McDonald’s will always hold a special place in my heart. Not just because it causes heart disease, but because it reminds me of my childhood.

My family lived fairly close to one and as a single Mom with four girls, it must have been like a utopia for her; a ghetto Disneyland, where she could just plunk us in the McDonald’s Play Place, throw some hamburgers at us and relax. FOR ONCE.

Oh, the joy it would bring me and my sisters. We’d play on their McPlayground, go into the McBallroom, and then we’d all sit together as a (screaming) family to indulge in our greasy treats. AND, the best part? Our Happy Meal came with a freaking TOY!  Which was awesome! UNLESS one of us got a different toy. 

Then it was ANARCHY.

For example, one time it was Hot Wheels/Barbie Princess week and they only had one Barbie Princess left; the rest were Hot Wheels. We were fine for roughly four minutes. We yanked the clear *caution you might suffocate on this* plastic bags out of my mother’s hands, tore them open with our teeth and zoomed our tiny shiny cars all over the table, before we suddenly realized that one sister had a Barbie Princess.

WHAT KIND OF HORSESHIT WAS THIS???

The youngest sister was quietly humming and braiding the Barbie’s hair. Our eyes narrowed as we eyeballed her figurine with envy. Then we all slammed down our crappy Hot Wheels cars and proceeded to scratch each others eyes out, knocking over milkshakes and fries to get our grubby hands on the Barbie.

“GIRLS, STOP IT!” my mother yelled as an airborne McNugget grazed her head.

My sisters and I all fell to the ground in a merry-go-round of punches.

Ronald McDonald happened to be there that day for a birthday party and rushed over to intervene.

“Don’t fight, kids! Here, I brought you some balloons.” He held out four red balloons as a peace offering.

We glanced up from our dog pile. Out of breath, we paused for a moment to assess, quickly decided balloons wouldn’t cut it and went back to scrapping.

“Come on, kids!” he continued in his sing-songy voice. “Would you like some cake? It’s chocolate…”

“STAY OUT OF IT, RONALD. This isn’t your fight.” I said through a mouthful of hair as the sister tsunami dragged me under once again.

Ronald slinked away, his red painted smile was now down-turned.

Finally I emerged victoriously at the top of the pile of bodies. Panting and bloodied, I thrust my hand up in the air with the Barbie Princess in it.

THIS. IS. SPARTA.

Wait.

It was just her head.

I looked behind me. One of my other sisters was holding a tiny doll arm, the other one held the body and a chunk of blond doll hair in her hand. My youngest sister was in the fetal position.

We all started to cry.

We had officially murdered Barbie.

*

*Originally published in The Impersonals

You don’t need to write a good script to have a blockbuster hit.  All you need is a little ingenuity and a dream.  Here are some surefire tips:

-Make sure you have really cool intro credits, with awesome fonts! The audience will already be like YEAH!

-Make things explode. 

-Make people get naked.  

-Make it into an ’80s movie. The ’80s are SO HOT RIGHT NOW. Cram in TONS of nostalgic music, teased hair and neon. And never underestimate a well-placed Rubik’s Cube. The audience will be having too much fun to question any plot holes. 

-Play soaring music throughout your movie. You want to trick your audience into feeling something emotional. If it’s a drama, get a cello in there. The cello SLAYS. Comedy? How about some mischievous string plucking to seal the deal?

-Have the scenes edited into a disjointed chronological order. If you make the audience strain to remember how the pieces fit together, they’ll think it’s more interesting than it actually is. 

-Have the camera continually focus on a mundane object- like a chair, a red balloon or how about that Rubik’s Cube? People will be convinced that there must be a reason for it. (Suckers.)

-CAMEOS, CAMEOS, CAMEOS!  Everyone LOVES famous people! Find an out of work actor who used to be famous to play the role of ‘Gas Station Attendant.’ They’ll squeal with glee as they figure out who it is. ”WHOA, it’s so and so….”  ”Wow, he’s really gotten old…etc.” … totally forgetting that your script sucks!  

-Throw in some chimps. Can’t get the female lead you wanted? Chimp. One of your actors got sent to rehab? Chimp. Can’t do nudity or violence? CHIMP CHIMP CHIMP. Put ‘em in a dress or a necktie. Animals that act like humans, you guys! No one ever tires of a scene where a chimp covers its eyes in embarrassment, right? Heartwarming. Chimp sales go up. Everybody wins. 

-Haven’t figured out your ending? No problem! Just end the script abruptly. It’ll look like you left it open for a sequel. Or, that it’s just SUPER artsy. (Yet another great place to throw in that Rubik’s Cube, BTW.) If you make it look artsy enough, the audience will feel like jerks for questioning your artistic vision. 

-And if all else fails, just say it was based on a true story. No one can argue with the truth. 

(Especially if it’s based on a lie.)

It happens every now and again to us performers. The HORRENDOUS audition. 

The breakdown:

Calgon National Commercial.

Woman gets home from a hard day at work, sees the Calgon Shower Gel, smiles, starts dancing and gets undressed. No model-types. Plain, girl next door types only.    

Talent must feel comfortable wearing bikini and high heels for audition

“Eh. Pretty simple stuff,” I thought to myself. I’m a flats and sneakers girl so I borrowed a pair of my sister’s high heels. She’s a half-size smaller so they kind of hurt to put on, but NO WAY was I going to buy a pair of heels for this stupid audition. I already had to fork over money that week to buy a dress and skirt for two other auditions. Who did they think I was? A girl?

CUT TO: Audition room 

I had been waiting the usual two hours plus at this cattle call audition. They were running behind and I had the very last time slot, which also happens to be THE WORST time to audition. At this juncture, the casting director usually hates her job, hates her life and, most importantly, hates YOU.

“You’re kidding… there’s ONE MORE?” I heard a woman screech from inside the room as the previous contestant tried to flee the scene. I briefly saw the girl’s face as she scrambled away. She looked terrified. Like she’d just been hit with a bag of oranges. This was NOT looking good for me.

The assistant motioned me in like a crossing guard. I entered with a HUGE smile already plastered on my face. I was ready to ROCK this soap audition. 

A woman in her late fifties barely peered up at me from behind her Louis Vuitton reading glasses. She fanned herself with my headshot. “Sooooo, I don’t have the TIME to really get into the whole thing as I did for everyone else. I’ll just direct you as you go. GOT IT?”

“No problem!” I chirped happily. “I just have a quick ques….”

She pressed play on the CD player and a Gypsy Kings song came on. You know, the really annoying one. 

“DANCE!” she barked at me from behind the desk. I immediately launched into a generic jazz-handsy-sway-thing, the grin still on my face.

“Sure. Great. Aaaaaaaand you see the Calgon bottle….”

I snatched up the Calgon bottle, started shaking it like it was a maraca, made a weird ‘oooooh’ expression and began wavin’ my finger at it all sassy like. For no reason. 

“Great.” She started texting someone on her phone. “Aaaaand put the Calgon down and take off your shirt.”  

I flung my shirt to the side of the room as I did a twirl.

“Great… and the shorts too.”  She barely glanced up.  Her loss - as I was putting on QUITE the show. I shimmied them down and kicked them towards the camera. Suddenly I had become one with the music. I was shakin’ not only what my momma gave me, but her mom and her mom before that. Nothing could stop me. I had become the Black Swan of this commercial audition. My metamorphosis was complete.

“Great. Annnnnd…. put your foot up on the chair and take your shoe off.”  She began putting her papers in her briefcase.  I placed my right foot on the chair and undid the strap.  I tried to pull the shoe off gracefully. IT WAS STUCK. 

I gently tried to wiggle it off again. This sucker wasn’t coming off.

“I SAID TAKE YOUR RIGHT SHOE OFF. THANK YOU.” I heard the rise in her voice. I gave it a couple of yanks. It wouldn’t budge.

“The shoe NEEDS to come off. NOW.”

My residual checks flashed before my eyes. My palms were sweaty and I was losing my grip on the goddamned shoe. I hopped around on my one foot and kicked the heel of my shoe against the side of the chair, praying I’d knock it loose. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

On my last kick, the chair fell over, the shoe flew off my foot into the air and soared right over the casting director’s head.  It hit the wall with a dull thud.  I was standing there, panting in disbelief. The Gypsy Kings were still wailing in the background.

Calgon. Take me away.

“Great. Now take off the other one…” she ordered, completely unfazed.  I stared down at my other foot in horror. 

‘Well. That’s all the time we have. Thanks.’ She grabbed her briefcase and left. The assistant followed quickly behind her like a lap dog and shut off the lights as they exited.

I was left standing there, out of breath, half-naked, with one shoe on in the dark. I hobbled around picking up my clothing, piece by piece. Pretty sure my dignity was laying around there somewhere too. 

Sometimes auditions are just out of your hands.

And sometimes, your feet.

My flight had been delayed by an hour at LAX, so rather than eating my dismay at the nearby Cinnabon, I decided to try out one of those coin-operated massage chairs.

I had never tried one before and it had been a stressful week. And so, in the immortal words of Young Jeezy, I said to myself, ”IMMA DO ME.”

I slipped off my coat and shoes and laid back.

This one didn’t have any controls. You simply lay back and relax as you get sucked into a chair that grips your arms and legs like a leather boa constrictor, while tiny mechanical “hands” emerge underneath the leather and start whacking at your neck and spinal cord.

BLISS.

Everything seemed pretty normal until right around the 2-minute mark, when suddenly I felt an additional “fist” slowly ever so gently come out from underneath the seated part of the chair and then it slowly reverted back.

“Wait… did that just…? Nah.” I laid back again and closed my eyes.

I felt it again. A definite pressure under my nether regions. And this time it lingered.

IT. LINGERED.

I bolted upright. What the hell kind of massage chair was this? It’s trying to get all up in my business. “HOW DARE YOU?” I thought. Not without a nice seafood dinner at least. Yet I still couldn’t move. The chair held me captive. 

I began to panic. What if this chair was broken? What if it gets worse? More importantly, what was the protocol for afterwards? Awkward conversation? Spend the night? Brunch? Also, there’s no smoking in airports.

Suddenly I remembered the roller coaster scene from Fear.

The song Wild Horses played in my mind.

“Oh nooooo…” I muttered under my breath. 

My eyes then fell upon an old man sitting on a massage chair across from me. He shot me a knowing look and gave me a thumbs-up.

As I started fishing around for some kind of stop button, it ended. I leapt off of it and grabbed my clothes and shoes and hopped away.

It was the closest I’ve ever gotten to a one night stand. 

Had  a great time doing the Hey Teens podcast this week! 

I’ve been nominated in the Best Tweeter Under 25K category in this year’s Twitter Awards. How cool is that shizz?

To get into the final round I need to get votes. So will you vote for me? Pretty please? COME ON, BE A PAL.

Do it.

What. Don’t you want to be cool? Do it.

http://tradiov.com/twitterawards/voting-round-1/

To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this, and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.

- Roger Ebert