Why No, Whoreface, I'm Not An Actor: 3.44
But first, on a light note, I enjoyed the premiere of the Boondocks overall. It definitely has those new-show jitters where the pacing's uneven and a few of the jokes or lines are clunky. My main concern is Regina King. Having her voice both Huey and Riley may be a huge mistake. In the first scene or two, I wondered, "is Riley like six or something- or else severely developmentally disabled?". That got better, but I still wasn't comfortable with her by the end of the episode. So we'll see. But there's some good stuff in there. I found the writing to be as good as I expected and I do really like John Witherspoon as Granddad.
Personally, I'm going to keep watching. If Regina King's voices become the voices of Huey and Riley for me then I think I could really start getting into it. The other option is to pretend Regina's film career is getting too strong and have her be replaced by one or two new voice actors. I have a feeling McGruder likesRegina too much for that option, though. Anyway, now for something completely different:
Why No, Whoreface, I'm Not An Actor
So what I want to know is does this happen to other people in Los Angeles, or am I the only one?
Attending an uber-chic, liquor-sponsored party, I was waiting patiently at the bar for my drinks when I met Whoreface.
Whoreface, played by Tara Reid, was your typical pushing-35-but-says-they're-28, Ugg-wearing, pastel-tank-top-sporting, fake-baked skankarella.
Played by my avatar, Chad Michael Murray, I was casually surveying the crowd while waiting for two martinis. Now, in Whoreface's defense, I was wearing Polo Ralph Lauren, and that does have a tendency to drive the ladies a little loopy around me. But that is her only defense.
This was her come-on line: "Oh my God, do I know you?"
Dear sweet God I hoped not.
A bit startled by the volume of her obviously-sloshy voice, I replied, "Um, I don't think so."
Whoreface/Tara: "Are you like an actor?"
Me/Chad: "Um, no."
Whoreface flashes me a grin and a significant amount of bra. She's got me pegged.
Whoreface: "But you wanna be one, right?"
Me: "Not really."
Whoreface: "Ohcomeon! Everyone comes to LA to be famous, right?"
She twirls her hair as if this last statement was funny or ironic. Mostly it made me sad, because it didn't seem far from the truth for her. I wonder where my martinis are, then realize she's moving closer to me. In fact, she's seriously all up in my personal bubble.
Whoreface: "So really, where do I know you from?"
She engages in some more hair twirling as I shrug, sheepishly smile and peer around for the conspicuously-absent bartender.
Whoreface: "So what were you on?"
I wish I was on half as many happy pills as you. Me, only half-hearing her: "On?"
Whoreface: "Yeah, I know I've seen you somewhere before. . . but I can't put my finger on it." She takes this opportunity to tap my chest, but since I'm kinda turned away from her in a protective antisocial bar huddle, she has to kind of reach around to get me. She applies enough pressure that I must half-turn toward her.
Whoreface: "Let me look at you. I know I know you. I never forget a face." Funny, I never forget a cliche. Whoreface continues, "Are you sure you haven't done commercials?"
Meanwhile, I'm seriously considering re-enacting a Mentos commercial and whipping off a nearby tablecloth, going behind the bar, and making my own stupid martinis.
Me: "Um yes, I'm sure." As she reaches her clawed hands toward my face, I jerk back a little and give her a look that I hope says, "I will smash a glass over your head if you touch me with those things." Unfortunately, Whoreface seems to interpret it as "I'm shy."
Whoreface: "You know, I've got a lot of friends in the industry. Are you getting good auditions? Who's your agent?"
Me: "I'm not an actor."
Not an actor.
Whoreface: "Well what are you then?"
I loathe talking about my job, but I want to put this biyotch in her place so I come up with the best title I would think a person who looks like me might be possibly have.
Me: "I'm the assistant director of creative development for. . . MTV?" [ed. note: I have no idea if this position actually exists. And as a point of pride, I'm not finding out.]
Whoreface: "Oh wow, cool. So do you do the casting for Real World and stuff?"
I consider gouging my eyes out with a skinny red plastic straw. I opt not to, and thankfully the slowest bartender in LA arrives with my martinis. I throw cash at him and lurch away from the bar, leaving the perfume of stale smoke and staler vagina behind me.
When Whoreface calls out, "Wait, I didn't give you my card!" I don't look back.