"Sure, why not?" I responded.
She then proceeded to use her large-lensed camera to take pictures of me smiling, not smiling, looking through my grocery bag, pretending to be really into my red onion, and, for reasons beyond either one of our comprehensions, a shot of me holding up the backs of my hands. If there is any single reason I do not get called for this audition, it will be that picture, because my hands currently look like this:
I know. For those wondering, I do accept manicure donations.
I'm reminded by this experience of an episode of 30 Rock, one of my favorites, in which Liz Lemon ventures to Cleveland. She returns to Manhatten overjoyed and convinced that she is going to become a permanent resident of Ohio. When she tries to explain this to her boss, Jack, he commands her to get a grip. "But look," she pleas, holding a up a local clothing catalogue, "in Cleveland I'm a model!" Chimes in her snarky friend, Jenna, "Yeah, we're all models west of the Allegheny."
And so I say, in Logan Square, I am practically a celebrity.
