing question on my mind would be:

“How in the world did the hair on my head get stuck down there?”

SBAP Video: BLONDIFICATION.

2011-10-09T15:12:00.000-04:00

Big news.

There once was a web series called "Godamsterdam."

www.godamsterdam.com

After gaining a considerable fan base online, the show is moving forward with a full length pilot and I hopped on board as the new "Hannah."

That's right: this dork-ass brunette was brought on to play the token hot blonde in the sexiest sitcom about 1992 since 1992 - GODAMSTERDAM.

First thing on the agenda? Foil.

Lots and lots of foil.

High School Revenge Fantasy.

2011-10-07T18:39:00.009-04:00

There was a time in my life where I found it perfectly acceptable envision a wild revenge fantasy that involved seducing the cheerleader girlfriend of this guy who used to relentlessly torment one of my best friends at school. In addition to joyful manner in which he tormented my friends, this particular bully famously ranted about the evils of homosexuality during an ethics debate in science class. Naturally, I thought it would be hilarious to take the love of his life and turning her world perspective upside down over the course of one evening, prompting her to leave him and work through her impending identity crisis on her own.

With his heart broken and her identity in shambles, my friends and I would play a set at a giant house party that culminated in a spirited cover of Lustra's Scotty Doesn't Know, made (not so) famous by the cinematic event of the year:

Because high school students are teaming with wit and cleverness, I'd replace with name "Fiona" with the name of his actual girlfriend, effectively humiliating him in front of the entire social spectrum of the town we grew up in. Then, as he wretched over whether to scream or cry, I'd take advantage of his vulnerable state and scream,
"HEY, TOOLBAG: I BANGED YOUR GIRLFRIEND!"
I would witness his world crumbling around him as the kids all pointed and laughed and the kind of emotional scarring that would take years to undo set in.
"But... Why?" he would weep.
I would stare him down and say, "Because you were an asshole to nice people."
Then, for good measure, I'd smile and add, "By the way: I heard she's going to Agnes Scott."
I would watch his expression morph from sad to worse before he sobbed,
"You ruined my life!" and run off into the night, never to be seen again.

I tried explaining why this plan was so brilliant to one of my friends. They became slightly annoyed and said,
"That's not how that would work."

--

This little trip down memory lane was brought to you by the Pandora iPhone app, which felt that Scotty Doesn't Know deserved a spot on my Green Day station.

Oh, hi! I am a train.

2011-10-03T17:22:00.002-04:00

The latest of the latest: as you know, I recently took on a job as a children's party entertainer. Yes, I'm still doing it. Want to know how it's going? Find out in the latest SBAP video!

 (A

(The audio lags a little bit. I'm graduating to better software than iMovie soon, promise.)

This is how plans change into Savannah adventures!

2011-09-24T11:00:00.010-04:00

If you had stopped me this past July to ask about the highlights of my daily routine, I would have offered up this:

From top left to bottom right: (1) Drinking the break room coffee through three stirring straws; (2) offering my receptionist's perch as a resting place for the beautiful orchids that Clark's wife sent him after he made it clear that their loveliness had no place in his cubicle because they suggested that his pants were filled with My Little Ponies and cotton candy; (3) industrial strength bubble wrap that I could make a scarf out of; and (4) the kind of filing that kept me working after the architectural firm from perks 1-3 let me go once they figured out that an answering machine could do what they hired me to do.

In retrospect, being let go wasn't so bad. I literally sat in a chair from 8-5 and waited for the phone to ring. Still, though; the loss of steady work, the break-up and consequential move, and the huge blow to my savings meant that Los Angeles probably wasn't going to happen as soon as I wanted.

I realized that my plans needed revisiting. I needed to figure something out; to regroup.

"I need to get away for a minute," I said.

As luck would have it, I was due for a trip to Savannah.
But first I needed to call my mother.

--

"Wait just a minute. Start over. What do you mean you broke it off?"
I had my mother on speakerphone while I packed.
"Mom, don't worry about -"
"Sweetheart, when you call your mother and say, "I have broken up with my boyfriend and I have to find a new place to live and - by the way - I lost my job," she's going to worry! What do you mean that you broke it off? Are you ok?"
"I mean that I broke it off. We're not together anymore. And I'm fine."
"Was something wrong with him?"
"Mom, come on. He doesn't have a wrong bone in his body."
"Well, what's wrong with you, then?"
"It just wasn't working."
"Uh huh. What are you going to do about your living situation?"
"I don't know."
"And you got fired from your job?"
"I was let go."
"What about LA?"
"I'm going as soon as I can, but I can't go if I can't save money."
"What are you going to do?"
"Right now? I'm going to Savannah."
My mother's tone shifted suddenly.
"Oh, Savannah! For what?"
"To shoot a short film."
"That's exciting! How did this happen?"
"Um, this guy that I met through Facebook."
The cheeriness crashed to a halt. The sheer power of Mother's quiet fury sent shock waves through the phone.
"... Excuse me?"
"Mom, it's fine, I--"
"Jas, do you even know this person?"
"Yes, we went to the same school. Just at different times - Mom, it's fine; I'm staying with Ricky and his girlfriend, anyway."
"Oh, Ricky?" my mother's tone shifted again, "How is he doing?"
"He's good. Studying architecture and being a dog-dad."
"Oh, Watson?" My mother asked, fondly. Mom and Ricky somehow became friends on Facebook and, as a result, she occasionally provides motherly commentary on his life. This included clicking the "like" button when Ricky announced that he had acquired a corgi puppy.
"Well, that's his baby boy! You be sure to tell him I said hello and to behave himself!"
"Ha!" I thought.
Instead I said, "Will do."

A little back story: Ricky's my oldest remaining friend from middle and high school. We dated for a tumultuously funny period that spanned our senior year and ended after a particularly nasty fallout when I went to college. We didn't speak for two years as I proceeded to screw my life up at music conservatory and he proceeded to get his act together and go to architectural school. Our paths crossed again over the misfortune of a mutual friend and, after a long conversation about what we had spent the last couple of years getting into and going through, culminated in a very simple exchange:
"Hey. Sorry that I was such a dick."
"It's alright. I'm sorry, too."
The term "old friends" has served as an accurate description ever since. So when I called up to ask if I could crash with him and his girlfriend, Maddy, he said,
"Sure. When'r you gonna be here?"

--

Ricky had to meet me on his bike at the Savannah Kroger because my phone's GPS never located his house. He introduced me to Watson Peabody, the puppy that my mother knew from Facebook, before suggesting,

"In retrospect, I should have named him Buscemi. He's totally wall-eyed."

- Ricky

"Come on, I'll show you where the Pedi-cabbers go and you and Maddy can meet each other."
Allow me to explain: Ricky and Maddy both drive tourists around the city in bike-powered wagons called pedicabs. The pedi-cabber crew, a colorful slew of personalities from all across the spectrum, bond through their unruly dispositions and their mutual loathing of carting three obese people in one pedicab at the same time.

Maddy gave us a lift back to the warehouse at the end of her shift.
"Drive, squaw!" Ricky called out.
"Shut the hell up!" she yelled back.
Maddy, the modern equivalent of Native American royalty, can legally check "Native American" on standardized tests. Out of all of her replies to Ricky's off color jokes, my favorite is:
"In two years, I will be able to buy and sell you."

The inside of the PediCabber warehouse. I am particularly fond of the "JUST MARRIED!" cab. It could be perfect if someone would just tack an "LOL" at the end.

---

I arrived at the film/video production building the next morning to meet Zach, the film student I had told my mother about, in person. Imagine the look on my face when I entered a giant green screen room and saw people scooting across the floor on one of these:

After we rehearsed for a little while, Zach called his fiance and informed me that, if I wanted, I could stay and film another short with them.

I think it was that second when I became aware of the fact that I no longer had sipping straws and bubble wrap to look forward to. I didn't have to go back to work; well, not until I told my temp agency to mark me as available. As awesome as monster bubble wrap was, I felt no hurry to get back into an office.

I'd figure out the job later. I had an opportunity to do something productive.

A dash of pretend seriousness!

2011-09-22T15:32:00.025-04:00

I never get to share auditions with you because the material is always copyrighted and top secret. However, I submitted for an ULB (ultra low budget) short filming in South Carolina. The breakdown said they wanted a "young mother who turned to substance abuse as a means of coping with the loss of her child."

As luck would have it, I am developing a script that's loosely based on the time I spent working in an electronics store. The monologue used to be from the POV of someone else, but I improvised a little bit and came up with a different take: A salesperson tries upsell a woman on more items by telling her this story they heard on the news; a mother learned that her child had a terminal illness on the same day someone broke into her house and made off with a number of valuables, including the computer that stored all of her family photos. The salesperson doesn't know that his/her potential customer is the woman from the news story. Since I wrote it, you can see it.

I'm not really old enough to look or play a mother, but I will tackle most anything my agent throws at me as a general rule of thumb.

Monologue: check. Next I needed to make sure that I looked appropriate for the role. In this case, "appropriate" meant "hopped up like Courtney Love." This part posed a problem: I had no idea what someone looked like when they were either incredibly high or in desperate need of getting high.

I'm going to let you in on a little secret: Contrary to popular belief, I can count the number of times I've smoked pot on both hands. With one small exception when I took one my ex-roommate's "girl u breathin to fast chill out" pills during my senior year of college, I have never taken uppers/downers/coke/qbert/shrooms/opiates or whatever else it is that the kids do. Let me clarify by saying that I'm not railing on recreational users. My opinion on recreational drug use can be summed up by the phrase, "I mean... You grown."

It's just that I, personally, never did any of that. This is why I Googled the term, "People on drugs."

Based on the results, I figured I would be able to pass for an addict if I refrained from any makeup and waited to wash my hair. In other words, if I looked like crap.

Enjoy.

I'm finishing up move #2, but check out this Kickstarter in the meantime!

2011-09-18T14:06:00.001-04:00

Today I'll be finishing up my second move in an obscenely short time period. Sorry about the slightly less frequent posting. I'll post a video blog from the new digs - maybe even as soon as tonight! For now, please check out the Kickstarter for a film that I worked on: Owen's Hobby.

I spent a giant chunk of my time filming shorts in Savannah and connecting with some amazing people. To say that they get a T for Terrific! would be an understatement. They all worked in this short film, Owen's Hobby, and invited me to be a part of it. Long weekends with 14-16 hour shooting days and call times at the ass-crack of dawn yielded a pretty tight looking film.

I helped out with behind-the-scenes filming, script supervising, and even a little bit of acting. Awesome learning experience.

Check out the Kickstarter and, if you have some spare change, donate to the progress of Owen's Hobby!

Dreams do come true.

2011-09-13T17:57:00.002-04:00

I swore that I wouldn't touch Smile Big and Pretty until my assignment for HelloMetro had been completed because I am now a fancy, paid, freelancing writer.

That said: I'm breaking my resolve for exceptional circumstances.

They are making a live action musical from Newsies, you guys. Let me tell you why the earth moved under my feet the minute I realized that this wasn't a joke:

As a young person, there were two films that were absolutely crucial in my sexual development. Little Women and Newsies. This not only explains the explicit attention I pay to anyone who even looks remotely like Wynona Ryder, but it also explains my deep rooted attraction to douches that wear vests and pageboy caps.

UGH YES.

Not joking: there was a point in my life where I said, "I would do terrible, unforgivable things to any Newsie. Any time, any place."

&amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;So &amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;gt;

It opens at the Paper Mill Playhouse before heading to Broadway.

So, yes. Roadtrip.

SBAP Video Blog: My New Job.

2011-09-09T00:20:00.001-04:00

Frat House Deliveries: Here's that AC replacement unit to go with that gang-bang. (Part 2 of 2)

2011-08-30T13:15:00.005-04:00

Click Read Part 1 HERE.

I managed to drag the package up the front porch. This young guy wearing a pair of gym shorts answered the door. He was eating a bowl of cereal.
“You Courtney?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“Or Carlee? I dunno; are you that girl’s ride?”
“Come again?”
“Your drunk friend almost pissed on my sheets. She's still kind of wasted from last night.”
“Like.... She’s still ... drunk?” I asked. Wait, that could happen? Sixteen year old mind: blown.
“Yeah. She said she’d call Courtney or Kaylee or somebody. She needs a ride. I’ve gotta leave at ten, so. You know. She can’t stay here.”
“Well... I’m not her ride. I’m just here to... deliver this.”
I pointed to the package on the floor. A brief silence settled between the two of us.
“So you’re not here to take this chick home?”
I briefly considered the possibility.
“I mean... No.”
“Oh.”
Another silence descended upon the front porch.
“So what kind of delivery, then?”
“Um, it’s for your air conditioning. There’s a man from my company working on it right now and he needs this part. So, uh, if you could show me where he is then that would be great.”
“Huh.”
He scratched his belly.
Then he added, “Yeah, I think I know who you’re talking about. Come on in.”
I groaned as I hauled the package into the house. Without asking, the young man took it from me and carried it himself.
“Watch your step,” he said, “We had a crazy party here last night.”

-

I followed him up the stairs.
“You’re going to have to wait here a sec,” he said, turning to me, “and I’ll go get him.”
He disappeared down a hallway and left me standing in between the two main sleeping quarters of the house. I stood in the hallway for a good minute or two before I heard the unmistakable sound of slapping skin - immediately muffled voice of a girl saying,
“Stop it, asshole!”
The door to the right swung open to reveal a fit, tan girl wearing nothing but cheer leading shorts and a small t-shirt that was on backwards. Her face was blotchy and swollen and her makeup screamed in fury, particularly around the eyes where it had smeared and gotten in her contact lenses. She trudged past me, barely acknowledging my existence.
“Dude, what the fuck!” I heard a guy's voice say.
“I don’t know, man. You remember that shit?”
“Hell yeah, dude! Gang fuckin’ bang!”
Gang... bang?
The door swung open again and not one, not two, not three, but four fraternity brothers sauntered out of the bedroom and disappeared in the other direction, presumably to go after the girl.

Then, it clicked: all of the times I had heard the phrase in a film, tv show, on the street, but had never known enough neither cared enough to put two and two together. Gang bang. Gang ba - Holy crap, THAT’S a gang bang?! I had just witnessed the aftermath of a gang bang? I almost panicked. I felt like I needed to and run to tell the nearest person about my discovery - or at the very least that I should do something - but I didn’t know what.

Not 100% Authentic WTF Face, but close.
Moment captured by the awesome Erik Renz of ByeProductions. Hire him take your pictures!

I stood there, my mouth hanging open, gradually allowing the thought of just how many penises this girl had beckoned inside of her just hours before sink in.
“Jas? You brought the thing-a-ma-jig?””
I snapped out of it. My dad’s employee emerged from the other room.
“Yeah, it’s right here,” I said, pointing to the floor. He picked it up and then turned and laughed.
“Your daddy sent you up to a frat house on a morning like this?” he laughed.
I nodded.
He chucked and said, “Well, shoot. Thanks for bringing the package. Hope the boys didn’t scare you too bad. I haven’t seen a lawn spread like that since... Well. I mean, shoot. You did see the lawn, right?”
I nodded as he shook his head in amazement.
“Christ, these kids can party. Anyway. Alright, you best get on back to the office and tell your daddy that I’ve got this taken care of.”
He turned and headed back to the work site, laughing to himself all the way. Then, realizing that no one was coming back to escort me out of the house, I ran down the stairs and back through the way I came in, not stopping until I was back inside my car.

-

I turned up my stereo just in time to hear Paradise City as I reeled out of the driveway. It reminded me of a jingle that my brother taught me when I revealed to him that I owned a song by Guns N’ Roses:

Take me down to the paradise city
Where the grass is free
and the girls are easy
(Taaaake meeee ho-wome.)

I remember thinking of how much more appropriate that version of the song applied to what I had just witnessed. I turned the volume all the way up and felt the familiar wave of badassery that I found in loud songs about hard rockers and loose women that loved them. Only this time, now that I had seen first hand some of the very subject matter they sang about, I smiled a little more knowingly.

Sure, I felt cool as I cruised down the highway listening to bad hair metal and letting too much wind ruffle through my hair, but I also felt a little bit more worldly and wise; as if I had stumbled upon a secret - a very scandalous secret that made me feel a tad more hip.

At least, that’s what it felt like when I was sixteen year old who had just learned what a gang-bang was.

Frat House Deliveries: Here's that AC replacement unit to go with that gang-bang. (Part 1 of 2)

2011-08-30T13:01:00.015-04:00

I learned what a gang bang was at age sixteen.

My parents own a heating and air conditioning business and, when I was sixteen, I took my first job working in the office. My mother and father had built the company from scratch, starting out with one employee and a a clientele of rural home owners. Several years, numerous certifications, and several new employees later, my father was bidding on jobs for major hospitals, mega-churches, and the grandaddy of all businesses that needed heating and air conditioning repair: The University of Georgia.

Most of my work consisted of matching invoices to bills and figuring out how to use the computers. Dad decided to convert the entire office to the Linux operating system during the hey-day of the Microsoft monopoly. Even though he didn’t know how to program anything, he considered it a superior way of living. So passionate was he about Linux that he even and hired out a young college kid to come out to the office every other day and fix it.

“What is this?” asked Amanda, the secretary, one afternoon.

Amanda was one of my favorite things about working at my dad’s office. It always surprised me to see her there. The last long-term secretary that Mom and Dad hired, Ruby, stood six feet tall and had a comically monotonous way of speaking. She sounded like the voice of Daria Morgendorffer on a daily routine Paxil and apple juice. She never wore makeup and lived on a farm with her husband, a Ben Stiller look-a-like whose strangely effeminate mannerisms made me question their reasons for marriage. I remember feeling very puzzled when Ruby announced her pregnancy as the reason for her resignation.

After a long search, Mom and Dad settled on Amanda. She was a young, southern mom whose nails were always painted red and whose ears always dawned cherry shaped earrings to match the tattoo of a cherry on her left ankle.
“Oh, Honey,” she’d tell me, “I used to go out every night. I mean, I was always at shows or the club. I was a wild girl!”
She’d laugh at the memories of her own misadventures before and then, slowly, wind down and sigh out, “My poor mother.”

She had long since put her partying days behind her, instead shifting her focus to being the doting mother of two young girls. You’d never be able to guess that she had bore two children just by looking at her. Amanda looked more bright eyed and bushy tailed at age twenty-nine then I did at twelve.

Still, after the secretaries that Mom and Dad had previously employed, she was a chatty and welcome change to the office and I enjoyed her company. She was organized and efficient, though, which mean that she had everything under control and little need for any help around the office. Except when it came to Linux.

“I mean, really,” she vented, turning the computer to me. The entire form for entering the payroll had gone sideways. She continued, “All I did was click on Bo Clark’s name to put his hours in and the whole thing just shoots sideways. I’m not computer whiz, but I don’t think this is right.”

I fixed the problem by turning the computer off and on again - which is bittersweet for a computer that operates on Linux.

“Jas,” said my dad, stepping into the office, “I got a delivery for you. Danny forgot a part that he needs for the UGA job.”

I felt my heart race. A delivery? What providence! If there was anything I loved more than getting paid to match up invoices, chat with Amanda, and surf the internet, it was running company errands. I drove around all day and pretended to be a delivery-guy while I rolled my windows down and let the winds of freedom rustle my hair and my soul. At the time, I was going through a furious 80‘s hair band phrase. I made this mix CD full of Twisted Sister and Jon Bon Jovi and labeled it, “Jas’s Cool Tunage” and zoomed down the highway blaring Bad Medicine from the half blown speakers of my sister’s old Ford Taurus.

Back then, one thing was clear: I looked so cool.

Dad came back into the office with the heaviest box in the universe.
“Where am I taking this?” I asked, my knees buckling under the weight of the parcel.
“A ... Pacca Wacka something Kappa house.”
“Wait, isn’t that a fraternity?”
“Yep.”

-

I found the house alright. It was a large, white mansion with a banner hanging from the columns on the front porch that said, “Casino Royale 3000” and featured a hand painted Georgia Bulldog dressed up as James Bond and funneling beer straight from the keg. The front lawn, littered with plastic cups and bottles of Budweiser, smelled like a curious mixture of Old Spice and urine. I remember thinking,
“Wow. College seems pretty crazy.”

Mom, Dad... This isn't really what it looks like.

2011-08-29T23:40:00.006-04:00

I make a point to employ the phrase, "I'm going to do hoodrat stuff with my friends," in my life on a day-to-day basis. I blame this kid for any and all inspiration having to do with this obsession.

With that spirit in mind, I would like to point out that this is what happens when a small crew of four wraps on a shoot, drinks two pitchers of margaritas to celebrate, goes back to the apartment, does more shots, and then gets into the arsenal of film props that are lying around.

I blacked out his face because he'd probably be unhappy if I didn't.

I love that, even after being harnessed into that thing, life carries on as usual. He still drinks his beer and continues to wax cinematography. There are more, but their charm lies in the amazing facial expressions of their subjects. Blacking them out would ruin them. What you're missing out on: someone got his nails painted pink and then did a kangaroo impersonation and someone wore the rod-harness-thing on her feet and tried to walk. I don't want to embarrass them, so I will keep those photos out of the inter-butts.

As for me? Hahaha, well.

Before you get carried away thinking that I am exploiting myself and besmirching my honor, you ought to keep in mind that I may or may not have been yelling something stupid like, "SNARF SNARF SNARF SNARF!" while this was going on, effectively making this the most unattractive thing in the world.

...Snarf. Snarf snarf snarf.

Stop temping and go and be happy.

2011-08-26T12:29:00.008-04:00

I was standing on the street corner of an industrial park when a man nudged my shoulder.
“The light,” he said. I looked up. A bright image of a man in mid-stride flashed from across the road. Bird chirps echoed from the speakers around me, signaling that I should start my journey to the other side.
“Oh, wow,” I muttered. I hadn’t even noticed.
“Tired?”
It seemed as through time froze as I turned to the stranger and said, “If my hangover took on human form this second, it would appear as a demonic version of Richard Simmons and throw us both in front of not one, but two ambulances.”
The gears that control time started churning once again and instead I said,
“I guess you could say that.”

I have been saying that a lot lately.

“Such is life,” he said. He began to whistle as we crossed the road. A cocky kind of whistle. The kind of whistle that scores a thought like,
“Don’t bother pretending that this sunlight isn’t making you wince in agony right now. Your pores are dripping with proof that you spent last night downing cheap red wine and $3 house beers while you talked up an insane girl who had an armload of tattoos that screamed, “Attention, everyone, I have shit to prove!” until the wee hours of the morning because you thought you had a plan. A plan? Ha! You’re slipping through the cracks, sweetheart, and it shows.”

The man took one last look at me and gave me a wave. Then he took off in the opposite direction, still whistling. Perhaps it was just me, but I imagined that each click of his heels was accented with a,
“Such! Is! Life! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Oh my god,” I thought to myself, “That’s absolutely frightening.”

That day marked the beginning of my third straight week temping at a massive cable company. My job: to be the Human Resources gopher and gut the entire physical file database of every employee they have ever had. It seemed that no one had taken time out of the past ten years to maintain any level of organization for their physical database of over 5,000+ past and present employees.

“Here you go,” said my boss for the next three weeks as she showed me the filing room for the first time, “Your new home.”
She took one last look around the cave like environment, files overflowing from every corner. She nodded at me, told me to have fun, and retreated to her office.

At first, I felt grateful to have such a lengthy distraction in front of me. Three weeks before, I had broken off the longest relationship I had ever been in. Twenty-four hours later, I lost my receptionist job because they realized that answering machine could do what I did. Probably better, too.

At first, I decided to ignore virtually everything I was feeling and retreat to Savannah. I planned to visit with an old friend of mine, but also to work on a short film that I had nabbed through the networking powers of social media. I had answered a Facebook post from an alum of my university who needed an actress for a short film he was directing. I checked out his directing/editing reel and recognized an opportunity to get awesome footage that I desperately needed. I originally made plans to go for just the weekend. Instead, the high that I felt from being so readily accepted into a sitcom worthy arrangement of friends coaxed me into staying for five days.

“I’m using you in everything from now on,” said Zach, the alum, after reviewing the footage. “Sarah wants to use you, too.”

Sarah, his fiance and fellow film major, had called to ask me to go costume shopping for a film with her so she could get to know me better.
“I like to meet the girls that Zach finds off the internet,” she said. I appreciated her directness. It was refreshing. The experience was a lot like an interview. I’m assuming that I passed, because I have been back down there nearly every weekend since.

-

When I wasn’t in Savannah, all I did was listen to The Last Five Years on repeat and wonder where I was going to live. The housing issue raised financial concerns which brought my attention to the fact that Los Angeles was going to have to wait. There were too many plot holes to deal with now.

I spent my mornings reading through the job postings on Craigslist and alternating between songs like Shiksa Goddess and The Next Ten Minutes and feeling like the worst person on the face of this earth. It’s bad enough that The Last Five Years has been my loyal catharsis for emotionally difficult events in my life, but to couple it with Craigslist? Really?

Hey, Hey, Shiksa Goddess: I have been waiting for - WHAT? “an opportunity to fulfill my greatest fantasy and bean me in the face with a pie in a secluded area of your choice in exchange for $200 cash?”

I wish I could say that I didn’t seriously consider it. But I did.

However, before I could fully orchestrate my pie-throwing proposal and press the SEND button, my temp agency called about the human resources assignment.
“It’ll be repetitive,” the representative said.
“I want that,” I replied.

From 9-5, I didn’t have to think about anything. I would gut cabinet after cabinet, taking the messy, multicolored collection of terminated employee files. Then, I would take each stack of confidential information and slide it into a crisp, new red folder. The goal was to transform the massive heap of terminated folders into a uniform wall of crimson, a color that said, “Before you stands a proof of the ones who did not make it.”

I resisted the urge to read their files until I came across the universe’s thickest folder. It seemed to emanate an eery, seductive force that whispered,
“I am full of terrible tidbits about an employee who did something very, very bad! Open me and unleash my secrets!”

Just one peek wouldn’t hurt. I opened it.
Three hours later and I was entrenched in what seemed like my millionth file: a documented instant messenger session from a former employee who had used his company email to send pictures of himself and his countless post-divorce conquests to his ex-wife.

I have never done hard drugs in my life, but nonetheless believed that I had just discovered what crack felt like.

-

The novelty of scandal wore down by the second week. There were only so many times I could read about excessive tardiness or indecent exposure and find the same joy that I experienced at the very beginning.

By the following Monday, my morning routine had settled into a mind numbingly dull pattern: I woke up at eight, wandered about the apartment in a state of disarray while I brewed a cup of coffee and wasted my time until I realized I had exactly three minutes to put on something “business casual” and jet out the door just in time to try and squeeze a 25 minute commute into a 15 minute time frame.

That is to say that my mornings melted together the same way that run-on sentence just did.

I stopped bothering with hair and make-up altogether and resigned myself to a solitary existence as a filing cave-troll.

The afternoon that I found myself listening to a business man on the street corner say, "That's life!" as he happily skipped back to the daily grind, I thought back to the filing cabinets. Nine to five, every day. That’s forty hours a week of the same, repetitive task over and over. There is only one way to make this job even remotely interesting:

Catpaint.

Without the laser cats, this is depressing as hell.

That's life? Ugh, not mine.

I finally moved out of my ex's apartment. I retired The Last Five Years in favor of something a little more uplifting. I moved in with some gracious, awesome friends. I began to chase alternate forms of employment and income. On that note, I accepted one of most unconventional job offers I have ever had. If you want a hint, then read a couple of entries down. I feel that these new options will provide me with enough fodder to last several lifetimes - and enough income to get to LA.

In other words, if you thought the summer camp serial was something, you just wait until you get a load of what I'm about to do next.

A seperate way

2011-08-19T12:48:00.005-04:00

I have been a little MIA. Lots of things have been happening.

I have never been one to write about my relationships in explicit detail on a public forum. Some bloggers pride the way that they excel in transparency, but I personally feel that some things are best left alone until they have had time to steep, allowing me plenty of reflection and space to develop a more mature perspective. With that in mind, I’ll be brief.   

People in the midst of breaking it off with their respective partners often say,  
“It’s not you. It’s me.” 

It’s usually a lie. People have an addiction to deceiving others to make a split easier on themselves.   Maybe this is why I feel like a hypocrite. This time, it really was me.

A little over a month ago, I broke off my relationship of about eighteen months. It’s the longest I have ever been with one person. We never fought or argued. It wasn’t a tumultuous, chaotic relationship; it was nice and sweet in a youthful sort of way. He is a wonderful person and was a truly devoted significant other. Anyone should be so lucky.

However, for reasons that I don’t feel comfortable disclosing on internet, it wasn’t working for me anymore and it wasn’t going to.

How do you tell someone, “I can’t be with you anymore,” and let them know - really know - that you really do care and wish them nothing but the best and all the happiness in the world?

?

You just say it. And you say it. And you hope that they understand.

Don't let her talk you into Stripper Grams!

2011-08-06T15:44:00.003-04:00

The Adventures of Jas in Methland - Part III.

2011-08-03T12:13:00.006-04:00

For a split second, I debated turning right back around and taking a dive of McGuyver like proportions back into my car and speeding off faster than the icy roads allowed. Before I could make any decisions, though, a small dog through my legs and trotted down the front porch. 
“Biscuit!” cried a squeaky, female voice from inside, “Biscuit, get back in here! This minute!”
The voice had a face to match. A curvy blonde in designer jeans and an undeniable boob job pranced through the doorway. The fearlessly fast click-clacking of her feet in heels on the porch made me think that she never walked in anything else.

“Biscuit!” she cried, pushing past me and awkwardly fumbling down the stairs. She was wearing red heels and skinny jeans. Her hair was short and poofy – almost as if she had purposefully styled it to look like Madonna from Desperately Seeking Susan.  
She cradled the small dog and brought him back into the house.

“Well, now you’ve met Biscuit!” said the tattooed man.

--

“You can put your shoes right there,” he said, pointing to a pile of shoes behind the door, “We try not to wear shoes in the house.”
“Except me,” giggled the blonde woman, falling back into the large leather sofa, “You’ll never see me without these babies on!”
“We had to make an exception for Misty here,” he said, rolling his eyes with a smile.  “Can I get you anything to drink? We’ve got water and Cokes.”
“No thanks. Well. Maybe some water.”
“Water it is!” he said as he scooted off toward the kitchen.
“So,” the blond woman said, her expression suddenly shifting, “What part are you auditioning for?”
“Um. The Boss and The Receptionist. You?”
“The Hot One,” she said, emphasizing the ‘t’ sound, “And that’s the only one. Probably because he already knows he is going to cast me,” she said, picking up Biscuit and squeezing his face, “And maybe he’ll even find a part for Biscuit, here!”
She let the dog lick her face.
“Did you see that red hot rod out there in the driveway?” she abruptly asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Because that’s mine.”

--

“Ladies, I want to introduce you to a good friend of mine,” the tattooed man said, ushering in a large woman with Winona Judd hair and makeup to match. Come to think if it, I think she really was Winona Judd.
The blond shot up and squeaked,
“Hi! Super great to meet you!”
“Judy,” she said, taking the blonde’s hand.
“Judy here is our producer,” whistled Tattoos.
“That’s so awesome! What kinds of stuff have you produced before?” squeaked the blond.  “Nothing, really.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be shy.”
“No, really. I have never produced anything in my life.”

--

“Oh, BABY!”
I was a microsecond away from rolling my eyes to the back of my head and foaming at the mouth. The blonde had gone through her audition seven times already.
“That was great!” The Tattooed Man and Judy would say.
“Oh, I know, but let me do it this way now!” she’d say.
I don’t know which was worse: the fact that they said this after every miserable attempt this woman made or the fact that they meant it every single time. I shit you negative when I say that this went on and on for an hour. I was seconds away from making up an excuse to go home when finally she wailed,
“Woooo WEE! I’m tired, what about ya’all? What about you?” she asked, throwing her glance to me, “You ready to do yours?”
“Um, only if you guys are,” I said. Tattoos and Judy nodded.
“Here are the sides,” Tattoos said, sliding them over, “I just want to see a cold read first. And put some anger in there. The Receptionist is pissed.”

--

I stopped paying attention to the words coming out of my mouth around the third time the phrase, “Girls can be geeks, too!” popped up in the script. I have issues with writers who bash in the faces of their audience with a point. There was a better and cleverer way to say that girls could be hot and nerdy without literally stating it three times per page.

“We want to make a show that is kind of like The Office, just geekier!” Tattoos said. His lips flared with each consonant, making his toothless grin even more pronounced.

Wait, I thought, Meth makes your teeth fall out. Oh my god, this man is... was... a meth addict.

“Since girl nerds are hot, we want to capitalize on that. Do you own your own pair of glasses?”
“Yes.”
“Awesome! Yeah, we’re going to do it up right. I’m thinking... Sexy Pam Beasely Librarian type. She needs to be attractive but not realize it until the penultimate episode when all the sexual tension between her and the other guy explodes!” 
“Sexual tension?”
“Oh, yeah. Once we find the right guy to play it, it’s going to be awesome!”
“You haven’t found him yet?”
“Nah, but if push comes to shove, I could always do it.”
Suddenly it was as if an apparition of his mouth appeared out of thin air and flew toward my face, growing larger and scarier before it blew up to monstrous proportions and engulfed my head. My brain hurt from trying to take him seriously. The weight of his ear plugs made his earlobes wobble back and forth. It didn’t help any.

I glanced over to Tattoos in the middle of each read. The big, gappy, grey-ish grin on his face said it all: he sincerely believed that he had a life changing project on his hands. He and Judy liked me too much. The blonde woman already hated me for infringing upon her alpha-female energy. Biscuit was becoming restless.

I needed an exit strategy. Quick.

“That was awesome!” Tattoos said when I finished.
“Very nice, indeed,” agreed Judy.
“So what does your schedule look like for the next three months?”
“I – Well. You see…”
“Because I think you should do meth with us!”
Rewind.
“Because I think that you would fit in well with us!”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know if I can commit to something for three months. I’m..."
Come on, Jas. Think of something.
"I'm moving!”
“Moving?”
“Yes. Moving,” I said, “to Los Angeles. Soon.”
“How soon?”
“... In... like... a month.”
It was a total lie. I was a year away from that move.
“Oh.”
The disappointment could have blow up the living room.
“Why did you even bother coming out?” the blonde snickered.
“I... don’t... know.”
“Well, crap. I mean, Jas,” said Tattoos, rubbing his forehead, “You’d be really good. Don’t get me wrong; you knocked this out of the park, but we are looking for someone who can devote at least three months to this project.”
“Any way we can convince you to stay?” asked Winona Judd 2. I had forgotten she was even there.
“Um. I already have stuff lined up, so... not really.”
“Well, that’s great for you,” she said.
“So...”
“But, yeah. I’m sorry. I don’t think this is going to work out.”
I silently high-fived myself in the brain. The blonde woman snickered as a I grabbed my bag and walked to the door a little faster than I should have.
“Thanks for everything!” I called out as I stepped through the door and into the sunshine, into the light of day which I feared I would never see again. I skipped down the porch and into my car and maneuvered out of the driveway and through the ice. The woman in the leather jacket and pajamas was still hanging outside by the mailbox, undoubtedly for a very special FedEx delivery.
I didn’t feel totally safe until I made it past the chicken houses and back to the interstate.

When I got back to my apartment, the following message waited for me in my inbox:

Jas:

Thank you for coming out to audition for our Geek Start-up Web Series. You rocked the audition. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to convince you to stay in Georgia short of paying you. Because we can’t do that. (... Yet!)

Tattoos

PS - Biscuit really liked you.

I deleted the email and decided to never contact Tattoos again. I silently wished him all the best as I vowed to save this story for a rainy day. I still peruse Craigslist for shits and giggles - especially the missed connections. I leave the auditions alone, though.

Occasionally I'll find something that seems wild yet legitimate. It's so tempting to give it a try, but I never do.

I have had one of those experiences - and it was quite enough for me.

The Adventures of Jas in Methland - Part II.

2011-07-25T14:05:00.003-04:00

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~

Someone explain to me why I have been watching this for an hour.

2011-07-22T15:39:00.002-04:00

My phone voice brought a man to his knees. Not that I actually saw it.

2011-07-21T10:40:00.002-04:00

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:

(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. #icandoitall

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.

Warning: Cool Beans Coffee Roasters may actually make you say, "Coolbeans!"

2011-07-20T10:49:00.006-04:00

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.

I initially gravitated toward Cool Beans Coffee Roasters because of the delicious aroma wafting my way, but I went inside once I realized that this place had everything Mama liked: a self aware, almost hipster-ish vibe; bold colored walls that boasted the works of local artists; a menu made of a 1950's chalkboard; and an interior that seemed to be designed by a self taught photoshop guru with a penchant for welding random objects together. It gets better. These guys roast their own coffee. No joke - smack dab in the middle of the establishment is a massive, shiny, 12 Kilo Sasa Samiac roaster - appropriately and lovingly named “Big Red.”

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

The Adventures of Jas in Methland - Part I.

2011-07-19T16:41:00.010-04:00

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 -

So what kind of music do you like?

2011-07-16T18:25:00.004-04:00

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.

Wear a cow suit and get free food? Actors aren't above that! (Guest Post by Jono)

2011-07-15T13:50:00.009-04:00

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.

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!

Karaoke Ring of Death Time!

2011-07-14T07:28:00.000-04:00

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.com/). It's
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!

 Isn

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.

Can I please drop everything that I am doing and jump on this?

2011-07-12T14:14:00.002-04:00

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!

I won something! An actual, physical something!

2011-07-11T21:25:00.000-04:00

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:

The odd job queen will strike again!

2011-07-10T18:15:00.000-04:00

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.

Jas discovered Foursquare. Watch out, world!

2011-07-09T11:35:00.002-04:00

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.

I'm up for Blogger of the Month

2011-07-07T09:19:00.004-04:00

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:

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:

Things that people undoubtedly say

2011-07-05T18:46:00.003-04:00

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.

Happy Fourth of July! + Video blog + I got guest-posted

2011-07-04T11:24:00.004-04:00

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 #1.

Proof #2.

Proof #3.

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!

That time when an Atlanta politician tried to chase me down and wipe Carmex on my lips.

2011-07-01T16:14:00.067-04:00

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.

SBAP: Now part fancy photo blog!

2011-06-28T09:42:00.001-04:00

First, something that won't make you soil yourself (or, if you're a geek like me, maybe it will.) I have long enjoyed blogs like The Pioneer Woman or Smitten Kitchen - blogs that not only boast engaging writing, but outstanding photography.

Now, I can (try to) spice up Smile Big and Pretty with fancy photography, too.

That's right. I invested in a good, mid level camera.

I have owned some type of camera ever since I was fourteen. They were all point-and-shoots, but I loved them as if they were the most expensive cameras in the world. I never left the house without them. By the time I transferred into the Women's College, I had a collection of over 6,000 photographs on Facebook. I took them down ages ago since having that many photos on Facebook is tacky. If anyone learned anything from that massive collection of pictures, it was that I loved to photograph people. While Point-and-shoots were nice and served their purpose, I have long felt ready to graduate to a big girl camera.

A couple of things happened to make this wish a reality: first, someone stole my point and shoot. I know, nothing but savages in this town. Best of luck to them, though; that camera barely stood on its last leg.

Second, I made a huge life decision that will take effect in August or September. Before I literally start to move in that direction, I wanted to get a camera to document the process. I also wanted my camera to have excellent video capability.

Through divine providence, I acquired my baby, my Canon T2i. And I couldn't be happier with the results.

I couldn't wait to test it out on my first (barely) willing subject. Clap your hands for Clint, becuase he stood there and posed while I switched my camera to manual and pressed buttons until I found a happy place. I uploaded these without any kind of tweaking in Photoshop. I want to know how to make the colors pop more, but I suspect that's more of a light/lens issue.

The camera wanted to focus on his hair more than his face, but I am excited regardless. Why? People. Big people. Little people. Pets. Wild animals. Babies. Now I can learn how to take awesome pictures of them all.

No one is safe (especially Clint.)

The lens that the camera came with, contrary to what I would have thought, is actually a great learning lens. I'm itching to get an even better lens and flash, though. (cough cough look here omg could get it used but no, not right now)

I won't expand until I have a strong grasp on what I have, so I'm already studying up on photography basics, the different types of lenses and what conditions you would use them in, and how to utilize this camera to the best of its abilities.

I think I'm off to a fair start!

Wait - that's nicotine gum?

2011-06-26T11:49:00.015-04:00

I had just changed into my civilian clothes and was about to enjoy my break in between performances when I spotted some gum on the floor. It looked like this:

It was still in the package, not yet tainted by the sin of the outside world. What providence!

"Awesome!" I thought. I picked it up and popped a piece in my mouth, grinning at my good fortune. I chewed for a good ten or fifteen seconds before I noticed a spicy taste and tingling sensation in my cheeks. Feeling puzzled, I turned the package over to see what brand it was.

Nicotine Gum. It wasn't even Nicorette; it was the generic brand. And it was loaded with stimulants and that now coursed through my veins.

For a second, I debated on whether or not to finish what I had started and chew it until the mintiness had run its course. Then the tingle spread to my arms and I hastily spit it out.

I don't know how to describe how I felt other than to say I felt... fast. I felt very, very fast. I walked faster, talked faster; I even felt that I blinked faster.

It felt strange to perform with this tingliness still edging its way through my system.

It made for a very interesting show.

When I made an update about my folly through Twitter (follow me @jas_sams), here is what my peers had to say:

Theater Friend: Your Special... :p
Awesome Photographer Friend: chew 'em if you got 'em!
Sister: I'd file this one under Face Palm Moments.
Former Significant Other Turned Good Friend: Good job!
Sister-in-Law: that will teach you to put stuff in your mouth that you don't know what it is or where it came from.
Fellow actor: It really made your performance SMOKIN last night!

My parents taught me to call moments like these learning experiences.

SBAP Video: He Switch His Hips!

2011-06-26T00:03:00.003-04:00

You know I'm closing a show this weekend. You probably don't know that I just witnessed the beginnings of a musical sensation.

Pictures from the show + We partied with Encore Atlanta!

2011-06-25T08:00:00.003-04:00

If you watched my awesome video blog from the other day (and if you didn't, why didn't you?), then you already know that I'm closing an awesome show this weekend. I had the opportunity to be in one the most popular, beloved musicals that Mama Broadway pushed from her sweet, sweet womb in the past 20 years.

Due to the rigorous nature of the copyright holders, I can't really scream out the name of the show (Although it begins with an R and rhymes with Christian season of LENT. Good luck, keyword crawlers.)

I wanted to take some time out of my busy schedule of minimizing my Facebook wall every time someone from the office walks by to share some of my favorite "behind the scenes" photos with you!

------

The cast was invited to sing for *Encore Atlanta's annual Tony Awards viewing party. All of us brought fancy clothes and carpooled down to the Fox Theater for an awesome night of amazing food and fellowship with fellow actors and arts lovers. The proceeds went to a great charity, too!

* From their website at EncoreAtlanta.com: "Encore Atlanta is the exclusive show program for The Fabulous Fox Theatre (home to Broadway Across America, Theater of the Stars, the Delta International Series, Atlanta Ballet’s Nutcracker among others), the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra at their Symphony Hall and Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre at Encore Park venues, the Alliance Theatre and the Atlanta Opera at their performances at the Cobb Energy Performing Arts Centre."

Here I am with two of my castmates. Funny story: this photo was taken during sound check. Kenya (middle) had another castmate take photos DURING the song, each time opting out of the song in favor of a photograph. Hilarious.

During a double duty day (5 hours at the studio, dinner break, sitzprobe in the evening), we all decided to grab dinner at Hemingways, the bar next door. I may or may not have had a beer.

A castmate and I are obviously talking about important things like Middle Eastern exit strategies and whether or not Shakespeare wrote The Tempest as we prepare for the sitzprobe. In case you read "sitzprobe" the first time and your mind took you to a dark and scary place, let me clarify: sitzprobe is the term for that first time that the actors get to sing with the live band.

This is possibly one of my favorite photos from the show. This was taken during that week last month where I was running on three hours of sleep and working three jobs. I don't remember anyone even taking this picture. Come to think of it, I don't remember much of that moment at all. Oh my god, where is my life going?! Someone call Jim Carrey before they suck out the rest! (Prize for you if you get that reference.)

This last photo was taken backstage with some of my awesome castmates. Aw!

My paleness almost blew up the lens.

The entire experience taught me a thing or two about patience, pacing, and priorities. Priorities like sleep and how the human body kind of needs it. It also introduced me to some incredible people, like those pictured above. As this show draws to a close - our last night is on Sunday - I find myself thinking, "What's next?"

Well, I have an answer. But I won't be telling you until next time.

Until then.

Wink!

I went to the theater!

2011-06-24T11:54:00.053-04:00

Occasionally I will go out and enjoy theater instead of try to be in it.

Recently, I went to go see August: Osage County at Atlanta's Alliance Theater - easily the most well funded theater in city. Many productions do their pre-Broadway runs here (Sister Act: The Musical, The Last Night of Ballyhoo, and Bring it On! The Musical just to name a few) and many careers tend to take off after booking with them. They produce amazing shows and, for the most part, hire Equity actors.

In a nutshell, the Alliance is fancy.

I managed to nab some shots of that gorgeous set before the show started, but I'm relatively sure that posting them is a major no-no. Know, however, that it was a work of art to be admired as much as the performance itself. Instead, I'm posting some shots from the lobby that I nabbed with my iPhone 3gs. Since the camera on the 3gs isn't spectacular, I'm thankful for Instagram; I punched those suckers right up.

Jas Hits Up Noche in Virginia Highlands!

2011-06-23T08:19:00.014-04:00

When it comes to restaurants, I tend to gravitate more toward the local end of the spectrum. There's something about an eclectic design paired with a great wine and beer selection that I can't resist. Add a patio and you have the perfect Jas trap.

When Clint suggested we go to Noche, I looked at him skeptically. Noche? Didn't that place belong a chain of restaurants owned by That 70's Show's and Demi Moore's boy toy, Ashton Kutcher? I had never been to a celebrity endorsed restaurant before. I have been denying their existence ever since I saw VH1's footage of people running from Britney Spears's NYLA as they screamed, "Don't eat the meatballs!"

*Note - An anonymous tipster left me a comment saying that Here to Serve Restaurants are is owned by/affiliated with Ashton Kutcher. Whoops!

Yet, two phrases pulled me up from skepticism:

"They have an enormous patio,"
and,
"Monday is $2 taco night."

You wouldn't suspect that behind the small, quaint exterior of the Virginia Highlands location of Noche was a bustling interior full of delicious smells and a colorful array of locals, almost all of whom seemed to be in good spirits - and indiving them, too. Almost half the tables seemed to be splitting a glass jar of sangria, so I made a mental note to order some. The interior had a good size to it, but nothing prepared me for the second I stepped onto the deck.

Patio. Miles and miles of patio. The kind of patio that could have comfortably fit all of William and Kate's wedding reception.

This is only a small chunk. It basically stretches as far as the eye can see.

We grabbed a seat and immediately ordered the most adorably generous pitcher of sangria - the perfect beverage for a hot, Atlanta evening. It had the perfect blend of everything that I like and left me feeling laxidasical and satisfied. Mm.

Check out the glass vase that the sangria comes in. Cute!

Because Noche is a tapas restaurant, the menu boasted a massive selection of delicious sounding appetizers. While we mostly stuck to the $2 tacos, we each ordered one regular ap from the menu. I ordered a chicken empenada because I'm fancy like that and Clint ordered the taquitos because he likes the way the word sounds.

I love that the staff brings you the dishes as soon as they are ready. You ordered three things at once? No worries; you get them one by one. Boom, boom, boom; right as they come out of the kitchen. The staff stays on top of it. Love it.

The $2 tacos? Amazing. I hardly ever eat red meat anymore, but their steak tacos (pictured below) came topped with fresh ingrediants that fell into place on top of a spinach tortia. The preportions were dead-on: I ate it with no spillage.

All photos, including this photo of a delicious steak taco,

were made extra hip looking courtesy of Instagram!

I thought that chicken empanada and taquitos were fantastic as well - a little spicy, but my tastebuds are ultra sensitive. Clint, who adores spicy food, absolutely loved them.

Bottom line: we were able to order six delicious dishes and a pitcher of sangria for a ridiculously amazing price. In addition to their choice location, great specials, and exceptional staff, Noche boasts that look and feel of those local spots that I absolutely love.

That's a keeper!

Noche
1000 Virginia Ave NE
Atlanta, GA 30306

Hours:
Mon-Thu 5:30 pm - 11 pm
Fri 5 pm - 12 am
Sat 1 pm - 12 am
Sun 1 pm - 10 pm

(404) 815-9155
www.heretoserverestaurants.com

The Morning Mad Dash

2011-06-22T08:18:00.001-04:00

"Oh my God," I thought, feeling my stomach lurch as my car pummeled yet another snag in the Atlanta highways, "I need to eat something."

The Architectural High-Rise Group building is super shi shi. This means that it includes both a dry cleaner's and a cafe on the lobby level. I thought about stopping by the cafeteria to get one of those mutant bananas that they sell, but I was too scared to look at my radio and get the time. One would think that A few weeks ago, I set the clock ahead by five minutes in an effort to make me more conscious of my time. I later figured out that this trick only works if you set every clock you use back five minutes, too. It kind of defeats the purpose when the only clock set specifically to remind you of how lazy and slow you are is at the point of no return.

I stomped on the accelorator, passing three giant turtles on the interstate, and squeezed my way back in with just enough time to get off on my exit. I pulled into the visitor parking, locked my doors, grabbed my bag, and made a mad dash to the stairwell. The elevators would be too slow. Not enough time.

As I made my first leap up the stairs, it hit me like a cement brick; no; it weighed me down like an accurately sized ocean of coffee churning inside me.

"Aah!" I screamed. Rarely do I let out actual vocalizations of inner pain, but I was in deep trouble with myself this time. I had managed to get out the door with a belly full of coffee, one of the quickest diaretics known to the human race, and no food to soak it up and keep it from zipping straight to the pee-pouch in my gut.
My priorities screamed for an overhaul. Food no longer mattered; I could deal with hunger until noon. What I could not deal with was another morning chained to the receptionist desk for an hour while I counted down the seconds between relief or pissing myself with shame. It almost happened already.

I did the walk-run to the lobby elevators, hopped in, pressed the number for my foor, and stepped off. It was 8:00. I had a split second to make a decision.

"Someone has to be at that desk at exactly eight o'clock," I heard my boss say, "People will start calling as soon as they can and it is imperative that you be there to pick up the phone."
"Don't listen to her, Jas! If you don't empty me soon, I will kill you!" my bladder yelled in reply.

8:00.

A millisecond to make a decision.

I sprinted to the women's room with Olympian like speed.

At 8:01, I flipped the call-forward off and assumed my receptionist position.

I doubt anyone noticed.

SBAP Video! Come Holla at THIS Show!

2011-06-20T23:48:00.001-04:00

Stream of Consciousness Restroom Rant

2011-06-20T09:32:00.000-04:00

If I don't get to use the restroom sometime soon, I may cry.

My temp agency found me a full time gig as a receptionist for a gourmet architectural firm. I have no solid evidence to back this up, but I think that they are responsible for almost all high-rise buildings in major US cities since 2003. For the most part, the job is great. I sit at a desk where I get to read and write while I wait for the phone to ring. I redirect calls, stamp invoices and statements, and arrange mailings and courier pick-ups. Almost every meeting for every occasion is catered - and they always always order too much. I haven't had to buy lunch for a week.

The only drawback that I can find is that I am not, for any reason, allowed to leave the front desk unless someone relieves me.

That said.

If I don't get to use the restroom in the next five minutes, I will probably start making high pitched noises. It's a nervous habit of unknown origins. I don't know why I do it; high pitched whistling noises aren't going to magically empty my bladder or make any feeling of discomfort vanish into thin air.

The administrative assistant is supposed to be here at nine o'clock. I'll just get her as soon as she walkst through the door.

It's 8:54. She's usually early.

Where is she?

I'm not supposed to, but I could ask one of the designers.

This wouldn't be happening if I stopped drinking so much coffee in the mornings. Or at least if I stopped drinking coffee with a straw. Straws make for faster and easier consumption, which in turn makes for faster and needier exit from the body.

It's 9:03. I can't do this.

I read on Wikipedia that a woman died during a radio contest called "Hold your wee for a Wii." Contestants had to drink half a gallon of water and then go head to head in an epic battle to to the last one standing. It turned out to be an epic stand-off to the death; the woman who would have won died when her bladder exploded.

9:07.

I wonder if the government does this to imprisoned terrorists?

The only people who are supposed to relieve me in these times of trouble are the administrative and marketing assistants - also known as the women. You can typically sense their presence by the sound of their heels on the concrete floor. One of the architects, however, owns a pair of man-shoes that make the same clicking noise when he walks up and down the hallway. He has fooled my desperate mind twice this morning.

I hate him right now.

9:20

Finally!

I devised an ingenious plan. I stopped one of the passing architects and asked, "Do you know when Shelby usually comes in?"

"She's usually here around 8:00. Why?"
"Well, it's just that I have had to use the restroom since I got here this morning and I'm not supposed to leave the front desk, and I really need to go, and -"

"Well, I can stand here and watch guard."
"Could you?"

Zing.

An exchange between my agent and me:

2011-06-15T11:14:00.000-04:00

When an actor agrees to representation with a particular agent or agency, they fill out a sizable stack of paperwork. This stack includes but is not limited to forms about payment, forms about your state of residence, and forms about the states that you can say you can fake residence in (also known as local hire or knowing someone with an adress in that state).

This stack also includes a paper that clearly denotes the things you will or will not do on camera. I am fairly certain that I checked everything from unconventional nude scenes to spiritual market films.

I will do almost anything on camera. No, really. I will. I have that little shame. My agent knows this and, even though she is good and moral person, does not judge. Just to be safe, though, she e-mailed me this morning with this:

---------------------------------------------

From: *****
To: Jas

Subject: Possible audition

Question:
Would you wear a G-String for a role (and a very raunchy sexy outfit)?

Have a great day!

*****
***** Agency

-----------

From: Jas
To: *****

My answer to that question: If they're fine with seeing my pasty whiteness in a g-string, then I will wear one for the right kind of role/pay. What is it for?

Jas

------------

From: *****
To: Jas

It is for a cable TV Series. You would be the white trailer trash girlfriend of one of the main characters with a possibility of recurring.

Have a great day!
*****
***** Agency

-------------

From: Jas
To: *****

Um, YES. I would so do that!!

------------

From: *****
To: Jas

Figured you would. Just checking. It airs on ******* and pays AFTRA scale.

*****
***** Agency

------------

From: Jas
To: *****

I love that network. And because of my pale skin and look, I think I could have a suicide girls/alternative appeal. I have sent you a link to the budoir shoot that I did with my headshot photographer.
http://staceybode.com/blog/?p=1264

Go past the shots you already have. I could so do this role.

Let me know!

Jas

--------------

To: Jas
From: *****

These are beautiful photos, very well done, and yes you could so do this.

I have attached the sides to give you an idea of the character and will talk to my contact about getting you on tape. Apparently they are having issues with finding authentic southern accents in actors. (In Georgia? Really?)

Character:
Ashley Fitz: (Early 20's) This sizzling southern bell loves to party. Nudity is not required. Disrobing will not be requested at audition. Ashley Fitz may wear a g string. Recurring role. Actress should be able to improv and employ an authentic southern accent. DO NOT SUBMIT if talent cannot do a believable southern accent.

Should you have any questions please do not hesitate to call.

Have a great day!

*****
***** Agency

----------------

This is why my agent rocks.

CoverGirl? Yeah, girl.

2011-06-13T11:01:00.000-04:00

Thank you to Kroger and CoverGirl for sponsoring this review. While CoverGirl provided me with a $30 gift card to purchase CoverGirl products at Kroger stores, the opinions I've expressed here are solely my own, represent my honest viewpoint, and not that of CoverGirl, Kroger, or Proctor & Gamble. I am making no claims about the products, just expressing my thoughtful opinion. Clever Girls Collective supports Blog With Integrity.

You may not know this, but I absolutely love makeup. I love the fact that you can artfully smear something all over your face and look like a completely different person. Nothing gives me the freedom to experiment with makeup more than being in a show. I just opened a production of a popular rock musical about soulful bohemians in New York City circa 1994. I need makeup to match the energy of the piece - but I also need the makeup to last through the piece, too.

With prices for the high end stuff being what they are, I'm not paying $30 plus for a single piece of makeup that I'm just going to be using every day for a month long run. I need something affordable that packs one hell of a punch. Where am I supposed to go for quality makeup that can stand up to a two hour rock musical?

Um, duh. Kroger.

And what did I get?

CoverGirl.

Armed with a budget of $30, I went hunting for some key pieces to a successful makeup collection. This is what I found. Again, let me say this part: thirty. dollars.

1. CoverGirl natureluxe lipstick.

It's green and gives my lips a punch of color without feeling greasy, cakey, or having the tendency to gravitate toward my teeth. Plus, it stays on. I didn't have to reapply it once during the show. I got it for 5.99 with my Kroger Plus Card.

2. CoverGirl smokey shadow blast in "citrus flair."

Cirtus Flair? Yes, ma'am. When you have eyes as small as mine, you have to punch them up with a little color. I like this because the pigment remains true after you put it on. It's exactly what's on the box - only on your face. I got it for 5.99 with my Kroger Plus Card.

3. CoverGirl brow&eyemakers in "honey brown."

I'm pale. Really pale. Radioactively pale. My face reflects light in strange ways - so I have to use my makeup to highlight and contrast. I have often had trouble with my eyebrows washing out under bright lights - or even in everyday wear. This color actually helped me embolden them without making them look frightening and over-pronounced. Win! I got it for 3.99 with my Kroger Plus Card!

4. CoverGirl liquiline bast in "black brown."

I don't need to write in depth about my long lasting love affair with eyeliner. I have tried to find something that was simple to apply, didn't require a drying period, and didn't run or migrate to other parts of my face throughout the day. This eyeliner went on smooth and stayed smooth for the entire run of my show. If it can last through two hours of jumping around, running, dancing, and singing, then you know that it's good to last you through the entire day. Dare I say it - oh what the hey: five dollars.

5. CoverGirl lash exact mascara in "black brown."

I was considering buying a pair of false eyelashes for my show. Then I decided to just give this stuff a try. I'm surprised that they don't call it lengthening mascara. I was able to make my eyelashes look somewhere around 30% longer without looking cakey and gross. Also noteworthy: it comes off with very little elbow grease. I'm used to scrubbing my eyes with a steel-pad, but this mascara came off with a cotton swab and some makeup remover. I was amazed. Six dollars.

I was able to get five key pieces of CoverGirl makeup for thirty dollars at Kroger. Do you know how much these pieces would have cost me at a specialty makeup store? Do you know how much these pieces would have cost me if I had walked a few steps to the left and went with another brand?

CoverGirl and Kroger definitely had it down pat - affordable, lasting, DURABLE makeup for a fancy, working lady like myself.

As the kids are saying these days,
"Get some!"

Mama said there'd be weeks like this.

2011-06-12T16:40:00.001-04:00

There'd be weeks like this, my mama said.

The week began with me wondering why on earth Netflix would neglect to include a cinematic classic, Pootie Tang, on their instant cue. The week ended ended with another one of my scary Mel Gibson dreams. A giant mess of a week reared its ugly head in between and made me question the fiber of what I’m made of.

First, I found out that an offer for a project that I had supposedly booked had been rescinded on the grounds that the producers were “taking the part in a new direction” and were “looking for someone who was more ‘mainstream and pretty.”

I tracked down the actress they had gone with on the internet. One look at her head shot said everything. She was forever seventeen and gorgeous. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and what a collagen envying friend of mine would refer to as “big ass lips.” I stared at her head shots, taking in each look and pose she had done. She had it all covered: pouty, girly, serious, emotional, and fun. I don’t know which is worse; the fact that they rescinded an offer because of this girl - or the fact that, deep down, I didn’t blame them. This was a girl who didn’t run into doorways. This was a girl who never answered the door to the Schwann’s man and accidentally stripped because she forgot that she wasn’t wearing a tank top under her t-shirt. There was no comparison.

It’s not even like I exclusively want top notch work. I watched a commercial for QuickTrip chicken nuggets the other day. It featured five actors squawking and flapping their arms up and down as they bobbed their necks back and forth. Nuggets of chicken zoomed around the white space, taunting them with their crispiness and affordability.
"God," I thought, gazing at a joyful, young woman who caught a nugget in her teeth, "if I could only book that."

A couple of days later, I was leaving one of my jobs when my agent called and said,  “Janice wants to see you for a film audition tomorrow. She asked for you by name.”

Janice asked for me by name once before. It was to come in and read for a “video vixen.” It should go without saying that I didn’t book that one. I make about as much sense in a gold chain as Kristin Wiig.
“What does she want to see me for?”
“Oh,” my agent gushed, “You’re going to love it.”

Turns out the film was a project that had been sitting in development hell for the past two years. I can’t tell you what it is, but I can tell you that it’s a comedy about having babies. It’s about having lots of babies. It’s about having, like, eight million babies.

My interpretation of mainstream comedy in recent years has been that it is acceptable to go in an unconventional direction to earn your keep; watch Brides Maids or any Jim Carrey film and take note of their box-office revenue if you don’t believe me. Janice, however, has a different view on the matter. I stood in the casting room, ready to blow them away with my exquisite interpretation of an especially quirky character, and fired off as soon as she waved me to start.

The scene began with the main character, a successful woman in the baby business, having one of those weird pregnant lady dreams where she has a set of gills. Her assistant, rustled from her desk by the sound of her boss’s make-believe gurgles, comes in and wakes her.
I almost missed my entrance. The cue line was supposed to be, “I dreamt that I had gills. Do I have gills?”
What I heard was,
“(Mmmm) (mmmmmph) (mmmmmmph). (Mmpph)?”

This is why you always learn your sides backwards and forwards whenever you have them far enough in advance. Janice happens to be one of those casting directors that reads the producers’ directions of “Would prefer talent to be louder than their reader” and interprets them as, “If I hear the voice of the reader, I will hex their progeny for generations to come.”

The best way to overcome this problem is to know your sides so well that you sweat the words. When the sound stops coming from the general direction of the reader, you say whatever the hell it is you’re supposed to say - preferably in character.

“No, you don’t have gills on your face,” I said, before staring to the side and saying under my breath in a raspy, dorkish voice, “but that be awesome...” 
“No, now you’re over acting,” Janice said, motioning to her assistant to switch off the camera.  I did it one more time in what seemed like the most lifeless, unfunny audition of my life.
“Much better,” Janice said, turning off the camera. She didn’t let me read for the other character.  

I called my agent on the way home and explained what had happened.
“I don’t think she’s even going to submit me. Is there any way we can go around Janice?” 
“I can submit you directly to the LA casting,” she replied, “but if they want to see more of you, I’m probably going to have to come up with a reason for why you didn’t show up in the Atlanta submissions.”
“Could you?” 
“Of course. We had to do this with the supernatural show, too. Just record the sides - both of them - and get them to me by tomorrow morning.”  

Two days later, we still hadn’t heard back from either coast about any callbacks.  Apparently I’m too quirky for everyone.

The week took another stride south a woman called me a red headed devil while I was on my lunch break because I couldn’t tell her the release date of some product that one of my employers makes. I was appalled; I do not have red hair.

By the middle of the week, I was running on three to four hours of sleep because I was working two jobs and going to rehearsal until midnight. I drank coffee in the morning to keep me sounding zesty whenever I answered the phone and said,

“Hello, you have reached the office of wherever I’m temping at today, how may I direct your call?”

or:

“Welcome! Let me tell you about one of the many awesome products you can buy at this store! Let me hook you up with an ambassador of knowledge! Let me take a look at your device and see if there’s anything wrong. Ma’am, I apologize about being a red haired devil, but allow me to direct you to a location where you can be assisted by your pick of devils just like me - except with a hair color that suits you better.”

The week seemed to get worse and worse with each passing moment.

My car broke down twice.

I started getting a fever.

I started menstruating and when I asked this girl for a tampon she handed me one labeled ultra light and giggled when said, “This is all I have!”

I wanted to hand her a question mark in return for her generosity.

I drank more coffee after work so that I could be more alert during rehearsals for a show that launched this week. It smelled like a Starbucks when I sweat. I’d rehearse until eleven, drive home, shower (or not shower), and finally lie in bed, too caffeinated to go to fall asleep. Then I would wake up, go to one of my jobs, and cross my fingers that I would get a magical phone call telling me that I was pretty enough to be seen in person.

I have been considering coloring my hair again.

I was a blonde baby, dammit.

Why is auburn hair not considered mainstream?

What do I need to do?

I need to get off of my ass.

These thoughts and other completely unwarranted worries plagued my mind until I woke up in the middle of the night because Mel Gibson was chasing after me with an industrial powered blow torch screaming, “YOU’RE MINE, BITCH!”

When Mel Gibson comes after you in your sleep, it’s time for a change.

I woke up the next morning and put in my two weeks notice at my retail job, got my car fixed with the help of a kind soul in the Atlanta theater community, and got a nap.

Then I walked my happy ass into our tech rehearsal.

Screw you, Hollywood. I’m pretty.

And this girl has a show to do.

Stills from Dad's Garage Theater Company's production of Scarlett's Web

2011-05-30T08:29:00.000-04:00

*Photos courtesy of Macabre Puppets and Mike Katinsky

Who remembers the delightfully bloody video blog about Scarlett's Web? If you don't, then watch the video blog here and then come back to check out some awesome stills from the show!

Think Sweeney Todd. Except not Sondheim-y and with a psychotic farm-girl instead of a demon barber.

Scarlett's Web was an amazing experience for a number of reasons. It was produced at a theater that I have longed to be a part of: Dad's Garage, an improv comedy theater in Atlanta that specializes not only in improv theater, but also in producing original plays and musicals. Not only was Dad's Garage involved, but a team of incredibly talented individuals from the The Center for Puppetry Arts and a talented assortment of Atlanta's most awesome for special effects and concept development. I was so lucky to have been part of such an amazing, creative team.

Not only was it the first professional show I have ever done; it was the first musical I have ever done where I have to be onstage for the majority of the show and sing in most of the songs. Not just any songs - musically demanding songs written by a genius named Eric Frampton. I learned a hell of a lot about myself and pacing and ... man. Sorry, I'm still digesting the fact that the show has closed.

Awesome doesn't even begin to describe it.

When I posted the video blog for Scarlett's Web, I received a pleasantly surprising number of e-mails asking if the show would be re-mounted in the form of a tour, a larger production, or if there was a way they could see it without having to make a trek to Atlanta. Well, the short answer is "Um," but the long answer is, "maybe."

Until I know something more definite, I do offer a compromise: Pictures!

In the beginning, Fern (name change probably pending) is just stoked to be with her best friend, Wilbur.

She eats with her two hilariously awkward, meat loving parents at the table.

But soon, things go awry when Wilbur is taken to the butcher. Fern rescues his head and goes to work at her Uncle Zuckerman's to earn enough money to take her Pig's head on the road and leave the farm behind.

Father discovers what Fern has done and restrains her before taking her away to a mental institution - where even more happens. But I won't spoil the ending.

When she gets to the farm, she discovers that her uncle fed her some sausage made of the rest of Wilbur and she snaps. The rest of the show is a well-paced, musically adventurous, and delightfully bloody meltdown.

So delightfully bloody, in fact, that the audience received complimentary ponchos with their tickets.

Every night sold out. We probably could have kept going for another month, but all awesome things have an end. Who knows, though? There were talks of a remount, possibly in Chicago or at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

Fingers crossed, right?

I finally found out where my people are.

2011-05-29T08:54:00.000-04:00

I was perusing the Bloggies this morning and reconnected with a time-tested blog that I used to read religiously, Looby Lu. I'm stoked that I did. Look at this awesome video on the latest post:

After watching this, I'm almost certain that I'm a displaced Icelander.

Check out their page: Inspired by Iceland Video from Inspired By Iceland on Vimeo.