Ray of light

I was in L.A. on a commercial shoot, living the high life at a Westside hotel.

Every morning I'd lace up my running shoes and hit the UCLA track; on shoot days, I'd run in the dark. For a city that often stinks to high heaven by midday (as early as 10am in the summer), Los Angeles has a remarkably fresh smell in the early morning that's dewy and invigorating and full of promise and at that point in my life, promise was something I needed a whole lot of. On paper, I looked unbeatable: good salary, high-profile copywriting gig, nice condo in a happening section of town. But walking around, I was miserable. I hated my job, I hated my spinelessness in refusing to jettison it and most of all, I hated myself for what I saw as every misstep I'd taken to bring myself to this pretty pass.

But on this particular trip to L.A., I got lucky. It was an easy shoot, as shoots go, happy clients, cushy schedule, no other huge projects to work on long-distance. So I got two things I never really got back at home in my miserable, high-flying life: time and distance. On those early-morning runs, breathing that air and watching all those students chug around the track (how young I thought they were, me, in my aged mid-20's) things started to seem possible. What things, I didn't know; I just knew I wanted some of them. Freedom. Warm weather. A life that afforded me the time to sit and write in coffee shops in the middle of the day.

And then one night, begging off yet another pricey production company dinner, I snuck off to a Westwood theater with a falafel sandwich in my backpack. And as I sat in the dark, watching the trailers roll, it hit me: I was happy. Really and truly happy for the first time in I-didn't-know-how long a time. Because not only did I feel that sense of promise as I had on the run, but I realized I felt at home in that almost empty theater, eating my greasy dinner by myself. I knew I didn't even know what it was I wanted, some kind of job in the movies, some kind of life in L.A., some kind of living situation that got me out to the movies and eating more falafel, but I knew that there was something other than the life I was leading that I did want, and that if I held that thought long and hard (or loosely) enough, it would come to me.

Almost twenty years and many, many steps (and missteps...and backsteps) later, I have that life. For dietary reasons, it does not, alas, include falafel. For that matter, while I certainly could, I rarely get to the movies or that coffee shop for mid-afternoon java and writing. But I am no longer filled with that painful, inchoate longing of old: it's been replaced by a quiet, abiding sort of happiness.

I still dream of change in big chunks but I've also accepted that real change seldom comes that way. The old Hollywood line about the overnight success that was ten years in the making is absolutely true. The good news is that the other old saw, the one about a journey of a thousand miles beginning with a single step, is also true. Only sometimes, the step is stopping to smell a morning breeze off the ocean or to glance at a book that falls off the shelf into one's lap or to risk smiling at a stranger. Because the ray of light can come from anywhere.

Even the back of a dark theater, with the scent of falafel wafting up from a greasy paper bag.

xxx c

Photo by ValterJacinto via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢

Like the Big Man (sort of) said, "Suffer the little searchers to come unto me"... Children with night terrors on Jan 19, 2005 (Yahoo)

It was a dark and stormy night...no, seriously, if it was January, it was probably pouring out here. That scares the kids, especially if they've never seen a snowstorm. Oh, wait...never mind.

Of course, if you're really dealing with screaming children waking themselves and you up in the middle of the night, you might try rewording your search and adding some strategically placed quotation marks. And if you live in Ontario, the Waterloo meetup group looks promising.

But whatever you do, stay away from communicatrix.com. For god's sake, Article 38.2, item "A" in our charter explicitly states, "Scare the children, wherever possible."

ethics in biology article november 2004 (Yahoo)

Wow. When Evelyn and I get to gabbing, we really cover some ground, don't we?

big mom woo woo (Yahoo)

Yes. Exactly.

"Flow my tears" "evidence room" tickets (Google)

Here's you, 12 months from now: "Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said? Why, that's the Philip K. Dick at Evidence Room that I heard tell about on communicatrix. ... How many awards? ... What state of undress? ... Illicit narcotics and dancing girls with loose morals, you say? ... Damn, sounds like I should've gone."<

Don't want this to be you? Okay, then. Call (213) 381-7118 now (NOW!) for tickets to what will surely be the hottest show this season (in Los Angeles, under $25).

And be sure to leave a nice message about how pretty you think the new website that Jen & I did is.

only the worlds water headlines, not information (MSN)

I know what you mean. It gets so tedious, wading through endless articles when all I want is a quick water fix.

notes of cary town meeting november 2004 (Yahoo)

Man, I love me a wired town. Oh, wait, they came here looking for those notes.

Never mind.

ass fuck pessin with fuck (Yahoo)

Naughty, naughty!

And no, you'll have to type in that saucy link yourselves.

And for that charmer I caught trolling for kiddie porn, if I catch you again, I'm turning in your IP address to the FBI.

define chacon a son gout (Google)

It's when that certain je ne sais quoi collides with comme ci, comme ça, mon petit chou. (Like, le "duh.")

graphic designer overdue bills (MSN)

xxx c

The joy of the Stupid Day Job

Despite the calculated gloss of fabulousness that's got you all dazzled, for most of her life, the communicatrix has been better counted as one among the sheeple than the bright and blazing solo artist she has always longed to be. As I said when I (gladly) moved from my Park-Slope-adjacent (but really "shitty Brooklyn") life to a cramped but safe bunker in midtown Manhattan, I yam not a pioneer. Especially when living on the edge includes such delights as resident rodents, draughts that bring on the consumption and having to pee in a jar because you can't pass through your roommate's bedroom while she's shtupping her boyfriend. In other words, given the choice (and really, isn't there almost always a choice?) I have generally elected to go the tried-and-true Good Girl route, college, "career", marriage, rather than risk parental upset or the scorn of the material world by striking out on my own.

Oddly enough, the tide started to turn when I met my ex-husband, to whom I forever owe a debt of gratitude for showing me that I would not, in fact, die if I was no longer able to give a seven-word summation of my life's work (i.e., self-worth) at a cocktail party. In hindsight, of course, the choice seems obvious, I never much cared for cocktail parties nor the people in attendance who subscribed to the seven-word summation theory of self-worth. But I'd successfully passed for someone who gave a damn for so long that it felt natural to move in that world.

Now, even as a Corporate Tool I was open in my admiration for the more intrepid wanderers. However, the thought of actually being one, or, rather, an "unsuccessful" one, was anathema. Or rather, the day job that came along with "unsuccess" was anathema. Me, make copies? Cold call? Sling hash? I was a highly-paid creative profeshunal; how could step down and take a Stupid Day Job?

But there came a time in pursuit of the muse when I did, and gratefully. L.A. nest egg gone, I'd been flying back and forth to Chicago for two years to make bank and tend to my dying mother; when Mom finally died and my so-called acting career demanded I actually be here for little things like auditions and gigs, I went to one of my father's friends, hat in hand, and asked for employment, any kind of employment, he could give me.

The job I got, unglorified minion in the research department of a large media-buying company, offered little in the way of mental stimulation (or compensation, for that matter). But there was insurance and a steady paycheck and an odd sort of relief. All day long, I made copies, filed, ran out for coffee, ran to the mail room with packages, basically, anything that anyone asked me to do. It was humbling, certainly, to fetch and carry for people ten and fifteen years my junior, but it was also wildly freeing, once I got over the embarrassment. People who liked me liked me for me, not because I might be their boss next month. And believe me, brother, I never took that job home. Not once. Ever.

I rarely worked through lunch, either. Instead, I'd either eat with a friend or browse the local bookstore or take myself on walks that were insanely long and arduous by L.A. standards. All that time I didn't have to have my brain fully engaged in solving "creative" problems meant a lot of time for...well, stewing. Ruminating. But also, for the first time in my life, for real creative thinking.

Don't get me wrong, when the time came that I could make rent with a combo platter of acting and low-end graphic design (the unwitting genius in my learning PowerPoint is a post unto itself), I walked away and never looked back. I like calling my own shots and am willing to put up with a certain amount of stress in exchange for that freedom.

But if my circumstances ever mandate another day job, I don't think I'd look at it as the hellish punishment I once did. Instead, I'd see it more for what it is: opportunity clad in a different guise.

With benefits, of course.

xxx c

Fat Actress

Proof that hilarity flows from the top down, Fat Actress is loaded with very funny people (Rachael Harris, Mike McDonald, guests like Mark Curry, even Kirstie Alley herself, once upon a time) who manage to be about as funny as the omelette pan soaking in my sink. So what happened?

Hubris + money + a whole lot of people agreeing that the emporer's fanny looks great in those Prada pants = thirty minutes of not just winking at the joke, but pummeling it into unrecognition with the obvious stick. It's the saddest, most desperately unfunny thing it's been my displeasure to watch for some time. I've got a little thing about wasted potential, you see, and this show is throwing it out the window by the bucketful. Sad, sad, sad.

I don't know why Showtime would elect to air the egregious wrong that is Fat Actress for free on Yahoo! TV; it can't possibly be to gain subscribers. Maybe this is all an elaborate set-up to be aired on Punk'd. Oh, wait, wrong network.

Anyway, thanks to Gawker for the heads up and the link.

I think...

xxx c

Book review: Clumsy

I blather on quite frequently about The Truth and my devotion to it, but I'm starting to think I should either start writing graphic novels or get down with being forever relegated to the piker scrap heap of truth-telling history.

This revelation courtesy of Clumsy, Jeffrey Brown's first graphic novel. It chronicles in gorgeous, embarrassingly painful detail the rise and fall (and rise and fall and rise and plummet) of Brown's year-long relationship with a woman whom he initially writes off as a sort of "dirty hippy."

One night in the close proximity of a shared sleeping bag blows that perception to smithereens (I'm starting to see why the kids like their camping); immediately, the two are off to the races on their long-distance love journey to madness and back again.

To me, the most interesting aspect of Clumsy (other than its blatant honesty) is that the story is told out of sequence. Brown opens the book with the strip "My First Night With Theresa" and immediately follows it with "My Last Night With Kristyn"; having those writing-on-the-wall, it-tolls-for-thee panels of doom of the latter butt up against sunny optimism of the former the casts an interesting, grayish pall over the proceedings. I felt forced to look at this relationship with a more analytical than voyeuristic eye. (Or maybe that's just me being nutty, it's been known to happen.)

The fascinating thing about Brown is his dichotomy. I was struck over and over not only by his fretting over the state of the union and his poignant longing for the phone to ring, but by his boundless courage in laying it all out there like that. In an interview, Brown discusses the separation from character that he goes through to write, basically, he backs away from his characters and goes into author mode, which allows him to get the distance he needs to best tell the story.

Brown has even made sport of (and additional cash off of) his own sensitivity by releasing Be A Man, a parody edition of his own work several years later where he retells the Clumsy story from a more traditional, macho-boy perspective.

The communicatrix is kinda cheap and all (she checked out Clumsy from the glorious deliciousness that is the BHPL), but for three bucks, I think I can let my curiosity get the better of me just this once.

Besides, sensitivity is sexy and worth a visit, but sensitivity coupled with crazy-ass bravery? That's where I wanna live, baby; you gotta support that shit.

xxx
c

P.S. Lots more cool stuff at Jeffrey Brown's website, which he shares with some other great illustrators.

UPDATE (12/3/08): In a shameless and transparent act of caving, I've been replacing book and DVD links with Amazon affiliate links throughout the site. I MAKE MONEY WHEN YOU CLICK ON THESE. Like, a full 1/4 cent or something. Whatever. I'm happy if you borrow it from a friend or the library, or buy it used (I like half.com and alibris online) or, praise Jeebus!, from your local independent dead tree retailer. Seriously. The main thing is, read. Absorb. Enjoy. Pass it on.

AFI Top 100

I know, I know: we've been meme-krazy here at communicatrix lately. I promise to get back to the more substantial and/or hilarious issues on my mind v. soon, but in the meantime, my take on Ed Champion's AFI Top 100 throw-down: what you've not/seen, how much of a loser you think you are for having dug deeply into the canon and what you think of the whole damned thing (okay, I added that, what, you expected me to keep my trap shut?) 1. CITIZEN KANE (1941) Yeah, okay. It's a perfect. It broke all kinds of ground. It still feels like a duty choice.

2. CASABLANCA (1942) Ditto. And while we're on the subject, where the hell is Notorious?

3. THE GODFATHER (1972) Finally!

4. GONE WITH THE WIND (1939) Ripping Good Yarn, alright, alright. #4? No.

5. LAWRENCE OF ARABIA (1962) Ditto on yarn factor. Possible Top 20 entry.

6. THE WIZARD OF OZ (1939) Never all the way through without commercials. Does that count?

7. THE GRADUATE (1967) "Plastics" and Anne Bancroft notwithstanding, should this really be in the Top Ten?

8. ON THE WATERFRONT (1954) Can't say whether I would have named names or not, but hard to watch the same way, y'know?

9. SCHINDLER'S LIST (1993) Needed to be made, glad Spielberg made it, but 15 years later, I mostly remember Ralph Fiennes.

10. SINGIN' IN THE RAIN (1952) Should be #2. Or #1 in list of "Best Musicals." Hey, where is the list of Best Musicals, anyway?

11. IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE (1946) Pitch-perfect. Oddly ahead of its time.

12. SUNSET BOULEVARD (1950) That's some freaky, freaky shit. Makes me wish Billy Wilder had had a crack at Day of the Locust.

13. THE BRIDGE ON THE RIVER KWAI (1957) This is the whistling one, right? (Okay, okay...I'll watch it.)

14. SOME LIKE IT HOT (1959) Call me an ass, but I don't see it ("Colleen, you're an ass.").

15. STAR WARS (1977) This, for example, should totally be ahead of #14.

16. ALL ABOUT EVE (1950) "Kill the people." (That's French for "Genius through and through.")

17. THE AFRICAN QUEEN (1951) This probably makes me un-American, and Katharine Hepburn was a classy broad and all, but for me, she's video rental poison.

18. PSYCHO (1960) The first half hour could have its own spot on Top 100 list. Oh, the sense of place! The inchoate longing!

19. CHINATOWN (1974) A perfect film. (#19? 19!?! GFY, AFI!!!)

20. ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST (1975) Hmmm...I liked this an awful lot when I was 14. Of course, I also liked menthol cigarettse and Billy Jack a lot when I was 14.

21. THE GRAPES OF WRATH (1940) The book was better. A lot better.

22. 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY (1968) The Citizen Kane of its day.

23. THE MALTESE FALCON (1941) Pretty great, except for the egregious miscasting of Mary "No Ass" Astor. Did Huston read the novel first? Did he miss the sexy, femme-fatale part of the character breakdown? In what universe is Mary Astor hot?

24. RAGING BULL (1980) Um, yeah. Should have won "Best Everything."

25. E.T. THE EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL (1982) Not my thing, but I can see why it's on here.

26. DR. STRANGELOVE (1964) Ditto. (Okay, so I'm a bourgeois freak. What's your point?)

27. BONNIE AND CLYDE (1967) Let me introduce you to the buena, buena.

28. APOCALYPSE NOW (1979) I know this is heresy, but I preferred his wife's docu.

29. MR. SMITH GOES TO WASHINGTON (1939) Move a bunch of other stuff up and add Bells Are Ringing.

30. THE TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE (1948) Yes, please. We need many, many stinking badges.

31. ANNIE HALL (1977) And Hannah and Her Sisters. And Crimes and Misdemeanors. And (yes, I swear to you) Interiors.

32. THE GODFATHER PART II (1974) Should be #2...or maybe #1. I go back & forth between them. The most American of American stories.

33. HIGH NOON (1952) Please replace with Shane. Or Johnny Guitar. Or Hang 'Em High.

34. TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD (1962) Liked it, but the book is better.

35. IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT (1934) Crackerjack script, boy howdy.

36. MIDNIGHT COWBOY (1969) Yes, please. We're walkin', here!

37. THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES (1946) "Hello...Rocket Video?"

38. DOUBLE INDEMNITY (1944) Kicks ass, which is why it should be in Quadrant Two, not down here in the 50th percentile ghetto.

39. DOCTOR ZHIVAGO (1965) For sheer scope, maybe, but Lawrence of Arabia deservedly resides many notches higher.

40. NORTH BY NORTHWEST (1959) Pitch-perfect thriller. More of a confection than Psycho, but a much better ending.

41. WEST SIDE STORY (1961) Hmmm...nah.

42. REAR WINDOW (1954) I could have crossed over for Grace Kelly. Hell, I could have crossed over for any of Edith Head's outfits for her. "Preview of coming attractions," indeed.

43. KING KONG (1933) Has anyone seen this all the way through?

44. THE BIRTH OF A NATION (1915) Every time I flip over the Criterion box and see the running time, I get tired.

45. A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE (1951) That whole naming names thing really casts a pall, doesn't it?

46. A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1971) What does it say when you remember the MAD magazine parody better than the movie itself?

47. TAXI DRIVER (1976) Sneaks up on you, doesn't it?

48. JAWS (1975) It's politically incorrect of me, I know, but I think this tops Schindler's List any day.

49. SNOW WHITE AND THE SEVEN DWARFS (1937) Not sure if I've actually seen this or just seen so many scenes I think I've seen it.

50. BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID (1969) Uhhhhhhh...okay. Yes.

51. THE PHILADELPHIA STORY (1940) Enh. Still, the one movie Kate Hepburn really works in, to me.

52. FROM HERE TO ETERNITY (1953) I'd have to watch it again, without a fever and with my full attention. But I have it on good authority this is a good bet.

53. AMADEUS (1984) Really? Good, but...really?

54. ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT (1930) Never saw it. Never read it. Bad English major! Bad! Bad!

55. THE SOUND OF MUSIC (1965) Yes, please. Just not so high.

56. M*A*S*H (1970) Not bad, but I'd replace it with Nashville. In fact, where the hell is Nashville?

57. THE THIRD MAN (1949) There are 56 movies ahead of this masterpiece!?! AFI, you've shredded your remaining bit of credibility.

58. FANTASIA (1940) Don't be dissin' my dancing hippos.

59. REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE (1955) Good, but Nick Ray did better.

60. RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK (1981) A better ride than the ride.

61. VERTIGO (1958) Yes. Although it might just be me wanting to live in S.F. of the '50s.

62. TOOTSIE (1982) Yes! Yes! Yes!

63. STAGECOACH (1939) Please replace with The Magnificent Seven.

64. CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND (1977) I'm suspicious of things I loved when I was 16.

65. THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS (1991) Yeah. And I was glad it won all those awards, too.

66. NETWORK (1976) I'd watch it over and over just to see the great Beatrice Straight deliver that speech.

67. THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE (1962) Been awhile, but yeah, okay.

68. AN AMERICAN IN PARIS (1951) Please replace with Cabaret.

69. SHANE (1953) Resisted this for 41 years. My loss.

70. THE FRENCH CONNECTION (1971) Kick-ass thriller.

71. FORREST GUMP (1994) Vomit.

72. BEN-HUR (1959) Please replace with The Terminator.

73. WUTHERING HEIGHTS (1939) Please replace with Rebecca.

74. THE GOLD RUSH (1925) Yeah, yeah, he eats his shoe. Please replace with Night at the Opera.

75. DANCES WITH WOLVES (1990) Now, seriously. Seriously!

76. CITY LIGHTS (1931) Okay...swap this out with The Gold Rush and make Night at the Opera #76.

77. AMERICAN GRAFFITI (1973) Again, if I liked it that much when I was 12...

78. ROCKY (1976) I'll back these losers up on this one. A perfect movie, although that music sounds pretty cheesy now.

79. THE DEER HUNTER (1978) The ordering of this list staggers me as much as what's not/on it.

80. THE WILD BUNCH (1969) Mmmm...nah.

81. MODERN TIMES (1936) Fine. But all these Chaplin flicks are knocking Woody Allen pix off the chart, dammit!

82. GIANT (1956) Yawn. (Except for the ever-delicious Mercedes McCambridge, of course.)

83. PLATOON (1986) Please replace with Full Metal Jacket.

84. FARGO (1996) Hallelujah.

85. DUCK SOUP (1933) I'm more of a Opera/Races gal, but okay.

86. MUTINY ON THE BOUNTY (1935) Never saw it. (Ducking now.)

87. FRANKENSTEIN (1931) And it's short, too!

88. EASY RIDER (1969) I still harbor the maddest crush ever on Peter Fonda.

89. PATTON (1970) Yeah, okay. This, I get.

90. THE JAZZ SINGER (1927) Eventually, okay? O-kay!

91. MY FAIR LADY (1964) Okay...what?

92. A PLACE IN THE SUN (1951) Who's more beautiful, Monty or Liz?

93. THE APARTMENT (1960) Many lovely scenes.

94. GOODFELLAS (1990) My ex-husband's perfect one-word review: GreatFellas

95. PULP FICTION (1994) I'm a Jackie Brown fan. Never got this one.

96. THE SEARCHERS (1956) Embarrassed to say I've never even heard of it.

97. BRINGING UP BABY (1938) Cary Grant, yes. Katharine Hepburn, no.

98. UNFORGIVEN (1992) The other good western.

99. GUESS WHO'S COMING TO DINNER (1967) Bleh.

100. YANKEE DOODLE DANDY (1942) Has anyone under the age of 50 who has not been in film school seen this?

Original AFI Top 100 list here, so you can grow your own. Way better Top 100 list from Entertainment Weekly by way of Lists of Bests.

And now, we return you to your previously scheduled diatribe.

xxx c

TECHNORATI TAGS: AFI, Top 100 Movies, Best of lists, memes

Careless Love

I don't remember what I was doing the first time I heard Madeleine Peyroux, but I remember what I was thinking: wasn't Billie Holiday dead before Leonard Cohen started writing songs? Okay, so maybe there was a period of overlap. But since then, and many times over, the astonishing similarity between young, whitey-white Peyroux and the long-gone First Lady of the Blues has been the lead comment when post-track chat commences.

Singers like Peyroux (and k.d. lang and Megan Mullally and even young Norah Jones, now that I think of it) make me happy because they combine great pipes with great taste and Actual Life Experience that Results In A Point of View. As L.A. Jan and I were lamenting just yesterday (we're both hooked on "Idol" now), Kelly Clarkson has an astonishing instrument, but to what end? Fomenting preteen unrest with pop claptrap? And don't get me started on the Queens of Oversing: Celine, Mariah and just about every contemporary country singer you can name. You couldn't pay me to listen to one of those hideous power ballads and it's not because I'm rolling in dough these days.

Careless Love isn't a perfect album, I get the feeling that sometimes Peyroux and her producer were coasting a little on the charm of her voice, but it's damned close. And a trio of tracks alone are worth the price of admission: the so-sad, slow and sweet "I'll Look Around"; the sexy, playful "Don't Wait Too Long"; and my current obsession, "Dance Me To The End Of Love." I've tried and tried to love Leonard Cohen but I just can't deal unless one of the ladies, Jennifer Warnes, k.d., Madeleine, is doing the heavy lifting. Fortunately, the list of Cohen covers is long and mighty, but we can always use more truly fabu artists like Peyroux tackling the canon.

xxx c

It's not you, it's meme

I want to grow up to be Old Hag. She is funny, smart, reads a ton and writes way better headlines than the communicatrix ever did in her previous, high-paying life as an ad whore.

She also passes along the best memes. This, via Terry at ArtsJournal.com, via Eve (where, oh, where will I find the time?) is a little doohickeroo called:

Ten Things I've Done That You Probably Haven't

1. Had tea with Madeline Kahn in the Palm Court of the Plaza.
2. Sang a song about my twat in front of 350 people with a six-piece orchestra backing me up.
3. Kept a diary about my diarrhea.
4. Gotten MY ONE LINE dubbed on a primetime television show because my delivery apparently sucked such monumental ass that the producers could not bear to hear my voice on the soundtrack.
5. Saw my total cholesterol go from 125 to 450 in one year.
6. Sang a nonsense patter song clad in car sunshades and garbage bags...on stilts!
7. Gotten loaded on vodka and Sprite at This Is Elvis.
8. Wept on my L.A. balcony with the female half of a Helsinki couple my ex and I met in Prague.
9. Had Shirley Jones hold the door open for me at the old Chasen's.
10. Had Nancy Reagan's mother advise my 10-year-old self that a man "won't buy the cow if he can get the milk for free."

And you thought you were a freak. Ha!

xxx
c

TECHNORATI TAGS: memes

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢

Well, the Project Runway traffic has died down considerably, but the crazy hits just keep on comin'. And the disappointed visitors, I presume, just keep on leaving. On the off chance that they've returned to find that which they were searching for, here's what the peoples want to know this week:

psychic alice dubois (MSN)

The communicatrix comes up first in this MSN search; no wonder our searcher got confused and went elsewhere. As a jackass of all tv shows, mistress of none, I'd suggest doing a Google search and going here. Although it's pretty good sport watching the atheists froth at the mouth here. Using "Allison" instead of "Alice" might also improve results, although your mileage may vary.

barbra bush and crohn's disease (Yahoo)

That's a new one on me! Actually, as Yahoo! put it, "Did you mean: barbara bush and crohn's disease?" Well, hells, yeah! Unless maybe I meant Barbra Streisand and crohn's disease. But no, it was former First Lady BB, shilling for pharmaceutical company mouthpiece, the CCFA, back in 2003. Apparently, Mrs. Bush's youngest son, Marvin, is an ulcerative colitis sufferer. I'd insert the obvious "Republicans are full of shit" joke here, except that UC, like Crohn's, generally has the opposite effect on the digestive tract. Besides, everybody knows that farting is funnier than pooping.

vanessa CAMEL TOE (Google)

As a friend and I once discussed vis-a-via porn: there's a name for everything you can think of...and a whole bunch more for stuff that never even crossed your mind. Apparently, the lovely "Vanessa", one of the reviewers at The Best Porn, did a little write-up on a little siite called ispycameltoe.com. Gave it a 73.5. Nice beat; you can dance to it.

ad agency listens (Google)

They do? What have you been smoking? More importantly, where can I get some?

project runway christian boycott (Yahoo)

My Lord! What won't those wacky Christians boycott?!

As far as I can tell, they'll give the big, organized thumbs down to the "anti-family agenda of Planned Parenthood" and Your Right Hand Thief's wife, Lovely, who may or may not be a Christian, was planning to boycott Miramax had Jay not made it to the finals (will Disney stock go up now that Jay has won?), but that's about it as far as the organized protests go.

Mayhaps there's an application for your fervor, lonely searcher?

recipe chicago style giardinera (Yahoo)

Oh, for chrissakes, Martha Stewart. Just go here and order it. Life is too damned short.

feng shui missing conner apartment (Google)

Dear me, I wonder how long conner has been missing? Just so you know, feng shui is really good for getting the old ch'i moving around, but a lot less efficient at finding missing persons. Perhaps you should get in touch with this Alice DuBois person. I hear she's good at finding things...

CLIP ART FRIDAY (MSN)

Now, there's a good idea for a Friday feature...

xxx c

Who wants what?

Several years ago, in the middle of a heated conversation about direction and need and how ours weren't exactly aligning, my then-boyfriend asked me a very simple question: "What do you want?" Not "What do you want right now?" or "What do you want from me?", either of which I could have answered easily, since I was pretty in touch with my gimme needs and a fast enough dancer to tap my way out of most corners. No, what he was inquiring after, in that infuriatingly precocious, three-steps-ahead, trick-question way of his, was my motivating force, that goal that all other actions were steps toward, my über-want, if you will.

It's an eminently reasonable question for someone to ask of his or her beloved. The only problem was, while I had done a great deal of cogitating (and squawking) about what I didn't want in my life, I had devoted virtually no time to figuring out what it was I really did want. And this despite shrinkage, bailing on two careers and a marriage.

Let me say this right now: you have not experienced true humiliation until you have had someone 12 years younger and 50 IQ points higher point out that you, the empress, are buck-fucking-naked.

Let me also say this: sometimes a little humiliation is just the ticket. Because with my wits temporarily AWOL, Big Colleen (my name for the chick who should be running the show but who is too smart to try to shout my sorry ass down) stepped up and said, very simply, "to be happy."

It was, surprise, surprise, the truth. And it was out now, never to be hidden away again. And it was most definitely the wrong answer as far as that relationship went. But damned if I didn't know then and there that for as disruptive as it was surely going to be, it was also going to set me free.

You don't even have to wait for a smart ex-boyfriend to put the paddles to your chest; you can do the whole thing yourself. There's a wonderful story a long-ago acting teacher used to tell about Ellen Burstyn getting ready to go onstage in Three Sisters. As the story goes, she was utterly bereft of inspiration and utterly out of her mind because of it. Despondent. Lost. With an audience of hundreds waiting to see her bring Masha to life and no life to speak of inside of her. What we in the trade call an oh-FUCK moment. And in that moment, as the story goes, she let herself sit fully in her despair...then burst into laughter at her predicament and entered laughing. Alive. Masha.

As that acting teacher used to reiterate, "Ask yourself: where am I right now?" Because that is your first truth. And because, as he also used to say, before you can get to the Beverly Center, you need to know where you're starting from.

Once you've identified where you are, of course, you may decide that the Beverly Center is not your ultimate preferred destination. (Frankly, I'd look for something with less congestion and better parking, like an ashram or Disneyland.) But after many years in the field and much experience with excavating truth, I can tell you this: your heart cannot and will not shout its deepest desire over the incessant nattering of your monkey mind.

So distract yourself. Dangle a shiny object to make monkey-mind look the other way. Take a long walk. Every day. For a month. Do whatever you need to do to get out of your head. Your heart will lead the way. It knows what it wants.

And when it wants help, it'll ask...

xxx c

I am Mrs. Potato Head, Redux

The communicatrix opened her e-mail yesterday and one of her many marketing newsletters (once an ad whore, always an ad whore) had the read-'em-and-weep news: Lycos has introduced the dating meta-search. That's right: the Mall of Online Dating Is Here, with Matchmaker and Tickle as your anchor stores, and smaller franchises like iMatchup, loveaccess.com and True.com sprinkled in between Forever 21 and the Wicks 'n' Sticks. We've been here before, kids: the East Village used to be affordable. Frye boots were cool (twice). There was no beaten path to San Miguel de Allende. Money may change everything, but critical mass destroys it.

But all hope is not lost for those of you still on the electronic prowl. Of course, if you are in that thin sliver of the Venn diagram that both reads communicatrix and online dates, you have probably already burned through the hipster cohort on the Spring Street Networks. For you, I have two words: Craig's List.

"But Colleen," you protest, "surely you jest! CL is for the 420/freak-friendly, NSA, here's-my-dick-come-do-me-hard-right-now crowd."

Well...yes. But as I always say, if you're reading Craig's List...

Besides, do you really think you're going to find the romantic equivalent of an urban-renewal, 750 sq ft loft on Match.com or eHarmony? Dream on, suckahs. CL is the frontier, my little prairie dogs of love, but if you're looking for land, lots of land under starry skies above, or anything beyond the picked-over leavings of the pay sites, you'd best saddle up and head west.

Of course, the rules are tougher in lawless parts. And if things are stacked against men in general in the online dating world, that goes double for CL. If there's any interest, I may post chick guidelines for CL at a later date, but since the ratio of dudes to dudettes on the bare-bones bulletin board seems to be about 1000-to-1, my first act of charity is to post:

10 Surefire Ways to NOT Get Into Anyone's Pants on Craig's List (men's edition):

1. Post a picture of yourself playing the guitar...naked from the waist up!
2. When no one "good" responds, repost ad every two hours for the following four weeks. Be sure to explain that this is a re-post because no one "good" has responded.
3. In describing your ideal woman, include: (a) great intellect; (b) cunning wit; (c) kindness; (d) open-mindedness; and (e) giant labia.
4. Attach several pictures of giant labia to illustrate your point.
5. Go on at great length about your razor-sharp sense of humor. Be sure to include no actual examples of same.
6. Refer to yourself extensively as a "GRATE CATCH", "VARY INTILECTUAL" and "EXTREEMLY PERTICULER."
7. Politely close with "NO FAT CHIX, PLEADSE."
8. Ask for a same-night date to an event for which you have free tickets; indicate that interested applicants should explain in their emails to you why they should be chosen over other potential candidates.
9. Assert that you are looking for "that special lady" who is overlooked when out with her "really hot friends" but "still isn't a pig or anything."
10. Explain that you are ISO a "married BBW" with whom you can "exchange mutual orgasms." Express true confusion over this being a difficult thing to find.

Remember: the communicatrix may be off the market, but it doesn't mean the girl of your dreams isn't still out there! Gentlemen, start your engines...

xxx c

ADDITIONAL TECHNORATI TAGS:

Craig's List, personals, dating

Has Been

WARNING: The review you are about to read was written by a musical moron. That is, by the way, my standard caveat. Having grown up on a steady diet of showtunes, Top 40 and Bad 1960's White People Music (Mitch Miller! Steve and Eydie! Up With People!), I am woefully unqualified to judge anything as "cool" or "uncool" unless it resides firmly at one or the other end of the spectrum. And frankly, if it hadn't been for the stray Ella LP slipped onto the phonograph stack or my cool Uncle George's lifesaving, intermittent interjection of Led Zeppelin and the Beatles (kind of musical triage, now that I think about it), I might not even be able to discern that much.

But even a musical moron knows the instant she hears One For The Ages. There's something visceral about hitting the sweet spot that anyone can see: that piece of art that reaches across the room and grabs you by the heart; that novel that seems to be reading you; and that song...oh, that song...

As the person who turned me on to Has Been put it, "It's oddly compelling, isn't it?" You got that right. With songs about his dead wife floating in the swimming pool, the off-again relationship he has with an estranged daughter and arrangements that make you wish the word "eclectic" was not so overused as to make it useless in defining this, Has Been is odd to the nth degree. And yet, I have been unable to remove the CD from my car player since I put it in a week ago.

The outrageous success of this album is probably due in no small part to Ben Folds, whom the kids tell me is the opposite of a musical moron. I mean, I heard William Shatner's first go-round and all I can say is that I ain't putting 'Windmills of Your Mind' on a mix tape anytime soon. Still, William "Bill, to you, Ben" Shatner's honesty is pretty staggering, especially in light of the rather difficult truths that make up his life.

My current favorite cut is 'Real,' the last track on the album. It's weirdly humble and pompous all at once. Shatner talks his way through it, as he has every track I've ever heard him on since 'Windmills,' but damn if that boy doesn't have some fierce rhythm, all the same.

Maybe that's the appeal: full-on truth, yes, but also a resounding respect for form. Say what you want about the guy, but I think he gets it. And he digs those kindred souls who also get it, even though their own truths may manifest themselves in vastly different ways.

Before I heard the album, I'd have been hard-pressed to come up with William Shatner and Ben Folds as the perfect people to make beautiful music together. Now that I have, I just can't wait to see what they come up with next.

xxx c

(Felix and) Oscar

Somewhere back in the 1980's, someone shanghai'd my Oscars® and turned them into a who-cares fest. At least, that's all I can think after (half-)watching 3+ hours of Hollywood crapping all over the Kodak Theater last night. For too long now, the only thing fun about the Academy Awards® has been the parties, and I think that sentiment goes double for those unfortunates sitting captive in the audience. Most of them look like they'd prefer gum surgery over being stuck in a big red candy box watching Josh Groban rip it up with Beyoncé. At least the periodontist offers high-quality intoxicants.

Do yourself a favor and quit trying to be hip. You can't: the hip train has moved on; it no longer stops at network stations. Either move the whole shebang to HBO and let the freaks run the show or go back to the old-school faux glam that you do better than anyone.

But whatever you do, for chrissakes, 86 the "creative" award presentation. The humiliation of receiving an award at one's seat is exceeded only by not receiving one on the stage with the rest of the nominees.

My vote? Pull the plug on the whole free-televised thing, put it back in a big restaurant, serve shitloads of booze and make it a pay-per-view event. The farther Oscar® gets away from his closed, dinner-and-booze-fiesta roots, the more he acts like Felix: precious, overly-organized and about as much fun as watching glittery, registered-trademark paint dry.

xxx c

Book review: cheat

If the title wasn't tipoff enough, the flirty glances between (married) Janey and (also married, but not to Janey) Davis on page four of Christine Norrie's graphic novel pretty much give it away.

As the story opens, Janey and her workaholic husband, Marc, are moving into a new apartment secured for them by their attractive friends, Anna and Davis, who live in the building. It's clear that the True Romance has gone out of Marc & Janey's marriage; five years of living and working together (Marc writes travel books which Janey coordinates marketing and publicity for) have taken their toll.

Having sexy Davis within easy reach (heh heh) is too much temptation for the attention-starved Janey. She pushes Marc the rest of the way out the door, metaphorically speaking, encouraging him to take the solo research trips she used to resent him for taking...and then, in a moment of drunken weakness, finally and fatally (for her marriage, anyway) gives in to the crush she's been nurturing.

Drawn and written in the over-the-top, sex-as-cautionary-tale style of the old romance comics, cheat feels breezy and disposable, the graphic novel equivalent of potato chips, but the glossy surface belies the gut-punch of the story's close. Perhaps it's because, dramatic design and impossibly pretty character drawings aside, the story behind cheat is small, sordid and true. Have I used the descriptor "Chekhovian" around here lately? I'll do so again. That krazy, konsumptive kossack knew that the mundane often makes for the most poignant and true storytelling.

cheat is a strange, sad little tale that uses an odd medium to sneak up on your emotions from behind. And damned successfully, I'd say.

Old Anton would be proud...

xxx
c

UPDATE (12/3/08): In a shameless and transparent act of caving, I've been replacing book and DVD links with Amazon affiliate links throughout the site. I MAKE MONEY WHEN YOU CLICK ON THESE. Like, a full 1/4 cent or something. Whatever. I'm happy if you borrow it from a friend or the library, or buy it used (I like half.com and alibris online) or, praise Jeebus!, from your local independent dead tree retailer. Seriously. The main thing is, read. Absorb. Enjoy. Pass it on.

Alive vs. living

Let me state right up front that I am not anti-television. The fact that I was cable-free for five years post-divorce had more to do with my crack-like addition to television than any moral stance against or disdain for the medium. I just assumed that if more than two and a half channels were viewable on my TV set, I'd do little else save watch it. The good news? I know myself really, really well. The bad news? I know myself really, really well. Of course, I am now justifying my increased television viewing with my newfound desire to transform #1 & #2, the stage play (with music!) that I wrote with my partner, L.A. Jan, into a television series, a desire born out of a dream to tell our truth to the widest possible audience with the greatest possible efficiency. (When you're perpetually zonked by chronic illness, you quickly attune yourself to the fine art of maximizing efficiency.)

Given that dream, logic would dictate that, in addition to re-familiarizing myself with the medium as a consumer, I'd also be angling to learn the business from the inside out: i.e., getting a staff job on an existing television show. Any television show.

Only I'm not. And neither is Jan. And if we were on the fence about it before, which maybe I was, since, let's face it, TV is a really well-paying gig and I really understand the freedom that money provides, all it took was one day in the Quaalude of a sitcom spec-writing class we're taking to convince me that writing on someone else's show is not something I can pursue with the laser-like focus one needs to in order to obtain such a cush gig.

Again, please understand: I am no TV snob. I both love my TV, free, basic and premium, and I fully recognize and honor the very real skills required to write for a pre-existing show. I can even understand how it might be fun...sometimes. After all, in addition to fat residual checks, you're surrounded by smart, funny people all day and usually, there's really good lunch. It's a lot like advertising used to be back in the 1980's, only you're writing the stuff in between the commercials instead of the commercials themselves.

But it's just not me; I was in advertising (which I fell into and then fell asleep in) and that wasn't me, either. Writing copy and shooting commercials, even great copy and terrific commercials, felt like a simulacrum of the life I was supposed to lead, like being alive, versus really living.

If I fell into it, if I was plucked from amongst millions, if the smoked glass window of the limo rolled down and a long, well-manicured finger pointed at me me me to be lifted from obscurity to the high-profile, well-heeled life of a sitcom writer, well, hell, yeah, I'd do it. For a while, anyway. I may be crazy, but I'm not nuts.

But as for what I'll hurl myself into? What I'll go out on a limb for, contort myself for, put away childish things for? I'm afraid that for me, I'm looking at the big, nasty enchilada: my Truth. And it's all, in this case, the creation of my own work, saleable or not, or nothing. You're in or you're out. Live free or die.

Because that soporific sitcom spec-writing class? It now follows hard on the heels of a pilot-writing class, the most kick-ass, off-the-charts-caffeinated class it's been my pleasure to take for a long, long time. Same teacher, same room, totally different vibe. We're a ragtag crew, this small mess of us with dreams of disseminating our dreams, but we are plugged into the juice and we will not take "no" for an answer. And man, oh, man, is that ever exciting to be around.

Will we all make it? Doubtful. Will any of us make it? Hard to say. The odds are certainly against us; each of us, I'm sure, has had no end of helpful advisors telling us that our time would be better spent traversing the traditional routes. But that's not for us: the few...the proud...the insane. Keep your overhead low and your sights sky-high.

I may never again know what it's like to stay in a great hotel or sign a mortgage stub or even order off a menu with impunity. I may be forever relegated to a boho lifestyle of purloined treats consumed off the premises with fellow losers.

But it's okay. Because I've been alive and done those things.

And believe me, living is better...

xxx c

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢: Project Runway edition

The numbers don't lie. You can write all you want about life, truth and the pursuit of happiness, the peoples, they just wants their "Project Runway":

1. Project Runway (Yahoo), project runway (MSN), etc. ad nauseum
2. project runway "vanessa article" (Yahoo),"bravo project runway" vanessa (Google), etc. ad nauseum
3. kara saun fashion week (MSN)
4. music on project runway (Yahoo)
5. banana republic project runway (Yahoo)
6. "project runway" mario (Yahoo)
7. rent video of any episode of project runway (Google)
8. naked project runway (Yahoo)
9. what time is project runway on tonight (Yahoo)

Okay, so 99% of you don't give a crap about my startling insights into the human condition. I can take a hint. I can go for the quick buck (and I'm absolutely speaking metaphorically, here, this is so not a lucrative venture).

Still, I seek the love like any lost and lonely blogger. Plus, there's that Virgo motto: "To love is to serve."

So here's the quick rundown for you:

1. Skip the searches, guys and gals. The juiciest, best-written stuff on PR is right on the Bravo website. Select any episode and then go to Tim's Take for Parsons overlord Tim Gunn's super-fab, ultra-bitchy, ever-insightful spin on the events in question. He makes Michael Musto look like a piker. Rock the fuck on, dude.
2. Here's the 411 on Vanessa: los-ah! She's such a los-ah, she even said so herself! And, as we all saw on the penultimate episode, she's an alcoholic los-ah, to boot! If you are interested in the bisection of los-ahs and alcohol, may I suggest this article on Imposter Syndrome? May I also suggest that if you suffer from Imposter Syndrome, you learn to keep your trap shut.
3. Kara Saun should win "PR". Hell, she's so good she should win "Survivor," "The Bachelorette" and "Last Comic Standing," too. The hell with it. Give her an Oscar, too. Just give her everything.
4. Dude, who gives a crap about the music on "PR?" That track from the Banana Republic ad is the shit. I might go see Chris Pierce at one of his upcoming L.A. gigs. But the crap they play on the show? Sheesh. You need to get out more and stuff.
5. Banana Republic sponsors PR. They are the high-end arm of the GAP and Old Navy. So while there's a whole lotta savvy marketing going down, I don't know that they're the last word in fashion.
6. Mario!? Dude, that's like digging Ringo when you've got John, Paul and George to crush on.
7. You cannot rent videos of any episode of PR yet, dumbass. They're still airing new episodes.
8. Frankly, I'm thinking "spin-off." But in case the Bravo brain trust isn't with me on this, I gotcher naked couture here.
9. Two words: Ya-hoo!

Thanks for reading. See you all on the other side of the "PR" finish line!

xxx c

Project Life, by "Project Runway" Part IV

We're over the hump on hump day, but those Project Runway/Life Lessons just keep on comin'... Thanks to all my Wednesday-only readers who have found me via Google, Yahoo!, Technorati and MSN searches. Just so you know, what I know about fashion would fit in my bra, which, were it to be used for the odd alternate purpose of stowing nuts for winter, wouldn't hold enough to keep an anorexic squirrel alive for 48 hours after the freeze. (And frankly, given how often I even wear one, I might as well donate it to some alternate cause.)

Lesson 12: Make it Fit!

You think foo-foo is the answer? You obfuscator, you! Don't you know that any fool with a MasterCard and a high-speed connection can pile on the frippery?

Real men, or, in this case, women, cut fierce. And Kara Saun is 100% fierce in the fit department. Hear the praise her exquisitely cut wedding sheath earns from stern Parsons overlord, Tim Gunn:

I feel about Kara Saun's work the same way that I feel about the work of Coco Chanel; that is, when you see it you think, "This is exactly what the fashion world has been waiting for!" You can't predict it. You can't anticipate it. You simply respond to what is.

Lesson 13: Remember Whose Name is on the Label

Okay, show of hands: who blows rent money to buy couture from the House of Hacque?

I thought so. Contradicting one's inner voice is a recipe for one giant cheese ball of confusion. I'd rather be Austin and go down in glorious, chiffon-draped flames than wishy-wash my way out by caving to the whims of a sixteen-year-old girl's idea of fashion. Know what you stand for and then get on your freakin' feet and off your damned can already. Sheesh.

Lesson 14: Sell Yourself!

The meek may inherit the earth, but only after it's been picked clean of anything good by the self-promoters. Don't hide your light under a bushel (ooo...that's TWO biblical references, I love it when TV and god intersect). Be like Austin: throw on a velvet cape, rock those YSL specs and work the room!

And if you're not naturally flamboyant and/or gregarious, fake it ‘til you make it. It's called acting, sugar-face!

Lesson 15: Keep it Original

U gots 2 B U. It's one thing to pay homage (i.e., steal the right way); it's quite another to abdicate originality and play copycat. In addition to being crushingly boring (and unethical, despite Tim's lenient take on the issue), it's a waste of good, old-fashioned DNA. You got your own map for a reason; quit looking over your neighbor's shoulder at hers!

Lesson 16: Lead by Example

This challenge had two designers heading up teams of three where each contributed one “look” to a “collection”. Theme? “For the year 2055.” Source materials? Low-end Village vintage shop. As if.

*****VENOM ALERT: Just so we're all clear on this, I thought everyone sucked ass in this challenge. Imitation of Christ, you ain't; I've seen better deconstructions on Jennifer Beals in Flashdance. END VENOM ALERT.*****

Still, Kevin, Team Leader #1, got the boot because ****SWEARING ALERT**** his design sucked the most ass. If you're in charge, your contribution to the team should suck the least amount of ass. So if you are a boss, please do not suck ass. ****END SWEARING ALERT.****

-----

Okay, my babies. Last PR tonight! Last set of Life Lessons to follow...

xxx c

TAGS: 

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢

Wherein I list varous searches that brought various wayward souls to communicatrix-dot-com, most often fruitlessly, and endeavor to provide fruit (or something like that):

"powerpoint ella fitzgerald" (Google)

As a dead jazz vocalist, Ella Fitzgerald does not use PowerPoint. Additionally, given the timing of her exit and PowerPoint's entry, I am fairly certain that even while alive, Miss Fitzgerald did not have access to Microsoft's now-ubiquitous program for the creation of her jazz presentations.

Perhaps she used transparencies and an overhead projector, although with her background in improv, I see her as more of a free-flowing, white-board kind of gal (no pun intended!)

"hanro camel toe" (Google)

Alas, Hanro's celebrated 1992 line of undergarments, developed to capture the hillbilly/rocker demographic, has been discontinued.

For other fine Hanro products, try here or here.

For superior, post-millenial camel toe, I highly recommend this pair of Joie jeans after eating too many cookies.

"phoning it in" acting definition (Google)

Michael Caine in everything after The Man Who Would Be King (excluding Hannah & Her Sisters, Little Voice and The Cider House Rules).

Daniel Chu copywriter (Google)

According to Creativity, as of September 10, 2003, Mr. Chu was a senior creative at TBWA Chiat Day NY, where he was partly responsible for a "flashy production, with fresh-faced leads" shilling Joe Boxer and K-Mart "with flavor and soul, hitting the target's pop cultural buttons with uncontrived authenticity."

Color me sold!

WOMEN SLAPPING (MSN)

Don't slap women. In fact, don't slap anyone. Actually, I take that back, go slap yourself, you sick fuck.

butt doctor (Yahoo)

An M.D. who gets paid insane amounts of money to stick a camera up one's ass. Occasionally, a surgical specialist who withholds Crohn's diagnosis from patient and then, seven months later, helpfully visits patient in hospital to sketch new rectum he is going to build her while trying to keep from licking his lips at the prospect; in such cases, the "butt doctor" is also a "butt hole." (NOTE: if you live in the Los Angeles area and are looking for a "butt doctor," please feel free to e-mail me for an un-recommendation.)

daises recipe (Yahoo)

As "daises" (sic) are rather malodorous flowers, I am surprised to find them sought after as an ingredient. Perhaps this lone searcher was researching high-end cow snacks.

"pictures of lesbian lover xxx rate" (MSN)

Sadly, I lost all of mine in a recent kitchen fire. But I can help you with...

"plantar's wart photo" (Yahoo)

As you can see, a mere two years after the only pedicure I've ever had, mine's almost gone! Hooray for Efudex! Hooray for the Solingen precision callus remover! Hooray for Dr. Brian P. Mekelburg!

Communicatrix (Google)

Congratulations, little stalker fans, you've made it to the right place. More information about me than you can shake a stick at. But just for the record, it's "communicatrix" with a lowercase "c"...e.e. cummings-style!

That's all for now. And remember: you can find anything you want on the internets if you look hard enough...and it's all true!!!

xxx
c

UPDATE: In my rush to get the news out, I neglected to include the promised wart photo. It's been added, although it should be noted that it is more of a "previous site of wart" or "ex-wart" than wart, at least, it is according to my dermatologist, Dr. Brian P. Mekelburg (who, btw, said that I'd had "the most impressive progress" on my wart of any of his patients! I WIN AGAIN!!!).

More about me(me)

Being a bossy, self-involved chick who's all about the unsolicited 411, I'm way lovin' this this meme from Jon Strande, of 100 Bloggers fame (which reminds me, I must get my butt in gear).

• What do you do? - Current (commercial) actress. Former (and, for rare clients, current) copywriter. Budding designer. Aspiring communicatrix (a pundit-like position I imagine will fuse all of these, way, shape or form, TBD).
• What are the challenges? - Keeping my head from exploding.
• How do you overcome them? - By excluding from my life that which is neither useful nor beautiful.
• What is a typical day like? - No such thing, really, allthough a "median" day might include an audition, some writing, a bit of design work and, hopefully, some form of head-clearing stuff: a walk, a trip to the gym, a lie-down...
• How do you manage information? (Email, Blogs, etc) - TypePad hosts my blog, love that UI! I like Entourage for my main email and use gmail and Yahoo! accounts for public interface. I swear by the bucket method of brain emptying/information collection that David Allen outlines in the most excellent Getting Things Done; my Palm and the lined notebook(s) I always carry with me are my main buckets. I use NewsFire for my RSS feeds locally and Bloglines on the road. I am a geek; I make no apologies for this...
• What are your 3 or 5 favorite books The Artist's Way - life change ain't easy, but it's always worth it Factotum - Buk is my go-to guy when I'm feeling blue The Razor's Edge - I gave my crappy honors thesis novella the same title out of undying undergrad lust for Maugham Bread and Jam for Frances - if you've got a kid, go buy it; if you don't, go buy it anyway Move Your Stuff, Change Your Life - whether or not you believe in feng shui, you must admit that to focus intention on something changes it...and I got two checks for $10,000 each when I focused on my kitchen/prosperity bagua
• What are your favorite web sites/blogs? I'm always happy when I see updates to the feeds from Gawker, michaelnobbs-dot-com and Crossroads Dispatches. I wish 2Blowhards had a feed.
• What tools/technology do you use? - PowerMac G5 (mostly Photoshop, Quark XPress, Final Draft and MS Word), G4 PowerBook
• What's your favorite quote? - "Every valuable human being must be a radical and a rebel for what he must aim at is to make things better than they are." , Niels Bohr
• What is your "secret to success"? - You don't have to be the brightest kid on the block if you're willing to work ten times harder than the one who is.
• What are your greatest accomplishments? Personal? Professional? - Learning to live in the present.
• What are your hobbies? Or, how do you break the monotony and stay energized? - After too many years of tedium, I'm happy to report that there is no monotony in my life. But when I need a break, I bust out the guitar, the sketchbook (this is a new one, for which I owe a debt of gratitude to Michael and Brenton), take a long walk or unplug and curl up with a book. The thing that energizes me most is connecting with kindred spirits, a long talk with one of my gals, a birthday party for which fifty of my closest friends come out on a school night, being in the loving arms of a brilliant cast in a genius piece of art.

Grab the Q's, add your own A's (on your own blog, if you fancy, or in the comments if you don't). Don't forget to trackback me and Jon if you're a bloggin' baby.

In other words, share the love. In case you hadn't heard, it's the answer...

xxx c

Lilies of Silver Lake

Two of the acting-writing-musical sisterhood have quietly taken up blogging recently. I've been quietly reading them right back, letting them fly under the radar rather than subject them to the bright light of my (ahem) dozens of readers all at once.

But in addition to my altruistic goal of supporting truth-telling by those whose truths the world would do well to hear, I've also got a selfish one: I like to read what I like to read. And I like to read my girls.

LilyLife is the work of a stunning young lady (that's "Ms. Lily Life" to you) who became a good friend during the Great Heartbreak of '02, and then, a few months later, during my incarceration at Cedars Sinai, a great one. Instead of the usual flowers for which I had no vases, Ms. LL showed up with lavender spray to combat hospital stink, a cache of Supersize-Me granny panties for my prednisone-swollen lower half (man, is it freaky going from skeletal to jiggly in the space of 24 hours), and, best of all, a sunny smile in place of the look of horror I'd grown used to, thereby winning my undying gratitude.

We've been mutual admirers ever since and I'm still discovering lovely new things about her all the time. Like that she can write her ass off, man, not a quality you'd expect upon encountering her sweet, hippy-dippy demeanor. (On the other hand, she drinks her single-malt neat and most of us under the table, so I guess maybe I should have had a clue.) She's also a fellow Virgo, a fellow generalist, not nearly as much of a geek (thank god) and a much, much better actor.

Varda is your hostess over at Messy Humans. She is quite tall and very pretty and wisely leaves her picture out of the picture so people can get to concentrating on her smart, good sentences. I've not known her as long as I have Ms. LL, but I already like what I've seen so far, from her fabulous house in Silver Lake (complete with terrific kid, adorable husband, foxy furnishings and enjoyable menagerie) to her pianner-playin' and singin'. Frankly, it irks me a little that she can write, too, but hey, when someone's that good at it, you can't stay mad long.

So I invite you all to get acquainted with one another: ladies, blogosphere; blogosphere, ladies. That you keep each other interested and enthused about life and love and really good writing is my wish for you.

And as you all know, here at communicatrix, it's alllll about me...

xxx
c