Does...not...compute

Gregory decided to come over to fool around. I was going to take a nap but...okay, I ain't turnin' down no booty call. He came over and was all business. "Did you brush your teeth?" he asked.
"Uh...no," I said, completely unsexy in my pajamas, as he was interrupting my almost-slumber.
"Go brush your teeth." Hm, I thought, going to the bathroom, I don't like being told what to do. Am I dirty or something? Will he not kiss me lest he not know "where that mouth has been?"

I went into the bathroom and began brushing my teeth. After a few seconds I came out of the bathroom talking to him and still brushing and...oh. I see. He wanted me to return to him completely naked and...ready...on the bed. "Oh!" I stammered, continuing to be unsexy in my pajamas and wishing I weren't doing this mundane exercise anymore. Um, okay. I walked over to the bed, still brushing my teeth, still in my pajamas, and began to touch him. We looked at each other and nothing but the "brush brush brush" sounds permeated the air while hands were doing other things.

"Dammit, I wish we had a condom," I lamented, knowing we didn't have any on us.
"That's okay," he countered, "I don't really like fucking."

Reverse zoom. Slow motion.

Um.

Excuse me?

What?

Replay.

"That's okay," he said, buck naked and ready for action, "I don't really like fucking."

"Ith that twue?" I said bug-eyed, toothbrush firmly in mouth, toothpaste and saliva filling up. This is all wrong. I am in a parallel universe where one brushes their teeth in bed, and a person of the male persuasion says things like he doesn't like fucking.
"What?" he asked, because well, he didn't understand me.
"Is that true?!" I articulated as best as possible.
"Yeah," he said casually.
"Why not?!"
"Eh, it doesn't get me off."

Oh.

Ooohhh. I finally got off the bed to go spit in the sink in the bathroom. But I asked (or shouted, since we were in different rooms now), "Are you one of those people who don't consider oral sex sex?" I had this guy pegged. No intercourse, no guilt.
"No. It's all sex to me." Oh. Damn.
"What about anal sex?" I had to ask.
"Eh, feels kinda the same." Wow. Wow. What seems to be most straight guys' wet dream doesn't do him either? Seriously, he's an alien.

I took my pajamas off and joined him in Naked Land. I actually had a really good time pleasuring him. I remember enjoying myself immensely. Afterwards we began talking about this, that and the other, and then it became clear that he wasn't going to reciprocate, and then it was time to part.

Oh.

Ooohhh. It's effort that doesn't get you off. You love gettin' blown. Who doesn't love gettin' blown? But condoms and vaginas and stuff? That's just too much work. *yawn* You got better things to do. I don't know what they would be, but you're gonna do them.

You know what? While you're at it, get a haircut. The McDreamy 'do doesn't work on you.

I'm taking my nap now.

I'm with her

Despite the numerous critical reviews, I enjoyed M. Night Shyamalan's Lady in the Water. The best part was going with 12 friends on opening night including my dear friend Cindy, who makes her big-studio-film debut in a pivotal role in the flick. Watching her be her wonderful self, at the same time embodying a character so unlike her, with Paul Giamatti as her sparring partner, was inspiring and motivating. Congratulations, Cindy!

Now I just have to go!

Okay. I did it. I joined a gym. I did research, found one I liked, figured out how to pay for it, signed the dotted line, and got my membership card. This picture is of the pool. Yeah, pretty fancy schmancy. Now I need to schedule every class or visit into my planner to make it real. The worst is to join a gym and never go. So, *sigh* wish me luck!

Okay. You a pimp.

I passed by Carson Daly on the street tonight. He was wearing a short-sleeved CBGB's t-shirt with one sleeve rolled up to his shoulder. Is that the new thing now; first it was one pant leg rolled up, now a sleeve? Is my nizzle in the hizzouse? Oh, Carson.

Oh, there's skill involved?

I went to a commercial audition. As per usual I got to the casting venue, saw someone I knew, tried not to be too social to stay focused, signed in, looked at the copy (the script), filled out a card, and prepared to wait..."Eileen? We're ready." Oh. Or not. Well, I guess there are more men than women and they're pairing up guys and gals. My pal who was chatting me up was definitely there before me but alright, I'm happy to get in and out.

There were a good handful of people in the audition room, maybe seven, which made me wonder if this was a callback that I happened to snag. When there are many people in the room, you can make an educated guess that the director is there, the clients, the producer. The casting director sat me next to my male partner and told us how to play the scene, which was really silly and over the top, and cute if done right. I was looking forward to jumping in and seeing what happens. I observed that the guy had the harder job; he was told to be "really, really intense. Not happy, but really high, high energy. Then push Play on the CD player and get up and dance." Yeah, that was the direction. No, it didn't make sense, but you figure out how you can make sense of it, and just go.

The camera was set on us, and we were told to slate our names (identify ourselves to camera). I did, and my partner did. Then we were to start the scene. I had the first line. I said it. Then my partner said his line, SO NOT high energy, SO NOT intense. In fact, he was without, to my horror, any basic acting skill whatsoever. He literally was just reading the words. Dammit, now I just have to pretend he's giving me something, anything, and ignore the reality. I plowed through his awkwardness, hoping to God they didn't lump us both in the same category of suckiness. After going through it once, the director gave us more direction. He told me to let my partner inform how I said my next line. What? Did he see what I had to work with? And for my partner, the direction of "Don't invite her to dance, just stand up in your own world, start dancing, then find each other" was certainly not an easy one to navigate. But again, you do what you need to do to make it work.

We started again. I said my line. My partner, stiff as a board. It was like acting opposite a Saltine cracker. I ignored his energy and supplied my own. When it was over, we were dismissed, but they asked me to hang out in case they were short some women. I thought, thank GOD I may get another chance with another partner. Back out into the waiting area we went. I was going to forget it and move on, but my partner came to me looking horrified. "Wow, you're...do you do this a lot? That was over my head. I need to take some acting classes. I'm, um, new at this. You must have been like, 'What the hell are you doing?'" Was this like his first audition for anything ever? The guy was beating up on himself so much that I couldn't help but have the whole, "We all start somewhere, just chalk it up to experience," attitude, but inside I'm going, "Yeah brotha, why you gotta crap all over my mojo in therr?" Then he eagerly asked, "Do you know of any good classes I could take?" I'm thinking, "Are we really having this conversation right this second?" I asked him what he wanted to do; he said movies, commercials, and corporate industrials. I was in the middle of "thinking really hard" when thankfully I was called right back in. I pointed him to a bulletin board down the hall that advertised some classes and wished him luck. Poor shmoe.

I had such high hopes for guy number two. But in short, he was just as lackluster. I was like, "Where all the talented dudes at? Dead from heatstroke?" After we ran the thing three times, the powers that be were whispering, whispering. I thought, please, stick me with yet one more guy. Just do it. You know you want to. But alas, they dismissed me, and I had to make small talk with guy number two in the elevator all the way down. He was bragging about having gotten a free copy of the New York Post. I noticed the front page said, "Promotional copy." Uh yeah, that's why it's free. And out I finally went into the 100-degree heat.

The glamorous life? You be the judge.

One degree of separation

I've become better in the last couple months at staying in contact with people: friends, acquaintances, business contacts. The key is truly letting go of whether or not they gave a shit! And usually, to my relief, they are happy to hear from me! It's freeing to give up expectations; I could learn to do that in other areas in my life for sure, but am 110% better where this is concerned. In this industry, reminders are everywhere, which also makes it easy. "Hey, I saw your movie finally! Congrats!" "I just saw you in a commercial. High-larious." "Um...you wrote a book, Mr. Bestseller? I can't wait to read it." This month I sailed through two books pals of mine had written and published, both nonfiction memoirs, which I am aspiring to do myself. Both were deeply inspiring. One I read in a few hours cover to cover. This weekend a friend of mine from Alaska (who I dub the next Elton John) sails into New York for a mini-concert. I find myself singing loudly to his CDs in giddy anticipation. Next week a big blockbuster film opens which stars a close friend of mine in her big break. It feels great to share in everyone's successes and not feel like a failure in comparison (which is easy to do).

Tomorrow could be a whole nother story...:)

Anger

Ah, yes. Anger. My own anger has been rearing its no-longer-ugly head. I am feeling a lot of it, and not pushing it down and away as per usual. I am also feeling other things that I never like to feel, like aggression and contempt. Lots of contempt. Contempt for others, contempt for the business that I'm in. Resentment. That's a great one. I'm resentful of many things. Why do I have to work so much? Why do I only make so much money? And that's only the beginning.

I hope I can continue to allow myself to let the pendulum swing to its heart's content, without purposefully hurting anyone's feelings, before I can find a happy, authentic medium for myself. Until then, no one's safe: not my friends, old and new, my brother, my mom - my mom for sure - extended family, complete strangers, co-workers, bosses, people I admire, people I don't give the time of day to, lovers past, present and future, and my private self. My anger has wings and expressing it healthily will set me free.

Watch out world; I have an edge, and it's sharp.

Things I'd rather you not say

"Oh, you're an actor? Have I seen you in anything?"
(or variations thereof: "What have you been in?" "What have I seen you in?")

Why I'd rather you not say it: It puts actors in an awkward position. What are they supposed to do; list credits off their resume until a glimmer of recognition flits across the questioner's eyes? The question implies that they are not legitimate unless they played the villain in Denzel's last movie.

How I want to answer: "I don't know; have you? If you watch pornography 24/7, thankfully the answer is no."

What I do say: "Probably not."

Which segues into question number #2.

"What kind of acting do you do?"

Why I'd rather you not say it: This is tricky because they know what you're getting at; do they "do" films or soap operas or theatre or sitcoms or commercials? However, most actors dabble in all of it to make a living, deftly adjusting to the different styles. Maybe asking what they prefer is better. Or, speak directly to the artist. "What's your passion?" Or, "What do you like most about your profession?" You know, open-ended questions.

What I want to say: "Uh...good acting?"

What I do say: Something uninspired about how I love theatre but tend to also do a lot of corporate gigs where they hire actors to.....zzzzzz.....*snore*

Ten years ago I had the random experience of partying with a couple of friends and Kelsey Grammer. A few days later at the office I was telling people about it when one of my co-workers, who is not an actor, said, "Did you ask him for a job?"
"No!" I answered incredulously.
"Well, I would've," he said, walking away for emphasis.

What I wanted to say: "It. Doesn't. Work that way. I got drunk with the man; I didn't wow him with a Juliet monologue."

What I did say: Nothing. But now, I will say in cyberspace, "You're an ass."

My personal favorite is non-showbiz related. This gem occurs when someone decides they're going to figure out what race of people I belong to.

"Where are you from?"

Why I'd rather you not say it: The question implies that I'm not only not from wherever you and I are having this conversation, but that I am not from fucking America when you're the one with the fucking accent.

What I want to say: "You probably still say Oriental, too."

What I do say: "New York."

Which of course, leads to: "No, where did you come from?"

What I want to say: "You're right. It's all existential, isn't it? Why are we here on earth? Oh, literally? My dear mammy's womb."

What I do say: "Queens, New York."

Which leads to: "No, where are your parents from?"

D'OH! If only I was third generation! Because I'd keep going: "They come from Poughkeepsie, motherfucker!" But now I'm forced to 'fess up...I say the Philippines, and then they are visibly relieved and yammer on condascendingly about how all the Filipinos they know are nice people, while I seeth and rage.

Best way to ask: "What's your ethnicity?"
(or variations thereof: "What's your ethnic background?" "What's your ethnic makeup?")

Ethnicity implies ancestry. Even "nationality" doesn't cut it, because the country of my home and birth is the US. For now, the ethnicity question is the only one that works for me.

Now run along and make me proud!

If it was easy, everyone would be doing it

I am not a stand-up comedian, although I do appreciate and enjoy the art form. In the late '80s, San Francisco was a Mecca for stand-up, and I used to go to a place that doesn't exist anymore called The Other Cafe. I'd go on open-mike night, probably because it was the cheapest night, but the quality was great. The roster of comics was definitely impressive. I enjoy spotting someone on TV today who I had a little crush on back in the day when I'd watch him get heckled at midnight in that small club by the Bay.

I do however, consider myself a funny person, and I am delighted if I successfully pull off some witty banter with one or more friends, catch them off guard, and have to wait until they're done laughing to continue with our conversation. Or I love when they hit me. They'll hit me to show, "Yes! You're right; oh, that's funny." Slap, slap.

Now, just because I have confidence in my social skills, and even my comedic skills on the stage, I do not, repeat, do not automatically assume I'd make a great stand-up comic. There are actors who are terrific stand-up comics and vice-versa. I'm not talking about them, either. I'm referring to those times when someone is laughing hard at something funny someone said and then gasps, "Did you ever think about doing stand-up? Because man, you're funny. Don't you think he should do stand-up?" they'll ask me, which is the precise moment when I wish I was in the dentist's chair. Truly. I may have even been sincerely laughing along right then. But unless Joe in accounting has already got jokes written in a notebook and knows where all the open-mikes are in the city and is ready to live a life on the road, I wouldn't encourage this new career path. I don't know why anyone thinks it's that easy to be a stand-up comic. It doesn't look easy to me. It's not. I've dated a couple of aspiring comics in my day. It's a late-night, isolated world. It looks easy because the good ones make it look easy.

So I'll say it now because I don't have the balls to say it at the time: "No. I don't think he should do stand-up. Just because he tickles all of us on a semi-regular basis at the office doesn't necessarily mean he has any stand-up chops at all. The man is already going through a mid-life crisis. Are you really doing him any favors? If it's his calling, he probably already knows it. Your bright idea isn't gonna make him hand in his resignation tomorrow and find the nearest Yuk-Yuks. Just enjoy his little jokes and collate these for me when you're done."

Except I'm older than 12 months

Heat rash, or prickly heat (which reminds me of the word "tickle," which makes me giggle), is a patch of itchy bumps on parts of the body that have been sweating excessively. It usally occurs on babies' bottoms if they are frequent diaper-wearers. Now, I've never in my life been skinny enough that the tops of my thighs never touched each other. They always have. So, imagine my surprise when this summer has provided me with something new to contend with: heat rash, yup, right there, on my upper-inner thighs, right near the groin, brought on the heat and sweating and them rubbing either together or against fabric. Heat rash. Heat rash, people. I had to go out and buy baby powder for relief.

Here's another uncomfortable phenomena, although far from new. I am sitting at my computer, not exerting any physical strain, but am sweating profusely. It's called humidity, and it's a pain in the ass, or in my case, my upper-inner thighs. Okay, so there's a fan sitting inches away that I could just plug in and turn on, but I like to suffer first, apparently.

Also, Whole Foods has run out of my favorite inexpensive cat food. So today I splurged on a small bag of Eukenuba. I don't want it to become a habit. Please Whole Foods, stock up. Stock up.

Yesterday my friend Rodney and I hung out for hours in Times Square, among the homeless and the tourists, talking about how we had no July Fourth plans. So we thought, why don't we meet for an impromptu picnic? Maybe later in the day when it's not so hot? Why don't we call Cindy and invite her? Yeah, Cindy? What do you think of this idea? Oh, it might rain? Well then, why don't we go over to somebody's house? How about yours? Awesome. We cajoled her into hosting us. What good friends we are.

Happy Independence Day from the Brits, everybody. Are we really, truly free of them, though? Ricky Gervais reminds us that we're absolutely beholden and inferior.

An Inconvenient Truth

Please see this sooner than later.

Every second counts.

Crush of the day

Leonardo DiCaprio has never been on my list of celebrity crushes. He looks twelve, no matter how old he gets or how much facial hair he tries to grow. But last night I dreamt that Leo and I were lovers. And today, I'm looking past the squinty eye/baby fat rebellious schoolboy, and I'm swooning a bit.

When I told my friend Michael (who happens to be gay) about my dream, he said, "Nice. Nice casting; nice casting."

Speaking of Mr. Environment, I'm looking forward to treating myself to An Inconvenient Truth tomorrow afternoon. Work it, Al Gore!