Hi, diddle-e-dee...

I had one of those colossally bad auditions yesterday. The kind where from the moment you walk into the room, not only can you feel it's not going your way, it would throw up on your shoes and slam the door in your face if it could. And where by the time you slate your name for the guy taping the proceedings, you can no longer tell what you hate more: advertising, America, or yourself, for thinking this might actually be a reasonable way for a grown person to make a living. To be honest, I was pretty sure it was a lost cause when I went to sign in. Because in addition to there being pages and pages of ladies there before me, (a) no one else had checked the 40+ box (I still pass, but usually I'm with a few other old hags who also pass) and (b) many, many ladies (sorry, girls) had checked the "first audition" box.*

But I digress. Because the fugly nugget I really wanted to talk about was my WRONG CHOICE.

Sometimes, you see, in a commercial audition (and that's pretty much my gig, these days) there isn't much call for you to do your classical comedic monologue or even to interact with the other "talent". Sometimes, they just want to see the real you...or rather, the real you in a close room full of tired ad people and bowls of cheap snacks. On these occasions, your auditors often fall back on the commercial "howdy-do", a "what's your favorite color?" or "tell me about your favorite holiday" type of question. Today it was our dream rockstar/actorboy love crush.

Girl One talked about her boyfriend...for five minutes. Girl Two talked about something we all promised wouldn't leave the room...for four minutes.

I was dead. I like unusual guys. I can no longer lie. I told them it was a tossup between (fetishistic choice) Frank Langella in The 12 Chairs or...Ric Ocasek. (What can I say? I'm a geek. A trip to SIGGRAPH gets me hot, fer criminy.) A (long) heartbeat of stunned silence, followed by 15 seconds of repulsed probing, aaaaaand...you're out!

I'm sorry, but Ric Ocasek is hot, I'm almost 44 and I have lost the will to fabricate.

This was not my commercial. This was not my commercial. This was not,

Dammit. It was just me they didn't like...

xxx c

*This would be a good opportunity to outline the Twin Truths of the Commercial Callback:

1. If you are called back for a spot and when you show up, there are any actors in your category there on a first call, you will not book the job, you have the Taint.*

2. If you are called back for a spot and when you show up, every actor from the first call is there, you do not want to book the job, they are clueless.

TAGS: acting, commercials, auditions

The Daily Cosmic Shoutout

It should be no surprise to regular readers of the communicatrix that I'm a big fan of things woo-woo. Of course, I'm also a product of a heap-load of book-learnin', two atheist grandparents and have spent a lot of time around skeptics, so I haven't quite drunk the Kool-Aid, at least, not full-strength. Basically, I'd characterize my relationship to the wooX2 as one of cautious optimism, much like my relationship to alcohol and my daily horoscope. Anyway, I'm knee-deep in a serious newage-y book right now, which I've blogged about here, of all places, already. It's called Creating Money; it's written by two people channeling a spirit. Yes, I know that's nuts; no, I don't care. It's a good (if snoreburgerly earnest) book, full of good, sound advice, even if it's Dr. Laura channeling Casper the Friendly Motherfucking Ghost.

There's woo-woo recipes for actually attracting money, but I'm not a chanter or a meditator. In fact, having read the bulk of the book, I'm not even sure I need to be worrying about creating money so much as I need to identify what it is that makes me think I need so much of it in the first place. I like my life; hell, I love it...all of it, my home, my crazy hodge-podge of jobs, my sister, my boyfriend, my prodigious pile of Stuff.

Hence my decision to institute in public what I've been in and out of the habit of doing in private: say thanks. Thanks for my health, my car, my amazing collection of friends. Thanks for my orangey-red toenail polish and the twenty complete and perfect digits with/upon which I apply it. Thanks for my Q-Tips. Thanks for finding them on sale. Thanks for frequent flyer miles, Sunday coupons and the 99¢ store.

You get the drill.

So starting today, every day, I'm thanking the cosmos, the Big Gal, the All-That-Is for my stuff. Sarah Ban Breathnach, who wrote a really nifty book on learning to appreciate the small stuff, suggests five items per day, and since Oprah dug on it (her favorite book of 1996!!), it must be right.

Since I want to launch this mother with a bang, I'm doing a fancy, Flickr! list to start with. I may do other groovy, list-y things like my friend, Michael Nobbs; I may have days where I can barely drag myself to the computer to type out the five things. Some of the posts may be on the snarky side; some may be revoltingly earnest. My goal is five things per day, every day, out loud & proud (except in those rare cases where I really, truly have no internet access, and then I'll take it offline).

Don't know how long it will last; long enough to seed the gratitude habit, I hope.

And with that, I thank you for playing along...

xxx c

UPDATE: Partly in reaction to current events of late and partly because I don't want weeks to pass when the only thing people see on c-trix is a thank you sign and cryptic lists full of seemingly random stuff, I've moved the DCSo to another site. Go or don't. Peace, out.

TECHNORATI TAGS: Sarah Ban Breathnach, gratitude, blessings, thanks

The Ditty Bops

Have I mentioned how my mildly (ha!) obsessive-compulsive nature manifests itself in my car? Well, firstly, it shows up in my serial purchasing of the same car. (Corollas ain't sexy, but boy, are they dependable.) In my annoying moving-around of objects (garage-door clicker, change for meters, Stim-U-Dents) from one storage cubby to another in search of the ergonomically perfect resting place.

But mainly, it manifests itself in the constant replaying of whatever CD "sticks" in the player. For awhile, I listened to a lot of Madeline Peyroux. Before that, I listened to even more William Shatner.

Lately, as in, for the past month, it's been all about the Ditty Bops.

As usual, I am late to the game. I first heard of them via Koga on my other bloggy home, b.la. Koga is both way geekier and way cooler than I can ever hope to be, so you know the Ditty Bops are happening. But according to The BF, The DBs have also been featured on Prairie Home Companion, which is, um, pretty dorky and not very hip, albeit groovy in its own way.

So you see, the Ditty Bops are clearly the perfect band: quirky, musically adept and unclassifiable. They are certainly a little bit country, there's a lovely little waltz called "Two Left Feet" and plenty of pickin' & strummin' throughout. But they are also a little bit Hawaiian ("Wishful Thinking"), a little bit Tin Pan Alley (nifty nouvelle-vaudeville cover of "I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate") and plenty perverto-pop, that cheerful, foot-tapping stuff that has one smiling and singing along, even as it diverts immediate attention from the smart, darker lyrics.

The Ditty Bops remind me a lot of another fave weirdo girl group, The Roches. Close harmony, a multiplicity of influences, an appreciation for old and useful things, a deft hand with lyrics and arrangement (both musical and vocal) and that occasional freaky-deaky stress on the odd syllable. Maggie, Terre and Suzzy (kick-ass in concert, btw, which I understand the Ditty Bops are, too) came out of the gates so strong with their first two albums, it was almost inevitable that follow-up albums fell a bit short.* It'll be interesting to see where the Ditty Bops take their act.

In the meantime, of course, I'll just hit "replay"...

xxx c

*If anyone can lend me the later/newer albums so I can be proved wrong, I will gladly fork over the dough to buy them ALL!

Photo of the Ditty Bops in concert at Bricktops by Jason DeFillippo, via blogging.la

Tiny picture of the Ditty Bops' actual album from Barnes & Noble, because FUCK YOU, amazon, I FUCKING HATE YOU!!!

Hot (link) damn!

I was still feeling bad about getting fired off my first Big Fat Design Job when I clicked on my new best friend Shane Nickerson's site and saw my (temporary) place of honor. Thanks, Shane! I'm busting out a slightly modified version of one of the (rejected!) logos in your honor...of my honor.

You know. Whatever.

xxx
c

Last Days

While I am sorely tempted to dismiss Last Days with a simple, one-sentence review (Lost Hour and 37 Minutes? Last Days and Days and Days?), I am a big enough fan of Gus Van Sant that I feel I should say a few words in this movie's defense. First off, there's some of the bitchin'-est cinematography you'll ever want to see. The Pacific Northwest is as much a character as any of the human beings in the film, and that sucker looks as cold and mystical and unbending as the day is long, not to mention like it could give a flying crap about any of the smackheads, Jesus freaks, record industry leeches and other hangers-on that populate the filmic landscape.

Second off, there are a few pretty great scenes, "great" as in "bordering on genius." Or rather, there are a few piercing, genius moments within some really overlong scenes. It is a tremendous luxury to be able to lock down wide and burn film on good-ass acting; it is a tremendous pain in the ass, literally, when the ass in question is parked on an ahhht-house seat, to have to watch the result of this little ahhht experiment in its entirety.

However, if you want to know what it feels like to do a lot of heroin, hooba-dooba, is this your movie. Because I haven't even done heroin and from watching this movie, I don't have to, since I'm now pretty sure shooting up heroin involves spending a lot of time in your interior world, which I do already, and eating a lot of Cocoa Rice Krispies and boxed mac-'n'-cheese, which is not allowed on my diet.

So according to the official website, Last Days is the natural outgrowth of the "elliptical style" Van Sant has been working in since Gerry and Elephant, neither of which I feel I have to see now because if they are the ramping-up pieces to this movie, that means they are like inferior heroin, and what the hell's the point of that?

I say quit going in circles and start doing films that are a natural outgrowth of your good movies. Or do more movies that are like drugs that I like, say, a cocaine series or a painkiller series.

Now that's ahhht.

xxx c

TECHNORATI TAGS:Lost Days, Gus Van Sant, reviews

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢

Wherein the communicatrix comes up for air and brings with her the waterlogged remainders of a thousand lonely, late-night searches. Well, okay, ten. But that's hardly poetry, is it?

jokes about arrogant, self confident co worker (Yahoo)

A copywriter, a media planner and an account director walk into a bar...

can i get a pedicure if i have a plantar wart? (Ask Jeeves)

Yes, but airbrushing it or affixing bling in the form of rhinestones or miniature initial charms is considered bad form.

non listening overtalking (Google)

Lalalalala, Ican'thearyou, lalalala...

frye boots cock (Google)

You've got to admire the refreshing directness of our friends in the gay community.

"feng shui"+"stairs to the basement" (Google)

(In my best Jan Hooks/Texas tourguide voice), "There's no basement in feng shui!"

i was caught stealing dresses and undies from clothes lines (Google)

I smell a Larry H. Parker poolout...

Dum Dum Dum Duuuuuum (# 67) (Google)

Dum dum dum dum DUUUUUUUUUM (and I'm skipping to #69 because I'm a nasty, nasty girl).

odometer "numbers line up" (Google)

If you're on your way to Vegas, it means put it all on black, dude.

"here's my dick" (Google)

Lalalalala, Ican'thearyou, lalalala...

EFUDEX BLOG (Google)

It's official: blogging is Over.

xxx c

(Bi)-Weekly roundup, Part II: Hot Midsummer Links!

Okay...NO MORE TALKING ABOUT HOW HOT IT IS!!!

Instead, why not take a refreshing dip in the cool, cool Internet waters. I long to get back in and really splash around, but until then, I'll just revisit where I've been here & there over the past few weeks...

Locksmith and x-ray technician combine magical superpowers to help idiot get back in truck! (via BoingBoing)

Someone's horning in on my Searchesâ„¢ action. (And someone else is blowing up the â„¢ symbol! Boo-yah!) [via...oh, bother, I can't remember, it's too fucking, ack!]

What's cooler than Flickr? Making art from words via Flickr! Here's communicatrix! Here's Miss Colleen! Here's underpants! (Oh, come on, like you're not totally going right there right now to spell "butt." [via CoolHunting, created by the mighty Kastner, all bow down now, please]

Speaking of CoolHunting, how fucking awesome is this watch they blogged?!? Makes me wish I had fat wrists. [via...der...]

Someone finally got on it and started creating the dream photography site. Frankly, I think there should be sites like this for fine art, drama, music, etc., but I'm sure that gets the copyright freaks' undies in a collective bundle. You can access the site here, but it's really in tatters right now (note to self: upgrade your server before a major media publication runs big story on you). [via The New York Times online, where you will have to register to read the story]

You'll also have to register to read this fascinating story on the politics (and profits) of Costco vs. Walmart. But believe me, it's worth it. [via The New York Times online]

Please hurry up and make the coolest keyboard in all the land so I can buy it. Please. [once again, via CoolHunting]

Some really great advice on those who would be published authors. [via Seth Godin's blog, which I really should read more often]

The sooner kids learn the facts of life, the better. [CoolHunting, I am your bitch]

I think I'm going to have to post a separate homage to this chick, but until I do, go check out this site. Courtney Booker is one talented design monkey. She also did the design (and/or illustration) for Buddy/Buddette, one of my favorite postcards EVER. [via my frantic a.m. hunt for a headshot of Jacqueline Wright, who would be on my shit list right now if she wasn't one of the five best people I've ever seen on stage in my life and too nice to yell at]

Another well-written, accessible, thought-provoking post from Half Mad (Ex-) Spinster about preconceived notions and the conditions under which they are conceived. Nice to know that if I ever move to Ohio, there will be a kindred spirit there for me to bond with.

Finally, great mapping fun, find who's hot or not in your own backyard!!! [via Kovixen, who has a really great blog of her own, in case you were interested]

Later, dudes!

xxx
c

(Bi)-Weekly roundup, Part I: Trippy Midsummer Fun!

It's been a wild and woolly week here at the c-trix ranch. Actually, not woolly at all: with L.A.'s delightful summer temperatures back in action (and an additional, fragrant 15-20º here in the Easy-Bake Ovenâ„¢), I endeavor to wear as little wool as possible. Actually, I try to wear as little as possible, period, right now, I'm blogging naked in between two box fans; how's that for a sweaty mental picture?

Well, I'm a sweaty mental, that's for sure. Yesterday, I took a for-reals graphic design job that fell in my lap. I (correctly, as it turns out) suspected I was woefully underqualified from a technical aspect, but after a day spent cooking next to the G5 chez moi, the promise of 10 hours in air-conditioning trumped even my colossal fears. That and free lunch. I've pretty much burned through the contents of both my own and The BF's fridges, and have zero energy for grocery shopping these days.

But I digress. (Are you happy now?) What I mean to say by all this blathering is that I've not had much time for surfing. Yesterday, for example, I spent 10 hours hunched in front of a 12" PowerBook trying to discreetly search Illustrator help for how to make horsey, 3-D type (on purpose, for the gig) and not notice how cute the guy at the next workstation was (The BF is out of town and I'm goin' CRAZY, I tell you...CRAZY!!!!). Between that, a clutch of fruitless errands post-work and the nascent cold brought on by blazing-heat-to-frozen-interior temperatures, I don't have the time or the interest level necessary to do any serious surfin'. So this special, two-part edition of Weekly Roundupâ„¢ will have fresher news than links, but hey, at least the news here doesn't involve car bombs, rucksack bombs or Republican hubris.

In this edition, the newsy items of note:

Not only did my idols, The 2 Blowhards, do me the extraordinary honor of adding me to their blogroll, Michael Blowhard included me in a flattering post about bloggers that Hollywood would do well to pay attention to. After many years of practice I am quite comfortable with toiling away in obscurity as far as Tinsel Town in concerned, but I am rather panicked (albeit flattered) by the responsibilty inherent in being linked from the main page of the greatest culture blog on the Internet. So Michael B., thank you for sending my hit rate soaring into the double digits and my anxiety level into the stratosphere. I will wear something sheer and gauzy with well-placed embroidery tonight in your honor, and in person should we ever meet.

This is turning out to be The Summer Colleen Interfaced with Big, Hollywood Directors As They Slummed in Commercials. I posted elsewhere about my shoot with the lovely Joel Schumacher (and my run-in with Errol Morris, who, for the record, was not so lovely); a coupla weeks ago I shot a little spot with the charming (and prolific) Rob Cohen, who has a little picture called Stealth you can see next week. In fact, please do, and on opening weekend.  I've got to ride someone's coattails to fame and glory, goddammit.

After sending off a picture for my column to a faceless email account, I received some actual correspondence from Andrew Reid, the very nice man behind the Agony Aunts, a.k.a. my advice pimp. He thanked me for the avatar (ooo...fancy!) and mentioned he'd made some tweaks to the site, including a ranking of Agony Aunts by user ratings in addition to number of posts, basically a quality rating to augment the quantity one. Unbelievably, but officially, yours truly is actually one of the more popular Agony Aunts! Of course, just like Britney, Jen and Karl, now that I am on top, the public will be chomping at the bit to tear me down. But yes, I am enjoying my fifteen minutes.

If only I could enjoy it in air-conditioning...

xxx
c

The doctor is way, way out there

It's time to spill the beans. Time to 'splain, as Ricky would to Lucy, where he's been until 3 in the morning (metaphorically speaking, of course, the last time I was up at 3am I was being HIGHLY paid for the anomaly by a major U.S. manufacturer of packaged goods).

I've been out...with other people.

It started innocently enough. A random stumble onto a page somewhere or another led me to the British nexus of Dear Abby wannabes (called "agony aunts" on that side of the pond, wot wot). After a few minutes of sniffing around at the fiery train wrecks in plain view, I fell down the rabbit hole. So many lost little lambies, so few grizzled shepherdesses to lead them. Plus I get to say things like "on holiday" in place of "on vacation" and use the word "besotted" a lot. Plus-plus I get to exercise my Lucy Van Pelt muscles, which always feels good.

Of course, I'm not always the oldest, bossiest chick on the block (although I'm generally the sassiest...ha!). In my newest part-time blogging gig, demographically speaking I am but a wee slip of a girl. I have no idea whether the peeps reading the Third Age blog will find anything I have to blab about interesting or informatinve; I have been told by our fearless leader, the lovely Jory Des Jardins (who is even younger than I am, fer cryin' out loud) that my job is to provide local color, or basically, sass it up without "shorting out the system," as Jory puts it.

All I can say is thank GOD everything really is relative; until I hit senior year, there will always be people older than me, and that's how I like it, brother. Oh, and thank you Jory, both for the vote of confidence and for giving me something to do to occupy my idle hours. If I had to re-iron my dust ruffle one more time, I swear I'd scream...

xxx c

I'm not drunk, I'm just resting

Dear Readers,

Whew! This place sure does look dusty, huh? And kind of empty and stuff, too. Oh, well. Why don't we all just think of it as "broken-in", like some gross polyester shirt where the sweaty smell is totally burned into the fibers and gets released when you get a little warm under the arms but that you can't get rid of because (a) it smells fine right after you wash it so this time for sure you got the stink out and (b) even if you didn't, it's the only thing you have to wear when they ask for Casual Business Attire?

I know, I know, it's my fault. I got a little distracted by my glamorous, "real" world life doing stuff like "grocery shopping" and "cleaning" and "working" for certain "people" who shall remain nameless but produce a certain well-known theater festival in Scotland where apparently they have nothing better to do than drink a lot of local product and fire off insulting emails to American graphic designers.

Well, that's part of it anyway. Truth is, this here blogging is hard work sometimes, and every so often, the communicatrix just needs a little "me" time to do something rejuvenating, not to mention a little R&R with The BF like spending five days in 110º weather to shoot footage for his reel and driving down to Long Beach during rush hour to buy patio furniture from some desperate guy we found on Craig's List and drinking lots of tequila and passing out on the patio furniture helping The BF clean out his entire house.

But now the tequila is gone I am rested and refreshed and ready to jump back into things. Once more into the breach, dear friends, right? (Hahaha! I just made an obscure English war reference! Take that, stupid Scottish people!)

Anyway, the communicatrix has puh-lenty of interesting news and stuff in store for both of you, so don't forget to tune in to see all that cool news and stuff. Like for instance some, um, work-type stuff. And some...idea-y type stuff, too. And a bunch of other...things. And stuff.

So come back, okay?

Guys?

Okay?

xxx
c

*$175 for the attractive five-piece wrought-iron set you see here, including umbrella and petunias! $175?!? I mean, come on, you'd pay that for the umbrella alone! Kiss my ass, Wal-Mart! Power to the people!**

**This reminds me of my second-favorite joke: What's green and rusts if you leave it out in the rain? Paddy O'Furniture!

Arrivederci, Las Vegas!

Well, I just got back from five days in Las Vegas and boy howdy, it is just as FABULOUS as the sign said it would be! Firstly, how great is it to be surrounded by so many people who are here to have FUN, such as smoking and playing video poker and drinking Miller Lite at seven A.M.!? There are lots and lots of exciting shows at the various casino-hotels and some of the best of them are right smack in the middle of the casino floor and FREE (although you do have to pay for the valuable limited edition coin).

And if you get bored (hahaha), you can get in your car and drive up and down Las Vegas Boulevard A.K.A. "the Strip" and see e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g because they make sure the traffic goes really, really, REALLY slowly. And is there ever a lot to see, both man-made and natural. For example, at night, there is lots of "neon" and "signage" and "neon signage", but by the morning, everything in Las Vegas magically turns to the same color of beige! And stays that way until they turn the lights back on!

Speaking of magic, as it turns out, not only did we totally LUCK (hahaha) into staying at the hotel with not regular but XTREME magic, it also is home to the genuine FOLIES BERGERE "production" nightclub act, which they don't even have at that hotel that looks like ancient France. We also had many luxurious amenities such as a choice between valet and "self"-parking (with most of the spaces thoughtfully located on a vast, sunny lot far enough away from the hotel to afford excellent views of other lots) AND an "espresso" bar where the baristas make "real"-type espresso AT THE PUSH OF A BUTTON!!! No tiresome grinding and pulling in LAS VEGAS, baby!!!

And that is not even counting THE FREMONT STREET EXPERIENCE, which is not just five blocks of casinos covered by a slotted dome with an hourly light show projected on it but a complete EXPERIENCE with FREE Mardi Gras beads, FREE music from the 60s, 70s and 80s and an entire host of gourmet foods available for purchase including fried Twinkiesâ„¢, fried Oreosâ„¢ and yard-long daiquiris...in every flavor! No wonder it gets so many glowing and thoughtful reviews!

Well that's just how much I really loved FABULOUS Las Vegas, Nevada! And on this, the eve of the anniversary of the date commemorating our country's move to independence, I cannot think of a better way to celebrate those principles that made our country great than to spend the weekend in a 100% American paradise created from raw desert with nothing but lights, air-conditioning and franchised eatertainment: VEGAS, baby, VEGAS!!!

xxx c

Images via The Las Vegas Review Journal

Viva Las Vegas!

Hi, everyone! It's Colleen, a.k.a. the communicatrix, from blogging.la! You know, a REAL metroblog from a REAL city!* Well, I'm out here in sunny Las Vegas...finally. I mean, it took for-fucking-ever to get here. I don't know how you guys do it, living so far away from a real city. That drive must get really old, huh?

Anyway, sunny doesn't begin to describe it. "Hot as motherfucking Hades the night before the bake sale" comes a little bit closer. It's a good thing you guys built all those casino places with the cold air. Only the air-conditioners must make a lot of noise because it's very loud in all the lobbies, plus all of those lights are kind of distracting. And there are no windows. What's up with that? I'm like, "is it eight AM or eight PM?"

Speaking of air-conditioned places did you know there are lots of hotels in Las Vegas? And that all of them have air-conditioning? Including one that looks just like ancient Egypt and one that looks just like ancient Rome and one that looks just like ancient Barbary. I like that one made out of Legos that looks like the Medieval Times (uh-oh, now I'm getting hungry!).

We're not staying in that one, though. We're kitty-corner from it, in a hotel named after the legs of a famous Hollywood actress (like me!) I love boning up on history! (Ha ha, I said "boning"!) It is very luxurious and glamorous, like the ancient Riviera must have been. (Note: I have not seen any French-speaking people here, unless you count those Canadians who cut in front of us at the sports book, hey, I thought our neighbors to the north were all friendly. Maybe they are all staying at that hotel that looks just like ancient France.)

So anyway I came out to Las Vegas to shoot some time-lapse photography with my boyfriend, a.k.a. The Boyfriend. Well, that's the made-up reason, anyway. The real reason is we really like to go out for breakfast in Los Angeles (where we're from) and you guys have this place that makes these amazing fucking omelets. I mean, if I lived here, I'd just get an apartment across from the strip mall that houses that restaurant so I could eat those amazing fucking omelets every day without even having to get in my car because there ought to be some pluses to living in this shithole, right?

Here's how you get there from “the Strip” (that's a nickname for this big street called “Las Vegas Boulevard” which runs through the middle of town):

Okay, that's about it. I'd write more about your "city" but there's really not much to write about, is there? I mean blah blah POKER blah blah STRIPPERS blah blah HOT AS MOTHERFUCKING HADES. You guys should really check out L.A. and stuff. It's much cooler there plus we know how to blog.

xxx c

*b.la (that's "blogging.la", only we say "b.la" because we are really cool, not geeky like other people who spend a lot of time on the internet)

Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone

It's that time of the year again, those balmy, mid-summer days when the urge to stretch out in the sun with a good book, a cold drink and several hours with which to enjoy them overtakes me. Fortunately, I'm good at beating urges like that down with a stick. Tomorrow, for example, The Boyfriend and I are hopping in the car and heading out to Las Vegas for the week, not to par-tay, but to shoot a bunch of stuff for his reel. (Work is the new leisure!)

I may set up an entry or two to post while I'm gone so you all can get your c-trix fix, but then again, I may not! So why not use this little break to catch up on some of the many lovely sites I've collected for your reading pleasure? There are plenty of them all up & down the sides of this website (whose non-design is starting to bug me), and don't forget, I'm a delicious junkie, too!

But we know you like the FRESH HOT LINKS, so here's a batch, straight from the Firefox bookmarks holder-thingy:

Everyone else has been reading him for centuries, but I've just discovered the always-prolific, sporadically hilarious Tony Pierce. He yaks on too much about hot chicks (snore...) for my taste, but I am a straight girl and perhaps if you are not, you might dig it. But his post about jury duty is one for the ages. It's almost got me excited about showing up for mine in July...not.

I loooooove the Blowhards, and especially Michael Blowhard, with whom I have struck up a little eCorrespondence. He posts all kinds of interesting, thought-provoking thangs, but I especially loved this little essay-thoughtstarter on the proliferation of choice in our consumer culture. Great comments section, too: 2Blowhards really pulls in the smart cookies.

Random surfing turned up this Hints from (Doctor) Heloise-type site which should forever lay to rest the notion that doctors are any fun at all.

Design Observer, which I found via the aforementioned Blowhards, also has tasty, thought-provoking essays. They featured a fantastic piece about the authenticity of "faux" a while back, and the archives are chock-a-block with good, tasty reading. (You could spend a day, and quite a bit of dough, clicking around on their links, too.) But the greatest thing about DO is that they have a goddam sense of humor, which is (sadly) rare among designers and other arty types, who generally tend to take themselves a tad seriously (or "a tad bit seriously," for those of you in Oklahoma). This, for example, may be the best post title ever.

Speaking of regular reads, Cool Hunting has some of the most consistently...well, cool stuff of any site I have in my RSS. Lately, for example, they had a groovy, make-your-own-name-from-Flickr-photos post and a table I really, really, really like. A lot.

Finally, while listening to the re-broadcast of This American Life yesterday, I heard the most hilarious bit of live performance it's been my pleasure to encounter in some damned time. The "artist" was reading from her diary, the very worst, very most humiliating parts of her TEENAGE diary, aloud at a little show called "Mortified" that goes up now & then in NYC and here in L.A. (Archived version of the show is at the TAL website and is called "My Experimental Phase", you can skip to the last 10 or so minutes, if you like.) Mortified has a website I haven't had time to vet just yet, but it promises lots of excerpts from the diaries of peoples too shy to get up onstage. I, on the other hand, not only am NOT too shy, but have been dreaming of some useful purpose for the 10 years of shite piled up in a dusty corner of my Billy bookcase, and plan to root through them just as soon as I'm back from losing my shirt taking pictures.

You think I'm pathetic & truthful now, people? You have no idea...

xxx c

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢

They're baaaack... x.x.x on yore television (Yahoo)

Fer nekkid ladies in yore livin rume.

Circuit Diagram of Back Lit Large Digit Caller ID with Call Waiting (Yahoo)

Ah, yes...from my series of posts on the relative merits of LCD vs. LED...

argo starch weight gain (Google)

The communicatrix recognizes that pure starch, branded or otherwise, will pack on the el-bees if that's what you're after. However, it is highly SCD-non-compliant, so she recommends saving it for your shirts, and opting for the half-and-half yogurt with chopped liver chaser instead. Atkins-friendly, too!

use krazy glue on plantar warts (Google)

Unless the plantar wart is on the top of your contruction helmet which you are trying to attach to an I-beam, don't.

kossack erotic art (Google)

Which predates "the commie sutra."

Jane Kaczmarek in pantyhose (Google)

"Ooo, yeah, slip into a pair of those suntan control-tops and call me 'daddy'..."

"waikiki"+"photo"+"balcony"+"woman"+"sucking" (Yahoo)

I bow to the specificity of fetish.

bbw over 750 pounds (Google)

Less odd to find this search landing someone here than it is cheering to know I'll have someone lusting after me if I remain on the half-and-half-yogurt-with-chopped-liver-chaser diet.

funny clip art,intilectual women (dogpile)

Uh-oh, looks like the Religious Right is up to they're wacky hijinx again!

xxx c

Slow is the new fast

As I've reported elsewhere, I had a little run-in with the law last week, an unexpected one. Not that I'm always Dora Do-Bee: after all, my mother was the woman who explained to the Glenview Police that she was really "just making two consecutive left turns, Officer"... and let us say the bad apple didn't fall far from that particular tree. However, while this particular infraction was, in fact, made in ignorance of the law, my normally silver tongue (thank you, Mom, and years of advertising) got me nowhere. So now, fair or not, I've got potential points on my license pending, which changes things. Considerably.

Yes, I'll pay the ginormous fine and yes, I'll go to traffic school (on the web, of course) but what's really, really, REALLY irksome is the notion that for the first time in my life, I really cannot afford to speed. Anywhere.

Time and I have always been uneasy companions. I went through a Stepford-like, aggressively punctual phase (the first 35 years of my life) because dear old Dad, who had never in his 45+ years of insane business travel missed a flight like I had never, until now, gotten a mover, put the fear of G-O-D in me. After a brief rebellion where I was late a lot, I settled into a kind of a groove that went something like this: I like you/it, I'm there on time or even early; I don't, I show my ambivalence with tardiness.

Fine and dandy. Only sometimes, the old Colleen would war with the new. Rebellious, hear-me-roar Colleen, resentful of having to drive, last-minute, across town during rush hour to audition for a job she doesn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting because some casting director/production company/client trifecta could not be bothered to give Colleen (and legions of other casual moms who might have actual children to nanny up) a chance to PLAN said audition into her day. Old Colleen, ever-mindful of Daddy's expections (and the rent), told beeyotch Colleen where to get off...and STEP ON IT!!!!

Through some miracle of grace and timing, I was able to stay out of my car entirely for the past three days, but the winning streak ended today: a callback (you can't blow those off, folks) for a McDonald's commercial (reeeeally can't blow those off, even if you are being called in for your resemblance to a chicken) at (oh, it makes my teeth hurt!) 6:20...in Santa Monica!!! That's 10 miles away, on a road with construction, during rush hour, Los Angeles rush hour.

At about 10 on Monday morning, I started psyching myself up to leave at 5:10. I had hourly (mental) pep talks (because I am mental) right up until my run, during which I drew (mental) pictures of myself leaving in a timely fashion and driving/arriving in a sensible one.

Which I did. All of which, oddly enough, I enjoyed immensely. It was so strange to ride in the AARP lane, not worrying about zipping in and out of lanes to make up a precious minute, letting people enter the flow of traffic, yes, even the rude ones riding the gutter who didn't deserve it, just "because." I felt empowered. I felt like an old person. I felt...great.

I arrived at my audition relaxed and happy, and, while I did not exactly kick any chicken ass at my big, fat, Class-A, Network callback, neither did I feel like kicking myself before, during or after my time in The Room. So my non-chicken ass and me took the long way home, too, making a couple of pit stops, enjoying the scenery, exploring a road less-traveled (which, unlike this other, I will not share).

It seems I have been served up this lesson of patience again and again, far more times than could possibly be fair or even necessary.

Then again, a wise person once told me, "You will be given the same lesson again and again in different forms until you choose to learn it."

I choose. I choose, I choose.

And whaddya know, it ain't even all that bad...

xxx c

Weekly roundup

The communicatrix has been busy losing focus applying her multiple skills in other needed arenas lately, the details and location of which she may share with you soon in an upcoming missive.

In the meantime, enjoy yourself trotting around to the places I've already seen. Take a snap or two! Send one back to the c-trix! Let her know how you've enjoyed the scenery! And share those hotspots you've been to yourself that you think she might enjoy! The communicatrix is heavily into enjoying herself.

Except, of course, when she's beating herself up for her lack of productivity, something Merlin Mann addresses in a great post this week about shaking yourself out of a rut. He also points to an Open Loops post with lots more tips, but truthfully, they got a wee bit too Tony Robbins for me. [via 43 Folders, the productivity pr0n freak's best friend]

Unintentionally (we can only hope) hilarious translated subtitles on bootleg copies of the new Star Wars dreck. [via BoingBoing]

Speaking of BoingBoing, i liked this inventive use for dollar-store army men enough to try and get it out to a wider audience, but they didn't like it enough to post it. Oh, well, the crafters will have to drum up their own P.R. [via the craftster blog, which I'm adding to my list of feeds even though the craftiest I get is gluing magnets to the backs of my remotes so they're always there on my file cab.]

More genius advice served up with wit and élan from the rabbit, a.k.a. Heather Havrilesky. [via Rabbit Blog]

Jennifer Ogren is my kind of designer: one who came to it later, after doing something really useful first like getting a B.A. in Sociology. She's got some nice samples up on her site, like the poster, right. She's also got some honest-to-jeezus art for sale tonight here in L.A. at C-Note, an art show by project:, whose stated goal is to "(bring) together the best elements of art, music, technology and culture to form a constantly evolving experience." So there. Entry fee is ten bucks and the lure is aforementioned fusion of goodies, along with art for a hundred bucks a throw. Groovy stuff from Luke Chueh as well, although not the glorious "Polishing My Grill" (below, right); it's sold, and probably for a lot more than a c-note. [via Daily Candy]

And speaking of affordable art, may I recommend my new favorite artist, Ferris Plock? He has an embarrassment of arty riches up on his site, but I flipped for his "Robbers" series, enough so that I have an inquiry out on "Robber(s) C" (tippy-top, left). If I hadn't gotten the mother of all moving violations tickets this week, I'd have bids out on several pieces from this series, the style of which calls to mind the delightfully demented drawings of my old friend, Tim Souers (who has a couple of little somethings up on Sally Horchow's site), and not a little Edward Gorey. So little money, so much art to acquire... [via Flavorpill]

xxx
c

TECHNORATI TAGS: Tim Souers, Luke Chueh, Ferris Plock, Jennifer Ogren, Sally Horchow 

Who needs Jambi when you've got...THE AMAZING FACE ANALYZER?!?

Using only the professionally-taken photograph to the left, THE AMAZING FACE ANALYZER divined the following about the communicatrix...including that she is female:

Intelligence: 6.7  (Very Intelligent)
Risk: 2.7  (Very Low Risk)
Ambition: 6.7  (High Ambition)
Gay Factor: 1.4  (Very Low Gay Factor)
Honor: 4.2  (Average Honor)
Politeness: 5.7  (Average Politeness)
Income: 6.6   ($50,000 - $100,000)
Sociability: 4.0  (Low Sociability)
Promiscuity: 2.5  (Very Unpromiscuous)

Like the modest but apparently uptight genius who turned me on to THE AMAZING FACE ANALYZER (or ANALYSER, in the U.K.), I am a "Beta Academic" best suited to a number of careers which don't interest me in the least.

Of course when I saw that my celebrity face "match" was Anna Kournikova, I began thinking, "Hey! Maybe there's something to this here AMAZING FACE ANALYZER!" ...until I saw that it had also made out a tiny, dark-haired, Asian girl with a 1.0-gay-factor (that's lower that my incredibly low gay factor, folks!) as a dead ringer for... Ellen DeGeneres!

As an aside, I find it pretty hilarious that my own gay factor was so low, since I'm about as gay as May can get without actually batting for the other team.

And as for my lack of promiscuity, I think my sordid past (not to mention a goodly chunk of the L.A. phone book) might refute that notion, but hey, they are grading on a curve, here...

xxx
c

NOTE: For the heck of it, I also submitted my "badass business woman" and "quirky character gal" headshots (posted here) to see what the results might be. Dorothy Parker's observation notwithstanding, apparently all you have to do is throw on a pair of glasses and unbutton your shirt to have your income level plummet and drive your promiscuity quotient up a few notches. Oh, and did you know I was 98% Korean/Japanese and 2% Chinese? Me, neither!!!

And quirky character gal? She doesn't register at all, even as female. No wonder my commercial career is in the shitter...

TECHNORATI TAGS: face analyzer, quizzes. tests

Where do the funny people go?

There are many lovely things about L.A.: the weather; the proximity to desert, mountains and breathtaking coastline; the nutty people who tend to congregate out here. Oh, wait, that one works both ways. One of the other great/not-so-great things about L.A. is the highly transient nature of the place. The good news is there's a constant influx of cool, interesting people coming to town, infusing life and energy into the scene.

The bad news is that no sooner do you make a friend, or worse, hook up with a compatible writing partner, than they turn around and ditch you for some burg with shittier climes and killer real estate prices.

The other day, the wife of one of my old writing partners (I've got many) sent out a group email to their far-flung friends sharing my old writing partner's observations on a photo session that was probably pretty nasty in and of itself, but hilarious in hindsight. The occasion was one of Ye Olde Faux Photo Ops (oh god, am I glad I never had a family) where everyone dresses up in Ye Olde Phony Costumes and poses sternfacedly for Ye Olde Time posterity.

Rick's take on the proceedings, as relayed in an email to his friend, David, and forwarded by his wife, Sharon, was, as usual, hilarious:

RICK (to David): .... Oh, and don't think for a second that that coat didn't smell like the pissy sweat of every white trash chain smoker in Massachusetts...

The coat was on me for about 30 seconds when I politely asked the teenage girl who worked there...

RICK: How often do you, um, wash these?

Teenage girl: I don't wash them.

RICK: Does somebody else? And if so, how often does that person wash these? Better, yet. Does he ever wash these?

Teenage Girl: The manage-ah washed them last year.

RICK: This year?

Teenage Girl: We just stah-ted this year.

RICK: You just started this year? Right. So, this probably hasn't been washed since mid-last season?

Teenage Girl: Yeah.

RICK: Sha, can you hurry up in the dressing room, please?!?

Sha: Hold on. I want to look perfect.

RICK: Yeah. Why don't you hurry up?

Then my wife proceeds to want every angle and prop. Shayna is even commenting on the STANK of the costume and wants it the fuck OFF. Sha is like...

Sha: Oh. Let's all hold guns in the next one.

RICK: Sha, it's hot in this thing, it fucking stinks and it's starting to soak into my skin.

Sha: Oh, let's all hold liquor bottles, too. Even Shay.

Shayna: Mommy, I want to take this off. It's stinky.

Sha: One more pose.

RICK: Sha, she's done and I'm done.

Rick spent the rest of the day scratching the itchy stink off of his arms.

RIDE ON, UNION SOLDIERS!!!!!

Rick always, but ALWAYS made me laugh, when we wrote, when we were supposed to be writing but didn't write, when I got my sorry ass booted from the Sunday Company and thought my life was over. I hadn't found my voice yet when we were working together and Rick definitely had, but he was cool about that, too, and always encouraged my ideas and goofy tangetial wanderings.

We thought that we'd keep writing via phone and IRC but of course, we didn't. Life intervened. 3000 miles intervened (Rick's family was in Boston, so he and Sharon returned there to put down roots and spawn and such).

But I saved all of our old emails and writings and sometimes, when I'm glum and need help snapping out of it, I'll pull up some hilarious exchange and laugh till I cry.

Rick, he really should be writing still.

And Colleen, you really should be telling Rick this. On the telephone.

xxx c

Weekly roundup

Okay, so I completely fell off the face of the earth this week. And I don't have highly advanced piano skills to show for it and my kitchen floor still looks like the site of a three-week dust-bunny-and-honey humpfest and I sure as hell didn't have a lot of %#@*(& auditions. Oh, and a shoot for Monday fell apart (actually, exploded in my face), I saw no movies and most of my time seems to have been spent waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, visions of my future, penniless life pushing a shopping cart around the sun-baked streets of downtown Los Angeles swirling in my head until break of day.

On the upside, L.A. Jan booked a choice role on a big movie via a HUGE casting director (he's repped by ICM, for chrissakes) who is now head over heels in love with her (as well he should be) so I'm pretty sure I can ride her coattails to glory sometime soon.

In other events, I whipped together a choice new flyer for a little show going to Edinburgh with nothing but spit and good will, let go of five pairs of pants that fit me 10 pounds ago (netting a little cash into the bargain) and kicked some acting ass in my first scene back in acting class after a year's absence. So, in the words of the inimitiable Carl Spackler, I got that goin' for me...which is nice.

But boyoboyo, has the wide, wide world of web been hoppin' this week! Lotsa good reading, peeps...if you can't make it out to the parade this weekend, I've got you covered...

Fat: The Final Frontier. Michael Blowhard initiates another fascinating dialogue on 2 Blowhards, a site I always wonder why I don't visit more often until I realize the Blowhards stubbornly resist creating an RSS feed. Damn your Luddite eyes!

Nifty punctuation hack (for persnickety punctuators like the communicatrix) from famous screenwriter John August, who is truly the poster child for smart, accomplished people selflessly giving back to the community.

This handy-dandy site on cracking the Priceline.com code makes my frugal, deal-hunting heart beat wildly with joy. [via Women's Wall St. newsletter]

Seth Godin knows that small is the new big.

Kozy & Dan do some nice illustration. Mmm-hmm. [via Cool Hunting]

Sean Bonner, in addition to being an incredibly accomplished overachiever, is also frequently hilarious.

These folks are way too cool for any fucking school I've ever been to. [via Boing Boing]

Finally, the ultimate electronic tribute in this, the age of ironic clothing: the t-shirt obit site. RIP, ETHS Wildkits tee... [via Que Sera, Sera, home of some fine, read-worthy writing, via Dooce, the queen-mama-blogger of us all]

Enjoy your weekend, peeeeeeple!

xxx
c

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

I didn't exactly have to be dragged kicking & screaming to "the pants movie" but it wasn't first on my list of must-see movies this summer. Lily, the instigator, & I generally go for darker fare, but it's been a tough month or two and hey, I totally dug another weird Lily suggestion, so I figured what the hell? If nothing else, it'd be great snark material for ye olde communicatrix.com.

Only it wasn't. I was bawling (quietly) before the credits finished rolling and pretty much weeping (as quietly as I could) through the rest of the film, when I wasn't smiling, that is. Lily's experience was much like mine, as was L.A. Jan's. In fact, I suspect this will be the reaction of most of the women who can get over the embarrassing, chick-lit title and get down with the recommendation. Because The Pants Movie is that rarest of rarities these days: a smart, funny, female coming-of-age story that doesn't talk down to its audience, just to them.

The movie weaves together the stories of four fast friends spending their first summer apart. The infamous pants of the famously horrible title are a pair of jeans that magically fit all four, though the girls vary in size as much as they do temperament. And here's the thing: not only does every one of them play her part straight down the middle, without commenting or playing at it, the four are authentically wonderful together. You absolutely buy that they have been together since they were born (their moms met in prenatal yoga) and you absolutely understand why they have stayed, and will stay, once the lessons and separation of summer are over, friends.

I have a few minor quibbles, mainly to do with the writers saddling poor Tibby (Amber Tamblyn) with a baby Yoda (Jenna Boyd) for her slice of the story. But Tamblyn and Boyd are great together (and individually) nonetheless, as is the entire cast, especially the other girls: Alexis Bledel, America Ferrara and Blake Lively.

Throw in some chewy, eye-candy extras (picture-postcard shots of the Greek Islands, reasonably non-gratuitous shots of Michael Rady and Mike Vogel with their shirts off) and you have quite possibly the best summer movie of the summer.

Even if that heinous title makes it the most embarrassing one to recommend.

xxx
c