Timber Rollins

Holmes had his Moriarty, I have Timber Robbins. Timber is another up-and-coming actress in the children's commercial scene. While not as talented as me, she's cute and knows how to use her trailer park good looks to her benefit. She's also as evil as a Texan.

When I say trailer park looks, I mean it. Timber is a bottle blonde with brown eyes and a cute chubby face. She's the one-off accident of an incestuous family tree; a genetic miracle. She should have emerged from her mother looking like a parasitic slug instead of the blonde, cute, deceptively normal looking girl that's Timber. Believe me, I've seen her mother and her father in person and they both look like a government experiment gone wrong; all twitchy with bad skin and teeth like tobacco stained Chiclets. Somehow those two dregs came together in sweaty sideshow coitus and created Timber. It defies imagination.

I predict that she'll eventually implode into her true form; a sub-human chimera of cute hair, fat rolls and bad skin within a few years. I'm thinking it'll happen once she hits fifteen, and I think she knows that her fame clock is close to winding down. There's no other explanation for her frantic, panic stricken behavior at auditions. She knows that in a few years she's either going to have to take the character actress roles (ugly girl parts) or go back to her trailer with the transmission in the living room floor and the NASCAR posters duct taped to the walls.

Don't get me wrong, she's good, I'm not going to make the mistake of underestimating her. Her pose stance is tight, probably second only to mine in our age bracket. Her smile is in the top fifteen in the business and her hair is always impeccable. That hair. Even though she's my enemy I can never be angry at her hair. How can one hate beauty? Her hair literally looks like one of those Pantene commercials--lustrous, shiny and bouncing. She may not be A list material but her hair certainly is.



Even though I can out act her any day of the week, out perform her any day, her trifling nature makes her a threat. She calls my auditions posing as me, telling them outrageous stories. Once she told a receptionist that I couldn't make it to an audition because I was arrested for selling Vicodin on Hollywood Boulevard. She's even posed as me at an audition and asked the stunned casting director to postpone my audition because I was pregnant and had to search the local soup kitchens in order to find the daddy. What a bitch.

In the end, she's only hurting herself. When she's fat and ugly, living in a trailer somewhere in the south, she'll see me on TV or in a movie or accepting an award for my massive talent. What could she do then? She can try to undercut me now, cause me problems but I'm always going to win. I have longevity, she's a flash in the pan. It's inevitable as Timber's butt ballooning to massive proportions.

Yes, she's my Moriarty, but I won't make the same mistake as the good Mr. Holmes. Instead of tumbling into an abyss with my Moriarty, I'm going to wait her out, let her fall into the chasm while I stand far from the edge, watching her slip further and further away into the abyss of flab.

Enjoy it while you can Timber. The clock is ticking.

Stay Hungry

I am the new Fruity Fruit Juice Box girl, coming to a television and billboard near you!

It wasn't hard to win the part, my competition looked as if they just stepped off the bus from the Midwest. Fat and smelling of corn and ham, barely able to keep the drool from oozing from their gaping maws, their backwoods accents sticking to the dialogue like flung excrement.

"Ah luv the new Grapetahhstic juice box."

Horrible. You either know your lines or you don't, it's as simple as that. No competition.

Where are all of these sows coming from? It's like Hollywood is a buffet and the fatties are waddling here from all points ready to gorge themselves. We eat salads here hickettes, not gristle and lard fried donuts. Just because you have a dream doesn't mean you can make it! There's a thing called reality, and they obviously aren't acquainted with it.

Reality is two fingers down your throat getting ready for a purge. That's Hollywood. You might be cute in Crookedtooth USA, but here you're nothing but another wannabe actress with dreams of fame. No surprise that the commercial director couldn't contain his excitement when I walked into the audition.

The director was Yan Gholtic, the Eastern European phenom that has carved a niche in the toy/snack commercial world with his explosive, innovative style. He won a Clio award for his groundbreaking neo Teddy Ruxpin commercials that nearly caused a riot at the 2005 New York Toy Fair. I nearly lost my cool when I seen him, the opportunity to work with a director as talented and hip as Mr. Gholtic was simply amazing. He's the Orson Wells of children’s commercials.

"Girl from Smart and Final commercials! Real actress at last!” he exclaimed in a slight Dracula like accent.

"Let's see vat you have.”

Yan threw me a juice box, I easily caught it with my left hand (I'm right handed).

"I vant to see juice box come alive. ALIVE!” Yan said as he crossed his arms. I smiled and gracefully and read my lines, giving it my all, acting my ass off.

"Wow! I love the new Grapetastic Juice Box from Fruity Fruit!” I exclaimed, flinging my head back, my cute blonde locks bouncing around my forehead like a ribbons of spun gold. I took a big swig from the juice box, slurping on the thin straw as gracefully as I could. The juice tasted like grapes and melted plastic bag but I swallowed it down like it was honey.

"Delicious!", I flashed them my best smile, the same smile my mother and I worked on for months, the one that lights up a room like a million Roman candles.

After I was finished Yan stood up and began to slowly applaud.

"Finally", Yan exhaled with a wheeze indicative of wasted hours filled with flabby actresses and redneck inflection, "finally real actress.” he wiped a lone tear from his eye.

"You have the part.”, he whispered. "We have found our new Juice Box girl.” he began to sob with joy. "You're good as they say. You're...phenomenal."

Yan and his secretary walked me into the waiting room where the Midwestern gals were waiting. Yan lifted his hand over my head in a grand gesture.

"Behold fatties! New Juice Box girl!”, a collective moan issued from the herd of girls.

"Shut your filthy holes! You vant to be in commercial you must make sacrifice. You must all stop being ugly and untalented!"

I felt a little sorry for the girls who didn't get the part, some of them looked devastated. Then I heard Mother's voice in my head, as clear and true as a church bell.

"Feelings are for losers and losers don't get the good parts.” her voice told me. She was right, and who would want a wannabe for a friend anyway? Amateurs.

Michael Chiklis My Friend

In this business you meet lots of interesting people from all over the world. I've had the opportunity to strike up lasting friendships with the rich, famous and talented. My latest friend is TV's Michael Chiklis.

Ever wondered about the origin of the Chiklis name?

In 1906 Michaels Great Grandfather "Tubby" Fleer created the gum we know today as Chiclets. He was a prospector is Central America and while there he became enamored with the Native's habit of chewing the dried sap of the Chicle tree. A brainstorm and a few financeers later he had repackaged the native treat into a peppermint flavored candy that was packaged for American consumption, the Chiclet was born.

Tubby merged his company with a conglomerate candy company in 1914 and left the candy business to pursue his passion for a career in animal husbantry. Michael's grandfather Clarence became the captain of the Chiclets empire and threw himself into the business and even changed the family name to 'Chiclets' in honor of the candy that had brought his family fame.

In 1962 Clarence Chiclets passed away and the company was purchased by a larger candy company with the Chiclet's family kept a large stake in the brand. It was during transition that the family Chiclet were forced to change their name. Chiclets became Chiklis and the rest is history.

Michael doesn't talk about his famous heritage, I guess he'd rather be judged on the merit of his acting rather than his famous family history.

That's cool, I respect him for that.

Until next time,
SaBG

Tom. My friend.

I'm famous. I'm recognized regularly when I'm in public. It's always the heated gaze of an admiring fan or a group of curious faces pressed together before me.

"Look! It's the girl from the Smart and Final commercials!"

Sometimes I answer back, sometimes I don't.

Fame feels like power. You have it, and others will do anything for a taste of the scraps--circling you like gamma wolves, pissing all over themselves as they try to please you. Sometimes it's amusing, but most of the time it's tiring.

You need more, you need a spiritual side to help guide you past the teeming hoards of humanity. Since becoming famous I've discovered my religious calling in the church of Scientology and it was during my time at the church I was able to strike up a friendship with Mr. Tom Cruise. He's my mentor.

Tom is truly an awesome man and probably the most famous person in the history of humanity. I know that's a strong statement, but it's a valid one. He's known world-wide, even in the most desolate places. Show a Somali farmer or a pigmy tribesman a picture of Tom Cruise and his eyes will light up! Instantly the pigmy or farmer is happy, energized and acting out his favorite scenes from one of Tom's movies.

"Show me the money.” he would probably say. That's fame of the highest quality. That's the kind of fame I want. I want to have my picture shown all over the world. When I visit a place like Somaliland or Germany, I want people to know who I am.

"It's the girl in the Smart and Final commercials", or, "That's the beautiful Oscar-winning actress who stars in my favorite movie.", they would say as I exit my limo.

Tom is more than my mentor, he's like the big brother I've never had. I've spent quite a bit of time with Tom. Laughing, crying, doing each other's hair, sharing each other's clothes (we're the same size), making rad stuff at our claytables. It was part of my training in the Church of Scientology. I spent two soul-searching months living in Tom's pool house, Tom visiting me every morning. He would greet me filled with energy and smiling broadly; crisply dressed in and impossibly expensive Italian suit that was so stylish it made me wince.

He would say the same thing every morning.

"You know how I start the day?” he would ask rhetorically. He'd then clap is his hands in an explosion of Cruise charisma

Clap!

"I look in the mirror every morning and I say to myself-- Self! You handsome son of a bitch you. You gonna get some today?", he'd yell.

Clap!

"Hell yeah. I'm gonna get me some-- more than a taste!”

Clap!

He'd then become very serious, and stare at me, his face close to mine. "Somedays", he'd continue after the staring was over, "you gotta grab that Thetan and give it a good slap!"

Clap!

Tom would then make his way out of the pool house and into the pool for his daily immersion therapy treatment, ruining his amazing suit in the harsh chemistry of pool water.

What kind of fame is this? I asked myself the first time he did this. What kind of caged fury is this man that even in the act of destruction his charisma leaves me in awe?

I knew at that moment Tom would become my Sensei. He's now teaching me about fame. I'll write more about Tom at a later date, right now I'm off to an audition, a big one. I'll keep you, my fans, informed about every exciting detail.

Until then,
SaBG

My Experience with Club Kids

We had a run-in with club kids on our way to Mother’s labia shaping appointment.

We were stopped at a light near Sunset when a large group of kids appeared from around a cinder block wall and surrounded our car. They were all dressed as characters from a Grimm's fairy tale and they were dancing, pushing and rubbing up against our Bentley as if it were Hummer in a rap video.

"Rhodes! Get us out of here!” my mother ordered, but Rhodes was still traumatized by Mexico--he gets all jittery when he's driving near pedestrians.

Last year my Mother demanded he drive us to Acapulco for the weekend. While there Rhodes ran down a couple of people as he attempted to open a pack of ketchup (I can never open those darn things). Never try to open a ketchup packet while driving.

Anyhow, the paramedics were there before I finished my fries. They patched up the people that had rolled over our hood and windshield no problem. Our car, however, suffered five thousand dollars in body work. Rhodes still feels horrible about the incident. My mother keeps telling him that he shouldn't feel bad or guilty about the whole deal but he never listens.

"Those people you ran over will live, sure they might walk with a limp for the rest of their lives, but they're alive right?"

Guilt addled, Rhodes just sat there, frozen in fear, his stubby sun-baked hands clutching the wheel; visions of Mexico swarming around his head like bees.

"Iggity, Biggity, Iggity, Iggity.” he said, his knotty head bobbing around excitedly.

"We'll be late Rhodes. Press my pistol against the window.", Mother ordered.

"Iggity, Biggity, Iggity, Iggity." Rhodes complied, producing mother's .38 from the glove box and pressing it against the window with a loud 'tap'. The pistol, a personal gift of General George S. Patton to my grandfather, cuts an unmistakable profile pressed against automotive glass.

"Iggity, Biggity, Iggity, Iggity.", he ordered.

There were a couple of screams from outside- muffled well by the airtight cavity of our Bentley. The frightened kids scattered long enough for Rhodes to speed away, leaving the yelping costumed group in a cloud of exhaust.

I watched them through the tinted rear window as we sped away and I noticed that they had almost immediately gone back to dancing. I thought that was quite odd. My mother's pistol usually elicits a more negative and lasting response, but not this time. They were having so much fun that I almost wished I could join them. I sighed.

Mother snapped me back into reality, "Look at them, bunch of drugged up larval queens. Horse tranquilizers and ecstasy-- bunch of idiots."

"Drugs are no good", she continued, "unless they're given to you by a therapist or a doctor. What you see out there are bad drugs. Don't do those." She shifted in her seat a little, her discomfort underscoring the importance of her shaping appointment.

"Last time I tried one of those kinds of drugs I woke up in a ditch with someone else's severed toe in my pocket." she lit a Mild 7--an underscore to a point well made in my mother's non-verbal vocabulary.

I continued to watch the kids as they shrank into the distance, my admiration dissolving into pity. Poor souls, they're on the road to ruin, and no matter how fun the trip the destination is always a pain in the ass.

"Hurry up Rhodes, I don't want to miss my appointment. I'm dying here.", my mother snapped as she readjusted her position on the fine leather seats.

Better to suffer on the way than to suffer once you get there I suppose.

A Lesson about Fame

A lesson in fame thanks to a botched audition.

I was trying out for a role in "I ♥ Huckabees". I was to play a young girl in an elevator who asks to go to the fifth floor. It was a very small part, just a few lines, but an opportunity to finally get my SAG card, plus I'd get to act with the dreamy Jude Law. The audition took place in a rented theater in Century City. David O. Russell was there but Jude wasn't. I wish Jude had been there, maybe he could have helped me.

David was set up on a large wooden stage, a few were people milling around with their hands full of papers, dodging the various props that had been gathered around a large wooden desk. A bicycle, a base drum, a stuffed Moose, and a motley collection of esoteric items were on the stage, it looked almost like a circus. Mr. Russell paced anxiously like a zoo animal in a cage, barefoot and with a large chaw of tobacco pinched tightly in his cheek, loudly spitting the saliva waste into one of those cheap 32 ounce plastic cups from Jack in the Box.

An assistant led me to an 'X' made out of duct tape affixed to the floor directly in front of Mr. Russell.

"Stand on the 'X' and wait for David to notice you.", she pointed to an 'x' duct taped onto the floor. It was worn and old, like a thousand feet had been on top of it before mine. The assistant continued.

"When David notices you, read your lines. Read them no matter what he says.", she said to me with a smile. "Trust me. I know it's weird but it's his way."

I took a deep breath and stepped on the 'X'.

I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, in my audition pose--big smile, tightened glutes, wide eyes--until my muscles began to twitch with fatigue. He finally looked up from his handful of typewritten pages and gave me a very quick glance.

"No, no, you're not right for the part. You look like a bug. No bugs in my movie.” he said as he looked me over. I began to read my lines anyway, just as his assistant told me to do.

"Can you press five please?” I said--acting my ass off, breathing life into each word. David looked as if I had just slapped him in the face.

"What did I say bug girl?” he screamed then jumped off the stage and ran over to me. He ran up to me, and for a moment I thought he may trample me underfoot but he stopped a few inches from me, wild eyed, tobacco juice dripping from the corners of his mouth.

"You know what?", he said as he leaned in real close to me, his sour tobacco breath nearly making my eyes water.

"You have no business standing on my X!", he said as he shoved me back, off his duct tape.

"Give up acting, because you F---ING SUCK! That was the worst line reading I've ever heard. You've shamed my duct tape 'X' you little c--t! YOU'VE SHAMED IT! NOW GET OUT!", he gazed at me like a madman. "GET OUT BEFORE I IMPALE YOU ON THIS SPEAR!", he leaped back onto the stage and wrestled a large, deadly-looking spear from a mound of props and held it above his head as if making ready to throw.

I then noticed the assistant who walked me to the 'X', the one who told me to read my lines no matter what, was laughing. She had tricked me. I threw my script onto the floor and I barely made it out room before the tears rolled down my face.

On the ride home I lay across Mother's lap. She stroking my hair gently as Rhodes, our driver, drove us home. I was a wreck and even questioning my life's dream to become famous. Were the past ten years a waste? Is this what if feels like to be washed up at twelve?

"I'll never be an actress.” I mumbled.

Mother grabbed me by the ear, just hard enough to make it hurt. She took a drag from her Mild 7 and gave me a deep stare.

"Listen here", she said, "David O. Russell” ,she exhaled, "Let me tell you something about him."

She took another drag from her smoke, wearing a look of serious calm.

"You know what the 'O' is for?” she asked as she pulled my ear a little more.

"The O is for the shape his lips make when he's smokin' a pole. A real lady doesn't do such things unless there's jewelry involved. And David O. is no lady."

Mother used to be a showgirl and sometimes she gets quite blue, especially when she's angry. I doubt David O. Russell ever 'smoked a pole', she was speaking out of anger. Yet, it made me feel better and I guess that's the point.

This all happened three months ago. I've since decided to ignore negative people like Russell and work on my own thing--my own world, my own universe. Fame will come. Who cares what some pompous movie director thinks? I'll get my SAG card in spite of him. I'll be famous in spite of him. Fame is too good. I want more, and no tobacco chewing prick like David O. Russell is going to keep me down.

I'm going to work with Jude someday, I know it.