Being a parent is hard.
Another revelation: water is wet.
Now, to prepare for this "parenthood adventure," we read quite a few books, attended a few classes, and read far to many internet articles. Of course, we'd issue the occasional "scoff," because we knew we were going to make mistakes (everyone does), and it was impossible to tell how things were really going to "go down" until the kid arrived. But, at the same time, we wanted to be "good parents," and do our due diligence in preparing for our little bundle of Bean.
Four months in, and...well, I think we're doing a good job. Henry's happy, he's healthy, he smiles and laughs all the time...and according to all the applicable indices he's developing exactly as he's supposed to (excelling in some measures, really). He's not getting sick all of the time, and he seems to be an incredibly well-behaved, mellow baby (for the most part).
But...
Something in the back of my head keeps nagging at me...that I must be "doing something wrong." For instance, as I've talked about before -- I yearn for the times when Henry is sleeping at night, or is taking a nap, or just generally entertaining himself without the need for either parent to be "paying attention" to him.
Which brings me to my parental anorexia issue. Maybe parental dysmorphia? Parental inadequacy syndrome? I dunno'...
But I keep thinking: "Shouldn't I be loving this part?" Everyone else seems to...and there's this whole "cult of parenthood" where touchy-feely types tell us over and over to savor these moments...and talk to our kids constantly...and play with them non-stop...and revel in their every little coo and gurgle...and never get annoyed with them...and love them with every fiber of your being...et cetera.
I mean, there are times when I do do (hee hee!! POOPIE JOKE!!!!) that -- my favorite two hours of the day are the time between when I get home and Henry's bedtime, because I get to hold him, play with him, talk to him, and make him laugh as much as possible. It's a great routine; I get home around 6:45 PM, Erika makes dinner while I watch him, we eat, Henry eats, then I put him to sleep. I love it. It's my "happy place."
Of course, this is just two hours of time. It happens to be the perfect amount of "play time" before Henry starts getting "fussy."
Because the weekends...man, those are tough. I feel embarrassed to say it, but the refrain for Henry on the weekends seems to be "Well, let's see how long this lasts." If I'm home alone with the kid, I spend all of my time shuttling him between different stations (the play mat, the bouncy chair, the swing, the bumbo, outside, on the couch watching Sesame Street, etc.) to keep him entertained until his next feeding.
It's exhausting. I don't know how stay-at-home parents do it, and have done it since the dawn of man. I mean, do you just let the baby cry? All the time? I'll do that occasionally, of course...but I can't just listen to him crying his bored head off while I'm watching old episodes of "Mythbusters" or something. It feels very wrong (and probably is very wrong...which is why I can't bring myself to do it for more than a couple of minutes at a time).
Then again, I can't just hold him indefinitely either...for my sanity as well as for his. If I just held him all day, he'd cry whenever I left the room...or when I put him down for a nap...or if I had to use the restroom. I savor Henry's little moments of independence, and I feel like I should be developing that so he can soothe himself, as opposed to coddling him whenever he grunts in disapproval.
I also feel the guilt of allowing my kid to watch TV. Again, I imagine the "cult of parenthood" types would probably drop their jaws if they found out our child was watching TV daily when he was 2 months old (really for only about 20 minutes at a time...since he bored of it quickly..."See how long this will last" and all...). They'd also be shocked at how much time Henry is left alone on his play mat, while his parents "do stuff" around the house.
We're also giving Henry a pretty good amount of formula...about 50/50 with breast milk. Because, as it turns out, it's really time-consuming and physically demanding to maintain a steady pumping & feeding schedule. Of course, Henry is a very healthy baby boy...so obviously we're not doing him any harm...but it's one of those things that evokes a lot of passion in people, so again I get the feeling that I'm doing something wrong.
Finally there's the "circumcision" issue...a hot-button issue, with a lot of passion. For me, I just came to the conclusion that, "Well...I'm circumcised, so I might as well do the same for Henry." It's not like I have foreskin envy or anything...so why would he?
Then, after the fact, San Fransisco considers banning the practice. There's all kinds of talk about "genital mutilation" in the news. The practice is described as "barbaric." And now I'm rethinking the whole damn thing. Of course...it's too late to go back now...but...y'know?
So, from a highly critical point of view, we have a TV-watching, circumcised, formula-fed baby that we ignore whenever possible. We've let him sleep in his boppy, and we've used the bumbo on an elevated surface. He's been in cold weather without socks, and his bedroom can get very warm at night. He's received all of his immunizations, he uses disposable diapers, and I'm sure our house contains potentially hazardous materials somewhere.
To some, I imagine this would be considered borderline child abuse, or at the very least, "undesirable parenting practices."
So I do what every parent before me has done -- I feel guilty. I mean, Henry is happy, healthy, and well-behaved...yet I constantly feel like I'm doing something wrong.
Which is probably how every parent since the dawn of man has felt. Any responsible parent, that is...
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Doncha' think?
I tried to fix Alanis Morissette's seminal hit "Ironic," by making it so the lyrics are actually demonstrating "irony."
I think it went pretty well. I completely ignored meter and rhyme...because I'm bad-ass and punk rock like that.
An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery, and his name was "Yung Poorman."
It's a black fly in your "Black Fly Winery" Chardonnay.
It's a death row pardon for a member of "Death Row Records."
And isn't it ironic...don't you think?
It's like rain on Raine Wilson's wedding day
It's a free ride for a toll booth worker
It's the good advice from a convicted felon
Who would've thought it figures?
Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye
He waited his whole damn life to take that flight
But when he got to the airport, he found out
They had placed his name on a no-fly list.
And isn't it ironic...don't you think?
It's like rain on Raine Wilson's wedding day
It's a free ride for a toll booth worker
It's the good advice from a convicted felon
Who would've thought it figures?
Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
When you think everything's okay and everything's going right
And life has a funny way of helping you out when
You think everything's gone wrong and everything blows up
In your face.
A traffic jam caused by a jackknifed trailer carrying strawberry jam
A no-smoking sign at the headquarters of Phillip Morris
It's like ten thousand spoons found in the city of Forks
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And finding out we're related.
And isn't it ironic...don't you think?
A little too ironic...and, yeah, I really do think...
It's like rain on Raine Wilson's wedding day
It's a free ride for a toll booth worker
It's the good advice from a convicted felon
Who would've thought...it figures?
Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you.
Life has a funny, funny way of helping you out
Helping you out.
I think it went pretty well. I completely ignored meter and rhyme...because I'm bad-ass and punk rock like that.
An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery, and his name was "Yung Poorman."
It's a black fly in your "Black Fly Winery" Chardonnay.
It's a death row pardon for a member of "Death Row Records."
And isn't it ironic...don't you think?
It's like rain on Raine Wilson's wedding day
It's a free ride for a toll booth worker
It's the good advice from a convicted felon
Who would've thought it figures?
Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye
He waited his whole damn life to take that flight
But when he got to the airport, he found out
They had placed his name on a no-fly list.
And isn't it ironic...don't you think?
It's like rain on Raine Wilson's wedding day
It's a free ride for a toll booth worker
It's the good advice from a convicted felon
Who would've thought it figures?
Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
When you think everything's okay and everything's going right
And life has a funny way of helping you out when
You think everything's gone wrong and everything blows up
In your face.
A traffic jam caused by a jackknifed trailer carrying strawberry jam
A no-smoking sign at the headquarters of Phillip Morris
It's like ten thousand spoons found in the city of Forks
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And finding out we're related.
And isn't it ironic...don't you think?
A little too ironic...and, yeah, I really do think...
It's like rain on Raine Wilson's wedding day
It's a free ride for a toll booth worker
It's the good advice from a convicted felon
Who would've thought...it figures?
Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you.
Life has a funny, funny way of helping you out
Helping you out.
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Time I was Almost on a Game Show: Part 2
If you missed part one, click on the blue underlined word, right here: here.
If you want to read part two, then just keep reading.
If you don't want to read anything, then you should probably just turn the computer off and look at the floor.
Still here?
Ah. Good.
Where the hell was I?
Oh yeah. Damn. This is probably going to be a three-parter, isn't it?
Sorry.
Um...
GET ON WITH IT!
All right. Fine.
So, I spent the good part of the week listening to country music, whenever I could tolerate it. Truth be told, this was not very often -- if you know anything about me, you know I have a pretty terrible work ethic.
At my computer, I listened to the "No. 1 Country Radio" option of the online radio CMT website. I also listened to the Los Angeles country music station when I drove anywhere in my car. What I heard on this station confirmed all of my fears about country music: I frigging hate it. I hate listening to it. I hate the precious simplicity of the lyrics. I hate the up-tempo fun songs. I hate the trite, hackneyed, horrible "serious" songs. I hate the steel guitar. I hate the preposterous, cliched, populist message of most song. I hate how they constantly rip on "technology" and "city folk" while the singers are making millions off of the Walmart loving rubes. I hate how they're so obviously lying when they're singing the verse of a "story-driven" song. I hate, hate, hate everything about country music. It sucks so much. So badly.
And if you think country music is good, then I'm sorry. You're wrong. So very wrong. Or you're confusing "old country music" with "new country music." Old country music is a totally different genre of music...and I don't really consider that "country music." For instance, here's I song I heard over and over and over and over. And over. Try to listen to this entire song without punching yourself repeatedly in the face:
Did you make it? I know I didn't. But hey, if you did, here's three points I want to make:
1) No. That didn't happen to you, liar. It never happened. You heard (or thought up) the chorus, sent it to two songwriters, then they sent you back a song that earned you a Grammy nomination for "Best Country Song."
2) If you think that message is profound you're either an alcoholic, an idiot, or an asshole.
3) Stop singing through your nose...and hey, nice job to ripping off "Down by the Riverside."
Anyhow, here's some "old country." Try to find the similarities.
Well, even if you skipped those two songs, you get the idea. Old country = charming, heart-felt, and simple. New country = soulless, corporate, simplistic, and manipulative.
But I digress (that should really be the name of this blog, shouldn't it?). The point is, I re-discovered a deep loathing that I felt for the "country music" genre, and I confirmed that my deep loathing is wholly justified.
So, back to the story. I showed up at a random office building just off of Ventura boulevard, and climbed the stairs to the "Singing Bee" corporate office. There, I saw some of the staffers from the original screening, as well as 5 other "potential contestants." They were all reasonably attractive Caucasians who were, in all likelihood, aspiring actors and/or singers like myself (I mean, they're in Los Angeles for a reason, right?).
We filled out some more paperwork, took some Polaroids, and had a quick interview with one of the interns where we had to tell "something interesting" about ourselves.
I generally hate the "something interesting" question. Firstly, I don't like talking about myself (unless it's part of a conversation). Secondly, I don't have good stories...just a long string of mediocre stories, and a razor-sharp wit (that second part is a lie).
So for me, the interview is tricky...because actors cannot be game show contestants. It ruins the whole "these are just regular folks" vibe of a game show. Game shows pull from the population of Los Angeles...and these people are generally transplants from somewhere colder, who moved to Los Angeles to become actors. If you got an honest nameplate for every contestant on a game show, I betcha' 90% would say: "So-And-So Johnson, 25, Aspiring Actor, Los Angeles."
This meant that, during my interview, I couldn't talk about acting or performing. Since that's the only really interesting thing about me, I do what I always do when backed into a corner -- I tell "half-truths."
So during my intern-interview, I happened to mention that I enjoyed ballroom dancing. It was true...kind of. I mean I took a couple of ballroom classes in Seattle and Bellingham...and I watched more episodes of "So You Think You Can Dance" than any straight man ought to admit to. But...it was vaguely interesting...as I don't look like your typical "Ballroom Dancer." I like to play on the "that balding 30 something can't possibly dance and sing" stereotype.
But my fib was good enough. I'm sure I said some other things too...but I can't remember any of them...and the fact that I can't remember any of them probably means they weren't very interesting...so...
After the "interview," we were all paid. Yep. We were each paid $50 for doing a "test run" of the game show. I thought, "This is probably all of the money I will make from this, because there is no way in hell I'm would win this if I were a contestant." At that time $50 was a lot of money for me, and quite a pleasant little surprise.
I probably spent it on groceries.
Anyway, with a fat 50 large in my wallet, we waited around a bit as a gaggle of "network executives" and "creative types" were wrangled into a conference room, where we were to play a mock round of the game.
It was here we got to meet the host of the show. Her name is Melissa Peterman, and she's a seventeen-foot-tall blond woman who was, apparently, an actress/comedienne of some renown. I'd never heard of her before, but my wife had (because she pays attention to stuff, and junk).
The conference room we were to host the show in had been hastily transformed into a stage. The same Asian guy from the first audition was sitting in the back, manning a laptop loaded with songs, and in front of him were about 20 "suits" -- producers, network people, writers, directors, who the hell knows?
One guy in the front row looked particularly disinterested (meaning he was probably the highest-paid guy in the room). I don't know if he looked up from his Blackberry the entire time.
So, remember all of that talk about listening to Country Music? Well...I did. But apparently you can't learn the lyrics of an entire genre of music over two weeks. Crazy, right?
So predictably, when the show started, I started sucking right away. The first round was a kind of an "elimination," where each person got a whack at completing the lyrics to a song. The first four people to complete a lyric moved on to the next round.
"Just get through this first stupid round," I thought to myself, "Then you can make an ass of yourself in the second round, which is oh-so endearing."
Luckily, an "oldie" came up. The guy in front of me -- a good ol' country boy, had never heard of the Monkees. Ouch. Mickey Dolenz just rolled in his grave.
The girl after him failed as well -- she was more Kanye, less Davy.
Those two had whiffed, and it was my turn.
Would you have advanced?
Oh, I could hide 'neath the wings of the bluebird as she sings
The six o'clock alarm would never ring
But it rings and I rise wipe the sleep out of my eyes
__________________?
DING!!!!!
Thank God. No one-and-done for the Ty-man.
After that, we got to "meet the contestants." This is where the contestants (and producers) got to see if they were actually interesting.
Ms. Peterman sidled up to me and read from her little card.
"So, Tyler. It says here you like ballroom dancing?"
"Oh yeah. I can cut a mean rug."
"Who do you dance with."
"My dear wife, we've been dancing steadily for about a year now." God I'm a terrible liar.
"That's great! Yeah, I always wanted to do that stuff, the paso adobe? What is it?"
"Pasodoble." (thank you "So You Think You Can Dance")
"Yeah, that's the one. I'm coming back to you for the commercial break, you can spin me around the floor a bit, cutie."
Oh shit. Wait, did she just call me cutie? What the hell? "Bring it on."
Then she moved to the next contestant.
"And this young lady is..."
Well, hopefully I gave those bastards enough personality to bring me on the real show. Sure, I was lying out of my ass...but I bet I could fake a pretty convincing Pasodoble if I needed to...especially if she didn't know what she was doing either.
Luckily, she didn't make out with me during the commercial break, or force me to dance. We advanced to the next round...which did not go well for me...but it was not an elimination round, so I got to stand up front for a while longer.
The object was to fill in the blanks of the lyrics to a popular song.
My turn was a song by some guy named "Kenny Chesney."
Shit.
How would you have done?
Well, me an' my lady had our first big fight,
So I _____ around 'til I saw the neon light.
A corner bar, an it just ___ _____.
So I pulled up.
Not a _____ around but the old bar keep,
Down at the end an' looking half asleep.
An he walked up, an' said : "What'll it be?"
I said: "The _____ stuff."
He didn't reach around for the whiskey;
He didn't pour me a ____.
His blue eyes kinda went _____,
He said: "You can't find that here.
Cos it's the ____ long kiss on a _____ date.
Momma's all ______ when you get home late.
And droppin' the ring in the _______ plate,
Cos your _____ are shakin' so much.
An' it's the way that she looks with the rice in her hair.
Eatin' burnt _______ the whole _____ year
An' askin' for _____ to keep her from tearin' up.
Yeah, man, that's the good stuff."
You get five points for every correct answer.
I wound up with 5 points at the end of my round...because one of the missing lyrics was from the title of the song.
Another reason to hate Kenny Chesney.
The round after that was some kind of betting round, and the group was winnowed down to two people. I don't remember how the game went exactly...but I (of course) did terrible. I ended the round with those 5 stupid points, and sat my ass out for the final round.
Once the pretend show had concluded, we all went our separate ways. I got in my car, immediately switched the channel off of the Country Music station, and drove home.
One week later I received a call. Was I available tomorrow? Because they wanted me to be on the show.
Uh oh.
And I'll tell you all about that...in Part 3 (which at this rate, should be ready a year from now).
If you want to read part two, then just keep reading.
If you don't want to read anything, then you should probably just turn the computer off and look at the floor.
Still here?
Ah. Good.
Where the hell was I?
Oh yeah. Damn. This is probably going to be a three-parter, isn't it?
Sorry.
Um...
GET ON WITH IT!
All right. Fine.
So, I spent the good part of the week listening to country music, whenever I could tolerate it. Truth be told, this was not very often -- if you know anything about me, you know I have a pretty terrible work ethic.
At my computer, I listened to the "No. 1 Country Radio" option of the online radio CMT website. I also listened to the Los Angeles country music station when I drove anywhere in my car. What I heard on this station confirmed all of my fears about country music: I frigging hate it. I hate listening to it. I hate the precious simplicity of the lyrics. I hate the up-tempo fun songs. I hate the trite, hackneyed, horrible "serious" songs. I hate the steel guitar. I hate the preposterous, cliched, populist message of most song. I hate how they constantly rip on "technology" and "city folk" while the singers are making millions off of the Walmart loving rubes. I hate how they're so obviously lying when they're singing the verse of a "story-driven" song. I hate, hate, hate everything about country music. It sucks so much. So badly.
And if you think country music is good, then I'm sorry. You're wrong. So very wrong. Or you're confusing "old country music" with "new country music." Old country music is a totally different genre of music...and I don't really consider that "country music." For instance, here's I song I heard over and over and over and over. And over. Try to listen to this entire song without punching yourself repeatedly in the face:
Did you make it? I know I didn't. But hey, if you did, here's three points I want to make:
1) No. That didn't happen to you, liar. It never happened. You heard (or thought up) the chorus, sent it to two songwriters, then they sent you back a song that earned you a Grammy nomination for "Best Country Song."
2) If you think that message is profound you're either an alcoholic, an idiot, or an asshole.
3) Stop singing through your nose...and hey, nice job to ripping off "Down by the Riverside."
Anyhow, here's some "old country." Try to find the similarities.
Well, even if you skipped those two songs, you get the idea. Old country = charming, heart-felt, and simple. New country = soulless, corporate, simplistic, and manipulative.
But I digress (that should really be the name of this blog, shouldn't it?). The point is, I re-discovered a deep loathing that I felt for the "country music" genre, and I confirmed that my deep loathing is wholly justified.
So, back to the story. I showed up at a random office building just off of Ventura boulevard, and climbed the stairs to the "Singing Bee" corporate office. There, I saw some of the staffers from the original screening, as well as 5 other "potential contestants." They were all reasonably attractive Caucasians who were, in all likelihood, aspiring actors and/or singers like myself (I mean, they're in Los Angeles for a reason, right?).
We filled out some more paperwork, took some Polaroids, and had a quick interview with one of the interns where we had to tell "something interesting" about ourselves.
I generally hate the "something interesting" question. Firstly, I don't like talking about myself (unless it's part of a conversation). Secondly, I don't have good stories...just a long string of mediocre stories, and a razor-sharp wit (that second part is a lie).
So for me, the interview is tricky...because actors cannot be game show contestants. It ruins the whole "these are just regular folks" vibe of a game show. Game shows pull from the population of Los Angeles...and these people are generally transplants from somewhere colder, who moved to Los Angeles to become actors. If you got an honest nameplate for every contestant on a game show, I betcha' 90% would say: "So-And-So Johnson, 25, Aspiring Actor, Los Angeles."
This meant that, during my interview, I couldn't talk about acting or performing. Since that's the only really interesting thing about me, I do what I always do when backed into a corner -- I tell "half-truths."
So during my intern-interview, I happened to mention that I enjoyed ballroom dancing. It was true...kind of. I mean I took a couple of ballroom classes in Seattle and Bellingham...and I watched more episodes of "So You Think You Can Dance" than any straight man ought to admit to. But...it was vaguely interesting...as I don't look like your typical "Ballroom Dancer." I like to play on the "that balding 30 something can't possibly dance and sing" stereotype.
But my fib was good enough. I'm sure I said some other things too...but I can't remember any of them...and the fact that I can't remember any of them probably means they weren't very interesting...so...
After the "interview," we were all paid. Yep. We were each paid $50 for doing a "test run" of the game show. I thought, "This is probably all of the money I will make from this, because there is no way in hell I'm would win this if I were a contestant." At that time $50 was a lot of money for me, and quite a pleasant little surprise.
I probably spent it on groceries.
Anyway, with a fat 50 large in my wallet, we waited around a bit as a gaggle of "network executives" and "creative types" were wrangled into a conference room, where we were to play a mock round of the game.
It was here we got to meet the host of the show. Her name is Melissa Peterman, and she's a seventeen-foot-tall blond woman who was, apparently, an actress/comedienne of some renown. I'd never heard of her before, but my wife had (because she pays attention to stuff, and junk).
The conference room we were to host the show in had been hastily transformed into a stage. The same Asian guy from the first audition was sitting in the back, manning a laptop loaded with songs, and in front of him were about 20 "suits" -- producers, network people, writers, directors, who the hell knows?
One guy in the front row looked particularly disinterested (meaning he was probably the highest-paid guy in the room). I don't know if he looked up from his Blackberry the entire time.
So, remember all of that talk about listening to Country Music? Well...I did. But apparently you can't learn the lyrics of an entire genre of music over two weeks. Crazy, right?
So predictably, when the show started, I started sucking right away. The first round was a kind of an "elimination," where each person got a whack at completing the lyrics to a song. The first four people to complete a lyric moved on to the next round.
"Just get through this first stupid round," I thought to myself, "Then you can make an ass of yourself in the second round, which is oh-so endearing."
Luckily, an "oldie" came up. The guy in front of me -- a good ol' country boy, had never heard of the Monkees. Ouch. Mickey Dolenz just rolled in his grave.
The girl after him failed as well -- she was more Kanye, less Davy.
Those two had whiffed, and it was my turn.
Would you have advanced?
Oh, I could hide 'neath the wings of the bluebird as she sings
The six o'clock alarm would never ring
But it rings and I rise wipe the sleep out of my eyes
__________________?
DING!!!!!
Thank God. No one-and-done for the Ty-man.
After that, we got to "meet the contestants." This is where the contestants (and producers) got to see if they were actually interesting.
Ms. Peterman sidled up to me and read from her little card.
"So, Tyler. It says here you like ballroom dancing?"
"Oh yeah. I can cut a mean rug."
"Who do you dance with."
"My dear wife, we've been dancing steadily for about a year now." God I'm a terrible liar.
"That's great! Yeah, I always wanted to do that stuff, the paso adobe? What is it?"
"Pasodoble." (thank you "So You Think You Can Dance")
"Yeah, that's the one. I'm coming back to you for the commercial break, you can spin me around the floor a bit, cutie."
Oh shit. Wait, did she just call me cutie? What the hell? "Bring it on."
Then she moved to the next contestant.
"And this young lady is..."
Well, hopefully I gave those bastards enough personality to bring me on the real show. Sure, I was lying out of my ass...but I bet I could fake a pretty convincing Pasodoble if I needed to...especially if she didn't know what she was doing either.
Luckily, she didn't make out with me during the commercial break, or force me to dance. We advanced to the next round...which did not go well for me...but it was not an elimination round, so I got to stand up front for a while longer.
The object was to fill in the blanks of the lyrics to a popular song.
My turn was a song by some guy named "Kenny Chesney."
Shit.
How would you have done?
Well, me an' my lady had our first big fight,
So I _____ around 'til I saw the neon light.
A corner bar, an it just ___ _____.
So I pulled up.
Not a _____ around but the old bar keep,
Down at the end an' looking half asleep.
An he walked up, an' said : "What'll it be?"
I said: "The _____ stuff."
He didn't reach around for the whiskey;
He didn't pour me a ____.
His blue eyes kinda went _____,
He said: "You can't find that here.
Cos it's the ____ long kiss on a _____ date.
Momma's all ______ when you get home late.
And droppin' the ring in the _______ plate,
Cos your _____ are shakin' so much.
An' it's the way that she looks with the rice in her hair.
Eatin' burnt _______ the whole _____ year
An' askin' for _____ to keep her from tearin' up.
Yeah, man, that's the good stuff."
You get five points for every correct answer.
I wound up with 5 points at the end of my round...because one of the missing lyrics was from the title of the song.
Another reason to hate Kenny Chesney.
The round after that was some kind of betting round, and the group was winnowed down to two people. I don't remember how the game went exactly...but I (of course) did terrible. I ended the round with those 5 stupid points, and sat my ass out for the final round.
Once the pretend show had concluded, we all went our separate ways. I got in my car, immediately switched the channel off of the Country Music station, and drove home.
One week later I received a call. Was I available tomorrow? Because they wanted me to be on the show.
Uh oh.
And I'll tell you all about that...in Part 3 (which at this rate, should be ready a year from now).
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Coming to Los Angeles Part 4: I'm Here! Now What?
So you did it, huh? You moved. You actually moved. I can't believe you actually frigging did it...
Idiot.
Ha ha. You're screwed now. LOL!
Good luck earning back all of that money you used to move here.
You won't last a year.
Probably won't even last six months.
But hey, if you do make longer, be prepared for several years of obscurity and failure.
I hope you like appearing in "self-produced low budget web videos" for the rest of your career!
Also, it's a good idea to prepare excuses to friends and relatives as to why you haven't "made it" yet.
Here are some popular ones:
"I don't have an agent, so..."
"I have an agent, but he's really crappy and he never gets me auditions, so..."
"I'm not in the union, so..."
"I joined the union too early and I can't compete with lower-paid non-union actors, so..."
"I'm not pretty enough, so..."
"I'm not skinny enough, so..."
"It's not what you know, it's who you know, so..."
"My boss threatened to fire me if I went to that audition, so..."
"I don't have any credits, and I can't get any credits because I don't have any credits (CATCH-22!), so..."
"I've just been really unlucky, so..."
"There aren't any roles for people my age/type/build/hair color/gender/ethnicity/species, so..."
"I need new headshots, but I can't afford them, so..."
And so on. You can use one of mine, or make your own! It's fun!
But that reminds me, have you seen my latest web video? It's hilarious!!! It's got a 25% funny on "Funny Or Die"!!!!
Ugh. Okay. Sorry. Enough with the bitterness and negativity. We're here to have fun and build up your confidence, right?
Right?
Anyhow, I was totally kidding anyway. You're definitely going to make it here...because you have spunk. Talent. You've got star power, kid, and you will "make it" where others have failed.
It's your destiny.
But first things first -- once you've unpacked, set up your internet/cable, and thrown your own "Welcome Me to Los Angeles" BBQ/Housewarming, just take a week to do some LA stuff.
If you're on a budget (aren't we all), you should spend that first week doing some free/cheap stuff. Don't worry -- there's no rush. The "industry" isn't going anywhere.
Here's some budget-friendly ideas for your "Los Angeles Honeymoon" period. Check out Griffith Park (and the Observatory). Go down to the Santa Monica Pier. Check out the Walk of Fame. Experience the crowds of interesting people at the Venice Boardwalk. Buy a hot dog at Pinks. Eat at In-and-Out. Take pictures of the Hollywood sign (you can hike up behind the sign if you're up to it...I've done this about a half-dozen times). Walk around at The Grove. Get intimidated by the rich folks on Rodeo Drive. Drive around and locate some famous filming locations from your favorite TV shows and movies. Shoot an "I MOVED TO LA!!!" video about your adventure, featuring all of the neat places you went and post it to YouTube.
Then post the link here, so I can watch it. I promise I'll watch in a dimly lit room, late at night, with a few days' worth of stubble, wearing sweatpants, and eating a Snickers bar.
What fun!
Once you've got that out of your system, and you're now in love with Los Angeles (no one wants to hear you complain about Los Angeles, so please don't do that)...you can get down to the nitty-gritty of "breaking into the acting business."
But where to start?
Well...I'll tell you. Step one is the subject of my next blog entry: Marketing Materials.
Until then, here's another great web video I wrote, produced, and directed!!!
Idiot.
Ha ha. You're screwed now. LOL!
Good luck earning back all of that money you used to move here.
You won't last a year.
Probably won't even last six months.
But hey, if you do make longer, be prepared for several years of obscurity and failure.
I hope you like appearing in "self-produced low budget web videos" for the rest of your career!
Also, it's a good idea to prepare excuses to friends and relatives as to why you haven't "made it" yet.
Here are some popular ones:
"I don't have an agent, so..."
"I have an agent, but he's really crappy and he never gets me auditions, so..."
"I'm not in the union, so..."
"I joined the union too early and I can't compete with lower-paid non-union actors, so..."
"I'm not pretty enough, so..."
"I'm not skinny enough, so..."
"It's not what you know, it's who you know, so..."
"My boss threatened to fire me if I went to that audition, so..."
"I don't have any credits, and I can't get any credits because I don't have any credits (CATCH-22!), so..."
"I've just been really unlucky, so..."
"There aren't any roles for people my age/type/build/hair color/gender/ethnicity/species, so..."
"I need new headshots, but I can't afford them, so..."
And so on. You can use one of mine, or make your own! It's fun!
But that reminds me, have you seen my latest web video? It's hilarious!!! It's got a 25% funny on "Funny Or Die"!!!!
Crazy Train - watch more funny videos
Ugh. Okay. Sorry. Enough with the bitterness and negativity. We're here to have fun and build up your confidence, right?
Right?
Anyhow, I was totally kidding anyway. You're definitely going to make it here...because you have spunk. Talent. You've got star power, kid, and you will "make it" where others have failed.
It's your destiny.
But first things first -- once you've unpacked, set up your internet/cable, and thrown your own "Welcome Me to Los Angeles" BBQ/Housewarming, just take a week to do some LA stuff.
If you're on a budget (aren't we all), you should spend that first week doing some free/cheap stuff. Don't worry -- there's no rush. The "industry" isn't going anywhere.
Here's some budget-friendly ideas for your "Los Angeles Honeymoon" period. Check out Griffith Park (and the Observatory). Go down to the Santa Monica Pier. Check out the Walk of Fame. Experience the crowds of interesting people at the Venice Boardwalk. Buy a hot dog at Pinks. Eat at In-and-Out. Take pictures of the Hollywood sign (you can hike up behind the sign if you're up to it...I've done this about a half-dozen times). Walk around at The Grove. Get intimidated by the rich folks on Rodeo Drive. Drive around and locate some famous filming locations from your favorite TV shows and movies. Shoot an "I MOVED TO LA!!!" video about your adventure, featuring all of the neat places you went and post it to YouTube.
Then post the link here, so I can watch it. I promise I'll watch in a dimly lit room, late at night, with a few days' worth of stubble, wearing sweatpants, and eating a Snickers bar.
What fun!
Once you've got that out of your system, and you're now in love with Los Angeles (no one wants to hear you complain about Los Angeles, so please don't do that)...you can get down to the nitty-gritty of "breaking into the acting business."
But where to start?
Well...I'll tell you. Step one is the subject of my next blog entry: Marketing Materials.
Until then, here's another great web video I wrote, produced, and directed!!!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Parenthood
I'm going to try to not talk about parenthood too much here. I mean...I think it's inevitable that I'll talk about it, because it's kinda' the "big thing" going on in my life right now. Plus, whenever I say "I'm not going to be that guy," I typically renege on my promise almost immediately (for instance, I said I wouldn't change my Facebook profile picture to my child's face...and I would up breaking that oath about 10 hours after my child was born).
But, while I have the time, I just wanted to say a few words about being a dad. Or, at least, being a new dad...because I have no idea what it's like to be a long-term dad (obviously).
Strange. My kid might read this some day. Henry, if you're reading this: Hi! I'm going to say stuff about you! How exciting!
Here goes.
Well, first off, I'm going to talk about what hasn't changed, for me.
I thought, in my weird brain, that there was going to be some kind of shift. Like, all the sudden my priorities would change, and I would start sacrificing everything for my child. His desires would fill every waking moment, and seeing him happy would be the only thing that would make me (in turn) happy.
That didn't happen. I mean, for example, video games. I thought I'd swear off video games forever, and spend all of my time doting over my child's delicious, growing brain. But, in reality, I'm pretty sure I played a few video games while we were still at the hospital, as he was sleeping in his little hospital bassinet a few feet away. And my video gaming has continued unabated since that time. I just can't get away from it, apparently, which must mean I'm not sacrificing too much time...
I also am not sacrificing my own happiness to make my kid happy...and I don't think I will do that, or could do that. I feel like that's not fair to him -- for me to put all of that pressure on him to live the successful, happy life that his dad gave up when he was born. Happy parents make happy babies. That's my theory, at least.
This is not to say that I won't sacrifice. I mean...that's kinda' inevitable, right? For instance, it'll probably be a couple of years before we're able to get back to Europe. And dates with my wife (one my favorite things) will have to be at "infant-friendly" locations for at least a couple of years. Pretty much, any time I want to do something, I can't just plan it, then do it. I'll have to consider, "Well, what about Henry?"
But that fundamental shift in thought from "me" to "only him" hasn't happened. Henry's happiness does not consume my every waking moment...like I thought it would. I mean, that might happen at some point...but I don't know. I don't think it will.
Who knows?
Anyway, so what what has changed?
Quite a bit, of course. The biggest thing is, I've never really needed to be so mindful of something so helpless before. And he is -- he's so helpless. All he can do is fuss and cry. He can't feed himself, he can't entertain himself, he can't even talk. It's mentally exhausting caring for him sometimes, and I really look forward to those moments when he falls asleep...just so I can relax.
I mean...I feel ashamed admitting that...because in my head I'm supposed to love every second he's awake, so I can play with him and grow that lovely little brain of his. But that "asleep time" is so very, very nice. Whenever he's awake, I'm stressing about how to take care of him...but when he's asleep, I just look at him and think, "Goddamn...what an awesome kid."
Of course, I mean, I love him when he's awake. For instance, last Saturday I spent a good 30 minutes, just hovering above him saying "buh buh buh buh buh buh buh" and "muh muh muh muh muh muh muh" over and over. His smile just absolutely melts my cruddy little heart, and any time he tries to speak, or any time he makes a noise that isn't crying or straining, it's just fantastic.
It's hard work, though. And, inevitably, after he's had spent 30 minutes of gibberish-talking to daddy he'll want to do something else...and if he's not entertained he starts fussing. And if he's not scheduled to eat for another 2 hours, I have to find some way to entertain him until I can bring the bottle out (or hand him off to mommy). So I try walking around with him...or laying him on his play mat...or putting him in his swinging chair...or his bouncy chair...or singing to him...
Oftentimes these things will work for about 10 minutes before it's "fussy-time" again.
So when I say that I love him the most when he's sleeping...I'm not saying that I wish he'd sleep through this first year and he'd then wake up at the end totally ready to walk, talk, and laugh (although...now that you mention it...).
Because I love lots things about him now. Awake things. I love how he's grown from this squalling little pooping and peeing flesh sack, to a little clumsy person I can interact with. I love when he falls asleep on my chest after his late-night feeding. I love how he wobbles when I stand him on his feet. I love all the strange cooing noises he's started making. I love his little goofy, dimpled smiles. I love his fat little knees, his soft feet, and his big ol' double chin. I love the smell of his hair. I love how he holds onto my fingers when I put them in his hands. I love how amazed he is at everything. I love how, when he's startled, he splays his arms out to the side. I love his little sighs and grunts. I love taking him up in my arms. I love watching his eyelids droop right before he falls asleep. I love how his head bobs gently when I hold him in the "seated" position. I love his enormous blue eyes.
I don't love how mushy that last paragraph was. Blech. Sorry Henry...hopefully you skipped forward to the next paragraph once you saw what I was doing there.
So yeah...that's parenthood for me. I do kind of wish that he were already about 3 years old or so...because it seems like this first part is just taking forever. But I'll probably look back one day and realize (like every parent does, apparently) that they just "grow up to fast."
I just hope I'm doing it right. I mean, I'm not fishing for encouragement or anything...because I sure think I'm doing it right. I just hope I'm not wrong.
My boy.
But, while I have the time, I just wanted to say a few words about being a dad. Or, at least, being a new dad...because I have no idea what it's like to be a long-term dad (obviously).
Strange. My kid might read this some day. Henry, if you're reading this: Hi! I'm going to say stuff about you! How exciting!
Here goes.
Well, first off, I'm going to talk about what hasn't changed, for me.
I thought, in my weird brain, that there was going to be some kind of shift. Like, all the sudden my priorities would change, and I would start sacrificing everything for my child. His desires would fill every waking moment, and seeing him happy would be the only thing that would make me (in turn) happy.
That didn't happen. I mean, for example, video games. I thought I'd swear off video games forever, and spend all of my time doting over my child's delicious, growing brain. But, in reality, I'm pretty sure I played a few video games while we were still at the hospital, as he was sleeping in his little hospital bassinet a few feet away. And my video gaming has continued unabated since that time. I just can't get away from it, apparently, which must mean I'm not sacrificing too much time...
I also am not sacrificing my own happiness to make my kid happy...and I don't think I will do that, or could do that. I feel like that's not fair to him -- for me to put all of that pressure on him to live the successful, happy life that his dad gave up when he was born. Happy parents make happy babies. That's my theory, at least.
This is not to say that I won't sacrifice. I mean...that's kinda' inevitable, right? For instance, it'll probably be a couple of years before we're able to get back to Europe. And dates with my wife (one my favorite things) will have to be at "infant-friendly" locations for at least a couple of years. Pretty much, any time I want to do something, I can't just plan it, then do it. I'll have to consider, "Well, what about Henry?"
But that fundamental shift in thought from "me" to "only him" hasn't happened. Henry's happiness does not consume my every waking moment...like I thought it would. I mean, that might happen at some point...but I don't know. I don't think it will.
Who knows?
Anyway, so what what has changed?
Quite a bit, of course. The biggest thing is, I've never really needed to be so mindful of something so helpless before. And he is -- he's so helpless. All he can do is fuss and cry. He can't feed himself, he can't entertain himself, he can't even talk. It's mentally exhausting caring for him sometimes, and I really look forward to those moments when he falls asleep...just so I can relax.
I mean...I feel ashamed admitting that...because in my head I'm supposed to love every second he's awake, so I can play with him and grow that lovely little brain of his. But that "asleep time" is so very, very nice. Whenever he's awake, I'm stressing about how to take care of him...but when he's asleep, I just look at him and think, "Goddamn...what an awesome kid."
Of course, I mean, I love him when he's awake. For instance, last Saturday I spent a good 30 minutes, just hovering above him saying "buh buh buh buh buh buh buh" and "muh muh muh muh muh muh muh" over and over. His smile just absolutely melts my cruddy little heart, and any time he tries to speak, or any time he makes a noise that isn't crying or straining, it's just fantastic.
It's hard work, though. And, inevitably, after he's had spent 30 minutes of gibberish-talking to daddy he'll want to do something else...and if he's not entertained he starts fussing. And if he's not scheduled to eat for another 2 hours, I have to find some way to entertain him until I can bring the bottle out (or hand him off to mommy). So I try walking around with him...or laying him on his play mat...or putting him in his swinging chair...or his bouncy chair...or singing to him...
Oftentimes these things will work for about 10 minutes before it's "fussy-time" again.
So when I say that I love him the most when he's sleeping...I'm not saying that I wish he'd sleep through this first year and he'd then wake up at the end totally ready to walk, talk, and laugh (although...now that you mention it...).
Because I love lots things about him now. Awake things. I love how he's grown from this squalling little pooping and peeing flesh sack, to a little clumsy person I can interact with. I love when he falls asleep on my chest after his late-night feeding. I love how he wobbles when I stand him on his feet. I love all the strange cooing noises he's started making. I love his little goofy, dimpled smiles. I love his fat little knees, his soft feet, and his big ol' double chin. I love the smell of his hair. I love how he holds onto my fingers when I put them in his hands. I love how amazed he is at everything. I love how, when he's startled, he splays his arms out to the side. I love his little sighs and grunts. I love taking him up in my arms. I love watching his eyelids droop right before he falls asleep. I love how his head bobs gently when I hold him in the "seated" position. I love his enormous blue eyes.
I don't love how mushy that last paragraph was. Blech. Sorry Henry...hopefully you skipped forward to the next paragraph once you saw what I was doing there.
So yeah...that's parenthood for me. I do kind of wish that he were already about 3 years old or so...because it seems like this first part is just taking forever. But I'll probably look back one day and realize (like every parent does, apparently) that they just "grow up to fast."
I just hope I'm doing it right. I mean, I'm not fishing for encouragement or anything...because I sure think I'm doing it right. I just hope I'm not wrong.
My boy.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Baby Terminology
Wife and I have come up with some terminology that we use in the caring of our son. Thought you might enjoy it -- here's the list:
- Bean (proper noun): Henry Sebastian Rhoades' primary nickname. "Who's my little Bean?"
- Num nums (noun/verb): the partaking of breast milk. "You ready for num nums, buddy?"
- Back-burp (verb): the process of bringing Bean's knees up to his chest to get him to squeeze out a fart or two or fifteen. "I tried to back-burp him for a bit, but nothing came out. Maybe he's still hungry?"
- Boy stuff (noun): the cool stuff that dad and Bean do when mom needs a break -- usually involves Bean sleeping while dad watches TV. "Go ahead and take your bath. We're going to hang out on the couch and do boy stuff."
- Sneak attack (noun): when Bean pees during a diaper change. "I had to change his onesie too -- there was a sneak attack while I was putting stuff on his diaper rash."
- Burples (noun/verb): both the act of burping the Bean, as well as the resulting burp. "You need burples, Bud?"
- Squirkles (noun): nickname given to Bean when he's not quite asleep, and not quite awake. The nickname reflects the weird noises he makes at that time. "What's up, Squirkles? You going to stay awake for num nums?"
- Bean-o-potamus (noun): nickname given to Bean when there's no rush, he's not crying, and his parents are in good spirits. "Would you mind holding Bean-o-potamus while I go get dinner ready?"
- Beanamus Maximus (noun): nickname given to Bean when he's in a seated position -- often shortened to Beanamus. "All right Beanamus Maximus, it's time to take you for a walk."
- Gurgles (noun): nickname given to Bean just after he's just finished eating, before being burped. "Was those some good num nums, Gurgles?"
- Goebbles (noun): variation of the nickname Gurgles -- used when Bean expresses some form of anti-Semitic behavior. "Hey Goebbles, stop writing your manifesto and go to sleep."
- Bud (noun): nickname given to Bean when asking him a question. "Hey Bud -- you crap your pants again?"
- Punchy (adjective): word used to describe Bean's cheeks, which are lovely, angelic and round. "Lookin' punchy today, Beanamus."
- Gunk (noun): the yellow crap that collects in the corner of Bean's eyes. "I'm going to wet a cotton ball to clean up the gunk."
- Fussing (verb): what Bean does when he's not sleeping -- normally involves grunts, flailing, and (occasionally) crying. "I put him in his crib at ten, but he was fussing, so I got him out and fed him again."
- Binky (noun): the one pacifier that Bean likes, with the white shield -- if we ever misplaced it, we'd be lost, "Maybe try his binky, see if he falls back asleep?"
- Boppy (noun): the u-shaped pillow that is used during num nums, as well as any time Bean is uncomfortable just lying flat on his back. "Can you hand me the boppy? I'm going to feed him again."
- Diapy (noun): diaper. Pronounced: die-pee. "Hey Bud, you need a new diapy?"
- Bean (proper noun): Henry Sebastian Rhoades' primary nickname. "Who's my little Bean?"
- Num nums (noun/verb): the partaking of breast milk. "You ready for num nums, buddy?"
- Back-burp (verb): the process of bringing Bean's knees up to his chest to get him to squeeze out a fart or two or fifteen. "I tried to back-burp him for a bit, but nothing came out. Maybe he's still hungry?"
- Boy stuff (noun): the cool stuff that dad and Bean do when mom needs a break -- usually involves Bean sleeping while dad watches TV. "Go ahead and take your bath. We're going to hang out on the couch and do boy stuff."
- Sneak attack (noun): when Bean pees during a diaper change. "I had to change his onesie too -- there was a sneak attack while I was putting stuff on his diaper rash."
- Burples (noun/verb): both the act of burping the Bean, as well as the resulting burp. "You need burples, Bud?"
- Squirkles (noun): nickname given to Bean when he's not quite asleep, and not quite awake. The nickname reflects the weird noises he makes at that time. "What's up, Squirkles? You going to stay awake for num nums?"
- Bean-o-potamus (noun): nickname given to Bean when there's no rush, he's not crying, and his parents are in good spirits. "Would you mind holding Bean-o-potamus while I go get dinner ready?"
- Beanamus Maximus (noun): nickname given to Bean when he's in a seated position -- often shortened to Beanamus. "All right Beanamus Maximus, it's time to take you for a walk."
- Gurgles (noun): nickname given to Bean just after he's just finished eating, before being burped. "Was those some good num nums, Gurgles?"
- Goebbles (noun): variation of the nickname Gurgles -- used when Bean expresses some form of anti-Semitic behavior. "Hey Goebbles, stop writing your manifesto and go to sleep."
- Bud (noun): nickname given to Bean when asking him a question. "Hey Bud -- you crap your pants again?"
- Punchy (adjective): word used to describe Bean's cheeks, which are lovely, angelic and round. "Lookin' punchy today, Beanamus."
- Gunk (noun): the yellow crap that collects in the corner of Bean's eyes. "I'm going to wet a cotton ball to clean up the gunk."
- Fussing (verb): what Bean does when he's not sleeping -- normally involves grunts, flailing, and (occasionally) crying. "I put him in his crib at ten, but he was fussing, so I got him out and fed him again."
- Binky (noun): the one pacifier that Bean likes, with the white shield -- if we ever misplaced it, we'd be lost, "Maybe try his binky, see if he falls back asleep?"
- Boppy (noun): the u-shaped pillow that is used during num nums, as well as any time Bean is uncomfortable just lying flat on his back. "Can you hand me the boppy? I'm going to feed him again."
- Diapy (noun): diaper. Pronounced: die-pee. "Hey Bud, you need a new diapy?"
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Success?
This year's tax return was quite a shock, for a number of reasons. The first (and most important) being that, for the first time since I was a teenager, I owed money. Not just "money," but a substantial amount of money.
So I decided, after consulting with a few "entertainment biz" colleagues, to see if an "accountant" could improve my numbers at all.
I assembled all of my 2010 receipts...laboriously went through my checking account statement...and printed out about 100 pages worth of tax document information from the current and previous year. I was planning on writing off as much as I legally could.
I brought it to the accountant...who was a very unconventional, borderline slovenly older gentleman dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He spent about 10 minutes looking at my assembled tax documents:
"I see that you put all of your deductions on your Schedule C."
"Yep." I guess that's the name of the document the HR Block software used.
"Makes sense. That's the only was you're going to get any money back."
He continued flipping through my documents, looking a little nervous. "So, Tyler, are you familiar with the hobby loss rule?"
"Um...no."
"Basically, it's an IRS law that says if you lose money on your business in three of five years, it's considered a hobby, not a job."
"Oh."
Awesome. So this meant I probably wasn't going to do much better on my tax return (shortly after the hobby loss discussion, he said, "I'm going to be brutally honest with you; I can't help you. I'm not going to take your money, but I suggest you just eat the cost.").
But not only that, it also meant that I'm not sure I can call myself a professional actor any more; technically. I mean, I'll still do it...because it sounds cool. but according to the IRS, I currently have a very expensive "acting hobby."
Don't worry -- you haven't stumbled upon a "Woe is me!!! I'm not famooose yet!" blog entry that every actor with a blog posts a minimum of once a year.
On the contrary...I've never wanted, nor expected fame and fortune. I mean, my goal from the moment I moved to Los Angeles was to be a "working actor." It hasn't happened yet, but that's why it's a "goal," not an "expectation." If it never happens...then so be it. I tried, like hundreds of thousands that have come before me, and I didn't quite get there. It's totally fine, and I'm prepared for it.
But ideally, of course, I'd like to be a working actor. I'm trying, sure, but I definitely could be doing more. I think that's one of the great fallacies that actors buy into -- the "I've worked my ass off, and I have nothing to show for it" whine. Not everyone works their ass off as much as they should/could/say they do. It's a lie that actors tell themselves to excuse their lack of success. Most "actors" have day jobs that consume too much of their time...or they watch television...or play video games...or take on a non-acting hobby of some kind...and time gets wasted.
Then again, only crazy people are actually thinking about how to improve their acting careers every waking hour...and crazy people are generally pretty terrible actors (in spite of what you may have heard).
Another lie actors tell themselves is: "It's just a matter of time" (I tell this lie to myself all the time, in an effort to stay positive). I mean...that's true for some people, but for a lot of people it's just another excuse for the inevitable depressing career examination. For most folks, no matter how hard they try, no matter how much effort the into it, and no matter how long they try, they're probably not going to reach the level of success they desire/deserve.
Success is a funny thing. I've been around quite a bit of success...which is what prompted this blog entry, I suppose. I've worked with two Tony winners (one also has a Pulitzer, the other owns a Peabody), an American Idol Runner-Up, six actors that are currently (or will soon be) appearing on Broadway, and countless others with Broadway credits, legitimate film and television credits, and popular voice-over credits (including the voice of Portal's GlaDOS).
If you couldn't tell, I love name dropping.
The point is (is there a point?) I've seen success happen. For the most part, when I knew these people they weren't successful working actors; they were struggling local actors who became successful through hard work, talent, perseverance, and good fortune.
And of course, success was richly deserved by each person.
Now, if I were the jealous type, I'd be pretty disheartened by all of this. "Why not me???" an annoying person might moan. But I'm not that guy (for the most part). I'm proud of all of them, and honored to have known them before they hit it big. I consider them friends, and I think they'd consider me likewise.
But what about my "career?" Personally, I don't think my time has passed, to be delusionally frank (it's just a matter of time!!!), and I don't think I'll ever give up on it. When I look back at my silly little life, even if I don't ultimately become a success in the entertainment industry, I can always be proud of the fact that I moved to Los Angeles, tried to achieve all of my dreams, and came pretty damn close.
So I'll keep trying...because nothing's stopping me, really. There will be some months where I'm working very hard, and doing a lot. There will be other months where I'm just sorta' sitting on my ass, doing nothing. But I don't see myself ever really stopping. If it's a job, or just a hobby, I don't think I'll ever stop acting.
And if success happens; cool. If not...well damn; at least I tried.
So I decided, after consulting with a few "entertainment biz" colleagues, to see if an "accountant" could improve my numbers at all.
I assembled all of my 2010 receipts...laboriously went through my checking account statement...and printed out about 100 pages worth of tax document information from the current and previous year. I was planning on writing off as much as I legally could.
I brought it to the accountant...who was a very unconventional, borderline slovenly older gentleman dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He spent about 10 minutes looking at my assembled tax documents:
"I see that you put all of your deductions on your Schedule C."
"Yep." I guess that's the name of the document the HR Block software used.
"Makes sense. That's the only was you're going to get any money back."
He continued flipping through my documents, looking a little nervous. "So, Tyler, are you familiar with the hobby loss rule?"
"Um...no."
"Basically, it's an IRS law that says if you lose money on your business in three of five years, it's considered a hobby, not a job."
"Oh."
Awesome. So this meant I probably wasn't going to do much better on my tax return (shortly after the hobby loss discussion, he said, "I'm going to be brutally honest with you; I can't help you. I'm not going to take your money, but I suggest you just eat the cost.").
But not only that, it also meant that I'm not sure I can call myself a professional actor any more; technically. I mean, I'll still do it...because it sounds cool. but according to the IRS, I currently have a very expensive "acting hobby."
Don't worry -- you haven't stumbled upon a "Woe is me!!! I'm not famooose yet!" blog entry that every actor with a blog posts a minimum of once a year.
On the contrary...I've never wanted, nor expected fame and fortune. I mean, my goal from the moment I moved to Los Angeles was to be a "working actor." It hasn't happened yet, but that's why it's a "goal," not an "expectation." If it never happens...then so be it. I tried, like hundreds of thousands that have come before me, and I didn't quite get there. It's totally fine, and I'm prepared for it.
But ideally, of course, I'd like to be a working actor. I'm trying, sure, but I definitely could be doing more. I think that's one of the great fallacies that actors buy into -- the "I've worked my ass off, and I have nothing to show for it" whine. Not everyone works their ass off as much as they should/could/say they do. It's a lie that actors tell themselves to excuse their lack of success. Most "actors" have day jobs that consume too much of their time...or they watch television...or play video games...or take on a non-acting hobby of some kind...and time gets wasted.
Then again, only crazy people are actually thinking about how to improve their acting careers every waking hour...and crazy people are generally pretty terrible actors (in spite of what you may have heard).
Another lie actors tell themselves is: "It's just a matter of time" (I tell this lie to myself all the time, in an effort to stay positive). I mean...that's true for some people, but for a lot of people it's just another excuse for the inevitable depressing career examination. For most folks, no matter how hard they try, no matter how much effort the into it, and no matter how long they try, they're probably not going to reach the level of success they desire/deserve.
Success is a funny thing. I've been around quite a bit of success...which is what prompted this blog entry, I suppose. I've worked with two Tony winners (one also has a Pulitzer, the other owns a Peabody), an American Idol Runner-Up, six actors that are currently (or will soon be) appearing on Broadway, and countless others with Broadway credits, legitimate film and television credits, and popular voice-over credits (including the voice of Portal's GlaDOS).
If you couldn't tell, I love name dropping.
The point is (is there a point?) I've seen success happen. For the most part, when I knew these people they weren't successful working actors; they were struggling local actors who became successful through hard work, talent, perseverance, and good fortune.
And of course, success was richly deserved by each person.
Now, if I were the jealous type, I'd be pretty disheartened by all of this. "Why not me???" an annoying person might moan. But I'm not that guy (for the most part). I'm proud of all of them, and honored to have known them before they hit it big. I consider them friends, and I think they'd consider me likewise.
But what about my "career?" Personally, I don't think my time has passed, to be delusionally frank (it's just a matter of time!!!), and I don't think I'll ever give up on it. When I look back at my silly little life, even if I don't ultimately become a success in the entertainment industry, I can always be proud of the fact that I moved to Los Angeles, tried to achieve all of my dreams, and came pretty damn close.
So I'll keep trying...because nothing's stopping me, really. There will be some months where I'm working very hard, and doing a lot. There will be other months where I'm just sorta' sitting on my ass, doing nothing. But I don't see myself ever really stopping. If it's a job, or just a hobby, I don't think I'll ever stop acting.
And if success happens; cool. If not...well damn; at least I tried.
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