So, I walk into the spaceship and see an attractive woman laying, apparently strapped down to an operating table. She is covered with a white sheet. Intense operating lights bear down on her as aliens gesture to parts of her anatomy. The woman screams loudly. She screams and screams and screams. I decide I’ve had enough and turn to leave when a tall thin man gestures to me.

“You’re next.”, he says.

“Oh, shit.”, I say.

This isn’t exactly what signed up for, but I’m open minded and willing to try just about anything, so I take off my clothes, slip into the outfit that has been chosen for me, and put on a pair of Adidas tennis shoes I brought with me from home for the occasion. I allow a woman to take a hot, metal, iron rod to my hair and sear curls into a style — it’s not quite what I had in mind, but she seems to know what she is doing and what she has chosen to do to me seems appropriate under the circumstances. She butters my lips with some pale pink gloss, puts thick coats of mascara on my lashes, hangs big bubbly pink and white earrings from my lobes, then declares that I’m ready.

In the few moments that elapsed while I was being prepared, the interior of the space ship changed. No longer was it a frightening space, but rather a peaceful space lit with soft white light columns, a big screen along one wall and a comfortable place for me to sit. I sit and am soon joined by an alien. He’s your typical alien, the type you see in all the typical supermarket checkout stand tabloid magazines — big almond shaped eyes, loose pale green skin covering a thin skeletal frame, and an expressionless face on a head that is mostly cranium.

“Humm,” I think to myself, “with a head that huge, he must be really intelligent.”

We communicate telepathically and learn a little about each other. I smile and nod. He nods back. (Since his face is devoid of a mouth, it is impossible for him to smile back). We watch movies about planets and have a good time together.

I’m not at liberty to describe everything that happened during my visit, but my advise to anyone contemplating being abducted by space aliens is this: don’t judge an alien by his gigantic bulging eyeballs, bald head, skeletal body, pale green skin, and lack of facial expression. He might be a really nice guy inside.

Confessions of Alien Abductions, filmed in Berkeley and Mill Valley, California is produced by IndigoFilms. The series will air in late fall on Women’s Entertainment TV (We.tv).

[ring, ring]

I take a deep breath, then answer the phone. The anxious voice on the other end begins with typical pleasantries, a Japanese accent, and sounds more than a bit rushed. Beneath the attempted calm facade of the caller I detect a note of panic.

“Where are you?”, I ask.

“In the studio.”, comes the reply.

“What is the problem?”

“The synthesizer is broken.”

[silence]

I feel adrenaline beginning to rush through my body, knowing I’ll need to spring into action, but for the moment I remain seated, calm, but even as I listen and carefully take notes, I look at the clock and start to formulate a plan and calculate what is possible in the time remaining. After the caller is done, I assure him I will do all I can to help and will call him back as soon as I make the arrangements.

I grab my backpack, my phone, my keys and begin the sixty mile drive west. Through the valley and over the hills I drive until I reach the studio. I rush into the studio and realize I need help. I can’t do this alone. I go to find a young strapping fellow that looks fit enough to help me carry out my task. Once found, the two of us head back into the studio together to locate the two keyboards that must make it to Los Angeles by morning. We load the equipment into my car. I thank him, then take off for the nearest FedEx location.

At the FedEx location I am standing in a long line of people each with little white boxes donning a cheery purple and orange logo. I notice some of the packages are letter sized flats, some of the packages are shirt box sized, and some are narrow and long as if they contain blueprints or posters or yoga mats. I also notice that I am the only person in line with two huge naked keyboards by my side. The fact that the keyboards I’m with aren’t even in a white box with a cherry purple and orange logo makes me a bit of an outcast, and I see that I have become the object of curiosity to many of my fellow FedEx patrons who are staring at me. Always with an eye on the clock I ignore the stares and casually inch myself and each of the keyboards a few inches up in line every time the opportunity presents itself. Finally I make my way to the coveted spot of being the first in line.

“Next.” says the FedEx employee behind the counter.

I inch the keyboards up to the counter and explain that I need to have the keyboards boxed up and sent to Los Angeles for a studio session where they are needed tomorrow morning.

“I’m sorry.” says the FedEx employees with the white shirt with a cheery purple and orange logo.

[silence]

Apparently I’ve missed the deadline to get a package to L.A. by the morning, but I am assured that if I drive 45 miles south to another FedEx location and arrive there within the next two hours, I’ll get there before their deadline for overnight shipping.

“45 minutes in two hours? No problem.”, I say to myself as I inch the keyboards out of the store and down the street and back into my car and head south.

I arrive at my second FedEx location for the day. Again, I unload the keyboards, inch them into the FedEx store and stand in line. Again, I work my way up to the counter with my cargo and finally reach the counter to discover that I arrived with a whole 15 minutes to spare before their deadline to ship to L.A. by morning.

“Sorry,” the cherry white shirted FedEx employee says to me, “we don’t have any packing material large enough to package your keyboards. They are too big. You might want to try UPS down the street.”

[silence]

So, I scoot the keyboards back to my car, again and head down the street to UPS. There I find a jolly fellow with a plain brown shirt who is pleased to inform me that he has packing materials large enough to pack up the keyboards and can have them ready in about 30 minutes — I am relieved – but, he says he cannot get them to L.A. by tomorrow.

“You might want to try FedEx.” he suggests.

[silence]

I tell him to pack them up — I’ll be next door having a sandwich and will be back in 30 minutes. While having my sandwich and cookie, I realize that I never even combed my hair before heading out on this adventure, then I contemplate taking the boxes to San Francisco International Airport and hopping the next flight to L.A. to deliver the packages in person. I finish my late lunch and walk back to the UPS store where I find two beautifully packaged keyboards waiting for me. As I pay and thank the UPS guy, he suggests one final thing.

“The regional FedEx terminal is just a few miles down the road, you might want to check with them before you head to the airport.”

I thank him for the recommendation and load up the car with my two giant boxes and arrive at the regional FedEx terminal a few minutes later. At FedEx I am greeted by yet another cheery fellow in a white shirt with a purple and orange logo who helps me unload the packages and carry them into the building.

“Yes,” he answers to my question about getting packages to L.A. “yes, we can get your packages to L.A. by tomorrow morning.”

I smile, pleased that all will be well in the recording world tomorrow morning. All will be well.

The next morning I receive a call from Kitaro.

“Thank you. Thank you. Everything just arrived. Thank you. Thank you”, says the happy man.

“You are welcome, Kitaro. You are welcome.”, I reply.

I’m Cheryl Itamura, E.M.T. at your service.

Kitaro’s new album, ‘Sacred Journey of Ku-kai 3′, will be released September 25th in the U.S. To coincide with the release Kitaro will embark on his Peace and Love World Tour in the fall of this year. This will be a tour that will take Kitaro to the four corners of the globe, shining the spotlight of his musical message on audiences as he inspires fans from around the globe to unite as one.

My Checklist

_X_ 1 slim backless beaded halter gown

_X_ 1 blood red velvet cocktail dress

_X_ 1 flesh tone dinner dress

_X_ 1 bamboo green spaghetti strap dress with white flower design

_X_ black 3″ heels

_X_ white 3″ heels

_X_ flesh tone sandals

_X_ makeup bag

_X_ print out of Google Maps directions

_X_ 2 ripe bananas

Everything is packed, checked and I’m ready to head to the photo shoot.

You know those photos, the ones in the glossy travel magazines — the ones that show happy couples sipping fine wines together on the deck of a perfect bed and breakfast inn in a secluded resort town enjoying the good life, perfect weather, crisp linens and bountiful arrangements of fresh flowers everywhere, and a water view of a tree lined river, with birds flying over head as the faint aroma of a gourmet meal made with locally grown organic produce being prepared by a classically trained chef wafts its way to a dinner party of good, close, extremely photogenic friends with shockingly bright eyes, pearly white teeth, fantastic smiles and eerily perfect posture, who in combination happen to match current marketing demographic trends, each with flawless skin, perfectly coiffed hair, and French manicures and pedicures (yes, even on some of the guys), wearing new Tommy Bahamaesque tropical shirts, ultra-cool over-sized sunglasses, and color coordinated everything, all of whom are discussing their upcoming golf trips and band gigs, the TV shows and theater productions they are currently working on, the movies they just completed, and where to party after the photo shoot is over – well, those photos are real.

It happens. It really happens — at least in Sonoma wine country it does.

.
The photos from the aforementioned photo shoot taken on location at the Village Restaurant and Inn in Monte Rio, California along the Russian River, will appear on the website, in brochures and magazines, and in new promotional materials for the Sonoma County Tourism Bureau beginning this fall.

My morning:

6:00 AM – I wake up, wash my face, and brush my teeth.

6:15 AM – I have some tea with breakfast, rifle through yesterday’s mail, and water the tomato plants.

7:00 AM – I wash the breakfast dishes, check my email, and look at my to do list.

7:30 AM – I make my hair big, spray some sweet smelling stuff on my skin, and put shiny pink lip gloss on.

7:45 AM – I slip into my shimmery body suit, zip up my boots, and strap my invisible cape on.

7:50 AM – I turn on the GPS device implanted in my neck, the Google Maps satellite scanners in my eyes, the iPhone implanted in the back of my skull, the iPhone stereo speakers implanted in my ears, and the wireless internet connection implanted in my brain. With all systems up and running, I grab a cup of hot soy chai with the microwave mug warmer implanted in my right hand, and I’m finally ready to face the day.

8:00 AM – I go into the garage, climb into my space ship, and blast off to spend another interesting day monitoring and reporting on news of the planet.

I’m Kimi Sato.

I’m an action figure.

May the force be with you.

Planet News Now is a production of FilmArt3, a division of Three House Multimedia. Hosted by Cheryl Itamura as Kimi Sato. Written and directed by Daedalus Howell. Filmed, edited and directed by Brodie Giles. Photography by Ryan Lely. Graphics by Barney LaHaye and Brodie Giles.

I’m wearing my traditional garb, black everything. Black pants. Black halter top. Black stockings. Black knee-high, zip-up boots. Black undies. My long reddish brown hair, with blond summer highlights is billowing gently in the warm breeze and I am feeling good. I’m feeling really good. I’m having a good hair day.

My first enthusiastic stop is to the costumer.

She smiles and asks, “American or TWA?”.

“TWA.”, I smile back.

She asks, “Can you fit into a 25 inch waist?”

“24.”, I reply.

She hands me a short, bright blue, strapless dress with a thin satin sash.

“Strapless?”, I ask myself. “Flight attendants wore strapless dresses?”

Apparently in the 70’s they did.

Just as she hands me a lime tinged yellow jacket of the mini-trenchcoat variety and a pair of low black pumps, an escort whisks me away to the dressing trailer where I am to try my new uniform on.

Inside the trailer with the other flight attendants, I quickly slip out of all of my clothes and toss everything into a big pile. I remove the blue strapless dress from the hanger and slip it over my head and down over my body. The zipper is surprisingly easy to manage, and I zip it up the back.

“A little snug”, I think, “but hey, I guess ths is how it was in the 70’s.”

I tie the sash around my waist and rummage through my bag for the nude pantyhose I was asked to bring. Once found, I slip one foot into the pantyhose and then the other, and carefully pull them up my legs. As I squeeze my body into them, I suddenly realize that I haven’t worn pantyhose in quite a while and having this tight translucent casing clinging to the lower half of my body is starting to make me feel like one big giant breakfast sausage link. Sausage link feelings aside, I realize I’m hungry, start thinking of breakfast, and hope there are some decent goodies on the kraft table to munch on. Hunger and the temperature inside the trailer quickly rising to an uncomfortable high aside, I’m feeling good. I’m feeling really good. I’m having a good hair day.

Before I can seek out sustenance, I’m informed that I’m needed immediately upstairs in makeup, so, I rush up the stairs with the other stewardesses (70’s lingo for the contemporary, politically correct ‘flight attendants’) to seek out the makeup room, only to discover that we are actually expected in the makeup trailer downstairs, next to the dressing trailer we were just in. I descend the stairs with the other flight babes (another 70’s term I believe), and happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a window.

“This dress looks pretty good with my hair. I’ll look good on camera today. I’m having a good hair day.”, I muse.

My makeup lady is pleasant and assuring. Gentle brushes of all sizes and shapes fly around my face as she tints my lips and eyes and cheeks with retro makeup colors and applies eyelash extensions. The extensions feel strange, as if a gang of flies decided to make my eyelids their turf on what is now becoming a very hot summer day, but this is supposed to be the 70’s and I have to admit to myself that the ridiculously long sexy lashes do look rather good with my hair. I’m having a good hair day.

The next move I make is over to the hair lady’s chair in the makeup trailer. Just as I’m sitting down, Alan Rickman (one of the stars of the movie and coincidentally of Harry Potter, Sense and Sensibility, Love Actually and Die Hard fame) sits down in the chair next to me and says a pleasant ‘hello’.

“Hello,” I giddily reply, then say quietly to myself, “boy, I’m really glad I’m having a good hair day!”

No sooner had this most pleasant little exchange occurred, before my hair lady grabbed my head with her claws, attacked my hair with her big, giant, hairy brush and brushed every iota of style out of it. She pulled, yanked and twisted my hair with such ferocity as if to masochistically train each and every strand to obey her commands, then with the bright bulb lights around the mirrors contributing to the already uncomfortably high temperature in the trailer, and before I could attempt to put her in a headlock and try to body slam her to the floor, she pinned all of my hair to the back of my head in the tightest, most severe (read: ‘ugly’) looking French twist known to man, and then sprayed the whole thing with a thick black hair paint. At least she told me not to breathe while she was spraying it, so I don’t think she was actually trying to kill me, but she might as well have.

In ten seconds flat my hair ’stylist’ managed to completely and throughly ruin my perfectly good hair day.

I hate my hair lady and I hate 70’s hair.

“TWA, you are needed on the set!”, I hear a voice call to me from outside the makeup trailer.

“Great. Just great,” I mutter, “I’m coming!”

I don’t say ‘good bye’ or ‘have a nice day’ or anything at all to Alan, who is still sitting in his chair with the perfect looking hair that his hair lady gave him. Mr. Rickman is having a good hair day. Jealous, I slink out of the chair and out of the makeup trailer, then slowly walk over to the set and drag my feet to stand on my mark behind the TWA ticket counter.

As the glaring set lights come up on my shiny, tight, plastic looking, black hair helmet I hear the director say “action”, feel beads of sweat gathering on my scalp, and start dreaming of swimming though a big cool glistening pool of shampoo.

Bottle Shock is currently being filmed on location in Sonoma, Napa, and other picturesque wine country towns north of San Francisco, California. Stay tuned – coming up next, notes from a romantic photo shoot along the Russian River, E.M.T. and suffering for art’s sake.