I really don't understand a thing. Truly. I don't know how anything works or why anything works. I have no idea why exactly four months would pass before I felt compelled to blog again. It's just a coincidence, I suppose. But the simple fact is that I'm waiting for my phone to ring right now. And whether or not it rings is entirely out of my control. It's up to a group of people who are working together and who all have their opinion about whether or not my phone should ring. And at the end of the day, only one decision will be made.
I walked into the room once, I showed them my hair. I ran my fingers through it from all angles. I have nice hair. Thanks for that one, mom and dad. I smiled and said my name. I went home. Two days later, I went back. And I showed them my hair again. Only this time, they were all in the room watching me. Not just from the screens of their agengy-funded Macs. I wasn't a 300x250 pixel media player. I was in a chair. Showing them my hair. Again. And my hands. Because they can't be too scarred or disfigured. They liked my hair, and five minutes later, I left. I made light conversation when necessary. I acted like a professional. But I didn't do anything that required a shred of skill, talent, training or intellect. I modeled. In a chair. And, for the mostpart, they liked what they saw.
Now I'm waiting. Because they really liked me. And through no accomplishment of my own, I might soon be thousands of dollars richer and very, very bald. How curious. My face, my hair and my hands might pay my rent for the next two years. Not what's beneath them.
I'm waiting to find out what I'm going to be doing on December 15th. Waiting to find out if I'll make the guaranteed couple grand for the shoot. Waiting to find out if I'll become SAG-eligible. Waiting to find out if I'll finally find my way into the union. Waiting to find out if I'm actually going to be a pro. Waiting to find out if the couple days work I might have ahead will yield tens of thousands of dollars in usage and residual checks over the next year. Waiting to find out if I have to shave off all my hair. Waiting to find out if I'm going to have to start regrowing my hair on December 16th.
Tens of thousands of dollars, an elusive SAG card, and a bald head are all at stake. They are on the line and they could be mine, or they could not. And there isn't a single thing I can do to make either outcome happen. That's what this wait is like. And that is why I started to blog. Because the road that is in front of me right now could absolutely go anywhere, and I have absolutely no control over that.
Hooray for Hollywood.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The End of Childhood
"You look great for your age."
It's kind of a backhanded compliment, isn't it? On one hand, you're telling someone he or she looks great. And on the other, you're telling him or her they're old. I turned 34 over the weekend. Shocking. Not to you...to me. Because, when I look in the mirror, I still see the gawky teenager with his arm raised over his head, searching/praying for armpit hair. But I am in fact 34. A "thirtysomething." In my "mid-thirties." I'm starting to ask for decaf after dinner, think kids drive too fast or carelessly, and look at hot 22-year olds and say, "they're just babies." And I hope it's just coincidence that cardigan sweaters have made a comeback. Because even if they hadn't, I'd probably be wearing them anyways.
So the next time I'm surprised by the youthful appearance of someone over 30, I'm going to respectfully say "okay." Because until 3 days ago, I, like so many well-intended others, regularly went with the line, "Oh! You look great for your age." But thanks to a conversation with a 23-year old cocktail waitress at the perpetually immature Cabo Cantina 3 days ago, I resolved to delete the aforementioned stock response from my operating system. When Shannon learned of my birthday, she guessed I was 27. I was elated. A little too excited. She probably thought I was a dancer. And when I told her I was actually turning 34 in about 16 minutes, she sincerely told me I look great for my age.
That's when it hit me. I'm at the age now where people younger than you begin to take pity on you. No 26-year old gets told he looks great for his age. 34 is about the time when shit starts to fall apart. 34 is the plateau at the top of the bell curve, and you'll soon begin your gradual descent into stiffness, dessert-regret and elbow/knee support braces during any physical activity. That's where I am. Careful not to linger here too long...it can get a little depressing.
But life is yin and yang, thank god. While I could see this solely as the commencement of my physical deterioration, fortunately my life needs and interests also shift. I have interests that don't require me to look my finest, binge on tequila and dance til dawn. I actually have interests that require me to think my sharpest, try my hardest and be committed and creative. Kind of boring, compared to hot-tubbing with hot 22-year olds. But that shit is flash and fleeting. And when you start "looking good for your age," you're ready to enjoy life with a little or a lot less flash. You're ready to start making your mark. I think that my childhood has officially ended. No need to be sad. I can spill a few drops for the fallen ghosts of my previous self. But now is the perilous time where if you don't grow, you'll start earning your chevrons for being the creepy guy at the club. If you still want to go to the club every weekend, then some other needs of yours just haven't kicked in. Now is about the time when you begin to get stuck in pussygetterland...a place where men wear clothing styles ten years their junior. A place where they conduct fashion experiments like accessorizing with an ivory cane or a doo-rag beneath their fedoras. It's a scary place to be, and you can become a caricature almost instantly. Ask me about the guy with Sandra at the Dodgers game some time. No thanks.
Back to reality.
I heard someone say that life begins at 40. I'm fucking betting the farm on that one. It better come through. I'm trusting my gut on that one. Because while my face might not have changed that much, my brain and needs have. So call me in 10 years. If I'm living in a modest but beautiful home in a wonderful city, then you'll know I won the bet. Life began at 40. And you'll come over for a barbeque with some good conversation and some cold Mexican beers. And be sure to bring your swim suit. Because, there will definitely be a hot tub out back.
It's kind of a backhanded compliment, isn't it? On one hand, you're telling someone he or she looks great. And on the other, you're telling him or her they're old. I turned 34 over the weekend. Shocking. Not to you...to me. Because, when I look in the mirror, I still see the gawky teenager with his arm raised over his head, searching/praying for armpit hair. But I am in fact 34. A "thirtysomething." In my "mid-thirties." I'm starting to ask for decaf after dinner, think kids drive too fast or carelessly, and look at hot 22-year olds and say, "they're just babies." And I hope it's just coincidence that cardigan sweaters have made a comeback. Because even if they hadn't, I'd probably be wearing them anyways.
So the next time I'm surprised by the youthful appearance of someone over 30, I'm going to respectfully say "okay." Because until 3 days ago, I, like so many well-intended others, regularly went with the line, "Oh! You look great for your age." But thanks to a conversation with a 23-year old cocktail waitress at the perpetually immature Cabo Cantina 3 days ago, I resolved to delete the aforementioned stock response from my operating system. When Shannon learned of my birthday, she guessed I was 27. I was elated. A little too excited. She probably thought I was a dancer. And when I told her I was actually turning 34 in about 16 minutes, she sincerely told me I look great for my age.
That's when it hit me. I'm at the age now where people younger than you begin to take pity on you. No 26-year old gets told he looks great for his age. 34 is about the time when shit starts to fall apart. 34 is the plateau at the top of the bell curve, and you'll soon begin your gradual descent into stiffness, dessert-regret and elbow/knee support braces during any physical activity. That's where I am. Careful not to linger here too long...it can get a little depressing.
But life is yin and yang, thank god. While I could see this solely as the commencement of my physical deterioration, fortunately my life needs and interests also shift. I have interests that don't require me to look my finest, binge on tequila and dance til dawn. I actually have interests that require me to think my sharpest, try my hardest and be committed and creative. Kind of boring, compared to hot-tubbing with hot 22-year olds. But that shit is flash and fleeting. And when you start "looking good for your age," you're ready to enjoy life with a little or a lot less flash. You're ready to start making your mark. I think that my childhood has officially ended. No need to be sad. I can spill a few drops for the fallen ghosts of my previous self. But now is the perilous time where if you don't grow, you'll start earning your chevrons for being the creepy guy at the club. If you still want to go to the club every weekend, then some other needs of yours just haven't kicked in. Now is about the time when you begin to get stuck in pussygetterland...a place where men wear clothing styles ten years their junior. A place where they conduct fashion experiments like accessorizing with an ivory cane or a doo-rag beneath their fedoras. It's a scary place to be, and you can become a caricature almost instantly. Ask me about the guy with Sandra at the Dodgers game some time. No thanks.
Back to reality.
I heard someone say that life begins at 40. I'm fucking betting the farm on that one. It better come through. I'm trusting my gut on that one. Because while my face might not have changed that much, my brain and needs have. So call me in 10 years. If I'm living in a modest but beautiful home in a wonderful city, then you'll know I won the bet. Life began at 40. And you'll come over for a barbeque with some good conversation and some cold Mexican beers. And be sure to bring your swim suit. Because, there will definitely be a hot tub out back.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Thank you, Road House
I don't know how it happened. But I guess you could say Road House was my tipping point. It was about 5 years ago that I thought it would be nice to have my own blog. For whatever reason, I just couldn't muster the effort to start it. Pathetic, I know. I'm not that proud here. But as I consumed my dinner on the couch last night, I picked up the middle of the 1989 Patrick Swayze classic, Road House, on TNT. And the pleasure with which I watched that movie simply inspired me to finally get this damn blog up and running. There is no math there.
I've needed a place to drain my mental tank. Too much nonsense and sense swirls around in it, all day long. And my blog is where I can empty it. Get it out. Because that stuff is why I once walked out of my apartment without remembering to put on my pants. Shoes were on. That stuff is why putting away my laundry becomes an evening spent rearranging my entire room. Maybe it's useful out here. But holed up inside, it's not serving me. So, I finally birthed my first blog post, 260 weeks late. I imagine the baby weight will linger for a while.
So, how on earth did Road House compel me to write? Simply because it's the most perfect bad movie ever. It's the paragon. It's why networks like TNT exist. It's absolutely the best waste of time. So few really awful movies are capable of keeping my ass planted on the sofa for up to 2 hours. Road House is a winning loser from start to finish. Bloodsport is a close second.
Anyone who hasn't seen Road House has never had cable at any point in their lives. Women know it because Patrick Swayze is shirtless in his prime. Men know it because Patrick Swayze tears out people's throats with his bare hands and utters legendary one-liners, such as "pain don't hurt." Gay men know it because Patrick Swayze is shirtless in his prime.
Here is the recipe, as I see it, for the greatest bad movie ever:
1) Take a little-known, redneck town like Jasper, MO.
2) Add a dangerously rowdy bar with plenty of drinking, cheating, fighting and women. Give it a catchy name, like "The Double Deuce."
3) Introduce Dalton–a handsome, undersized "cooler" (that's bar speak for the guy who manages the bouncers) with a penchant for philosophy. Ask him to "clean things up" at the too-violent bar.
4) Sprinkle in well-orchestrated bar fights, car/motorcycle stunts, explosions and sideboob shots throughout.
5) Have Dalton become an advocate for the Jasper locals who are bullied by town millionaire/gangster, Brad Wesley.
6) Piss off Wesley so much that he starts exacting revenge on Dalton's friends, and have every vengeful act perpetrated by a maniacally-laughing villain.
7) Top it off with a climactic fight sequence at Wesley's ostentatious country mansion, where Dalton methodically takes out the Wesley's henchmen, and eventually Wesley himself.
That's the blueprint. But as they say, god is in the details:
• During a heated conversation with Dalton about skipping town, Dalton's friend and mentor, Wade Garrett (played effortlessly by Sam Elliot), calmly catches and blocks a sudden right cross from Dalton with his own hand, 2 inches from his own face. No flinch. Just a gravelly-delivered cliché.
• Towards the end of the film, a much-anticipated fight between Dalton and Wesley's top goon, Johnny, ends with Dalton TEARING JOHNNY'S THROAT OUT WITH HIS BARE HAND.
• During an early fight, Dalton suffers a hearty laceration near his ribcage. While sitting on the doctor's examination table the next day awaiting his stitches, Dalton refuses the doctor's offer of anesthesia. The disbelieving doctor (who is blonde, hot and Kelly Lynch) asks why. Dalton's reply is because "pain don't hurt." The next day, Dalton fucks the doctor against a wall in the guest house he rents from a local farmer.
• The house band at The Double Double not only plays behind a chain-link fence, but it's fronted by a blind-guitarist named Cody, who's played by blues legend Jeff Healey.
• A fat henchmen nicknamed 'Dozer gets taken out in the final scene when a taxidermied polar bear falls and crushes him.
• Johnny dispatches of 3 Double Deuce bouncers at once, using a pool cue as his weapon.
• Wesley destroys a non-complying car dealer's inventory by having one of his goons drive a monster truck through the showroom.
I honestly could go on for way too long. This is beyond self-indulgent. But who cares? I did this for me. And if you stuck around this long, then I sincerely thank you for your time. I hope you enjoyed post one. While not my intention, hopefully this post cements my heterosexuality in everyone's minds. Future posts may be about more relevant or meaningful topics. Or they may be even more obscure and useless as this one.
So, thanks for listening. And thank you, Road House, for starting this fight.
I've needed a place to drain my mental tank. Too much nonsense and sense swirls around in it, all day long. And my blog is where I can empty it. Get it out. Because that stuff is why I once walked out of my apartment without remembering to put on my pants. Shoes were on. That stuff is why putting away my laundry becomes an evening spent rearranging my entire room. Maybe it's useful out here. But holed up inside, it's not serving me. So, I finally birthed my first blog post, 260 weeks late. I imagine the baby weight will linger for a while.
So, how on earth did Road House compel me to write? Simply because it's the most perfect bad movie ever. It's the paragon. It's why networks like TNT exist. It's absolutely the best waste of time. So few really awful movies are capable of keeping my ass planted on the sofa for up to 2 hours. Road House is a winning loser from start to finish. Bloodsport is a close second.
Anyone who hasn't seen Road House has never had cable at any point in their lives. Women know it because Patrick Swayze is shirtless in his prime. Men know it because Patrick Swayze tears out people's throats with his bare hands and utters legendary one-liners, such as "pain don't hurt." Gay men know it because Patrick Swayze is shirtless in his prime.
Here is the recipe, as I see it, for the greatest bad movie ever:
1) Take a little-known, redneck town like Jasper, MO.
2) Add a dangerously rowdy bar with plenty of drinking, cheating, fighting and women. Give it a catchy name, like "The Double Deuce."
3) Introduce Dalton–a handsome, undersized "cooler" (that's bar speak for the guy who manages the bouncers) with a penchant for philosophy. Ask him to "clean things up" at the too-violent bar.
4) Sprinkle in well-orchestrated bar fights, car/motorcycle stunts, explosions and sideboob shots throughout.
5) Have Dalton become an advocate for the Jasper locals who are bullied by town millionaire/gangster, Brad Wesley.
6) Piss off Wesley so much that he starts exacting revenge on Dalton's friends, and have every vengeful act perpetrated by a maniacally-laughing villain.
7) Top it off with a climactic fight sequence at Wesley's ostentatious country mansion, where Dalton methodically takes out the Wesley's henchmen, and eventually Wesley himself.
That's the blueprint. But as they say, god is in the details:
• During a heated conversation with Dalton about skipping town, Dalton's friend and mentor, Wade Garrett (played effortlessly by Sam Elliot), calmly catches and blocks a sudden right cross from Dalton with his own hand, 2 inches from his own face. No flinch. Just a gravelly-delivered cliché.
• Towards the end of the film, a much-anticipated fight between Dalton and Wesley's top goon, Johnny, ends with Dalton TEARING JOHNNY'S THROAT OUT WITH HIS BARE HAND.
• During an early fight, Dalton suffers a hearty laceration near his ribcage. While sitting on the doctor's examination table the next day awaiting his stitches, Dalton refuses the doctor's offer of anesthesia. The disbelieving doctor (who is blonde, hot and Kelly Lynch) asks why. Dalton's reply is because "pain don't hurt." The next day, Dalton fucks the doctor against a wall in the guest house he rents from a local farmer.
• The house band at The Double Double not only plays behind a chain-link fence, but it's fronted by a blind-guitarist named Cody, who's played by blues legend Jeff Healey.
• A fat henchmen nicknamed 'Dozer gets taken out in the final scene when a taxidermied polar bear falls and crushes him.
• Johnny dispatches of 3 Double Deuce bouncers at once, using a pool cue as his weapon.
• Wesley destroys a non-complying car dealer's inventory by having one of his goons drive a monster truck through the showroom.
I honestly could go on for way too long. This is beyond self-indulgent. But who cares? I did this for me. And if you stuck around this long, then I sincerely thank you for your time. I hope you enjoyed post one. While not my intention, hopefully this post cements my heterosexuality in everyone's minds. Future posts may be about more relevant or meaningful topics. Or they may be even more obscure and useless as this one.
So, thanks for listening. And thank you, Road House, for starting this fight.
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