Hip Hop Hippie

Here in L.A., I’ve gone through jobs quicker than most urbanites go through sexual partners. This is no exception.

One day, while signing a contract at my agency, my agent spotted my hands and started sending me out for hand-modeling auditions. This, I thought, was hilarious. I was excited to add it to my resume of ridiculousness.

This was my “Hand Shot.” Don’t laugh.

For a brief stint I became the Sizzler’s hand. Awe-inspiring isn’t it? Did you have any idea you were in the presence of such celebrity? Now I’ve had some demeaning jobs, oh have I had some demeaning jobs. Los Angeles really perfects degradation. But being the Sizzler’s hand was a whole new category of demeaning—they treated the shrimp I was handling light years better than they treated me, aka “The Hand.” And it was also the closest I’ve ever been to existing in an alternate universe.

On one commercial I had to dip a shrimp into cocktail sauce. That’s it. It was a 3 second shot. Simple enough right? REEEong. I dipped shrimp and got notes for NINE HOURS PEOPLE.

The advertising agency would tell me to accent the plumpness of the shrimp more. *#@&%@#*  The producers would time each of my movements, which consisted of dip, quarter spin in sauce, and lift, and they would then nit-pick the length of time I spent on each. &%*&%$#*  The cinematographer would bark at me to get more light on the shrimp while not causing the sauce to drip. @&$@#%&  The director would tell me to make the motion of the dip more sexual…

Let me remind you that in the shot, you only saw my hand from the wrist down. And I was dipping a shrimp into cocktail sauce. I would give my best attempt at a sexy shrimp dip, but you know, there’s only so much a girl can do to sex-up some seafood.

The director would yell “Cut!” and say, “Hand [that was me], that was too sexy. I don’t want this thing being lewd. Think sensual, not pornographic.” Oh riiiiight, my bad. I guess I shouldn’t be giving the shrimp an HJ in the shot? What the?

And then doing my best sensual shrimp dip into cocktail sauce, he would once again scream “Cut!” shake his head and say, “Okay, pretend you’re in love with this shrimp for chrissakes. You love this fucking shrimp.”

No comment.

And then the producers would squabble about lighting and the ad agency would chirp that I was making the shrimp look too small. This lasted for nine hours. I got paid $100.

On my next Sizlicker commercial I squeezed a lemon over lobster for 17 HOURS. It’s almost incomprehensible. The peanut gallery wasn’t happy with how the lemon juice squirted out. Because, I’m not sure if you knew this or not, but I fired Mother Nature a while back and started creating all the world’s produce by hand. Yep, little ole me. So really, if a lemon isn’t juicy enough to drench a piece of lobster, it’s clearly my bad, as everyone on set pointed out.

The crew ended up rigging clear, plastic tubes into each of the lemons so that when I squeezed a lemon, a guy at the other end of the tube would be frantically squeezing water through the tube, so that it would squirt out the lemon in my hand. I’m surprised we didn’t get an Oscar for that shit people.

On hour 15 my hand cramping was getting unbearable and my patience was as foreign a  piece of history as my embryonic sack. So I did what any good actress would do and started plotting on-set suicide. I thought I might be able to figure out how to electrocute myself with lemon juice and wires. Or perhaps jostling the camera rig out of position so it fell on my head. Anything would be less painful than listening to the peanut gallery “coach” me on my motivation to squeeze that motherfucking lemon all over that motherfucking lobster one more motherfucking time. As evidenced by me typing this, my oh-so-dramatic on-set suicide attempt was unsuccessful.

That was my last Sizdickler job. I told my agent that Siznutsacker can sensually, sexually and pornographically suck my balls.

I did still life hand modeling after that—photos of my hand opening a wine bottle, dispensing seasonings, displaying crystal, oh yes, I know, quite shee shee. That was tolerable because they didn’t give me acting notes like Sizbuttlicker and they treated me like a human being with hands, not a hand attached to a robot.

Yep, that’s me.

But what really got to me was the lifestyle. Yes, I said it. The lifestyle of a hand model is absurd. You basically can’t do anything with your hands, ever. Any sort of cleaning is out of the question, which is cool if you can afford a maid. I could not. You can’t play sports, or do anything remotely active. And do not even think about going outside without your hands covered—the sun will destroy your career. And you really should wear gloves when at all possible.

For anyone who doesn’t know me, well, I’m basically a dude with tits. So there’s a pretty brief window of how long I’m going to tolerate being forced to get frequent manicures, wearing gloves around and constantly being worried about chipping a nail or scratching my hand. I mean, I’d suffer through it if I was making a decent living or was stimulated by the work, but there are only so many new steak knives you can hold for a couple extra hundred bucks till you realize, it’s time to move on.

And move on is what I did. To become an assistant editor at Hustler Magazine.

February 4^th was my 7 year anniversary living in Los Angeles. Being an aspiring artist anywhere, but I have to imagine, especially in this city, is exciting, demoralizing, inspiring, soul-crushing, a LOT of goddamn work, and sometimes, every once and a while, gratifying.

I had one such gratifying day this weekend. It had been a while.

2010 and I got off to a bumpy start. I entered it with a terminator cold that was 2009’s last parting gift to me (thank you, you son of a whore), so up until this weekend 2010 looked like more of the same old bullshit to me.

And then there was Saturday.

Saturday was one of those days that life looks at you and says, “Here slugger, I’m gonna give you a freebie.”

I didn’t book any major roles; I didn’t get a check in the mail; I didn’t win any Most-Awesomeness awards, but all the sweet-ass little things that lined up made me feel light. Made all those bad days seem less bad. I attribute it all to having a run in with Fairfax Jesus Guy. I touched his robe. Just brushed it as we crossed paths on the sidewalk, but some Hollywood Holiness definitely rubbed off on me.

A quick tour of my day: (and there is a GRAND finale coming…)

***I went to Urban Outfitters to get socks, but saw an adorbs shirt for $9 and decided to try it on…I mean, it was $9. It would be criminal NOT to. And what did I find? Urban Outfitters on Melrose has goddamn skinny mirrors! Aw snap. (Dudes, are you tuning out? Stick with me. I’ll talk about titties later.)

Skinny mirrors people! The ONE thing in Los Angeles to compete with everything else aimed at making you feel like a cow. After 3 weeks of not working out, I haven’t exactly felt toned. Those mirrors were like a hand job to my ego. Oh, and I got the shirt. Had to.

***Dried pineapple is back at Trader Joe’s. MOTHER OF GOD. I have a severe addiction and they haven’t carried it for 6 months. Titties. When I saw my precious dried pineapple at Trader Joe’s I let slip a squeal. Yeah, a full on pig squeal. But I didn’t even care. Titties. Gotta have my dried pineapple

***Here comes the grand finale, suckas. Get ready for this! Here’s a little necessary back story: for the last two weeks I’ve been watching a LOT of TV due to being el sicko. My brain most certainly is growing mold. One thing that I’ve become mildly obsessed about are those infomercials that that meth-head Vince does for the Sham-Wow and the Slap-Chop. I neeeeeeeeed a Slap-Chop. Slap-Chops chop up everything from veggies to nuts in just seconds. I need a Slap-Chop like Vince needs meth.

Anyslur, every year two of my good friends throw a party in January where everyone brings the worst Xmas gift they were given. They wrap it, put it under the tree, then we do a white elephant type thang with the horrible gifts. The rules are complicated, but basically you can steal gifts from other people.

There were 60 people at this party. There was me, one other woman, two straight guys and 56 GORGEOUS gay men. I mean, this is West Hollywood and that’s pretty much the demographic. I love going to parties at their house because the men are fabulous and they never stare at my tits.

They’re friends with some major actors (me being one of them, PSYCHE). So there’s a few “names” there, but the important one to this story is Neil Patrick Harris. And I love me some NPH. We’ve hung out at parties before and he’s always really sweet, fun, and generous. And who doesn’t love Doogie?

So the gift game has begun and it’s my turn to choose a wrapped present. Years past I always scoped out what could possibly be booze bottles given by the AA members at the party who somehow were given alcohol for Christmas (talk about bad form). You never wanna get stuck with the Sponge Bog ski mask or the cans of green beans. Or the paper, make-your-own Dradel that I brought. (One of our neighbors actually gave that to Jon as a real gift. He’s Jewish, but he’s not 7 years old.)

But this year, I took a risk. I went for a smaller, rectangular box whose tinsel caught my eye. I ripped into that bitch and what was it?

A MOTHERFUCKING SLAP-CHOP!!!

Who would give that away at a worst gift party?! That is the BEST gift. I let loose my second squeal for the day, shook my titties to the delight of the gay boys and sat down with my prize. And then seconds later someone stole it from me. Heartbreak.

That whispered loop began in my head that I only learned here in L.A. after 7 years of disappointments, “Of course that was too good to be true.” I didn’t pout in the corner or anything, but there was that teensy part of me that was bummed. Hell, I could buy a Slap-Chop off the internet at any second, but randomly winning one amongst a pile of shit? That’s magic.

Anysadface, the slap-chop continued to be stolen around the room 10 times (enter complicated rules here). Who knew it was such a hot item? It finally landed in the hands of Neil Patrick Harris who apparently is also a big fan. Motherfucker. Some people get it all.

So it’s the very last person’s turn and what does he do? He steals my gift, which was trail mix and some tea. Really? Go right ahead, be my guest. But what did that mean?! I had one more turn and then the game was OVER. After my turn, no more gifts could be stolen. END OF GAME.

What did my ass do? Damn straight, walked right up to NPH and stole that goddamn Slap-Chop. WHAT-WHAT!!!

I cannot even begin to tell you how gratifying that was. It’s absurd. But here’s me, a long-time struggling actor/writer, broke as a joke, hanging on to threads of hope, and I got the Slap-Chop. And NPH didn’t. It’s infantile, I know. And in reality I want everyone to have a Slap-Chop, billions and billions of Slap-Chops around the globe. I want NPH to have one for all of his houses. I don’t want anyone to cry anymore while cutting onions.

But on Saturday night, only one person could have a Slap-Chop. Only one person was the winner. And that person was me.

The score now rests at      Hollywood: 657,352,091      Buffy: 1

I’m comin’ back suckas.

“Today was a good day.” –Ice Cube

I have a tendency to bitch and complain. I try not to make this dominant in my personality; it’s punishing being around someone who complains all day. But sometimes I just have to let out my inner critic of all things bullshit.

When I was in college, I had an opinion column in the University newspaper that I wanted to entitle Piss and Vinegar. The Editor in Chief declined my request (prude) so I settled on In The Buff. Every week In The Buff was 500 words of, well, piss, vinegar and shit-stirring. I called out what I thought to be bullshit around campus, around the nation, and in general just laughed at all the toolbags in the world.

I’m in a 12-step program to become a reformed complainer, but today I’m regressing—I just gotta let out my pent-up moaner and groaner. These are a few things that just really annoy me.

1) Cotton Candy. Right?! Right?? Um, anyone? Cotton candy is un utterly duplicitous “treat.” And in my opinion, it narrowly beats out the marshmallowy devil-candy Circus Peanuts as the most disgusting food-stuff ever.

I remember the first time I ever had cotton candy. It was as big of a disappointment as each new Entourage episode. I was 7 years old, fresh off the commune, living in Reno, and a new friend invited me to the circus with her and her Mom (who we shall call Mrs. Cuntalot for purposes of anonymity). People, this was big time. I remember trying to act normal:

“Just be cool, Buffy, be cool. You’ve done this like a million times. No big—ahhhhh!!! What the fuck is that painted-face freak doing with that balloon?! Make it stop!”

The greatest show on earth? More like a portal to hell—what had I done to deserve this? And then it goes and gets worse. Mrs. Cuntalot buys us each our own cotton candy, oh yeah, reeeaal sweet of her. I chose pink and pretended that I had eaten these furball-things since I was a baby.

“I got this covered. Nothin’ to look at here folks.” I proceeded to pick off all the cotton and stick it under my seat until I just had a paper stick in my hand. “Wait, what-the?”

“Um, I’m sorry Ma’m, but they forgot my candy.” I showed Mrs. Cuntalot my candyless stick as proof, and prayed that she would get me a new one. I didn’t want to miss out on this experience—one step closer to being normal. She then proceeded, along with her daughter, to laugh at me. Laugh A LOT. Through their squeals and pointing and queefing and more laughter I pieced together that the cotton was the candy. And mine was now on the floor under my seat. She would not be buying me a new one.

In the years since, I have had the “opportunity” to eat cotton candy (without subsequent ridicule), though it’s allure escapes me. Perhaps it’s the awkward memory associated with it, but I have similar such memories with the first time I had McDonald’s and a Slurpee, amongst other things. And I like Slurpees, but cotton candy is barf-on-my-face disgusting. It’s like putting a giant wad of hair in your mouth, and then it melts. Nothing about that is enticing. If you’re going to brain-wash children into believing that cotton candy is a celebration, you might as well trick them into thinking that spinach is a treat and then at least you’d be doing the kid a favor. Fuck you cotton candy.

2) Mojitos. As a bartender, this goes without even saying. Ask any bartender and they’ll agree—mojitos are the devil disguised as a refreshing beverage. To all the non-bartenders out there, let me explain and hopefully convince you to never, NEVER order another motherfucking mojito ever again. (Do what you want at home—I’ll even give you instructions on how to make them, but for the love of every bartenders’ soul, please do not order one at a bar.)

First of all, when I’m old, I will have arthritis in my wrist from muddling mojitos for douche bags. To make a proper mojito you must muddle it and muddling to a bartender is synonymous with doing your taxes, pulling each finger nail back one by one, and being around groups of children.

Second, mojitos are contagious. Once one polo-shirted tourist asks, “Hey, you guys got mojitos here?” suddenly the plague has been spread and even typically cool customers turn into mojito zombies. Once the first one has been made, for the next five hours everyone who walks through the door has glazed over eyes and chants “Mojito. Mojito. Mojito.”

This lemming-like behavior never fails to make me lose even more hope in the human species. For the love of god, be original, don’t order a mojito. I don’t care how refreshing they are. And please don’t think you’re being cool while you’re ordering it, especially if you’re trying to say it with an accent. Guh-ross, Captain Dorkalot. Enough already.

3) Kabobs. Okay, so maybe I’m just pissed off at certain foods and the people who eat them. Fine. But would someone please explain to me the puppy-dog infatuation with kabobs? I believe the kabob obsession falls into the same wasteland part of the human brain as the mojito zombie effect.

Kabobs are terrible. Terrible! The meat is ALWAYS over cooked. The tomatoes are bombs of hot mush that you either a) burn your mouth trying to eat or b) have to wait till they cool down enough until they’re edible, and then they’re sloppy, cold lumps of glop. The bell peppers make me want to cry they’re so boring and I just love it when people throw on a giant chunk of onion. Mmm, delicious, a big, mouthwatering piece of unseasoned onion. NO.

The best part—and it’s a stretch—is when a kabob has pineapple, but the pineapple always ends up tasting like chicken or onion and I don’t know about you, but I like my pineapple to taste like pineapple, not pineapple breast meat. I wish kabobs and the frenzy they invoke would jump off the cliff with mojitos and cotton candy.

Piss and Vinegar, signing off.

Have you ever shot a gun? ‘Cause you need to. Especially if you’re angst and frustration ridden like I am. I just shot one for the first time and it’s one of those experiences that words just can’t define. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s burbling over into all aspects of my life. Like how Indian food stays with you for a few days, so does shooting a gun. But shooting a gun makes chicken vindaloo seem like vanilla pudding made by angels.

There’s a few words that flood out of my mouth when I’m trying to recount the experience to my friends. They include: 1) fucking amazing, 2) fucking intense, and 3) fucking awesome. None of which even begin to encompass pulling the trigger.

Walking into the range, I immediately notice that all the employees are packing heat. Oh how I wish I could do that at the bar.

“Oh you want to talk to my manager about my attitude, do ya? Well I want you to talk to my .45 about your ugly face.”

My daydreaming is interrupted by the paperwork I’m required to sign that states if I shoot myself, or if ANYONE ELSE SHOOTS ME, they are not liable. Suddenly the employees bearing arms is more than just cool flair and I’m now officially feeling nauseas. But I happen to look up and notice a signed photo of 50 Cent. I tell myself, “Buffy, if 50 can do this, you can do this.” Which makes absolutely no sense since he’s been shot 9 times and is totally gangsta, but as cheesy as it is, I love me some 50. It’s just the friendly peer pressure I need.

As I pick up the gun (a 38 revolver) I squeek and fart fairy dust, “Holy shit, it’s so heavy!” And then I immediately want to eat the words because I feel like an absolute rookie douche. The guy behind the counter squints at me. It’s like when people at the bar ask me if Grey Goose is a type of vodka. I just squint at them because they’re too ridiculous to deserve a reply. You can’t engage in questions like that because if you do, the rest of the night you’ll be explaining what air is and where babies come from.
But suddenly, roles are reversed and I’m that guy. So I decide to act like I’ve done this, “like a million times.” Loading, hand positions, firing, etc. and just hope that he doesn’t hear the pee trickling down my leg. Thank god Jon’s here and can later describe everything to me because I have no idea what’s going on. My brain’s taking a fear nap.

When we walk into the actual range I’m utterly horrified at how loud it is. It’s so loud your organs shake. For the first 30 seconds I was pretty convinced I was actually shot and had to run out and inspect for entry wounds. And yes, I’m wearing earplugs AND the protective earmuff things (told you, my brain took a wee nap), but this is the girl who is terrified of balloons popping. So actual multiple guns firing? Sweet Jesus. It was everything I could do not to simultaneously burst into tears and vomit.

I will myself back into the range and to our lane where Jon is waiting perplexed. At this point, I’m literally shaking. He’s only seen the Buffy who’s ready to toss a bitch at a moment’s notice, so this new Pansyasaurus side of me is a real treat for him. But I can’t stop thinking about that damn paper I signed. Why’d I sign it?! Anyone in here could just blow a sanity gasket and shoot us?! What the fuck am I doing here?! I could be watching Bravo! I suddenly like my life a whole hell of a lot more than I thought. Get me the hell out of here!

And then I see her. A bimbo in a titty shirt, a mini-skirt and 5-inch heels shooting a gun. I mean, who-da-fuck shoots guns in heels besides Angelina Jolie? And the worst part is her boyfriend who’s standing behind her, holding her hands around the gun, helping her shoot it. GUH-ROSS. And THEN he stops so he can take a picture of her POSING WITH IT—a loaded gun. Unfuckingreal. And it was in that moment that I decided that I must, for women everywhere (or at least my own pride), shoot this goddamn gun. And not with Jon standing behind me either. No, I will shoot this thing by myself, so help me 50 Cent.

Okay, now I’m loaded, in stance, trying not to shake and trying to breath, aiming at the target telling myself to pull the goddamn trigger already. Just do it! Come on, Buffy, pull the fucking trigger. Do it! And then, BAAAAM!!! (see, words are just lame here) Oh. My. Gawd. The noise and force that comes out of that thing—indescribable. I turn to Jon. I want to cry; I want to laugh; I want to poop my pants. But all I can say is, “Ho lee shit.”

I continue to shoot several rounds, having to give myself a major pep talk each time before pulling the trigger. And then we move on to the 9-millimeter semi-automatic. And I thought the revolver was scary? Oh hells no compared to the 9. (And yes, I do feel cool calling it “the 9.”) No one ever tells you that you actually smell the gunpowder and see fire when you shoot a gun! There’s an actual explosion at the end of your hands. That shit freaks me out. But I had to finish the rounds, for me, for women everywhere, and especially for 50.

I left feeling like I did about 10 horse-lines of coke. There was so much adrenaline running through my body that I wanted to run up a mountain, and then jump out of an airplane, and then have about 6 martinis. I felt like I could do anything and I wanted to do everything. First of all, just doing something that I’ve never done before, being shaken out of my comfy, boring routine was exhilarating. And the explosion of power and terror and adrenaline jolted me to consciousness. For those few moments, I was awake. Completely awake, and I was aware how so often I’m riding the snooze button. Hmm, I wonder how a shotgun will make me feel?