Why am I still an actor? (part deux)

First and foremost, I want to wish everyone a happy holidays. I hope you all had very calm, non-violent interactions with your loved ones. I, for one, had a doozy of a time. I will now proceed to tell you about each and every detail at length.

Oh wait. This is not suppose to be a Thanksgiving blog. I know I'm forgetting something. What on earth could it possibly be? Was it the story of how I learned to drive?...Noooo. Was it the story of some crazy guy on the subway perhaps?...Yeah that's it. Oh right, no, it isn't. Then what, pray tell? Yes, of course, when I last left you my loyal and patient readers, I was about to appear onstage for my first ever performance.

Allow me to set the scene. I had rehearsed for weeks and weeks on this very long, and very clever monologue. My director seemed very encourage by my progress. Especially considering that I had never acted before. I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing except for one, tiny little detail. There is a huge difference between performing for your fellow actors in rehearsal, and performing in front of people you don't know. Which I would soon find out.

Now the theatre itself was what is called a Black Box Theatre. Meaning that the space can be manipulated how ever the visionary in charge wants it to be. You can place the audience on one side and the stage on the other. You could make the stage in the middle and have the audience seated around it. Or, you could freak everybody out and put the audience on the stage and then have the actors watching them. Basically, it's an endless world of possibilities. Kinda like a long weekend in Bangkok.

The reason I needed to describe the layout with so much detail was to mention this one fact. The theatre was setup in such a way where my entrance to the stage was right next to an exit for the theatre. And that particular fact is important because, I was so utterly terrified at the idea of going on to the stage that I was seriously considering going out of the door and running down the street screaming like a little girl. My heart was pounding with so much force that I felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. (Yes, that's very cliche but you've got to admit that cliches are cliches for a reason. And if a cliche fits you must acquit)

So I'm standing back stage and I'm having a serious Robert Frost moment. I am literally staring at two paths and must choose one. One the one hand, while running out of the door would have put the production in an awkward position, it certainly would have not destroyed the show. Sure there would be some inexplicably long pause, followed by some scrambling around, then some quick thinking, and ending with moving on to the next performer. But more importantly, I would have been spared the sheer terror that was coursing through my entire body at that moment. The other path was a road that I had always wanted to try. Something that I wanted to at least say that I did. It was the path that required me to do something more courageous than I had ever thought possible. I had worked incredibly hard and I was perfectly prepared to succeed. The only problem with the latter path was the fact that it was causing me to...how shall I say...shit my pants.

So I did the only thing that an incredibly insane person would do when faced with an obstacle that is causing tremendous fear...I charged into it, head on, with all of the energy and force that my mind and body could muster. (Which was a lot) And I've got to admit, it was the most liberating and proudest moment of my life. I was fueled by pure adrenaline. (Not that crap that you get off streets. The high quality shit) I was an unstoppable machine of acting prowess. I'm just glad no one was injured.

Fortunately for me, the audience was filled with other actors and friends of the theatre. Which means that regardless of whether or not it was good, (it was excellent by the way) they were all there to encourage everyone and cheer us on. In fact, my ego was a little more than inflated by the fact that the audience literally cheered after the opening segment of my monologue. And if I may foreshadow my, "thesis," at this point, I don't know too many investments bankers or lawyers who actually get cheered after a job well done.

Needless to say, I was hooked from that moment on. As the show moved through the next couple of weeks, some performances were better than others. Some audiences were better than others. I stopped crapping my pants before every show and was able to simply enjoy the moment. I had a major accomplishment under my belt. I explored something that I had always wanted to do but had been too afraid to give a shot. And not only had I done it, but it turned out that I was pretty gosh darn good at it. I made new friends, (some of whom I still know to this day) and an entirely new world was opened up to me.

I also knew that, while I was having so much fun performing on the stage, this was going to pretty much be the beginning and end of my acting career. I mean, maybe I would do some community theatre here and there. That would be fun and interesting. But there was absolutely, positively no way that I was going to be foolish enough to actually pursue acting as a full-time career. I was graduating with a degree in Mechanical Engineering. Was I supposed to just ignore that? Hell no. It just wasn't going to happen.

Or was it?

Yes it was.

(To be continued)

Why am I still an actor?

It is a question that has plagued me and my peers for ages now. Here I am, an intelligent and capable individual. I have the ability to go into an field I want and have an enormous amount of success. So why, on earth, would I continue to stay in a field where no matter how good you are, there are still no guarantees? Where no matter how talented you are, you still may only be seen in one very limited way? Where no matter how successful you become, you will always be wondering about and questioned on what you're going to do next?



Now, while I've promised myself that I would try and make my blogs a little bit shorter, it's not looking good if the following phrase is any indicator: Let me take you back to the year 1994. I was a young, handsome, abdominally-ripped senior in college. I was about to embark on a career as a mechanical engineer. (Or at least attempt to embark. More on that later) I had it all planned out. A very smooth transition into a very safe and normal life.


But there was this one thing that was kinda nagging at me. A tiny little itch that I couldn't quite scratch. A little something that I had been craving to do for quite some time. You see, when I was in the 6th grade, I joined a drama club and had a lot of fun doing that. We never actually performed for anyone but we did act out some scenes with each other. After that, I hadn't done any acting since. Now, here I was, a senior in college, and I hadn't even dared to explore the possibility of taking advantage of the theatre (with an "re" bitches) that my school had to offer. So with one semester to go, I knew that time was running out. I immediately registered for the class, Acting Techniques, and also auditioned for the school plays.


The Acting Techniques class was actually a ton of fun. I was so glad that I took it. In fact, the class actually conflicted with one of my recitations for my mechanical engineering major. For those of you who may not know, a recitation is a class that is taught by teaching assistants that I NEVER attended, as opposed to regular classes that I SOMETIMES attending. It turned out that acting like a tragic Greek hero, or a dirty cop was a lot more interesting than finding out how to determine the temperature gradients in a mechanical design. (That one's for you WACM)

The auditions, on the other hand, were a completely different roller coaster ride in itself. How can I explain this to my, "civilian," friends? Picture being a kid and told that you had to go to the Principal's office. Then picture that you have to perform a little show for the Principal when you get there. Then picture that if the Principal doesn't like it, he's going to shoot you in the face. Finally, imagine that there are about 50 other kids waiting outside the Principal's office who were told the exact same thing. And that's an audition.

But it turns out that the stars were aligning and the fates were deeming that I was destined to be cast in a show. Among the plays that were being cast was a production of, "Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll," by Eric Bogosian. A very cool one-man show that consists of various characters speaking their rather unique monologues. But this particular production used about 10 different actors to perform each of the monologues. And it just so happened that one of the characters was clearly a, "black guy." It also happened that I was the only black guy in the history of the University of Rochester to ever show any interest in theatre. I'm going to let you guess which role they wanted me to play.

Now here I am, having never acted before, and already I'm dealing with the issue of type-casting and the perpetuation of stereotypes. I mean, did I really want to play a convict? Does the world really need one more black man to act like a criminal? How is acting like a thug going to be viewed as artistic and tasteful? But after much soul-searching, I realized that it's acting. It's just acting. It's supposed to be fun. I'm supposed to pretend that I'm someone I'm not. And if people have a problem with my character, that's their problem. Besides, Eric Bogosian is the shiz-nit. Ya'mean.

Here's the part where I have to come clean. I am about to break several promises to you, my loyal reader. (Who doesn't exist according to my first blog) As you've already gleaned, this is not going to be a short entry. That's one. Here's the second. Remember when I said I hated cliffhangers? Well I still do. But clearly this is going to take a lot longer than I had originally anticipated.

Hence, tune in next time when you will learn what happened during my first performance ever, how I made the life changing decision to move to New York City and become an actor, and, most importantly, why I'm still doing it.

Exciting, ain't it?

Why Did I Ever Wear Tapered Jeans?

When I pick the subject of a blog, I try to choose from subjects that are near and dear to my heart. I also try to choose subjects from which I have a comfortable distance. Issues that have been resolved for quite some time. It is this rule that allows me to examine very sensitive subjects with honesty, perspective, and oh yes, humor. A sense of humor that will allow me to survive the inevitable barbs that will ensue.

Over the past few years, I have become somewhat of a sartorial fanatic. Which is a fancy GQ term for clothes-whore. Yes, I love clothes. Nice clothes. Expensive clothes. Designer clothes. Oh the things that I would do for a shirt with a designer label. I love the look of a well designed shirt. I love the feel of a beautiful pair of Kenneth Cole boots. And don't get me started on accessories.

But I wasn't always so deeply involved in the ways of fashionism. That's not to say that I didn't care about my appearance. But what I am saying is that you wouldn't have known it to look at me. I mean I simply had absolutely no clue how to purchase and wear clothes. And I also wasn't aware that I had no clue how to purchase and wear clothes.

In my defense, I would also like to remind you all that I am a great giant of a man. And for some god awful reason, the clothing industry does not make it easy for the giant people to purchase stylish clothes. "Well have you tried the Big and Tall stores?" (Please note: Because I am typing this, you cannot hear the mocking tone as I pose this question. But make no mistake, it is clearly there and in full, mocking force) Let me tell you a little something about the Big and Tall stores, sonny boy. They are not meant for people who are Big OR Tall. They are meant for people who are Big AND Tall. So I'd have to be my height but weighing 300 lbs in order to wear those clothes. And the jeans that I could fit on some level, were handicapped by one crucial flaw: Tapered legs.

But before I go into everything that is horrible about tapered jeans, let me talk about my transition from sartorially indifferent to clothes-whore. It started with a little show called, "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy." It changed my life. I finally understood that the clothes did, in fact, make the man. I saw the transformation of scruffy-faced crumbums and mountain men into clean-shaven, well-coiffed hipsters. And they loved it. They were happier. They were more confident. They were men who were not ashamed to get manicures. They understood the importance of proper, intelligent, and stylish footwear. But most of all, they learned that how you present yourself to the world has a strong effect on how you feel about your own sense of worth.

So I ran to various stores and made many clothing purchases with my new found alacrity for fashion. Unfortunately, watching a few episodes of a TV show doesn't really give you much of a clue about style. So I found myself buying clothes that I thought were cool in the store, but then felt like a complete and total dork when I wore them in the outside world.

Clearly I was going to need more help. And since I didn't have my own personal team of gay guys to help me, I had to swallow my pride and ask the help of my friends whose fashion senses I admired. It also meant that I had to say things like, "Dude, I admire your fashion sense. Will you go clothes shopping with me." I mean, no matter how you slice it; no matter how socially acceptable it is; no matter if these are very good friends whose opinions you trust; a statement like that is just gonna come off as gay. It just is. But I got through it.

It turns out that both male and female friends were more than willing to teach me the ropes first hand. They taught me the importance of shoes. They taught me that a form-fitting shirt is complimentary to my body while tight and constricting clothes equals a lot of attention in the Chelsea area of New York City. I was schooled on the brilliant concept known as boot-cut jeans. A wonderful invention that automatically gives style to anyone who dons their magical goodness. I learned that pleated pants are just plain wrong. And I learned my favorite rule of all: Sometimes you gotta push it. Which means that you gotta add that one element that may be a little bit out of your comfort zone. Whether it's a hat, a splash of color, or a funky accessory. That's the best way open up your own personal sense of style.

But there was one final lesson that I hadn't quite figured out yet. Why were tapered jeans so horrible. To be honest, I couldn't really tell the difference between tapered and regular jeans. But during the time I was getting help, I wasn't wearing the dreaded tapered wardrobe cancers. After about a week, I said to myself, "Are tapered jeans really that bad? I'll put on a pair and try and see what the big deal is."

Friends, let me tell you, what I saw scared the hell out of me. I could finally see, after my fashion cleansing, why tapered jeans were such a crime. Basically, they make you look like your walking around carry a big load of crap in your pants. It really does. It gives you the hips of a middle-aged, soccer mom who eats way too many Twinkies. Which is fine if you're a soccer mom but not so hot for a young bachelor. Finally, they are evocative of the early 1990's. Which, although I had a lot of fun then, had long since gone bye-bye. Did I really need to keep the memory of MC Hammer alive and well in my wardrobe. The answer was a resounding no. I immediately stripped and burned those terrible blights on my life and I haven't looked back since.

Now I'm big fan of learning a lesson in these blogs. I mean why write them if you're not going to learn something. So here it goes: It's like I said before, the clothes really do make the man. (Or the woman, fine) If you look at yourself as unworthy, your going to feel unworthy. If you're not going to walk out feeling confident about how you look on the outside, you're not going to feel particularly confident on the inside. If you look like you're carrying a load of crap in your pants, your going to feel like crap. It's an unwritten law.

One of the things that prevented me from seeking help in this department sooner was the sentiment that I didn't want to feel like I was trying to impress people. That I wanted to be myself and that people should accept me as I am. While that is true to some degree, I also needed to be aware of the messages that I was sending to myself. I am not a slob. I am transporter of crap. I am a cool, clean, sharp-minded individual. And the fact of the matter is, I need to remind myself of this fact as often as I can. It's not like we live in a world where everybody is cheering everybody else on. Oh, it is quite the contrary. Therefore, we have to be our own cheerleaders. We have to love ourselves. Ultimately, we have to impress ourselves. And since I am my own worst critic (as well as my biggest fan), if I can impress myself, then that's quite an accomplishment. And hell, if I can accomplish that, then I can accomplish anything.

Why am I excited to turn 35?

As I turn another chapter in the page of the tome that is my life, I am reminded of a conversation that I overheard many years ago. I was a much younger lad at the ripe old age of, oh let's say, 23. My very good friend, and roommate at the time, and I were sitting in our local watering hole having a few pints before heading out for a night of bacheloring. As we're sitting there, we overhear an older gentleman, in his mid-30's, having a conversation with a young lady. He is clearly trying to make a positive impression on her, as is the want of most men in that situation. Now, we did not hear the entire details of the conversation, but there was one line that jumped out at us both like a bear claw. And I don't mean the tasty, fruit-filled breakfast treat. He said the immortal words, "I'm 35...I'm just a pup."

"Oh, really," we mutually thought. "35 years old and he's thinks he's a PUP. A young maverick just heading out into the world. Ha! Ha! Don't make me laugh. My god, you really should have your shit together by the time you hit 35," thought the brash, and impudent 23 year-olds.

Ooohhhhh, brother. If I had known then...

Now, granted, neither myself, nor my old friend are in what I would call bad shape. He is married, with children, and living a very admirable and respectable life. I, am in a wonderful relationship and I'm very far removed from slinking around in bars trying to snag the first unsuspecting, drunken, nymph that gets entangled in my web of bachelorific charms. (Yes, bachelor is now a root word) However, I will also have to admit that neither of us feel that we've accomplished everything that we should have accomplished by this stage in our lives. And speaking for myself only, I can definitely say that I am a far cry from having my shit together. Oh no, it is very much apart, and cracked and dry. It's not that nice, smooth shit that...(Well you get the idea)

Without getting into too many details, (this is a blog not a diary for god's sake) I can say that a lot of my previous decisions have caught up with me a little bit. But just to give you a little idea: You can't eat whatever the hell you want for years without it eventually sticking. (I'm currently rocking 235 pounds. But I'm like 6'7" so it doesn't show as much) You can't keep quitting jobs whenever you feel like it and expect to have money saved up. And lastly, you can't run from your student loans. (At least not without a serious, high stakes plan involving a faked death)

But here's the silver lining, (young readers, take note) I've read in the classic self-help book, "Think and Grow Rich," by Napoleon Hill, that ages 35-50 are the most productive years of your life. What's that you say? How can that be? Tune in next week.

Just kidding. I'm not a big fan of cliff hangers. Here's how it works. At the age of 35, I've actually gotten tired of the bullshit. (I know. I'm just as shocked as you are) Sure, for some people it happens sooner. For others, later. For others still, never. But I think, on average, it happens around now. You just hit that age when you get tired of it.

I've gotten tired of heading out to the bars to try and, "score chicks." I've gotten tired of being in a crappy job that I didn't want to begin with, but stuck with it because I knew that once I became a rich and famous actor, that I could tell them to go fuck themselves. I've gotten tired of living my life on the run. Going underground and staying off the grid. I've gotten tired of not owning anything. (I don't even think I'm wearing my own socks right now)

So now that I'm tired of this old way of living, I'm now fully prepared to accept a new way of looking at the world. For starters, I am not giving up my desire to be a successful, full time actor. But I've realized that there are smarter ways to go about it. I've realized that there are other ways to make money than just working the bullshit jobs. I've realized that there are situations that will support my goals, not suffocate them. I've realized that I need to face my problems because running from them only makes them worse.

But the most important thing that I've realized is this: Everybody is hustling and the hustle never ends. When I say hustle, I mean like in sports. Constantly moving, constantly working, constantly busting your ass and doing things you may not want to do in service of the greater goal. And everybody does it. I mean EVERYBODY. At least, everybody who wants to have any success at anything, ever. Donald Trump, one of the richest men on the planet, is hustling to sell yet another book. Denzel Washington, one of the most successful actors out there, is still hustling to get people to see his new movie. And still hustling to get more work. My admirable, married friend, is doing all kinds of hustles to make his situation work. (I believe one of his jobs is an ordained minister)

For years, I thought that I, for some crazy reason, was above all of this. That somehow, all I had to do was show up. Then people would immediately fall for my charms and doors would automatically open for me. (Despite what you may have heard me say in the past, I have a huge ego)

Now I'm beginning to understand it all. I realize that I do have charm, and intelligence, and that doors will open up for me. But the big lesson here is that there is a lot more to it. A LOT more. A WHOLE LOT more. We all have to make sacrifices. We all have to work, in some way, shape, or form, in order to achieve that higher level. It's a little thing called being human. And I've learned that it's not all that bad to be human. Especially since I've also learned that I'm not the only one.

And the beauty of it is, starting November 4 (gifts welcome), I've got the next 15-20 years to really take advantage of this new found knowledge.