Suck it, Travelocity: Part 1

I'll start from the beginning. If you get bored, then feel free to skip ahead to the "good stuff." Or hell, just go read something else; jerk. Might I recommend "The Scarlet Pimpernel"?

Anyway, on with the banality...

So, for Christmas last year, I decided to get my wife a "trip to New York." Because, well, I knew she'd like it, and it's something we've dreamed about doing since we started dating, 7 years ago.

So, to present the gift, I purchased one of those "recordable cards," where you have 10 seconds to record a personalized message. My 10 second message was a clip from the song "New York, New York." Because, well, it was on my iPod, and it was about New York. I know, I know; I'm incredibly clever, and handsome, and tall, and strong, and handsome, and handsome.

She opened it, and loved it.

Which was awesome for me, too. Seeing my wife happy is just about the best thing in the world, and I try to experience that feeling as much as possible.

We started planning right away. She looked at museums and Broadway shows she wanted to see. I looked at how (exactly) to get to New York, and where we'd stay once we got there.

Eventually we settled a date; early April. Once that detail was set, I could start pricing tickets. JetBlue had some very good rates, and I'd heard good things about them, so I decided to give 'em a shot. They also happened to fly regularly out of the Burbank airport, with direct flights to JFK. This was perfect, because Burbank Airport is much closer to our house than LAX, and the airport is just all-around awesomer than the stink-hole that is LAX.

I wanted to book through the JetBlue website, but for some reason it kept kicking out an error when I tried to pay. I called the airline directly, and found out that, if I wanted to purchase tickets over the phone, I had to pay an additional fee. "No thanks," said I.

In retrospect, I should've just paid the stupid fee...but I can be horribly impatient sometimes.

Because I just wanted to get the damn thing paid for, ASAP. This is how my mind works -- if I put it off, I'll just forget about it; I have to utilize any momentum my procrastination-friendly brain gives me. To accomplish this, I went to Travelocity.com to book my tickets, which meant that I'd be paying a third-party to book my seat for me, giving me a way around the frigging error message.

I booked the tickets, and proudly sent the confirmation e-mail to my wife, once again feeding my "Make Erika happy" addiction. With plane tickets out of the way, I could focus on all of the "fun stuff we could do once we got there."

Which we did, for a couple of weeks.

Then my wife got cast in Twelfth Night.

And guess what. They performed at the beginning of April, right when we were planning on being in New York.

Crap.

Guess that means I have to move the reservation, huh?

Yep.

Okay. No problem.

So I went back to the JetBlue website and entered in my confirmation code -- they've got a great little site when it's not broken. I attempted to change my reservation, and everything was working fine as I clicked through the options. At the end, right before confirming, the site gave me a "total cost" for the change, and I found out, to my delight, that since the fare on our new date of our departure was over $100 less than the original fare, the change was totally free! As Mr. Carroll would say: "Callooh! Callay!"

But once again, when I tried to "Confirm," I got another damn error message. Oh, JetBlue...you're a crafty little bastard, aren't you? With your silly little malfunctioning website.

So I called JetBlue and got through, after 30 minutes on hold. I gave my details to the lady on the other end, and as she was entering the info her computer froze. So she put me back on hold as she spoke to "tech support." After 10 minutes she came back on the line and informed me that her computer was broken, but she'd queue up my call to four of her "buddies" around the office, and once they'd finished their call, they'd take mine. She begged me not to hang up, apologized profusely, and implored me to "Not hate us forever." It was, actually, kind of adorable...and it made it pretty impossible for me to be mad. She put me back on hold, and I waited another 10 minutes before I hung up (because I really, really needed to pee).

After peeing, I called back and spoke with another friendly woman. She entered my data, and discovered that, in order for me to make the change I had to go through Travelocity.

Gah.

Okay. Fine.

So I called Travelocity, and (of course) spoke to a man at a call center in India. Now, I have nothing against the good people of India. They're, typically, much smarter than we are, and generally far more attractive. However, this particular operator happened to be a bit of a tool. And I had a hard time understanding him, due to his accent. And he had a hard time explaining himself because English was not his primary language. And he kept getting irritated with me, because I wanted to understand what was going on, and (frankly) I couldn't, because of the aforementioned issues.

But what I found out, eventually, was that Travelocity charges $30 per ticket to change dates. Fine. Whatever. That was on the stupid confirmation e-mail, somewhere in the fine print. Okay. But, in addition to that, they informed me that JetBlue charged an additional $100 fee to change tickets, and I'd need to pay that too.

"But, um," I muttered, "the new tickets are cheaper, right?"

"Yes."

"So, doesn't that mean that they use the difference in fares to pay the change fee?"

"No. They don't allow us to do that."

"Oh. Um. Okay."

He asked me if I agreed to forfeit the difference in pricing...which was a strange question. I mean, did I have a choice? If I said, "No," would they just make the change anyway and not charge me? Of course not. It was either forfeit the difference, or cancel the reservation entirely. So, lamely, I agreed.

I gave him my credit card number, and he charged the $260.00.

Then I hung up.

Then I got really mad.

Because, basically, I was being massively punished for using Travelocity. My original tickets cost $700, which means the "fee" was just over 1/3 of the cost of the original tickets. If I'd booked through JetBlue (like I'd wanted to), I would have paid $0. In fact, there would have been $6 in credit left over, that I could have used for any future travel with JetBlue.

So, all told, because of my impatience, and Travelocity's duplicity, I was out $266.

That my friends, it total bullshit. So, casting off my usual "compliant meekness," I decided to fight back.

Which I will do...in PART TWO

We Are the Crap

Here's the 2010 version of We Are the World, officially titled "We Are the World 25 For Haiti":




Here's the original 1985 video:




And here's an SNL cold open, which was the first I'd heard of the 2010 version being released:




Finally, Huey Lewis gained "thirty points worth of awesome" (redeemable at my house) for his Jimmy Kimmel-produced parody video.




You still with me? No? Dammit. That'll teach me to lead off with 20 minutes of video for you guys to slog through to get to the meaty, sweet, tasty written-section of this blog.

Okay, well, since only the true die-hards are left...I'll tell you all what Mr. Jones could have done to fix the new, suck-tacular "We Are the World."

First off, here's what I liked:

• Wyclef Jean's crazy demon wail (let him do whatever the hell he wants, the man's Haitian, and as far as I know, he's the only Haitian singer in the entire world).
• Pink and Kelly Clarkson (one of the few singers who could sounded like they could sing without digital assistance).
• Jeff Bridges (one of my favorite actors...casting pearls before swine).

Here's what I didn't like:

• Pretty much everything else.

First off, and most obvious to me...the recycled Michael Jackson footage was just deplorably pandering. P-A-andering. And when Janet Jackson appeared like a reverse Ghost Dad, I literally vomited, which was gross...because it tasted like...Jesus juice...

But, since I have you all here...let me be honest. I've always liked the idea of a "singing super-group." I like watching famous singers get one or two lines of a song, then over-sing it as much as they possibly can -- it brings me joy. I even liked Voices that Care (featuring a strangely attractive, non-skeletal Celine Dion), and the MTV All-Star's remake of What's Going On? And, of course, I frigging loved the original "We Are the World." I pretty much have every inflection from every soloist in that song memorized. That's how much I listened to, and loved that song.

However, this We Are the 2010 World 25 Haiti Are The thing is just a heaping pile of fail...and I use that word sheepishly, because I'm starting to tire of people using "fail" as a noun.

So if I'm recording legend Quincy Jones...and I'm raking this dung heap into a manageable pile, here's what I tell the people:

1. If you require the use of Auto-Tune to sing, you can help lend your voice from the security of the Dan Ackroyd Memorial Bleachers. I'd rather have a room full of Bob Dylans and Cyndi Laupers than a single T-Pain.
   
2. Leave the drippy, self-important, blow-hard sincerity at the door. See how the 1985 singers were all smiling, and having a good time (except for Springsteen...who looked like he just got over food poisoning)? You don't have to look like you're in pain to show you care. In fact, all the serious faces make you look like a bit of a knob-job.
   
3. If you are barely notable enough for a Wikipedia article, you are not welcome. Yes, I'm looking at you, Nipsey Hussle.
4. Jamie Foxx -- go away.
5. Seriously. Just go away. Ray was a massively overrated movie, and it doesn't make you a musician. The Soloist sucked too. I don't care if you know how to play the piano. Go away.
   
6. No old people singing solos. Sorry. I respect your body of work, but your voices don't match the "pop" feel of the song. Feel free to join us from the bleachers.
   
7. "Change" has three syllables, Celine. It also has an "I." Trust me, it does.
8. Rapping in unison hasn't been cool since Run DMC did it. Break that section up. Each of you gets a line. Except for you, Swizz Beatz. I have no idea who you are. How did you get past security?
9. Why on earth would you drop the dynamics going into the first chorus? You've got Celine doing her wacky French-Canadian run-a-thon which leads to.......a quiet, down-played chorus. It gave me whiplash. Shouldn't the chorus come in over the top and soar like a soaring eagle soaring over the Azores? I mean, that's what the build-up is for, right?
10. Everyone take off your damn sunglasses. You're indoors. I know you need them to look cool, but you don't look cool. You look like you're high. Plus, your unnecessary sunglasses cost about as much as a Haitian makes in 3 months. You can only wear sunglasses if you're blind, and there are only three blind singers...one of which is six feet under.
    
11. Who are those two strange looking old guys in salmon-colored button-up shirts? Did they win this opportunity from a silent auction at their country club?
12. Everyone wears a pair of headphones. Everyone. No exceptions. Even if they're not plugged in to anything, you wear them. This is essential. Bonus points if only one ear is covered. Also, at some point you must press the headphones to your ear with one hand, because...how else are you going to be able to hear the music?
13. DO IT LIVE!!! Seriously, how cool was it to see Tina Turner throw it to Billy Joel? Or to see Willie Nelson miss the first couple of notes in his duet line with Dionne Warwick (who then held up the words for him to read)? Or how Bruce Springsteen leaned into the microphone like he was mad at it? Now we get snapshots of a bunch of static, lifeless, studio sessions? That's just lame, and uninteresting.
    
14. No, Jamie Foxx, your Ray Charles impression was not funny. It was stupid. Especially after the little cocky laugh and swagger you gave when it was done.
15. Please don't play to the cameras. In fact, please just ignore the cameras. When you look down the barrel it's creepy. Besides, this is about the music, not the video...you egotistical weirdos.
16. Everyone needs to be holding sheet music. I know you have it memorized. Good for you. It doesn't matter. Hold the music. It looks better. Trust me. I'm Quincy Jones.
17. Could we possibly inject a little "Haitian Folk Music" into this thing? I mean...Wyclef tried, but the rest of the piece was so bland and poppy that he just came off sounding like a wailing maniac in the final cut.
18. Less head-bobbing and false sincerity on the chorus, more swaying. Swaying is cool, and it creates the appearance that you all actually like each other.
19. Let the ladies from Heart sing, for God's sake. People need to be made more aware of this band, and the fact that Ann Wilson still has a ridiculously awesome voice.
20. Jamie Foxx, are you still here? Go away.

Now, for stuff that bothered other people, but didn't really bother me. I thought the rap section was well-written, but the performance was all wrong. That Bieber kid didn't bother me too much, but his voice was auto-tuned...which does bother me. I don't particularly like Josh Groban's voice, but his presence did not offend me. Same goes for Miley Cyr--I mean Hannah Montana. Whoops. That was a close one.

What do we take away from all this? Well, hopefully I've given you the malady that's been with me for the last couple of days. That is -- this goofy song is stuck tight in my head. I thought blogging about it would make the music go away...but I'm afraid that it just made it worse. Damn.

Me. Acting.

Hi, stranger. I'm an actor. Don't believe me? I can't say that I blame you...I have a hard time believing it myself. For instance, did you know that I'm in a cubicle right now? That's right...I should be "on set" somewhere, but instead, I'm typing this out on a computer in a cubicle in a big ol' office building (which is, admittedly, on the Disney Studio lot...but that would just ruin my point, wouldn't it?).

Anyhow, I do act. And, if you want proof, here it is. Me. Acting.

First off, here's my only "national" credit (technically "international"...but Ireland is a nation too, right?). This is from a Sprite commercial I did in 2007. I'm at 0:14, tied to a chair, being menaced by a hair dryer.


Here's another commercial I did in Seattle, for the company MasterPark. I play the dad.


This was a commercial for Powell Electric. I play the "stupid irate guy who went with the wrong electrician."


This was a commercial I did for the Puyallup Fair (for you non-Seattle natives, it's pronounced "pyoo-AL-up). I play the slobbery blubbering crybaby. Sorry that the video resolution is so low, but I'm not sorry for the high quality of the crying sound effects.


I did this scene reading for an IF.net contest. I didn't win. But I got the rare opportunity to seduce me on-camera...so that was nice.


These next three were one of the first things I did in Los Angeles. It was a promotional video for Wizard World, which is a kind of cut-rate Comic-Con.


Here's our 2008 entry in the 48 Hour Film Project. I played a grandmother-loving, MMORPG-playing, potato-salad fanatic named Milt.


Here's my first project with the great Mark Tapio Kines. I don't remember my character's name, but he is, apparently, someone's boyfriend. You see me about a minute in.

I took a turn for some serious, heavy drama in this little self-produced joint called "Stray Doug," produced by our good friend at GadZook films. I play Doug. As for the premise? Well...you'll see...



Finally, here's my second (most recent) short film, written and directed by Mark. I play Ron...who is a bit of a freak.

The Field Guide to Identifying LA Cyclists

About five months ago I bought a $250 bicycle from Target. As I was leaving the Target, I went the wrong direction to get to the freeway on-ramp, and did a u-turn in the middle of the block. Unbeknownst to me, there was a motorcycle cop watching me from a block away, and as I approached his position, he walked into traffic and motioned me to pull over. He gave me a ticket for an illegal u-turn, and I owed the city $256.00.

There's some kind of irony there, but I'm far too tired (drunk) to wring it out. Point is; my car has been dying a pitiful and slow death since it was fatally crippled on the Vegas strip in 2008. And once I got a steady job in Burbank, I decided that...aw...hell with it. I was going to start riding my bike to work as much as possible.

So I did. Why a bicycle? I dunno'. I hadn't really ridden a bike consistently since my paper route in the 9th grade (and my only recent foray into the cycling world was a doomed attempt to circumnavigate Lake Lucerne in 2008). I've never been too psyched about being all "environmental" (though the cut in gas spending is nice). And it's not like I'm a cycling fanatic of any kind. I guess I just thought it'd be a good, fun way to keep in shape while keeping my expenses low.

Now, 5 months after my purchase, I'm pretty damn comfortable on the thing. And, naturally, I consider myself to be an expert on "cycling in Los Angeles."

Because I'm like you. I used to drive everywhere. I still do, when my wife lets me borrow her car. I've been on both sides. I know what it's like to drive next to a dude who's riding in the middle of a lane, or to be cut off by a lunatic weaving in and out of traffic. I get that. I'm not some "foaming at the mouth" cycling advocate who bristles when someone suggests that, maybe, taxes should be spent fixing roads and paying teachers, not building bicycle lanes (for the record, I'd rather see bicycle lanes...but I admit that I'm totally biased now).

But to help the layperson understand that, hey, not all of those dorks riding bicycles are the same, I've broken the riders down into three distinct classifications: Noobs, Fixies, and Enthusiasts.

Now, before I begin, I must give this disclaimer: I love all these folks, partly because I know a few people who fit snugly into these categories quite nicely (looking at you, Evanses). So, I write this entry with nothing but the utmost respect for those good folk, toodling around on two wheels. Keep it up, and I salute you.

First up...


NOOBS


Yes, noob. Cars are scary. Hey...that girl looks familiar...?


Itty bitty wheels, to go with the itty bitty amount of clothing.


Off to school. Or juvy.

A Noob (nōōb) is a newcomer to the bicycling scene. Not to worry -- we all start off as noobs, so hold your head high, you rapscallion.

Scientific Classification: novus cyclus

How to Spot a Noob: if they're doing their job right, you'll never see them. They blend in with society, and stick to low-traffic areas (like parks, beaches, and bike paths). Normally, they'll be wearing totally inappropriate riding attire (suits, sandals, baggy pants, etc.) and either no safety gear at all, or a lone ill-fitting helmet.

Noob Bicycle of Choice: The bicycle will be one of three types; a rental, a fresh-out-of-box department-store brand, or a recently-dusted-off former garage-bound ride. Occasionally it's just a straight-up "stolen bike."

The Noob Riding Style: Two words; sidewalks (I mean one word. Oops.) Noobs love riding on the sidewalk, because they're terrified of getting hit by a car (rightly so). They also love biking trails, because they're totally devoid of those nasty four-wheeled gas-powered demons.

Where to Spot a Noob: Any bike path, park, or sidewalk in the city.

Noob Subcategories: There are two categories of Noob: the "Working Noob" (novus cyclus occupadae), and the "Recreational Noob" (novus cyclus funnus). The Working Noob is an individual that, for whatever reason, can't take a car into work (either because of a "lack of money," or because the "state has taken away their driving privileges"). The Recreational Noob is either trying to get into cycling because it's a "great way to work out," or they're on vacation, and a bike rental seemed like "a pretty cool idea." Either way, they display the same characteristics as other Noobs, except they tend to look like they have "money to spend."

Standard Noob Occupations: child, homeless, slightly overweight technology-industry employee, out-of-towner

Why Drivers Hate Noobs: Noobs are actually hated more by pedestrians than drivers, because (as I mentioned earlier), drivers will probably never get to see an Noob in nature (surface streets). Pedestrians hate Noobs because they take up valuable, exceedingly rare "walking" real estate. But their timidity is part of the reason that drivers hate them -- they blend in so well with all the other city noise that a driver turning left into a parking lot might not actually see the guy with no helmet or head lamp, creeping along the sidewalk in their beaten-down BMX bike. This can be a pretty dangerous situation; especially if the driver (like most drivers in Los Angeles) is really inattentive.

Why Noobs Hate Drivers: That's pretty simple: because they're terrified of cars. You would be too if you were scurrying around on two wheels at 10 miles per hours, while assholes driving SUVs honk at you for no reason, or teenagers throw crap at you as they're speeding past, or sports cars whip by you with their engines gunning. It's pretty damn scary out there.

How Can You Tell if You're a Noob: Are you scared of riding in traffic? If the answer is "yes," then you're a Noob.


Next up...


FIXIES


No brakes!


Aviator sunglasses? Check. Rolled up jeans? Check. Slightly askew baseball hat? Check.


Fixie wolf pack. Beware...

A Fixie (fĭks'ē) is a cycling anarchist. These hard-core cyclists have done away with things that lesser mortals take for granted (like the "ability to coast,"or "brakes"). The name derives from their ride of choice, the "fixed wheel bicycle."

Scientific Classification: hipsterus fixae

How to Spot a Fixie: You won't see them until the last second, as they're cutting in front of you to go screaming into the Trader Joe's parking lot. When you do see them, you'll notice similarities. First off, they'll either have a "cycling cap," or a "scalp full of shaggy hair." Most will have a backpack, tight t-shirt, rolled up jeans (or capris), and slip-on sneakers (or Chuck T's). there are very few variations on this style.

Fixie Bicycle of Choice: Pretty self-explanatory. The only real variation is whether or not the bike has brakes. Because, let's be honest -- brakes are for pussies.

The Fixie Riding Style: Whatever gets the rider from Point A to Point B in the shortest amount of time. This includes weaving between cars, jumping onto a sidewalk, cutting through parking lots, hopping fences, running red lights, going into oncoming traffic, etc. Basically, anything goes. Their approach to road safety is: "I'm not going to stand still long enough for a car to hit me." Occasionally, in big groups, they will get bold and go so far as block intersections so their riding partners can pass without slowing down or stopping. I do not condone this action.

Where to Spot a Fixie: Silver Lake. Or downtown.

Fixie Subcategories: There are two categories of Fixie: the "Bike Messenger Fixie" (hispsterus fixae mercurius), and the "Dirty Hippie Fixie" (hispsterus fixae pogostemin cablin). The Bike Messenger is, by far, the more aggressive Los Angeles cyclist type. They will often display elaborate tattoos, and scars from previous riding accidents. In addition, they are the most fearless cyclist type, showing an "I'm indestructible complex," or often just a simple "death wish." The Dirty Hippie Fixie will have a beard (on males), or un-shaved armpits (on females). They will also smell pretty terrible.

Standard Fixie Occupations: band member, barista, waiter, "currently unemployed"

Why Drivers Hate Fixies: Because they don't play by the rules of the road. And they all seem to be just a little too proud of their "zero emission transportation."

Why Fixies Hate Drivers: Because drivers use a liquid called "gasoline" to power their automobiles, which means they hate the environment, and Fixies (by proxy).

How Can You Tell if You're a Fixie: Quick test -- can your bicycle coast? If the answer is "no," then you're a Fixie.


And finally...


ENTHUSIASTS


I imagine that, in his mind, those bike handles are for shewting lazors...PEW PEW PEW!!!


Sorry Chad, but you're just a perfect example.


Old man + Spandex = Awesome.

An Enthusiast (ěn-thōō'zē-ŭst') just absolutely loves cycling. They are the outspoken ambassadors of the sport, and if they're out, they would want you to know that.

Scientific Classification: cyclus cyclus

How to Spot an Enthusiast: Enthusiasts are hard to miss. During they daytime they're decked out in garishly-colored skin-tight cycling outfits. At night, they're lit up like a Christmas tree with reflectors and lights a'plenty. It's actually harder to "not" spot an enthusiast than it is to spot one.

Enthusiast Bicycle of Choice: Nothing under $1,000. The bike should weigh less than 20 pounds. And the shoes must clip into the pedals.

The Enthusiast Riding Style: When you hear an enthusiast tell you to "share the road," what they really mean is: "give me the road." Enthusiasts regularly ride in packs of two or more, and drive the same way as any car would, if cars were also allowed on to bike paths.

Where to Spot an Enthusiast: Any street or bike path. Any time. Anywhere.

Enthusiast Subcategories: There are two categories of Enthusiast. "The Racer" (cyclus cyclus racidae), and "The Trainer" (cyclus cyclus cyclus). The distinction is fairly simple -- the Racer is an Enthusiast who regularly enters "racing competitions." The Trainer is an Enthusiast who wants to appear as though they regularly enter "racing competitions."

Standard Enthusiast Occupations: manager, executive, analyst, assistant, processor, professor, adjuster, "white-collar-employed-individual"

Why Drivers Hate Enthusiasts: Because Enthusiasts seem to be under the impression that they are cars. It's not unusual to see a group of enthusiasts occupying an entire lane of traffic, going about 20 miles per hour...which is pretty good for a bicycle, but really irritating for an automobile, who just wants to pass them without pissing them off or accidentally hitting one. Also, Enthusiasts will happily slap car roofs, yell into open windows, and tap on closed windows of cars that have "done them wrong," because they feel it's their duty to inform the masses of drivers out there that, hey, cyclists are cars too. Understandably, this rubs drivers the wrong way.

Why Enthusiasts Hate Drivers: Because they won't share the damn road! In fact, it's scientifically proven that, if everyone got around on a bicycle, the world would be a better place.

How Can You Tell if You're an Enthusiast: Two questions. A) Do you own any Spandex? B) Can you name more than one person who raced in the Tour de France last year? If the answer was "yes" to both question, then you are an Enthusiast.



"So," you might be asking, "Tyler; what are you?"


AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Well, I know it's a total cop-out, but I consider myself to be a bit of a hybrid. I dress like a Noob (because I'm usually on my way to or from work), and I own a "Noob-ish" Target-bought bicycle. But my riding style is more like a Fixie (getting from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible). But I have an Enthusiast's occupation (paralegal).

Honestly, I'm probably more of a Noob than anything else...especially when you consider the fact that I'm writing a blog entry about other cyclists...which is such a noobish thing to do. Ah, me.

What's New, Pussycat?

I've been meaning to type out a "general update" for a while now. But I never got around to it. I even had a half-finished (half-started?) Word document saved, which summed up 2009, and told of my fiendish plans for 2010. But that went kaput with my old laptop. So now, I start from scratch. Literally.

I mean "figuratively." Sorry. I get confused.

So. First things first (because those are the things that usually come first): money. This is arguably the most interesting thing in my life right now. Scratch that -- it's not interesting at all. It's just the "biggest change."

Anyhow, I'm working as a paralegal at Disney, in the online film & television anti-piracy group. Which means, I am the jerk who "takes down" any copyright infringing Disney content that's been posted online. If you've ever been contacted by someone at Disney regarding a video you posted online, then yeah, that could very well have been me. Sorry. It's nothing personal...I'm just trying to make a living, bro. I'm not here because I'm passionate about copyright law or anything. I just click the buttons that make the videos go away, and Disney gives me the money.


Arrrgh! Shiver me YouTube.

But, this "new job" begs the question, "Um...so...Tyler? What about acting? Are you giving up? Quitter. You make me want to punch a chicken in the beak."

Whoa, there. Easy, friend. I'm not giving up, okay? I'm just taking an indefinite leave of absence, so I can spend more time with my family.

Just kidding. I'm not doing that. I just like how it sounds.

No. I'm still acting. That's why I moved down here, so why in the hell would I give up on it?

So, to understand my take on "Tyler's Acting Career," I should first explain what happened in the last year, and what I'm planning on doing in the coming year.

So, in several blog posts (far too many, if I recall), I whined, and railed, and cried like a little baby chicken that had just been punched in the beak about how difficult it was to get my SAG eligibility. Like, here, here, here, here, here, and here. In fact, I think I may have talked about how I'm not SAG eligible more than I apologized for "not writing more." A pretty remarkable feat, actually.

But you know what's far more helpful than "complaining about something?"

Doing something to fix the problem.

So, that's what I'm doing. "But Tyler," you wheeze (because you just got back from the gym), "How is 'going to work at a day job' going to get you into SAG? Don't you have to have your days free to pursue acting?"

First of all, shut up. This is my blog. You want to ask me questions, you can get your own damn blog. You can call it "Jibes and Japes" for all I damn care.

Secondly, here's the problem: acting costs a lot of money. Seems like a no-brainer, but it's easy to forget (because, a person can act for free, at any time, right?) But if you want to make money in this business, you need to spend a couple of years losing a lot of money. I guess that's like any business...the problem is, most actors don't approach this profession as if it were a business (unless the IRS asks). Myself included.

Now, unfortunately for me, I was barely treading water in those last couple of months (before I started working for Disney). It got so bad that I had to borrow money from my cash-strapped wife to pay rent for three months in a row. And, at my ultimate low-point, I got my first-ever NSF on a rent check during that time.

Which is a long-winded way of saying: I was unable to pay rent, much less cover the costs of acting classes, headshots, gasoline to drive to auditions, website subscriptions, printer toner (for resumes), etc.

But, even more damning is the fact that I wasn't even auditioning for stuff. Auditioning is free...but somehow I couldn't afford it -- I had to leave all of my days open for background work (which was terribly inconsistent as well...but that's another story for another time). Basically, I was floundering. Foundering? Hmm...let me Dictionary.com that. Huh. Interesting. I'm not sure which one to use here. Was I flapping about uselessly, or sinking? Maybe it was a little bit of both. I was floundering while I was foundering.

Back to the topic at hand: for 2010, I have a plan.

It might not be a good plan. It might be a miserable failure. It might be stupid. It might be really uninteresting, but I'm going to tell it to you anyway. Because I like you, and you smell nice.

First step (huh...lots of numbered lists this blog post): take classes. These include the dreaded "casting director workshops," which are, essentially, classes that involve you paying money to "be seen" by a casting director. It's lame. It's corrupt. It has a very low success rate. It seems like a waste of time and money. And it can be somewhat degrading. But for a schlub like myself, with no acting credits, and no union affiliation, it's one of the only ways to actually get my "foot in the door" at a casting office. I couldn't afford to go to these workshops in 2009, because I needed to pay rent and "eat food." Now, with my new job, I can go...and give myself a chance to, maybe, sneak my way onto a commercial, movie, or TV show.

Second step: write. I need to finish editing my script. I need to finish writing my second script. I need to blog more. I need to read other peoples' screenplays to see how it's done. I need to show my work to other people, so they can tell me if I suck or not. Finally, once I have a product I'm satisfied with, I need to show my writing to agents, producers, and executives. This is a long process, and I'm horribly inexperienced, naive, and (frankly) overwhelmed by the thought of it...but what have I got to lose, right? My life? Sure, I could be killed over this...but it's very unlikely. So, I think I'm going to risk it.

Third step: act. This can be done in a couple of ways -- the easiest being in "online videos that I write and produce." Either that, or I can act in projects that other people are producing. Or act in "theater," like I did last year. I also need to assemble an acting "reel," because it's pretty inexcusable that I don't have one after two years in Los Angeles pretending to be an "actor." But, any way I can, I need to do it. No more excuses...because excuses are like assholes: everyone has one (except for the people who don't), and they're also called "anal sphincters." Did I say that right?

Fourth step: audition. I don't submit for auditions any more. I haven't, maybe, for the last five months or so. I absolutely must start doing this again. I have no excuses, because excuses are like parrots: they're covered in feathers, and they killed my uncle.

Anyhow, that's the plan. Maybe this is just the expected "pump up" that every human being gives themselves on the arbitrary beginning of the Gregorian calendar (and, by the way, can anyone understand this history of the month of February? I've read it four times now...and I still have no idea why Februaray has 28 days, and why it's the month that gets a "leap year") (oh, I get it now. No one knows. Thanks, Slate!).

Where was I? Okay...sorry...I get distracted easily. The point is: I do dumb crap like this every year (see this blog post, for a ridiculously similar optimistic treacle...good God, I'm so predictable). At the end of the calendar year, or the beginning of the new year, I'm all like, "Man, I'm going to make some big ol' fat changes in my life. I'm going to get off of my butt and do something." Then I never end up following through. I guess that's the story of human existence, right? Except, my story is way, way, waaaay more interesting, because it involves me. And I'm totally different from everyone else.

I'm getting distracted again. Anyhow, that's the jist of my plan. It might pan out. It probably won't. But either way, it's a start. And I'm an imperfect being, just spitting out the same encouraging platitudes that better people have spit out since the dawn of man.

Except my platitudes are different. Because I'm saying them. Right, guys? Right?

So, Tyler, How'd You Get Into Acting? (Part 2: The Later Years)

Where did I leave off?

Ah. Okay.

Megan Hunt, and Village Theatre. That whole thing. Okay. Let me go back a year or two, then I'll pick it up where I left off.

So, my mother, God bless her, has always been my biggest fan. I know that's a cliche, and I know everyone loves their mother, and blah blah blah. But my mom is the only person who's seen every stinking acting job I've ever done, from the lowliest student-written one-act when I was in colelge, to the fanciest professional theater gigs.

Honestly, I would never have actually pursued my dreams of "acting professionally" if it hadn't been for the selfless commitment from my mother. Now, she didn't "push me into it," and she was never behaved like those irritating "stage moms" that I got to know and love in my adult life. But at the same time, whenever my motivation flagged (which happens far too often for me), she'd sign me up for classes or auditions, and drive me all over the east end of Lake Washington to make sure I was able to keep doing what I loved. All the while she was working two (sometimes three or four) jobs as a single mother of four. I know, I know, it's a cliche...and I'm sorry for the excessive "mother love" in this opener...but it needs to be said. This whole "acting thing" that I love to do was made possible because of her.

And that brings me to my connection with Village Theatre. My mother concluded that, since I was showing a lot of interest in "the acting," I should take some "acting classes." Another contributing factor was that I, very briefly, had a "talent agent" in the 5th Grade. This agency, "Kid Stars," was located at a big office in downtown Bellevue. The office had lots of glass, shiny desks, big bulletin boards, and professional-looking headshots plastered all over the walls. After reading a monologue for one of the agents, they decided to sign me onto their roster. Over the course of the next year they booked me on a grand total of two auditions -- a "cattle call" for a Sears commercial, and an "Unsolved Mysteries" audition. I absolutely bombed both of those...especially the second one, which involved a lot of awkward laughter, confusion, and flop sweat (I was asked to "improv" a scene, and since I'd never "improv'd" before, I made a complete and utter ass of myself). Anyhow, after these two fails, it was apparent to everyone involved that, in spite of my storied "community theater" career...I was not quite ready to take the "next step."

So, to remedy my severe "lack of training," my mother decided to enroll me in some acting classes. I never asked her to enroll me....and I may have even openly resisted it...but I'm glad as hell that she made me go (it was one of those great "ignoring your kids" moments that parents ought to do more often). One of the first classes that I attended was taught by a woman named Megan Hunt, who was teaching a class offered through Village Theatre's "KidStage" program.

The class itself wasn't all that memorable, honestly. We'd read scenes. We'd do improv games. And, for our "parent showcase," we'd rehearse a few sketches from the movie Free To Be...You & Me. I enjoyed the class, and I thought I was doing pretty well in it.


This is one of the sketches we performed; I played a tiger.

I guess I was doing well, because after the showcase was concluded, Megan approached me and asked me if I'd like to audition for the upcoming Village Theatre production of "Narnia." This would be a far cry from the community theater productions I'd done up to that point, and, were I to get cast in the show, I'd be working at a bona fide professional theater. Megan was, incidentally, the daughter of the executive producer (and founder) of the theater, Robb Hunt, so I had a pretty good "in."

So I auditioned...and holding with tradition, I absolutely blew it. I was awful. I sang "A Whole New World" from Aladdin, but forgot the words about halfway through. That, and my knees were trembling horribly throughout the audition...and I'm fairly certain that my voice cracked (which is a safe bet for any 12 year old boy).

Needless to say, I was not cast. Or called back. Or probably even "thought about" by the casting people once I'd walked out of the room.

Luckily for me, I got a second chance to redeem myself with Village Theatre. Seems that Megan was slated to direct "Bye Bye Birdie" the following summer, for the KidStage summer show. Apparently, the KidStage program also sponsored a separate, full-length show...which was produced, designed, and performed by "kids" aged 4-20. All done under the watchful eyes of Village Theatre.

Well, I don't remember anything about my Bye Bye Birdie audition (honestly...I can't remember a dang thing...and I really tried), but it must have gone well, because I was cast as "Charles F. Maude, the Bartender," among other smaller roles.

I had a blast that summer, and I was hooked. I went back to do the KidStage show in Issaquah every summer for the next five years. There, I met some truly talented and dedicated people, who inspired me, and stoked my love for acting. I still keep in touch with many of them, who (like myself) have gone on to work professionally in the business.

However, there were two definitive moments that convinced me (beyond a shadow of a doubt) that "acting" would always be in my future.

he first happened during the school year, months before I was cast in Bye Bye Birdie. When I was in the 7th grade, I found out that there was a "play" being produced by the choir director (a former beauty queen). This was great news for me, because Kenmore Jr. High did not have theater classes of any kind...so it was a chance for me to be around some like-minded individuals, and show off my fancy acting talents.

The turn-out for the audition was huge...with over 100 people auditioning. I was one of those hopefuls, and I managed to get cast in one of the lead roles -- a jester who opened the show with a monologue (that I still remember to this day, for some reason), and conducted the show-within-a-show. It was called "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Heir," and was intended to be performed as dinner theater.

I'll never forget, though...that first rehearsal. I was a painfully awkward, greasy, acne-scarred, badly-dressed stick of a puberty-riddled 13-year-old. The script called for the Jester character (me) to be "flirted with" by a random female character. The actress slated to do the flirting was named Heidi Schiller...and she was, to me, maybe the prettiest girl at Kenmore Jr. High. And she was supposed to flirt. With me. Whoa.

So we were blocking the scene, and I was fully prepared for (nay, completely expecting) her to either half-ass it, or outright ignore the blocking notes. But no, she jumped right in, and started rubbing up against me, and running her hands all over me. It was, in a word: "totally freaking amazing."

Funny, because four years later, Heidi died in a car crash driving home from a high school football game. I never really got to thank her for giving me some confidence when I really needed it. Too bad.

Okay, sorry, I'm kidding. She's still alive, and we actually became fairly good friends after we ended up going to the same college. But man, the car crash thing would make a much better story, wouldn't it?

I digress.

Anyhow, rehearsals were going great, but unfortunately, the show never ended up happening. One Friday, about two weeks into the rehearsal process, the beauty-queen-turned-choir-director called the cast (of about 70) into a meeting in the choir room. There, in a super-classy move, she blamed the students for not being dedicated enough, and canceled the performances (when, in fact, she'd really just got in over her head with a project that she had been half-assing the entire time).

So, no more flirting with Heidi for me. In fact, for the rest of my junior high career, my extra-curricular activities where limited to sports (and I really hated the jocks at our school), and band (where I liked the people, didn't earn any "popularity points"). The lack of school-run theater pretty much ruined my chances at social interaction from grades 7-9...but that's another story for another blog.

Anyhow, that set me down the path to a career in acting. Moment #2 sealed my fate. This moment occured during the run of "Bye Bye Birdie." At a certain point during the show, I was supposed to cross backstage after one of the musical numbers (let's just say "Ed Sullivan" for the sake of picking a number from the show). It was a pretty small space, so you learned pretty fast how to walk about quickly and safely from point A to point B.

Now, when we finally started performances, I received one of the greatest surprises I'd ever had, up to that point in my life. As I was crossing behind the stage, I walked by a "quick-change" station, where some of the older girls were changing for the next scene. And I got to witness something that would change my life forever. Wonder of wonders...I saw a group of women dressed only in their undergarments, changing for the next scene.

It was...simply put...a revelation. I was hooked.

Because, sure, I love the art. I love the rush of adrenaline. I love creating something I can be proud of. And I love performing.

But most of all, I love the ladies. That's why I do what I do.

Okay, that's not true.

Well, it's partly true.

Fine, it's mostly true. I got into acting to meet women. Happy? It's the same thing that motivated Picasso, Van Gogh, Shakespeare, Carrot Top, Mozart, and countless other womanizing (but talented) freaks before me. And shoot, it worked, didn't it? I married way, way, WAAAY above my station in life...and that was only possible because I met the lady doing a show. In fact, I met all three of my serious girlfriends doing theater. Not too shabby...

So, in my fantasy future, when I'm asked, "How'd you get into acting?" I'll say: "Well, I saw a chick in her bra backstage during a show one time, and I decided that I'd like to see that more often." Might not have the poetry of a more artistically-based response...but at least it'd be honest.

A Follower!

First I was all like, "Holy crap! I have a follower on this blog that I've told no one about!"

Then I realized that it was just me...following myself. It was probably the saddest thing that has ever, ever happened to me.