…To Being an Extra

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Summer shows are in full swing and fall is just around the corner. Aside from falling leaves and a stiff breeze wafting through your cardboard box, fall also means pilot season! Being an extra in a movie or TV production is an experience like no other. If you thought you already lost all your dignity when you became poor, think again, because being an extra will suck whatever remaining shred of dignity you have left from your hungry, low blood sugar, delirious little body. Well, it’s not entirely bad. Living in a city like Los Angeles or New York affords you the experience to fill your social calendar with many a day on set. With tax breaks for filming in more non-traditional entertainment US cities, the opportunities in places like Portland and Atlanta now abound as well. Sure being an extra has got it’s downside, but the benefits to being an extra really are without number: no set hours, free food (most of the time), and an up close and personal view at your favorite celebs. I spent many days pretending USC was the Ivy league, or walking repeatedly down the same faux high school hallway mouthing nonsensical words to complete strangers – my pockets awkwardly burst with free Nature Valley granola bars -  all while gawking at the likes of Lauren Graham and Emma Stone. That’s right, I put myself through college working as an extra – well that and hooking. Just kidding about the hooking part…kind of.

With a minimum daily salary guarantee even if you only work for 15 minutes (and yes, that’s happened to me) you can really make your extra work work for you. Get in good with a PA or casting director and you’ve got it made; they’ll keep calling you back for work again and again. Bring a big bag and just go to town on the craft service table. I work the Shawshank Redemption method of craft service stealing, it’s really the most inconspicuous and most effective way; like Tim Robbins steadily digging his way out of prison shaking the dust debris out of his pants in the rec yard, I slowly but steadily siphon from the table one apple, or two pop tarts at a time. I meander by the table several times more always deliberately making my way past, grabbing one or three more things covertly as I go. In one day I could have the rest of my food for the week. My lunch on the set Monday, turned into my breakfast in Intro to Anthropology on Tuesday.

…To Winter Tanning

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Self-tanning is ‘spensive be it a salon tan or a tanning lotion. It’s really a stupid added cost that you could go without. Good thing it’s winter because now you can break out those turtle necks. With a conservative wardrobe which may also make it impossible to distinguish if you’re really just a pretty tranny in an awful top and your Zooey bangs obviously already covering half your forehead, the amount of skin needing a tan has all but disappeared. If, after this, you still find yourself in a financial bind you might try wearing a burqa. Let  the world know your eyelids just come back from a weekend in South Beach.

…To Getting Knocked Up in College

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Homecoming is just around the corner. With that lovely thought I couldn’t help but hearken back to my glorious college days and my fellow, delightful university-mates.  So here’s the thing, 1.) Don’t get knocked up in college. 2.) Don’t put your baby in a dumpster. I love the college I went to but it is known for two things: football and babies in dumpsters. Okay, three things maybe – USC’s film school isn’t too shabby. Sure, maybe I don’t have vast expertise in baby dumping but that is only due to the fact that I have never thrown a baby in a dumpster. Studies have shown that the reason I have never thrown a baby in a dumpster or even come close to having the opportunity to do so is related to the fact that my daddy issues are negligible; also because I never felt the need to skank it up with an endless parade of Asshat McDouchebags who would have been prime subjects for 16 and Pregnant had the show only premiered a few years earlier (timing is everything, right?).
Babies are expensive. Pregnancies are expensive, and cause stretch marks. Condoms however, are priceless. Just kidding, I mean they are in the proverbial sense but they actually cost around $1 each. A nominal amount to be sure – and that is the key takeaway here, kids. Shit, in college I was stealing my lunch off the craft service table of whatever production was trying to make USC look like the Ivy League that week. There was no way I, or anyone like me could have afforded to feed a child as well.
USC’s dumpster baby guru – Holly Ashcroft – she clearly had never heard of the “No Questions Asked” law or of student health insurance because she got pregnant and tossed her baby in a dumpster not once, but twice. Yep, she dumpster dumped twice. So if you find yourself in a similar situation as Ms. Ashcroft and can’t afford said baby please read the above paragraph once more, and then also remind yourself that unlike Unicorns, both “No Questions Asked” and student health insurance do exist in addition to fine establishments like Planned Parenthood. If nothing else, Angelina Jolie will probably take your baby.
I am fairly certain it is possible to do something with your pregnancy or newborn well before the point of baby dumpster diving behind your local college eatery (insert uncomfortable menu joke here). It is a lot easier on the wallet and certainly a lot easier on the conscience. Once is bad enough, but two times? Come on. That’s just pure laziness. That is like peeing on the couch because they just launched into the first musical number on Glee and the bathroom is ‘too far’. Hitting the pause button on your DVR and standing up would clearly just be too much.
Let me repeat again, never is it alright for you to put your baby in a dumpster; not even the cabbage patch variety you had from when you were a kid – those will fetch a lot on eBay. If you can’t even afford the condom, you probably can’t afford the kid….or the jail time, really. And if you really can’t afford it and Angelina has no vacancy, there is always my tried and true method of saving money on child rearing: keep it in your pants.

…To A Dolly Parton Concert (Guest Post)

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Dolly @ the Hollywood Bowl

A series of improbable events brought me to Dolly Parton Saturday night, at the last minute joining a high school friend who was taking his sixty-something parents out to the Hollywood Bowl for a mother’s day gift. My friend’s accountant father started sharing that many of his clients are marijuana collectives, and also started sharing marijuana throat lozenges with us; pointing to his wife, he was telling us he gives the lozenges to her for mild arthritis and they wouldn’t have much of an effect on us, if at all. An hour later the two of us have not spoken a word, and my eyes are glued on Dolly Parton, and on the lights and effects behind her, and she is playing dueling banjos with her band, and holy mother how is it that I am high and next to my high school friend’s parents and at a Dolly concert.

If performers (and performances) are to be judged according to their hard efforts, then even “Fitz” gets a run for its money from Dolly, 65 years old and delivering a show running well over two and a half hours, stopping midway for a 15 minute intermission, belting out songs to the delight of Saturday night’s capacity crowd of predominantly baby boomers and gay men (a fair share of which are dressed in pink cowboy hats, blonde wigs, and stuffed bosoms).

Early on, Dolly covers “Walking on Sunshine”, “Help”, and a banjo version of “Stairway to Heaven.” She shares, as a songwriter, how flattering it is to have others perform your songs .. except that she always hated the Whitney Houston version that “went and ruined” her song. The audience hangs on every word, every Dolly’ism.

She compliments the audience on their good looks, complaining “lord” there were some ugly people the prior night, to laughs. She shares stories about momma, who raised twelve children with little money but plenty of love, and devotes a song to “all the loving mommas out there.” And she follows with a story about her illiterate father, who had trouble finding work but always managed to put food on the table, and devotes a song to “all the hardworking daddy’s out there.” That leads to a series of bits on “twitter,” which was something you got yourself into when Daddy was after you with his belt, and “online”, which momma yelled at the children to get the clothes hung out on, and “Facebook”, with her preacher granddaddy yelling at her to get her face in the good book .. and so on.

The show is finely tuned, assuredly the result of a decades long career, of learning precisely what your audience wants and delivering. And Dolly indeed delivers, changing wardrobes from white sequin pantsuits to bright yellow southern belle dresses straight out of Dolly’s tennessee roots, switching out between banjo and piano, and singing from one end of the stage to the other. The show peaks with “Islands in the Stream,” then straight into “9 to 5.” This is Dolly at her best, and the Bowl audience takes to their feet. They dance. They sing loudly along. And 17,000 people leave the Bowl with more than satisfied looks on their faces.

…To Fitz & The Tantrums

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Listen, sometimes a girl’s just got to dance. Should you not find yourself at home alone in front of the mirror in your underwear on such occasions, there is no better place to dance it out than at a Fitz & The Tantrums concert. So I splurged and that is precisely what I did last night at the Music Box in Hollywood. Lead singer Michael Fitzpatrick, while channeling an aesthetic halfway between David Bowie and Annie Lennox (is that redundant?), catapulted fans into an unmatched explosion of entertainment. Simply put: the band knows how to put on a show. No fog machines or Katy Perry blow up flamingos – just that magical mix of talent, charisma, and showmanship. Never have I seen a band THAT  excited just to play, not more intimate or engaged with its audience; The audience serenaded Fitz with “Happy Birthday” when the band brought out a cake, not to mention there was a house-backed Eurythmics’ cover at the encore that would have made Annie Lennox herself smile.

The band’s sound pays homage to the great soul groups of Motown; flutes, horns, and organs abound. It is a true testament to the band that their wink to our musical past never borders on parody – it is sincere, a hand off of the baton. Last night Noelle Scagg’s layered vocals were like a Martha Reeve’s heatwave, adding a sultry refinement to the band’s vintage sound particularly on the “Pickin Up the Pieces”.  Not to detour too much, but as a Poor Girl, I also can’t help but marvel at how apropos “Dear Mr. President” is. Lyrics that resonate in an uncanny way.

While the group’s roots are clearly with Detroit’s finest, the group’s music is updated with more potent lyrics and harder driving beats than its predecessors. A smart tweak to an otherwise classic style which  helps satiate the tastes of today’s demanding and electronically inclined audience. This musical cross-pollination of sorts, would seat Fitz & The Tantrums at the same high school lunch table as Mark Ronson and the late, great Ms. Amy Winehouse.

At the show’s close, the band was so genuinely grateful that they hung out for meet-and-greets at the merch booth. Sure I would have loved an autographed vinyl copy of Pickin’ Up the Pieces or a picture with the band, but did I want to participate in a Running of the Bulls, Music Box style? Fighting my way through the hot and sweaty mess that the theater had become during this 60 minute American-Bandstand-meets-Bootie-LA dance session did not seem enjoyable. I’m petite and therefore can easily be swallowed whole by a crowd. Not to worry. Although I walked out into the LA night without any such goodies, in some twisted act of kismet I would get another chance at redemption in just a few short hours.

What are the odds that on the very next morning I would look up from my LA Times crossword and my $6 lemonade (made from gold-plated lemons, of course) to find Mr. Michael Fitzpatrick right in front of me? I asked, and he graciously agreed to take a picture with me. We exchanged comments about how awesome one another’s hair was and chatted about the merits of my designer namesake, and somewhere in between I got my picture with Fitz. A fabulous cap on an evening of fantastic music. Sweet dreams are made of this.

…To Passover

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So I just came across the Two Minute Hagaddah – A Guide for the Impatient? More like an Guide for the Impoverished. With the S&P nose diving harder than Lindsay Lohan at coke buffet and the debt ceiling tighter than Dov Charney’s itty bitty briefs who can afford to replenish their cabinets this year with Kosher for Passover goods? The two Minute Hagaddah basically consists of a “thank you g-d”, a dipping of parsley, and a drinking of wine. Four cups of boxed wine and the dipping of some greens I picked from my backyard into a dixie cup of my own tears and I’m spent. Really this two minute business goes easier of my wallet than it does my patience. As for those 10 plagues, well, we may have to make an addendum this year. After Slaying of the First Born  now comes Removal of the Roof Overhead (although I’m not sure this one is relegated to just Pharaoh’s Egypt). On the plus side, with all your uneaten matzah you can surely construct a lovely new box home on the sidewalk outside your previous establishment. Tastes like cardboard, builds like it as well. I hear that’s Manischewitz’s new slogan this year.

L’Chaim…Happy Passover!

New Deal – Watch Me As I Walk Away

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Rensie 1948 Diamond Watch – Free, Grandma (Originally purchased at Frederick & Nelson Department Stores) Seattle, Washington

This 1948 gem of a watch is precious, gorgeous, and still works as well as the day it was originally purchased by my grandpa for his new bride. The watch came to me courtesy of latter, my maternal grandma; I pried it from her cold dead hand at her wake. Just kidding, silly… Jews don’t have wakes – I took it from her before the paramedics arrived on scene. Ok, no not really that would be gross. All kidding and uncomfortable morbidness aside, with its tennis bracelet band and petite apexed-face  jewelry doesn’t get more classically vintage than this; and it was acquired for the price of Free. Don’t be scared to snuggle up to your old, wrinkly grandparents, kids.  Sure they may have a lovely of au de decay scent but they may just also have some fabulous items in their possession from bygone days. Don’t be afraid to ingratiate yourself – it won’t be for naught. I promise.

~ Poor Girl’s musing of the Week #10 ~

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I keep hearing about the new movie coming out,  How Do You Know; no, it’s not Whitney Houston’s triumphant return to the silver screen. How I wish it was. And yet every time I hear about the movie I can’t help but start singing the similarly-titled-but-not-quite-of-the-same-name song. It’s pretty much playing on a loop in my head as we speak. But follow my thought process; it got me thinking of the fabulous ’80s and how the toys I grew up playing with were overwhelmingly better than anything kids play with today. Simple, timeless, amazing. Lite Brite, anyone? All I’m saying is where is today’s Teddy Ruxpin?

Today 3-year olds play with Blackberries..ugh where’s the fun in that? Plus, a Blackberry is one expensive My Little Pony. How are you supposed to entertain your child these days without money? It was way easier to be a Poor Mom in the 1980s, you could just throw your kid a stick and let them go to town. How do you feel about your 3-year old attempting to program the next Farmville instead of playing with Legos?

…To Halloween

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How offensive is too offensive when you’re a Poor Girl? Costumes are expensive and I had a rather important Cowboys and Indians party to attend (sure just the theme is offensive alone but it’s West Hollywood, it’s fine). With a whole $17 in my bank account cowboys and Indians was going to happen on the cheap. So with a childhood Chicago Blackhawks jersey and a left over curtain tie I set out. It was either that, or a Bindi. I was PocaSacaHull, at least that was what People Magazine was calling me. I mean if you at least know it is offensive and wear it as such, it’s totally fine, right? Where would  hipsters be without irony? Well they’d really just be homeless people. And, I ask you, where would Republicans be without irony? Just elitist, ignorant, hate-mongers — oh wait, no that’s just true. Anyway, you get my point; wear what you gotta wear to make it happen. Just wear it like you mean it, or in this case like you mean it soo much that you don’t mean it.