Lauren Alexis. No autographs, please.

I have a face (& voice) for radio.

2006-06-05T04:28:58Z

For those of you who don't already know.....

1. I'm currently a graveyard DJ at WRAS, Georgia State's radio station. Tune in to 88.5 FM Thursday morning (or Wed. nite, as everyone else calls it) between 2-6am to hear me!! I'll keep y'all posted and let you know when I'm no longer graveyarding and receive a shift during "regular rotation."

2. I recently started an internship with Q100 doing marketing/promotions and production. Jeff, the guy who produces (& often voices) the commercials for both 99X and Q100 really liked my personality and voice and as a result, I recorded TWO voiceovers that begin airing on Q100 starting Monday, June 5!
They are both 1 minute spots. One if for Reproductive Biology Associates regarding their egg donor program. The other one is for the Compound Nightclub in ATL regarding their "naughty Saturday" event on June 10. Yup...yours truly is a vamp--a sex kitten, if you will! *rowr*

Regardless of your attitudes toward Q100 and Top 40 radio, in general, if you're bored and have a minute or two, flip it on and listen to a commerical break or two. Both spots will play for about a week. I'd really LOVE for you to hear me! They sound awe-to-the-some!!! It's so exciting! But don't worry if you miss me....they'll be more! :oD (Plus, I have a copy on CD of the two promos! Lucky you....)

The Late Night Picture Show

2006-01-24T04:27:43Z

Writing Exercise #2 for Fiction: SETTING TO CHARACTER. I'm rather proud of this one, I must admit... *wink*

The Late Night Picture Show

Dank and musty, the little cedar wedge of a room behind the screen has been converted into a storage area. Dust and cobwebs play heavenly tricks with light, and rows of wooden planks and metal rods occupy half the room, covered up by fabrics so faded and moth-worn, they’re no longer rugs but rags. The room is a war zone of splinters and tetanus, but every Friday at midnight a hodge-podge group of self-proclaimed actors brave injury and dust inhalation to perform for an audience just as young and as fucked up as they are. The other half of the room has belonged to them for the past five years after the kind, old theater owner allowed the little not-for-profit acting organization to utilize his theater for their shows, rather than their former abandoned parking lot, provided they each paid the $6.75 admission every week to perform for free.
Four shelves of wigs and Styrofoam heads sit inanimate and faceless against the back wall, each one individually labeled. In front, a dancing mirror four feet in length sits propped up horizontally on a wooden ledge now shaded in beautiful pastels thanks to the four communal makeup caboodles and their contents that are strewn all over in organized anarchy, a symbol of the group itself. To the right and left are cabinets turned into makeshift costume racks, and separate, stackable Rubbermaid drawers contain the corresponding accessories.
In a space that could fit three uncomfortably, nine people are busy dressing and undressing and respectfully fighting for mirror space. Clothes and bags are strewn everywhere—on the floor, hanging on the planks, tucked in between metal rods and wheels—and makeup and even underwear is shared. The booming voice of the emcee sounds like God—for tonight, he is—and it carries with it the loud hollering, laughs, and obscenities of the audience.
Time is running out, and Janet still is not there. She hasn’t been late for six months; punctuality is one of her specialties. Brad starts to panic, so Frank calls her as he does his makeup, but he receives only her cheerful voicemail. Magenta is prepared to switch parts, but suddenly the Exit door in the side hallway slams shut.
“So sorry, I’m late guys! My cell phone’s dead and there was construction on both 75 and Juniper! Remind me to tell Matt I’ll pay him double for a ticket next week since the front doors were already locked.”
She wiped the sweat off her brow and took one composing breath before diving into her bag. After placing her makeup case and a bottle of Purell on a nearby plank, she politely yelled for her costume and quickly folded her clothes. Olivia now; Janet in ten minutes.

A Job in the Absurd

2006-01-21T06:02:53Z

**Backstory: I am currently taking a Creative Writing class in Fiction, and my homework assignment was to vividly describe a setting and to not include characters. Well, I was stuck at work practically alone today from 10-3, so I attempted to describe my beloved Hollywood Video. Some other force just took control--I never noticed some of these things about the store before and my sarcasm about it disarms me still. The Muses sure enjoy their little games. I look forward to comments, so please, by all means...(especially you, Lupusfeuer! :o) I hope you all enjoy! (Not that anyone will read this anyway, but at least I finally posted something! ::wink:: I'll most likely do this throughout the semester with my writing assignments, so get used to it. And if you're REALLY good, maybe you'll actually get a STORY!! ::grin::)**

A JOB IN THE ABSURD
With the bend of an opposable appendage and the clichéd flick of a switch, the fluorescent lights, screaming with elegance between the cheap Styrofoam tiles, illuminate the geometric room. Taking their cue from the lights, the purple and yellow walls pop out to say hello—and won’t pop back in again until midnight. It’s finally sunny, but the idyllic outdoors contrasts sharply with the dark static from the seven working TVs that every morning call to mind the opening lines of a William Gibson novel. The 28 double-paned windows display their nakedness openly through sassy red frames. On clear days like today, the sun glares at the checkout counters, indiscriminately throwing its rays in a thousand different directions on the transparent plastic of a thousand different DVDs. In any other situation, the store would make for a glorious prism and people would come from miles around and pay the average hourly wage as the price of admission in order to witness the ricocheting ballet of light. But this isn’t any other situation (it’s a Wednesday morning in East Cobb) and prisms are made of glass. The shards force the employees in their stylish purple collared shirts to wear sunglasses indoors and squint at the computer monitors from a proximity that mothers swear will make children go blind.
It’s a windy 40 degrees outside, but the chill is not felt indoors. It’s hard for teeth to chatter and goosebumps to honk when the air conditioning constricts the feeling of your extremities. The low hums of the soda refrigerators soothe to the point of distraction, but when they quit their tune every 30 minutes, the recognition of the obvious silence is more bothersome. The silence is usually tolerable, as the doors chime upon all entrances and exits, but the doorjamb is broken again, and the right door bulges between its left twin and the outside air, adding to the draft and the silence. At least the customer service is warm. (Unless Katherine is working. Then you’re better off fighting the polar bears outside than contending with that shrew.)
Nineties computer hardware and a 2005 laser printer (but Dude, there are Dell CPUs!) sit defiantly on countertops that pretend to be white but instead show a decade’s worth of scuffs and carvings, at least on the parts that have not grown ashamed and retreated behind mail, magazines, clipboards, and months of unfiled paperwork that would make an audit this year total hell.
Art deco styles with 2005 upgrades. Warhol colors in a sedate shopping center. Resilient ‘90s computers with broken Y2K televisions. If it wasn’t so endearing in its warped acquirement of coziness, the building would laugh at its own absurdity.
And the clientele is just as ridiculous.

Silicone Valley: Celebrating 50 Years

2004-04-07T20:41:59Z

I figure that most things in life are worth doing fully, so my FIRST EVER Playboy perusing experience was with none other than the 50th Anniversary Edition. I don't know what's more shocking to most people: The fact that I hadn't looked in a Playboy until very recently or the fact that I, Little Miss Lauren Berkley, actually looked through a Playboy. I have always been told that "you read them for the articles," yet ironically, I didn't read any of them. Go figure. (I swear--if one of you makes a comment about me "looking at the pretty pictures"...*waves fist*). Rest assured, I'm not in the market for work boots to go with my tie and short haircut, I was just curious to see what all the hullabaloo was about (or lack of thereof, in this day and age) surrounding Playboy. (No, not that kind of curious, you smart ass...) I mean, duh, I knew the basics--Boobies. Guys like boobies. But was there actual substance? Or was it truly just plastic?

I have always been told that Playboy is “much more glamorous, much more tasteful" than the other magazines of its type out there. Yes, the fact that each picture has only one model in a non-provocative pose and that all the models in Playboy DO look glamorous does make it more appealing to my virginal eyes, but in my opinion, only the photos I saw of the earlier years makes it “decent." I didn't mind seeing photos of the infamous Marilyn or Bettie Page or Jayne Mansfield or Raquel Welch or Cindy Crawford or even Pamela ( and Anna Nicole majorly slim!! And Vanna White?! Wha--?!), but one photo I saw repulsed me: WHO THE HELL WANTS TO SEE JOAN COLLINS NAKED?! She looked like she raided Liza Minnelli’s makeup bag. Tarver, what the HELL were you thinking?! “I’d rather see Joan Collins naked than Suzanne Somers…look at that! Ewwww....gross!” Even Michele agreed. Granted, at least it was Collins and not Rivers (*shudder*), but still...and at least Suzanne was lying on her stomach across the beach, so she was pretty much covered by the sand or her elbows. Lauren did not need to see Joan’s “dynasties” poking above that single strip of silk draped across her torso. And all the women looked cold (*wink wink*). Here’s a thought: Maybe they should have worn CLOTHES!!

However, I was more than SHOCKED as to what I saw in that edition...those who say that Playboy shows just boobs are LIARS! I could have lived a perfectly content, productive life without seeing another woman’s “shrubbery,” if you catch my drift. Let alone the fact that it was blatantly obvious to tell if the model had the Beckham, the Hollywood, or neither of the two (DON’T EVEN ASK how I know those nicknames...). Since when did Modesty fall off the List of Virtues?

I also learned about the top 50 inventions that have changed the world, including the Barbie Doll, the introduction of porn on DVD, and the Hitachi Vibrating Massager—“12 inches of perfectly-shaped enjoyment” for the ladies that “wasn’t just for the shower anymore.” And just in case you’re the kind of person who isn’t turned on by 3-D women (hahahaha...“D”...I crack myself up) or you just can’t get enough of mammaries, the 50th Edition even had comic strips where the female characters were topless.

Call me a prude and call me old-fashioned, but 99% of the photos were less than respectable (Oh, God! Not Chyna! My eyes, my eyes! *shudder*), but I guess that compared to the other magazines of its kind out there, Playboy really is more like the Emily Post of the girlie mags. But “tasteful”? Maybe if you’re the type who gets off on licking the pages. *double shudder*

Now...where did I put that Playgirl?...

The Premiere

2004-04-07T00:45:01Z

Like the clever subject title? Yeah, well, don't expect those often, but I'll try. What to say, what to say...great! I went through that huge dog and pony show to set up this account, and now I have nothing profound to say! Figures! *grumbles* Well, there's nothing like being a follower--thanks, scrapbookgirl and alphabain for the idea and the motivation to set up one of these things. Now people will no longer have to HEAR what I have to say...they'll have to READ it! Haha! Take that! Of course, like Jim Carrey says in the AMAZING Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, "Constantly talking is not necessarily communicating." Hmmm...well, THAT'S profound...too bad I didn't come up with it. (Damn you, Charlie Kaufman!) So much for being original...I REALLY AM a copycat! Hehe! Makes a lot of sense though. Ever notice how sometime NOT talking is the best way to convey thoughts and feelings? Ah...how romantic! Unless, of course, that "sometime" is when someone is REALLY pissed at you, and they're death-glaring at you, sizing you up and figuring how short of time would be needed for them to totally take you, and then figuring out how long the oven needs to be set, and how the long the Chianti needs to sit out to capture the richest flavor...but anyways, I digress. You know what's odd? Besides, Slinkys, green and purple Ketchups, and Bjork's sense of style? (Ok, well, that last one is just plain WEIRD...) You know how some people love to hear themselves talk (hey! be nice! I'm rubber and you're glue, man...), well, I'm already getting to love hearing myself write!...well--er--you know what I mean. I'll try from now on to write meaningful stuff, not meaningless fluff and thoughts to ponder not pointless fodder--and hopefully make you laugh occasionally! Just consider this a test entry. I'm still trying to figure this whole online journal thing out. Please respond and post comments every once and awhile when it moves you (my writing can have that affect on people). And please, tell your friends! (But p-l-e-a-s-e: Hold the fava beans; I don't like them. ;oD )