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Ali Davis

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I do still do some performing... [Aug. 30th, 2009|11:38 pm]
Ali Davis
I swear to God, they dressed me to look that dorky.

...And a little behind the scenes.

Everyone was incredibly nice.

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Just in case anyone is still on this RSS feed... [Aug. 27th, 2009|01:51 pm]
Ali Davis


"True Porn Clerk Stories" is now available on CreateSpace (a division of Amazon) and in Amazon's Kindle store.

It'll be expanding to Amazon's main site in a week or two. But why wait?

Tell your friends! Well, the pervy ones, anyway.


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Actual casting calls so appalling that they are awesome [Jun. 9th, 2007|07:28 pm]
Ali Davis
Psychic who helps male lead character (LEE) find killer of his mom. Will have a martial arts fight scene. No martial arts experience required. Must be attractive. Will wear bikini-like outfit in the movie and will have speaking lines. No nudity required.


The kids mother. Warn out look. Uses drugs.


Him Lead Male / 27 to 30 / All Ethnicities
Artistic, ruggedly handsome, yet sensitive. Quite demeanour. Wise. Capable of great intensity. Role requires the ability to sustain intense concentration and emotion over prolonged periods. This will be a very difficult role and is not for the meak. There will be some artful nudity.

Her Lead Female / 23 to 27 / All Ethnicities
Intelligent, nurturing, wise, sensitive, classic beauty. Capable of great intensity over prolonged periods. This is a difficult role and not for the meak. There will be artful nudity.


Jill Lead Female / 23 to 30 / Caucasian

Jill is the female lead. She starts to date Jack because they believe they are soul mates, but eventually we find out shes crazy! Must be able to play a humourous but geniune craziness in the cliamx of the film, also needs to be able to handle some physical comedy including a couple of falls. Must sarcastic, but nice all at the same time.


Sexy Young Professional Co-Star Female / 25 to 30 / Asian, Caucasian, Hispanic, Multi-Ethnic, Native American, Pacific Islander Young professional. On way to work. You freak out because of a Bee in the elevator and become half undressed because of it.


Sophie Lead Female / 20 to 35 / All Ethnicities Sophie: (20-35) Beautiful upper class house wife frustrated over the fact that she do not know who she is and living her life through her man. She is fragile but not week, looking for excitement in life. Ends up falling for another woman.
OBS: Actor should be comfortable with her body though the part require some nudity.

Renata Supporting Female / 20 to 35 / All Ethnicities Renata: (20-35) Exotic and beautiful. Possibly foreign born with an accent (Brazilian or French etc). She is an artist with big hair and personal look. She has a deep and clear voice and a lot of presence.
OBS: Actor should be comfortable with her body though the part require some nudity

Nadja Supporting Female / 25 to 35 / All Ethnicities Nadja:Pretty all American LA-Girl. Rich, shallow, and speak very fast. Very focused on her carrier.

Marlon Supporting Male / 25 to 40 / All Ethnicities Marlon: Very successful husband, likes sport and beautiful women. He is attractive and well built. This part requires the actor to show a wide rage of aggression yet still be lovable and endearing.


Alan Carter Lead Male / 20 to 35 / All Ethnicities
a weird silent guy. Got a cool and strong body however. Actor needs to get in the mind of a killer

Laurie Lead Female / 18 to 26 / All Ethnicities
innocent young girl. The most unlikely whore. Sexy body sexy hot. No on camera nudity but HOT HOT scenes

Caroline Lead Female / 18 to 30 / All Ethnicities
weird wife of Alan. sexy scenes


Fred from Ohio Lead Male / 20 to 40 / Caucasian

A nice, wholesome, conservative man from Ohio, newly arrived to LA. He doesn't like overt expressions of sexuality. Portly, bumpkin-esque men welcome. The kind of guy who doesn't like breast implants. We know he exists!

Corndog girl Supporting Female / 18 to 35 /
Caucasian HOT GIRL, wolfing down a corndog, sexually.

Popsicle girl Supporting Female / 18 to 35 / All Ethnicities
HOT GIRL eating a popsicle, sexually, wearing a bikini.

Churro girl Supporting Female / 18 to 35 / All Ethnicities
HOT GIRl, eating a churro, sexually.

Fruit and vegetable girls Supporting Female / 18 to 35 / All Ethnicities
HOT GIRLS, eating carrots and bananas, surrounding a poor guy

Anna Co-Star Female / 18 to 35 / Caucasian
Nice wholesome librarian type girl. Eating corn on the cob, typewriter style.

Food vendor Supporting Male / 25 to 35 / All Ethnicities
Food vendor who sells snacks to Fred and the girls. Wears a mustache and different disguises for each different food.


(Thanks to my friend Craig for this one)

Pay Rate: $200 for 30 minutes!
THERE IS NUDITY IN THIS PROJECT Like Jack-Ass meets Punk'd Meets Youtube!Bikini/Sexy underwear required for casting.$200 for 30 minutes.

[FEMALE MODELS] Wearing a Bikini!!

Challenges: 1. Girl gets in line to check her baggage at LAX, (the checking counteroutside on the sidewalk) As she waits her case falls open revealing a dozen different dildos. Some are still vibrating, others are rollinginto the street. She?s not embarrassed but asks people to help her collect them. Maybe she's a sexy corporate woman, wearing a high powered suit.

2. A girl in a bikini takes a public Shower in the middle of the street, in a portable shower, a curtain drawn open, wearing a rubber cap,scrubbing herself with a long wooden brush. A sign stands beside her - "Come support feminist rights with me"

3. A bunch of rowdy bikini-clad friends crowd onto a bus. Surround a guy who doesn't look like he can handle them - an old man, a nerdy guy, anawkward socially repressed man? they start talking openly about their slumber parties, first bisexual & threesome experiences, anything thatwill make this guy uncomfortable (but curious enough to stay). Accidentally brushing up against him, maybe even make out with a friend beforeleaving. Not even registering a guy is right there listening to them.

4. A couple studying in a library, suddenly pounce on each other, making out, passionately clearing a table with a pile of books, ripping off clothes. Getting raunchy and explicit. Careful not to make a sound,keeping to the library rules of "No talking". If they got reported and asked to leave, they can argue there's no sign that says "no making-out"

5. Interrupt a Conference meeting full of men, walk in steal the microphone "sorry im late thanks bob I'll take it from here" take over and hold your own meeting. Your subject; 'how to be sexy women'

6. A Model in a bikini puts on Peanut Butter all over her body and goes to a dog park and lets dogs lick it off.
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Los Angeles still doesn't quite have the whole public transportation thing down. [Apr. 27th, 2007|10:55 pm]
Ali Davis
I'm freelancing in Pasadena this week, and I've been going in by train... except on Monday when I had an audition and Tuesday when I had a rehearsal and Wednesday when I had to get to a friend's movie premiere after work.

But Thursday and Friday, by God I was responsible about my carbon footprint. And tonight, I paid for it.

I left work late, about 6:30, and started the Gold Line trek into Union Station. I really like riding the Gold Line. It's above-ground and the scenery is interesting. Sometimes because it's pretty, sometimes because it's so very L.A., and sometimes because I just can't stop thinking about who decided that cementing the entire riverbed was a good idea, and what those poor ducks think.

It's a leisurely ride, but I don't mind. It's soothing. And, in the mornings, the Gold Line offers one of L.A.'s best secret treats: If you time it just right, you get the best engineer of all time. (Do you call the monorail guys engineers? Well, I'm going to.)

Back when I was working in Pasadena every day, I had it down to a science and hit his train nearly every morning. If you paid attention, you could kind of tell that his train was different even while it was sitting in the station before he arrived - the people sitting on it tended to be relaxed and calm. And then he'd arrived, Grinning, accented with turquoise, and magnificently ponytailed. We'd all sat a little straighter and start to smile, if we weren't already. "Good morning!" He'd say, and we'd all say "Good morning!" back in near-unison, just like in church. He'd walk down the aisle, smiling if he caught your eye, and eventually pop into his little booth.

Then he'd get on the intercom and say hello - not too loudly because it was early - and announce that he'd be turning off the prerecorded voice that tells you the stops, but not to worry, because he'd be announcing them. And then he encouraged us to sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

And you know what? He meant it. He truly believed that every commuter train ride could really be a good experience. And with him at the helm, it was. He was a gentle guide into the morning, and we loved him. He had something short and fun to say about every stop, but always quietly, in deference to our dozing. He'd call the tunnel before the Memorial Park station the Magic Tunnel sometimes - mostly kidding, but not entirely.

One Friday shortly before I left work to go on the ship was the best of all. I gave him my usual little wave and he popped his little window open. "Hi," he said, "What's your name?" "Ali," I said, grinning like a mainiac. "Hello, Ali. I'm Running Wolf."


And then it got better. I left the office for a doctor's appointment, and on my way back I exited my train just as Running Wolf's was pulling up. I waved, and then turned to go. And then, as his train pulled out, I heard the intercom: "Have a good weekend, Aliiiiiiiii!"

Awesome doesn't cover it. It was Magic Tunnel.

Tonight, though, was not Magic Tunnel.

The Gold Line part went fine, actually, and then a good chunk of the Red Line. And then, at 7th and Metro, we hit a small delay. Which turned into a long delay. Finally the engineer announced that we were not being allowed to continue on to the Westlake/Macarthur Park stop yet. And that we should wait. And that in the meantime, he needed to walk through the train and look for unattended packages. Sorry, WHAT?

Eventually, oh, 'round about 8:00, he announced that the train wasn't going anywhere, and we'd have to get off and take a bus.

OK. So we all, with reasonable good humor because after all it's some sort of "suspicious package" scare, got off the train and went upstairs and looked at the map and figured out which the hell buses went to where we needed to be.

Now me, if I were the Metro employee who made the call to throw people off both the North Hollywood and Wilshire/Western trains, I might think for just a second, "Say... How will people get home now?"

And then I like to think I might make a phone call or two to see if we could get any buses on the case. Especially since I had JUST HAD SOMEONE ANNOUNCE THAT EVERYONE SHOULD TRANSFER TO A BUS.

But I am not a Metro employee, and we do not think alike. We waited. The bus stop filled and filled. And two buses came by. The first one, crammed full, zoomed by us without stopping. The driver jerked a thumb at the bus behind him, which did. But was not going down Wilshire Boulevard to the train stop we needed. I waited for half an hour, watching the bus stop fill and fill and trying to think of some comforting thing to say to the hugely pregnant woman who was trying valiantly to deal with two children under five as they got hungrier and fussier. I didn't end up saying anything because all I could think of was "At least you're not on fire."

After I'd been waiting for half an hour, I called a taxi. When it finally pulled up, two other guys lunged for it. "I CALLED HIM!" I said, waving my cell phone and doing a little lunging myself. But the other guys looked so tired and so sad that I offered to share.

And off we drove, leaving behind all the people who didn't have the cell phones or the cash for a taxi. I wonder how long they waited.

When we drove through MacArthur Park, it was full of police cars and fire trucks. It hasn't hit the news yet, so I still have no idea what happened, exactly.

I'm trying very hard not to make a joke about someone leaving the cake out in the rain, but it's not working.

In other news, I had another audition this week, a tad more upscale. I felt good about it - especially since for the very first time, the casting director recognized me from Baby Wants Candy. Pretty cool. I really thought I'd get a call, but I didn't. And that's what happens sometimes. Most of the time, actually, for most actors. It's a weird trick - learning to get happy and excited about the audition before and during, and then just shrug it off afterwards. Most of the time the thing I'm going out for is so strange that I don't get nervous beforehand or bummed out afterwards, so it's not that hard. I could be a little bummed about this one. But it's not too bad. And there's some filming this weekend and shows next week, so, as always, it's on to the next thing.

And I'll try to get some writing in in the meantime.
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Nobody likes a yappy skirt. [Apr. 27th, 2007|12:17 pm]
Ali Davis

Wednesday, May 2, I'm in a show with a bunch of funny broads reading confessional essays. C'mon by, won't you?

Reservations are highly recommended - 310-922-1668

Nobody Likes a Yappy Skirt
The Lounge Theatre
6201 Santa Monica Blvd (El Centro and Santa Monica)
7:30 pm (Doors open @ 7:15)
$7 admission, wine, beer, and snacks available.


Lisa Sundstedt
Cecily Knobler
Stefanie Wilder-Taylor
Ali Davis
Loretta Fox
Nancy Cohen
Tami Sagher

with music by Henry Phillips
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So I had an audition this week. [Apr. 20th, 2007|06:32 pm]
Ali Davis
Just having one felt good. Nice to be back in the swing of things, and doubly nice to actually have an audition on a day when I was completely flexible to go to it - next week I'm freelancing onsite, standard 8-to-5 hours. In Pasadena. It makes getting to that thing in West Hollywood during my lunch hour a little tricky.

It was for being a personable host of a TV show. Not even the kind of show I watch, but they wanted someone with comedy chops and I knew I could do it, and sweet jumping catfish would a job like that free me up for other things. So yeah, I was in. And who knows? Maybe it would be fun. You hear actors say that a lot when they are on their way to auditions for shows they probably won't like.

Since it was my first since I've been back and with the shiny new agent, I wanted to prep extra-carefully. It was going to be a cold reading so I didn't have sides to practice with, but I chose my outfit carefully, thought about what I'd say when they asked me if I liked these sorts of shows, and even canceled lunch with a friend in the valley - the audition, though it wasn't until 3:00, was way the hell down in Manhattan Beach and I wanted to be there responsibly early.

So I got all clean and tidy and sassy and whatever the hell else they might want me to be, carefully doubled the time the Trip Estimator thought it might take me to get there, and walked out my front door. And into the worst traffic karma of my life. Construction projects sprang fully-formed out of the asphalt. Ghost traffic jams, with no apparent cause or resolution appeared, one after the other, and faded away as mysteriously as they'd come. And minivans converged on the city from states away, just to swing into my path and then drive, every last one of them, like they were on the phone and looking for an address.

The end result was that Little Miss Early got to the audition twenty-five minutes late. I almost took an extra five to call someone just for the release of swearing into my cell phone, but ended up taking a pass.

Which is just as well, because as it turned out, no one gave a damn. Auditions often run a bit late, but this one was hilariously casual. It was not, to be honest, one of your better classes of audition. I got it through a casting Web site and had been wondering why my agent hadn't sent me out on it himself. "Oh," I thought over and over as the afternoon went on, "This is why."

It was in a hotel, for one thing, though not in a creepy way - they'd rented out a meeting room. They had also, I learned, put a notice in the hotel's morning newsletter saying that, hey, if any guests wanted to audition, they should come on by.


The sign-in sheet had no spaces for the time we'd arrived or (thank goodness) our actual audition slots. It was just a plain paper notepad with a pencil by it, with "Please sign in" written across the top. And, in fact, the 11-year-old girl who was "running" the audition didn't even look at that. She'd just come out every now and then, look at who was new, and ask who'd gotten there first. "OK," she'd say, "So after this girl is done, it's you, then you, then you, then you. OK?"

We said OK.

I picked up my copy and looked at it. It was pretty standard who-writes-this? copy. They said it didn't have to be word-for-word, so I gave it a quick copy edit. Then I launched into the dilemma that all of us were facing, which was that we had less than a minute of fairly standard, sort of silly copy to read, but probably twenty minutes apiece to wait between reading the copy and actually going in to the audition. And we wanted to look like we were Taking Our Careers Seriously and Taking This Job Seriously. So some stood and some paced, but we all kept the copy in our hands as though we were just putting a few last touches on that Lady Macbeth soliloquy. One woman kept delivering her speech to a section of the wall, while another stared thoughtfully - almost wistfully - out a window in between dips into the paragraph that let the viewers know that they could send in their own videos to compete for exciting prizes.

Me, I sat on the couch. I looked at the copy, I went over it in my head, and got comfortable enough with it that I could do the full paragraph naturally, and with only a tiny occasional dip of the eyes to make sure I was hitting everything. And I checked out the competition. The other women were all model-beautiful, and all about six inches taller than me. I'd been brought in as The Funny One. OK, I could deal. And if they decided to go with something other than spokesmodel, my odds were apparently going to go way up.

"The tea is really good," said the beautiful woman on the couch next to me. I managed to say the one thing that could make us both feel stupid at the same time, which was "Sorry, what?"

"They put tea out," she said. "They're really making sure we have refreshments. It's good." Then, worried that she'd maybe oversold it, she added "Of course, I got the last Earl Grey..." and trailed off, lest that seemed mean. I looked at her. She was a little older - or maybe just had a longer history of tanning - than the others who had been called in. Maybe she was feeling like In Case We Go with Something Else too.

I couldn't figure out much how much she really wanted to talk, so I just smiled at her. I never know how much chatting to do at auditions. They're always portrayed as snake pits, with actors using every psychological trick in the book to undermine each other, but I've never really seen that. Maybe one or two people who are trying too hard. Mostly everyone's friendly and even helpful.

But again, I don't know how much talking people really want to do, so I tend to err on the side of giving space. I feel bad about it in this case - I think I erred too far with her and hurt her feelings or made her feel silly. And in her defense, it is pretty rare to have such a nice selection of teas put out.

But we kept quiet after that, and kept waiting.

The 11-year-old girl wandered in and out, and did as good a job as anyone would have at checking in on us. One of the actresses, upon learning that she was the producer's daughter, decided her best strategy was to very publicly make friends with her. "Isn't she AMAZING?" she'd say every time the girl came out to point at us in order, "Isn't she a TREASURE?!"

I think we were all pretty glad when that actress finally went in for her audition.

Shortly before my turn, four or five more kids, all younger, arrived. A woman shooed them into the room. "You're all going to do your homework and BE QUIET," she admonished. The rest of us were going to be auditioning in front of the kids. I tried to make eye contact with the woman who'd tried to talked to me earlier, but she wasn't having it. My own fault.

Finally, I was the next you. The girl very professionally took my head shot and showed me where I could drop my bag, and boom, ready to go. Just me, the producer with his video camera, his wife, and several children eating snacks. ("Remember guys, NO CRUNCHING CHIPS while she's reading, OK?")

So he had me slate and then gave me my prop and off we went. And I did my best to make the show sound, well, not like the best thing ever, but like something fun that you should definitely stay tuned in for. And hey, did you know you can win cash prizes? Pretty cool, huh?

"Perfect!" He said when I was done. "That was just perfect!"

And because I am a pro, I said "Thank you" and not "Yes, but I've seen the other women trying out for this and we all know I'm not getting this job."

And then his wife confirmed my contact numbers and I said goodbye and thanked our 11-year-old audition boss and went on my way.

At the very least, I was back in the swing of things. Not your better class of audition, no, and not a job I will be getting. But they had excellent tea and I know I nailed it.

And sometimes that's all you need.
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Hollywood the neighborhood, not Hollywood the industry [Apr. 16th, 2007|02:42 am]
Ali Davis
I've been reading Raymond Chandler recently, and, just by chance, a few other authors who set their fictional stories in very real neighborhoods in L.A. Chandler's characters actually spent a fair amount of time knocking around in my neck of the desert, and I'm trying to figure out if I'm geekball enough to drive around and figure out what's still there and, you know, go look at it. Honestly, it's a tossup.

Chandler loved the city, darkness and all, and I'm beginning to understand that more and more. I wonder if removing the darkness would make the city less lovable. Would it be intolerable if only the sherbety parts were left?

I was thinking about that because I was walking along Hollywood Boulevard on Saturday night. Natives and long-time residents are always quick to tell me that Hollywood is way less crazy and way, way less sleazy than it used to be. And I believe them, but there is plenty of sleazy and crazy left to go around.

And I love it. I love the whacked-out people and the dangerous people and the fact that all of them can be there and the street sill manages to draw and retain enough tourists to keep the Ripley's Believe it or Not Museum and the wax museum open. I love the elaborate wig stores and the souvenirs-and-bongs shops and the terrible, terrible pizza joints.*

OK, I sometimes don't like the people waiting in line to get into Star Shoes.

But I do love the 4,000 Scient*l*gy Centers and the baffling inventory in the convenience stores and even the people outside of Hollywood and Highland who are dressed up as delightful fun movie characters, with the only difference being that if you try to take their picture without paying them, they will kill you.

And somehow, it all fits. It all belongs.

With one notable exception:

Why the hell won't the breakdancers actually learn to breakdance?

There are always breakdancers outside of Hollywood and Highland. There are different groups of them at different times, but I have never seen them not suck.

They all do the same thing: They sit or lie on the sidewalk, blasting old-fashioned boomboxes while they wait for a crowd to gather. They will wait for ten minutes at a time. You can walk past them lying there, have a slice of wretchedly bad pizza, and buy a bong, a green French Revolution wig, and a fake Oscar, and then walk back the other way, and they will STILL be lying there. Smugly - ARROGANTLY - waiting for more crowd because this one isn't big enough.

And then, finally, the crowd is huge and the mood is right. They pick the right song and crank the box a few notches higher... A few warmup moves to get people pumped, and then finally, FINALLY, one of them leaps forward to make his move.

And completely fails to do even the basic moves that Boogaloo Shrimp and Shabba Doo once demonstrated in People Magazine for your mom to try. Seriously, it is the worst breakdancing I have ever seen. Worse than the breakdancing at your school talent show. Worse than the breakdancing people do at parties when they are drunk and kidding, worse than the breakdancing people do at parties when they are drunk, old and kidding. There is neither popping nor locking. Occasionally you will see a guy who is strong enough to do a handstand or acrobatic move, but this guy is invariably devoid of rhythm. Usually the handstand guy of the group won't even try to string moves together, just do a handstand, get down, and look around like he just discovered penicillin and can't figure out why no one's applauding.

And the ones who do try to dance? Are worse.

I don't approve of heckling in any situation, so I have to walk past them very quickly. If the crowd is too hard to pass though, I start to get panicky. I'm afraid I'll shout out "INVEST IN A SIDE OF CARDBOARD AND PRACTICE, YOU ASSHOLES!"

But so far I haven't. I always make it through, because even the biggest out-of-town rubes can tell that they suck almost immediately. The crowd disperses, the breakers stop dancing, and it all starts over again.

And, secretly, I love it.

*I am only referring to terrible pizza joints that are actually on Hollywood Boulevard. Asparagus pizza, off of Hollywood, is not terrible. To an east coaster, it is manna from heaven with tomato sauce of the Gods and cheese on top.
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Things I don’t quite want my name on [Apr. 2nd, 2007|02:15 am]
Ali Davis
So I wrote this book. Sort of. Essentially it was a freelancing assignment, taken on a contract basis for a one-time payment. It’s an answer-questions-to-learn-about-yourself book, and it’s fine. There are some good questions, plenty of standard or OK questions, and two that actually make me smile. I’m pretty much happy with the content on the book.

What I’m not happy with is the intro, which one of the editors completely rewrote without ever so much as asking if I could take another pass at it. I wrote the intro back in Mid-January, and didn’t see or hear of it again until the editor sent me the lasers for final approval last Monday. And could I please rush? Because our production schedule had moved up.

The new intro is… not my style. Not my style at all, and, more important, it is not something I wrote. Not even a little bit.

They were, as my editor pointed out, well within their rights in rewriting my intro. I didn’t ask them to change it. But I did ask them to properly credit it to whoever had actually done the writing, or to a fictional relationship expert. or whoever. Just so the book didn’t go out with me, even by implication, taking credit for something I had so very clearly had not written.

My editor e-mailed back to say that “the publisher” wouldn’t have one name on the book and another name on the intro. I could either take my name off the book entirely and lose the book credit, or I could let it go as is.

I really thought about taking my name off the whole thing. But, hell, screw it, maybe the credit will do me some weird good one day. And I do realize how fortunate I am to be in a position to be bitching about my editor and my publisher. And, in the end, it was work and it was experience, and that’s the whole point.

In a similar vein (and indeed, emerging from a sea of similar rationalizations), my friend e-mailed me last week to alert me to the fact that she had just transcribed the trailer for the terrible, terrible movie I’m in. Good lord, is it bad.

Well, actually it looks OK, because this is L.A. and that means you can get actual film students to work on your independent film. It’s just the movie itself that is bad. My friend Carolyn came with me to the premiere, during which the movie pretty much lost its hometown audience. The second it was over, Carolyn turned to me and said “Now I know you’re going to be famous. Because this thing is going to come back to haunt you.”

And indeed, as bad as the movie is, my performance is pretty bad too. At best, competent. Looking back on it, I wish I’d just gone ahead and gone balls-out with it. Or something. Really, anything other than what I did. Which, I wish to stress, is not good. I am mostly cut out of the film, which means I get out with most of my dignity intact, but by no means all of it.

I had suspected that some of my scenes might be cut during the filming process itself. Not because of my performance, but because of my hairdo. One of my scenes was a catfight. The “costume designer,” who was also doing hair except for the actresses who immediately refused, decided to put me in an elaborate prom ‘do with cascading ringlets and, at a conservative estimate, 400,000 bobby pins.

“Oh, really?” people would say as they stopped by the tent, “for the fight scene?” Everyone but the “costume” “designer” picked up on the fact that a) everyone who saw the Prom Queen Fantasy ‘do immediately asked that exact question in those exact words, and b) they asked the question with the same rising tone of concern one might use for “You’re sure that’s not a rattlesnake?”

Because there was no way in hell that hairdo was going to stay in place during even a single take of the fight scene, and, since the scene itself and the scene it was continuous with were going to be filmed over at least two days (three, as it turned out), we all knew that there was no way in hell that hairdo was going to match. And it didn’t. Especially after the “cos” “tume” “design” “er” got fired in the middle of the process, and two completely different people had to try to reproduce the Hairdo of Waterfalls and Moonbeams on shooting days two and three.

I was always a minor character; she did not get fired because of me and my hair. She got fired because of things too numerous to even make it down the gossip chain. To give you an idea of how hard it is to get fired from an independent film, one of the actors got a DUI on the way to the set and still did not get fired,

And I may or may not have been (mostly) cut because of my hair. Lord knows there were plenty of other reasons.

So it’s bad, and I’m in it, and that was my choice, and in the end, I’m kind of OK with that. I wanted the experience and I wanted a screen credit and I got them. There’s my name, right on the movie. And there’s my name, right on the book.

My friends who are working actors don’t so much have a problem with that. It’s work, you take it, and it gets you to the next thing.

So I’m getting over it and getting on with the next thing.
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Good news bad news good news [Mar. 20th, 2007|04:37 pm]
Ali Davis
I seem to be back in development, and I have a meeting with the new commercial agent tomorrow.

Someone got my ATM card number and tried to buy $543 worth of shoes with it today.

My bank's fraud department called me within 20 minutes of the attempted transaction, cancelled my card, and is firing off a new one right this minute.

Hell of a day. But a pretty good one.
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The Right Hand of Justice? That Would Be Me. [Mar. 18th, 2007|01:36 am]
Ali Davis
After a brief Chicago detour for, oddly enough, a Big Hollywood Meeting, I came back to L.A. with new headshots, a full head of steam, and even a couple of meetings set up.

And then I almost immediately called to postpone those meetings because I got called in for jury duty, which I’ve been on ever since. Say what you will about the County of Los Angeles: They do not screw around when it comes to jury duty. Seriously. Postpone if you must, but do NOT just throw away that summons.

They are, actually, incredibly efficient about the postponing, as I discovered when I first got summoned while still living aboard the ship. And again when I went in for my new date a couple of weeks ago. They have a table right in the back, just write down your new date and your phone number and don’t bug them, OK?

But you might want to go ahead and do it now, because they will get you. One guy in my group had been coming in and postponing every three months for well over a year, right up until he got the letter that acknowledged that, yes, he was very funny, but this time he’d better clear his day or they’d be issuing a warrant for his arrest. Remember what I said about the not screwing around part?

L.A. has less comfortable jury pool rooms than Chicago, but they make up for it with the little video presentation about how you get to be such good friends with your fellow jurors (which I thought was hilarious, but turned out to be accurate) and the posters that let you know that Edward Asner and Jamie Lee Curtis, among other luminaries, have come in to do their civic duties just like you. I was actually already a fond fan of both of these people, but they did earn special extra bonus points with me for coming in for jury duty.

Anyway, it’s been very interesting (except for the parts that have been really tedious) and I’ve been enjoying learning a little bit about downtown L.A. on my lunch breaks. Thursday I went into the Bradbury building just to look around. OK, to look around and pretend, just for a second, that I was in Blade Runner. It’s a beautiful old building. I would have been happier if it had been dark and constantly drizzling, but I did have a couple of Replicants break my fingers and try to kill me, so overall it was a pretty good visit.

So far I have stood firm in my refusal to go back to my old day job, and jury duty has made fishing for freelance work challenging. Batlike, I swoop in with e-mails in the dead of night. But, hey, that $15 a day puts a dent in it. And the panel selection process alone allowed me to watch three great crazy people, so you never know what’s going to lead to a new writing project.

One Big Hollywood Meeting down, one little Hollywood meeting and one Big Hollywood Meeting coming up.
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