Update

And so it goes:
Tues: Audition for Toyota playing a "natural, non-made-up Pacific Northwesterner". Read: Barfey R.E.I. shit and flannel with soy carob-mocha as prop.
Wed: 3:20, Stressed out Mom: cue the Working Girl soundtrack, don the Reebok Hi-tops layered with nude nylons, slouchy socks and a Power Suit.
6:00, Mistress in bra and chinoise.
Thurs: A cracked out Hooker with a heart 'o gold.
Lord help me.
PS: Does anyone have some thigh-hi's I can borrow? No, wait, got 'em.

The things I do to be an actor...

OK. The top of January I was in Seattle for an audition that was casting the role of "Barista: piercings a plus!" So I trekked on down to Claire's, that jewelry shop where teenagers adorn themselves in Hello Kitty earings and Hanna Montana hair falls. It was rather surreal asking the sales girl I was looking for "anything that can be pierced, without actually piercing it." So I was corralled toward THE CASE. It was a lock down, this piercing aisle. And she looped her keys around in a finger-hula-hoop, weilding them as a high-security prison guard would at San Quentin. I found magnetic piercings galore. After stocking up on some faux hoops for the nose and lip, I promenaded down to 1st Ave. where the bead store was, still searching for that ever-evasive eyebrow ring. I found facets that I later cut with pliers and forceably pinched my skin, maneuvering what one would hope would portray my look: A Human Tackle Box. I smeared red eyeshadow on and did my best Suicide Girl impression and plotted on. The other day I had the big bi-annual "Generals" theatre auditions in PDX, a scary ordeal in which one crams two contrasting monologues: a contemporary piece and a classic one timed in 3 minutes (oh, and they'll call "time" on your ass). Since my pieces where hand-heavy, I decided to dawn fake nails for the gig (see above). Right as I'm going on, one popped off and I had to think of that lone missing nail all throughout an early Scorsese piece and a Shakespearean Cleopatra. I felt like my right hand looked like a 3-legged dog. I have 4 other auditions this week and lord knows who I'll have to become for them. Are you there god? It's me, Gigi. Why was I blessed with this gift of theatricality? I mean, it's a gift AND a curse...

Do you want some cheese with that Whine?

Today? I bought a coat. And not a vintage fur one I dumpster dove out of a Salvation Army bin, either! It is actually my first "utilitarian" coat: long, black, puffy with special tags on it that say things like: "water-proof" and "thinsulate." Tres, chic, no? I had to break down because it's a freaking ARCTICBLAST out there. I overheard my neighbor tell his child, "You know, if you leave any part of your body unexposed for longer than ten minutes, you'll get frostbite." I don't really think that's true, but I do applaud his effort of instilling the fear of blackened bodily parts amputated off his young son.
Question: Why is everyone hiding? People get to be such babies this time of year! I keep reading blogs about hibernation, the art of doing nothing, people avoiding people. Brew youreslf a cup of cocoa and read a goddamn book! Jesus. Phone people back, why don't you? Incorporate the fine art of letter writing. If the latest aberrant news of Heath Ledger taught us anything, it's that artful people don't last.
Appreicate those in your life who are.

PS: I was thinking if terrorists wanted a new weapon, why not a spork from KFC? Only because it would make great copy.
Great. Now my blog has just been flagged by the CIA. I guess I'll have to wear my aluminum foil hat and staple cheese to the roof again.

pretending

It is so cold outside that I'm pretending I'm 8 and school got cancelled. But in reality it's not like I have anything much else to do because I am a standard-issue layabout.

Boo-F'n-Hoo, Celebrities...

I don't want to use this blog to stand on a righteous soap-box about current affairs or get all Perez Hilton on your asses, but I can't believe all the public sturm und drang about the stoopid Gloden Globes being cancelled because of the writer's strike. The writer's were getting humped in their butts because Hollywierd wouldn't pony up the bones for DVD residuals, allow for union jurisdiction over the hordes of new reality shows + animation + all this internet stuff they wrote. BigWigs & Fat Cats just hoped the lowly writers would lay down and take it. Now, every news show on the air waves is crying rivers over how the poor, poor rich and famous stars -- who already won the genetic lotto and the job bingo (less than 1% of working actors) -- can't wear their billion dollar dresses, kajillion dollar jewels or, my favorite part: pick up their goody/swag bags at all the after parties. Those self-congradulating masterbatory assholes can't go pick up their AWARD. Sniff. Sniff.

Happy Hour at Lucy's Table

This is one of Portland's reputed best Happy Hours and it was damn fine. Located in the northwest district, my sister pulled up at 4:45pm and said, "Get out. You need to wait in line." Whhaaaa? A) I don't wait in lines B) Why IS there a line? The Food Snob gods granted my answers when no sooner than the question marked popped above my head did 6 or 7 people come skulking out of the dark alleys where hungry gobs live. When they finally opened their doors at 5, the place was filled within seconds (granted, it's pretty petite). We ordered a glass of house red each ($3.50), I got the oysters with a cucumbery-melon sorbet which I wish were on the side, 'cause I likes me oysters raw & plain, aarrrgghh, and a mesclun salad (doesn't that sound like a cousin of "crack salad"?). My sister ordered a cup of butternut squash soup with truffle oil and we split the Buffalo burger. The total tab ended up being $28. Not bad. Not bad at all.

This is someone's idea of a cute bartender?

I took myself out to the new bar, Bye and Bye, on 10th & Alberta. Rumor had it that this little vegan, bike-loving gin mill boasted bartenders who're easy on the peeps. Now, not like I regularly cruise for Baldwins like a menstruating teen-puppy, but I was curious. So I hit their happy hour (which isn't so happy unless you drink beer exclusively) and had a couple glasses of sangiovese served in those nouveau little tumblers everyone's drinking out of (what the hell went wrong with the STEM, people?) and ogled at...see above.
I don't know what PDX thinks makes up the criteria of "hot bartenders" but burley, patchwork quilt flannel shirts and droopy drawer jeans isn't MY idea of h.b. Isn't there a tall, ironic-mullet sporting fellow in a skinny tie anywhere in this town?

Midgets, Lesbians & cut-off ears

The one above is me doing my best Blue Velvet last Halloween. The one below is the transcendental meditator master himself, David Lynch. I have such an older man crush on him! Last night I went to a Film Festival of his where they played Eraserhead, Inland Empire and Lynch, which is a documentary on him (duh). He is such a clipped gent in his chinos, loafers and crisp white oxford shirts. But he's just like his films where behind the facade of fancy houses and tree lined neighborhoods lurks something off, perhaps sinister, but defintiely crooked. Because you see him working and smoking and you'll notice the elbows of said white shirts have an ever-so-slight rip right at the elbow. He is one of our cinematic geniuses, for certain (and I hate it how the word genius is bantered about so liberally). He's irreverant and funny, at one point dipping a sand-colored jacket right into a bucket of bright green paint. It is never explained why. Siggghhh. School girl crush.