It's official: I'm from outer space.

I should have been tipped off by the ad's details: ridiculously tall people wanted to be extras in a major motion picture. (Hint: I mentioned it on Wednesday.) They described me so perfectly, how could I resist? I went to the casting call, and they seemed to like me. Put a little gold star on my application. A couple days later, I got an email asking if I could come in for a fitting.

Custom clothing? I was seconds away from going out onto my balcony and waving at the adoring throngs.

Naturally my imagination started working overtime. The movie takes place in 1969, which, they said, was the year of both hippies and Mad Men. Since I am neither grubby nor tie-dyed, I figured I would be an ersatz Don Draper. They'd slick back my hair and put me in a grey flannel suit, and I'd sit in some boardroom chatting with other attractive men while somebody arm-wrestled aliens in front of us.

At the fitting, though, the costumers surprise me. A skin-tight yellow t-shirt fits me. Those acid-green pants are great. Now for a sport coat: do we have anything orange?

"I usually look good in neutrals," I hint, "with a touch of blue to bring out my eyes."

They ignore me. "Where's that purple hat?" one asks.

I stand there like Naomi Campbell as they slap on different separates on me. I look at myself in the mirror. It's actually painful. "So, what kind of character am I playing, exactly?" I ask as the rods and cones in my eyes shut down from overwork.

"You're an alien," one says, "on the boardwalk in Coney Island. You're desperately trying to look human, but you don't have a clue."

Ah. Got it. And then it hits me: that's why this scene is so unfamiliar. Usually when I go to buy clothes, clerks help me find something "attractive." Maybe "flattering." They don't scan the racks for something that says, "I have no clue about how earthlings dress!" Women don't shout "Perfect!" when I put on something that makes it look like I'm new to human form.

An hour later they finish, and I walk back to the subway. I'm a little depressed. They worked so hard at masking my attractiveness I actually start to wonder if they noticed it. "I'm not a monster!" I want to yell. "I'm a reasonably-attractive blogger!" I never thought I'd be the next Johnny Depp, but I also never thought that when I finally made it into the movies I'd be from the planet Megly-Don.

Still, all those years spent watching America's Next Top Model have taught me something: no matter what kind of crap people put you in, you sell the shit out of it. Believe me, that's what I'm going to do. This alien won't be self-conscious. This alien won't be worried that people will suspect he isn't quite what he seems.

This alien has got a hot new outfit, and he loves it. And he's watched Tyra and Project Runway and RuPaul's Drag Race, and he does what humans do when they know they look good.

Filming starts in a couple weeks, and the movie is released next year. Keep an eye out for me. No matter what Will or Tommy or whoever is doing in the foreground, look for the gaudy alien who struts and stomps and sets that goddamn boardwalk on fire.