Stan puts out his cigarette, turns all the way around in his chair, then stands up. The girl in the doorway is taller than him, and he's pretty sure she'd still be taller than him without the heels on. Blonde and metallic, she's like a runway version of Barbarella. And she's foreign. And shy. Christmas, Part II? Belated Valentine's Day? Stan is okay with whatever this is. Wait, except for the Michael part. That doesn't make sense. Who calls him that, anyway?
“He's in a meeting. I'm Stan Rizzo,” he says, walking over and leaning against the edge of Ginsberg's desk closest to the door. He puts on his mischievous flirty smirk. Guaranteed success every time (unless it's Peggy) (untested on Joan). “Were we supposed to be casting something today?”