...curl up by the fire/ and sleep for awhile/ it's the grooviest thing....
(Lovecats; Cure)
23 January, 2009
20 January, 2009
Iced Me
...ice cold/ can't break away from your spell/you put me in the deep freeze/ oh baby don't you leave me....
I travel behind a smut covered box trailer that bears the lettering 'Semi Express', which leads me to the cool question: What does that mean? Moderately fast?
The cold makes me cold, and covered up, except for sometimes my feet, which I expose defiantly, daring the weather.
I find myself in a position to needing write through a frozen block of bodies. When I am sufficiently brave, I shall do so.
(Stone Cold; Rainbow)
I travel behind a smut covered box trailer that bears the lettering 'Semi Express', which leads me to the cool question: What does that mean? Moderately fast?
The cold makes me cold, and covered up, except for sometimes my feet, which I expose defiantly, daring the weather.
I find myself in a position to needing write through a frozen block of bodies. When I am sufficiently brave, I shall do so.
(Stone Cold; Rainbow)
12 January, 2009
Unconventional Interconnectedness
...simple things you see are all complicated/I look pretty young, but I'm just backdated, yeah/I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth....
The low cut sock fails to meet the hem of silk leggings, allowing leather of the fringed boot I wear to press against bare skin of my ankle like a warm mouth. My feet, lately liberated from the confines of closed-toed shoes (sandals in January provoking puzzled looks from people sharing sidewalk space with me) protest quietly. Upstart blisters on baby toes led to flat soled sandals first only indoors, then, when changing shoes (and hunting down matched socks) seemed too much bother, out into the wide, cold world.
My accumulating oddities mark me; by the time I look fifty, I shall be well past eccentric and wandering into whacked. All black all the time was adopted as a convenience for daily dressing, then proceeded to rule apparel purchase decisions. Feeling the ground beneath thin leather soles of suede superhero boots, (borrowed during the off-season from Mimi, who never speaks a word of objection), the relative textures and temperatures of slick granite flooring, porous marble stairs, flexible linoleum tile, biting rough concrete, smooth semi-cushioned carpet, led me to wonder how much we miss when we isolate our feet from their surroundings.
It wasn't surprising to learn that shoes are bad for our feet, but it struck me that few people realize this. It is in the best interest of the industry that the buying public remains ignorant. Though I've no intent to reduce my stockpile of Cute Footwear, future purchases will permit communication between foot and surface. I've enjoyed the comfort of a funky brand rating high on hip, but still can't feel the motion of my foot, or the surface on which I step. I loved a pair of sandals from a company I'd never heard of before, even though they prevented me from feeling (with) my feet, but when the company went super-green, they stopped making that sandal altogether. There exist shoe manufacturers who do adopt a minimalist approach to the realities of germs and injurious litter, and a shoe with toes represents the most extreme example of bio-correct footwear, though none of these products are likely to make it into MY shoe stable unless they are....that's right, black.
All of this is complicated by my sudden awareness (thanks to The World Without Us, by Alan Weisman)of a monstrous heap of garbage swirling in our ocean. An addition to the list of pre-purchase qualifications: I need to be able to feel my feet move, feel the ground beneath them, the shoes must be black, and now also, digestible. This Vibram material; I am suspicious. I don't know what's in it.
Go ahead, veggies, and boycott leather shoes if you wish, but while you consider candy-colored Crocs, consider also: every piece of plastic manufactured since the invention of plastics in the 1940s, with the exception of those we've tossed into space and left as astro-junk, IS STILL ON THE PLANET. Where? A significant portion is in the sea, outweighing plankton 6 to 1. And even degraded to its molecular form, there is nothing alive capable of consuming polymers.
And the ocean, it's big. Because it's big, it's hard to get a gut-wrenchingly motivational photograph of the problem. It's much more complicated than that, but against the controversial Global Warming hubub- I'm not convinced global warming, if it's happening, is an exclusively human-driven change: planetary cooling and heating has gone on through geologic time, and this is not alarming, or shouldn't be, no more than continental drift or volcanic activity- oceanic pollution is an unheralded mess. And every bit of it IS because of human action and inaction. Inedible plastics shoving biologic organisms into fewer places and fewer numbers changes the environment, and perhaps temperature, of the ocean. Which is really big.
Not as big as space, which Douglas Adams says
Fluff and Fuzz have been infected as well. When we shop, Fuzz spots every item made of or packaged in plastic, and has begun to grab trash from the streets. Fluff agrees that we need to support digestible products, and has spotted creative reuse opportunities for things pegged for discard. Chips Ahoy cookies? Packaged in plastic, so we gave them a pass. Instead, we bought locally produced cookies in a bakery bag... once emptied, Fluff grabbed it, "This is a perfect bag for kitty poop!" and off he hustled to scoop the litter box.
He notes my good humor this dark season: "You've been grumpy, but not like usual." I credit the bath remodels. There was leakage, damage, mold. Once I'd found someone I trusted to do good work and not shaft us financially, we embarked upon the project, a combination of art and plumbing that has kept me engaged in wall-sized art, and the redo of lighting that creates a bright, cheerful background for daily beautifications.
So I step out, bare-toed, to greet the world, sporting my quirks like flair, like bling, glittering with each stride, walking as if I own the world... and don't I? At least the part on which I walk, at least for the moment I am in it, and then, like a spring wade through a snow-melt stream, I step onward, and relinquish my space to the next user.
Beautification. Blisters. Plumbing. Plankton. Walking. Weirdness. Mold. Mood. Recycling. Revolution.
I just never know what's going to show up in my head.
(Substitute; The Who)
The low cut sock fails to meet the hem of silk leggings, allowing leather of the fringed boot I wear to press against bare skin of my ankle like a warm mouth. My feet, lately liberated from the confines of closed-toed shoes (sandals in January provoking puzzled looks from people sharing sidewalk space with me) protest quietly. Upstart blisters on baby toes led to flat soled sandals first only indoors, then, when changing shoes (and hunting down matched socks) seemed too much bother, out into the wide, cold world.
My accumulating oddities mark me; by the time I look fifty, I shall be well past eccentric and wandering into whacked. All black all the time was adopted as a convenience for daily dressing, then proceeded to rule apparel purchase decisions. Feeling the ground beneath thin leather soles of suede superhero boots, (borrowed during the off-season from Mimi, who never speaks a word of objection), the relative textures and temperatures of slick granite flooring, porous marble stairs, flexible linoleum tile, biting rough concrete, smooth semi-cushioned carpet, led me to wonder how much we miss when we isolate our feet from their surroundings.
It wasn't surprising to learn that shoes are bad for our feet, but it struck me that few people realize this. It is in the best interest of the industry that the buying public remains ignorant. Though I've no intent to reduce my stockpile of Cute Footwear, future purchases will permit communication between foot and surface. I've enjoyed the comfort of a funky brand rating high on hip, but still can't feel the motion of my foot, or the surface on which I step. I loved a pair of sandals from a company I'd never heard of before, even though they prevented me from feeling (with) my feet, but when the company went super-green, they stopped making that sandal altogether. There exist shoe manufacturers who do adopt a minimalist approach to the realities of germs and injurious litter, and a shoe with toes represents the most extreme example of bio-correct footwear, though none of these products are likely to make it into MY shoe stable unless they are....that's right, black.
All of this is complicated by my sudden awareness (thanks to The World Without Us, by Alan Weisman)of a monstrous heap of garbage swirling in our ocean. An addition to the list of pre-purchase qualifications: I need to be able to feel my feet move, feel the ground beneath them, the shoes must be black, and now also, digestible. This Vibram material; I am suspicious. I don't know what's in it.
Go ahead, veggies, and boycott leather shoes if you wish, but while you consider candy-colored Crocs, consider also: every piece of plastic manufactured since the invention of plastics in the 1940s, with the exception of those we've tossed into space and left as astro-junk, IS STILL ON THE PLANET. Where? A significant portion is in the sea, outweighing plankton 6 to 1. And even degraded to its molecular form, there is nothing alive capable of consuming polymers.
And the ocean, it's big. Because it's big, it's hard to get a gut-wrenchingly motivational photograph of the problem. It's much more complicated than that, but against the controversial Global Warming hubub- I'm not convinced global warming, if it's happening, is an exclusively human-driven change: planetary cooling and heating has gone on through geologic time, and this is not alarming, or shouldn't be, no more than continental drift or volcanic activity- oceanic pollution is an unheralded mess. And every bit of it IS because of human action and inaction. Inedible plastics shoving biologic organisms into fewer places and fewer numbers changes the environment, and perhaps temperature, of the ocean. Which is really big.
Not as big as space, which Douglas Adams says
"...is big. You just won't believe how vastly, hugely, mind- bogglingly big it is. I mean, you may think it's a long way down the road to the chemist's, but that's just peanuts to space."Space, already littered with marks of our presence. But the ocean! Smaller than space, okay, but still a big ocean, and an influx of plastic sufficient to create a 6:1 ratio of plastic to plankton in the last sixty or seventy years is very likely to create some sort of biochemical change. The food chain! Plankton feeding on plastic, which has absorbed oceanic toxins... fish feeding on plankton, and plastic the same size as plankton. Bigger fish...until the flesh of a dolphin qualifies as toxic waste.
Fluff and Fuzz have been infected as well. When we shop, Fuzz spots every item made of or packaged in plastic, and has begun to grab trash from the streets. Fluff agrees that we need to support digestible products, and has spotted creative reuse opportunities for things pegged for discard. Chips Ahoy cookies? Packaged in plastic, so we gave them a pass. Instead, we bought locally produced cookies in a bakery bag... once emptied, Fluff grabbed it, "This is a perfect bag for kitty poop!" and off he hustled to scoop the litter box.
He notes my good humor this dark season: "You've been grumpy, but not like usual." I credit the bath remodels. There was leakage, damage, mold. Once I'd found someone I trusted to do good work and not shaft us financially, we embarked upon the project, a combination of art and plumbing that has kept me engaged in wall-sized art, and the redo of lighting that creates a bright, cheerful background for daily beautifications.
So I step out, bare-toed, to greet the world, sporting my quirks like flair, like bling, glittering with each stride, walking as if I own the world... and don't I? At least the part on which I walk, at least for the moment I am in it, and then, like a spring wade through a snow-melt stream, I step onward, and relinquish my space to the next user.
Beautification. Blisters. Plumbing. Plankton. Walking. Weirdness. Mold. Mood. Recycling. Revolution.
I just never know what's going to show up in my head.
(Substitute; The Who)
09 November, 2008
National Precedent?
...If good looks was a minute, you know that you could be an hour/ the way you stole my heart, you know you could have been a crook/ and baby you're so smart, you know you could have been a schoolbook....
It is 7 PM on Sunday 9 November 2008, and I'd like to share a few noteworthy politicky statistics. I've seen few presidential elections, and have paid attention to fewer, plus my memory is notably unreliable, so maybe this has happened before.
List Number One:
Number three and number four, not bad.
List Number Two:
Numbers one, two and ten, hoo-boy!
Aaaaaand List Number Three:
Numbers one, two and three! Whoo-hoo!
So let's give it up for a best-selling author and our next president! Yes indeedey, ladies and gentlemen, no misunderestimating this guy!
Unless this HAS happened before, in which case, please return to your normal state of cynical apathy.
(The Way You Do The Things You Do; The Temptations)
It is 7 PM on Sunday 9 November 2008, and I'd like to share a few noteworthy politicky statistics. I've seen few presidential elections, and have paid attention to fewer, plus my memory is notably unreliable, so maybe this has happened before.
List Number One:
New York Times Paperback Non-Fiction Best Sellers
Top 5 at a Glance
1. THREE CUPS OF TEA, by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin
2. MARLEY & ME, by John Grogan
3. THE AUDACITY OF HOPE, by Barack Obama
4. DREAMS FROM MY FATHER, by Barack Obama
5. EAT, PRAY, LOVE, by Elizabeth Gilber
Number three and number four, not bad.
List Number Two:
Amazon's Best Seller List, Updated Hourly
1. The Audacity of Hope: Thoughts on Reclaiming the American Dream (Vintage)
by Barack Obama (Author)
2. Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance
by Barack Obama (Author)
3. Breaking Dawn (The Twilight Saga, Book 4)
by Stephenie Meyer (Author)
4. Eclipse (The Twilight Saga, Book 3)
by Stephenie Meyer (Author)
5. The Shack
by William P. Young (Author)
6. New Moon (The Twilight Saga, Book 2)
by Stephenie Meyer (Author)
7. Twilight (The Twilight Saga, Book 1)
by Stephenie Meyer (Author)
8. The Tales of Beedle the Bard, Standard Edition
by J. K. Rowling (Author)
9. Too Fat to Fish
by Artie Lange (Author), Anthony Bozza (Author)
10.Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance
by Barack Obama (Author)
Numbers one, two and ten, hoo-boy!
Aaaaaand List Number Three:
Barnes And Noble's Best Seller List
1.The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama(Paperback)
2.Dreams from My Father by Barack Obama (Paperback)
3.Change We Can Believe In by Barack Obama(Paperback)
4.The Tales of Beedle the Bard (Harry Potter Series)by J. K. Rowling (Hardcover)
5.The Twilight Saga Collection by Stephenie Meyer (Hardcover)
Numbers one, two and three! Whoo-hoo!
So let's give it up for a best-selling author and our next president! Yes indeedey, ladies and gentlemen, no misunderestimating this guy!
Unless this HAS happened before, in which case, please return to your normal state of cynical apathy.
(The Way You Do The Things You Do; The Temptations)
04 November, 2008
RE: Election
...freedom's day has still to dawn, we've never yet lost heart!/ we'll fight it out until the end - we'll fight for we cannot fail/ we know we'll win although they have our lads in Crumlin jail....
Dear John,
We applaud your efforts on the behalf of the Republican party. But, dude, it's not as if you ever really had a shot. Eight years of national economic rape makes Conservatives look bad and the chances of a Republican for a third term in a row pretty slim anyway, but then you have to go up against someone young, good-looking, and articulate. Man, can that guy put together a sentence. It's completely true that he comes off as rational, while you sputter and fume like a cartoon character. Some people even compare him to JFK, and you know what a bunch of slavering idiots Americans were over that overeducated prettyboy.
So, anyway, just wanted to say don't be too bummed about this, and we appreciate you taking one for the team.
Love,
The Republican Party
(Irish Republican Prison Song; The Wolf Tones)
Dear John,
We applaud your efforts on the behalf of the Republican party. But, dude, it's not as if you ever really had a shot. Eight years of national economic rape makes Conservatives look bad and the chances of a Republican for a third term in a row pretty slim anyway, but then you have to go up against someone young, good-looking, and articulate. Man, can that guy put together a sentence. It's completely true that he comes off as rational, while you sputter and fume like a cartoon character. Some people even compare him to JFK, and you know what a bunch of slavering idiots Americans were over that overeducated prettyboy.
So, anyway, just wanted to say don't be too bummed about this, and we appreciate you taking one for the team.
Love,
The Republican Party
(Irish Republican Prison Song; The Wolf Tones)
17 October, 2008
Hero, Villain
...Where have all the good men gone/ and where are all the gods?/ where's the street-wise Hercules/ to fight the rising odds?....
The air is clear and cool. Mist hangs over the parking lot. It looks like a good day.
The grounds, still spongy from last weekend's downpour, give us a bit of trouble. In our morning procession, I step with my left and sink- deep, deep- then step with my right, expecting to pull free.
I do not pull free.
I tug on the swath of organza that connects me to my daughter, then pull on the elastics and fling the fabric away from myself.
If I go down, I'm going alone.
I manage to pull the right stilt free, and beckon (with no little urgency) to a patron who has been paying attention while I use the right stilt to balance and feel for a solid spot. The man comes to my side, plants his feet firmly and extends a strong arm for me to use to lever myself out of the mire.
I yank my left stilt with a hip-jolting pull, and bow to my hero. His friends applaud him, and he bows back. A kind, observant woman picks up the trailing organza and hands it to me as I hurry to catch my compatriots. They've gotten maybe ten yards. I reassemble, and the front two have no idea of my brief panic.
I later discover nine inches of mud on the bottom of my stilt.
The day goes smoothly. We are merry and bright, which is the extent of our job description. A translucent redhead at the top of the joust-bowl looks at me expectantly. She has a small baby in her arms. The top of the list is slippery with unanchored dust, and none too flat, but she hasn't thought of that. I hold out my hands, and she passes him up. Her companions do not object. They seem to not even have a camera.
We are stilted up a long time. When more than 20 thousand guests arrive, we like to make ALL of them happy. Plus it takes awhile to wade through them. We're nearing home base, and a family of costumed patrons grins at us. She holds a small boy in green satin leiderhosen. We grin back. "You want him?" she asks. Well, no. Okay, yes. What, you folk don't have a camera, either? Are you kidding me? Can someone answer me this, why would you hand your kid to a stiltwalker if you didn't want a picture of the event? Sigh.
We lurk over to the tall rail at O'Shucks pub and hang out with some folk who become our friends forever, and buy us beers and oyster shooters. We walk a straight line, then run away to shed our long legs. Mimic and I head out for a bite to eat, happy to be there, happy to be anywhere.
And then the photographer shows up.
Now, we love photographers. We will pose all day for a busload of photogs with lenses worth more than both our cars together. We like little kids with paper box cameras. Camcorders do not offend us, though it's increasingly hard to tell which cameras are 'cording. Okay, your cellphone camera: we have little respect for this, especially if you don't know how it works. Sorry, lady... not posing and re-posing while you learn to use it. But still. People with cameras make us look beautiful. We love them.
Now, this fellow (I use 'fellow' with a deep and rare awareness of insufficient vocabulary) pretended he was not photographing us.
Usually, I am happy to pretend to not be posing while a photog in search of a candid pretends to not be shooting. Understand this: over the years, I've learned that EVERY motion, EVERY expression, must be deliberate and chosen for the moment.
This, this fellow followed us around. I heard repeated clicking of his shutter button. When we turned to smile at him, he turned away and pretended he hadn't been shooting. He followed us for a full five minutes, shooting and trying to pretend he hadn't been.
He never lifted his camera to his face. It remained hung around his neck, lens at belly level. He was shooting our asses.
If it had been one shot, and the guy had grinned and waved after being caught at it, I wouldn't've minded being shot in the ass.
This is creepy, and makes me angry. I find Columbina nearby chatting with some fancy patrons, and complain to her, (refreshing to have a conversation with someone who does NOT sigh "Oh, dear, I'm bad at charades- I have no idea what you're trying to say"), and she informs me that Mr. Creepy Fellow has been spotted following teen-ish girls, doing the same thing, and yes, it was creepy. (I make the 'creepy' face, and she knows). I wish I had it in me to laugh and feel flattered. She promises to keep her eye out for him, and I have more than half a mind to find security, but by this time I've lost him in the crowd.
Suddenly, I have no appetite. Mimic chooses an ice cream, and we return to camp. As we clean up and put away the stilts, I tell her again the story of the morning hero. I know she's heard it. She knows I know.
She knows why I tell it again.
Two days left, and the '08 season is over.
(Holding Out For A Hero; Bonnie Tyler)
The air is clear and cool. Mist hangs over the parking lot. It looks like a good day.
The grounds, still spongy from last weekend's downpour, give us a bit of trouble. In our morning procession, I step with my left and sink- deep, deep- then step with my right, expecting to pull free.
I do not pull free.
I tug on the swath of organza that connects me to my daughter, then pull on the elastics and fling the fabric away from myself.
If I go down, I'm going alone.
I manage to pull the right stilt free, and beckon (with no little urgency) to a patron who has been paying attention while I use the right stilt to balance and feel for a solid spot. The man comes to my side, plants his feet firmly and extends a strong arm for me to use to lever myself out of the mire.
I yank my left stilt with a hip-jolting pull, and bow to my hero. His friends applaud him, and he bows back. A kind, observant woman picks up the trailing organza and hands it to me as I hurry to catch my compatriots. They've gotten maybe ten yards. I reassemble, and the front two have no idea of my brief panic.
I later discover nine inches of mud on the bottom of my stilt.
The day goes smoothly. We are merry and bright, which is the extent of our job description. A translucent redhead at the top of the joust-bowl looks at me expectantly. She has a small baby in her arms. The top of the list is slippery with unanchored dust, and none too flat, but she hasn't thought of that. I hold out my hands, and she passes him up. Her companions do not object. They seem to not even have a camera.
We are stilted up a long time. When more than 20 thousand guests arrive, we like to make ALL of them happy. Plus it takes awhile to wade through them. We're nearing home base, and a family of costumed patrons grins at us. She holds a small boy in green satin leiderhosen. We grin back. "You want him?" she asks. Well, no. Okay, yes. What, you folk don't have a camera, either? Are you kidding me? Can someone answer me this, why would you hand your kid to a stiltwalker if you didn't want a picture of the event? Sigh.
We lurk over to the tall rail at O'Shucks pub and hang out with some folk who become our friends forever, and buy us beers and oyster shooters. We walk a straight line, then run away to shed our long legs. Mimic and I head out for a bite to eat, happy to be there, happy to be anywhere.
And then the photographer shows up.
Now, we love photographers. We will pose all day for a busload of photogs with lenses worth more than both our cars together. We like little kids with paper box cameras. Camcorders do not offend us, though it's increasingly hard to tell which cameras are 'cording. Okay, your cellphone camera: we have little respect for this, especially if you don't know how it works. Sorry, lady... not posing and re-posing while you learn to use it. But still. People with cameras make us look beautiful. We love them.
Now, this fellow (I use 'fellow' with a deep and rare awareness of insufficient vocabulary) pretended he was not photographing us.
Usually, I am happy to pretend to not be posing while a photog in search of a candid pretends to not be shooting. Understand this: over the years, I've learned that EVERY motion, EVERY expression, must be deliberate and chosen for the moment.
This, this fellow followed us around. I heard repeated clicking of his shutter button. When we turned to smile at him, he turned away and pretended he hadn't been shooting. He followed us for a full five minutes, shooting and trying to pretend he hadn't been.
He never lifted his camera to his face. It remained hung around his neck, lens at belly level. He was shooting our asses.
If it had been one shot, and the guy had grinned and waved after being caught at it, I wouldn't've minded being shot in the ass.
This is creepy, and makes me angry. I find Columbina nearby chatting with some fancy patrons, and complain to her, (refreshing to have a conversation with someone who does NOT sigh "Oh, dear, I'm bad at charades- I have no idea what you're trying to say"), and she informs me that Mr. Creepy Fellow has been spotted following teen-ish girls, doing the same thing, and yes, it was creepy. (I make the 'creepy' face, and she knows). I wish I had it in me to laugh and feel flattered. She promises to keep her eye out for him, and I have more than half a mind to find security, but by this time I've lost him in the crowd.
Suddenly, I have no appetite. Mimic chooses an ice cream, and we return to camp. As we clean up and put away the stilts, I tell her again the story of the morning hero. I know she's heard it. She knows I know.
She knows why I tell it again.
Two days left, and the '08 season is over.
(Holding Out For A Hero; Bonnie Tyler)
03 October, 2008
You Betcha!
...Texas always seemed so big/ but you know you're in the largest state in the union/ when you're anchored down in Anchorage....
So my nutty neighbor wanders over, drunk, (a common state), and in the course of asking me to look after things a bit around his house- finally he remembered about the cat- suggested I would be "just a fucking riot" as Sarah Palin.
I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. I pointed out that Tina Fey seems to have that pretty well covered already. I've been compared to Sandra Bullock, any number of 'models' of My First Sex Teacher, (no, you do NOT get an url), and "that girl on Just Shoot Me", who has a name; it's Laura SanGiacomo.
There is limited gain in resembling minor stars, especially ones who are not currently "hot". I'm not sure there's even much of a market for AngelinaJolie-alikes, and she is certainly the definition of HOTT. Yes, with two Ts. TomCruise-alikes, though, have been popular for three decades. Since I don't sing, Marilyn was never an option, and I'm not quite, uh, generous enough for Mae West. I've been Betsy Ross, however: even ancient, fictitious politics are big business. My pal who plays FDR gets some play with that, plus his Nixon's always popular; my friend Jim has earned a lot of money portraying a president whose policies he can't admire- at least, not if he wants to retain the title of 'actor'- and a girlfriend of mine was briefly rolling in it- "I coulda bought a car," because she resembled Monica Lewinsky.
So, Sarah Palin? And me?
It could be the beginning of a profitable relationship.
If I can get past the research.
(Anchored Down In Anchorage; Michelle Shocked)
So my nutty neighbor wanders over, drunk, (a common state), and in the course of asking me to look after things a bit around his house- finally he remembered about the cat- suggested I would be "just a fucking riot" as Sarah Palin.
I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. I pointed out that Tina Fey seems to have that pretty well covered already. I've been compared to Sandra Bullock, any number of 'models' of My First Sex Teacher, (no, you do NOT get an url), and "that girl on Just Shoot Me", who has a name; it's Laura SanGiacomo.
There is limited gain in resembling minor stars, especially ones who are not currently "hot". I'm not sure there's even much of a market for AngelinaJolie-alikes, and she is certainly the definition of HOTT. Yes, with two Ts. TomCruise-alikes, though, have been popular for three decades. Since I don't sing, Marilyn was never an option, and I'm not quite, uh, generous enough for Mae West. I've been Betsy Ross, however: even ancient, fictitious politics are big business. My pal who plays FDR gets some play with that, plus his Nixon's always popular; my friend Jim has earned a lot of money portraying a president whose policies he can't admire- at least, not if he wants to retain the title of 'actor'- and a girlfriend of mine was briefly rolling in it- "I coulda bought a car," because she resembled Monica Lewinsky.
So, Sarah Palin? And me?
It could be the beginning of a profitable relationship.
If I can get past the research.
(Anchored Down In Anchorage; Michelle Shocked)