Tough. Mudder.

The first thing I saw was the video.  A friend announced on Facebook that he was competing in a thing called "Tough Mudder."

I come from athletic stock.  I come from competitive stock.  My father played college football under a legendary coach, Charles McClendon, and my mom was a college cheerleader and is a state-champion tennis player.  I've played sports since I was 6.

When you watch the video for the first time, your first thought is "What the hell IS this?"  Tough Mudder appears to be some cracked-out, Kubrick version of a military boot camp.  Training camp on 'roids. Or meth.  But, honestly, that is what makes it intriguing.  It is defined as a 10-12 mile obstacle course in the mud with a course designed by British special forces.  Even that definition does not do it justice.

For days after first witnessing the online presence of "Tough Mudder" , I asked myself "Is this something I can do?" "Is this something I want to subject myself to?"  I've never been much of a masochist (believe it or not), but there was something compelling me to challenge myself, to push myself further than I had up to that point.  I began searching for dates and locations of the next Tough Mudder competition... and then my eyes came upon it.

July 7th, 2012.

My birthday.  A milestone birthday in my life.  What?  Well, it's none of your damn business WHICH birthday it is, thank you very much.  Just know it was a big un.  And that sealed the deal... this is how I was going to turn ____.

I began training in April.  Cardio, weights, cycling.  I've always been athletic but my disdain for the gym has kept me from being ripped in any way, shape or form.  I varied my training... pushing myself to do Runyon Canyon in Los Angeles as hard and as many times as I could so I could get used to uphill and downhill running.  I hurt my both my knees and thought I tore something in my ankle during this training.  Not used to injury, this sort of thing threw me for a loop.  But I overcame it all, and on July 7th, 2012... my friends Todd Milliner, Will Hackner, Will Sherrod, Nick Peet and I arrived at the Snow Valley Resort in Big Bear, CA ready to take on this Tough Mudder beast.

You begin at a starting line with loud, blaring music and a host whose job is to pump you up and remind you of the monumental task ahead of you.  Then, you're off...

The first "obstacle" is called Death March.  It is an incline up a ski slope in the Southern California heat.  No matter how much you stretched or warmed-up beforehand, the Death March immediately slows you down.

You are then immediately herded to #2: The Arctic Enema.  This is an ice bath.  But not just any ice bath.  It is of such epic proportions that I would actually prefer to roll naked in the snow during a blizzard than do that again.  Apologies for the graphic description, but my testicles shrank so much that for a moment I remembered what it was like to be 10 again.

The next few miles consisted of obstacles that slogged you on your stomach through mud, brought you up increasingly steeper hills (which during the winter are Blue and Green-level ski slopes), shocked you with electricity as you crawled underneath barbed wire, squeezed you into cramped, dark tunnels, made you leap off high platforms into mountain lakes and more.

At Mile 4, we encountered "Hold Your Wood."  Before you go getting excited about that one, we were required to grab a solid chord of wood and carry it for a mile (mostly uphill).  This is the first point that the physicality of this course hit me.  My brisk pace of the first few miles began to slow a bit under the weight of the wood.

At the end of the mile, my team and I threw down our logs and sighed with relief. Turning the corner, we didn't expect what would come next:

"Cliffhanger."

Now, imagine having spent the last hour or two pushing yourself up hill, through physical obstacles, being shocked and carrying heavy wood... and then looking up to see ahead of you 1/2 mile of almost straight-up mountain.  Seriously... almost 90 degrees from top to bottom.  Imagine realizing that is your next obstacle.  Imagine your team letting out a simultaneous and collective "Aw shit".  Cliffhanger might have been the hardest physical thing I've ever done in my life.  1/4 of the way up my legs were burning with the heat of a thousand suns, my heart was pounding in my ears and my lungs worked overtime just to draw in breath not to mention trying to keep it in long enough for it to be of any use.

On the side of the path, people were hunched over, some threw up, one passed out (or at least had fallen asleep), and many were stopped, unable to do it all at once.  Each resting person seemed like they had it right.  I could stop for a second right? Compose myself, I thought.  But my team and I also knew if we did stop, Cliffhanger would not only get more difficult but would never feel as though it ended.  So on, we went... pushing ourselves.  Our clothes completely dry in the hot sun despite all the water obstacles, sweat now began to soak our shirts once again.  Todd made it to the top first. Todd, despite being the oldest man on our team by 10 years, was/is one beast of a competitor.  Nick made it after, and I was right behind.  The Wills followed shortly behind, completing Cliffhanger as a pair.  We all hunched over or placed our arms over head to suck in breath.  When we turned to look behind us, we saw a view that made us realize what we had just accomplished.

Cliffhanger ended right at about Mile 6, which meant 60% of this Tough Mudder course took us up Blue, Green and Black Diamond ski slopes.  Another 10% of the course would also somehow be spent going uphill, while the remainder brought us sharply downhill (a killer on the knees).

"Berlin Walls" made us test both our upper and lower body strength as we had to hurl ourselves over large walls.

The last 2 miles were the toughest for me.  "Hanging Tough" were gymnastic rings suspended over a pit of cold water.  I would estimate 70% of competitors did not make it across and found themselves in the pit.  The Wills both fell in, but Todd and Nick made it across using their momentum to glide from ring-to-ring.  Following their lead, I did the same.  Upon grabbing the last ring, one accessory I thought would be a complete advantage caused my downfall: my gloves.  I lost my right hand grip and not having totally secured my left hand on the final ring, I fell.  Being so close to the edge of the pit, I fell straight into the wood siding.

You know those moments in life when everything slows down- and it's not really a good thing? Well, it felt like it took about 3 minutes for me to come crashing down on the side of that pit yet my arms were moving through some sort of molasses.  I managed to get them up just in time to prevent my face ("the moneymaker") from smashing into the ground at high speed.  The cost?  A chest, forearm and shin that hit in the most inopportune of spots, sending me crashing down into the cold water. As soon as I submerge, a large Tough Mudder candidate followed suit and landed right on top of me.  I came up to find my entire team and a TM official with hands extended, worried like good brothers would be.

It hurt like a bitch.  My chest pounded and I struggled to catch my breath.  A medical guy rushed to me.  I took a quick survey and there was no internal red alert, so I waved him off.  I was fine. I was, after all, trying to prove that I am a Tough Mudder.  So, on we went.

"Everest" was a slippery mess of a steep ramp that we had to scurry up in order to begin the final mile.  We watched as some people cleared the top and then tumbled all the way down.  Understandable considering how tired our bodies were at this point.  My knee throbbing with pain from almost 4 miles of downhill jogging, I scurried up- our team made it up easily.

"Funky Monkey" was the second-to-last obstacle.  Much like the rings, these bars were suspended over a cold pit of water.  I was NOT going to be robbed of this one like I was with Hanging Tough.  The gloves came off... literally.  I watched as Todd, Nick and Will Sherrod made it to the other side, and up I went.  What I did not expect was the bars to roll as you grabbed them.  By the 4th bar, pain was shooting like crazy up the forearm that had been smacked in Hanging Tough.  Gritting my teeth, I reached for the next bar- all the weight impossibly bearing down on my right arm- and in I went.

SONOFABITCHMOTHERFUCKER.

C'est la vie... and on to the final test.

"ElectroShock Therapy".  Now this was the only thing about Tough Mudder that I could say I was scared of.  The threat of fire, ice, dark tight places and tests of endurance did not scare me.  But TM likes to advertise that in order to complete the course and be an actual Tough Mudder you must race through live wires of electricity- some containing up to 10,000 volts running through them.  This was not something I looked forward to.

But it was the end.  The Finish Line lay a mere 20 yards ahead of us.  "The Lucky Sevens" (our team name though we only had 5 instead of the originally intended 7) locked hands and went through as a team.

I was happy to find out later that Todd, Nick and The Wills all made it through relatively unscathed.  Hackner said he didn't feel any shocks at all, give or take a few minor ones.  Todd got hit by a few.  Sherrod took one to the jugular but plowed forward.

I, on the other hand, was not so fortunate.  At some point along the way, I hit something.  For all I know Tough Mudder could have had a Mac truck hidden on the side of the course and run me over with it.  I don't remember being hit.  And I don't remember hitting the ground.  What I do remember is coming to in the water (yes, they make you run through water while hitting these wires) and trying to stand back up... and getting hit again.  When I say "get hit" you should understand that this is only partially accurate.  I now know what it feels like to be punched on your insides with an iron fist.  My teeth rattled, and down I went again.  Hard.

Screw this shit.  I decided to Rambo this shit the rest of the way.  On my stomach, I crawled my ass toward the end of this Therapy crap.  I got hit a few more times by some gnarly shocks but I made it out and quickly got to my feet.  5 yards and there was the end.  The sweet, sweet end.  The Lucky Sevens high-fived, hugged, whooped and hollered.  We had done it.  We were Tough Mudders.

Tough Mudder's host was there... high-fiving everyone that made it through.  When you crossed the line, Dos Equis had a beer waiting for you.  Tough Mudder issued t-shirts and orange headbands to everyone who completed TM.  For me, that orange headband was my trophy, my championship belt.  You cannot receive those headbands unless you finish.  I would estimate from the injuries and people being driven down the start line that maybe 30% of competitors did not finish TM.  But we did.  We had our orange headbands and they did not.

There is merit in pushing yourself.  In testing your limits.  When you know you can go further than you thought, it opens up new doors.  Suddenly, more seems possible.  Training for something like that- and then participating in and completing in- is a reminder that if you want to do something, if you want to do it right and finish the task... you have to just put your head down and say "Fuck it. Here we go."

As strange as it may sound, Tough Mudder has given me renewed strength in my career.  I gain confidence from working.  As my tennis coach once diagnosed, "You are a rhythm guy."  Once I get a rhythm going, I am hard to stop.  But I am an actor.  And sometimes, gaining even the smallest bit of momentum is impossible.  What Tough Mudder has helped me remember is that the most frustrating and difficult times requires me to put my head down and say "Fuck it. Here we go" and conquer that Cliffhanger.  Maybe I'll fall into a pit along the way or get knocked on my ass right at the Finish Line, but I'll reach it anyway.

Save The Clock Tower, or in this case, The Still-Great, Culturally-Significant Local Newspaper

Comedian Eddie Izzard once joked at the beginning of his stand-up routine in America: "I grew up in Europe... you know, where the history comes from."

He then went on to poke fun at how Americans consider anything over 50 years old to be "historic": "No, surely not, no. No one was alive then."

It was quite the effective comedy bit.  Very British.

But when one thinks about that, that is not quite so funny.

Recently, Advance Publications made the announcement that the 175-year old New Orleans daily newspaper The Times-Picayune would move to a mostly digital format that would decrease printed publication to 3-days a week.  And all hell broke loose...

The reason given to the up-in-arms city is that the Publisher looked down the road and saw an "economic doomsday" on the horizon.

The Facts:
- The Times-Picayune, by the admission of the publisher, remains a profitable newspaper.
- The TP has the "highest rate of readership by population of any major US city", according to McClatchydc.com.
- It is estimated that newspapers "still typically get 70% of revenue from print advertising" as opposed to online ad revenue.  (McClatchy)
- In what Esquire magazine called "one of the greatest sustained performances in the history of American newspapers", the TP's post-Hurricane Katrina coverage kept the city informed and alert, while also breaking a story on the corruption and devastating violence perpetrated by the New Orleans Police Department that eventually earned the newspaper a Pulitzer Prize.

The above facts alone should indicate what Advance Publications already knows: The Times-Picayune is just fine.

What they may not be aware of, is this:

New Orleanians are unlike any other citizens anywhere in this country.  Sure, very often New Orleans (NOLA) makes the news for all the wrong reasons.  Having grown up there, though, I can tell you that by-and-large the people of NOLA are some of the most unique, thoughtful and generous people that walk the earth today.  By nature, the cajun attitude is about family and friendship- not to mention the comfort that its famous cuisine instills.  It took me a long time (and moving to Los Angeles for work) to realize it, but NOLA was an amazing place to grow up... and it's a place to which I would readily return.  And that is a sentiment shared by many.  Even here in Los Angeles, people crowd a bar in Hollywood called "504" (the NOLA area code) to get even a small taste of what they had back home.  New Orleans is a place you can be "proud to call home." 

These qualities, however, have a side effect.  We New Orleanians have our traditions.  We love our Saints... we've always loved our Saints.  As a matter of fact, I believe the Saints organization means more to NOLA residents than any other football team does to its own.  Challenge a Saints fan on that claim.  Go ahead, I dare you.

We love our food.  We love our Mardi Gras. And Jazz Fest.  Our music.  Our culture.  Our crawfish boils.  Our language (this is a tame version).

We love our pirogues and our muffulettas.  Oh, don't know what those are?  Well, you just gonna have to hurry up and tell somebody (more NOLA slang).

We also love our Times-Picayune.  Now pay attention... the Times-Picayune is more than a newspaper.  Does it have the same grand style of the New York Times? No.  Does it have the same hard-hitting insight that made The Washington Post famous?  Not really.  But The Times-Picayune successfully represents the New Orleans people.  It informs us from the perspective of being one of us.  In addition to being a light for a city in dark times like post-Katrina, it also has become a record of a culture that does not exist anywhere else in the world.  Cotillions, debutante balls, Mardi Gras balls... not many other places still practice such things.  And NO ONE does it like New Orleans.

Does any city have a music scene as unique and varied as New Orleans?  Even the theatre scene is alive and well, and in true New Orleanian fashion- diverse. NOLA is part cultural mecca, part good ol' red blooded Southeastern American city and part capital of industry.  If ever a city could be said to have character, it is NOLA.  And as such, we like to sit down in the mornings with our chickory coffee and keep up with this treasure of a city by reading The Times-Picayune.  In print.  At our tables. So the kids can read the comics, dad and son can read about the Saints together and mom and daughter can keep up with the Boudreauxs- all at the same time.

As for me, the first thing I do when I land in NOLA (and the last thing before I leave), is pick up a hard copy of The Times-Picayune.

So, in short... the followers of The Times-Picayune like it just the way it is.

The Ramifications:
The publisher asserts that moving to a digital format will do nothing to hurt the readership or the people of NOLA:


- Recently, The Times-Picayune- or more accurately Advance Publications- fired 48% of The TP staff. Loyal staff. Beloved staff.  One member of the staff had been working for The TP for 4 decades and wasn't even invited to be an occasional contributing columnist.
- 53.8% of the African-American work force of The TP was fired... in a city that is a majority African-American.  (By the way... Advance Publications fired almost 100% of the African-American staff of another newspaper under its control, The Birmingham News.  Notice a trend?)
- According to a 2010 report by the Kaiser Family Foundation, 36% of people in NOLA have no internet in their homes.  And of these 36%, I would bet a hefty majority of them belong to the same group of the population that is most at-risk of being affected by scandals involving police corruption and post-Katrina violence, not to mention who also live in flood-prone areas of the city (namely The Lower Ninth Ward).

The Reaction:
- Mayor Mitch Landrieu: The scale-back of a successful newspaper like The Times-Picayune and firing of its staff makes New Orleans look like "a minor league city."
- The president of the NOLA city council has called it "totally unacceptable."
- "To think of not having a daily print edition saddens me, " U.S. Sen. Mary Landrieu, D-La., said in a statement.  "It's journalists' dedication and professionalism that have made our civic, business and education institutions stronger, more transparent and honest."
- Rallies have been held to show the publishers how much support daily publication has.   How many other cities would do such a thing?
- An Open Letter from various upstanding members of the business and philanthropic communities has been published urging a stop to this decision.

As you can see, the only people who seem to want (or will benefit from) the change in publication of The Times-Picayune is the New Jersey-based Advance Publications.

Which makes me wonder:  why can't we just leave well-enough alone?  At what point was it decided that America had to be a place where everything has to be changed and updated?  Why did movie theaters, for example, have to go from being beautiful monuments of past architectural style  (like the Regency Fairfax in Los Angeles) to structures doomed for condominium development?   Why does "old" seem to constantly necessitate desecration?

As one can is most certainly aware if he or she has ever logged onto any of the various online news sources, stories are changed, updated and edited many many times before they are considered finished... but not before they are published.  One of the strongest arguments in support of printed news is that it requires a level of scrutiny that online news does not.  In an industry made great by such figures as Ben Bradlee, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, is journalistic integrity no longer of value to us?

And finally, I don't know about you but I do not want to spend my entire life looking at a screen.  But that seems to be where we are headed... movies, computers, television. Even BOOKS are on a screen. And now, it appears, we are going to have to turn to a screen of some form in order to get our news.  Suddenly, all those Ray Bradbury stories seem a bit more realistic, don't they?  In my humble opinion, if there was a ever a trend to stop it is the current mandate that new technology eradicate all former methods.  In the majority of cases, it is for the best that what is new overtakes what is old... but not always.

The most brilliant quote in all the "Save The Times-Picayune" editorials I've read came from Charles P. Pierce of Esquire:   "Gutting a profitable newspaper in a city like New Orleans is the functional equivalent in an information sense of lining up to piss into a reservoir. The main reason that newspapers are failing in this country is that they are being set up to fail by publishers who think like hedge fund cowboys, and by editors who think like corporate officers."

The current creed of the industry is that The News is supposed to make people insanely rich. I suppose we have William Randolph Hearst, Ted Turner and Rupert Murdoch to thank for that.  A harsh truth about humanity is that we have become a species that values money, and this value wins out more often than not when matched against even the noblest of opponents such as truth. But, at the end of the day, we live in a world where news is a necessity.  We HAVE to know what is going on in this interconnected, fast-moving world around us.  And when companies like Advance Publications have no interest in what the people want or need- when they have no interest in the greater good... to whom will we turn?

If there is one city whose residents deserve to be heard, it is New Orleans.  If there is one city that does not like (and should not be forced) to have its traditions changed, it is New Orleans.  Why should it?  Residents are proud of their city despite its struggles.  It is a place unlike anywhere else in the United States and that's just the way the citizens of NOLA want it.

Save The Times-Picayune.

How can you help? Here are some ways.

Save The Picayune- Facebook
Save The Picayune- Twitter
Change.org- Petition to Save The TP
Support dashTHIRTYdash - the TP Employee Assistance Fund (these are the folks behind the Times-Picayune, and the future of journalism in New Orleans)

The Blind Leading the Young and Blind

Close on the heels of North Carolina pastor Charles Worley suggesting gay people should be locked up in an electrified fence so that they will die off, another sad video emerges.

A young boy, barely old enough to correctly enunciate words of his song, led up to a mic in front of a congregation (also in North Carolina) to proclaim "Ain't No Homos Gonna Make It to Heaven."  As if he had hit a game 7-winning home run in the World Series, the congregation applauds and hollers like crazy.  The boy beams from ear-to-ear.  The "minister" behind him chortles like a jolly ol' fat man at a buffet line.

Watch if you dare. 

Has something recently flown up the collective ass of North Carolinians that I was not aware of?

All joking aside, this saddens me deeply.  As it should sadden everyone.  Especially Christians.

I think it is important, first off, for me to note that I am a Christian.  I was raised Catholic on both sides of my family, attended Catholic elementary and a strict but progressive Catholic high school run by the Jesuits.  During my early teens, my mother and stepfather began taking me to a non-demoninational Christian church.  Believe it or not, I fell in love.

Contrary to the heady, dreary, unemotional routine that defined Catholicism, this new church- called Trinity- connected with me emotionally.  Through the teachings of the pastors and youth pastors and the example of many of the parishioners, I began to see for the first time that being a Christian worked best when one made it about a relationship with God, as opposed to obligations and routines.  I began to feel- even in the turbulent time of my adolescence- that all things eventually worked out because God was watching over me and my family and my friends... and, well, everyone really.

But then... life happened.  And I began to see the reality of this world.  I still believe in a benevolent God, but I also believe that the story of the Fall of Man- whether literal or not- is important.  It is important because it teaches us the most basic truth about mankind: while we are capable of so much good, we are also capable of so much evil.  In this same church where I experienced the euphoria of being in a community of people aiming to live good, wholesome, righteous lives, I began to see another side.

I began to notice that these same people who I admired so much at church were adulterers, bigots, alcoholics, gossips, drug users, perverts, deserters, liars, thieves, and just general wolves-in-sheeps-clothing.  Not all of them, mind you, but enough.  The day when my stepfather told me our pastor- who I adored- was leaving the church because he had been caught cheating on his wife and he needed to find his way again was the day it all hit me.  The next year, when our beloved Youth Pastor announced to the entire church he was moving away because he felt "the call" to do so left me and all my friends devastated.  If he had bothered to pull us aside before church started that Sunday, I might have understood.  Instead, we got the memo when everyone else did... and that hurt.  Any pastor who could just pull out the rug from a bunch of over-emotional, high-strung teens who held the moon for him and not offer any other explanation except he got a mystical "call" from On High to leave us behind was obviously not the person we thought he was.

As it turned out, no matter how much you trusted someone or looked up to them, they were only who you wanted them to be on Sundays at church.  And then some...

Eventually, I stopped going to church.  I still long for that community, but for me church was ruined by the people that attended it.  And that's the way I feel about Christianity.  Especially when I watch the above videos.  Whether you believe the entire Bible is just a made-up story or not, Jesus was good.  His teachings were quite possibly the truest teachings of anyone anywhere at any point in history.  But even the most compassionate and wisest lessons cannot stand up against thousands of years of bigotry that have resulted from people using his name to justify their own human weaknesses.

During this entire gay civil rights debate (let's call it what it is), many Christians have forgotten two very important lessons from the New Testament:

Matthew 7:1-2:  "Do not judge or you too will be judged.  For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."

Now, you see, what these verses command (this is not a suggestion, this is a commandment) is that people learn tolerance.  It's nobody's business to tell others how to live or what to do/not do!  Let God handle that.  And you know why I think this passage exists?  I think it exists because Jesus knew that judgement leads to intolerance and intolerance leads to hate and... well, we all know what hate leads to.   So, when one sees signs saying "Fags Burn in Hell" or, for that matter, "God Hates Muslims", just know that not only does that person/group have NO way of knowing whether that is accurate or not, but they are also committing an offense against the God they proclaim to serve.

Double whammy.

1 John 4:20: "If anyone says 'I love God' and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who hates his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen."

When Charles Worley or Pat Robertson or Fred Phelps and his cronies testify- or even just indicate it by their ideals- they hate people of any race, religion, creed or orientation, they are telling us a lot about themselves.  Matthew 7:15 reminds us all to "Beware the false prophet"... and how else can you define someone who makes a living off of preaching God's word when, by their actions, they tell us that they actually do not love God at all?

Now, I know just as everyone else knows that the young boy that sang the above song did not truly know what he was doing...

but

I can think of another religion that also teaches their children to hate.  I'm sure there are other churches that laugh when children proclaim others are going to rot in hell... but replace the word "homos" with the word "infidels"...

Funny how alike "enemies" can be sometimes?

All I wish is that we could live in a world where religion is used not as a tool to advance hate and bigotry and intolerance but rather all the other good, positive, loving and affirming qualities it was meant to.

But, then I remind myself that at the end of the day, we are all human.

Gloomy Though The Sun Shines

I have trouble on days like today.

Days when
the lord has blessed us with uninterrupted sunshine
a brain that works
a heart that beats
a family that's there for us
friends that surround us
a roof that shields us
and food that sustains us

When there's no reason
none whatsoever
to be down
and glum

and yet
somehow
my insecurities
my doubts
my worries
my concerns
my fears
 they all take the lead.

When I can't escape my own head
then I see someone in trouble
and the garbage trucks wake me too early
and the protest down the street rattles my quiet
and a driver gives me the finger while cutting me off on the highway
and I have to have a talk I don't want to have
and I miss my home and I miss my Nanna's home
and I'm sad because it didn't have to go
and I get news that is bad
then go to places I don't want to
and do things I don't want to
with people I don't need around me
because someone says I have bills to pay

And these things...
they all sting more than usual today.
I'm not sure quite why.
It's as if the night tide has changed
though the moon remains the same.
I only know that I have no adequate response today
and that confuses me more.

Then I look for comfort in places that have run out of it
and realize how dumb that move was

So on I trudge, reminding myself that if I make it through the day
I start over again tomorrow

That helps for a moment
but then it resumes being just another odd day.

The Woman in Row 3

Acting is a tough racket.

I'm not 100% sure I can adequately describe the absurdity of this pursuit within the confines of this blog- it may more appropriately take a full book to clue you in on what happens here in Hollywood.  But please, take my word for it: this industry is FUBAR.

Allow me to elaborate:

-This is the only industry I know in which talent and hard work matter but don't count.

- I once assisted a casting director on a project for a network television show.  We saw 10 girls.  One girl blew everyone in the room away.  And yet one of the soulless shmucks running the audition said her hair color reminded him of an ex-girlfriend so she wouldn't do.

- One cannot get union work if one is not in the union.  And one cannot get into the union unless one has had union work.  If you figure this out, let me know.

- Acting in commercials is good money.  Auditioning for commercials is quite possibly the most frustrating, humiliating and sometimes embarrassing experiences one can encounter.  And driving to these auditions can quite often bring one to edge of insanity.

These are just a few of the many many many many batshit experiences an actor encounters day-in and day-out.  We actors are often poor and mostly out-of-work (even the successful ones).  Many of us work our asses off (and spend money on degrees and classes) to become good at our craft only to watch the airbrushed, undisciplined and spoiled stars of the Disney channel sign onto major motion pictures and television shows worth millions of dollars only to have them give us uninteresting, safe and stale performances.

There are, undoubtedly, times when I stop and think: what the HELL am I doing?

A few years ago, I was hired to replace an actor in a production of West Side Story. The role was "Riff"- the Mercutio of this legendary adaptation- and it was a role I had wanted to play since I was a kid.  I was hired in the audition and the conversation went something like this:

Director: "You're hired."

Me: "Amazing!"

Director: "See you at rehearsal tomorrow!"

Me: "Great! (As I begin to leave the room) By the by, when does the show open?"

Director: "Next Friday."

...

Excuse me? NEXT Friday? As in 13 days from now?

Yup.

I have no way of knowing how many of you out there in the internet world are familiar with West Side Story (WSS), but it is a HUGE show.  Specifically the role of Riff requires learning intense choreography, 2 solos, a number of group songs, staging and fight choreography.  Not to mention, I have always viewed Riff as a guy whose only measure of importance in this world comes from the gang he leads... nothing else matters.  This makes Riff a bit of a wild card- cool under pressure but also fiercely protective of what is his.  He's a real person and I think Riff tends to get played as a caricature too often.  So, in addition to everything else I needed to learn in 13 days, I also had to turn this character into a real person.  It was going to be tough...

but it was what we as actors live for: the challenge of doing what we do to the best of our ability in even the most hectic circumstances.  How dramatic!

By opening night, I was exhausted.  Thrilled but exhausted.  Opening weekend came and went- and we were a hit.

But it was in weekend 3 of the 6 week run that the biggest reward came.  WSS tells the story of two young kids who fall in love despite their ties to fiercely rival gangs (the Jets and the Sharks) in New York City.  Now, in my 2 experiences with WSS I've found that a natural rivalry also ensues backstage between the actors in most productions.  Practical jokes are pulled, cliques are formed, romances develop within said cliques.  In our production, it came down to this:

"America" was the show stopper.  The amazing music, high-energy dancing and magnetic quality of the actresses (specifically the wonderful Janet Krupin who played Anita).  As you can imagine, that pissed us Jets off something awful!  Especially me.  I was enamored with the song "Cool"- which in the stage production immediately follows "America" and almost comes across as a response to its predecessor.  "Cool", to me, is everything a musical number should be: an honest, raw, explosion of feelings.  "Cool" is the Jets' attempt at dealing with this chaotic world around them, at coping with their anger at the cards they've been dealt and trying to gather strength to hold onto what little they've got.  And as Riff- the one who leads the gang in this catharsis- it was my responsibility to make "Cool" the show-stopper I knew it to be.

By no means was "Cool" a dud.  We definitely did our job and did it well- and I knew every night that our audiences were with us.  However, I didn't believe that we had reached them on quite the level "America" had yet.  So, one night- after "America"'s 18,000th standing ovation... I turned to my boys (and girls) backstage and said:

"You hear that shit?  That pisses me off."

The lights changed and we went on.

I'm not going to say I was responsible for what happened next, but I do think I had extra motivation in the scene leading up to "Cool" and perhaps that motivation was what we all needed to get to where we needed to be.  Before "Cool" even began, we all felt it.  The lyrics came out of my mouth with extra poignancy, our snaps were crisper, our eye contact was more direct. One of the most brilliant things about Leonard Bernstein's song is that it builds and builds and builds and the SONG tells the story.  It tells you what the Jets are going through- it makes you feel the eruption that is coming.

And erupt it does.  When "Cool" works, it works.

Being downstage of everyone else, I couldn't see anyone behind me during the number. But I could feel it.  We were ON.  And we were being real.  And it was showing.  The song crescendoed into a moment where we all meet in the center of the stage and right as the music pops we charge the audience and burst out into one group movement, the music pulsing along with us.

And there she was... I could see a woman in Row 3.  Plain as the nose on my face despite the lights in my eyes and my mind being elsewhere: she was groovin'.  This woman was INTO IT.  She had a mouthful of white teeth pulled back in a big ol' grin and her head was moving side to side, fingers snappin' along with us...

and I knew we had her.  We HAD her.

For the rest of that number, I was telling HER a story.  I was performing for her.  I wanted her to feel everything we were doing.  The denouement of the song began and the number ended...

and we got it.  We got our standing ovation.  And it wasn't just an obligatory "we-stood-up-for-America-let's-stand-up-for-these-guys-too" ovation... it was real. And it was intense.  These people understood what we wanted them to understand.  We had made them feel why "Cool" was so important to us.

And THAT is why I do what I do.  That is why I am an actor.  Not for the recognition, not for the promise of riches or some measure of fame (although riches would certainly be accepted), but because I believe in telling stories- and I believe in helping people to love the experience of them.  I go through everything I go through because of The Woman in Row 3.  I know that for every crappy experience I have, there is someone out there who is being changed- even if for a fleeting moment- because of the stories I tell.

In this world, especially today, I think escapism is important. But it's more than that.  Watching or reading about people trying as hard as they can to overcome their issues is a way of telling ourselves that our own problems are not insurmountable.  That we, too, can fight like the Jets are fighting on-stage.  Sure, I sometimes work for productions that don't really have a lesson to teach... but that makes the moments that I have that opportunity all the more important and special.

So to everyone out there, I hope one day I can tell you a story that makes you groove in the audience too.  I hope you enjoy it every bit as much as The Woman In Row 3 did.

Cooking Shows and Freud

Don't lie... you all watch Food Network.

You know you do. Or at least have. The sooner you admit to this, the happier you'll be. Denying such an act is only going to bring you shame and self-loathing.

I watch. I've come to terms with that. This was hard to face at first, considering there is always a nagging sensation in the back of my mind that I am watching a network with the craziest mixed messages ever...

It wants to be:

a healthy network

a comfort food network (read: NOT healthy)

a network for women

a network for men

a network for both

a network for families

a network for single parents

a network for world-travelers

a network for traveler-wannabes

a network for people who never want to leave the town they're currently in. Ever.

But I must be honest... watching the Food Network has taught me a lot about myself. At this point in my conflicted Food Network viewership, I have pulled recipes from (almost) all of the prime daytime chefs. Hell, I've even pulled from Two Fat Ladies (if you don't know who Two Fat Ladies are, click on the show title... you can thank me with pastries or some sort of bland pork entree. Think Paula Deen, but british... and there are TWO of them!). So I cannot complain too much about the chefs they choose to broadcast.

From week to week, my favorite of these shows changes. I find that I cannot commit to one show as my hands-down favorite for too long before I decide I like another one better. While some may see this as non-commital (a trait I might have picked up since moving to Los Angeles), I actually see this as a positive character trait- for in my observation I have deduced that there can only be a certain type of person to constitute a faithful viewer to each major chef on the Food Network. Allow me to expound on this theory with a kind of horoscope for viewers of the following...

If you watch:

Paula Deen- You love life. You come from the South and you understand the appeal of every single dish she makes. You can just hear your momma in the background yellin' at you that you're gonna sit at that table, young man, until every last bite of that Cream-a-Potatah Casserole is finished/I didn't slave over a hot stove all day for you to just stare at mah food! Food is enjoyable not just on your taste buds, but also in your heart... and despite any effort to stave this off, you will eventually have to loosen a notch on your belt. Maybe two. And, in most cases, even more than that.

The Barefoot Contessa (or as I lovingly call her "Ina"): You may have a sweet demeanor, but you're slightly awkward and all of your relationships are just on the verge of uncomfortable. Even with your husband/wife. You clearly have a sophisticated palate, but with each passing episode, er...week, you realize that you are just not in the physical shape you used to be and would rather just have friends run out to the store and pick you up a platter or two from Ralph's and convince your guests that both the cuisine and beautiful plating are products of years of self-taught, French-inspired cooking. Oh, and you also love to invite your effete Latino friends to decorate your dining room with the most nauseatingly colorful designs and the occasional rock or twig from "your garden."

Giada deLaurentiis: You're pretentious. And dumb. Why dumb? Because you have a penchant for over-enunciating words in your "native tongue" to the point of absurdity. People also see through your tricks... you may have a huge, toothy smile that may come off as charming- but after a while, everyone knows that when the curtains are drawn and no one is looking, you're a RAGING BITCH.

Guy Fieri: You have something to prove.

Anne Burrell: You like to break things and people fear you.

Down Home with the Neelys: You're the type of person that wants everyone to know that you "have a black friend."

Rachel Ray: You will eventually be lured into joining a cult. A really annoying cult, but one that nonetheless makes quick and tasty meals.

Ten Dollar Dinners with Melissa d'Arabian: You have a made up last name. And you're cheap.

Sweet Genius/Cupcake Wars: You're currently in a deep state of depression.

Two Fat Ladies: You have a wonderful sense of humor. And a death wish.

Restaurant: Impossible: You have a sincere passion for seeing someone get a second chance... and you're plotting how to find Robert Irvine in a dark alleyway and beat the shit out of him.

Worst Chefs in America: You have a superiority complex.

Chopped: I tried to give myself a break on this one. I really did. This show is extremely exciting and educational in my humble opinion, and I love every second of it. However, people who watch Chopped on a regular basis are on the same plain of existence as those football fans who jump up and scream "You're playing like shit, Tom Brady! Even I could have made that pass! With my eyes closed! Ya big pansy!" Oh really? Well, we'd all like to see you try. We'd all also like to see you create a dessert in 30 minutes using eggplant, bacon, duck fat and pickle juice as your required ingredients.

Now, word of warning... I am not a psychiatrist, nor do I have a degree in psychology. As a matter of fact, I took half a semester of Psychology in high school and that's as far as I got. So, if you happen to be a regular viewer of any of these shows, then I apologize. I know how tough it will be for you to be correctly analyzed by someone with such little training- after all, no one likes a mirror to be involuntarily shoved in front of their faces.

However, one thing I have always tried to do is to call 'em as I sees 'em. And I will not yield, I will not fold, I will not cease in that pursuit simply because it offends people... not even for fellow Paula Deen fans.

My final diagnosis: watching Food Network, like life itself, is fine when taken in moderation. Learn a new skill, teach yourself how to flambe, make a romantic dinner that doesn't come out of a can... but remember: too much of a good thing can make you act just like the host.

Something NONE of us want... especially Giada deLaurentiis fans.

Am I riiiiiiigght?

The (Shaky) State of the (Confused) Union

They say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

Tonight I listened (via the radio device) to President Barack Obama give a very inspired State of the Union address, the night after a very heated, nasty and somewhat cynical debate by his potential Republican rivals. Obama talks like a President. Obama looks like a President...at least what I would have imagined a 21st Century President of the United State of America would look like.

However, at what point will this President realize that bipartisanship is not a reality right now? There is not one single Republican, not ONE, who has any interest in working with the Democrats (or, for that matter, the Independent and very wise Bernie Sanders of Vermont) on issues that are in the best interest of the country.

Now stop... I am not saying that the Republicans don't care about the interests of the country. There are good people in the Republican party. They rarely get any attention, but I digress...

But, when was the last time one of them was open to the idea of working with the other side of the aisle (What an awful idea, by the way! Why on earth is the Congress physically divided? Talk about setting yourselves up for battle/failure!)? Have any of you ever heard Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity describe one single non-Republican idea as good or valid?

Let me answer that for you? Nope.

The closest they've ever gotten was Bill O'Reilly (God help us) admitting that global warming was most likely real and that he saw no reason gay people shouldn't marry ("“Do I care about this? Not really. I don’t care what Lenny and Squiggy do. They want to get married, let them get married. If you open it up for one group, you’ve got to open it up for all the groups." PBS interview with Marvin Kalb on PBS in 2008).

Most logical people can see at least ONE of their opposition's viewpoints as valid. For example, I believe that the Republican viewpoint of a strong national defense and limited government to be, at its core, a very good philosophy. The problem as I see it is that the Republican party does not seem to know what defense is, and instead runs into every country, flexing its muscle and telling everybody to bend over and grab their ankles. Oh and by the way, how is telling people they can or cannot get married to the person they love LIMITED government? Hmm...

So... why on Earth is President Barack Obama spending the bulk of what could be his LAST State of the Union ever as acting President trying to create a sense of "Kumbaya-let's-kiss-and-make-up-smokum-peace-pipe-and-ride-off-into-the-sunset-together" bipartisanship?

It's NOT GOING TO WORK!

I would have so much more respect for you (plus you'd probably secure my vote- which you have not yet done btw) if you just said:

"Ok ladies and gentlemen, you've had your chance. I'm the motherfucking PRESIDENT of the United States. Now you're going to pass every single cockadoody piece of legislation I propose or I will veto every shred of paper that passes my desk. I don't care of it's a homeless shelter for eskimo pygmy children or if it's a multi-trillion dollar stimulus bill that gets us out of debt with one flick of my pen. I will shut this motherfucker DOWN. Why? Because I CAN. Bitch. Now get on board or I'm going to FUCK ALL OF YOU UP! And you know I can. You know why? Cuz I'm BLACK. And you pissed me off."

I'm done rooting for you, Barack. You've lost your pass with me. You need to EARN my vote. You did it once, despite everything I was taught as a proud Southern Catholic/Christian from a conservative Republican (the good, hard-working, earnest kind, not the Romney/Gingrich/Perry/Bachman/Palin crazy kind of "Republican") family.

If you want me to not abstain from voting for President this year- because as it stands that's my only other option- you need to have a friggin' backbone and tell those stiff ol' white people staring back at you as you addressed the Union tonight to yank the stick out of their ass and remember why they're SUPPOSED to be in government in the first place.

Bring it.