The Pigeon Whisper

It was another glorious day in Pigeon Land New York. 

It was my first day of work and I was ready to set sail to the sea of money land that awaited me. I perfumed my body, I primped my hair, I color coordinate my pens and reapplied lip gloss. I exited the subway, determine that this first day was going to be the first of many good days.  

I put on my aviators, yeah it was cool me in cool NYC.

When suddenly I was side swiped by a tortuous water hose with enormous pour. It almost took my arm off. I immediately protected my sunglasses, didn't want the poor babies to get messed up. Then, I rapidly twitched my head around in every direction to find the source of this enormous power. 

Nothing was around me. What could've happened, I wondered. I gave up, then suddenly realied I forgot to look up.

Pigeons, about a thousand, were up there feasting and caahing and they decided they would just have their bodily fluid make a sweet little home on my arm. 

I immediately caused a dramatic scene, making sure everyone in times square knew and felt the turmoil I was feeling in that moment. Right when I cry to the skies, why why why why me... I get an answer.

The pigeon didn't pick me because I was a piece of shit that can't have anything nice, even on her first day of work that she worked so hard to have everything perfect for... The pigeon picked me because I'm lucky.

That's the beauty of New York, you can be proud here of anything. Here you feel lucky , even if it is just a pigeon and it is just using the bathroom on your arm, it picked you out of the millions of other arms. And apparently, if your a true New Yorker, you appreciate this story, because it means extreme good luck is in your near future.

Suddenly, I didn't want to wipe off my arm. Suddenly, I wanted New York to see that I got the part of pigeon toilet, not the millions of other people. It's not broadway but it's luck, and I wanted people to see that. 

So, I was telling my table of ladies today about my pigeon accident, and they just carried on and on like I was the luckiest person alive. And, I, of course carried on like I know! I know! Then one of the ladies told me there's this thing around birds, you are lucky if you find birds gravitating to you.

Ok, so I'm still on my pigeon poop high, when I walk to my next table and begin to take their order. I'm feeling really good at myself, I'm the only person working the entire resturuarant. I haven't made any mistakes yet. It is a little busy, but I'm cool and collected.

Suddenly, I see something crawl by my foot, while I'm taking some germans drink order. I then feel it, I quickly look down, IT'S A PIGEON!

I didn't want my guest to see my little friend, so I gently kicked him with my foot, ballerina like, as to not hurt the bird but hold the impression to the table that I was relaxing with them. 

The bird didn't like this gesture, for he starts cawing and then flies to the second level of the resturant. Thankfully, the germans were looking down. But, the Canadians totally saw it. They start screaming pigeon pigeon! I'm like oh I didn't see it, where did you see a pigeon?

Well, have you ever tried to chase a pigeon? It's damn near impossible. First there is the size difference, I can't weave in and out of tables and chairs. Then there's the whole flying thing. Plus,they bob their head which confuses you, cause you don't know which way they are going to turn. 

So, if you are ever in this bind, what you do is play dumb. Act like you are just standing there with no thought at all of attacking. Then you let it walk towards you and you walk towards it, slowly in the direction you want the bird to leave. It's basically like how women should go about men. However, what doesn't work is cawing and pretending you are his brother. 

So, whatever, I get the damn bird out. The canadians applaud me and the world is at peace again.

 Two pigeons, in two days,doesn't happen to everyone.  The canadians told me they believed something good was going to happen to me. 

Pigeons use to fly towards my head and I would run. But, now I know they are just coming to wish me luck. So I let them speak and I let myself listen. 

Just gonna preach for a second...or an hour...

Everyday I open my email account, expecting a response from the various agencies eager to sign me. It's always disheartening to instead find more spam mail telling me new ways to turn my tire wheel waist line into a vanishing act. This, in itself, is a whole other topic of conversation. I mean, what did they see that I am female so I MUST have self esteem issues regarding that unwanted belly fat? Because, they are absolutely right, and yes I do eat cheese wontons every night for dinner, and no I don't plan on stopping. If I get fat, I'll just say it's for a role, like Charlize Theron did, and everyone will admire me. Plus it's not fair, I mean this damn city makes me walk everywhere, so no I won't feel guilty if I want to indulge in a cheese wonton or twelve. It doesn't get me pregnant  or make me have a hang over. I'm sick of everything thats good being bad. And yes, I even sometimes have a REGULAR coke. So, no, do I want to wake up from a night of cheese wontons to open an email with a miss gym no life telling me how great it is to live on celery. Tomorrow I will diet, don't tell me today what I need to do tomorrow.

 

 

But I peruse through all the gym and save darfur emails, when I see an email from Mike Alaska ( fire eating drum guy, wrote about him the last blog). He said he saw my previous blogs, and wants to meet. This random dude on the subway wasn't suppose to really find me or my email, much less read that nonsense I wrote below. He was suppose to be a funny story I told. I quickly opened up this blog, just to read what he read. Oh my, I called him boyfriend. I joked about being on date three. He has now heard all my inner thoughts, when he was suppose to only be this dude that made eye contact with me on the subway.

 I watch people a lot. I always carry a book with me on the subway, but I never open it because I get lost in everyones story around me. I can in a matter of seconds know who loves who, who doesn't know who, who is happy, who is miserable, who is a workaholic  and it's all just by a look. Generally people don't talk on the subway. It's a quiet tunnel of people, traveling from place to place. You sometimes hear whispered chatter or someone's ipod playing too loudly, but for the most part,  people communicate in the subway by body language. Or at least you hear the body language more than you do outside the subway.

Really the exact moment of beginning and ending all starts with a look. 

Like me and Mr. Alaska could fall hypothetically madly in love, but did it start the day I tried to buy his love or does it start the next time I see him, because I'm looking at a real person. 

People aren't real to us. I think when we leave our safe homes in the morning for work, the people we approach in the professional and relationship world, we look at in terms of how they will benefit us. What if, as a human being, I approached people as interesting complicated individuals that need and deserved to be known. 

Every morning I see this elderly man that has one short leg and on his short leg he wears this really tall boot.  Every Morning, I get upset when I see him. I look around to see if other people are upset, and nobody is looking. Nobody is looking, and I wonder if anyone even knows this man. Is it possible nobody knows him?

My friend told me the other day that we are all made in God's image. We all crave to create and be worshipped.  My point is, in a really long drawn out way, nobody should be just a story we tell. People are real, we should know them. 

Point of the Day: Know people. 

 ( hands in circle) Go Team( hands in air)

Not a Sugar Daddy, but he does eat fire...

So, I am running around the city dropping off headshots to people that are suppose to discover my inner glow and star quality, when I go to the subway.

I'm walking down and suddenly my hips are gyrating and my hands are clapping to some incredible african drum beats. 

I walk closer to see which homeless man is rocking my music style, and it's this young good looking guy. I stare at him , shaking and tapping my foot, all in an attempt to get a drum rip maybe dedicated to me. When he looks back at me. Right then the train comes in between our eye contact, and love is postponed.

I take this opportunity to run and drop money in his bucket. I thought I would just leave money and he would see me and talk to me. So I dropped 10 dollars, maybe buy his love. He doesn't see me put the money in his bucket. I then almost dropped my business card, but I thought no, he's just a stranger....

But then, the next day I'm walking down the stairs to my subway stop, and I hear the same music. It is him again. He waves to me and then stops playing and motions me to come over to him. I run to the top and he runs to the top . I think this is when he is going to grab me and kiss me and then we will go prance off to drum beat heaven... but instead he tells me to go to mikealaska.com

So,  I yell to him, " My names Laura!" He was already gone, just the homeless guy heard me in the deafening silence of the moment. 

Oh, Hi to another New York artist that only cares about themselves. 

However, I am still taken  by his charm and incredible talent. So,  ( I apologize I'm saying So a lot), but So, like I go to his like website...Riiiight...

So, I go to his website and the dude eats fire and plays, it's nasty talent. Like I've never seen anything like this. And, what is more impressive, is the way the dude is following his dreams. He's got a website, youtube channels, and he plays in the subway. He is combining the old traditional way of getting discover with modern technology.  I just love it.

So, today, I see him again. It's basically date three, but whose counting...And the sparks where gone. I mean we had a connection. So, I begin the same ol tap routine where I tap my feet like I'm some big tap dancer waiting to be discovered. Nothing. I thought maybe he would  see the beats of my feet and we could at least get on the same rhythm  link... No link.

But, the dude is gonna be famous. And I'm gonna blog about him.  I mean if we aren't going to have a love affair, I'm at least going to follow him on his thunder ( like steal his thunder). 

I'm going to be that creepy girl that follows him on his musical subway journey  with my pen and paper and I stand behind the pole and monitor his performance.  I'll wear a black suit and a black hat, real sherlock holmes like, and then when I see him talking to someone that might discover him I'll pop out and hand them my headshot and resume and run away in the dark of night. 

Speaking of blogging about Mr. Alaska....I think he was having a bad day, low energy, threw his drum sticks in the air and dropped one. This dropping of the drum stick really put Mr. Alaska in a foul mood, it was as if it was the fourth quarter, the team was depending on him and he dropped the ball putting the other team ahead by 100 points... Sorry I hope the football analogy didn't confuse the non football lovers...

Ok, but back to the real point of this essay....So, My boyfriend eats fire. I like how that sounds. 

PS. Is there a better segue word than So? 

www.mikealaska.com

Looking for Mr. Sugar Daddy...

So, when you are an actor starting out in a new acting class, you begin to realize it's cool to have daddy issues( mommy issues work too). You can't come to class perfect, that's the equivalent of coming into an acting class and being republican or hating gay people. 

Some people weren't blessed with daddy issues, therefor in order to fit in they create their own internal imperfections. This ranges from drug addiction, to eating disorders, to the constant need to be perfect. Then if those issues don't find their way into your life, then you are inflicted with arrogant self centerness. Which, in my opinion, is worst than all the above.

I've always been cool in the acting/artist world. I mean I'm versatile in the problem area. I can relate to daddy issues. Loving someone that doesn't love you. Being pale when the world wants you to be tan. Having a pimple that makes people not look you in the eye. I've even had two pimples, that make the eyes bounce back and forth, not knowing which one is more important. I mean I've even gone to bed skinny and woke up fat...But, I always perserve. 

The thing about having daddy or pimple issues, is everyone can relate. Therefore, you are cool in the acting world. I am cool, is really the point I'm getting at. 

So, when I conquered the initial pressures of fitting in, I was then bombarded with the starving artist gig. 

I don't like it. Other people romanticism it, making it sound like it "Ohh my art is so greaaat because all I do is eat lettuce and express myself. 

I express myself better after I've had a spray tan, my nails done, the hair did, and then shop therapy ( which includes a sexy, but classic outfit with matching shoes and purse.) Plus, I like a fine dinner, with a glass of wine out accompanied with  a medium rare steak...

And , then let's say I'm in a responsible mood. I have to buy vitamins, and fresh vegetables, postage, nice paper for my resumes, and a new intellectual book that challenges my beliefs or teaches me something new.  

It's exhausting. I  can't afford me. 

Which is why, I really think I would be the best match for a sugar daddy. Preferably , a young good looking one. I would make them happy. I would entertain them. I would devote my life to making them laugh, and they could devote their life to spending their money on me. 

I mean SAKS isn't calling. Mom's not paying. It's just me and real life budgeting. 

So please sir, if you could come into my life and spare a couple thous. I would be much appreciative. 

I mean I have art to create. I'd like to eat more than lettuce for dinner. 

Thanks.

 

Fake it till you make it.

Once upon a time lived a little ol' girl from North Carolina. She wore her hair curly, put on her favorite 3inch heels, and applied just enough make up to look natural. She printed out her resume, and went into the corporate world of New York City, with one game to play... GET THAT JOB. 

Her internal mantra to herself, as she walked in heels that made her feet scream let me be free, was " I'm gonna get you job, gonna get you job, here I come job..." You get the picture.

So her and her inner voice felt confident in this endeavor, and proudly walked into SAKS Fifth Avenue. She pulled the heavy brass door, which was heavier than she planned, forcing her heel to get misguided. This misguidance made her fall onto the marble tiled floor, which caused a few looks. She didn't mind, she was use to looks. She gathered her pride up off the floor and marched over to the Chanel Make up Counter. She said, in her most charming southern accent, " Are you hirin?" Well one woman loved the girls blonde curls, while another woman judged them, as if they were fine fruit that had gone bad in the garbage. I DO NOT HAVE GARBAGE HEAD, the girl reassured herself. Then,  the woman said let me see your resume. The girl  pulled out her resume, with her  business card stapled to the upper right hand corner. She thought this was the piece of meat at the end of her fishing rod. The woman over looked the neon flashing sign of hire me, and went straight to the nasty question of, " Where is your retail experience? " Well, if you let me talk, I would've told you it's not about experience, it's about what I can be. This is what the girl thought to herself, not what she of course verbalized. She said in her sweet southern ignorant tone, " Well, see I went to school for acting, and spent four years honing in on my skill to be able to know what I want and go for it...." I was about to illustrate examples of this, when I noticed the woman was not taking the nice meat I put out on the line. She didn't want the meat I had to offer, I needed to throw on there some veggies and chocolate cake too. The woman, then told me politely, " Listen, Doll, no one in this store is going to hire you. " That's bullshit, the girl thought. Give me a test run. The girl didn't argue, she just said thank you and walked away. 

When, all the sudden this man approached the girl to compliment her on her locks of love. The man's name turned out to be Miguel. Miguel told the girl to go over to the Trish McEvoy counter and ask for " Important Hiring Lady" ( Can't use her name because someone might read this and go ask for her and get the job over me...or who knows people are crazy) So, I tell " Important Hiring Lady" That my good friend Marquel told me to come see her. She says, " Who?" I say, " You know, Marquel." I point, letting her know where he is. Apparently his latino accent had made us have a miscommunication about names. My good friends name was actually Miguel. 

So, then she proceeds to tell me that this is a cut throat business and people that get hired at SAKS usually have a minimum of 10 years of retail experience. 

Ok, but like I told the other lady down there, I took Meisner training for acting. I can read behavior, I can go after what I want, I was designed to sell. I then asked her if I could audition for her. She said, " ok" sell me something. I sold  lip gloss to her like if she didn't buy it was I was going to die by grizzly bears eating me. I took the assignment serious, is what I'm trying to say. 

Ok, So, She tells me I'm " Cute". I've never liked that word. Cute. What is cute? Am I three? Am I a stuff bear? Am I a pair of shoes? AM I A PUPPY? No. Girls don't want to be cute. We want to be fierce, or at least this girl does.  So she told me to send her my resume and I walked away the way a fierce woman does. I thought, after I get this job, then I'll work on this woman's verbiage for describing me. 

So, I send her my resume last night when I get home. I wake up this morning and get ready for my interview. Turns out my interview is with a different Trish McEvoy store, and " Important Hiring Lady" runs that too. So, I walk up and she starts laughing. " Have you been to every store that we own on fifth avenue?" I look at her and tell her that I am very determined to sell Trish McEvoy to the world, and that is my only concern. 

Also, the fact that I'd like to pay rent this month. 

Oh, during all this I have a broken foot. I limp when I walk. It's pretty sad looking. I really want a wheel chair and a sweat shirt, but the biz would look down on that kind of attire. 

So, short story long...They said they loved me and will call me tomorrow. 

Moral of the story, remember people's name. Real Moral of the story, fake it till you make it.