For this week's blog I'm going to break two of my hard and fast rules. First off, it's actually going to be a pretty short entry. (Well, at least I'll try) Second, I'm actually going to discuss something that I'm currently experiencing as opposed to some past story that I can look on with some distance and perspective.
I discovered a couple of days ago that all of my jeans decided to rip at the same time. It's like they formed a union. They made some bizarre clothing pact that they would exit my life in the same unified manner in which they entered. Which was fine for me. No big deal. I would simply go to my favorite store in the world, Dave's, and buy new jeans.
Here's the thing about Dave's. It's been the only place in the city where I can actually pick and choose from a decent selection of pants. As many of you know, I am a giant of a man, towering over all of you little minions at a whopping 6'7". I'm also a fairly thin man and Dave's was the only store that could provide for my very particular needs.
But just the other day, I rolled into Dave's and grabbed my usual selection of jeans in the size that I've always worn. 36" waist and a 36" inseam. I found at least 3 pairs of jeans that fit my style. Unfortunately, when I went into the dressing room, they didn't seem willing to fit my ass.
It seems that over the past year or so, I've probably put on a good 20 pounds. And to be honest, not all of it has been rock solid muscle. Which actually should be a good thing. I've always considered myself a skinny guy and I've always hated that. For most of my life, I've been craving the ability to, "bulk up." Now I've done it. And you know what the funny thing is? It really doesn't make that much of a difference. Because I'm so epic in my proportions, a weight of 235 pounds just doesn't read as massive. But that's also a good thing because, over the past few years, I come to love my rather thinnish frame. (Yeah, I like to frequently switch my views on my self-image. What's wrong with that?)
But I'm digressing here. Let's go back to Dave's for a minute. So the 36"x36" jeans don't fit anymore. Fine. Let's just go up to the 38"x36". Okay, the selection is down to one. But that's cool. As long as they aren't tapered.(wink) I'll be fine at that size, right? Wrong. Turned out, those jeans didn't fit either. And they didn't even think about carrying jeans in a 40"x36". I had literally, outgrown Dave's.
So to be honest, I'm not really sure what is upsetting me more. The fact that I no longer have the ripped abs that my 24 year old body obtained so easily. The fact that I now may have to actually, "watch what I eat," and, "exercise." Or, could it be the simple fact that I no longer have my favorite store to rely on anymore. The one place in the world where I could just grab some pants, buy them, and go about my life.
I do, however, have to take a lot of other factors into consideration. For one thing, I did quit smoking. And when that happens, the body is naturally going to add weight. And I think 20 extra pounds is better than, oh, I don't know, lung cancer. Also, I am getting a little bit older. If I were an NBA player, I'd be coming to the end of my long and illustrious career. Lastly, I'm just not as active as I used to be. In the past I would naturally play basketball and Rollerblade simply because I was bored. Now I surf the web and see what new applications are on Facebook. (Activities that aren't necessarily known for burning calories)
But rest assured, my friends, of a couple of things. First off, even with the extra weight, I am still smoking hot. Secondly, I can still order jeans off the Internet and just patch up the old ones until they arrive. Lastly, I think that all of these little events have provided a nice little reminder of all the things that I used to enjoy. Things that I have gotten away from. Things that I want to get back into. I'm not just the edgy, creative, and boundary-pushing New York actor. I'm also, the multi-faceted, agile athlete. It's time to let that side of me resurface. Give me about a month or so and I'll be dunking on all of your punk asses. And I don't mean donuts.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Why did I quit Playa Hatin'?
So I have a confession to make. If you've read the title of this week's blog you may have already figured it out. But for those of you who were simply to busy to waste your time with it, I'll tell you now. I am a recovering Playa Hata. Yes, it's true. I'm a little ashamed to admit it. However, admitting that you have a problem is the first step towards recovery.
I would also like to mention that this self-diagnosis occurred many years ago. And that since then, I've come to not only stop hatin' the Playas, but also to (dare I say) love the Playas. And even, learn a trick or two for myself.
But it wasn't all wine and roses. Cheese and Crackers. Peanut Butter and Jelly. (I'll stop now) Nor was it always about hatin' the Playas either. In fact, when I look back on it, before I had developed my unfortunate condition, I actually stood in open admiration of the Playa. In fact, they were my gods. I looked up to them. Begged them to teach me their ways. Many of them were kind and would try to offer me esoteric advice that I couldn't possibly understand at the time. Things like, "It's all in how you play the game," or, "You just got to know it," or, "Just don't think about it."
While I've admired and respected their attempts to be helpful, I honestly didn't know what any of that fucking meant. I mean really. These, "Riddles of the Sphinx," and Zen Koans just weren't cutting it. I needed some step by step, detailed answers. But I would not be discouraged. I felt that one day, with time, I would truly be able to call these people my brothers.
Sadly, this would not be the case. At least not for a much longer while. Unfortunately for me, I started to give in to the feelings that led to the path of the dark side of the force. Fear. Anger. Resentment. Jealousy. All useless and petty emotions that possess unhealthy and destructive consequences.
I think that this shift in my thinking started when I began to surround myself with a much more, how shall I say, "ignorant," group of people. It went down like this, after a series of unfortunate events, I chose to seek employment in the service industry. And since I had very little experience, the best possible job that I could get was as a bartender at an Applebee's in downtown Brooklyn. (Please stop laughing so that I can finish my story)
Now, I don't want to say that this establishment was, "ghetto," but I will put it to you this way: It was one of the few places where the bar clientele would consistently ask for alcoholic drinks to be placed in a, "To Go," cup. Where people routinely complained that their BananaBerry Splits didn't have enough of an alcohol taste. Where the patrons would quite often ring up a $100 bar tab and proceed to tip $5.
This was also an establishment where many (But not all, I did make some very good friends there) of the employees had a distinct habit of boasting about what they had. (Whether it was true or not) They also had a very distinct habit of making you feel less than stellar about yourself if you did not possess certain skillz. And I have to admit (it wouldn't be my blog if I wasn't admitting something) that my very delicate and fragile ego was not really strong enough to handle such critiques. And as time passed, and the boasting became more overt and more frequent, I began to grow more bitter and more resentful. And my journey to the dark side had been complete.
But thankfully, I was able to turn it around. It began my getting out of that horrendous situation and moving on to something that I could feel a little more proud of. Also, it involved connecting more with my actual friends. The people who were on my side. The people whose opinions actually mattered. The people who didn't mind being supportive once in a while. (Even when they're busting your balls)
I also continued to seek help in various self-help books and makeover shows on TV (See: Why did I ever wear tapered jeans?) and pretty soon I was able to feel confident in myself and was able to achieve some success.
Now, here's the M. Knight Shamalan-ian twist that I gonna bust out on you. When I use the term, "Playa," I'm not simply referring to the gentleman who has a lot of luck with the ladies. Au contraire. I also refer to the man or woman that just seems to have that ability to get what he or she wants all the time. That skilled business person. That resourceful entrepreneur. The notable figure. Yes my friends, these are all Playas and I was Hatin' on all of them.
The reason that I bring this up is that fairly recently, I've had the opportunity to see a few of my friends, and friends of friends, and even some guy I went to high school with, enjoy a certain level of success. And that's wonderful. That's great. I truly am happy for all of them.
But wait. What's that in the corner of my soul? Why, it's probably nothing. Maybe some bad Chinese food? No. It has a distinct ring of something familiar. Something I've felt before. Yes. I believe it may be a tiny ounce of, "Haterade."
Well that simply will not do. Just because others are having success doesn't mean that it can't happen for me as well. I think back to one of the quotes from my Playa gurus, "You've got to fake it until you make it."
Yes! I get it now. I understand. It's all made sense. Again. But that's okay. The really important lessons take a little bit longer to learn. Basically, I must continue to act as if I have everything that I want. I must be clear about what it is that I want. I must continue to take the steps to make what I want happen. And according to the Law of Attraction (my new religion), the happier I am for every one's success, the more that success will come back to me. And besides, who wants to hang around, work with, or provide opportunities for a, "Grumpy Gus," anyway? Not me. That's for sure.
"He's beginning to believe."
--Morpheus
I would also like to mention that this self-diagnosis occurred many years ago. And that since then, I've come to not only stop hatin' the Playas, but also to (dare I say) love the Playas. And even, learn a trick or two for myself.
But it wasn't all wine and roses. Cheese and Crackers. Peanut Butter and Jelly. (I'll stop now) Nor was it always about hatin' the Playas either. In fact, when I look back on it, before I had developed my unfortunate condition, I actually stood in open admiration of the Playa. In fact, they were my gods. I looked up to them. Begged them to teach me their ways. Many of them were kind and would try to offer me esoteric advice that I couldn't possibly understand at the time. Things like, "It's all in how you play the game," or, "You just got to know it," or, "Just don't think about it."
While I've admired and respected their attempts to be helpful, I honestly didn't know what any of that fucking meant. I mean really. These, "Riddles of the Sphinx," and Zen Koans just weren't cutting it. I needed some step by step, detailed answers. But I would not be discouraged. I felt that one day, with time, I would truly be able to call these people my brothers.
Sadly, this would not be the case. At least not for a much longer while. Unfortunately for me, I started to give in to the feelings that led to the path of the dark side of the force. Fear. Anger. Resentment. Jealousy. All useless and petty emotions that possess unhealthy and destructive consequences.
I think that this shift in my thinking started when I began to surround myself with a much more, how shall I say, "ignorant," group of people. It went down like this, after a series of unfortunate events, I chose to seek employment in the service industry. And since I had very little experience, the best possible job that I could get was as a bartender at an Applebee's in downtown Brooklyn. (Please stop laughing so that I can finish my story)
Now, I don't want to say that this establishment was, "ghetto," but I will put it to you this way: It was one of the few places where the bar clientele would consistently ask for alcoholic drinks to be placed in a, "To Go," cup. Where people routinely complained that their BananaBerry Splits didn't have enough of an alcohol taste. Where the patrons would quite often ring up a $100 bar tab and proceed to tip $5.
This was also an establishment where many (But not all, I did make some very good friends there) of the employees had a distinct habit of boasting about what they had. (Whether it was true or not) They also had a very distinct habit of making you feel less than stellar about yourself if you did not possess certain skillz. And I have to admit (it wouldn't be my blog if I wasn't admitting something) that my very delicate and fragile ego was not really strong enough to handle such critiques. And as time passed, and the boasting became more overt and more frequent, I began to grow more bitter and more resentful. And my journey to the dark side had been complete.
But thankfully, I was able to turn it around. It began my getting out of that horrendous situation and moving on to something that I could feel a little more proud of. Also, it involved connecting more with my actual friends. The people who were on my side. The people whose opinions actually mattered. The people who didn't mind being supportive once in a while. (Even when they're busting your balls)
I also continued to seek help in various self-help books and makeover shows on TV (See: Why did I ever wear tapered jeans?) and pretty soon I was able to feel confident in myself and was able to achieve some success.
Now, here's the M. Knight Shamalan-ian twist that I gonna bust out on you. When I use the term, "Playa," I'm not simply referring to the gentleman who has a lot of luck with the ladies. Au contraire. I also refer to the man or woman that just seems to have that ability to get what he or she wants all the time. That skilled business person. That resourceful entrepreneur. The notable figure. Yes my friends, these are all Playas and I was Hatin' on all of them.
The reason that I bring this up is that fairly recently, I've had the opportunity to see a few of my friends, and friends of friends, and even some guy I went to high school with, enjoy a certain level of success. And that's wonderful. That's great. I truly am happy for all of them.
But wait. What's that in the corner of my soul? Why, it's probably nothing. Maybe some bad Chinese food? No. It has a distinct ring of something familiar. Something I've felt before. Yes. I believe it may be a tiny ounce of, "Haterade."
Well that simply will not do. Just because others are having success doesn't mean that it can't happen for me as well. I think back to one of the quotes from my Playa gurus, "You've got to fake it until you make it."
Yes! I get it now. I understand. It's all made sense. Again. But that's okay. The really important lessons take a little bit longer to learn. Basically, I must continue to act as if I have everything that I want. I must be clear about what it is that I want. I must continue to take the steps to make what I want happen. And according to the Law of Attraction (my new religion), the happier I am for every one's success, the more that success will come back to me. And besides, who wants to hang around, work with, or provide opportunities for a, "Grumpy Gus," anyway? Not me. That's for sure.
"He's beginning to believe."
--Morpheus
Monday, January 14, 2008
Why do I meet such interesting people? (the exciting conclusion)
To be perfectly honest, I had never heard of Brittany Andrews before I met her. I had never seen a single one of her movies. I still haven't. But that doesn't mean that I haven't seen one or two adult videos in my lifetime. And since it's just you and me here, I'll go so far as to say that I'm quite the fan of the adult videos. (Or porn, if you want to be crass) I'll also go so far as to say that, since I am a huge fan, I went absolute ape-shit.
I must tell you my friends, I am simply not the type of guy that can just play it cool in the face of celebrity. Nor am I capable of keeping my mouth shut when I'm excited. I proceeded to bombard this woman with questions about the industry. Allow me to provide you with a few highlights from our little Q & A.
Me: "Have you ever worked with Ron Jeremy?"
Her: "Yes. He's a very cool guy."
Me: "Have you ever worked with Tera Patrick?" (Who I love)
Her: "Yes. She's a complete bitch. She needs to learn respect."
Me: "Ooooo"
Me: "Have you ever worked with Jon Dough?"
Her: "He is a complete cock-sucker."
Me: "Have you ever been on the Howard Stern show?"
Her: "Yes. Several times."
Oh, I went on and on. She was very open and cool. Brittany, my friend J, and I all were having a wonderful chat. It just seemed to be going so well. We laughed, we cried, we had a blast. But it wasn't all laughing and crying and blasting. There was a dark cloud looming on our wonderful little tea party.
All of a sudden, some playa-hatin' douche bag decides to joins us. And because porno chicks love attention, she proceeded to just welcome him into the fold. J, because he was, "so cool," did not feel the least bit threatened and continued with his game plan of cool playing. I, on the other hand, chose to fight back by being aloof, petulant, and snarky. Of course, because he was a complete douche, he was incapable of picking up on my intellectual mockings.
I was doing my best remain calm and tolerate the shit-head, but then he did the most unthinkable of unthinkables. This son of a bitch had the balls to ask me for a cigarette. I mean that is bullshit. Come, the fuck, on. There is no way I was going to allow this guy to not only crash my interview with an adult star, but also take one of my precious cigarettes. I had to take a stand then and there.
Unfortunately for me, the lovely adult film star interpreted my brave stand against douchyness as some sort of act of...oh...how shall I say...dementia. Suddenly, I became the bad guy. Me! The guy who brought her into that place. The guy who took her in off the street and treated her with nothing but kindness and respect. I was the asshole in this situation.
So, in another act of maturity, I stormed off is a petulant huff. (Hey, it was the best I could come up with at the time.) J decided to hang in there and keep up the good fight. I would also like to mention at this point that he completely decided to turn his back on me and side with the, "I was having dementia," argument. (I have long since forgiven him)
In the end, I was too immature, J just didn't have enough game, the douche bag was, well a douche bag, and our lovely Brittany Andrews went home alone. Without so much as a goodbye.
Now, I know what you all may be thinking. How can a three part story have such an incredibly lame ending? The answer is, I have no excuse. It's not easy coming up with topics every week. Someone suggested that I write about this incident and it seemed like a really good idea at the time.
But don't riot just yet. In these blogs I do have a penchant for a moral to my stories. Bear with me. I think the lesson here is that no matter what the situation is, if you see something that you want, you just have to go for it. Well, that doesn't really work. It's not like I really wanted to hook up with a porn star. I mean, if it had really come down to that, I don't think I could have really gone through with it.
I guess the lesson is, not everything is suppose to have a lesson. Maybe it's okay to just read a little something, have a good little laugh, and move on with life.
See you next time.
I must tell you my friends, I am simply not the type of guy that can just play it cool in the face of celebrity. Nor am I capable of keeping my mouth shut when I'm excited. I proceeded to bombard this woman with questions about the industry. Allow me to provide you with a few highlights from our little Q & A.
Me: "Have you ever worked with Ron Jeremy?"
Her: "Yes. He's a very cool guy."
Me: "Have you ever worked with Tera Patrick?" (Who I love)
Her: "Yes. She's a complete bitch. She needs to learn respect."
Me: "Ooooo"
Me: "Have you ever worked with Jon Dough?"
Her: "He is a complete cock-sucker."
Me: "Have you ever been on the Howard Stern show?"
Her: "Yes. Several times."
Oh, I went on and on. She was very open and cool. Brittany, my friend J, and I all were having a wonderful chat. It just seemed to be going so well. We laughed, we cried, we had a blast. But it wasn't all laughing and crying and blasting. There was a dark cloud looming on our wonderful little tea party.
All of a sudden, some playa-hatin' douche bag decides to joins us. And because porno chicks love attention, she proceeded to just welcome him into the fold. J, because he was, "so cool," did not feel the least bit threatened and continued with his game plan of cool playing. I, on the other hand, chose to fight back by being aloof, petulant, and snarky. Of course, because he was a complete douche, he was incapable of picking up on my intellectual mockings.
I was doing my best remain calm and tolerate the shit-head, but then he did the most unthinkable of unthinkables. This son of a bitch had the balls to ask me for a cigarette. I mean that is bullshit. Come, the fuck, on. There is no way I was going to allow this guy to not only crash my interview with an adult star, but also take one of my precious cigarettes. I had to take a stand then and there.
Unfortunately for me, the lovely adult film star interpreted my brave stand against douchyness as some sort of act of...oh...how shall I say...dementia. Suddenly, I became the bad guy. Me! The guy who brought her into that place. The guy who took her in off the street and treated her with nothing but kindness and respect. I was the asshole in this situation.
So, in another act of maturity, I stormed off is a petulant huff. (Hey, it was the best I could come up with at the time.) J decided to hang in there and keep up the good fight. I would also like to mention at this point that he completely decided to turn his back on me and side with the, "I was having dementia," argument. (I have long since forgiven him)
In the end, I was too immature, J just didn't have enough game, the douche bag was, well a douche bag, and our lovely Brittany Andrews went home alone. Without so much as a goodbye.
Now, I know what you all may be thinking. How can a three part story have such an incredibly lame ending? The answer is, I have no excuse. It's not easy coming up with topics every week. Someone suggested that I write about this incident and it seemed like a really good idea at the time.
But don't riot just yet. In these blogs I do have a penchant for a moral to my stories. Bear with me. I think the lesson here is that no matter what the situation is, if you see something that you want, you just have to go for it. Well, that doesn't really work. It's not like I really wanted to hook up with a porn star. I mean, if it had really come down to that, I don't think I could have really gone through with it.
I guess the lesson is, not everything is suppose to have a lesson. Maybe it's okay to just read a little something, have a good little laugh, and move on with life.
See you next time.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Why do I meet such interesting people? (pt 2)
As much as I love a good introductory paragraph, I really should get on with this story. I can tell that you've all been on pins and needles waiting for the next installment. So here it goes.
But before I get into that, I have to set this up a little bit. The owner of the bar that we were going to was more of an acquaintance rather than a friend. In fact, I had never been to his bar before that night. I met him by acting in a play that he and produced and co-starred in and he had extended a general invitation to the cast that we could show up at any time, mention his name, and we could get in with no problems. So I figured what better way to impress a potential porn star than to drop a name at the door.
We walk up to Bar 13 and there was a ridiculously long line. But I'm feeling confident. After all, I knew the owner. I proceeded to walk up to the absolute worst possible person that could have helped in this situation. A young lady with a clipboard in her hands, looking completely frantic as she is trying to coordinate the large number of people in line with names on a list. (The god-awful, New York club list) I asked her if,"T," was there. (I'm going to try and maintain a wee bit of anonymity just in case he doesn't want the paparazzi all over him after I mention him in this blog) She very abruptly said, "No!"
Devastated, I slumped my way back to my friends and the possible porn chick. Defeated, I stated that I couldn't get them in but that the line wasn't that long. They all, very disappointingly agreed to wait like the rest of the commoners.
But then, I went from the biggest douche on the planet to the coolest guy that ever lived. It went a little something like this: The doorman/bouncer walked up to me at the end of the line and the conversation went as follows:
Him: "Weren't you in that play, 'Cobb?'
Me: "Why yes. Yes I was."
Him: "You were really good in that."
Me: "Wow. Thank you very much."
Him: "How many people you got with you?"
Me: "Five."
Him: "Come on in."
And thus we were ushered to the front of the line and into the very exclusive and hip Bar 13. Much to the chagrin of those peasants who had to wait. (That is, if they noticed. To be honest, I don't think they were paying much attention.)
I would also like to mention at this point that if you've never had the pleasure of dropping a name and getting into a club, then you should do so immediately. It could very well be the greatest boost to an ego that was ever invented. It just says so much. None of which has to actually be true, but it does speak volumes. It says, "I''m connected." "I'm popular." "I'm cool." "I can make things happen." Now, in my case, all of those things are true. But for you, loyal reader, give it a shot. You'll feel better. I guarantee it.
We entered the club and it was a typical New York City scene. The bar is completely packed, the music is blaring, and smoke is filling the air. In other words, a truly perfect night. Some of us make our way to the bar while others go to the bathroom or whatever. My friend, "J," and the alleged porn star have somehow managed to have a moment to themselves to talk. It was then that he was finally able to get her to confess the truth. She was, in fact, none other than, Brittany Andrews, porn-star extraordinaire.
And thus began the ultimate throw-down of man vs man. Whether it was true or not, it's common knowledge that porn stars just love to have sex with random people that they meet on the street. I knew that. "J," knew that. Everyone knew that. However, only one could win. That is, unless we worked out some kind of, "arrangement." All that I can say for now is that the evening suddenly became phenomenally interesting.
And with that I bid you a to be continued.
But before I get into that, I have to set this up a little bit. The owner of the bar that we were going to was more of an acquaintance rather than a friend. In fact, I had never been to his bar before that night. I met him by acting in a play that he and produced and co-starred in and he had extended a general invitation to the cast that we could show up at any time, mention his name, and we could get in with no problems. So I figured what better way to impress a potential porn star than to drop a name at the door.
We walk up to Bar 13 and there was a ridiculously long line. But I'm feeling confident. After all, I knew the owner. I proceeded to walk up to the absolute worst possible person that could have helped in this situation. A young lady with a clipboard in her hands, looking completely frantic as she is trying to coordinate the large number of people in line with names on a list. (The god-awful, New York club list) I asked her if,"T," was there. (I'm going to try and maintain a wee bit of anonymity just in case he doesn't want the paparazzi all over him after I mention him in this blog) She very abruptly said, "No!"
Devastated, I slumped my way back to my friends and the possible porn chick. Defeated, I stated that I couldn't get them in but that the line wasn't that long. They all, very disappointingly agreed to wait like the rest of the commoners.
But then, I went from the biggest douche on the planet to the coolest guy that ever lived. It went a little something like this: The doorman/bouncer walked up to me at the end of the line and the conversation went as follows:
Him: "Weren't you in that play, 'Cobb?'
Me: "Why yes. Yes I was."
Him: "You were really good in that."
Me: "Wow. Thank you very much."
Him: "How many people you got with you?"
Me: "Five."
Him: "Come on in."
And thus we were ushered to the front of the line and into the very exclusive and hip Bar 13. Much to the chagrin of those peasants who had to wait. (That is, if they noticed. To be honest, I don't think they were paying much attention.)
I would also like to mention at this point that if you've never had the pleasure of dropping a name and getting into a club, then you should do so immediately. It could very well be the greatest boost to an ego that was ever invented. It just says so much. None of which has to actually be true, but it does speak volumes. It says, "I''m connected." "I'm popular." "I'm cool." "I can make things happen." Now, in my case, all of those things are true. But for you, loyal reader, give it a shot. You'll feel better. I guarantee it.
We entered the club and it was a typical New York City scene. The bar is completely packed, the music is blaring, and smoke is filling the air. In other words, a truly perfect night. Some of us make our way to the bar while others go to the bathroom or whatever. My friend, "J," and the alleged porn star have somehow managed to have a moment to themselves to talk. It was then that he was finally able to get her to confess the truth. She was, in fact, none other than, Brittany Andrews, porn-star extraordinaire.
And thus began the ultimate throw-down of man vs man. Whether it was true or not, it's common knowledge that porn stars just love to have sex with random people that they meet on the street. I knew that. "J," knew that. Everyone knew that. However, only one could win. That is, unless we worked out some kind of, "arrangement." All that I can say for now is that the evening suddenly became phenomenally interesting.
And with that I bid you a to be continued.
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