Super-Quick Update

Hello people,

Well, this is going to have to be super-quick, because I've only got 34% battery power left on my adorable, ancient Dell Laptop. But here's the skinny.

First, and most imporantly, I'm in Bellingham for the month of July. This means two things: A) I'm doing Barefoot in the Park and Driving Miss Daisy at the Mount Baker Theatre in the downtown Bellingham area, and B) I have no access to internet at home. Already, the early stages of internet withdrawal syndrome (IWS) are starting to manifest. I pray that I won't have to check into a clinic and get some internet methadone pills (IMPs) to keep me sane. Pray for me...or prey for me...either one would help...

Secondly, and less importantly, I've got another video online. Some of you checking my wife's blog may have already stumbled across it, but for those of you who haven't seen it, it's an entry in the Los Angeles 48 Hour Film Project, and it stars myself and my lovely wife. You can see it by clicking here. Feel free to rate, comment, and re-post that video, because I think she's a goody.

Just a quick word about the contest -- there were 72 groups participating this year, with (approximately) 15 people per group. Each group was assigned a "screening night," where they were shown with the other participants of the project.

The project was very simple. Each group was given a genre, a line of dialogue, a prop, and a character name with an occupation. They had 48 hours to write, film, and edit the movie...and it had to be kept under 7 minutes.

There were 11 groups in our screening night, and of those 11 groups, our was rated as the "audience favorite," which means that we advance to the next "round," which is the "Best of L.A." screening night. Pretty impressive for a bunch of Los Angeles neophytes, in my opinion.

So, give her a look -- if you've ever wanted to see my bare chest covered in potato salad, you've got to see it. And now I've only got 19% battery power, so I better finish up and post this bad boy before it's gone forever. As I said, I'm without internet, so we'll be doing the "coffee shop wifi crawl" when we get the chance...to check e-mails and what-not. But there's a good chance that my updates will be even more sporadic...if you can imagine such a thing.

Loathing and Loathing in Vegas (days 2 & 3)

(Part 1 is here)

Day 2

I don't know how many of you have experienced a "hang-over," but let me assure you, it is not pleasant. The hangover I had on Saturday was…fairly epic. The three of us agreed that we should all go out and get breakfast of some kind…and about thirty paces from our room, we regretted the decision to leave the safe, darkened confines of our hotel room at the Tropicana.

So, and hour later, bellies filled with cheap Vegas food, we were all back in the room… napping fitfully. Koby and Chad wanted to lay some money on the UFC fight, and with much hemming and hawing (a nasty habit I picked up from somewhere), I decided that, hangover be damned, I was going go with them.

Dripping with malaise, we shuffled past the blinking lights, the musical chirping of the slot machines, and the afternoon-drunken masses. After visiting two hotel Sports Books, Koby and Chad finally found the "good odds," and they laid their money down on some very promising underdogs. Not being up to date since Dan Severn applied a textbook keylock to Dave Beneteau to win UFC 5 (they're up to 86 now) I was in no position to risk my depleted cash funds. But, after their surefire bets were laid, we moped over to the MGM Grand. Koby and Chad thought that "breathing oxygen" and getting their shoulders hooked up to an electrical circuit might help them get their heads correct. I thought that losing more money at blackjack would help me. Turns out the oxygen would have been cheaper, and more helpful. Oops.

We met up again, and sat on a bench, and waited for an hour in a glum, hung-over near-silence until the fight started.

The view from our hang-over hang out.

Finally, it was time for them to depart, leaving me to my own devices. So…taking full advantage of my newfound freedom, in a city full of sin and depravity, I went back to the room, and the full scope of the shittiness of my situation started to affect me. After hrrming and hmming in my room (because hemming is stupid), I decided…dammit…I was going to find myself a poker tournament. And I did just that…over at the Planet Hollywood Casino.


Me...having a shit-load of fun in Vegas.

Now, I just wrote a long, eight-paragraph long description of my game…but I decided that probably only about two people (looking at you Don and Matt) could really appreciate it…so I deleted it. C'est la vie. Anyhow, the long and the short is, from a tournament of 69 people, I finished 9^th place. Now, in the tournament I was in, only the top 8 players got money (8^th gets $123, 1^st gets $945), which meant that I was the last guy to get eliminated without winning any cash. It's called being on "The Bubble," and it really, really, really sucks to be knocked out when you're on "The Bubble." But luckily one of the players there had asked everyone seated at the final table to throw in $10 to "pay the bubble" when the final table was pared down to 9. Since that player was me, I left with a cool $90 (after my $60 buy-in). As one of the players put it, "Hey, it's better than a sharp poke in the eye with a stick." Yes, yes it was.

After that, I met up with Koby and Chad (whose surefire underdog bets had somehow, amazingly, failed to pay off), and we choked down a late dinner at an awful steak house. We walked around a little bit more, not really feeling like drinking or gambling...but too ashamed to admit defeat and call it a night. We wound up at the Hooters Casino (simply because it's next door to the Tropicana). We walked sullenly through the place (which looked suspiciously like any other casino in Vegas…except one of the blackjack dealers was wearing the Hooters outfit – the rest were sporting the standard Vegas dealer vest-and-black-pants combo), and wound up moping about in the bar…choking down a couple of Miller Lights and playing one of those bar-side video poker machines before retreating to the safe, darkened confines of our room at the Tropicana.

Video Poker. Pwned.

Day 3

So my amazing wife (don't know if you've seen her, but she's gorgeous too) had booked a flight home for me the previous day, and I was scheduled to leave early Sunday morning. I'd set my alarm for 9:00 AM, but right around 8:40 AM she called me…I'm assuming to make sure I didn't miss my flight. She apologized for waking me, and asked me how much I was expecting to get paid from my Sprite commercial. "Five hundred dollars…but…after the agent commission, probably about four hundred. Why's that?"

"The check came today."

"Yeah?"

"Yep. It's for two thousand sixty-seven dollars."

Stunned pause.

"Seriously?"

So…that was that. Of course Vegas wasn't going to pay me off – they were the bastards who got me into this mess. Nope, it was up to the good folks of Los Angeles to come through in the clutch, and pay for my automobile repair. Remarkable.

I figured I was on a roll…so after flying down to Phoenix for my connecting flight, the gentleman at the desk informed the group that they were over-booked on the flight, and asked for volunteers to give up their seats for a free flight anywhere in the US. Well…I was in no hurry, and karma demanded that I be paid for my misfortune, so I volunteered. Sure, I had to wait a long-ass time for my next flight, but the price was right.

Finally, after waiting around the awful Phoenix airport for an extra 5 hours, I made it home where my very attractive wife picked me up at the Burbank airport. Not exactly the return that I had planned, but an admittedly still-pleasant one.

Epilogue

Things didn't go too smoothly after that. The repair shop called on Tuesday, asking what time I needed the car. I told them that I was back home, and that I wouldn't be returning until Friday to get the car. "Good," they said, "The part will probably be arriving on Wednesday, so your car should be ready on Thursday."

Only, it wasn't. They called on Wednesday, and told me the car wouldn't be ready until the following Monday. At the earliest. I realized, too late, that I gave them an inch, and they took 6 days. Fine. Whatever. Luckily for me, there was no cost for me to reschedule my flight through United Airlines (a fine, fine corporation), so I did so.

Early Monday morning, a little queasy from drinking too much at Erika's birthday party the night before (family: I promise you I haven't become some creepy drunk since my move to L.A...this was just an unusually high time for booze), I boarded a United Airlines flight, made a connection in San Francisco, and cruised back into the evil city of depravity.

I got $100 out of the airport cash machine, and caught a cab across town driven by a man who (thankfully) spoke not a word the whole drive over. He pulled into the repair shop, and I saw that my car -- instead of being "fully repaired" was still sitting in the garage...being worked on. This...scared me. But it wasn't so bad -- they just needed to test-drive the car, the new transmission had already been dropped in.

The car was tested...and passed. I paid the man. Got in my car, and headed for the gas station down the street to fill up for what would (hopefully) be an uneventful trip back to Los Angeles.

As I was pulling in, I saw a Charles Manson look-a-like rummaging through a dumpster at one corner of the station. It was about 100 degrees that day, and he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans -- his presence made me a little nervous (as happens to me around most homeless people), but I pushed that aside and continued to the pump.

Now, I still had $40 in my wallet, so I decided to prepay with the entire $40 (reminiscing, as everyone does, on how I used to be able to fill up my tank for $10). After I'd prepaid the attendant, I went back to my car and started pumping...and I looked up and noticed that Mr. Manson was making his way over to my car. Dammit. I pretended to make a phone call so I wouldn't have to brush off a money request -- and to his credit, he didn't interrupt my pretend phone call, he just sat on the curb next to my pump. After I finished pumping gas -- still feigning a phone conversation -- I realized that the total was $32.00, and I would have to go inside to get change. Once I'd gotten my money from the attendant, I looked out and saw that, unfortunately, Charlie was still sitting right next to my car. There were plenty of other cars filling up at the other pumps around the station, but he'd staked out my crappy 1990 Prizm as a sure-fire money-maker. Dammit.

I headed out in the blistering heat, back to my ride, and suddenly got really mad at myself: "Listen up, asshole...what's wrong with you? Yes, this was the most trying time I'd had in a long time, but you're healthy...you've got good friends, a radical family, a great wife, a place to live, a semi-steady job, and a functional automobile. The guy sitting out by my car in the blazing heat just finished looking for lunch in a gas station dumpster. At no point was he rude or aggressive to you; he just looked exhausted and dirty, and as bad as your situation is...his was...well...you know."

I'm sure it wasn't that coherent...but you get the idea.

Anyways, I walked up to him, and before he even noticed I'd returned to my car I gave him all of my change. He was young -- probably about my age, if not a few years older. And when I handed him that eight bucks, he looked at me with a strange, confused look. For an instant I thought I was offending him by giving him the money -- maybe he wasn't actually homeless, he just wanted directions or something. But then his face lit up and he said:

"Hey, you knew I was going to ask, didn't you?"

"Don't worry about it. Take care."

"Thanks, man. Thanks."

Then I got in my car, turned south onto North Rancho Drive, and did the only logical thing I could think of -- cried my stinking eyes out. I don't really know why, I guess it just sorta' snuck up on me. It's not like I'm a terribly charitable dude who gets viscerally affected by seeing poverty and the like (I'd only given money to a homeless person one other time) so I'm pretty sure I wasn't crying because of Charlie's situation.

Part of me wanted to believe that I was crying because of the horrible week that I'd endured...but, again, as bad as it was, it wasn't really that bad. I still have plenty of money saved up, and I'm very hire-able should I decide to rejoin the work force at some point.

Maybe I'd just been penning up a lot of bad feelings, and I was a little pissed off that the world had swooped in and relieved me of a couple thousand dollars. So to do something that made me feel genuinely good inside opened a flood gate somewhere, filled with tears. But really, it was only eight bucks...and I knew that it wasn't really going to change the guy's life in any appreciable way...

Then again, maybe I was just crying because I needed to cry. I get like that occasionally. I don't like crying when other people are around, and even now I'm massively uncomfortable blogging about it...but it happened. And damned if I didn't feel a lot better about things once my sissy emotions started pouring down my cheeks.

Luckily, I managed to control myself by the time I merged onto Interstate 15 southbound. The ride back home was uneventful -- I would cringe at every little shudder, gear shift, or shimmy that the car made, but nothing untoward occurred. I pulled up to the apartment around 8:00 PM -- just in time for some "So You Think You Can Dance," and a Coke Zero.

Loathing and Loathing in Vegas (day 1)

The plan: drive to Vegas early Friday morning, arrive around 12:00 noon (or so), gamble a little, meet up with Koby and his buddy around 5:00 PM, carouse, crash in Koby's hotel room, get up at the crack of noon, and drive back to Los Angeles. I figured, at most, I'll lose my entire $100 gambling allotment…maybe spend $30 on food and booze…plus the $40 in gas to get there and back. Put those together, and it meant I'd spend a great day in Vegas for an underwhelming $170 and change.

The beautiful blue chariot that would carry me triumphantly into "The Vegas."

Now that was the plan. However, as my dear friend Robert used to say, plans should best be left to either mice or men (who are very good at planning, apparently). Inevitably, my four-month good luck streak came to a catastrophic halt about 70 miles outside of Las Vegas, where my car gave what could best be described as a "shudder," followed by a "severe reduction in power." My first thought was, "Dang, Erika's supposed to be using this car for a background gig next week. She's going to be so mad at me." My second thought was, "Wow, if my car breaks down, I'll be stuck in the middle of the desert with a busted engine and very little money."

Luckily, the engine was able to crank out a couple of horsepower -- albeit much less than would be considered "normal freeway drivin' power." So I was able to continue on my way, but there was a persistent deafening whine coming from the engine…more specifically, the transmission (not that I could tell at that point). After a gut-clenching hour on the asphalt, I managed to nurse my busted ride into Vegas proper. I was headed toward the nearest repair shop when, with very little pomp (and a good deal of circumstance), my little blue car decided that it was tired of running on a broken transmission, and stopped. I asked nicely for the car to give me just one more little mile, but after a protracted argument (wherein I tried out every position on the stick shift – none of which, save "Park" and "Neutral," did what they were supposed to) the car won.

So I glided to a stop in a right-hand turn lane, threw on the emergency flashers, and called Mr. Chad Evans, who gave me the number of a local towing company (and thanks again, Chad…for keeping a cool head, and being there to Google around for me).

The site of the epic break-down.

The tow truck driver arrived in typical fashion (weird facial hair, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth), hooked up my car, and took me to the nearest "transmission specialist."

Two of my new best friends. The tow truck driver, and the weird guy in a black tank top who watched the whole thing.

He assured me that the repair shop was near all the "good titty bars," and he had spent more than a few lunches with the company truck parked in the lot (which had gotten him in trouble with his boss, apparently). We got to the run-down repair shop, and the decrepit septuagenarian mechanic informed me that, as it was a holiday weekend (Memorial Day), they would not be able to look at the car until Tuesday…at the earliest. And he assured me, in a very uplifting way, that most repair shops in town would be closed for the weekend. And then he punched me in the testicles and charged me $80 for the favor. Honestly, I think that punch (had it actually happened) would have improved my day at that point.

But luckily for me, Mr. Tow Truck Driver had a mug full of repair shop business cards, and he managed to find a gentleman across town who was able to look my poor busted ride right away. Okay, good. Off we go.

After an uncomfortable, depressed 30 minute ride, we pulled in to Master Transmission Specialists about well outside of Las Vegas. The heavy-set former marine tending the desk assured me that he'd be able to look at it today…but the actual repair would have to wait until Tuesday. Fine. Whatever. I envisioned myself crashing at Koby's hotel until Monday (when he was scheduled to leave), then holing up in a nearby roach motel on Monday night, eating on the cheap, and bugging out of town as soon as the car was patched up – probably late Tuesday, if I'm lucky.

My lovely car's new home for the next couple of weeks.

Now, at this point, Vegas had got me for a $72 tow truck fee, plus the $40 for gas to get there. I figured it was going to be expensive to fix up the car, but a 1990 Geo Prizm? Looking online now, it appears that the car sells for roughly $1,800. How bad could it possibly be?

Well…bad. I asked the guy if he could provide me a rough estimate for a patched transmission. He hemmed…hawed…punched some numbers into a calculator…looked up some parts information on his computer…and told me flatly, "Twenty-three hundred."

"Wait, two hundred…um…"

"No, two thousand three hundred dollars."

I was floored. I didn't think the car was even worth that much fully repaired. And I tell him this…which sets him hemming and hawing again…after which he tells me that they might be able to get a low-mileage used transmission, that that'd cut down on the costs. Okay…how much for that?

More hemming…hawing…he makes a phone call…punches more numbers into a calculator…mumbles to himself…answers some questions from my increasingly annoying (and lingering) tow truck driver about a dune buggy he's working on…then finally…the total.

$1,500…before taxes. Rounded out to $1,650 after Uncle Sam's had his cut. So, tack on the $72 tow, and the $40 gas, before I've even hit the tables, I'm down $1,762. Crap. Crap crappity crap. Crap crap crap crap-crap crap. Craps? No. Crap. Better, but still...crap.

He offered to give me the weekend to think about it. Well, what choice did I have? In the meantime, he connected me with the good people at Hertz, who sent a kind, effeminate Asian man in a brand new 2008 Hyundai Elantra to come pick me up. Since my car was in the shop, I was elligible to get a rental car for $20 a day. For 4 days? Holy smokes! 80 bucks? I'd have spent about that much money just on a cab ride from the mechanic to the strip! Things are looking up for ol' Liz Lemon! I mean, yes, things are sucking very heavily...but finally there was some good news.

After a little paperwork, I'm cruising down the Vegas strip in a fully pimped out, brand new Elantra (IT HAS A CD PLAYER, FOLKS!!!!!). Vegas now has me for $1,842…which will soon be $1,942 – the extra $100 are what I'd planned on losing gambling. She may set my poor wallet ablaze, but she will not prevent me from enjoying myself.

My super-phat new ride. It would spend the entire weekend in the casino parking lot.

Because, you know what? Vegas owes me, dammit. That's right, Vegas…I'm talking to you now. I did nothing to deserve this – I drove from Seattle to Los Angeles in that same old ancient Prizm that you gleefully destroyed. Suddenly, my ol' reliable blue bomber can't handle a little 4 hour jog over flat desert terrain? Really?

So I tried to decide how Vegas was going to pay me back. Naturally, I thought the best way would be with slot machines. Damn you Vegas, and damn your slot machines…but that's where the Jackpots typically come from. When you see pale schlubs from Nebraska light up the "JACKPOT" after hours of dropping nickels into a machine.

Since I was destined for a bunch of easy cash, I dropped $40 into a Texas Tea slot machine, and eventually that adorable scamp who just lives to build oil derricks in Texas reimburses me with a whopping $20! That's right, Vegas…I'm the boss of you! You're not getting your filthy mitts on that $20 dollars! That's going straight into the "Help Tyler Fix His Car" fund. Thank you very damn much.

Then, flush from my huge win at the slot machines, debauchery. In the form of one "Koby," and one "Chad." I hooked up with these two ne'er-do-wells and started the drinking. They actually did Jagermeister shots – a total throwback to my college years, but I've got almost $2,000 worth of angst to forget about. Jager is a drink that has brought me nothing but grief in my brief history with it; and one that harkens back to my headier days, huddling in my crappy apartment in off of Alabama street in Bellingham, playing Dynasty Warriors late into the morning hours with my former roommate Matt.

The devil's brew...sitting innocently between these two guys.

After our introductory drink, we hopped a cab to the Hard Rock Casino. We discovered (quickly) that that casino sucked, so we hopped yet another cab back to a locale that was more our style – the Casino Royale. On the way there, the Jamaican driver offered us a ride and free admission to a boobie-viewing establishment. We feigned interest, because we were pretty well trashed at that point, and it seemed pretty funny. Once we finally arrived at the Casino Royale, we ingested our third drink of the night (another round of Jagermeister shots).

The night becomes a bit of a blur after that point. There was something about a game called "Blackjack Switch" that took a good chuck of my gambling bankroll. After that drunken defeat, I got a ham sandwich from Subway (where Koby and Chad made fun of me for only getting the 6" sub…which I thought was very cruel). Back on the streets, I grabbed about fifty of those little cards from the friendly Hispanic gentlemen on the sidewalks of Vegas offering…well, differing levels of female companionship (we were planning on playing "Go Fish" with them later at the hotel room, but that game never materialized). Koby forced me to drunk dial a friend of his from work. Somehow we stumbled down to the Wynn Casino, and got lost leaving the place...wandering around parking structures and back streets. After we found our way again, we blundered into a casino where a terrible cover band was playing, and our waitress offered Koby the opportunity to touch her "private bits" for the bargain price of $100. It was there, at Bill's Gamblin' Hall and Saloon, that I experienced an unpleasant bout with emesis.

Well Cousin Carroll…couldn't sneak that one by you, could I? Lousy nurses. Anyway, for those of you without a background if fancy-dancy medical terminology, I threw up. On the floor, next to the band. I was pretty incomprehensibly drunk at that point, so Koby practically carried me back to the Tropicana, where I collapsed in a drunken, mumbling, ague-coated heap. Then, like a true Florence Nightengale, he made sure I found my way to the bed, and promptly went back into the bright lights out to continue the party.

Stay tuned for part two...where you all get to learn a valuable lesson about "what happens after you drink heavily then fall asleep." It's a real doozy.

You can read all about it here:

http://japesandjibes.blogspot.com/2008/06/loathing-and-loathing-in-vegas-days-2-3.html

I Don’t Mean to Be a Downer

First up, there's a 50/50 chance I'll be deleting this blog post after I'm done writing, as I'm not in a real great state of mind...and it may be one of those I just eviscerate instead of posting (like my "Behind the Scenes" blog about the Sprite commercial, which, upon review, sounded way too snotty, and was beyond repair...hence...headed to the obscurity of the "My Documents" folder). Because, not only do I have a few perfect strangers reading this blog, I've also got a good deal of near and far friends, as well as family members, a wife, and one concerned feline (looking at you, Dorey).

Plus, there's a good chance I'll just accidentally navigate away from this page, which has killed far too many good blog posts of mine in the past.

Now, secondly, I never know which letters to capitalize in my "Subject" line. Do I capitalize "To" and "A"? Should I even use capitalization? Grammar, you are a fickle bastard.

But, the that I mean to write about is, I don't want to complain too much. Without going into too much detail, my family seems to be going through several of their own hardships now, be it medical, financial, or being surrounded by a glut of nearby natural disasters...so I feel like a bit of a baby when I'm whining about things like not getting into SAG, or feeling like I'm not being as active in my career path as I should be (that was a blog entry that got deleted per the "navigating away accidentally" option earlier)

But, the problem is, today was one of those days for me. Just seemed that nothing was going right. I spent all yesterday trying to find work as an extra, and coming up with a blank. Today was the same thing -- I'd checked the call lines probably once and hour, and there was nothing out there. I sent out about 10 submissions for auditions yesterday, and about 10 more today, but I didn't hear anything back. So I sat and sweated on my couch, and played about 4 hours of "Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas" (which I wanted to finish before I started the new one), before going in to acting class.

Let's take a break from this for one second to enjoy a New York newsanchor cursing on the air:







Ah...a question for the ages. The fuck am I doing right now (sorry 'bout the curse word, ma)? Well, I tell you what...I'm doing okay, in all honesty. Sure, I wish I were better looking, a better actor, more motivated, a little skinnier, less bald, with whiter & straighter teeth, and less of a propensity for self-critical thoughts.

But, all things considered, those aren't all that bad. I've got a grade-A gorgeous, talented wife who makes me a better person in every conceivable way, I've got my health (mostly), I've got a great apartment, a functional automobile, TiVo, good food, a kick-ass family, awesome friends (both old and new), and I'm doing what I want to do, in the town that makes it possible, with unlimited possibilities.

I'm sorry about complaining...but I'm even more sorry about firing off the predictable and super-clichéd "thankful for" blog post only 4 months into my time here. I'd thought I'd last longer. Things I don't want this blog to be are:

1) a rambling list of the day's minutia ("Got up. Ate Honey Nut Cheerios. Watched TV. Napped. Ate lunch. Played video games. Ate dinner. Watched more TV. Slept.")
2) a rambling list of complaints and whines (see the first couple of paragraphs of this blog)
3) a rambling list of all the crap I'm doing (see most of the blog posts I've done since I moved down here)
4) a rambling list of sage advice that everyone already knows ("Man...you should just...y'know...follow your dreams! Then you'll be happy!)

I want to talk honestly, but I want to be entertaining too. I want to talk about what I'm doing, but I don't want this to just be an "Update Station." Hell, I'm not even sure what I want. (sigh) Maybe I should just let Frenchy handle the blogging from here on out.


You rang!?! LOL!!!!