|Sometimes swatting doesn't help.
||[Aug. 27th, 2006|11:16 pm]
I'm dog-sitting this weekend, the classic Aspiring Actor/Writer Other Job. The dog in question is great. She's a good girl, let me sleep in a bit on Saturday before our morning walk, and was shrewd enough to come with me quickly, quietly, and IMMEDIATELY when we accidentally rousted an urban skunk this evening. |
And the house is great... except for the spider. She's outside, but she spins a web that blocks the way to front door every evening. Since I sometimes come back from work after she's started it and I take the dog out for a last walk after she's made repairs, I don't necessarily run into it just once.
And it's a HUGE freaking web - when I ran into it (the first time) yesterday, I saw leaves in a tree at least a yard away move in time to my flailing. She's clearly not just going for insects with that. She's trying to get me.
And she's clever, too - it's always in the path to the front door, but not always in the same spot or at the same height. The first night I ran into the web at head level, meaning I could not trust my own hair for the rest of the night, so the next time I came at it clearing a path by sweeping the thing that the leash retracts into up high... and ran into it with my waist. She also tries different angles, and, as I mentioned, the anchor threads span ridiculously long distances.
It doesn't help that I read this on Friday:
I just hope that she eats me if I lose. I can't handle being used as a hatchery.
I found myself driving behind another sort of predator last night. It was a guy in a van, and he had those shiny silver letters people put on their mailboxes stuck to his back window. The homemade sign said that he was a porn producer, and he was looking for "models". And then there was a phone number. I want to believe that no woman will actually be naive enough to call it, that even the newest aspiring porn models fresh off the plane know that the porn industry is an industry, not just some guy with a scary van and some stickers. I want to believe that, but I don't quite.
I was contacted by a theatrical "agency" recently. One of the partners - the partners!- had seen my resume and wanted to represent me. I was excited for about twenty minutes, which was how long it took me to look him and his outfit up on some online message boards. The agency in question is a kickback operation. You go in for a meeting and they sign you, then say that you need to take classes with certain teachers, and encourage you to get a kazillion head shots - different terrible broad character shots - all from a certain few photographers.
Actors have unions to send out alerts and yank franchises, not to mention surprisingly welcoming and helpful online communities to protect themselves and each other. I hope the adult film community has something similar. Check, ladies, check. I'm pretty sure the one in the van is a spider.