A few months ago, I timidly stuck my pinkie toe into this crazy world known as blogging. At the time, I had no idea what my plans were or really why I was doing it. In fact, I'm still not completely sure why I still do it. I mean, I can say that I'm using this as a vehicle to practice and develop my writing skills. That certainly is true enough. And I've certainly gotten some great feedback on this process (both negative and positive) that has been nothing but beneficial to my development as a writer, artist, and most importantly, a blogger. But now, not only have I continued with this practice, I've actually stepped it up a notch. I've had so much to say that I've actually created an additional blog. Because one just simply isn't enough to contain all of my brilliance. I've also decided to forego the premise that my blog is, "anonymous," and posted my picture and full name. But why? Well, like all of my themes, I just so happen to have an answer for my impetus to emerge fully into the webiverse.
Basically, I blame Google.
Allow me to elaborate. Google is a wonderful tool for the Internet. It doesn't require me to actually know anything about the world. I can just punch in a few key words about any random thought that pops into my head and get an answer on anything. Most recently, I wanted to find out if there were any casualties at Three Mile Island, and if George W. Bush actually said the quote, "I thought they were all Muslims." It turned out that there were no deaths or injuries as a result of the partial meltdown at Three Mile Island. So support nuclear power as a viable alternative energy source. It also turned out that, according to a Croatian Ambassador, George W. allegedly did say the aforementioned statement referring to Iraqis and his lack of knowledge about their culture.
But what does this have to do with anything? And more importantly, what does this have to do with me? Well, I've been kicking around this world for a few years and I've done some things that I've been proud of as well as some things I haven't been proud of and I damn sure don't want published on the Internet. So I figured that if anyone or anything would be able to tell me what the rest of the world knows about me, it would have to be this magical search engine known as Google. Because Google is great and powerful and knows all.
So imagine my extreme disappointment when I typed my name into the Google search to find that there are only about 3 entries for me. 3! That's just horrible. You may think I kidding when I say this but that's just like not existing at all. And even those entries aren't actually about me. They're about things that other people have done that I happened to be around for when they occurred. Ain't that a bitch?
And to make matters even worse in my rather warped sense of the world, I chose to Google several people that I know and/or have known over the years. I started with my girlfriend whose also an actor and with whom I continue to have sex with. It turns out that she's got a couple of pages of entries. AND she's has a couple of pages of entries under an alternate acting name that she used when she was going through a mild identity conflict. (Sorry Honey. I know you're reading this but I'm trying to make a point here) I won't even get into my other fellow actors who I also admire and respect who are getting way more props than me from the god Google.
But I haven't gone completely off the deep end. I mean, I haven't sacrificed a lamb on a Google pyre. (Not yet anyway) But also rest assured friends that I am also not "Playa Hatin." I gave that up. I am, however, extremely competitive. And somehow, over the years, I seem to have lost sight of that fact. I love to win. I love to be the best. I love it when everyone thinks I'm the best. Call it what you will, but I fully and freely admit it here and now to the world of 8 readers.
So, now that I can admit the truth, I am ready to move on to the next phase: Complete and total domination of the competition. Okay, maybe that's not the next phase. Perhaps I should start with something a little bit simpler. And I already have. I've posted my picture and full name on this blog that you've been enjoying. Because as an actor, you simply can't put your name and face out into the world enough times. You can't remind people too many times that you exist, that you are continuing to work (or at least trying to find work), that you are continuing to put out product, and most importantly, that you haven't given up. Coca-Cola has been around for over a hundred years and even they still make commercials.
So I'm coming out of the shell a little more and stepping up my game. There is absolutely nothing wrong with letting people know who I am, what I'm doing, and what I think. (That is, as long as what I'm thinking is funny and non-controversial) Because that's how things happen. By letting people know who you are and what you can do. Talent goes a long way but connections go even further. Let the shameless self-promotion begin. May Google bless me.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Why did I have so much fun in college?
As my college friends and I sat in the lounge of our dormitory, drinking beers, watching an episode of, "The Simpsons," with no women anywhere, I recall that we would half-jokingly say to each other, "These are the best years of our lives." Now, I think that we would all agree that those were hardly the, "best," years of our lives. But I can say that they were the most care-free. I lived on campus for all four years of school and I never had to worry about paying rent or utilities. Nor did I have to worry about feeding myself. The biggest thing that I had to concern myself with was keeping my grades up, paying back all of those student loans when I graduated, and most of all, having a good time. Woo!
There's one particular story that comes to mind where I had a little too much of a good time. However, before I get into that story, I have to mention that I'm going to break yet another rule. For this week's installment, I will be using the person's actual name. An old and dear friend of mine named Chris Margeson. Since he has suggested that I tell this story, I don't think he'll mind. (If not he can sue me for all the proceeds that I haul in from this week's blog.) Also, the story really just doesn't work without his name. (Well, it may still not work but that's for me to decide)
So one night, Chris and I were invited to attend a couple of parties. One was a Frat party (I know I know) and the other was a friend of ours in the Mechanical Engineering department. In my defense, the invitation to the Frat party was more a friend of Chris' than mine. But suffice it to say, we weren't interested to going to that one. So we spent most of the night at the super-cool Mech E party. Because everyone knows that the engineers really know how to party.
The night began with the host of the party making us these lovely drinks known as White Russians. They are made up of Vodka, Kahlua, and Milk. I can also tell you that they are delicious. Especially to a 20 year old who hadn't done a lot of drinking at this point in his life. So I chose to have another...and another...and another.
I was actually doing very well at this point but then Chris stated that we should make an appearance at the Frat party. It would have been very rude not to show up. So I decided what the hell. We walked over to the party, stayed for about 15 or 20 minutes, and then headed back to the party with our actual friends.
Now here's where I have to give you a little bit of background on my friend Chris. In High School, he ran on the track team. Apparently, he was pretty good but had no interest in pursuing it in college. Which is perfectly understandable. It takes a lot of work to be a good student and you don't need the stress of trying to be an athlete as well. The thing is, he clearly enjoyed his athletic days. This was obvious because every time he got a a few drinks in him, he would challenge people to a race. (Which I guess is a lot better than challenging people to fight. Hey, every body's a different kind of drunk)
I too have been known to have a bit of a competitive streak in me. So when this little white boy challenged me to a race I'm like, "Hell yeah." The outcome of the race isn't really important. It's not a matter of whether you win or lose but how hard you compete. Plus, I was pretty drunk.
We returned to the first party which happened to be on the 4th floor. I made it to the top of the stairs but then the exhaustion and alcohol got the better of me so I decided to have a little seat and rest while Chris went on inside. Then I realized that the room began to spin just a little bit. Next thing I knew, I was vomiting all over myself.
To show you how smart my thinking was: I thought to myself, "Hey, I just puked. And I'm getting it all over myself and the stairs. I know what I'll do. There's a huge gap in the middle of the stairs between floors. If you look down it, you can see clear to the basement. I'll just lean my head over the side and puke down in the gap. It'll be just like puking in the basement."
After that round of puking, a very cool guy was trying to be supportive. He says, "Hey man, you should get up and walk around a little bit." I say to him, "No, no, no. This is what I want you to do. I want you to find Chris Margeson." Keep in mind that this guy had absolutely no idea who the fuck I was or Chris Margeson. He repeats, "C'mon man just get up and walk around a little bit." I then say, "No, no, no...Listen to me very carefully...Find...Chris...Margeson."
He left me there to wallow in my own puke and somehow, miraculously, managed to, in fact, find Chris Margeson. I then said, "Chris. You gotta take me home man. I'm not feelin' so good." He then proceeded to help me up. As we walked down the stairs we soon discovered that my plan of strategic puking wasn't quite as successful as I had originally thought. We slipped and slided our way through all of it and made our escape.
It was also made known to me over the next few days that the sight of a 6'7" drunk guy slumped over a guy about a foot shorter than him walking across campus makes for comedic gold.
We made it home where Chris deposited me on the bathroom floor of our suite. I finished off a few more rounds of vomiting (in the toilet this time) and promptly laid down for a little nap. Some people would have called it "passing out." Let's not get caught up in semantics people.
I awoke to the greatest hangover that I've ever had in my life. I also had one of my favorite college stories ever! Granted, I know a lot of people with a lot better stories. But I think this was plenty of excitement for my comfort zone. No one got hurt; I made it home safely with all of my teeth; And there were people around me who were looking out for me. They're the same people who still give me shit for it to this day, but they did have my best interest in mind.
Today, my ideas for fun have changed somewhat. For instance, I don't enjoy any activity that involves projectile vomiting from me or anyone else. But it does feel just a little cool that I can say that I did at one point in my life. It reminds me that college wasn't always about all-night study sessions or watching every episode of, "The Simpsons," and, "Star Trek The Next Generation." There were actually one or two moments when I allowed myself to cut loose. And I think that's plenty.
There's one particular story that comes to mind where I had a little too much of a good time. However, before I get into that story, I have to mention that I'm going to break yet another rule. For this week's installment, I will be using the person's actual name. An old and dear friend of mine named Chris Margeson. Since he has suggested that I tell this story, I don't think he'll mind. (If not he can sue me for all the proceeds that I haul in from this week's blog.) Also, the story really just doesn't work without his name. (Well, it may still not work but that's for me to decide)
So one night, Chris and I were invited to attend a couple of parties. One was a Frat party (I know I know) and the other was a friend of ours in the Mechanical Engineering department. In my defense, the invitation to the Frat party was more a friend of Chris' than mine. But suffice it to say, we weren't interested to going to that one. So we spent most of the night at the super-cool Mech E party. Because everyone knows that the engineers really know how to party.
The night began with the host of the party making us these lovely drinks known as White Russians. They are made up of Vodka, Kahlua, and Milk. I can also tell you that they are delicious. Especially to a 20 year old who hadn't done a lot of drinking at this point in his life. So I chose to have another...and another...and another.
I was actually doing very well at this point but then Chris stated that we should make an appearance at the Frat party. It would have been very rude not to show up. So I decided what the hell. We walked over to the party, stayed for about 15 or 20 minutes, and then headed back to the party with our actual friends.
Now here's where I have to give you a little bit of background on my friend Chris. In High School, he ran on the track team. Apparently, he was pretty good but had no interest in pursuing it in college. Which is perfectly understandable. It takes a lot of work to be a good student and you don't need the stress of trying to be an athlete as well. The thing is, he clearly enjoyed his athletic days. This was obvious because every time he got a a few drinks in him, he would challenge people to a race. (Which I guess is a lot better than challenging people to fight. Hey, every body's a different kind of drunk)
I too have been known to have a bit of a competitive streak in me. So when this little white boy challenged me to a race I'm like, "Hell yeah." The outcome of the race isn't really important. It's not a matter of whether you win or lose but how hard you compete. Plus, I was pretty drunk.
We returned to the first party which happened to be on the 4th floor. I made it to the top of the stairs but then the exhaustion and alcohol got the better of me so I decided to have a little seat and rest while Chris went on inside. Then I realized that the room began to spin just a little bit. Next thing I knew, I was vomiting all over myself.
To show you how smart my thinking was: I thought to myself, "Hey, I just puked. And I'm getting it all over myself and the stairs. I know what I'll do. There's a huge gap in the middle of the stairs between floors. If you look down it, you can see clear to the basement. I'll just lean my head over the side and puke down in the gap. It'll be just like puking in the basement."
After that round of puking, a very cool guy was trying to be supportive. He says, "Hey man, you should get up and walk around a little bit." I say to him, "No, no, no. This is what I want you to do. I want you to find Chris Margeson." Keep in mind that this guy had absolutely no idea who the fuck I was or Chris Margeson. He repeats, "C'mon man just get up and walk around a little bit." I then say, "No, no, no...Listen to me very carefully...Find...Chris...Margeson."
He left me there to wallow in my own puke and somehow, miraculously, managed to, in fact, find Chris Margeson. I then said, "Chris. You gotta take me home man. I'm not feelin' so good." He then proceeded to help me up. As we walked down the stairs we soon discovered that my plan of strategic puking wasn't quite as successful as I had originally thought. We slipped and slided our way through all of it and made our escape.
It was also made known to me over the next few days that the sight of a 6'7" drunk guy slumped over a guy about a foot shorter than him walking across campus makes for comedic gold.
We made it home where Chris deposited me on the bathroom floor of our suite. I finished off a few more rounds of vomiting (in the toilet this time) and promptly laid down for a little nap. Some people would have called it "passing out." Let's not get caught up in semantics people.
I awoke to the greatest hangover that I've ever had in my life. I also had one of my favorite college stories ever! Granted, I know a lot of people with a lot better stories. But I think this was plenty of excitement for my comfort zone. No one got hurt; I made it home safely with all of my teeth; And there were people around me who were looking out for me. They're the same people who still give me shit for it to this day, but they did have my best interest in mind.
Today, my ideas for fun have changed somewhat. For instance, I don't enjoy any activity that involves projectile vomiting from me or anyone else. But it does feel just a little cool that I can say that I did at one point in my life. It reminds me that college wasn't always about all-night study sessions or watching every episode of, "The Simpsons," and, "Star Trek The Next Generation." There were actually one or two moments when I allowed myself to cut loose. And I think that's plenty.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Why don't I play basketball?
Allow me to give you a very brief sampling of a typical conversation that I've had with many a complete and total stranger:
"My goodness. How tall are you?"
"About 6'7"."
"Please tell me you play basketball."
or
"You gotta play some ball."
or
"Who do play ball for?"
Depending on my mood, my responses range from a polite tolerance to the overtly terse. Once in a while, I like to throw in a sadistic little guilt trip like, "I used to play basketball but I injured my knee so badly that it ended my career." But that's only when I'm in a very dark mood. But now, since I have this wonderful outlet of blogging, I will now tell the complete and hilarious story of why I really don't play basketball anymore.
For starters, I actually did play basketball many moons ago for Friends School in Baltimore. And to be honest, I also had some skillz. I wouldn't necessarily call them mad skillz, but I was better than average. I was good for about 10 points a game (Which isn't bad. Not great but not bad), about 14 rebounds a game (Which is actually very good), and about 3-4 blocks a game (Which is outstanding). I was what you might call a defensive specialist. You can tell because I'm always acting very defensively. (I really should just delete that last sentence. It's a very lame joke and you shouldn't have to endure it.)
I never won any awards but I did have my picture in the paper several times. My favorite picture was the one of me in the 1988 semi-final game against Arlington Baptist where I'm skying over this little white boy to block his shot from behind. Unfortunately, the racist referee called a foul on me. The photo was in the paper on the next day and clearly showed that it was a clean block. So ha! My statistics were also listed in the paper and I was usually in the top 20 or so for rebounds. Lastly, the coup de grace of my career was the 1989 MSA Championship where I scored 8 points, 15 rebounds, and 5 blocked shots and the Friends School Quakers were crowned champions that year. In fact, some people felt that I was the MVP for that game. (It didn't happen.)
So now that you've got a little bit of a feel for the type of player I was, let's move on to what transpired afterwards, i.e. how the image of myself and my skill level was unceremoniously shattered. Admittedly, I knew that I wasn't good enough to play for a team like Duke or North Carolina, but I did have some lower division schools showing interest like Roanoke and Rochester. Nothing to write home about but again, it gives you an idea of my skill level. I was pretty damn good.
I ended up going to the University of Rochester and the summer before I left for school I was just kinda killing time. So one day I decided to sneak in to the gym at Loyola College. That same day, one of the players from the team was shooting around. He was very nice and we chatted it up a bit. I lied and said that I was an incoming freshmen. Then he challenged me to a friendly game of one on one.
Now Loyola College isn't necessarily known for it awesome basketball team. They are a Division I school, but when have you ever heard about them during March Madness? When have you ever seen them on TV? Never. I, on the other hand, had made it to the quarterfinals of a one-on-one tournament at the John Chaney basketball camp. I figured I could take this guy.
He kicked my ass. I mean he really kicked my ass. I didn't score a single point. He didn't even break a sweat as he was kicking my ass. In fact, he was kicking my ass so badly that he actually felt bad about how badly he was kicking my ass while he was kicking my ass. When the score was 8 to 0 in about 3 minutes, he mercifully asked me if I wanted to stop. With broken ankles and dejected pride, I humbly accepted. It was then and there that I figured I wasn't going to be turning pro anytime soon. I also never snuck into the Loyola gym ever again.
But I managed to heal and move on to Rochester. And that's when things got a little...oh, let's say...complicated. You see, there's this rule in the NCAA which states that a coach cannot hold basketball practices until October 15. However, the coach is allowed to hold team workouts as long as no basketball is being played. So I went to the team workouts. Unfortunately for me, they were completely unlike any workout I had ever had in my life. In High School, I was used to 2 or 3 hour practices in the afternoons. No big deal. At Rochester, I had to BE at the track at 6am. I don't think you heard me. I didn't have to wake up at 6am, I had to BE THERE at 6am. Then we had to run 2 miles. To me, that was just crazy talk.
Oh, but it gets better. I failed to mention that there was about 5 minutes of jumping rope before the 2 mile, 6am run. After the 6am run, we proceeded to lift weights for another hour or so. Yeah, that was not fun. After the morning workouts, I would go to the dining center, eat 3 or 4 eggs, 2 bowls of cereal, a gallon of juice, go up to my room, take a shower, and then promptly go to bed and sleep through my classes. After about 3 weeks of this living hell, I asked myself this incredibly brilliant question: What would happen if I just didn't show up any more?
The answer was nothing. Nothing bad happened. The earth didn't open up and swallow me whole. The basketball police didn't beat down my door and drag me to the morning workouts. The coaching staff all seemed to take the level headed approach that if I didn't want to be there then I didn't have to be there. (I seem to have a history of resolving many of my problems by simply not showing up for things. That can't be good.)
And that, my friends was the end of my illustrious and brief basketball career. Nothing flashy or exciting. I just bowed out rather silently. I continued to play basketball over the years but on my terms. Never for any organized team, per se. And the funny thing was, I actually enjoyed it a whole lot more. I didn't have to run specific plays that a coach drew up. I didn't have to live up to expectations that others had of me. I gave myself permission to be the 3-point shooting specialist. (The only problem with that was that I couldn't make 3 pointers. But let's not let the details ruin this beautiful moment)
Over the years I've played intramural basketball, community league basketball, and many of your good old-fashioned pick-up games. Recently, however, I haven't gone out as much. In fact, I honestly haven't even stepped onto a basketball court in about 6 or 7 years. And I don't feel the least bit bad about it. I don't miss it. If I loved playing ball then I would have put the work into it. I would have put in the time and the energy to become great at it. I would have put myself into the undying servitude that many people do for the game of basketball. There are probably hundreds of thousands of players in the world who never get to play professionally. And yet they're out there still trying to make it. Because they love it. And I have nothing but the utmost respect for those people.
I, on the other hand, am just a tall guy who wanted to have a little fun after school. My calling for happiness lies elsewhere.
So in the future, I think I'll just print out this blog and hand it to the next person who says,
"You should be playing ball. What a waste of all that height."
"My goodness. How tall are you?"
"About 6'7"."
"Please tell me you play basketball."
or
"You gotta play some ball."
or
"Who do play ball for?"
Depending on my mood, my responses range from a polite tolerance to the overtly terse. Once in a while, I like to throw in a sadistic little guilt trip like, "I used to play basketball but I injured my knee so badly that it ended my career." But that's only when I'm in a very dark mood. But now, since I have this wonderful outlet of blogging, I will now tell the complete and hilarious story of why I really don't play basketball anymore.
For starters, I actually did play basketball many moons ago for Friends School in Baltimore. And to be honest, I also had some skillz. I wouldn't necessarily call them mad skillz, but I was better than average. I was good for about 10 points a game (Which isn't bad. Not great but not bad), about 14 rebounds a game (Which is actually very good), and about 3-4 blocks a game (Which is outstanding). I was what you might call a defensive specialist. You can tell because I'm always acting very defensively. (I really should just delete that last sentence. It's a very lame joke and you shouldn't have to endure it.)
I never won any awards but I did have my picture in the paper several times. My favorite picture was the one of me in the 1988 semi-final game against Arlington Baptist where I'm skying over this little white boy to block his shot from behind. Unfortunately, the racist referee called a foul on me. The photo was in the paper on the next day and clearly showed that it was a clean block. So ha! My statistics were also listed in the paper and I was usually in the top 20 or so for rebounds. Lastly, the coup de grace of my career was the 1989 MSA Championship where I scored 8 points, 15 rebounds, and 5 blocked shots and the Friends School Quakers were crowned champions that year. In fact, some people felt that I was the MVP for that game. (It didn't happen.)
So now that you've got a little bit of a feel for the type of player I was, let's move on to what transpired afterwards, i.e. how the image of myself and my skill level was unceremoniously shattered. Admittedly, I knew that I wasn't good enough to play for a team like Duke or North Carolina, but I did have some lower division schools showing interest like Roanoke and Rochester. Nothing to write home about but again, it gives you an idea of my skill level. I was pretty damn good.
I ended up going to the University of Rochester and the summer before I left for school I was just kinda killing time. So one day I decided to sneak in to the gym at Loyola College. That same day, one of the players from the team was shooting around. He was very nice and we chatted it up a bit. I lied and said that I was an incoming freshmen. Then he challenged me to a friendly game of one on one.
Now Loyola College isn't necessarily known for it awesome basketball team. They are a Division I school, but when have you ever heard about them during March Madness? When have you ever seen them on TV? Never. I, on the other hand, had made it to the quarterfinals of a one-on-one tournament at the John Chaney basketball camp. I figured I could take this guy.
He kicked my ass. I mean he really kicked my ass. I didn't score a single point. He didn't even break a sweat as he was kicking my ass. In fact, he was kicking my ass so badly that he actually felt bad about how badly he was kicking my ass while he was kicking my ass. When the score was 8 to 0 in about 3 minutes, he mercifully asked me if I wanted to stop. With broken ankles and dejected pride, I humbly accepted. It was then and there that I figured I wasn't going to be turning pro anytime soon. I also never snuck into the Loyola gym ever again.
But I managed to heal and move on to Rochester. And that's when things got a little...oh, let's say...complicated. You see, there's this rule in the NCAA which states that a coach cannot hold basketball practices until October 15. However, the coach is allowed to hold team workouts as long as no basketball is being played. So I went to the team workouts. Unfortunately for me, they were completely unlike any workout I had ever had in my life. In High School, I was used to 2 or 3 hour practices in the afternoons. No big deal. At Rochester, I had to BE at the track at 6am. I don't think you heard me. I didn't have to wake up at 6am, I had to BE THERE at 6am. Then we had to run 2 miles. To me, that was just crazy talk.
Oh, but it gets better. I failed to mention that there was about 5 minutes of jumping rope before the 2 mile, 6am run. After the 6am run, we proceeded to lift weights for another hour or so. Yeah, that was not fun. After the morning workouts, I would go to the dining center, eat 3 or 4 eggs, 2 bowls of cereal, a gallon of juice, go up to my room, take a shower, and then promptly go to bed and sleep through my classes. After about 3 weeks of this living hell, I asked myself this incredibly brilliant question: What would happen if I just didn't show up any more?
The answer was nothing. Nothing bad happened. The earth didn't open up and swallow me whole. The basketball police didn't beat down my door and drag me to the morning workouts. The coaching staff all seemed to take the level headed approach that if I didn't want to be there then I didn't have to be there. (I seem to have a history of resolving many of my problems by simply not showing up for things. That can't be good.)
And that, my friends was the end of my illustrious and brief basketball career. Nothing flashy or exciting. I just bowed out rather silently. I continued to play basketball over the years but on my terms. Never for any organized team, per se. And the funny thing was, I actually enjoyed it a whole lot more. I didn't have to run specific plays that a coach drew up. I didn't have to live up to expectations that others had of me. I gave myself permission to be the 3-point shooting specialist. (The only problem with that was that I couldn't make 3 pointers. But let's not let the details ruin this beautiful moment)
Over the years I've played intramural basketball, community league basketball, and many of your good old-fashioned pick-up games. Recently, however, I haven't gone out as much. In fact, I honestly haven't even stepped onto a basketball court in about 6 or 7 years. And I don't feel the least bit bad about it. I don't miss it. If I loved playing ball then I would have put the work into it. I would have put in the time and the energy to become great at it. I would have put myself into the undying servitude that many people do for the game of basketball. There are probably hundreds of thousands of players in the world who never get to play professionally. And yet they're out there still trying to make it. Because they love it. And I have nothing but the utmost respect for those people.
I, on the other hand, am just a tall guy who wanted to have a little fun after school. My calling for happiness lies elsewhere.
So in the future, I think I'll just print out this blog and hand it to the next person who says,
"You should be playing ball. What a waste of all that height."
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Why must I deal with type casting?
Okay stop right there! I know what you're thinking. Is this another rant about how a black man has to deal with only being seen as a thug, or drug dealer, or drug addict? Well no, it isn't. Oh, how I would love to play a drug dealer. I mean, have you seen, "The Wire?" That show kicks ass. But that's not what I'm referring to. I'm talking about something that actually took me a little by surprise.
As an actor, I do what actors do. I go on auditions. Lots of them. It's just the nature of the business. No matter how talented you are or no matter how good your audition is, there is no guarantee that you're going to get work. But you put yourself out there until people become more and more familiar with your work. Then work begets more work. It's just how the process goes. We don't love it, but we understand it and have come to terms with it.
Now, if you do well during the audition, you get what I like to call, "the headshot turn." That's when the auditioner is so interested in your performance that they'll turn the headshot over and look at your resume on the back in order to see what you've done. It's a good thing. And I don't mind telling you that I've had my fair share of "headshot turns." If time permits, the auditioner may have a little conversation with you about who you are and what you've done. And recently, during these conversations, I've encountered this same quote on several occasions, "Wow, you've done a lot of Shakespeare."
Don't get me wrong. I love Shakespeare. I love performing in Shakespearean plays. I've spent the last 3 years or so studying with John Basil at the American Globe Theatre. I've also been doing quite a bit of work in his shows. I can definitely say that I am confident in my skills with the Bard. However, I wouldn't necessarily classify myself as a, "Shakespearean Actor." Just someone who is comfortable and confident with the language. I didn't exactly set out to master Shakespeare. I just figured it was one of the many skill sets that I needed to develop as an actor.
Also, as in any freelance profession, you work with whoever is hiring. And over the past few years, most of the people that have hired me have been Shakespearean theatre companies. And that's great. Work is work. And actors are supposed to be able to go with the flow and execute any and all roles with deftness and aplomb. (If I can look those words up so can you)
So what's the problem? Where are the stumbling blocks? Why do you people ask me so many questions? It turns out, (much to my naivete) that there's actually a bit of a stigma attached to Shakespearean actors. Shakespeare is considered by many to be boring, incomprehensible, too poetic, and intended for the upper-crust of society. And the Shakespearean actors who take on these roles are considered to be incredible snobs with enormous egos who are incapable of doing simple, grounded contemporary work. Everything is big and poetic with grand gestures and deep affected voices. Which makes it especially strange to when the ladies do it. (Yeah. You read that right and that was cheesy)
But I can assure you that nothing could be farther from the truth. First of all, ALL actors are incredible snobs with enormous egos. I mean come on. Doesn't it take a serious egotistical maniac to get on a stage or in front of a camera and believe that you will be moved to tears or laughter simply by what they say or do. So don't just single out the Shakespearean actors. We're ALL crazy and full of ourselves. Some are just more functional about it than others.
Secondly, Shakespeare, although difficult and intimidating at first, is actually very entertaining. I don't want to get into a lecture but I'll just say that when Shakespeare wrote these plays, he was trying to appeal to the common people just as much as the royalty. If not more so. So if you're fortunate enough to catch a production that takes this fact into account, you will be privy to a lot of sex jokes which your High School English teacher may not have pointed out to you. And who doesn't like sex jokes? I know I do. For instance, in, "Taming of the Shrew," Petruchio says to Kate after she turns her back on him, "What, with my tongue in your tale?" It means exactly what you think it means.
Third, I believe that any good writing has a poetical element to it. Think about August Wilson, Arthur Miller, and Tennessee Williams. All American playwrights who had the ability to not only tell remarkable stories with compelling characters, but to do it using language in skillful and beautiful ways. It just so happens that we are a little more accustomed to hearing their style of language than we are with Shakespeare.
Lastly, I am proud of my experience with the Shakespearean language and poetry. I honestly believe that if I can be confident with Shakespeare's language then I can be even more skilled with the writer's of today. I think that my experience with Shakespeare allows me to find the nuances and subtleties in the work of contemporary writers. Finally, I believe that my training with saying lines like, "When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous to lock such rascal counters from his friends, be ready Gods with all your thunderbolts; Dash him to pieces," allows me to mine all of the bountiful ore out of a line like, "Naw, man. You ain't seein' the coke until I see the motherfuckin' money."
So if you want to brand me as a Shakespearean actor, then I say, "So be it!" I will gladly accept all of the praise and prejudgments that accompany such a moniker. Just be aware that there's more to it than a deep, rich voice with an excellent command of language. There's also an understanding of the beauty and complexity of all language. From Shakespeare to a toothpaste commercial. The similarities are subtle (extremely subtle) but they are there. And trust me, there's always a huge difference between listening to someone who has a high respect and love for the words they are using and someone who doesn't.
As an actor, I do what actors do. I go on auditions. Lots of them. It's just the nature of the business. No matter how talented you are or no matter how good your audition is, there is no guarantee that you're going to get work. But you put yourself out there until people become more and more familiar with your work. Then work begets more work. It's just how the process goes. We don't love it, but we understand it and have come to terms with it.
Now, if you do well during the audition, you get what I like to call, "the headshot turn." That's when the auditioner is so interested in your performance that they'll turn the headshot over and look at your resume on the back in order to see what you've done. It's a good thing. And I don't mind telling you that I've had my fair share of "headshot turns." If time permits, the auditioner may have a little conversation with you about who you are and what you've done. And recently, during these conversations, I've encountered this same quote on several occasions, "Wow, you've done a lot of Shakespeare."
Don't get me wrong. I love Shakespeare. I love performing in Shakespearean plays. I've spent the last 3 years or so studying with John Basil at the American Globe Theatre. I've also been doing quite a bit of work in his shows. I can definitely say that I am confident in my skills with the Bard. However, I wouldn't necessarily classify myself as a, "Shakespearean Actor." Just someone who is comfortable and confident with the language. I didn't exactly set out to master Shakespeare. I just figured it was one of the many skill sets that I needed to develop as an actor.
Also, as in any freelance profession, you work with whoever is hiring. And over the past few years, most of the people that have hired me have been Shakespearean theatre companies. And that's great. Work is work. And actors are supposed to be able to go with the flow and execute any and all roles with deftness and aplomb. (If I can look those words up so can you)
So what's the problem? Where are the stumbling blocks? Why do you people ask me so many questions? It turns out, (much to my naivete) that there's actually a bit of a stigma attached to Shakespearean actors. Shakespeare is considered by many to be boring, incomprehensible, too poetic, and intended for the upper-crust of society. And the Shakespearean actors who take on these roles are considered to be incredible snobs with enormous egos who are incapable of doing simple, grounded contemporary work. Everything is big and poetic with grand gestures and deep affected voices. Which makes it especially strange to when the ladies do it. (Yeah. You read that right and that was cheesy)
But I can assure you that nothing could be farther from the truth. First of all, ALL actors are incredible snobs with enormous egos. I mean come on. Doesn't it take a serious egotistical maniac to get on a stage or in front of a camera and believe that you will be moved to tears or laughter simply by what they say or do. So don't just single out the Shakespearean actors. We're ALL crazy and full of ourselves. Some are just more functional about it than others.
Secondly, Shakespeare, although difficult and intimidating at first, is actually very entertaining. I don't want to get into a lecture but I'll just say that when Shakespeare wrote these plays, he was trying to appeal to the common people just as much as the royalty. If not more so. So if you're fortunate enough to catch a production that takes this fact into account, you will be privy to a lot of sex jokes which your High School English teacher may not have pointed out to you. And who doesn't like sex jokes? I know I do. For instance, in, "Taming of the Shrew," Petruchio says to Kate after she turns her back on him, "What, with my tongue in your tale?" It means exactly what you think it means.
Third, I believe that any good writing has a poetical element to it. Think about August Wilson, Arthur Miller, and Tennessee Williams. All American playwrights who had the ability to not only tell remarkable stories with compelling characters, but to do it using language in skillful and beautiful ways. It just so happens that we are a little more accustomed to hearing their style of language than we are with Shakespeare.
Lastly, I am proud of my experience with the Shakespearean language and poetry. I honestly believe that if I can be confident with Shakespeare's language then I can be even more skilled with the writer's of today. I think that my experience with Shakespeare allows me to find the nuances and subtleties in the work of contemporary writers. Finally, I believe that my training with saying lines like, "When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous to lock such rascal counters from his friends, be ready Gods with all your thunderbolts; Dash him to pieces," allows me to mine all of the bountiful ore out of a line like, "Naw, man. You ain't seein' the coke until I see the motherfuckin' money."
So if you want to brand me as a Shakespearean actor, then I say, "So be it!" I will gladly accept all of the praise and prejudgments that accompany such a moniker. Just be aware that there's more to it than a deep, rich voice with an excellent command of language. There's also an understanding of the beauty and complexity of all language. From Shakespeare to a toothpaste commercial. The similarities are subtle (extremely subtle) but they are there. And trust me, there's always a huge difference between listening to someone who has a high respect and love for the words they are using and someone who doesn't.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Why did I quit smoking? (The Remix)
On October 15, 2006 I made the commitment to quit smoking. And I have stuck to that commitment. Absolutely. 100% committed to the quitting of smoking. However, I can't say that on October 15, 2006 was the last time that I had a cigarette. Well, I could say that but that would be a lie now wouldn't it. The fact of the matter is, I've had a few relapses over the past year and a half.
A few months ago, a friend of mine was in town and we all got together for dinner and drinks. After the meal, another friend of mine, who still smokes, asks me if I'd like to have a cigarette with him. I, having not had a cigarette in I don't know how long, agreed to join him. Upon my return, my friend who was visiting (who is one of the 8 fans of this blog) stated that the original, "Why did I quit smoking," blog should have been entitled, "Why did I quit smoking but don't believe this blog because it's a bunch of lies."
It is now, through the power of the Internet, that I will respond to this gross and unfair accusation. My counterpoint is quite simply this: Quitting smoking is hard. That's it. I really shouldn't have to say anymore. But since I am a bit notorious for elaborating, I will elaborate. You see, this isn't the first time that I've actually tried to quit smoking. Oh no my friends, I am a veteran at quitting. In fact, I've tried to quit smoking about 8 times over the past 15 years or so.
Here's the thing, (and brace yourself for this startling bit of news) everybody who smokes knows that it's bad for you. They know that it's bad for other people, they know that it's unhealthy, they know that it's taking years off of your life, they know that it is reducing the quality of life. Smokers know all of this shit. And yet the non-smokers seem to cop a, "holier than thou," as well as a, "smarter than thou," attitude about the whole thing.
But here's another little newsflash for you. Smoking is both an addiction and a habit. That means that not only are smokers physically addicted to the nicotine, but they are psychological link to the physical action of smoking. Again, I'm not telling you anything that you don't already know.
So here's the million dollar question: Why do smokers catch so much shit? I go from a pack a day habit, to one or two cigarettes when I'm out having a drink. Which is incredibly rare. Even though it's been over a year, it's still a struggle. Even though, on those rare occasions that I have smoked, I've actually hated it, it's still a struggle. It's still incredibly difficult to quit. And yet, I seriously think that I would garner more sympathy from non-smokers if I were relapsing on a crack-cocaine addiction.
Over the course of the 8 times previous that I've tried to quit smoking, there was one constant factor that didn't allow me to get over the hump. During the times that I would get the "shakes" from the withdrawal so badly that I had to break down and smoke a cigarette, I would always tell myself, "See. You just smoked a cigarette. You can't do this. You might as well just keep smoking." Well that attitude has changed. Now I'm saying that just because I've had an occasional cigarette (even if it adds up to one pack over one year) it doesn't mean that I have to give up on my original commitment. It doesn't mean that I can't do it. It is not a reflection of my weakness. It is a reflection of how fucking difficult it is to give up such a nasty habit. It's a multi-billion dollar a year industry. I don't think it's something that you can just let go quite so easily. If it were, then everyone would have done it.
Normally, I like to make this blog solely about me but I will make this tiny exception. A few months ago my grandmother was hospitalized for about 3 days. It turned out that she was fine. The point is that she's been a smoker for at least 50 years. And during those 3 days she mentioned to me that she didn't really feel the need for a cigarette. And yet, as soon as she got home from the hospital, the first thing she did was light one up. So even a practically lifelong smoker like my grandmother still has thoughts in the back of her mind about quitting. I mean seriously. Smoking is one twisted habit and addiction.
Now back to me. The most important thing is that smoking isn't an integral part of my life anymore. When I was a habitual smoker, every decision I made about my life revolved around when I could get a cigarette. Now I've moved on from that. I don't think about it on a daily basis. Unfortunately, I still get the cravings every once in a while. And they are particularly strong when I'm having a few drinks. Maybe it's too many memories. Maybe it's the feeling that since alcohol is a drug, and I'm doing drugs anyway, I might as well do one more.
I would also like to take this time to point out that these Anti-Smoking TV ads are the absolute worse thing possible for helping someone to quit smoking. If anything, they make me so angry I want to smoke a cigarette just out of spite. They show absolutely no empathy or compassion for what a smoker is going through. All they try to do is either gross you out, or make you feel like an idiot. And dems fightin' words.
In the end, I have come a long way. I have made a great accomplishment. I am much healthier than I've been and I'm saving a lot more money than I have in the past. That is something to be proud of. That is a victory. The struggle continues. And I won't always win every single battle. But for those of you who think that one setback wipes out all of the efforts of the past year and a half, I have this to say to you: 1) Um, bite me. 2) Try to show a little freakin' support. 3) I can't think of a single, intelligent adult on this planet who thinks that being chastised is an effective behavioral deterrent.
And for my brethren out there who may be trying to give up the nicotine: Hang in there. It gets less difficult. It damn sure don't get easier, but it does get less difficult.
A few months ago, a friend of mine was in town and we all got together for dinner and drinks. After the meal, another friend of mine, who still smokes, asks me if I'd like to have a cigarette with him. I, having not had a cigarette in I don't know how long, agreed to join him. Upon my return, my friend who was visiting (who is one of the 8 fans of this blog) stated that the original, "Why did I quit smoking," blog should have been entitled, "Why did I quit smoking but don't believe this blog because it's a bunch of lies."
It is now, through the power of the Internet, that I will respond to this gross and unfair accusation. My counterpoint is quite simply this: Quitting smoking is hard. That's it. I really shouldn't have to say anymore. But since I am a bit notorious for elaborating, I will elaborate. You see, this isn't the first time that I've actually tried to quit smoking. Oh no my friends, I am a veteran at quitting. In fact, I've tried to quit smoking about 8 times over the past 15 years or so.
Here's the thing, (and brace yourself for this startling bit of news) everybody who smokes knows that it's bad for you. They know that it's bad for other people, they know that it's unhealthy, they know that it's taking years off of your life, they know that it is reducing the quality of life. Smokers know all of this shit. And yet the non-smokers seem to cop a, "holier than thou," as well as a, "smarter than thou," attitude about the whole thing.
But here's another little newsflash for you. Smoking is both an addiction and a habit. That means that not only are smokers physically addicted to the nicotine, but they are psychological link to the physical action of smoking. Again, I'm not telling you anything that you don't already know.
So here's the million dollar question: Why do smokers catch so much shit? I go from a pack a day habit, to one or two cigarettes when I'm out having a drink. Which is incredibly rare. Even though it's been over a year, it's still a struggle. Even though, on those rare occasions that I have smoked, I've actually hated it, it's still a struggle. It's still incredibly difficult to quit. And yet, I seriously think that I would garner more sympathy from non-smokers if I were relapsing on a crack-cocaine addiction.
Over the course of the 8 times previous that I've tried to quit smoking, there was one constant factor that didn't allow me to get over the hump. During the times that I would get the "shakes" from the withdrawal so badly that I had to break down and smoke a cigarette, I would always tell myself, "See. You just smoked a cigarette. You can't do this. You might as well just keep smoking." Well that attitude has changed. Now I'm saying that just because I've had an occasional cigarette (even if it adds up to one pack over one year) it doesn't mean that I have to give up on my original commitment. It doesn't mean that I can't do it. It is not a reflection of my weakness. It is a reflection of how fucking difficult it is to give up such a nasty habit. It's a multi-billion dollar a year industry. I don't think it's something that you can just let go quite so easily. If it were, then everyone would have done it.
Normally, I like to make this blog solely about me but I will make this tiny exception. A few months ago my grandmother was hospitalized for about 3 days. It turned out that she was fine. The point is that she's been a smoker for at least 50 years. And during those 3 days she mentioned to me that she didn't really feel the need for a cigarette. And yet, as soon as she got home from the hospital, the first thing she did was light one up. So even a practically lifelong smoker like my grandmother still has thoughts in the back of her mind about quitting. I mean seriously. Smoking is one twisted habit and addiction.
Now back to me. The most important thing is that smoking isn't an integral part of my life anymore. When I was a habitual smoker, every decision I made about my life revolved around when I could get a cigarette. Now I've moved on from that. I don't think about it on a daily basis. Unfortunately, I still get the cravings every once in a while. And they are particularly strong when I'm having a few drinks. Maybe it's too many memories. Maybe it's the feeling that since alcohol is a drug, and I'm doing drugs anyway, I might as well do one more.
I would also like to take this time to point out that these Anti-Smoking TV ads are the absolute worse thing possible for helping someone to quit smoking. If anything, they make me so angry I want to smoke a cigarette just out of spite. They show absolutely no empathy or compassion for what a smoker is going through. All they try to do is either gross you out, or make you feel like an idiot. And dems fightin' words.
In the end, I have come a long way. I have made a great accomplishment. I am much healthier than I've been and I'm saving a lot more money than I have in the past. That is something to be proud of. That is a victory. The struggle continues. And I won't always win every single battle. But for those of you who think that one setback wipes out all of the efforts of the past year and a half, I have this to say to you: 1) Um, bite me. 2) Try to show a little freakin' support. 3) I can't think of a single, intelligent adult on this planet who thinks that being chastised is an effective behavioral deterrent.
And for my brethren out there who may be trying to give up the nicotine: Hang in there. It gets less difficult. It damn sure don't get easier, but it does get less difficult.
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