Card Carrying

My deepest apologies, please excuse the very long delay in updating this epic piece of American literature, this living testament to all that is unholy and marred. What can I say, things have been hectic lately. Fear not though, for I am working with an incredible backlog of awesome stories for my throngs of loyal fans.

When we last left off, our hero was on the precipice. Contemplating his place in the great beyond, he decides to embark on a grand, life changing mission. He's a man who just wants to make the earth a better place, all the while hopefully earning a more favorable shake in the next life (who knows, maybe even a seat at the right side of our all-knowing and magical creator?- you know how me likey salvation).

Alas, his efforts to do good were dashed. All those attempts to leave a lasting mark in a world full of endless possibilities were in vain. Sunrise, sunset.

However, as this tale progresses, our hero finally comes to his senses. One dark stormy night he has an epiphany, and realizes that these ideals he strived to uphold are all bullshit. Blinded by the light of reality, where no shadow exists to hide in, it suddenly hits him. Our hero starts to think that perhaps, just maybe...he needs a new weed guy.

There's a nail biting, Nick-noir moment as our hero pulls up the collar on his storybook-like jacket and opens the door to face the harsh desolate terrain awaiting him outside. For a terrifying split second, a sliver of doubt creeps into his psyche: Would he, (could he, even) be able to survive in such a cruel and unforgiving world? Well gather 'round kids, because that's what we're here to find out.

After a long and exhaustive research process, I am proud to announce that my crackpot team of journalists have finally recovered most documented evidence of what happened to our central character. All the hard work, sweat and tears my staff and I put in to this laconic digest, the long hours furiously striking keys on our old-timey typewriters is for you, the reader [actual newsroom photo, right]. At the end of the day it's all worth it, for let us never forget the legendary Joseph Pulitzer, who once said:

"Put it before them briefly so they will read it, clearly so they will appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it, and above all, accurately so they will be guided by its light."

Now for the disclaimer. Due to various logistical issues (run of the mill errors in judgement and of course the classic "circumstances outside of my control" routine), not to mention at least one or two legally pending confidentiality agreements, unfortunately some of the things you'll read in the coming weeks and months may be out of order, not told in a linear fashion, and frankly a bit scattered. But like any great story, or like making love when you have an incredibly large member, from time to time some of the "good stuff" has to be left out for the sake of continuity. You know what I mean, otherwise who's gonna watch?

Through the magic of what I will call "Postdating... from the future" [shout out to Tom in marketing for that gem], our team of scientist/writers will attempt to make this as comprehensible as possible. Eventually we will catch up to our current date, as we always do, because the adventure of this awesome life is an unchanging constant. The journey is never ending, yet still, like water. Be like water, my friend, is basically what I'm saying (I think).

I now present to you the first of our award-winning 10 part series on what happens when a being of pure light, love and emotion becomes sullied and corrupted one dark, starry night while sitting on a passenger train. Proceed with caution, because you too can find yourself on such a train. It's a train you barely missed and upon boarding you notice an empty seat beside a quiet old man sitting alone in the back of the car. He's reading a book and smoking tobacco from a hand carved pipe. You approach cautiously, and note the rich smoke slowly seeping into your nostrils is somehow familiar. There's a hint of black cherries, and it reminds you of those summers you spent as a youth on the beach. Aunt Tilda would take you there from time to time for picnics. As you sat under the umbrella, wearing your suspenders, bathing trunks and newspaper-boy-hat, eagerly awaiting your grilled chicken panini, your mind couldn't help but wander. You became entranced by her sweeping blonde hair flowing in the wind. It was almost as if she was some kind of "beach angel".

Shaken from your daydream, your attention returns to the all encompassing quiet hum in the train car. Suddenly you feel very tired and weary, as if surrounded by a bubble. As you finally settle into your seat, on this speeding express through the snow covered Alps of our eternity, the old man closes his book and begins to tell you a story. A story that hits you right at the core...a story that shakes the very foundation of your reality.

For the sake of creating some atmosphere (ha!), our journey begins a little over a year ago.

And away we go....

The date was June 2008, around the time of my birthday. The place: None other than the hard concrete streets of New York City. This is a time of year that always inspires terror in my heart. The few days preceding my birthday always bring a renewed sense of fear, a time when I feel the cold grip of confirmation that I've been relegated to live in the muck of a lonely and depressing existence forever. I needed a distraction for myself. Something that came with a sense of purpose, of belonging. Always the defeatist underachiever, It suddenly struck me that my life-long dream of becoming a professional extra hadn't quite come to fruition yet (I dream big, mind you). That moment was the perfect time to get on the ball. As a birthday present to myself I gathered up all my hard earned waivers I gained as a "background artist" and took the next glorious step in my career. As previously noted on this journal, waivers are those special upgrades that occurred at those times in my life when someone on a set saw that "spark" in my eye and pushed me to the front of a crowd of faceless blurs. Those days when the shooting schedule was held up due to there not being enough established actors to portray "busboys", "day laborers", or the classic "delivery guy" on set. Those days where non-descript passerbys on the street didn't quite look "Queens" or "Blue Collar/Downscale" enough. Any seasoned veteran would know that these seemingly minute details are crucial to the success of any production.

You need at least three of these golden tickets before you're let into that exclusive club known as the Screen Actors Guild. Or just one principal role, but that would be easy. The way I see it, without doing any legitimate acting work, auditioning or even speaking on camera, you can say I gained this privilege fairly quickly, as there are many aspiring actors who actually relocate from lands yonder to New York, where they split their time between occupying loft apartments in once devastated Brooklyn neighborhoods and becoming the douchiest hipster scum they can be (and the lord said: "Scatter! Ye people of Williamsburgh, for thou haveth [um.. broken-eth?] - your covenant with God". "Fear me, for all your lands will be scorched by the flames of gentrification!" "You are to wander the deserts of Brooklyn, never to return until you have made amends").

I know what you're thinking. Is he so bold as to liken the gentrification of certain low-income urban communities within that borough named after the beautiful Dutch town Breukelen, to the progression of Israeli settlements within the West Bank? Of course I'm not! But in a way, I am.

Enough about me already, let's get back in the time machine so we can talk about me a year ago. With three "golden tickets" in hand, it was time to make my appointment at the local magic chocolate factory. A good friend of mine accompanied me, someone who was in the trenches with me fighting the rough war of extra work. From that shit Eddie Murphy movie at the Statue of Liberty all the way to that fateful Korean finance commercial that was overshadowed by an ominous fire, he stuck it out with me the whole time. We had already called the office separately the previous week and were lucky enough to get appointments on the same day. They also personally assessed the cost of the membership initiation for each of us. It's not quite a flat rate, it all depends on what your personal work record shows. While my cost was slightly lower than my friend's initiation fee (another discount for being so 'awesome' I figured), it still amounted to a lofty $2,400+. Needless to say it's not often I have this kind of scratch at one time, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity and was very excited at the new adventure about to begin. (For those of you playing along at home, make sure to turn your failure-sand-filled hourglasses over...now).

It was a hot, sweltering summer day as we approached the Madison Ave. office. Now we're a bit late, due to the fact it's one of those places where they technically give you the wrong address because the name of the cross street is more pleasing to the eyes and ears of us stupid folk. Sure, Madison Avenue sounds fancy, but if the only entrance I can use is the one "on the side", which to put it another way means "not on the street or address we told you", then hows about you do me a favor and look up above the door you used to get in the building today and give me that fucking address, huh? How does that sound?

Most of the time this morning was spent trying my hardest to avoid getting behind schedule. Alas, I am now sweaty, nervous and quite late (jeez, if I had a nickel...). My friend and I finally find the right entrance and approach the desk. We hand over various forms of ID and proof of our appointment to security. We were told we had to do this in advance because (this is the cool part) then I'm handed a special pass card, a large plastic electronic thing you need to get onto the SAG office's floor. Of course I'm not aware of this aspect of it's functionality as I proceed into the elevator, just holding it in my tight, hopeful and innocent grip. I'm standing there like an idiot, frantically pressing the very correct floor button on the elevator panel, fretting that the number doesn't light up, all while feeling the ever increasing glare in the back of my head like eyeball drills from the two impatient execs desperate to get back to their desks elsewhere in the building. One of them looks at me, rolls his eyes, and says "SAG, huh?". Looking back now, little did I know I would be greeted with those two small words quite often in the future, especially whenever someone thought I was a moron.

I had to think quick. "Ah, yes my good sir, what's all the bother about with this lift?", I reply in the best British chimney-sweep accent I could muster (lest he think I'm a local retard). His eyes move down to my hand holding the pass card and he says "Press it against the panel". I feel like an idiot as I notice, almost as if for the first time, the large electronic scanner in the middle of the floor-number panel. "Oh, of course", I mumble in shame as I put it on the wall and the elevator immediately moves.

"This is so fucking cool" I think to myself". " It's like a hidden floor!". I was imagining some spy movie-esque setting upstairs, like a super modern secret government agency (picture it-nothing says top secret like glass walls). As you walk down the hall, a smoking hot receptionist wearing a skirt way too inappropriate for government work pulls down her glasses and says "Ah yes, we've been expecting you" (the fantasies in my head always look like they were shot with a steadicam held by someone walking a little too fast for some reason).
It was a very sleek looking floor nonetheless, like it must have just been vacuumed or something. I was impressed. Upon leaving the elevator, one immediately notices the framed still pictures of many popular New York movies and actors. Instantly, I knew this was the big leagues. I'm not 100% sure, but as I looked over at the framed photo from "Taxi Driver", I could've sworn De Niro's eyes were following me down the hall. It was as if he was speaking to me through the image. I think he was saying something encouraging, like a mystical pat on the shoulder from beyond the grave (he's still alive, right?). It sounded something like... "get out of here kid, you suck".

Luckily for me, "Did you hear De Niro's picture talk to you on the way in?" is not a question you are required to answer before joining, so I'm directed towards a nice seating area where I had plenty of gut wrenching time to reconsider this whole thing. Maybe it was my last chance to run away and pursue that other dream I've always had, my dream of becoming New York's first real celebrity artisanal bread baker. I'm sure there are a few popular ones in this city already, but I'll be the first to you know, be kind of a douche. The kind of guy who's up way too late when he should be baking but gets more tail than a toilet seat because I developed some kind of low-carb crusty peasant-type bread that drives the women absolutely crazy. Next thing you know, I'm rubbing elbows with the most elite of coke whores at A-list celebrity parties all while wearing my chef's jacket the whole time, kind of as a 'fuck you' constant reminder that I'm "The Bread Guy". A guy can dream, right?

Anyway, too late to turn back and it's finally my turn to sit at the DMV-like partitioned window (real classy guys -by the way, I'm the one giving you all my money, I'm not opening a bank account but the least you can do is offer me a fucking croissant!). Bank check in hand, I approach the kindly (at first glance) older, African American gentlemen on the other side of the bulletproof plexiglass. His eyes told a story. I wonder to myself if he is, or ever had been an actor himself. Perhaps at some point in his career he felt drawn to work in the SAG office; you know, to help out the youngsters like myself as they made the transition into this brethren of artists. Alas, when we made eye contact, I knew I was dead wrong. His deep, wise eyes told a completely different story. The story was a short one, one of a man just dying to go on his lunch break before I showed up. Through the two-inch scratch proof pane of glass, he gave me a look that said he didn't care much for my reckless sense of abandonment. I could tell he was convinced that the new generation didn't "care enough" about the craft. Well I was here, in person, making a stand to say... to say that yeah he's probably right, I can't lie. Who am I kidding? I'm not aiming for "Shakespeare in the Park" right at this moment, so let's just gets with the forms-fillings if you don't mind.

First, time for some minor formalities, like the part where I slide what is perhaps the biggest check of my own money I've ever had to produce (at that time) under a plastic window. I kind of held on to it so long he had to basically yank it from my cold dead grip. That went on for about 30 seconds. Next, I'm asked every question possible, anxiously awaiting the grand daddy of them all. The gentleman slides a very official looking document underneath the window and finally asks: "So, what's your name gonna be?"

You see, to the layman this question may seem fairly innocuous, but for myself (and especially those actors out there with actual drive and skill), this time honored inquiry is perhaps the most important question one can be asked. After all, this is what you're going to be known as forever, or until your untimely young Hollywood demise, whichever comes first. It can make or break you, it can be the difference between becoming a household name or being doomed to a moniker that leaves you indistinguishable from the rest of the "normies" . Take one Winona Laura Horowitz, for example. Who the fuck is that you ask? Trust me, her shoplifting escapades wouldn't be half as sexy if she wasn't recognized by police as the one they call "Ryder". Ok maybe not the greatest example I can come up with, but personally I think she's incredibly hot in the most perfectly weird way.

My whole point is this is important, the whole name thing. For instance, I think Nicolas Cage is awesome for two reasons. First off, he spells his name like I do, "Nicolas". Without the "H". Personally I think it adds a lot to the allure, the allure of my Latin sex-mysteriousness...ess. Second reason? Kiss of Death. He makes asthma inhalers in this movie look like the coolest thing on earth, along with running a strip club on Queens Blvd, and beating Michael Rappaport to death to a House of Pain soundtrack. Cinema history baby, look it up.

Back to the name. Don't kid yourself. Nicolas without the "H" is awesome. It's like Japanese cool. It's kind of like the Tokyo apartment of my name is minimally decorated. You enter, you sit on the floor, you eat at a low table. Go on, picture it. The space in which it dwells provides tranquility and peace to it's visitors, through sliding doors where once an oppressive "H" stood.

I'm handed a sheet with 3 additional options in case your natural name is already taken. My Dad was a little miffed that I didn't use my middle (and his first) name on my potential future billings. He's pissed off because someone on "The Closer" actually has his name, and it's reserved forever (or until he falls out of favor with the union). Birth certificates, legal names and aliases mean nothing in this cutthroat world of entertaining the masses. By the way, I wonder if Kevin Bacon still hits that sweet Sedgwick-ness, cuz I totally would. Watch this, she'll tell you herself why she's awesome.

My friend who accompanied me made the decision not to use his natural full name. He went with the classic "First and Middle" routine that so many stars choose to go with. Do you think someone named Thomas Cruise Mapother IV could have ever become a successful mouthpiece for a crazy space-alien religion? The name issue was a point of contention between my friend and I because I felt he was denying his heritage in some way. He comes from a certain country where even the peasant girls are extremely hot. I got into a long, drawn out argument over how favorable those odds are when compared to the average "night out on the town" in our "great land". Just think about it: Yes, even your multiple-syllable last name ending in a "U" can inspire greatness. Personally I think it's awesome. Put it this way: If only one, just one nubile, college bound co-ed in the village your grandma might have grown up in has a tingle in her nether-regions upon hearing the mention of your name, just one tingle, that means you've truly left a mark on this world. And no one can ever take that away from you. Worse comes to worst and things don't work out here in Hollywood, your backup plan would consist of maybe being the third or fourth biggest star in your homeland. I told him emphatically that if I were him I would rock out with my crazy-last-name cock out, on the off chance that this obscure, almost eastern european country would rise to the top of our pop culture consciousness at some point in the future. After all, Ms. Kosovo made it into the top three in the most recent Miss Universe pageant, so anything is possible. Oh lordy, she was so hot. The look on her face was all like "Remember my country, America?".

To wrap things up, it was an incredible experience. That day made my insignificant life a little more bearable, for the time being. A beacon of hope still exists, or at least I thought so at the time. Nothing feels better than giving someone 2,400 dollars and walking out with a folder full of hastily xeroxed rules and regulations, along with offers and discounts for health clubs, spa treatments, cosmetic dentistry, headshot reproduction, car rentals, first time home owner loans, etc. Pretty cool huh? The best part is that about 99% of these incentives cater to and apply only to the SAG members in LA. You know, a scant 3,000 miles away where that Hollywood place, and in turn, the majority of all SAG members actually reside? On the bright side, my fellow New York members and I do get a very minor AFL-CIO discount on our cell phone bill, so in the end I win. Last time I checked that makes the score: me-1, rest of the world-0.

By the way, this whole story tells of my impeccable timing. Did I mention that I did all this happened (joining the union and such) just days before the contract expired? I was the genius who thought since it's my birthday, the universe would align itself to please me (The Secret type of shit). But alas, logic always bites even the noble of heart in the ass, as in this case logic would dictate that any man about to take the step into the real professional world, on the verge of joining a union, would in his right mind not do so if he was aware of an almost imminent strike by said union. This all came to a head with my logic, which from the drafting of it's manifesto states crazy shit like: "Hey, if I join now, maybe they won't strike, maybe they'll bang out a new contract quickly and I'll be lucky because the rules (namely; increase of initiation fee) for joining may change once a contract is settled...because of me". I was lucky, as now the fee is substantially higher, and the pay increase for us performers...well, not so much.

The card came in the mail a few weeks later, along with a welcome booklet covered in a collage of familiar faces in entertainment holding up their SAG cards and smiling widely. My friend and I were going to shoot special parody photos with our cards, but never got around to doing it. Come awards season, I was told of magical stories from fellow members, tales of how going to their mailbox was like Christmas every day, full of advance-screening invitations, and screener DVD's of movies not close to home release. Again, due to my impeccable timing, I happened to join in a year that was economically devastating for almost every large industry in our capitalist paradise. So, just a copy of the Dark Knight for me (not even Blu-Ray) and a request (in the form of a nice glossy ad for "Doubt" that unfolds into a cross) to see it, at my own expense. Rubbish. Oh well, the responsibility of paying dues still makes my dick hard.

Before I leave you, my friends, I'd like to leave you with one more quote. Something that I think sums it all up, the crazy purpose of writing such things and all.

Our friend Mr. Pulitzer also said.

"A cynical, mercenary, demagogic press will in time produce a people as base as itself."

I couldn't have said it better myself. This quote is particularly inspirational to me. To my loyal audience, to those who have followed my antics throughout those long, magical and formative years, I mean this from the bottom of my heart.... please know these words describe exactly what I'm aiming for.
It's like I always say: We are all on a train speeding to hell, so you're either a hapless passenger, or you're the guy with the white gloves on the platform shoving the passengers in the car before the door closes.

Stay tuned to find out what happens later. I've been able to shake off enough of the muck and mire that has enveloped me of late to write again. I feel as if I've been able (if only temporarily) to reach out again. An awakening has occurred. Truth is, as with any great adventure, things eventually go bad, as they always do...

In honor of such a glorious occasion,

Today's Musical Selection is "4 Degrees" by TOOL. It's an oldie, but a goodie. From way back in '95. An excellent song, and one of my favorites. I once met a girl who had the lyrics written across her bedroom, along the molding. This particular performance happens to be very unique.

Enjoy, it's a classic. Lyrics here.

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