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.

So, Tyler, How'd You Get Into Acting? (Part 1: The Early Years)

At least, that's what I imagine it'd sound like next time I get booked on a talk show. After a couple of ice-breaker questions, some laughs, some platitudes, maybe a funny sketch or two, the host will lean in inquisitively and...inquire, "So Tyler, how'd did you get into acting?"

And because that'll probably never happen, I've decided to answer that fantasy question on my fantasy blog, and give the answer out to my incredibly limited readership. Enjoy, you lovely bastards.

Well, fantasy interviewer, that's a great question! Honestly, I'd tongue-kiss you if I could, but you're not real. Used to be I'd tell people, "My mom got me into acting when I was 9." And that's mostly true, because if she hadn't dragged me to a community theater audition of "The Music Man," I probably would have spent my high school years as just another faceless "band geek," as opposed to blurry-faced "band and drama geek."

But truth be told, Music Man wasn't the absolute start for me. See, I'd been interested in acting as far back as preschool. My very first "performance" was when I was cast as a leapfrog in my preschool Christmas Program, along with my best friend Eric. I was pretty stoked to be working with some very talented people, on a project that I really believed in. Also, I was glad that I'd stopped peeing my pants two years earlier, making the whole endeavor possible...

But unfortunately I never got to perform as the leapfrog. During one of the rehearsals, I "leaped" a little too enthusiastically and severely strained a ligament in my neck. I had to miss the Program, and I was couch-ridden for a week. That was the first and last time I ever suffered a serious "actor-related injury" (no small feat, since I've seen broken bones, torn ligaments, a seizure, concussions, and countless cuts and bruises since that time).

But everyone does those goofy Christmas Pageant shows...it's not like I had a choice in the matter. I didn't have any dark, sticky artistic blood pulsing through my veins...it was just the regular, boring red kind. Heck, I was far more interested in sports than any of that "creative" junk.

My first brush with actual, honest-to-God "acting" was complements of Mrs. Trull (yes...she was mean, and yes, we did call her Mrs. Troll, and yes, she's probably dead now) who was my 1st grade Music Teacher. The school was doing a production of "Hansel and Gretel" at an assembly, and two kids from each class were picked to portray the titular roles (hee hee). The rest of the class performed "dances" during the scene changes. It was some pretty heady, artistic stuff. I was cast as one of the Hansels, along with 11 other dudes from the other classes. I don't remember the audition, but it probably involved "reading the script." Obviously, I nailed it.

Anyway, since the roles were duodecuple-cast (yes, it's a word), each Hansel and Gretel was given a short scene to memorize and perform. During the actual performance, when the current H&G finished their scene, a new "Hansel and Gretel" would walk on stage, tap the current iterations of themselves on the shoulder, then take their place on stage. I have video of this. I could tell, even back then, that it was pretty hokey. "Why not come up with a reason for each actor to walk off stage?" I asked myself silently. No one heard my protests...because I didn't vocalize them. But I do remember having a problem with the direction of the piece, which I consider awfully advanced for my undersized 7 year old brain.

Hansel and Gretel also involved my first on-stage romantic interest: Elizabeth Chittick. I didn't like her, but I think she liked me (ah...the story of my life). She was notable for living up the street from me, owning a Teddy Ruxpin doll, and for the one time I kicked her fingers through a chain-link fence...which got me sent to the Principal's office. I tell you...I'm good with the ladies. Always have been, always will be.


Elizabeth and I...can't you just taste the chemistry?

But I think my most important "pre-Music Man" introduction to acting was thanks to one Sue Jackson, 2nd grade teacher. Sue Jackson was a recent divorcee, in her early 40s, with two grown children. She was a first-year teacher at the school, and I remember that we did not get along very well at first...mostly because I was a bit of an impudent know-it-all (some things never change).

Ms. Jackson was the first teacher I had who focused heavily on "the arts." We'd write stories in her class. We'd put on plays (that we performed for the 3rd graders in the next room over). We'd paint. We'd write poetry. All of that ninny froo-froo stuff that, for some reason, I was actually pretty good at.

It was in this class that I found my love for acting and writing. Funny...but sometimes you get a teacher early-on that sparks an interest in something you do for the rest of your life...and Sue Jackson really got me interested in acting. But sometimes you get a teacher who tries to enlist your services as a hit man. Or tries to sleep with you. Luck of the draw, I guess.

But Ms. Jackson put us in charge of rehearsing and producing the shows (with props, costumes, sets, etc.). We did several productions, including a short play about The Easter Bunny (I portrayed the Easter Bunny)...and another play about a family at Christmas (I played "Grandpa"). And a play about a princess who was upset about a broken heart (the twist at the end: the "broken heart" was actually a heart-shaped cake that had broken in two...not a metaphorical "broken heart". Who writes this stuff!!!!???!?!?).

It was in that last show that I had my first brush with acting like a "super-diva." I had three roles in the show: The Duke, The Messenger, and The Cook. The first two were fairly big parts, but the last one was a walk-on at the very end, with no lines (where the cook silently brings the "broken" cake out for the big punchline).

A week before we were going to perform the show, Ms. Jackson informed me that she wanted one of the other students (Erin, a shy girl that I had a major crush on) to play the cook. And I....was....devastated. Furious. I cried like an 8 year old. I threw a fit. It was unfair. How DARE she give my role away! Gaaaah!!! (once again, affirming my status as "God's gift to the ladies")

But I got over it, after Ms. Jackson and my mom talked some sense into me. So I gave up the role, and felt some well-deserved diva-shame.

Apparently Ms. Jackson still teaches at Arrowhead. Huh. Guess I didn't scare her away after all...

After my time in Ms. Jackson's class was finished, my lovely mother started me on the "community theater" circuit. In the 3rd grade I was cast as Winthrop Paroo in The Music Man at Shoreline Community Theatre. In the 4th grade I was cast as Tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol at The Driftwood Players. In the 5th grade I was cast as The Page in Amahl and the Night Visitors at King'sPlayers Theater. And in the 6th grade I didn't do any acting...because I was "artistically exhausted." That, and I wanted more time to play video games, because I'd just got a Nintendo...and playing it was a fairly high priority at the time.


My heart-felt rendition of "Wells Fargo Wagon," years before
they invented the bank.

But in the summer between 6th and 7th grade my mother signed me up for a class run by a theatre in Issaquah called "Village Theatre." The class was taught by a woman named Megan Hunt, who was the daughter of the executive producer of the theater, Robb Hunt. It was that class that transformed my love of acting from something of an "idle curiosity to pass the time" to a "possible future career." And I'll tell you all about it...in my next blog post. Consider yourself "teased."

Four Bullies (Part 4)

I’ll be honest...I wasn’t totally satisfied with the conclusion of this series. The whole thing just really ended too neatly – the meat head jock befriends the pasty, pimpled nerd, brought together through the magic of theater. It’s too much of a cliché – hell, I’m pretty sure that’s the plot of the new hit television show Glee.

But it’s not real life...I mean, it is, of course, but it wraps things up too neatly. And I realize that I was forgetting one of the biggest bastards that I came across...

Bully #5 struck when I was in the second grade – I’d forgotten about him mainly because, well, I was not the target of his abuse. James was. James McKee.

We were all in a 1st / 2nd grad split class, where the smartest kids from the 1st grade class were placed with the smartest kids from the 2nd grade...at least, that’s how I think it worked. Maybe it was just random. Who knows? Point is, James was one of the "exceptional" first graders...and I was exceptionally second-grade-ish.

Now, James was a really nice kid. A smart kid. Terribly ordinary-looking, really, if a little bit pale (he looked kind of like a cross between Jim Jay Bullock and John Michael Higgins).

James’ only real problem is that he was a bit weird. Okay, he was a lot weird...in one of those “Really Outspoken Nerd” kind of ways. He was also a bit of a crybaby, and easily victimized. Something about this combination drove Bully #5 crazy, and he loved laying into James. Externalizing pent up aggression? Problems at home? Fell in with the wrong crowd? Just a dick? Either way, he tormented James throughout the year, with no real inciting cause that I could decipher.

For instance, after recess, we’d all line up in front of the door until the teacher opened the class to let us in (so she could finish drinking, probably). For no good reason, Bully #5 would kick James in the leg...just to hear him cry out in pain. When the teacher wasn’t paying attention he’d pelt James with balled up pieces of paper, chunks of eraser, broken pencil lead. He was relentless, and merciless.

At one point James and the bully were placed next to each other in class, and that little asshole slowly and methodically inched his desk away from James...just a little bit at a time...until there was a good foot of separation between their two desks. It was the only time he got in trouble, but I’m pretty sure it was just a verbal reprimand.

Because, unfortunately, the teacher was not experienced enough to handle this issue. In fact, she may have inflamed it, unintentionally. One day during class she sent James down to the principal’s office with a note that just said, “Please keep James in the office for a while.” After James left, she talked to the class about how we needed to treat James a little nicer. Of course, it had the opposite effect... only serving to further alienate him from the general population.

The torment continued throughout the school year. James became a social pariah, and the next year he did not return to Arrowhead Elementary School. I’m assuming he was home schooled, or shuttled to another school in the district, or moved away, or something. Either way, I didn’t see him again until high school.

I was now in the 11th grade, and James was in the 10th...and we had an acting class together. By that time I’d been through my own round of bullying, while James had grown into a super-pleasant, nice, funny, soft-spoken young man...who looked even more like a "J. Bullock / Michael Higgins Love Child." James was a Star Trek fanatic (he made an exceptionally accurate Starfleet uniform, and wore it to school on Halloween). He was the kind of kid who’d wear a nice suit to school one day...not to stand out or be different, but just because he felt like wearing a suit.

So we were talking one day, and I said to him, “Hey, James. Listen, I’m really sorry that I was such an asshole to you in the second grade."

Because, see, I was Bully #5. In fact, I'm pretty sure I more of a dick to James than the potent cocktail of Tyson, Jeremy, Ronnie, and Marshall combined. And I'm supposed to be the good guy. Right...?

So after I mumbled out my apology, James paused thoughtfully and shrugged. “I don’t really remember that. I thought we got along really well back then.”

Unexpected. It made me want to kick him again, that pleasant bastard. Not sure what happened to him after I graduated (we weren’t that close), but I’m sure he’s making hundreds of thousands of dollars working with computers...or some-such. Because that's what nerds do when they grow up.

Why did I pick on James? I wish I knew. I know I can be terribly cruel sometimes...I try to avoid it, but I've got too much pissed off German blood running through my veins, or something. Of course, I’d always considered myself a defender of the downtrodden; a guy who skirted the line between “popular” and “nerd.” But, in the 2nd grade, there’s no doubt I was just “popular.” I was a cool kid...and it was at the apex of my popularity that I decided to victimize a nice (albeit strange), defenseless kid. And it wasn't like it was a group of us, or anything. There was no conspiracy to tease James -- I acted mostly alone, for purely dickish reasons. Wish I hadn't. Hope I never do again.

So in conclusion (because how else are you supposed to know that this is the concluding paragraph) what have we all learned? Not a damn thing, except for that, maybe, I’m just a big ol’ raging hypocrite...to write a blog series, leaving out the biggest, meanest, assholiest bully of the bunch. Until now, at least. Well, that’s life, right? Sorry, I hate ending on some kind of hacky, semi-poignant idiom...so instead I leave you with a random verb, followed by a seldom-used punctuation mark: bask`

Poor Defenseless Video Games

Tell me if you feel me on this one, folks. Or remain respectfully silent while class is in session. Either way, dig on this:

Example #1: . b d left-click home shift-0 g s , left-click right-click shift-right-click left-click shift-9 b . b w left-click shift-right-click , left-click shift-left-click 9 h left-click shift-1 . . b l left-click double-left-click shift-2

And so on.

Or

Example #2: left-click down-arrow ctrl-c alt-tab left-click ctrl-v enter left-click print-scrn alt-tab left-click alt-tab left-click ctrl-c alt-tab left-click ctrl-v double-left-click 1 3 left-click

These commands are all issued in the space of, oh, probably 30 seconds, give or take for computer processing time. I get paid well to enter one of those strings. The other I paid $39.99 to do. Can you tell which is which?

That’s right. I’m getting on my high horse about “video games” again. Feel free to disagree, and navigate away if you find the subject boresome.

But video games, in my opinion, got a really bad rap. Whenever “video games” and “children” are brought up in conversation, there’s the “Well, I’m sure they benefit hand-eye coordination. But why don’t they go outside? They just stare at the television like zombies? Not to mention all of the violence that they see on the screen. Plus, the number of hours they spend playing video games could be better spent doing something constructive with their lives.”

No one seems to miss one crucial thing: video games teach people how to solve problems. Not everyone can solve problems -- I've known people who just seem to completely shut down when things don't go their way. When you play a video game, things don't go your way all the damn time. That's the whole point -- video games are just one challenge after another thrown at a person. The "game" part comes in how the person reacts to these situations.

And I think that, since people can't measure "brains" like they can "muscles," these skills get put aside. There's no objective way to quantify a person's "ability to solve problems efficiently," other than through tedious psychological testing. But I think that my years playing video games have absolutely made me a smarter, more effective member of society. It sounds counter-intuitive (how can one learn anything just by shooting pretend guns at pretend demons on a little flashing screen?), but I believe it quite fervently.

So, if you were curious, example #1 is from the real-time strategy video game “Warhammer 40k: Dawn of War.” It’s what’s called a “build order,” which is basically a sequence that you follow at the start of a game to build up your army faster than your opponent. In the example, I instructed my builder unit to start work on a new structure, told my combat unit to capture a strategic point, mapped a hotkey to my base (so I didn’t have to click on the base every time I wanted to issue an order), queued two units to be built at my base, constructed a “boss” unit…and that’s only up to the “shift-9” command.

Conversely, the second string of commands is what I do at work all day – namely, documenting pirated videos online and entering them into a database (I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s essentially entering URL information with a screen print into a database).

One is a (supposed) waste of time, the other is a skill that earns me a good living. But, I tell you what, they sure as hell look the same when I write them out like that. And it feels the same when I'm doing them.

Now I'm not saying we sequester our children in a room with an Xbox controller and a television set. That's dumb, and I'm dumb for even putting that argument out there. Naturally, I fully realize that it is very important health-wise and relationship-wise to get out of the damn house from time to time. Alls I’m saying is, stop shitting all over video games, people. They’re not brain-rotters. They’re not evil. They're mostly harmless...and (in my opinion) they're quite beneficial. Just think of video games as brain training devices – they teach people how to manipulate complex systems effectively, and use given resources to accomplish a goal. How's that for some frigging corporate double-speak for you?

Because (and I may have gone on too long here -- tl;dr), the people I know who boast about the fact that they “don’t even own a TV” or “barely know how to use a computer” are, typically, the most ill-informed, boring people I know (this doesn’t apply to you, dear sweet blog reader…I’m talking about all the other jerk-offs who boast about their lack of TV watching and internet surfing. You're cool; otherwise we wouldn't be buddies, would we?).

Now I know this isn’t solid proof. I'm no sociologist (which is an overrated, soft-science discipline populated with POV-pushing frauds, in my opinion), or psychologist (I got no beef with them). My opinion is nothing, really – just the ranting of an aging video gamer that has a chip on his shoulder. But, I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Am I wrong? A large number of you out their either work for, or will one day work in an office environment. Don’t you want to be the guy who can figure stuff out quickly, and improvise a solution if things don’t get done? Or do you want to be the guy who just has to “get out of the office and take a personal day” because the computer’s not working? Better yet, which one of those two would you want to hire?

Video gamers are problem solvers. That’s all that video games are – a never-ending cavalcade of problems that need to be diagnosed, contemplated, and then solved…as efficiently and accurately as possible. It’s brain training, and, dammit, it’s effective.