(Video included at end of blog)

This blue-eye-shadowed, wig-wearing streetwalker with red nails looks more exotic freak than human being. Everywhere I go, people stare in awe and wonder. They part to make way for me or furtively look down and scuttle away. Well, that's the women. The women seem…well…intimidated. Bowing down to a more intense sexual power than theirs, a power magnetized to a blazing red-lipsticked intensity they dare not look at. The men stare - hard. One man starts following me as I walk down the street. No sir, I'm not a streetwalker. I'm going to an audition. I'm supposed to be a stripper. Thanks for asking, though.

No, I'm not a tranny.

Dressing in an exaggeratedly slutty way does not give you more sexual power. Not really. But somehow people assign you special powers. Special streetwalking powers.

I should have thought twice about wearing this getup on the street. I'm street walkin'. Tight short black skirt, tighter midriff top with some kind of gold lame threads in it and several buttons missing and my lavender padded push-up bra peek-a-booing and spilling out over the top. Fishnet stalkings, see-through pumps with gold trim and little fluffy white pom-pons on them. A scuzzy rocker wig. Flaming colors on my eyes, lips, and nails. The casting director who coached me told me to do it. No normal being looks like this. The fake rhinestone-studded eyelashes, that was my idea. Found them deep in my props bag, from some long ago scene. Did I mention the single white Michael Jackson glove? That was my idea too.

It's fun to play one of these exotic creatures, but exotic I'm not. The red polish on my nails has bubbles in it and I didn't always paint within the lines. Hey, I'm left-handed, I'm not too handy with nail polish, and I was in a hurry. The cat-like blue eyeshadow is covering a lot of mistakes in application. I couldn't find my high heel stripper shoes I keep in the car for these occasions. Hadn't used or seen them in a year. Then I found one. One shoe won't work for a stripper. So I had to settle for the little pumps with the pompoms.

I've worked on this. It's good. I'm confident in the role. I went to a comedy casting director for coaching, I don't know if she'll want me to say her name. Anna, can you for once, not be so heavy with everything? She's a stripper for God's sake, not Marie Antionette going to the guillotine. OK, she didn't quite say that, but she did say to lighten her up. OH!!!! Something inside me clicks. Of course. Lightness. A stripper doesn't think much further than the money she's going to make and the fake fun time she's going to put on. She can't afford to. If she thought about the guillotine and the deep conundrums of life, she couldn't last in her world. Of course. Lightness and fun. Or at least, lightness and fun to numb the pain. Stripper professionalism. Always maintain an air of good times even if it's killing you inside. Don't ever show the pain. It bums out the customers. Stripper code. I think I've got the stripper code down.

You've got to exaggerate the makeup, Anna, heavy blue eyeshadow, heavy red lipstick, get a wig. She's supposed to be a haggard, over the hill stripper from the 80's. Do you even have any makeup on? This character is BIG. Bigger than life. A real character. You're too tame right now. You don't want to look like a Proctor & Gamble suburban mom. Wild. Much more wild.

OK, I'll go home and bone up on the Def Leppard look. Pour Some Sugar On Me and all that.

I do my stripper dance in front of her. Be even more exaggerated. Especially the butt grinds. Am I too sleazy? No, nothing is too sleazy for this character. Have fun with it. Make faces. Grind some more. So I do. The casting director is giggling now. Am I really that funny? No, I think she's intimidated, like the other women will be when I put on the blue eyeshadow and wig and other hooker accoutrements she's recommended. I start to have fun. She loves it. Can I do it again? No, you got it. Anyway, it's embarrassing for me to audition strippers and have a butt in my face. OK. I guess even casting directors get intimidated when faced with a slutty-looking freak shaking her G-stringed butt two feet away from their face.

Her parting words. Be as sleazy as you can and enjoy every minute of it. It's a fun role. Even though she gets killed at the end of the scene. Oh yeah, that.

So that's how come I'm walking down the street looking like a hooker off Sunset and Alvarado.

Inside the casting office, more intimidated smiles and parting to make way for me. Maybe I should dress like this more often. It's got a power all its own.

Another woman who's auditioning yells, OMG! I knew I should have done more with myself. You look fantastic. OMG! What am I doing here?

I'm in my stripper zone, focused. I smile and tell her she looks great too. She actually does. I go back to my focusing. She keeps talking, OMG! I really want to say, "Shut up, shut up, I don't have time to be distracted by your insecurity and your OMG's! She finally goes in for her audition. Good riddance. Somebody like that shouldn't even deserve to audition.

My turn to go in. I come in like I'm throwing my own party. This is my show. It's a bit much, I think. The director tells me to 'do it like she's bored to hell'. Oh yeah, I must have overdone the party thing. She's a stripper after all. This is business. Not an actual party. I get that momentary fluttery feeling, like when I get asked to do something I'm not quite ready for. Quick, find something that will anchor me in my boredom. Something real I can relate to. Darn, when will I learn. Always do a scene with several different emotional preparations, so you don't get blind sided. I settle for a boredom that doesn't have much weight behind it. I strike gold - just for a couple of moments. By accident. They let out a peal of laughter. I'm not stripping yet, so I think the laughter is real humor, not embarrassed titillation.

Time for the dance part. Just don't do the dead part at the end, they say. None of the other women did it. Oh, but I must. I worked on it. It's necessary to the scene. I insist on doing it. OK, go ahead. Just don't fall and sue us. I wouldn't think of it.

I'm in my groove. I love to dance. I dance up a storm. I butt grind, I make faces, I strip, I fling the Michael Jackson glove around like I'm lassoing a horse. The casting director, the director, the camera guy are all laughing. Partly because I'm funny. I hope. But there's that tinge of embarrassed titillation in it. I don't know if that's good or bad. Well, they can be embarrassed. I can't. I fling and grind until the end of the scene when I get hit in the head and end up sliding onto the chair. Dead. I personally think it's a grand ending, my eyes staring out like dead fish-eyes into space, such a contrast to the way I started. The director says no one else bothered to do the dead part. How could they not? How can they even understand the scene without it? It's not just about bopping' around. It's about bopping' around and then getting bopped. Otherwise the dancing is like frosting without the cake. Don't these guys see that? Don't they see the power of their own scene they created?

Then I'm out. "Great stuff!" they say. They sound too enthusiastic. Somehow I don't think I got it.

If only I could have taken a few more moments to be more real. Why do auditions always fly by like someone's zapped you on the head and you're just doing your best to stay standing while your head is whirling. More presence. All I can work for is to have a little more presence than I did at my last audition. Eventually, hopefully, the progress will be cumulative. I think I had a little more presence than my previous audition. Didn't I?

I brave my way down the street one more time. Oh, no! A family. The man stares, the mom looks away, the two little kids don't know what to make of me, or their parents' discomfort. I've probably scarred them for life. Their nightmares will be filled with women in rhinestone lashes and padded bras and eyes dripping with black-and-blue eyeshadow and smeared red lipstick floating up from behind their beds, terrifying them.

I run to my car and strip it all off. Ah, that was fun. But it's a relief to be back to my un-streetwalking self again.

(OK, this isn't high art, but here's the video I taped later - minus the red nails and with less makeup. Note: There are some edits to cover up the other person's lines)