"How to Spot a...": Costume Designer

The Quantum Hyper Diet

I've DONE IT.  "It" has happened.

Finally, the perfect diet to offer up that "pants falling down, I'm wasting the f**k away" Calvin Klein look without the use of psychoactive recreational drugs.  Starvation is not required, nor is non-stop locomotion.  This diet is safe, from the youngest of toddlers to the eldest of wise men.  It's natural, pharmaceutical-free, and won't break the bank.

It is, sparing the modesty, the ULTIMATE diet to turn your Melissa McCarthy to Michelle Monaghan, or your Kevin Smith to Will Smith (because nobody knows who the $#@% Gregory Smith is).  And it's so easy, even the most dim-witted supermodel-in-wait can achieve near instant results without the use of her simpleton jock douche manwhore boyfriend to read her the instructions... one word at a time.

And the absolute, unequivocally best thing about this diet -- I'm making it up as I type this!

I have absolutely no friggin' idea what I'm going to write next.  But really, you'd think most fad diets are composed in this fashion.  Some dude or chick, sitting at their computer playing tiddlywinks with paper clips, suddenly awaken to the concept of a get-rich-quick diet package.  A powerhouse revelation that, no matter WHAT they write, if the name of the diet is catchy and sticky, then it SHALL NOT FAIL... to make money, that is!

Hence, the "Quantum Hyper Diet".

It sounds Star Trekkie, which means it's from the future.  Believe me -- these has-beens who fall for every new fad diet shoved before their gaping food shovels have already proved without doubt they'll believe anything you tell them.  It sounds completely scientific. Of course, the fadders are no Rhodes Scholars. But with the cable dominance of Discovery, The Science Channel,  TLC, and SyFy, the DO own a passing understanding of Quantum Physics (sort of), as well as the cold hard fact that science is always correct.

Then comes the cool website, with lots of lasers (?) and big numbers designed to stun the fadders into a state of post-concussion confusion.  Off to the right, is a big red button saying "Click This". Next to the big red button is a Kate Upton look-a-like (a.k.a., a pic of Kate Upton photo-manipulated to avoid copyright infringement).  Once they're into the next level, blind them with guilt that if they walk away (browse away?) now, they'll miss not not just an opportunity of a lifetime, but a 25% off deal that's only going to last another 4 minutes and change.

In the end, for a modest $175, you send them a container of Trader Joe's Very Green Dietary supplement (sans the label), as well as a xeroxed instruction manual that's in English and Sinhala (the official language of Sri Lanka).  Don't worry about proper translation. Simply let Google Translator do it for you... badly.  I mean, who do YOU know that speaks Sinhala (and "no" -- that Sikh 7-11 clerk more than likely speaks Punjabi... nice try ace).

15,000 sales and a net of $2.4 million later (sans $15 each for the supplement, copies, and standard postage), you're in that Ferrari 458. You're IN that million dollar home!  YOU'RE IN the cool clique, rolling hard.

By the way, all text above is ©Brandon Morino  All Rights Reserved!!!!  You may claim the diet as your own, for a modest fee of $500,000.  That's a $1.9 million less than what you're going to make!

Wow. How can you pass THAT up????

The B List A Hole

If you live in L.A., you've been a victim of it.  Laws should be scribed by men and women of vast intelligence to help curb the insufferable brutality of such an inhospitable end-product. The polar opposites of coddling and enabling must be employed whenever possible to fend off the notion that such an act is not only acceptable, but encouraged. Dogs and cats should join forces --  like the Afghans did against the Russians, or Canada Proper has done against Quebec -- to assist in the policing and ultimate prosecution of such offenders.  If you're an Angelino, the regulations will have arrived at too late a time. You may be already actively seeking some form of mental counsel to help with the pain brought forth by the encounter... and encounter you might not soon forget, though you desperately desire to.

It's not a crime, per se. But, in a sense, it very well should be.

It's the "B List A Hole", and he or she is coming to a cafe table, bus bench, or park path near you.

It's not lost on me that, in this day of age, if a struggling actor lands a small role on a sitcom, television drama, or indie flick, he or she has every right to be elated. With the economy the way it is, every dollar counts, and every role -- no matter how infinitesimal -- may ultimately spawn a major career.  They've reached a milestone, and sharing their prideful happiness with the rest of us is fine.

Just don't pretend you're anything more than what you are.

A role is a role, as a graphics or illustration job is just that... a job!  If I'm particularly proud of my work, I'll share some non-sensitive aspects of it with my friends.  But, I've NEVER cackled like a rooster at sunrise about how I'm the second-coming of Bill Watterson or David Carson or Ken Sugimori. I've never donned a black mock turtleneck and mock window-shopped for a BMW M3. I've got great months, good months, bad months, and shit months. I'm as humble as possible, for I know this is true -- there are going to be times when things aren't so hot, and somebody is going to waddle up next to me and spit out that timeless classic "So.... are you working hard or hardly working?".  They find it humorous, and it was -- in 1972!  Either be humble about your success, or risk shoving a dump truck full of humble pie down your gullet 6 months from then when life has taken a 180.

But Mr. and Ms. B List A Hole don't care. The switch to their spotlight is in the "on" position, burning a 10 million candlepower blast of blinding heat right in our face.  Where jeans and a tee were once acceptable, now they must dress for success, as well as the inevitable papparazzi.  The local coffee dive is now simple an "office".  Their Honda Civic has been upgraded to an Acura, which is just another way of saying they bought a Honda with leather and a Star Trek badge. You cannot hold a conversation with them for more than a minute without them hard-selling their amazing ride aboard the Tinseltown Express, and holding the story and subsequent derivatives of it long after the interest had passed.

You want to be happy for them -- you vividly remember their struggles -- but at the same instant you can't help but wonder exactly how much money they're making, and how much success they're achieving, playing a secondary character in a third-rate sitcom on a fourth-rate cable channel that only masochists dare watch. Yet, 849 other actors DID cattle-call this role, and departed with their proverbial tail between their legs. I suppose the old saying "flaunt it while you got it" applies.  

After all, who knows how much longer the Time Warner Cable 101 Leased Access channel will survive.

SUMMER FLICKS NIX SCRIPX 4 TIX & KIXS

At a barbeque the other day, a friend found time to bake up one of his (now) famous flourless chocolate cakes. I not a monstrous fan of anything pretending it's something it's not (i.e., a BMW X5 is not a real SUV, and Paris Hilton is not hot, despite adamant claims by both). Cake, by its very nature, is SUPPOSED to have flour in it.  Yet, Erik's edible Frankenstein monster was, in the end, quite tasty and well received by the masses.

If only summer blockbusters were the same.

The concept of a scriptless film is old hat (the silent slapstick flicks, the Rooney/Garland "Let's put on a show" musicals, anything with Stallone), but you'd think with a $200 million budget somebody up in the wheel house might drop some jack on a real script?  I know --  it's a stretch, considering when screenwriters are brought on to create said script for noted big budget flick, they are immediately handed the Cliff Notes on what needs to be included within those pages... by the marketing department!

a) Hero needs to say "Let's do this" at least five times.
b) Best friend of hero must be killed, but say "It's now or never" before getting offed.
c) Heroine must say "You'll never get away with this" to antagonist, while looking defiant.
d) If a child is involved, so must a family dog (preferably a golden retriever).
e) Main characters must say one or all of the following: "What is this place?",  "This is crazy!", "Lock and load!",  "Who would've thought it can ever be like this", and "It's either us, or them!"
f) 120 minute film = 60 minute script... post-production will fill in the rest.
g) At least ONCE in the film, hero must shoot two assault rifles simultaneously.
h) Rules for the taboo romance: either she has to be hero's best friend's girl, has to be commander's daughter, has to be part of enemy regime, or impossibly sexy brainiac scientist/computer geek opposed to the hero's dumb-as-a-toothpick warrior jock.
i) If a Michael Bay film, include the following: child on a bike holding American Flag, command center with the world's biggest flat screen monitor, lots of blank areas in the script he can write shit in.

There are other rules, but you get the picture (pardon the pun).  I was perusing Amazon, and could find no manual on exactly HOW to write a feature film specifically for its trailer, but the inherent road to failure is clear: penning a script for a summer blockbuster isn't about writing a film... it's about creating marketing content.

A thought: Suppose I lived my day similar to the notes above. You know, treated it as if a marketing department were waiting with bated breath for the conclusion of my day so they may construct a trailer based upon it.

You know what?  Maybe not a bad idea.

a) Wake up to helicopters and the sound of chaos.
b) While grabbing some coffee, make out with a hot girl I've never met.
c) Fist fight with her asshole boyfriend, wrecking the coffeeshop in the process.
c) Jail.

Ummmmmm........

"How to Spot a..." Part One

Back from vacation, just in time for an important PSA.

New Tactic Marketing

I'm sure it's tough to be a "creative whatever" these days, which is certainly the case for your typical cartoonist/illustrator. With access to inexpensive (read: cheap crap) internet option, coupled with no money to go around, it's all about that proverbial "bang for your buck" for potential clientele. So, when said client does come your way, more often than not it's a shoestring gig that would barely pay your cell phone bill, but you take it since money is green (which is always a good thing) -- as opposed to pizza and beer that can make you green (which is a good thing... if you're a masochist).

And, with an unstable income comes a tight budget, especially for advertising your services.  Gone are the days of 10,000 postcard mass-mailers. Gone are the days of expensive websites designed to thrill a would-be wallet. Gone are the days of costly print advertising.  These days, it's all about creative, cheap-o guerilla marketing.

Personally, I'm going the way of podcasting. Others hit up more "traditional" methods of underground marketing.  Stickers are one way -- you can't discard what you can't remove, right?  But stickers cost money, which leads me to a new tactic I recently wandered across: Tagging.

It's actually quite genius. if you're unafraid of getting busted by the fuzz. Turning your mug and number into an illegal form of street art (if you DON'T know what "tagging" is, which means you're over 75 and shouldn't be reading blogs anyway, let alone knowing how to operate a computer) is brilliant.  Tools of the trade are simple and easily acquired: A can of Krylon black, a bike or bus pass (of which you probably already own), and time (if you're unemployed, not a problem).  The idea here is to tag, not bomb (which is another form of tagging to my geriatric readers), so it remains legible enough for it to be easily read on the six o'clock news.

The news?

Yup... simply put, that art is going EVERYWHERE! In every part of the city. On every clean wall. On the side of every Metro bus, and perhaps a school bus or two.  You shall soon be the scourge of the law. This will make you... an outlaw!  The media LOVES outlaws, and that means exposure.  Of course, with so much exposure, a producer or two might decide to cash in on the buzz and cast you in a summer blockbuster before you're dumped into the pokey for an extended stay. But, of course, this will make you even more famous (or infamous, if you're 75... why the %$#@ are you reading this blog??!!).

Yeah, the side effect is jail time, but your wish had been granted. You finally made it. You're a star. And hey, don't you worry about that prison sentence. If Paris Hilton can skate, so can you.

Mr. and Mrs. Slash

The industry can be a tough grind, sometimes depending less upon your creative artistic talent and far too heavily on your creative bulls**t talent to keep your bills properly paid and current.  Far too often the talents of an individual lay scorched upon the white hot coals of basic living, the person dropping back into a defensive position, letting off of that proverbial throttle to assume a more dependable and sustainable (which might mean permanent) money-making environment. I've seen it more times than I'd wish.

Yet, this is hardly the case for Mr. and Mrs. Slash -- those particular souls who have an undying knack for  fitting their creative talent within any job position they acquire.  Actors do this best, in my opinion, since their skill sets best match the needs of the greatest swath of potential employment opportunities which allow flexible hours.  After that come the technicians, followed most likely by the writers who, already well adapted to working all day and writing all night (or the opposite), are borderline slashers since they don't necessarily NEED to be anywhere in particular to be a slasher (coffee shops do not count as "somewhere").

But what about the directors?  Accustomed to the role of top dog, comfortable with bossing...er, "guiding" an army of talent to the creation of product, content with his or her salient nature -- where are THEIR fallback job opportunities in this tight economy?

Salesman? Nope. They'll most likely drop several F-bombs on their first "stupid" talentless hack of a customer and get canned before the closing tick.

Youth Sports Instructor? How many "takes" before the kid gets the kick juuuusssssttt right, hitting his blocking mark perfectly, with the correct body language and emotion, feeling the excitement of the fictitious stadium packed full of rabid fans hanging on this kick,  hungry for  championship which has eluded them for a generation, ready on an instant to herald you either as a worshipped hero to be celebrated or a hated poser to be unceremoniously run out of town?!

Barista? Hope you have a few hours to kill, because that "latte art" just ain't matching his vision.

Traffic Safety Officer?  Don the white gloves. Hit an intersection. Control traffic.... until Mr. Mosher in his leveraged Ferrari (with highly leveraged bimbo riding shotgun) who remembers our director from an interview begins to honk and laugh at our struggling artist.  Truth be told: Those white gloves won't stay white for long.

Directing porn flicks for cheap sex, drugs, and a few bucks on the side.

Ummmmmm....?.......!!!

Well how about that! A perfect match!

The Wedding Slammer

It's that time of year again -- wedding season!  The time when women's dreams come true, guys lose their freedom (if there is such a thing), and parents stumble and fumble through every detail to make THIS wedding ceremony one for the ages... based on available funds, resources, and location, of course.

Just picture it: Man meets woman, he a character actor, she a production assistant. Man falls in love with woman. They get engaged over a weekend romp through the wineries of Monterey. They set a wedding date.  All is right with the world.  But, being a traditional wedding, the parents of the bride-to-be drop the weight of the proceedings upon their shoulders.  Fine, thinks the man. After all, her side of the family is of moderate wealth, and more able to afford all the nuances of proper festivities.  The mother, an interior designer, is a joy to work with. Her taste is impeccable.  And the father?

A feature director who likens himself to the second-coming of Stanley Kubrick, who's every fifth word is "no" and every fiftieth word is "fired", and has a penchant for belittling actors for shits and giggles.

Uh oh.

He demands a folding chair with the title "wedding director" screened on to it.  He conducts a casting call of area pastors, looking for the right "it" factor.  He fires three lightning technicians before the fourth finds him the proper ratio of key to fill.  He has the nerve to call his "pal" Stevie Speilberg -- he met him once as they crossed paths at Universal, which constitutes a permanent friendship, in his mind -- and offers 10% domestic profits and half of the european distribution rights to shoot his daughter's wedding.  In a stroke of marketing genius, he sacks the groom's best man and groomsmen, replacing them with New Kids On The Block, looking for that opening weekend punch.  He hires the entire UCLA School of Theater as wedding attendees to add an "emotional strength" to the event.

And finally, he re-titles the invites to read "Pirates of the Caribbean 6: Julie and Tom's Adventure on Marriage Island and brings in Hans Zimmer to perform an original score.

Of course, being of only moderate wealth, he attacked this event as if it were a feature film.  In other words: Use other people's money.  The problem is, those "other people" really thought is WAS a feature film. Once the truth is revealed, the money vanishes, the Mouse House comes after him for copyright infringement, and NKOTB management demands appearance compensation as well as revenue lost by canceling four concerts to be in the "film". His daughter, ruined, flees to a monastery and converts to Buddhism.  Her parents hire a slick entertainment attorney and dump the debt upon the unsuspecting groom, who now must work four jobs and sustain his now-miserable existence via a diet of Taco Bell (the employee discount helps) and Cup o' Noodles.

Damn!!!  See what happens when I watch a Swedish film doubleheader?

The MOSHer

I know what it's like to envision oneself as a great do-er of things.  I'm also quite acquainted with not possessing the resources needed for such grand visions.  So, I understand the role of the "Mover and Shaker" within the realm of Hollywood, and I don't blame them in their quest to make it big. It's something we all aspire for.

I just blame them for not telling us the truth.

It's a practice as old as the industry.  Person with real artistic talent is approached by person with no artistic talent, who desires a partnership whereas both can benefit.  The artist handles the creative end, while the non-artist deals with the business end.  As long as the particulars of the partnership are agreed to at the onset, and the agreement is mutually fair to both parties, then the team may continue forth and conquer the Town -- or at the very least try.   The artist (whether it be a writer, musician, or filmmaker) is clear in his or her talent.  Their website, Soundcloud, YouTube, or simply files on the laptop can verify their abilities without question.  But the MOSHer....

Well, that's another story.

More often than not, they procure a "beginner's card", as I like to call it -- either a generic business card from an entertainment or production company with their name and number scribbled upon it, or a poorly and cheaply conceived card of their making with a bad logo, vague contact intel, and the title of "president" or "CEO" below their name.  Look, my company (BeelineMedia) is a one-man operation, and sometimes finances can be tough, but at the very least I put in the hours to produce well-designed cards and websites.  It means a great deal to me.  It's a first impression, and that impression screams "quality", not "Kinko's".

Then there's the language. Phrases such as "It Sizzles", and "Money in the Bank" launch from their vocal orifice faster than a Sidewinders from an F-18 fighter jet.  Not unlike the car salesman trying to drop a crap Nissan Cube atop your platinum card, the MOSHer has a product to sell in HIMSELF -- and like the Nissan Cube, it might not be exactly what you want. But it sounds good, and that "sensible" Honda Civic across the street doesn't offer nearly as much "uniqueness", "convenience" and "cool factor" as the ice chest on wheels parked directly before you.  So, rather than asking for the Car Fax (I hate that stupid commercial), or "Card Fax" in the case of the MOSHer, you accept his or her words on face value, and venture ahead with your new buddy, ready to clean the studios of their money.

Of course, if you HAD asked for that Card Fax -- or prior credentials and proof that the MOSHer can, in fact, accomplish everything he or she promises they can achieve -- you'd find out they live with either their mom or three other roommates, take the bus to work, which is a waiter job at El Torito, and have very little experience in closing deals, let alone opening the right doors.  More often than not, they met somebody who knows somebody who can make a phone call to the secretary of the assistant vice president of telecommunication for the company of the step brother of the head of Paramount Pictures.

Why not just say, "Look. I'm a nobody.  But I know people who are somebodies.  If you allow me, I'd love to present your script/music/film to these people. I promise I'll push it hard. I can't guarantee anything, but I'll try my very best. One never knows.  Some great things have come from the most remote of chances."

MOSHer translation: "Babe. You pages leap out at me! This sizzles. It sustains! Here's my card. I'm a producer. I know people. I can open doors. This can make you rich, babe! I can make us millions!"

......?

Waitaminute.  You know.....

Flambé Padme, damnit!!!

You've gotta feel for the likes of Liam Neeson, Ewan McGregor, and Natalie Portman.  Whereas Harrison Ford might always be noted as Han Solo to some, he's built enough of a body of work to mitigate the burden of Star Wars Geek and his undying belief that, no matter what you do from that point forward, you will ALWAYS be your Star Wars character!

If you're a relative nobody. then you can parlay that into some cold-blooded cashflow.  Most actors from the original three (even the droids), benefitted from the success since, at the time, only Sir Alec Guinness and Peter Cushing were truly established as notable actors.  But with the new three (or "prequels" to the Lucasites) broke from the nobodies.  Alas, when Natalie Portman, already a well-established actress at the time of Episode 1 (which is really the fourth film, or the first of the second trilogy), steps into an eatery, I can't help but wonder how many times Warsies whisper to each other (not so quietly) "Dude, it's Padme!"

Nevermind the girl is an Oscar winner. Take no account that she's been in over 32 projects NOT named "Star Wars".  She will always be Anikin's wife!  That must piss her off.  But, she has only herself to blame. As Super Chicken so eloquently stated to his sidekick Fred, "You knew the job was dangerous when you took it!"  Interestingly, Liam Neeson, post "Phantom Menace",  exclaimed he'll "never" do another action film again -- then went off and chose "Batman Begins", "Taken", "The A Team", "The Grey", "Battleship", "Non-Stop" and "Taken 2" from big book of role choices for fine thespians.

True, he IS, in fact, a bad-assed action star, and perhaps that's why I view Portman and McGregor as Star Wars alumni more so than he.  Like Ford before him, he understood that, to clear himself of the Star Wars stigma, he must muddy the action flick/fantasy flick waters with as much "adventure goop" as humanly possible. Ewan and Natalie have, for the most part, have stuck with drama and the occasional dramedy, which only leaves the crappy prequels are our only substantial action flick references for either of them.

Not so fast! McGregor has finally woken from his galactic slumber!  Over the next couple of years, he's pulling a Liam Neeson on us, who pulled a Harrison Ford on us prior.  Perhaps it was McGregor who was approached by the Geeks, and not Portman.

SWG: "Dude, you're Obi Wan! May the Force be with you, young Ben!"

EMcG: "Shit!  I wonder if that Giant Killer project is still on the table? Gotta get out of this crap!"

Method Yoga

There is no such thing as "originality" in Los Angeles.  Everything is a derivative of something else, which was once a simulation of a copy of an original take of a concept many years prior.  For example, "The Big H" is nothing new. It's not the first single panel cartoon, nor the first about Hollywood, nor a combo of cartoon and editorial.  Yet, that's what I love about L.A. -- one really can get away with just about anything.  It doesn't have to be original.... just "creative" enough to spark an interest.

Yoga is monster in these parts.  The old adage "throw a rock, hit an actor" has been supplanted with "throw a rock, hit a yoga instructor".  Of course, many of these yoga people (I speak of them as a cult, which is completely intentional) are ALSO actors, which got me to thinking: most everything in this town is PBCed (a combo of two things that go together, like a peanut butter cup), so why not "yoga" and "method acting"?

It's perfect... just like those damn Reese's ads suggest.

"Drama" already exists within many yoga studios.  "Method Yoga" shall control that drama, and mold it into a controlled discipline concurrent with the art of yoga, whether it be Iyengar, Hatha, Bikram, or Yoda (that last one made up I did... but lots of money it would make, hmmmmm?!!).  Every actor within striking distance of the studio would blindly sign on the line that is dotted, if only to add it to their entertainment resume -- Meisner, Stanislavski, Alexander Technique, and Method Yoga!

It would be an emotional bunch, for certain.  Equal amounts of sweat and tears.  Each pose would be preceded with a sense memory or a moment before, so each position would hold as much emotional weight as it does physical stress.  Practitioners would break down in tears as they hold their Warrior 2, or emotionally dissolve as their Crow Pose collapses. Yet, at the end of the session, they feel completely refreshed, new and alive! Their mind is clear. Their emotional baggage, unloaded.

In disguise, Method Yoga is less yoga/acting as it is yoga/mental therapy.... and THAT'S why it'll succeed.  For not only does it combine two things many Angelinos enjoy, yoga and acting,  but sneaks in a third requirement for living in Los Angeles -- psychotherapy.

Actors Being Actors

Many friends of mine are AcToRs, and some of them are fine human beings.  But there are some -- one of whom is not a "friend", per se, but a friend of a friend -- who cause me to scratch my head and silently pontificate how they have yet to be murdered by a complete stranger due to a deadly combination of unfiltered mouth attached to unfiltered mind.

Sitting at one of my favorite hangs, medium Americano by my side, a woman approaches the condiment bar to spruce up her drink, my table close by.  I noticed something on her hand, something that appeared to be a ring, but nothing like any ring I've ever seen.  She was attractive, and such an unusual piece of jewelry is more often than not a fantastic conversation spark. As I turned to her, a second woman (actor) approached the bar.

"Pardon me. Is that...a ring?" I asked.  She proudly displayed it:  A vintage spoon curled around her ring finger into a tight twist, with its handle wrapping upward around the finger, ending at a sharpened tip jutting out toward the pinkie.  Cool bling, as WELL as a deadly weapon -- my kinda shit!  Naturally, being a guy, I focused firstly on the weaponization aspect of the ring. "Man, a dude better be careful what he says around you."  She giggled (not sure whether it was a "humor" chuckle or a "you have NO idea" snicker).

Just then, the actor blurted "maybe you should bring your face down here so she can use it."  She snorted a self-laugh, apparently content with her sudden display of sociopathic humor.

What the fuck???

I sort of know this woman, and have spoken to her on occasion.  Yet, even if she was my closest friend, there was no excuse for that outburst.  She didn't know Ring Girl.  Heck, she barely knows ME!  I suppose she genuinely thought of her blast of theoretical violence as comic gold.  With her non-blinking "kid in a toy store/deer caught in headlights" stare, she smiled as she wandered back to her friend who, being an actual friend of mine, could only gaze back at me with apologetic eyes.  No doubt, this was not Little Miss American Psycho's first fling with proverbial fire, and it won't be her last.

I just pray I'm at a great distance when her mouth finally writes a check life can't cash.

Late Night Tightrope

One of the many...MANY reasons why I don't watch late night talk shows.  Nothing against Leno, O'Brien, Letterman, Ferguson, Kimmel or Fallic -- but staying up late to watch the true personalities of my favorite television/film/music celebs rear their ugly heads is ultimately self-defeating.

I STILL remember, to this day, an appearance by psycho Alyssa Milano on Leno. I only say she's psycho since that's exacttly how she acted. "Does anybody wanna date me? Does anybody wanna go out with me?" were approximately the words she pleaded to the audience.... and I'm not 100% sure she was kidding.  Look, nobody's perfect, but suspension of disbelief is essential in the enjoyment of filmed entertainment. Watching an actor go batshit crazy on a late night tuber, then turning around two nights later and trying to believe his of her character is a well-adjusted, say, detective or lawyer is THE quickest way to screw the ratings pooch.

And above is not a solitary case. I've met quite a few actors living here in Studio City (which, to those outside of SoCal, REALLY does exist as a mapped community).  Some down-to-earth and enjoyable to share space alongside -- others galactically whacked to the degree as to wonder how they walk and talk at the same instant without exploding (apparently, so I'm told, that's a real issue with David Caruso).  Some hide behind layers of clothing and monster shades, of which frequently serve a counter-purpose as they call attention to who might be, exactly, behind those shades -- especially if they're worn indoors.  Which makes me wonder if their agent and/or manager vehemently stressed the use of said disguise in the hopes of avoiding prolonged conversation with the ticket-buying, Nielsen-fueling folk as to avoid the inevitable conclusion by said folk that their beloved star is certifiably mental.

I wouldn't blame them a bit.