Spicy Tuna Man

To Miami or not to Miami

2010-03-31T10:56:00.003-04:00

This seems to be a weekly thing. Day 2 of my weekly days off, after 10am, mommy and daughter sleeping, while daddy writes. It's a start.

I've started drinking green tea this week after a taste test, walking by Teavana at the mall. Am I choosing to be an addict, or assisting in the consumption of antioxidants, cleansing the body, and bowels? Yes, it has that effect.

As I anxiously hope that the grass-cutting outside does not wake the baby, I was moments ago pondering while watching the local news whether or not I love Miami. A montage describing the pulse of Miami and being proud to call Miami home, sparked the question after one year and eight months away from New York City and its vicinity.

I change the channel to VH1, something i haven't done in at least two years, and i see the VJ Suchin walking through Times Square, and I feel double the pangs of longing. Do not confuse my true feelings of living here - I am utterly in love with my daughter and wife, and no matter where we are together, I call it home. The question is whether or not this environment of Latin America North is the right fit for me, and ultimately, us.

Those two pangs were for the job I once had which I could not translate here to the States, and the city I still love, conveniently forgetting the reasons to simultaneously hate. I came close to the dream job a couple times, being first refusal to the winner of Survivor for the Fox Soccer Channel. Then showing too much personality with a combination of little sleep caused by anxiety, the coffee, then adrenaline during the VH1 audition, resulting in a jittery performance, ultimately serving as a learning tool.

Back to reality, In this moment, the weed whackers, cloaked in bandanas, resembling a Mexican militia, is entering our bedroom and shaking the baby with their handheld, landscaping weapons of minor destruction. In this battle, baby-sleep 1, terrorists 0. They move on, while the Meesch rustles to her side, continuing her slumber.

No matter where we rustle, there will be a reason to dislike where we dwell, grass-cutters being one of them, though i admire their work when I walk out the door. The absence from NYC allows me to forget the physical toll the City takes on one's body, and the difficulty we would discover with an urban infant. Let's reconsider Miami.

The friendships I have made with the Floridians in my retail environment have deepened, and let me preface by stating I rarely hang out with any of them except at work. This is by choice, financial limitations, and fatherly concern. Even so, I feel like my actions and experiences with them are helping to develop a crew of computer-obsess-ees, like myself, into a well-oiled machine of thoughtful, caring, loyal teammates, and empathetic communicators.

This is the most rewarding experience next to parenthood. It's similar to parenthood, but I'm not legally responsible to my team of 14 to 20, and I refuse to change there diapers… until further relationship building… and consulting with my spouse. And in this environment, some of the members move around to new teams, whereas my child would never do that yet. She's small.

Ok, Miami, I'm giving you a chance, but just because I stay here longer, doesn't mean I'll love you more. It means, I might find a relationship with you, as long as you meet me halfway.

Can you do that? Damned, race car drivers on the 836 aren't' helping. Oh wait, that was a cop who cut me off. Come on, get it together. I'm trying to like you.

Walker: The Training Wheels of Walking

2010-03-24T10:35:00.002-04:00

Eight months later... Today was the first time the little girl was placed in her walker, and she reached the floor. The rubberized, panda-faced feeties of her panda-bear-encrusted pajamas gave enough friction to hurtle Meesch past the couch, along the tile, towards her desired object - the walker's empty box. Chosen direction: backwards.

It's a start. If one is going to pick the first way one would walk, while seated in an elaborate chair, mounted with plastic flowers, mirrors, Pooh bear, and most importantly, wheels, reverse seems like an ideal direction. I have a feeling she will be an excellent parallel parker one day, just like her masterful father, seasoned in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.

Needless to say, the race has begun, and the anxiety to baby-proof the house draws tighter around my chest, forcing us to draw the cupboard doors tightly-closed and locked to child. If her tiny feet give her vast freedom, authority must limit it with a unanimous parental vote, by bounding her migration and immigration to stores of cleaning supplies and pointy objects, dwelling under sinks. These are the days to harness her legs' bouncing power for good, but for what device, we know not yet.

It's ok, though she is winning, the battle of sleep, that is. Naptime begins today at 10 am, after waking her devoted mother at 5. Both the mama and the baby are sleeping deeply after tiring each other out. Why I don't sleep is beyond me, because I am definitely not immune to the stirring child at that hour, and I awaken like any other father in direct proximity to a smacking arm across the face. At that point, I chew on baby-fingers, not even receiving the pleasure of a baby-giggle. The nerve of her.

Forgiven. One can never underestimate the cuteness factor, quickly deflating the madness directed at the little girl, who needs us to feed, poo, clean and play. The "play" part is being challenged by her independent bounce time in the bouncy-bounce, a spring-loaded contraption, when held in the wrong direction, and plucked by a giant, could be a baby sling shot. In our case, it serves to propel our child several inches up and down, while she strengthens her legs, in preparation for the first walk.

When this may happen is up to her and her training. The most productive training occurs while watching Yo Gabba Gabba, or Wonderpets. The excitement she feels from these musical, children shows motivates her lower body to jump and bounce ad nauseum, without the nausea.

Before I join the two sleeping ladies, I want to say how amazed I am at how dedicated the mama is to our child. I spend most of my days at a store on Lincoln Road in Miami Beach, leaving baby and mama to themselves five days per week. The schedule has been created, the challenge of feeding has been overcome, and a daughter is being raised humbly and triumphantly by an amazing woman. I play my part of caregiver and playmate, but nothing could replace the mommy's role, and the little girl's bond to her.

These eight months have flown past us, and each tiny change is due to the love and nurturing of Mischa's mommy. My soul is overflowing with love for the both of them. Time to take part in the mid-morning nap.

Mischa - Day 1

2009-08-04T18:01:00.001-04:00

The first day was a roller coaster of emotions, but day two began with pure joy.

They moved little Mischa Jadyn to the NICU, Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, due to respiratory distress caused by her prematurity. Julie and I would hear another baby cry in a nearby room, and we would feel jealous and sad that we could not hold her in our own room. Although we feel relief by accepting that our daughter's life was saved by our doctor's decision to induce. We also feel the fear based on the sensitivity of her lung development, but most of that fear became relieved.

After most of Monday was spent in the Level 3 of NICU, Mischa's lungs began to fully inhale, deeper and slower, and they reduced her to Level 2, moved her into another room, and we learned that this means progress towards taking her home.

Because of the less critical observation, we were able to hold her for the first time, together. I's amazing how much love one feels when she looks at you for the first time and responds to your voice by not crying or sleeping. The love is different compared to my love for Julie, but just as infinite.

Julie is finding success in her first day of breast pumping, initially, with the collection of colostrum and one drop of milk, making her exhausted while stimulating painful contractions. As she pumped, I went to the NICU by myself, through Julie's urging and my own desire, to hold the baby. I must have sat there holding Mischa for over an hour, communicating to her without words, singing a Carpenters hit and any other song that came to my head.

She would cry in my arms because the tubes attached to her became tucked under her head. So many tubes, which i wanted to move away, for extra oxygen an IV, bp cuffs, etc,, and I foresaw the near future when we could take her home. That's when I would rock her until she stopped. We ended the pure bonding by placing her back in the heated bed, and I touched my bare hand on her entire torso, while stroking her bushy head of hair with the other. Pure heaven as she finally fell back to sleep.

I can still smell the little baby smell on both of my hands.

When I came back to the room, I watched the videos that you shot, and I completely appreciated all the family sentiments, documented for Mischa's future viewing. One day she will appreciate it, so, thank you for making it fun and enjoyable.

Hope you don't mind that I've written a lot, but I'm tired and I might be rambling.

For pics and some video go to http://gallery.mac.com/jon.salkin.

PR 5th Ave '08

2008-06-10T15:17:00.001-04:00

This is a view of the Puerto Rican Day Parade New York City. In NYC, there are approximately 800,000. On Puerto Rico, there are 3.9 million, a relative size difference of one-fifth. It's their island.

Take Another Little Piece of My Heart (or Groove is in the Heart)

2008-03-16T08:46:00.026-04:00

On Friday, March 14, 2008, our life as we know it has changed. Gone are the days of fear, that her heart will beat at 250 beats per minute, detouring our day or night from the highway of normal life. She decided to get it done, the brave one, after years of bearing down, breathing deep when she could not breathe, swallowing beta-blockers to inhibit cardiac stress, yet affecting her stare, that everything was cool and easy with her beta blocked. Then deciding to not block the beta because normal life did not feel so normal.

She chose to move forward, after years of postponement, and go with the odds, that 99 percent of the time, it will be a success. That's what William Slater, M.D., said, although after the ablation was done, the doctors agreed it was a 96 percent success that she was cured of Supraventricular tachycardia, SVT, the true inhibitor of normal life.

Diagnosed in 1999, Julie has lived with SVT her whole life, at least one major SVT attack per year, and daily bouts of arrhythmia. I have witnessed, I believe, more than four attacks, three taking her to the ER, with me by her side, and guilt by my side, since an episode or two was preceded by a heated argument. My uncertain count is not due to a cavalier view on her heart condition, but due to not knowing what to include, because the small episodes that lasted for short periods of time are so numerous to count.

This is when the bearing down and breathing deep would come into play, where I would close the door and sit on the toilet of our one-room studio apartment, so that she could lie still on the bed and not feel the stress of my gaze, which only added to the stress during her attempt to be still her beating heart.

As I experienced more, and our apartments grew larger, I learned to take a breathe and leave the room, knowing that she can control them, and hoping that we wouldn't need another ambulance, and that her heart would return to 90 beats per minute, her normal resting heart rate, thanks to the extra pathway.

This is how Adam Slotnick, M.D. described it, or my interpretation of his accurate portrayal. Through the heart, electrical impulses flow down a normal pathway like a highway. In Julie's situation, and many others' as well, there is a service road off that highway, flowing down and back around on itself, in a loop. Sometimes, the blood and electrical impulses exits off the highway, detouring onto that service road, and getting stuck in the loop, unable to get back onto the main highway. The heart pumps harder, attempting to compensate for the loss of traffic on the highway, but that compensation only speeds the heart up more, because all traffic has been redirected to that looping service road. This is when the 250 beats per minute comes into play, and where I'm hailing a cab to the hospital, if the bearing down or breathing easy does not help - bearing down meaning an attempt to constrict the chest cavity and through muscularity, control the heartbeat.

But it is done. The service road has been closed off, thanks to the brilliance of the NYU Medical Center team of Dr. Patel, Dr. Aizer, and Dr. Neil Bernstein. Also included in that are the warm and comforting nursing team of Yuri, Juliet and Elisa (I don't know their last names). The team performed a Catheter Ablation, by inserting electrode catheters into veins by her groin, on both sides, snaking wires past her abdomen and up to the heart. One of those wires sent radio-frequency electrical energy, burning the tissue of the heart, and closing the service road, forcing the heart to conduct along the normal highway. This is all done in three to four hours.

After the ablation is complete, they test, and test some more, by adding adrenalin to her body, forcing her heart to beat faster, and verifying that the extra pathway is, indeed, closed. When Julie was in recovery, Dr. Patel visited her and conveyed to us that during that testing, her heart never surpassed 120 beats per minute... I have to re-emphasize... 120 beats per minute. I am tearing up now, as I write. I rarely ever use this word, but it's a miracle. Cured is the word the doctors used, although they must qualify that statement, by saying, we, doctors, never use that word, but in this case, she is cured.

I didn't see the actual procedure that cured, or caused a miracle; I only saw evidence to that truth, a resting heart rate of 75 beats per minute. So now being home with her, minus the daily arrhythmia, I hold a special place in my heart for the fifth floor of NYU's Medical Center, at First Avenue and 31st Street, within the Cardiac Catheterization and Electrophysiology department. This is where Julie's life was changed, and in turn, our lives together. We have spent time enough on that detour, and it is time to re-enter the highway of normal life.

"Falling Slowly"

2008-02-26T20:50:00.001-05:00

Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova have completely inspired me, and it helps me to state, I still believe. The belief is in creation and artistry and opening oneself up to the expressive force without looking for consequence.

Who would have known two years ago that these two songwriters would have found their voice in their tiny indie film, which would then lead them to an Academy Award. It helps me take stock on where I am artistically in my life. Doing it for myself, my own freedom, my own sanity.

I must remind myself, it's the journey, allowing myself to fall slowly into the current and let it sweep me away into the undiscovered country of my soul.

Refreshing start...

2008-02-25T22:02:00.002-05:00

Refreshing start...

It's been a while since I've written anything, and I feel a creative hole because of it. I don't even know where to begin. I feel like after I have my Valentne's day gift, the massage given so thoughtfully by my sweet shim, I can begin to reinvigorate my creative life a little.

In my recent experience, making a short video blog, sketch or whatever was so easy to do, and uploading it is just as easy, I know it's time for me to move forward with this, just to get my juices flowing again. It's not about the end result, but the creative process to allow myself a medium to express myself on a regular basis, an experiment with technology & pop culture, and I get to have fun in the process.

I spent about a half hour making the last video for Julie on V-day, and that's about all I really need to expect from myself, so I can lower expectations, overcome my fears, and just put something out there, into the Ether-net.

I could write something first then perform it. I could improv on camera and edit it. I can just talk or take the camera with me wherever I go and let it out. That's my prerogative and that's my freedom. It's up to me and I decide what to do. That's one lesson I'm getting from my genius training. I make judgment calls and take responsibility on decisions about people's lives, why not my own?

Can't Sleep Makes Me Mad

2007-09-25T05:20:00.000-04:00

Why is it that when I'm exhausted and need sleep, my mind won't let me rest, and I'm up at 5am, wide awake? Is it that important that I have to write now? It just makes me angry at myself.

All I want to do is sleep, and I know that I'm taking two hours out of my life by acknowledging this early morning call to no peace and no sleep. Normally, I'm pondering something, turning it over and over in my head, but when I woke up, I was just pissed. Like, why, dude? Why now? Why you gotta deprive yourself of nature's healing medicine, and throw off my sleep pattern for the rest of the work week, especially when you've got FOUR more days 'til the weekend?

Sheesh to my subconscious! I'm mad at you. And my wife sleeps comfortably and immediately after waking up for a quick trip to the bathroom, while I stare at the dark ceiling and yell silently to myself. Why can't you be like that? Asleep right away.

Do I have anything important to say? Perhaps a subconscious reaction to Iran's president visiting NYC? Heroes began it's first season last night, and I missed it? I'm sick of selling to customers? That's probably more on track, and the stress of waking up and possibly losing two hours, while facing streams of anonymous shoppers, while lacking energy, stresses me out even more and keeps me up at night.

The ironic twist is killing me. As I stare at "killing me" and consider the alternative metaphors, I delay and deprive the sweetness of rest, in the comforts of my beloved's arms. I hear the murmur of voices through the walls or windows and wonder if they were up all night drinking, or if they're getting ready for work. What kind of place do I live in?

After over a year in one place, the longest stretch either one of us has spent in New York in one stretch, I can't help but long for a change, but the counterpoint of moving again seems less appealing.

I want to break free, fly away for at least a month, or drive away like my brother to the wild west, on a cross-country adventure. The world is calling me and I'm not listening. Well, obviously I am listening, at five in the frickin' morning.

Coffee helped me tune out the voices during the day, but kept me up at nights. Without the drug, my subconscious is running free, and the emotions I've repressed are flowing outward. Go west, young man.

I'm jealous of the voices through the wall. Free enough to have a fun time at this hour. Although, really, they're being free in the middle of a strange neighborhood in Brooklyn. They're probably cuckoo, and I'm being jealous of the crazies.

Ok, I think I've hit some peace. A little night time spewing, and the sleep is returning... 42 minutes later. Better claim it while it's pulling me back to bed.

The Genesis of a Host

2007-09-23T07:35:00.000-04:00

As any might realize, I have recently attempted stand-up comedy, getting up in front of an audience with a mic and entertaining. This isn't new to me. The writing my own jokes part is, but I've been hosting/MC-ing since 2001.

I got my start by accident, attending a birthday party of someone I just met, with a new friend, who happened to be close with the celebrant. It was at a high-end club, complete with Kobe beef on the menu, aptly named The Dish, located at The Power Plant in Rockwell Center, an upscale shopping mall in Makati, Manila, Philippines. When you enter Rockwell, the outdoor entrance iss lined with culinary hot spots, one after another, allowing the upper class to mingle outdoors in tables and chairs, sharing in the tropical revelry of the night heat. As the evening progresses, it tends to resemble any block party on the street, except its imbibing patrons are decked in Prada and Manolo Blahnik, thanks to Sex in the City.

When one enters the mall, first you are hit with arctic breeze of air conditioning or "aircon," then by the international chic of Calvin Klein, DKNY, Guess, Polo, and other famous, fashion labels, just like any suburban shopping mall in America. The difference here is, the ease at which an American in Manila can afford it, thanks to the 50 to 1 exchange rate of peso to dollar. Then we climbed three levels of escalators to the top, where you must be on the guest list to enter The Dish. I must inform, malls are not just places of commerce in the P.I. (Philippine Islands), they are cultural havens, playgrounds, oases from the brutal heat, so the indoors is where the people gather.

I was attempting to meet new people and going out clubbing with them was my means of choice. The birthday girl was a semi-famous, travel show host, a filipina-Canadian, who had relocated here and succeeded somewhat in the business or "showbees." Why not bond with celebrity, and perhaps some of that might rub off on me. At the time, I wanted other things to rub off, OH!

During dinner, a contest, complete with host and game began, and I was singled out to participate, being the foreign-looking, mixed-race young man that I am. As a mestizo, one really does stand out in the homogeneous Philippines. So, the natural ham to get onstage took over, and I joined the other contestants. It was almost like a strip poker, removing one article of clothing for each progression towards the prize, which I forget. Filipinos are shy and most of the contestants were completely covered near the end of the contest. The host then challenged us to see how far we were willing to go to win.

Come on! For real? I had recently completed my acting training in New York, freed of any inhibitions, nude twice in class by my own volition. How far was I willing to go? Well, I didn't want to get arrested for indecency, so I stripped down to my boxer-briefs, with jeans around my ankles, dancing around like any fool in front of an inebriated mass, and got a laugh from the normally restrained party-goers.

Needless to say, I won, thank you, and won the attention of the club's party planners, because through a friend of a friend, my number was given to them, and I got a call to co-host one of the next events with MTV Philippines VJ, KC Montero. It seems, I had the spirit and energy that they were looking for in a host. Shit, show some skin, and you can get a job.

That's how the host was born.

Free from the Bean

2007-09-18T16:59:00.000-04:00

Today I'm beating the sickness... caffeine addiction. Every other year or so, I decide to drink it or not. When the taste of coffee or soda touches my lips, it's not the oh-my-god-that-sweet-nectar-of-life feeling, but the that's-a-nice-flavor-I-once-knew-fondly taste, which I do miss every once in a while when eating some pizza.

So I decided to pay a little more attention to my day job, and it seems to have included adding the external substance that many inject from Dr. Starbuck's. I couldn't handle Starbuck's acidity, well, my stomach couldn't handle it, leading to other places, so I went milder.

But today is day three of no caffeine, and the headache is starting to kick in with a vengeance. Actually, a slight bitterness that might be cured with a nap or a good night's sleep.

Oh, how easy I conquered thee, mighty bean. Your fragrant clutches, I pry from my shoulders.

Wow, it's been a while

2007-09-17T10:34:00.001-04:00

Ok, so much has happened since April, and I will only update the abridged version. Summer went by in a flash. Finally spent a much needed vacation with the lovely wife in Florida, Miami and Key West, thank you very much.

Upon immediately returning, I performed actual stand-up comedy at Caroline's on Broadway, the Caroline's Comedy Club in Times Square. I shouldn't inflate it too much; it was the completion of my six-week class, that culminated on stage, fueled by adrenalin and my wonderfully supportive family and friends that were there.

They rock!

Probably the most nervous I had been in a long time. From rehearsal at 1pm, to just prior to stage time at 5:30pm, I was on a roller coaster of heart-bursts and recovery, butterflies and netted calm, holy shite, do I know my stuff, and I got it down.

But I survived the rush and am invited back for Caroline's New Talent night on October 9th @ 7pm... Here's the event on Facebook.

The main thing is that I'm back on the blog, playing with video sketch comedy ideas to post on YouTube, of course. So, for my own sake and sanity, I'm writing publicly again.

Always a Hokie

2007-04-18T05:54:00.000-04:00

All this time away from Virginia Tech, I've thought of my time there as the distant past, my schooling as an engineer before becoming an actor in New York. But in light of the events on April 16, 2007, the day after my birthday, my memories of that beautiful place, set cozily in the mountains of Blacksburg, have come rushing back to me, and all of them seem good, refracted by time and distance.

I left Tech in 1998 to study acting, here, in New York, then after that lived in the Philippines for a year, and returned only to find the girl of my dreams waiting for me. We've been married almost two years, and lately I've been saying, let's drive down to Tech, it's so beautiful there, I want you to see where I went to school. Now we are definitely going down there in September.

I want to reclaim my school, our school, from this unfathomable event. You would understand if you went there. It was my home for five years, I lived in the dorm where the initial shootings took place, West AJ, I took engineering classes in Norris Hall, where the majority of the violence took place, I crossed the Drillfield daily on my way to class as a freshman and sophomore. I got to look at the gray, granite buildings tower over us and welcome us in to learn.

In the beginning, I appreciated every second there, independent, away from home, in the campus of campuses. School got harder, my direction changed, as did my goal to get out of Blacksburg and go to NYC. Now, all I can feel is the desire to drive down I-81 to see the orange and maroon of our beloved campus and give my support to the families and friends, students and faculty, that call Tech their home right now.

Whatever my political views, I watched the Convocation yesterday held in Cassell Coliseum, with overflow at Lane Stadium. The media has been covering everything and having the day off, I watched coverage all day. And after the speeches, and sincere words spoken to console, from President Steger, to Governor Kane, President Bush, and Nikki Giovanni, the crowd, in unison and impromtu, began clapping to our all-too familiar cheer, "Let's go Hokies!"

Here is what I wrote in Facebook:

My thoughts, prayers and love go out to all the family and friends of the victims, as well as, the Virginia Tech community. As an alumnus who has lived in West AJ, sat in lectures in Norris Hall, I can only imagine the fear students felt during this tragedy. I wish hope and healing upon our school and am grateful for this online community, showing that people care about other people throughout the world. Always a Hokie...

Here's what MSNBC correspondent and Tech alum, Hoda Kotb had to say, and it resonated with me when I watched her video of this.

As more information unfolds, especially about the victims, please keep them in your hearts.

We've always known the Secret

2007-03-25T08:30:00.000-04:00

Part of the new energy of writing is waking up in the middle of my night, whether I go to bed at 10 pm or 2 am, I rustle to consciousness when the desire to express nudges at me. I lay in bed for 10 minutes, get up, write for an hour, then head back to bed. Or if the comfort of the bed with Julie nestled in my chest and shoulder fights with that desire, I wait in bed for an hour and a half, until sleep reclaims my consciousness or I am forced to leave that comfort and plop myself in front of the computer. That second description applies now.

The Universe is speaking to me lately and I have been listening. I’m sure the Universe is always speaking but the difference is, now, I’m quite attentive and taking not that things are going to change. Within me, the change has already occurred, and I know that $10 million is heading our way. I have asked, I believe and I am ready to receive. Those are the three steps to “the secret”, which was not a secret to Julie.

She has been teaching that to me for a long time, and I have applied the secret in my life many times, only now, I am conscious of the process of getting what I want from life and the Universe. I understand the effects of changing my focus, attracting the bad as much as the good to me.

This is why my subconscious tugs at me, re-awakening me from my slumber from awareness. I am aware once again, and I am in control of my life. I have gotten what I wanted from life and the Universe before, and it is happening for me again now in the present, and will continue in the future.

I want it all, and I ask the Universe daily, and I believe. I have creative work that I am passionate about, writing, and I will get $10,000,000 for it. Acting will be and is a part of my life forever, on my own TV show and in many films with fulfilling roles. I have asked for love and Julie entered my life. Now with all the money that is mine, I want a family, a beautiful home by the ocean in California, a gorgeous Manhattan apartment in Trump tower at Columbus Circle, waking to sunrises, and watching the sunset from the heights of our corner view. I want a hybrid car for both of us, doing my part to bring health to our world again. Healthy children, at least two, maybe as many as five, are coming to Julie and me.

I have already found happiness and joy on a daily basis, and as I maintain that part of my life, playfully and freely, everything else is following. My heart is full of love which I give to Julie and those in my life, family and friends, co-workers and strangers on the street.

I am open and listening, awake and aware, and freedom is mine. I am free and that is the biggest lesson that I knew, have always known, and now I know again. I am free.

“God” means the Universe to me, where Energy means everything in it, as in physics, everything in the Universe is energy. I am energy, and my energy is transformed and radiating outwards, calling and attracting through electromagnetic forces. I am simply waiting to receive it, playfully and aware. God bless the child in me.

Change of Life

2007-03-22T05:18:00.000-04:00

It's been two months since my last entry. During that time, I've become full-time in the computer store, spending hours upon hours on my feet, answering questions, helping newbies to the world of computing, and selling people things they didn't know they needed, until I educated them on it.

It's a different world than the investment bank, and although, I won't name names on either side, I am enjoying this computer, retail world much better than being the beckon-call guy for million-dollar bankers and lawyers. At least I'm dealing with people in normal life, normal mainly being international tourists, but normal meaning their casual time to improve their lives with a computer.

The writing has paused, but the ideas have swelled, beginning to formulate outlines for the novel or screenplay I am writing. This is a big plus, and just getting it down on the computer has inspired me to keep going. Julie's ideas on scene arrangement, staying clear of typical chronology of plot, is helping me to create fresh ideas. She's really good at that stuff.

Besides that, auditions here and there, on a higher scale, but no bites... YET. I know it will bite soon and the $10,000,000 will be in my bank account shortly. Came close with VH1 lately. It seemed like the likely path, but the path has other plans for me.

There must be plenty of karma in the savings account, hopefully, acquiring interest, as I help people on a daily basis, 40 hours per week. I woke up this morning, unable to sleep, thinking about the two situations that I wasn't able to resolve before the customers left the store.
Wishing I got it right, and remembering the situation for next time, my subconscious is keeping me in check, which is why your actually reading a new entry, at 5:20 AM, before the sunrises, while the east coast sleeps, and Manhattan is shrouded in darkness.

So many people pass through the store daily. It's organized chaos, as my brother-in-law put it. There's a tug between two sides of me while I'm selling. Sell what needs to be sold for me to look good to the managers and make sure the people are getting what the need and want. Usually the two sided align, but sometimes I'm selling things people may not need, although if they choose to learn about what they have bought, they will find those tools easy to use, and fun to begin with, as far as the newbies are concerned. It's a fine line, and I want to make sure I get it right, otherwise I'm up in the middle of the night worrying if they know what they need to get.

I forgot something as simple as getting someone a printer cable to go with their new printer. It saves them a trip back, and time at home going, "where the heck is my cable?" But their lies the guilt, which happens. Mistakes are made, days are long, and I'm always talking all day to people.

Funny, I never saw myself in sales or retail, but I really enjoy it at times. One, I'm a geek and have always been a computer geek. I've denied that side of me for too long, and the real geek in me is allowed to flourish. The other, hammy, actor side also gets served while giving newbies and veterans an intelligent show, about products I love and believe in, and have acquired fortuitously while in the employ of (insert name here).

In the process, I've acquired friends, albeit younger ones, who are all artistic balanced with enough nerdiness to know about the exploits of the gigahertz, memory, hard drives and graphics card. All walks of the arts are represented, and there is a reason for me to work here. I have craved stability and consistency; ask and I have received. I have benefits, stock options, and a potential 401(k), all in the realm of adulthood, responsibility, and leaving the 20's way behind, and I'm totally cool with that.

I'm also learning so much about what I have denied myself for a decade, since leaving engineering and finding acting. I'm in touch with techno tools that only deepen my love for art and creativity. There all tools, and I'm using my movie chisel.

The only thing that is remembered on a daily basis... I am an artist, and will always be an artist.

So the writing continues, the pursuit remains, and the expression of thoughts, emotions, dreams and truths will forge through the ether, seeping into the energies of my Universe.

Love is in my bed at night,
and this font of soulful reserves,
spills and drenches,
cleansing and purifying
My soiled feet that have tread
the pathways of men and women
laid forth before my birth
whose creators are no longer flesh
yet wander those same paths alongside
the tourists, the wanderers
the new creators
always adding layers to the path
while wearing down the dirt and concrete

this is the city of spirits and light
dueling with darkness
and a hole in its heart
at the end of the pathway
the spirits linger waiting
waiting to rebuild
waiting for an end to lingering
leave stones in monument to them
and keep walking your pathways
finding a place to place my own stone
and come back home to bed
to cleanse from the font once more
every day
every month and year
Love is in my bed at night

Read this article in the NYT

2007-01-22T13:26:00.000-05:00

I got all mushy about those darn kids. A great story to be shared.

Refugees Find Hostility and Hope on Soccer Field:

The mayor of Clarkston, Georgia needs a flogging and a wake-up call to the real world. But he may change his ways yet...

Last Week's Auditions

2007-01-22T10:53:00.001-05:00

I don't want to jump the gun, but I'm pretty sure that I didn't get jobs for which I auditioned last week. Had initial meet and greet on Tuesday for a TV hosting gig that would shoot in 13 locations globally, to raise awareness on green-friendly travelling. Won them over with my involvement in Gawad Kalinga, my experience in the Philippines, and of course, my charming demeanor :P. Got the call-back on Wednesday.

The call-back was supposed to be an on-your-feet type of audition in front of the camera. Learn material about a specific location from information they provided, introduce the location with poise and grace, and a little hook, then mock-interview an expert on the green, tourist spot.

On the interview, I over- and under-prepared. I over-prepared a written introduction, trying to remember verbatim what I wrote, without allowing for flubs and winging it. Result, I choked on the intro, after putting tons of pressure on myself to get it right. After three or so takes, I streamlined it, then went into the mock-interview. That part went great, showing them that I did all the research, and was able to ask informative questions to a local expert - the local expert being one of their producers who had traveled to the pre-determined location.

After the interview, I segwayed beautifully into the next imaginary segment. Smooth and controlled. I wish they could have overlooked the intro, I just happened to be the first auditioner of the day, and I was a bit cold. My fault, of couse. Plus, in my experience, when taping in the field or on location, you always screw up, and it's okay. You tape it again, and they edit it later. My problem is that I didn't laugh it off. I looked stressed.

Oh well. Past is past, and at least the casting director saw me. I got this one through my agent, that my lovely wife helped me to acquire.

Second audition was on Frieday, for a commercial spokesperson of a cable company. I was on camera for a big casting director here in New York, and that made me happy. I've been working with this manager, and he got me the audition. Another acquisition through the Julie.

I'm just happy that I've been auditioning regularly in 2007. It feels good and I know this will be a good year for the both of us.

As far as the prior-mentioned choke... I just started thinking about all the good that this potential gig could do for our life. The travel, the money, starting a family, a step up in my career by acquiring more for my hosting reel. Audition techniques are exactly what I learned at the Academy, and I guess I didn't warm-up or go through relaxation enough. Instead of focusing on the material, I was focusing on the irrelevant personal, that should be wiped away to neutral before I get started in front of the camera.

Live and learn, and next time I'll do better. Plus, the more I audition, the easier it gets. You get to the point where you don't care or expect if anything is going to happen, then you become fearless, because you have no expected consequences. Usually that happens when you audition a lot. It's a don't-care, I-own-the-room attitude that gets you jobs, which has gotten me jobs in the past, and will get me them this year.

I predict fortune's favor for the Filipino flava.

Today, I sit atop the investment bank again, assisting executive bankers, answering phones, reserving cars, printing documents, and eating my homemade lunch at my desk. At least Julie is here today too. There's comfort in shared banking experiences.

I'm still waiting to hear about my potential promotion at the computer store.

I feel like I'm waiting for things to happen that depend on other people. That means I need to make something happen this week. There's my goal.

Also, I've been remembering my dreams a lot lately. I wake up, break them down, analyze the symbols, apply them to my life, and the cycle continues daily. That means I'm in touch with my inner self. That's new-agey talke for I understand what I'm feeling on a daily basis. Good for me. I think I went several months without remembering my dreams.

I'm back, baby! Back to sleep. Back to work. Back to the gym :)

Quotes from a Cubicle

2007-01-09T16:59:00.000-05:00

From high atop the 42nd floor, I am filling in for another actor. These quotes in no way reflect the views or positions of this blogger. However, they were stolen honestly from the non-private walls of a cube. There are more quotes, but I'd rather not relay what the Goddess has to say.

But these are semi-worthy or worthy for you and me.

"He that respects himself is safe from others." -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
"Start by doing what's necessary, then what's possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible." -Saint Francis
"Whenever you see darkness / there is extraordinary opportunity / for the light to burn / brighter." -Bono

The Actor's Vow

I will take my rightful place on the stage and I will be
myself.

I am not a cosmic orphan.

I have no reason to be timid.

I will respond as I feel; awkwardly, vulgarly, But respond.

I will have my throat open.

I will have my heart open.

I will be vulnerable.

I may have anything or everything the world has to offer, but the thing I need most, and want most, is to be myself.

I will admit rejection, admit pain, admit frustration, admit even pettiness, admit shame, admit outrage, admit anything and everything that happens to me.

The best and most human parts of me are those I have inhabited and hidden from the world.

I will work on it.

I will raise my voice.

I will be heard. -Elia Kazan

Our Deepest Fear

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. Is is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, "who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?" Actually, who are you not to be? Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that others won't feel insecure around you. We are meant to shine, as children do. We were born to manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us ; it's in everyone. As we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other s permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. -Marianne Williamson, 1992

"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and
those who matter don't mind." -Dr. Seuss

That's enough for today. Must leave!

Audition and the Goal - Minus Torture

2007-01-08T13:50:00.000-05:00

Had an audition today. One of those one-liner, lottery calls that could be won by anybody, but is basically up to the way you look and not the way you deliver the one line. Auditions like these do not bother me if I don't get it, until and unless I get past the first round into the call back, and that's when the skills, hopefully, come in. I got skills.

I'm, also, happy to report that this is my second audition in the New Year. Double the amount of commercial auditions I've had in the second half of '06. I'd like to call that progress. This will continue. I have confidence in the fishing-net, talent-recruitment style of the manager I'm using, taking in many headshots/resumes and pushing them out in large numbers, hoping one of them bites. It's the numbers game. Cold calling. Cold calling. The ABC's. "Always be closing." Yes, I quote Mamet.

My schedule is strange this week, as I await my promotion at the computer store, and raise, hopefully, and I am working last minute at the investment bank. To protect the innocent, I use not names of fame and grandeur.

Last night, I finally watched Syriana, and this geo-political drama, so much more common these days, was a maze of characters, implications, story lines, and Big Oil politics, making me eager to torture a Texas or Saudi oil exec in Guantanamo and coerce them with electrodes, beyond borders in Afghanistan, to lighten their lobby on the Hill, and create more Hydrogen and hybrid research in the U.S. If Big Brother's contradictions of Constitutional law can continue, than I can follow their lead and whip up a terrorist spy, and when it hits the media feed, deny all knowledge of the terrorist, and blame the former spy for their unsponsored acts, because I didn't know anything about it, and I'll support only moral and just spies who torture under our very own borders. Yeah, that's right.

Good movie. I want to re-watch for the details I missed. Complex, inter-woven, mult-POV, fragmented stories seem to be the way to tell geo-political dramas lately. Let's thank Tarantino for the trend, which has been embraced from TV to film - Heroes, Lost, Babel, Traffic, Pulp Fiction, though most of these aren't geo-political; geo-comic-book-ensemble, maybe.

That's it. Back to work, salads, and fried chicken.

One last thought before I nosh - I admire the man behind the drama, and winner of Oscar for his role in the film. George Clooney gives all us aging actors (I'm not too age-d yet) hope that it can still happen later in life. The fame and fortune are not my desired ends as much as the ability to always work as an actor in relevant stories. That's all I really want. The money part is secondary. Not only that, to be able to write and direct those stories too, like the man Clooney, wouldn't be so bad either. Oh yes, it will happen. Unlike the aforementioned oilmen, I would not like an enduring torturous process to get there. Although an enduring process is a reward in itself. Thanks be to time and the Universe, minus torture.

Dislocation in D'Country 2 - The Voyage Home

2007-01-03T10:07:00.000-05:00

My cousin has recently returned from living abroad in Japan, for only a two week stay here in the New Jersey/New York area, and I am brought back to my return from the Philippines back in Dec. '01-Jan.'02. When I was in the Philippines, I felt like I was in it, connected, on the verge of something purposeful, and that I had life by the benwah's. I had recently appeared on a national talk show there, and people were recognizing me on the street, albeit sparsely. But as I entered JFK airport, waiting to get my passport checked, a group of three Filipina girls stopped me and said, "weren't you on the show, 'Mel & Jay'?"

That 'flip'ped me out... yeah, you like that? I can say flip because I am half of one, but Michael Richards, you cannot. So, as all of that was going for me, I returned home to a flag-filled America. The woman checking passports was a large African-American lady, and I hadn't seen black people for five months, so I wanted to give her a hug. The Philippines is very monochromatic, which is why I stand out as a mestizo (mixed), and why I loved returning to my wounded city of diversity, ingenuity, determination and courage.

It was a painful time in the nation, and I just wanted to get re-acquainted with what had happened while I was away. I felt guilt that I wasn't there. Guilt that I wasn't at home to experience it with our country, but I knew I had to continue with what I was doing over in the P.I. (Philippine Islands).

I bonded with family through our Holiday traditional stay in New Jersey. I walked the circumference of Ground Zero alone, to see it for myself. I cried again. I came back to my aunt, uncle and cousin's Jersey home, and I just remember not being able to get warm. My body was acclimated to the tropical heat of the Philippines, and returning in winter, I couldn't find a jacket that kept the heat in me. While I slept in the day and stayed up all night, adjusting to the time difference, I wrapped myself in blankets, caught up on TV, movies and music and reconnected with friends and family.

I felt in between. I didn't belong here at home because I had no purpose here. My purpose was far away, though when I was there, it felt so purposeless compared to what was going on in the world at the time. A week after 9/11, I performed in a semi-slapstick, definitely schticky, play with an all Filipino cast, about a Filipina who returns from the States to her humble hood of Tondo (a very bad neighborhood), and comedy ensues. For high school kids. I had to do a terrible filipino accent, because I didn't know how to do it at the time, in front of high school kids, in a large school auditorium, all the way on the other side of the world, while the ground was still smoking back home. It just felt wrong.

Three months later though, the need to return to a time zone 13 hours ahead still tugged at me finishing what I started was the goal. I would be on TV again, as a VJ/TV host, and I really went for it. And it happened. The energy was in my hands then, and everything that I set out to do over there, came to fruition.

Maybe now, I'm displaced again. Far out in the wilds of Brooklyn, and it's time to harness the energy once again. I really want it this year. And although I'm five, jeez, five years older, I know that within me, I have the power to manifest what I want, without.

It was only a matter of time, and with the emotional foundation of my wife and family, I am ready to place myself in a state where I grab benwah's again and start making them jingle.

My cousin is figuring it out as we await dry-rub BBQ ribs tonight, and he will. To stay or to go. And when he goes, he'll ask himself again. But where he is now, although physically in his childhood house in New Jersey, he is far away, and he will come to the answers, ponder where he is, in mind, and find his way home.

2006 - Zero Sum It Up

2006-12-31T09:37:00.000-05:00

I might be fooled to think that nothing of import happened in the year 2006, but I'm sure after careful consideration, the losses and the gains might add up to where I was last year at this time, costing me nothing, zero.

But that is quite wrong. Despite the lack of acting or writing career improvement in a tangible sense, I have progressed in the world and grown to the clever recluse that I am today, if you consider a recluse one who attends three weddings in Norther Virginia, California, and Mississippi. And travels to Miami in January and again in December for the love of family. Not to mention the traditional New Jersey visit with the Filipino and Jewish/Italian crew, in separate locations, of course.

It started on the Upper West Side, living off the government dole for the husband of a recently-unemployed actress. The dole was spent, her new acting role helped, I modeled a bit, but nothing solid and stable, an occasional temp job here and there, until we were forced to move, without warning, by our landlords. Nice of them to give less than a month's warning that they were converting our apartment complex into a low-price hotel. We soon discovered this when women of high vocal talent screamed and moaned their way into our private dwelling. Maybe you pay for a night and the women are included? So forced out in May, and we had no power in our sublease state.

On to Brooklyn, close to the end of the line, saving and subway-ing it. A wedding outside D.C. happened, we found employment in an investment bank, working for bankers and lawyers, making more as temps than we were used to, albeit much less than the wife's Broadway money, that we lived so comfortably with for almost a year. Then summer came, and we never left. We saw a beach once, Memorial Weekend, Coney Island, if you can consider that a beach and not a broken-glass depository. We got our Nathan's hot dogs, and vowed never to return as beach-goers. I feared what lay in the water itself.

In the midst of the investment bank, the long commute, and the unfulfilled art, I began writing a blog and creating a website. September was my first full month of blogging, and Julie and I began our subway book club, to pass the hour both ways with enrichment and Asian-oriented books. Three Kingdoms, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, Still Life with Rice. 3 Kingdoms was hearty and chock-full of early Chinese history, and the others gave historical and fictional accounts of life in China and Korea. I also read David Mitchell for the first time, Ghostwritten, and loved it. And if you have read my blog, the one book that is still haunting and beckoning me to write is Screenplay.

Did I mention the life-changing revisiting of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead? Julie just finished it for the first time last night, and I am about to finish it shortly (I had to finish other books and get my own copy). Our little book club is enriching us and our sense of self, opening our eyes to what is false and real in the world. Atlas Shrugged is next... thanks to Dad and his encouraging gifts.

But the writing slowed down with the arrival of a new direction in work-related, time non-management, in my computer sales job. The time, energy and people-oriented position allowed me little discipline in writing, although another side of me has opened up. A side that isn't ashamed of my computer geek past and engineering experience. Embrace it, is what I say. But at this point of retail boom, that will begin to taper off, I must remember what I really want to do, and that has been tugging at me more and more through every hour I spend on my feet at the store.

Sure, there is a future there, but I feel my art calling me and this is the year when I really push for what I want. At least, push again the way I used to and show what I am capable of doing.

I always forget to mention that I was a VJ, a TV host, and I came very close to being one again here in the States this past year, which helped me to land an agent. I host many public functions and do it quite well. I love acting. I love writing. Why not combine the three and find my way into stand-up? It's the logical direction, and like Julie said, comedy has no time limit, unlike for women in modeling and acting. For men, it's another story. Although things have changed for women in the Desperate Housewives era.

So there's the potential direction. I still want to act. I still want to write. I still want to host. I can do it all. I will push the envelope, literally, licking and stuffing my own envelopes and mail out my face to the casting directors of the world, or how about New York and LA.

Our far apartment feels great. It's big, spacious and we keep our things in it. We have a car and a computer, due to resolution of past tax issues, and we are hoping to buy an apartment or house in the time to come. We want children, but our goal is to go to the Philippines and Japan first, to visit family, possibly work out there, and then we can have it all right here in the boroughs of New York.

This is 2006, and I am truly looking forward to 2007, married to the best friend and companion, the most beautiful woman in the world. I am thankful and fortunate, and just damn lucky to be in her presence every day. I am a better person for it. I'm filled with love right now for her, and the time we've recently spent with family, together. We are our own culture and comedy troupe of two, including our best sell-out audience. As fans of each other, the screaming and yelling of the cheering support, makes us grow and entertain and keeps life worth living. My love is in my chest and in the next room.

Time + Pressure = A Worthy Treat

2006-12-18T15:01:00.000-05:00

The spice is back in the man. The tuna is merely for sustenance. Too bad I had a Chinese take-out tupperware filled with spaghetti and turkey-meat sauce. It not only sustains, it impregnates.

Which seems to be an ongoing, imposed opinion from the familial world, especially a niece and two nephews in particular. There is the usual fake pressure from adult friends and family, like, "So, when are you gonna have children," wink, wink, nudge, nudge-kind-of talk. And then, there is the direct and passionate questioning from the children, who want to be elders. "We want you to have children."

Julie asked them if they would be willing to babysit. "Oh, yeah. Of course." You do know that when we have children it will keep us very busy. "We know." And the baby will need a lot of attention, and Aunt Julie won't be able to spend as much time with you guys.

Silence.

Deep thought.

"That's okay." "Yeah, that's okay." When our niece summed up her self-view. "As long as I'm the only girl."

Ah, a healthy woman's view formed at 7 year old.

That's pretty much my attitude right now when it comes to being with my wife. Right now, I'm the only boy... and I like it that way. But if accidents happen, I can easily drop that male-centered stance. Though we feel like we're in no position at the moment financially to have children, we understand the time clock, and we're ready for the promotion from married couple to single-child family... after we take one big trip on our own, out of the country. After that, no problem.

Looks like 2007 is the year for that. We'll probably hit the Philippines and Japan, where the family lives, and come back richer, deeper and more voluminous after deep-fried pork intestines in the shape of a beautiful flower line our stomachs. Dip it in vinegar and it cuts the fat. In my mind.

Also in my mind, is my decision to take classes. I'm putting it out there now, that I will take improv classes and stand-up classes this year. There it is! Steps towards writing.

I'm going to re-read my writing books and actually start writing the beginning of my masterful script. 2007 will be a full year of accomplishments, as I climb the computer-retail ladder, it will sustain my spicy outpouring of words and well-versed wonder-whipping on page.

Commercials, TV hosting arise! Find your way onto my plate, and let me consume your utter financial freedom! Let me talk my way out of the hole, and send the energy my way!

Do Not Fear the Foe

2006-11-27T11:24:00.000-05:00

There must be a reason that I haven't been writing. I'm so distracted by my work at the retail computer store. Distracted and exhausted. My schedule confuses me only b/c I wake up with my wife at 7am and don't go back to sleep, when I have to work at 5pm.

The creative voice is laying dormant in fear and repose. I have learned a Shakespearean monologue, finally. Now, I must learn a comedic one, and 2 more contemporary. That's the plan.

I haven't had one audition from my manager nor my agent. They ask for new headshots, but there has been a LONG dry spell of auditions.

I read Syd Field's book, Screenwriting and I was inspired to write an actual screenplay b/c of the ease in which Mr. Field explained the process, making perfect sense to me. It seemed easy, and I did the exercises up to a point. When I was supposed to brainstorm on a character biography, I stopped writing and continued on with the chapters reading.

That's where the fear kicked in, filled with self-doubt about my skills as a writer or creative voice. Doubts of why crept in as well. Why am i doing this? Why should I write something? How important could it be? How self-involved to write a story.

Then I read Kung Fu Monkey, the blog, and his Writing section helped me to understand that writing, no matter how creative and expressive, is still a job. A job that you work on 8 to 10 to 12 hours a day, if you are lucky and talented enough to be hired as a writer. As an amateur writer, that is the kind of goal to strive for, and remember, if I can force myself to write like it's my job (despite that my energy is consumed with two other jobs), then which "job" would I much rather do?

I don't like the temping job, despite the money. I like the computer store job, despite the lack of money and bad schedule. I may never know the possibilities of the money if I never write.

And at this point in my life, I have no creative writing under my belt, so that virginal project has yet to be popped out. That's the biggest wall. I've never done it, so I don't know if I can do it. Then I read, no matter how good your first screenplay, or play for that matter, it will not be produced. Well, play itself, I can produce with investors I know, but screenplay is a different monster. It takes agents to like the spec script, then it rests in their files forever. At least, I know that.

But with all my fears preempting my literary strike, I have no idea, and will only slow down in output in this blog. I know, I've looked. The number of entries are lower. Hey, I write more at the investment bank b/c I have more time. At the computer store, I am at the beckon call of the customer. The remaining time is precious, to be consumed by my loving and understanding wife.

There are no excuses. I know there is time in the days when I work the store, it's the sleep schedule that screws me up.

Basically, struggling artist, battles own demons to start a script. Fear is winning. Will he fight back? He is aware now, or at least, acknowledges the fear, the mighty foe. Is this the time to do battle with his own worst enemy? Tune in and find out.

Draft This

2006-11-20T10:05:00.000-05:00

Almost two weeks since the election. Happiness ensues. Rep. Charles B. Rangel(D-NY) wants to reinstate the Draft. Slavery ensues. Again.

Now, I do agree with raising troop levels in Iraq to at least three to four times the amount present to win this war fast and get the hell out, but reawaking this devisive and unconstitutional measure seems insane and a throwback to dividing the nation. And of course, he had to be a long-time Democrat from New York. And here I was proud to be a New Yorker and relieved that the majority of Democrats won both the House and Senate.

Rangel's proposed bill and Sen. John McCain's trumpet for escalation is just what everyone was talking about after the election - bipartisan smooching and rubbing. I doubt it will pass, and the support of those in the military and in America will not allow such an event to happen, but I'm sure glad Democrats and Republicans are getting along so well, gosh darnit.

There has to be another way to do it. How? I have no idea. I don't want my brother, who is 23 this year, heading over there. I'll give him money for an extended trip to the Philippines instead of having that money go to his own personal body armor. While he's there, he can remind American officials of the past conflict, after the Spanish-American war. When the U.S. liberated the Philippines from the oppresive Spanish colonialism, a decade-long insurgency of Filipino nationalists and Muslims wanted to push America out of the region, reluctant to more foreign rule. The conflict was long, protracted and unpopular here at home.

I want America's past idealism to ring true in the present, but poor leadership has created a lesser world view of this once beacon of hope and prosperity. I don't want to think about it anymore. Iraq, war, immigration, Homeland Security, Terror. And that's why someone else is doing the thinking for me, our elected officials. It's their job to focus on it when everyone else must go about there lives. But if something like the draft starts to affect more and more people's lives, there will be dire consequences here at home, like the sixties, and individuals will start thinking for themselves and taking action.

After Hitler's invasions followed by Pearl Harbor, America rallied together with a million strong in the military through a phased draft and volounteers. Vietnam was a slow burn without a great rallying event for the people, although the Gulf of Tonkin incident sparked more military increases and a draft. 9/11 brought the country together and we felt accomplishment in Afghanistan, though Osama still has not been found. But along the way, the course was not stayed, and we ended up in Iraq. Something else needs to be done by our country as a whole to rally together again, in order to prevent the tragedy and national mourning of another 9/11. If a large scale attack happened, our country would again rally, and it is absolutely possible that attacks will occur. If that happens, a draft might be feasible. But that doesn't mean I'd agree with it. And neither would Americans, taking their cause to the streets.

Vote or Die, again

2006-11-06T14:03:00.000-05:00

With the election tomorrow, I feel compelled to read as little as possible about who's who in New York. I don't like what's going on, so I want them out. I'm not even living in New Jersey, but the constant, ugly barrage of mud-slung ads is making me feel dirty. I need an apolitical shower.

Wash away the dirt and grime that has put a stranglehold on America. Even though it's common knowledge that the New York Times' has a strong liberal bias, I don't really mind. I'm a re-transplanted New Yorker, born North, grew up South, moved back North with a liberal-conservative mesh of sensibilities. The NYT's editorial on the election is about the only thing I've read, and I appreciate the writer attempting to re-define the NYT as a common supporter of moderate Republicans, but this year, the NYT supports none. I hope that that is enough soap to promote good voting hygiene.

How many scandals can there be? How many more hypocrites of the Christian right can be exposed? How many Constitutional rights can be tread on roughly and swept under the rug of Checks & Balances, only to be recovered when the next staff of Washington's sanitation workers comes into power. Our republic is a war of inches, and each inch that is given away, bill by bill, Patriot Act by Patriot Act, will slowly lop off the feet and limbs that support a free and more perfect Union.

I'm so tired of the way things are being done. I don't follow politics as much as some, and I know more than others, but as an everyday citizen who watches enough of the news over the past four years, and reads into little details here and there, I want them all gone. I want our country's rights back and a departure from the fall into executive dictatorship that has happened with a Republican-led House, Senate and Executive Office.

I may be speaking in general terms, but I know enough of the specifics to feel embarrassed about what's going on in our country. I never thought there would be such a return to the storied past of the Vietnam era. Scandal and war, secrets and cover-ups. I thought that the culmination of those times would end with progress and change, and learning from the past. But under-achieving cowboys tend not to learn about the failures of the times when partying it up on Daddy's bill, snorting blow and failing at running a business.

If we're going to dive into the past, I want to call upon a voice of the past, a fictional one that called to a nation to get "Mad as hell, and [I'm] not going to take this anymore!"

I hope the nation is angry. I hope the angry turn out to vote. I hope the winners shake up the current losers in office, and I hope the new leaders will not fall into weakness the way the current base, fearful representatives have done.

We need hope and we need courageous individuals who are willing to risk there first term on doing what is right and fighting for it, life or death. Life or death is what our soldiers are facing, and life or death is a suicide bomber's choice culmination. Our leaders need to be willing to die politically in order to save our country. Let them be martyrs for the Cause. Otherwise, we shall sit in this pigsty for another two years, maybe longer.

Today's Fortune

2006-11-03T09:10:00.000-05:00

A week's gone by without writing a blog. Funny how I write more at the investment bank than at the retail computer job. It's just been difficult to get situated in my contrasting schedules. Mondays and Fridays I work the nine-to-five life, Tues-Thurs I work 5pm-midnight. I was working 7pm-2am, catching the subway and getting home at 3:30am... not my preference.

I used to do it all the time, cater-waiting, bar tending, working as a bellman at a fancy, boutique hotel. I didn't mind then, when I was single and had no one to come home to. But now I do, and home is all-important. I was also living in Manhattan, so the commute wasn't so bad. If it was way too late, I'd take a cab home. A $40 ride doesn't fly in the distant realm of Brooklyn, far, far away. A normal person with a car can go a hundred miles in two hours. But us super creatures, highly-evolved at public transportation, can travel 10 to 20 miles. By car, at night without traffic, we could drive to north New Jersey in a half hour. By train, two hours. That's why we rarely visit family across the Hudson.

And that's why we accept automobile donations. Feel free to leave the keys in the car. Just holla and pull the car up to the curb. We'll gladly take it off your hands. Hell, I'd take your yellow cab if you offered. It's just that people would try to flag us down all the time. It'd be a little weird with strangers jumping into my backseat all the time. "No, I'm sorry, can you get out." That's why they invented locks, yes.

We like to tell ourselves that being in the City is worth it. It's where we have to be. It's where all the action is and where all our business is done. Well, it is. But being a son of the South, where cars and trucks are lifeblood, I miss the freedom of just walking outside, braving the elements for only a minute or two while the car warms up or cools down, and propel myself to point B. In New York, there's no avoiding the elements. It is in your face.

Two days ago, it felt like spring. I was walking around in flip flops, T-shirt and jeans, thinking, I love November. Today, it's frickin' winter, and I'm ready to migrate my tail feathers to Miami. "That's the Chicago way. And that's how you get Capone." Huh? Sean Connery at his best.

Pulling back into the bank building - I like to pretend and use a car metaphor, I can dream - I realize it's the simple things that make me happy. Sharing the subway ride, snuggling up to my honey. Eating a nice warm Everything bagel, which includes rock salt on the Everything, giving it that extra Umph, stuffed with hot eggs, ham and melted cheddar. Breathing easy and in good health. A decent paying job that gets us by, allowing me to write a little, while holding onto the dream. A hot-as-hell apartment in frigid little Moscow (I've said hell twice, now three times - I'm so free-wheelin'). That's what keeps me going.

I'm really appreciating, in this moment, all that I have. I've got my family, friends, and the love of my beautiful bride. I'm a fortunate man.

What's Going On?

2006-10-27T16:36:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, I have no idea what the hell is going on in the world. It just happens. I lose touch. Civilization keeps going. It doesn't miss me. I feel left out. Yet I don't feel like catching up.

Maybe I'm tired and sick. The sick is clouding my mind, and the tired is blocking the keyboard, defending any impending offensive. That is why I attack now!

I work nights and days, and in between the work, I sleep to catch up. I leave clothes to pile, dishes to soak, refrigerator to empty, emails to check, phones to answer, and wife to be alone. Now the sickness punches drain holes in my face, and I snort and I sneeze and I hock. My shoulders need kneading, my muscles need flexing, my gut needs shrinking, and I don't drink the milk or juice. There is no milk or juice. I am guilted by my childhood filled with milk or juice and I want to drink them. Instead I order three types of pasta at a corporate buffet line. Much better choice.

At least I flaked on grated calcium in the form of parmesan. There's my intake for the week. Oh, and I had two McDonald's cheeseburgers last night, each with a healthy portion of non-American cheese slices. Does fried chicken have calcium? Maybe I'll gnaw on the bones. Dead things are good for me.

I do watch movies. Based on my readings, I've been breaking down the acts. Around 25-30 minutes in, an event will turn Act 1 into Act 2. Then, 85-90 minutes in, another event will turn Act 2 into Act 3, later to be resolved in 25-30 more minutes. I'm trying to spot the act changes. And I'm analyzing the first 10 minutes of every film I've watched, attempting to see if the screenplay reveals the point of the movie in those 10, because consciously or subconciously, we make a decision on whether or not we like a movie in the first 10 minutes. That's what Syd Field says, anyway, in Screenplay.

Now I'm reading How Soccer Explains the World by Franklin Foer. Interesting read and history lesson on the world's game.

Now I leave Corporationia and have a date with my wife. Filipino food and a movie. Probably The Departed.

Weekends are so necessary when traveling to Corporationia.

Post-Katrina Coast Visit: Part 2

2006-10-27T09:47:00.000-04:00

I've had a hard time getting back to writing this, simply because of time and my new schedule. It's also difficult to face the reality of our visit to the Gulf coast region. It wasn't all bad, in fact, we met and hung out with wonderful people at the wedding, many from Gulfport and Biloxi. They were a refreshing contrast to the constant stream of New Yorkers and transplants in our lives. These are true Mississippi natives, and although they were beaten down and feel the daily affect of seeing the barren and damaged coastline, they were quite happy to celebrate one of their own joining the marriage club.

The happy couple, being our New York friends, which means one is from Ohio, the other from Mississippi, invited an American sampling to descend into Biloxi. Guests from Georgia, Michigan, New York, Ohio, Mississippi, California, Colorado, and more I'm sure, hit one of the only operating casino resort hotels in Biloxi, recently re-opening its doors a month and a half ago, just in time for the wedding.

The Beau Rivage is like a beacon of commerce, gambling and hope in an otherwise emptied region. But I only realized this after driving back and forth from Biloxi to Gulfport several times, hotel to hotel to church to hotel. That's when I really saw all the excessive destruction first-hand.

From the Beau Rivage to Gulfport, along US 90, Beach Boulevard, is an eleven-mile stretch of coastline road that was once bursting with beach tourism, hotels, gambling, and wealthy Victorian and modern homes along the Gulf's beaches. It even had its own floating pirate-ship casino anchored off-shore, I was told by one of the sisters in the wedding party. One could walk or bike the beach promenade, fish along the many piers, or swim in the endless sea. Now, one is lucky to see any solid structures left standing, piers are either gone or platforms have been washed away, leaving posts and splintered beams signaling where piers used to be. Toppled tombstones are now just rocks atop a cemetery. Lonely beach-combers are sparse too, not only because of the off-season, but because No Swimming signs announce the hazards of swimming in debris-filled waters.

The first time I drove the stretch, the damage is so in your face that it's hard to absorb it all. The rosy-colored excitement of being a wedding guest cushioned me from what I was really seeing. I saw the damage, gave my obligatory awe, and continued onto the rehearsal. Returning to Biloxi is when it began to sink in. There it was again. It wasn't going anywhere.

The third time, on my way back to the church in Gulfport, I drove alone since my wife was in the wedding party. That's when it really sunk in. Piles of rubble are everywhere, hollowed out first floors leave mini-malls looking like they were built on stilts. Once grand hotels with all the windows blasted out have no facades or outer decor except concrete or rusted steel bones. Only a few have begun construction and re-painting the obligatory beach pastel colors of tourist destinations. A Holiday Inn or Ramada are rebuilt and open, which seems like deep corporation pockets can afford to re-build within Katrina's anniversary. The wealthy fared no better.

The sister also described the booming beach town for me, so I could imagine the difference. Even though presently, that damage is on every corner, she said it was so much worse. Cars stacked on top of each other, the pirate ship moved thousands of feet inland, resting on top of a church, once the waters receded. Palms and other trees snapped like twigs and left amid crushed houses.

But before the storm, she explained, this was a wealthy community, with house after house of gorgeous, Victorian homes, a road one would drive on to look at houses and dream of the good life. In my third trip along 90 going west, I only remember two fully re-constructed homes of livable quality. The rest were under contruction or replaced by empty lots.

Some stand-outs - an owner left a sign in front of their dilapidated dwelling - "Gone to the Virgin Islands" spray-painted on a large wooden panel. Another one says it all: "We're home. We'll Shoot. Don't Lute." This spelling-challenged message is painted on the side of the house. The mall is re-opened, but restaurants are few. Waffle House has fresh bricks and a sparkling sign. The only thing remaining of McDonald's is a hollowed out signpost, the golden of the arches is gone(the photo is foggy but you can make it out).

To the east is a Bay of Biloxi oasis, tradition, and my high recommendation. You can't miss the ubiquitous ads on beach benches along US 90 - Aunt Jenny's Catfish Restaurant in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. Their website pitch is great - Elvis was there, but I didn't see the photos. I wonder if there is evidence, but since we were wrapped up in the rehearsal dinner, I never even knew at the time that the King had graced Aunt Jenny's cellar lounge. I was told there was once a bridge from Biloxi to Ocean Springs on Beach Blvd., but Katrina saw to that. So from Biloxi, lovers of all-you-can-eat, fried everything - catfish, shrimp, chicken, hushpuppies, and more - must travel north on I-110, east on I-10, then back down along Washington Avenue to reach this staple of Southern-style cooking.

Tubs of cole slaw were waiting for us on the table, waiting to be forked out. Buttermilk biscuit baskets were passed out with butter and apple jelly, but I mixed it up with one of the squeeze bottle condiments, next to the ketchup and cocktail sauce - honey. Since it was on the table, I did as the locals do and doused my flaky, buttered biscuits with the luscious, dark goo. This appetizer dessert balanced out the slaw's sass. I must be hungry right now because I'm craving it bad. I want my fix of bee-bourne sweet and salty, wet bread. It's not just the taste, it's the slow pour of honey over the wafting biscuitry, the tease of Gulf goodness.

Definitely a highlight. Need I describe the endless plates of lightly-breaded, yet greaseless shrimp, dipped in spicy cocktail, also squoze (I like saying squoze) from a transparent plastic bottle. I collected the shrimp tails in scores. And did I say chicken?! No chain from a colonel can compare. The catfish was the staple, and tasty, mind you, but I preferred my other two friends of the down-home.

(still to be continued; see more Gulfport photos)

Post-Katrina Coast Visit: Part I

2006-10-23T09:19:00.000-04:00

I've never witnessed anything like this. It's hard to imagine a thriving beach resort area when you're observing destruction and devastation all around. First off, I never thought I'd be in Mississippi. What do I know about Mississippi except that it holds the name of the Mighty River, Tom & Huck, Civil Rights, and the Bible Belt. The capital is Jackson and Neil Simon wrote a brilliant World War II, semi-autobiograpical play, Biloxi Blues, a comic documentation of his basic training experience set in Biloxi. And I have no reason to go to Mississippi except that a friend of ours had a wedding there this past weekend. That's the only reason we found ourselves flying into New Orleans and driving an hour east along I-10, to Biloxi and Gulfport, neighboring towns on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi.

After landing in New Orleans International Airport, I felt this excitement that we were taking a break from New York, and getting a chance to tour post-Katrina New Orleans. I had been there for the Sugar Bowl at the end of the '95 college football season, when Virgina Tech lost to Texas, and I experienced a resemblance to Mardi Gras for New Year's '96. I was hoping that after more than a year, life might have begun to return to the once thriving Crescent City. The ominous Superdome had re-opened for the Saints return, so I thought that that signaled a start to recovery. I was only partially right.

We decided to grab an authentic cajun lunch in the French Quarter and contribute to the local economy, before heading east to Biloxi. Taking I-10 downtown from the airport, we saw the crisp white dome from the highway, surrounded by skyscapers. It looked brand new, but hidden beneath, I couldn't help remembering the images of human suffering, so publicized by the media. Driving further, questions arose: What was underwater? What was it like before?

As we exited onto Esplanade, the northern border of the Quarter, we encountered damage for the first time, in the form of collapsed housing and piles of wooden debris, completely wiping away large lots. This has been covered again and again, but I've never seen it first-hand. It was awful. And this is only the visible manifestation of nature gone wild. We parked our rental car on Burgundy Street, close to the Hotel St. Pierre, my haven a decade ago, and walked past a closed and vacant corner bar on the corner of St. Anne, which used to overflow with leather-clad men. My first encounter with a gay bar back then, but now the streets were empty.

Blue flags hung high along buildings, donning the Saints' fleur-de-lis and claiming New Orleans' "Rebirth." The sound of hammering and sawing echoed along the silent streets and breeze at noon. This was not the vibrant city that we had once visited, overflowing with people. Not even on the famed Bourbon Street was debouchery pouring into sidewalks for lunch hour cocktails. Scattered tourists and convention goers (I overheard a passing patron) left ample room to wander, and aside from two or three re-opened bars broadcasting jazz and pop hits on loudspeakers, Bourbon did not boast it's party atmosphere. Many neon lights were lit for business despite the lack of customers.

Although we had to hurry on to Biloxi for the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner, I doubt we would have stayed much longer. There was a quiet sadness in the air, much like, as my wife put it, New York City after 9/11. I tend to agree. So we got the heck out, only after being lured into a pastry/candy shop by the aroma of cooking pecans and pralines. Our first contribution to local business. After a quick and spicy gumbo at Cafe Beignet, we bolted, leaving a fallend city behind.

On the road, along the raised highway, we surveyed the damage from above, which was still clearly visible. So many homes destroyed, and especially on the way to Biloxi, crossing the swamps leading up to the Bayou, whole communities are the skeletal remains of once, suburban neighborhoods. Gas stations, malls, Six Flags... all ripped apart and left to give passersby a constant reminder that a horrible tragedy occurred here, and there is still so much to be done.

(to be continued)

Yo Asian-Americans!

2006-10-18T14:54:00.000-04:00

Last Thursday, we attended a fundraiser/roast for the New York Asian Women's Center in honor of Kyung Yoon, TV journalist. My lovely wife sang with Juan Pineda, roasting Kyung Yoon, while artists, Heather Greer, Liubo Borisov, and Woody Pak presented their installation, LivingPortrait. Pretty amazing stuff. Many of the Asians in journalism in New York were there as well: Cindy Hsu, Ti-Hua Chang, Juju Chang, David Ng, and as MC, the one and only, Connie Chung.

No matter what has transpired in the past year, replayed on the entertainment shows and YouTube, and with the controversy regarding Newt Gingrich's mother, causing her departure from CBS news, Connie Chung is a pioneer, not just for women, but for Asian-Americans in general.

I didn't like what happened, and was slightly disgusted because as a viewer, I want to hold our news professionals to a higher standard. But despite that, I used to watch Connie Chung all the time growing up, and especially with my mom, being the Asian of the family. It was like one of our own was out there, and as I look back, I feel proud that Connie Chung broke the barrier down for all the Asian-American journalists that pepper local and national news. In all markets, serious journalism tends to have an Asian-American on their TV screens, like the ones noted above, including others like Liz Cho and Nina Pineda in New York City. There are others, but I don't have the names.

I am by no means a new correspondent or journalist, but I appreciate the placement of these people in the public eye. It reaffirms the changing face of America, and I am fine with that. America's face has always changed, but all the uproar surrounding immigration and closing our borders in the wake of 9/11 makes me sicker than Kathryn Gingrich's interview. The GOP is wants to keep out the Latins, the Asians, and any other race that doesn't blend nicely with their own pale complexion.

So, I say, hooray for Connie Chung and for what she has acheived, and despite the efforts of the right to keep ethinic diversity out of America, a more colorful representation will continue to grow and prosper here in this land. If it doesn't, another country will take over as a rich melting pot of cultures.

I have more to say, but I have to get ready for work.

I've been working my second job, nights. Coming home at 3am, keeping me away from my wife, although I love the job, and it's only been my first full day after completing the training. I like it there, but maybe I can change the schedule a bit. It'd be different if my wife worked nights too, but the opposite schedules will keep us apart three days of the week. It's only temporary. It's all temporary.

I'm watching FC Chelsea vs. FC Barcelona in a Champion's League match as I write. How will it end? So far, 0-0 at the half.

Stripped and Painted

2006-10-13T12:37:00.000-04:00

We are a collection of our experiences, our history, a summation of what we've learned from books, interactions with the world, and with other human beings.

In the process of finding ourselves, that journey which all human beings go on at some point, as we discover and strip away our fears of what everyone, the world has told us about ourselves, what is left?

What if I choose to wipe away everything, good or bad, that anyone has told me? Take away their observations, compliments and insults. Strip it all away, so that I may form my own opinion?

What if I had been praised wrongly? That maybe what I"m not good at was only encouraged by praise so that I wouldn't feel bad?

"You are a brave soul." What if I told that to my child at three years old, then again at four, and five? What if he or she is not? How would that change him or her?

That's what I mean by all the praise you've received since birth. What were the motivations behind them? And were they completely true? Or were they irrevocably biased to begin with, coming from a parent or teacher who was from from expert on particular matters?

Strip it all away, and what do you have left? Is it a pure, unvarnished, untouched soul? A floating spirit or entity (without recourse), universal in nature, like all other souls, or unique? Would we then be one with all or completely isolated?

I wonder this while sitting on a subway, wondering as my soul is propelled forward, within the body, to a physical location.

I have changed my job, my career and interests many times. And these decisions are based on my learnings, my experiences.

What would I then do if I was to strip it all away? Where would I go? How would I live?

Perhaps that is the essence of daily life. Stripping and adding, like a coat of paint. Two coats. No wait, it's time to clean house. Back to the wood and dry wall. Raw.

What would you be, raw? I know who I am more than ever, but this present is different than that moment I've just left behind.

This is me now, stripped and painted, stripped and painted.

It will always be...

Morning Glory

2006-10-12T10:31:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting back atop the investment banking shrine to money-making, and it feels... okay. So far, they've left me alone. So far, I've been able to eat my breakfast in peace. Oatmeal, raisins, and two tablespoons of brown sugar, that, when left for a few minutes, melts into a gorgeous caramel pool, sunken within the mound of meal. Raisins swim freely in my clandestine, Chocolate Factory, oasis in my cubicle, also known as a styrofoam bowl. At least the raisins are able to enjoy their hot, yet all too brief summer by the pool, unlike myself. For that, I take a bite. And another. And another. Until any liquid that was once heated recreation for age-d grapes is but a fond memory, cast into non-existence. Or in the raisins' case, disintegrated and re-formed in foulness.

Onto the yellow core of a boiled chicken embryo; my prisoner. It thought I didn't know it was hiding behind it's white mantle, but I knew. I know, you sly sphere. So I peel away the soft crust of its globe, after ample salt-seasoning, and without a lawyer nor a tribunal, I gulp down in tortuous pleasure, its only safety. I place the yellow remnance back into the plastic disposable from which it came, and watch it watch me. Naked. Unrealized. Doomed.

That is how I start my morning. That is how I transcend my day. Dare any soul contest the fate of the fearful? Not on my watch.

'Tis but a lonely leaf, quivering in the breeze, finding a new home on the dirt in autumnal solitude, crisp and dead. A leaf among a Universe of leaves and leaving this realm for another. Not mourned. Not missed. Simply, gone.

And it gives me yummy goodness and uppity energy, all the live-long day!

For my Love

2006-10-11T17:58:00.000-04:00

The reason why I put links to screenwriters' blogs is for my own personal inspiration. Working two jobs has given me a new outlook on what I want in this world. I have to make my mark. I know that I'm a good writer and I haven't actually written a screenplay yet, but I know that I will. It's in the cards. It's hard-wired into my being.

I may not be acting in anything at the moment, so writing this blog is my creative outlet, besides attempting to learn how to write a screenplay. I'm training at my retail computer job, where learning about the products I find exciting. I need a side career or a side of me needs to grow and learn something that will have an immediate impact on my life, and this computer job is providing that for me.

This may not be the stragitforward way of learning how to edit films, like going to the creme de la creme of film schools, NYU or UCLA, but it's roundabout, and Roundabout ain't just a theatre company in New York. It's the way to get an education without having to pay obscene amounts of money for tuition or textbooks. In fact, they will train me to learn so that I can teach others. That's the food stamps way. And although I don't live on food stamps, I can appreciate the glue-y quality of adhesive paper squares.

I'm putting my heart into it. I am a trained actor, but I am an untrained screenwriter and filmmaker. I consider myself a film-watching expert, analyzing, breaking it down, and respecting the artform for all it can provide humanity. I beleive in film, and I want to partake, somehow, some way, I will be in or make films in some matter. That's why I'm taking my introductory screenwriting class write now. My classroom... the subway. My text books: Screenplay, Story, How Not to Write a Screenplay.

That's enough for now. I'm taking it a chapter at a time and doing the exercises. It's not NYU, but it's a start.

It's for my love of art and expression, and for the love of my wife. We are doing this. We are having a family. We are buying a home, and are able to live comfortably. That's the mantra. That's the way.

So, I link to professional screenwriters as a part of the mantra, and despite what is going on in the world, the fear-induced return to the nuclear threat and a war with no end in sight, I will have this. I have my love and that is how I'll change the world.

Fugliness, Fox and Foley

2006-10-09T10:23:00.000-04:00

As I sift through the many videos surrounding the Republican Congressman Mark Foley Pedophile Scandal, I am finding a need in me to be a man of integrity. I want to claim responsibility. But before I do, let's let Fox Report, and You Decide. Maybe it was a simple mistake, or maybe Fox tried to label the alleged pedophile, online, sex predator, Mark Foley-Florida Republican, as a Democrat, because it was a tiny attempt at disinformation. You decide:

"We Report [non-fact-checked, accusatory lies to pander to our conservative-based audience, then retract only after the false word is out]. You decide."

I like the new Fox News motto.

The second slippery reaction to Rep. Foley's scandal is from many Republicans:

Then there's blaming the Democrats for even having the Congressional Page program to begin with, because if it weren't for the pages, then Congressmen wouldn't be tempted to solicit online sex.

That's like blaming parents for having children, because how could they have children when they know sexual predators are out there.

Someone needs to take responsibility, and since know one is doing it, including Foley, blaming his alcoholism and victimized molestation by a clergy member in his childhood, I will.

I am responsible for Foley. He is my bequeathed and I taught him wrong. It's not his fault that he is gay. It's not his fault he asks young boys if he "makes [them] a little horny?" It's my fault for not speaking up earlier when I knew my child was going down the wrong path of God's fallen. I'd like to blame God for making him like this, and I'd like to blame God for making the rules so hard that Foley could never live up to them, but I must blame myself.

For your entertainment, the Daily Show's coverage:

Ah, there's all the angles. Normally I would just chalk this whole scandal up to a man with a problem, but because it's Congress, I can't help but enjoy watching the hypocrites flounder.

Whistle Blows

2006-10-05T18:39:00.001-04:00

Smoke poured from his head, as the walls squished and squeezed upon his life force.

Whoa, nelly! Hold her down! Don't let the fray tear from the scalp!

He grasped and tugged, digging his soles into the carpet. Not only was the floor rumbling from this great row, but the grumbling train below reminded the fighter, that it was time to go!

Leave the work behind!

Scattered and Sleepy

2006-10-04T23:50:00.000-04:00

In case you're wondering, I've started training for my new job. I love it so far.

I'm hooked on Studio 60. I'll go into it more at another time. Just finished The Nine, and it has got some excellent acting and writing. I never even got into Lost, but these actors have sucked me in, along with the concept and a story that keeps me asking, What happened? Tim Daly has got some chops, as well as the whole ensemble - I don't know their names... yet.

Julie and I are trying to find a way to get to Miami, the 2nd week in December. We need to get out of the City. The only beach we went to this summer was on the broken-glass sand of Coney Island, Memorial Day Weekend. Easy access, 5 stops away on the subway. Now you know our pain.

My mind is scattered at the end of the night. It's back to the bank tomorrow morning, then back to the store on Friday. Maybe I'll start catering again, but then I'll never see my wife. Ah, I'll pass.

It's time for bed.

The parents are up from Virginia, visiting with my tita (aunt) from the Philippines and her friend, so we're heading to New Jersey again for the weekend. That's vacation enough, I guess.

Highlight of the day: watching the sunrise from the subway platform with my honey.

Be the Change

2006-10-02T08:25:00.000-04:00

I used to welcome change and bend like a reed to the winds of the unknown, taking pride in spontaneity and living in the moment. Today I start a new job at a large computer retail store, and I am filled with fear. Fear that I'm making the wrong decision, fear of the pay cut by almost half, of not being able to use tickets to a Broadway show with my wife this week due to my unusual schedule (seems petty, but we have little money to spend on Broadway shows and we had to see a friend of ours perform), and, especially, fear of not seeing my wife.

The three days of part-time work will be the opposite of the daily corporate routine that Julie will continue working. My schedule is at night, and that cuts into our moral support of each other getting through the day. I know we'll be fine, but this is a drastic change. I'll be getting home in the early morning hours just before she is waking up. People do it all the time, but it's new to us.

It's only temporary, we always say, on the great journey of our goal-oriented lives, and working with this company is, intellectually, a big deal. Emotionally and financially, however, it feels like the wrong decision. Maybe in the next few months, as they see my dedication to learning and the job, I'll get a raise and/or change positions. Maybe that is when I'll feel like I've made the right decision. When we move to California, and getting a job this company is easy, then my decision will feel better.

I'm also diving into a completely new environment; retail is a sector I avoided die-hard, as I sought to become an engineer in the past and actor in the present. I've worked in offices, waited tables, bartended, been a bellboy, catered parties, and of course, acted, but never have I crosed into the realm of retail. Aah, I'll be fine. I'm already over it as I write.

I just hope that the goals that I've set for myself, that I'm working toward, and the reason for being in New York - to be a working actor that can live off of work - will benefit by the choices my wife and I are making now. I also want to be paid for writing, so this ongoing blog is practice for the future.

Without this free resource that I learned about during my interview process, this continuous creative outlet might still be a twinkle in my subconcious. Though, I plan to graduate to another blogging website, purely my own with my own web address, so that I can join the blogging community. Blogger, Wordpress and beyond!

The love in my heart is what drives me forward, for my life and for my wife. Without her support and love, I wouldn't be making this change. With her, I feel all things are possible.

Worlds Collide

2006-09-29T13:16:00.000-04:00

I’m sitting on the miniature trading floor on the 38th floor, waiting for the phone to ring, and it will. Donning an operator headset, I feel like I’m on a stock photo shoot for anything telemarketing. Smile and enjoy the call like you never enjoyed a call! Say “A” with a smile as the camera flashes, and it opens your mouth like your having a satisfying conversation. “A.” Oh yes, I’m a professional.

Phones chirp, buzz and ring while printers hustle and shoot out paper. Male voices overlap and laugh, as the traders on the floor rib one another. Female assistants with New York drawls, “tawk” on the phone with cell phone companies, husbands and other assistants tawking, sounding like a New York movie, but it’s not. It’s real. They stand like prairie dogs over their cubicles to have a conversation about the season’s new TV shows. They cover the spectrum, from Brad Garret’s new show to Grey’s anatomy. Did you catch it last night? Yeah, it always runs over. Did you see Ugly Betty? No. It takes you a while to get into it, but it’s good, kind of sad. Isn’t Brad Garret married to Joely Fisher, yeah. What’s that show called? ‘Til Death do us part? ‘Til Death? But did you see the commercial for Ugly Betty? If you see it, it’s on the same channel as Brad Garret is on. Because Mike and I saw the commercial for Ugly Betty and we started laughing. You gotta watch it. Joe So-and-shmoe’s office?

The phone rings for me. Kevin Kakawakas office (not his real name)? Is Kevin there? One second, I’ll check. I look for him. I don’t really know who he is. I interrupt the ladies, Is Kevin here? They look. Pointing at an empty seat, He usually sits there, you know, the bald guy, all-the-way bald. But, oh, there he is. I yell, Kevin? No response as he walks to his seat. My look to the women says, Is that Kevin? They all yell Kevin! Without acknowledging us, he grabs for his phone, then gives a slight turn and nod, like, Yeah, I know, and answers the phone.

One assistant says, What? Like we can read your mind. Like we know that you heard us. We share a laugh, and one says, Don't worry, Jon. We got your back. Thanks.

Their phones start ringing and the prairie dogs go back into their holes. I look across the floor to see sunlight peaking through gray, hanging clouds. No walls give me an un-obscured view through distant conference room windows. Nothing to block the sun or the shouting of names over cubicles and long desks. Two computer screens per person. One screen normal Windows, the other usually has a graph or a chart in red, green, blue, and black. The energy is exciting, and I don’t mind all the noise around me, as long as my phone bank isn’t ringing. They may ring around me, but my little cube is quiet. The phone bank I’m covering consists of four bankers today, and can be as many as six, minimally one.

That’s the job. and I appreciate the laissez-faire attitude of my bankers. No reports, no scheduling, no travel planning. Nice and smooth, so far. Don’t want to jinx it, though. That’s the best part of temping. They don’t expect too much from you because you’re only here for a day or two. And if they do give me a lot of busy-work, I feel betrayed by the code of temps. Make copies for you? Dude, the code. Print out stuff for you? The code. I can only do as little as possible.

Sure, I say that, but I’m more than willing to do the busy-work when I’m not writing. It makes the time go by so much faster. If I could write all day consistently, without interruptions though, that would be ideal. But sporadic freedom isn’t bad. Not for long, though.

I’m saying a partial good-bye to the executive assistant life and sharing it with retail. But not just any retail store. Gone will be the days of writing during work hours. Welcome to the days of standing on my feet for eight to ten hours, talking to non-technical customers about technical toys. It’s been keeping me up nights. Will it be enough money? Is this the right decision? I’ll be working late nights during the week, and will I spend enough time with my wife? Am I going to be able to continue blogging?

Setting up my new website is the most stressful for me, right now. There’s so much to learn about which site-tools to use, which web hosting has enough storage, costs the least, is the easiest, the best customer help service, what name I should choose for the website. should I keep the one I have now, or should I get rid of it using the new one exclusively?

Looking at photos of children on today’s desk, I wonder when we’re going to have our own. So many unaccomplished goals and debts aren’t shrinking in our current situation. This assistant has two boys on a giant button, probably printed at the mall’s photo shop. The adorable little girl, around two years old, smiles in black and white, on the beach, in her one-piece bathing suit, framed by pink, blue and white horses. They are all so beautiful, and if we had the money, I might want our own now. How does she do it on assistant’s pay? What does her husband do? I’m sure he’s not an actor.

It will have to wait as we figure it out. Although it feels like there’s an urgency to fix it now, I know that we are actually hyper-aware of the challenge to overcome the past. I lean back in the reclining desk chair, and take a breath. I have to trust that things will happen, and sleep through the night.

Now, excuse me while I internet surf at work.

Zip Line Monkey Boy

2006-09-27T16:03:00.000-04:00

Gray clouds hover over Central Park to the northwest, sunbeams peak their way through, slicing the air into tasty bites of floating freedom. I want to pull a James Bond, and bust my way out of here, down a zip line of light, leaving this tower of banking terror behind. Reach the trees, bounce off the leaves, because they look soft, and hang like a monkey on a limb and eat spicy tuna hand rolls with my plush wife-monkey. Our fur isn’t itchy like a beard, so holding each other is like laying on a bear-skin rug, but we’re monkeys.

We’ll learn to use our tails and hang above park walkers, dropping acorns on their heads, watching them freak out at the size of those monkeys. That’s right, point and run away as we pelt you with natures weapon, and tasty seed. Yum. Crunchy.

We’ll elude the zookeepers and animal control, pulling a King Kong on Yoko Ono’s building, the Dakota, across the street from Strawberry Fields, only after dancing a jig with the local, ex-hippy, guitar resident, playing “A Little Help from My Friends.” Arm-in-arm, tail-in-tail, we’ll get tourists to pay the axe-man, theN flee to the heights of Yoko’s white sanctuary.

Our nimble fingers will unlock the windows, and we’ll climb in, ready to play a sonorous swing on the white piano. We like to swing. The pounding of animal angst will echo the hallowed halls of John Lennon, in our "Ode to Bread-making and House-Husbandry." Hopefully she’s not home, and we’ll go through her sunglasses collection, place Terminator-style shades on each of our flat faces, and walk out the front door. If she is home, we’ll leave her a script to read about spirit-swapping, and souls transgressing into other mammals. She’ll enjoy our swing in her reserved Japanese way, smiling behind her shades.

She’ll thank us, pleasantly, and we’ll bow, tails high, followed by our quiet and zippy exit down the private elevator. Slip past the doorman, after dropping a 20-spot, we like to tip, scratch my booty on the street, but dammit, I can’t get it. Agh! Can you get it, love? And my wife picks off a nasty little bugger of a flea, sniffs it, then eats it for a post-lunch snack. Tasty and symbiotic of you, dear. Thanks. Anytime, monkey-love.

With that, the clouds will part, and a shimmering sedan will lower it’s hermetically-sealed wing, and we’ll hitch a ride back to the loony planet of Jon on the 37th floor atop the investment banking corporation.

What the hell just happened? The jell-o in my neck hardens, and my eyes focus on the Nortel phone in front of me, screaming for an answer, flashing a caller’s name and a badge, credentials to boot, at me, the lowly temp.

I’m nothing but a guy who dreams of being a monkey on a sunbeam. Can’t even dream about flying or floating my way out of here, still hindered by Newtonian Law. Snap out of it! Free yourself, bound-boy. Unshackle the dream, and the reality will palate better.

Take a swig of Poland Springs water, masquerading in a Fiji bottle; refills are free. Rub my face and eyes with palms and fingers, filling each crevice of nose and eye sockets with a digit, while inhaling a cleansing breath.

Let it go.

I feel like a trained monkey, ready to dance for the peddling banker, organ grinder in hand, hanging over his billion-dollar account statement.

Maybe the corner of 57th and 5th is better. At least it’s not in a cubicle. Although the whole roof is a glass cube. Hope I don’t have to dance there. At least the other monkeys there dress like me, jeans and a T-shirt.

It could be worse. I could be a trained seal, paid in tuna.

Roll in the Dirt

2006-09-26T16:36:00.000-04:00

So exhausted. I’m a good husband and waited up for the wifey to come home from a bachelorette party. Nothing like women and plastic, penis pacifiers masquerading as party favors. Oops, the secret is out.

Ok, the job that I was hoping for, and thought I didn’t get… I got. I’m proud of me, and so are the tiny sparrows that lie in the dirt of Bryant Park. Somehow, discussing my shift requirements and possible salary hike with the HR peeps, although nerve-racking – I’m usually a fairly composed person out in the world, but when it comes to this job I get like a 13-year-old talking to a girl for the first time – was massaged away by watching the little birds sit on green, park chairs, drop to the gravel pathway, and hop with other palm-sized, billowy buddies. It’s so Zen following these animals in their semi-natural state, a park within a city, taking me away from the horns, grumbling engines, sirens, and falling construction equipment booms. Although, those booms are pretty scary, and then I remember where I am. But then I look at the little, feathery cuties and I’m okay .

Look to the birds. Their little world, centered within landscaped shrubbery and fragrant flowers, stops time for me and reminds me that I’m a part of the big picture. Some big, ugly mug is out there in space and beyond time, looking at us little ants go, thinking, “they’re such little cuties. I just wanna squish ‘em all” . Some are squished and some squish themselves, but eventually the earth becomes re-landscaped by a passing contractor, a comet or meteor, and the little ant farm has to start from scratch. The roach farm will still be there though, but there not as cute as us.

Reading Ghostwritten by David Mitchell and watching Heroes last night got me thinking on the Universal level. Are we in control of our lives or are we pre-determined to be squished when crossing the street? Maybe both .

Sure, we all think that at one time or another, but I am the only one who has the answer. Just stare at a little birdie and you forget the question. I’m sure you can stare at a little baby too, which I’ve done recently with my niece, and that is the same feeling. She cried and cried and cried…at first. But then she got used to it. After that, I was infinite.

Ok, so there are a lot of different things you can do to forget the question. Go for a run, stare at the Grand Canyon, have sex, eat an egg pizza at Otto’s. All things, if they’re good, that help you to experience the moment and “forget about life for a while” [Billy Joel]. Maybe forgetting is the wrong word. That’s when you can simply be. I don’t know, sew a sweater, saw a branch, smell the breeze as the leaves fall and the chimneys light up.

All the things that you want, all the goals, the almost-haves, the weighing-you-downs, are keeping you almost squished all day long, which adds up to weeks, months, and years of squish, unless you push the squoosh away to freedom. Ah, freedom. Free as a bird on chair in the grass in Bryant Park in New York City. He doesn’t fly south for the winter, I’ve seen him, so is he free? Can he choose to leave or is he just a New Yorker who loves this city? Snowbirds with thick feathers can make it through the Arctic gusts along the Hudson, between the buildings, even as small as a sparrow.What if I choose to shoo him away? I, the outside, unforeseen force, affecting the sparrow’s life in a traumatic way. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t understand how, and I’m sure it never becomes a question in his mind. But if it happened to you, you would surely ask why? Why? Why?

Birds don’t have it that good. They don’t own property, cars, insurance, Social Security, they don’t pay taxes for government programs and services. No stability, for that matter. Birdbrains rolling around in the gravel and dirt, that’s what they are. But Woodstock was a bird and a festival of love and muddied, dirty people rolling around. That was so fun they did it three times in 30 years.

This is going nowhere.

I felt remorse yesterday when I completed the novel, separation anxiety from Wife after quality time came to an end due to the work week, and emptiness from not having worked on that Monday. I feel hope for the new job and potential of a dream job.

Holding me back from writing more eloquently is feeling powerless and pointless in what I’m writing. Who’s going to read this? Can I really get paid to blog one day? How easy is it to set up a real blog, that looks nice? Find the best deal for web hosting, transfer the few blog entries, learn how to design the website, understand the software. All I want is for the writing to be read from a cool Domain name, not jonsalkin.com, in a community of writers.

If I keep writing, taking control of my actions, then one day, something beyond my control will take over and set me into motion. That’s what I was looking for in the bird. Something so fragile, yet in control of its life, up to a point. That’s what I am right now, fragile and rolling around in the dirt.

Ay, naku! Clear the head. Take a breath, or vice versa. Sanitize and soften my hands with Purell, just cause it’s there… and I can. Now I’m softer, and fragile-er. Look at the baby pictures of the women whose cubicle I’m covering. Funny looking kid. Attempt to close the imaginary door of the office behind me because I can hear every word of their phone call, which is drowning out my own, tired thoughts, not allowing them to surface.

“…this is how I recommend handling it… you and Mike make a phone call to the bankers and get it listed.. and whoever you decide, should be along for the whole ride, and it’s easy… bring ‘em along on this one… what he’s going to do is write a whole semi-conductor slant…this is the listing hedge clause… I wonder if we need to go to equity…”

Ay, the ringing in my ears, trying to gain control over the situation, as outside forces inflict their soundwaves upon me. Must overcome it. Must hop around the Great Garden and roll around in the dirt. Ah, yes… dirty.

Tale of the Review of the Daily Summation

2006-09-24T14:21:00.000-04:00

I'm wondering if you always have to be suffering to be a good artist. I, actually, know the answer to this, but sometimes the question arises when I'm not creating. Usually I'm not creating when I'm enjoying my life, and enjoying one's life seems to get in the way of artistic creation. Even so, there's always the tug of “I”m not writing” when I'm enjoying, so I stop enjoying periodically until the writing has been achieved.

I've never published anything except this blog, but I consider myself a potential writer.

I'm making a choice now to diverge from simple, straigtforward blogging to a chosen topic under anonymous pretentions. Keep the name blog, jonsalkin.com for promoting me, but have a blog set up under a pseudonymn, without photos of self, purely devoted to writing.. That seems to be the way to go. Leave the photos for the actor-promotion.

Next: Osama may be dead... maybe not. Pakistani president Musharraff was interviewed on 60 minutes, but I wasn't listening as I read my email.

Closer to home: The wife and I re-organized the apartment, put up pictures, did laundry, and rested so nicely after long Manhattan commutes to the banking Bear. What a simple way to achieve peace. Clearing the cobwebs from the undusted soul, not to mention cleaning out one of my inbox's 200+ unread emails.

I'm making a decision to take a job that pays half of what I make now, but the potential with what I can learn is what draws me to the position. This company doesn't hire just anyone, and I have my foot in the door. If I'm going to go in the direction of survival jobs, this is the company I'd want to work for, having a basis in the creative and technical. I'm being vague, but it's a financial and spousal dilemma. The part-time hours will overlap the $20/hr corporate bank hours, taking away rent and bill payments. I'd work from 7/9pm to 2/3am, opposite of my wife's schedule.

A lot of negatives, but the potential of the job made me immediately say yes.

I hope it's the right decision. It'll be a struggle, unless we get our delayed tax refunds back soon. If that happens, at least we won't have to worry for a while, I can train, thrive, and impress and eventually get more money and better hours.

The script says, yes, I am willing to do it because I truly believe in the product and the company's philosophy. Funny what one has to do to get by.

The time will come when I get paid for passion, and that day will be soon...er or later.

Space and a Breath

2006-09-22T10:52:00.000-04:00

Sometimes you need some space to breathe before you expel any expletives, or rather so something less vulgar will come out your mouth. That can go without saying, and when I’m saying nothing, something is building up and waiting to explode on the person next to me. Married people know the drill, or so I’ve been told. Spouse make good target. But not for the enlightened and able-minded, in control of their emotions and purveyors of bridled passion. Spouse make good sounding board and not emotional projectile receptor.

Maybe Iran needs some space to breathe, and for all better purposes, maybe we in the U.S. do too. And it looks like Pakistan might need a breather after letting the world know how close it was to being bombed "back into the Stone Age" by the U.S. Bush is "taken aback" by these comments, and denial isn't just a baby-floating river in Egypt.

One side is saying one thing but hearing something else, and because they heard something else, which so happens is interpreted as offensive, that side responds with a deliberate verbal attack, and, oh look, they just verbally attacked us! How dare they, when we were saying this, and ‘that’ is what we were trying to avoid, but they want to bring it up. Sheesh. And we don’t understand that what we’re saying is offensive, and the cycle continues, then escalates, and then there’s nuclear war. Problem solved, no one is saying anything now.

At least, that’s how emotionally unhealthy people attempt to communicate. I do that sometimes. I won’t see that what I’m saying or doing is pissing someone off and an argument ensues about one thing, when I was talking about another. But my point that I was so eloquently trying to make, no matter how valid, is now lost in the horrific display of miscommunication through a downward spiral of name-calling and feet-stomping.

That’s when I should look for space and breathe. That’s when the healthy people know to walk away and not say anything at all. But not everyone is healthy one hundred percent of the time, no matter how much progress one has made towards becoming stable human being. We’re only human, after all.

Not human enough, is not recognizing this about one’s own human nature. We’re going to get mad once in a while, and that’s normal. It’s what you do with it that counts. I like to smoosh it up into a little ball and throw it at oncoming traffic, preferably taxis who honk at walkers with the right of way. I also tend to be a forgivable arse to my wife. I’d like emphasize forgivable.

But that’s just me. Others like to hurl themselves into crowded shopping areas with dynamite duct-taped around their chest. To each their own. I guess it’s hard to really discuss anything when there’s the threat of weapons-grade uranium enrichment, suicide and roadside bombers, bus and train explosions, and exchanged rockets over borders by nation-sponsored terrorists. But who’s really listening when your ears a ringing. And who was the terrorist first?

Colonial revolutionaries having a Tea Party were terrorists. Arafat was once considered a terrorist, up until he won a Peace Prize. Funny how history re-writes itself, or time brings redemption. Copernicus was ridiculed and considered a blaspheme, but now he’s a visionary and pioneer. But he wasn’t blowing stuff up, though the Church might have liked to burn him up.

It’s all how you look at things. After seeing war for five years, maybe all parties involved, even the proximate observers with a stake, want peace. That’s what Bush and the Iranian president said this past week in interviews and speeches. Maybe they really want peace, and I hope they do. No matter how evil the other one says they are, humans all want peace and to be left alone. Hey, if it goes on long enough, and it’s still a stale mate, they may agree to disagree and go about their business.

The Crusades took a breath after centuries of civilizations clashing. Let’s hope, before the Pope puts his foot in his mouth again, that the War on Terror won’t become another Judeo-Christian-Islamic battleground lasting a millennium. Maybe it already is though, and we don’t know it yet. Give it a little space, take a breath, and who knows what history will call it?

Composure and Cube-haven

2006-09-19T11:08:00.000-04:00

I’m here at the Apple store on 5th Ave and 57th St at the corner of Central Park in NYC. Ironic that the store that refused to offer me a job is my day’s sanctuary when my floating job leaves me high & dry. No work today. No money. Paid bills are like bad grenades, exploding on you when you least expect it. Then when you check your account after leaving the office building and find a couple more paid bills have gone through and you have nothing to live off of for the next two days until Payday because the Payroll department screwed up once again, and leave me hanging without two days pay yet again, then i begin to freak out a little bit and call up my other temp agency agitated and angered, powerless and attempting to regain control by asking for someone I know at the temp agency, and they’re in a meeting and i don’t know the name of anyone in the office anymore b/c i haven’t been there for months and months since i relocated to this internal office at the investment banking firm, and i have to give the receptionist a name otherwise she can’t help me, and i say i just want to talk to someone and she repeats herself and says she can put me into voice mail for the women that i asked for, but i don’t want voice mail, i want to talk to someone b/c it’s better to speak with someone and let the agents get to know you otherwise they forget you exist and never use you for any work and then you’re shit-out-of-luck again for this week’s bills and especially next week’s because you’re not getting paid for sitting in the temp office waiting for no work, so I exclaim, I want to speak to someone now, and the already agitated receptionist, who is obviously overwrought with other callers and a phone that never stops ringing gives the button a push and i’m sitting in silence.

Take a breath. I call back and ask to speak with someone and says she’ll transfer me to Val who’s in another office and she does, and i explain my story that i have executive assistant experience now, assisting investment bankers and lawyers that are Senior Managing Directors in multi-hundred-million dollar deals, I schedule meetings and travel, take their shit and smile and i’m looking for more work and i was working with ANgela for a while but, oh you’re working with Angela, i’ll transfer you to her line, but she wasn’t there, thank you too late, and Angela’s voice mail comes on and i explain myself again to the temp agency boss who knows me and will hopefully get me work for next week, otherwise my wife and i are screwed for rent.

So i stand in my corporate attire at 10:52 am surrounded by students, the unemployed, retirees and tourists at a common terminal, entering my life for the non public public to invade me freak-out, this is my freak out and i don’t mind leaving it out there. why not, it’s real, and once it’s written it becomes more real for the reader as if you’re in the writer’s head.

these crystalline white iMac computers, with everything contained within a stand up monitor, reflect back at me how i can’t afford you at home, but here on 5th avenue i can at least stand, hunched over, wrists gaining pre-carpeltunnel pain as gravity holds my wrists to the oversized oak table holding 10 computers around me. email and stock quotes are checked as a young black man blasts R&B or Beyonce from the mac along the wall, drowning out the iPod area of overlapping sounds and songs, a cacophony of commerce and technology overlapping with art and culture.

i love this glass cube of a store protruding from the street sidewalk, a 21st century landmark and haven for the weary dreamers and toy-seekers. i want a new iPod. i want a new computer. But i’ll settle for a free test drive on the mac heaven.

it all gets better i know that, and Bob Marley and internet radio overlap, and the man dances in front of the computer, checking is Yahoo account, swimming in an emptied Starbuck’s Large iced Americano. My former drink of choice in the Philippines after a night out until 6 am and a casting session the next day.

The man sings off-key to an R&B fave, and I wish i could be that care free, and maybe i will one day, b/c we have a plan. The plan will save us, the plan will eat at our pride but it will be worth it when we return triumphant and partially debt-free, the bad ones anyway. Leave the city of dreams to the Latin Riviera of topless models, dead fashion designers and a football team lost in their heyday of the 70’s and 80’s. Miami will heal us with family and the plan.

Fear has grown in me today and yesterday as Bush speaks to the UN General Assembly today, while Iran’s president resides in the same building, and i fear a car bomb, though i doubt it will happen, it’s just my imagination wondering if it could happen, and i know the dangers of this city of my dreams, and i’m willing to leave it for a time, and re-gain my composure to take it on again.

I laugh to myself as the black man sings Nickelback off-key, and I love that he knows every word. Something about rock and culture transcending racial stereotypes in my generation and lifetime. I still wish he’d change the internet channel, b/c his taste sucks.

i’ll just have to finish this up and take control, and leave this place on my own for some street silence and purposeful resolve to get through that moment and leave it at the store and in this mid-day September blog.

He's the Olber-Mann!

2006-09-15T15:57:00.000-04:00

Four days after 9/11, Keith Olbermann’s address is still ringing in my ears. I was so blown away by the courage and conviction he put forth. His speech clearly represents an American voice that has finally been heard. I’m reminded of the Vietnam era, when criticizers of the war were told to “Love it or leave it.” And that’s precisely the kind of attitude that he's facing in this climate of war.

Before I utter my humble opinion, here are my disclaimers: I’m a moderate. Much of my knowledge of the Vietnam era is through the many movies made in the 70’s and 80’s, like many others in my generation (I’m 31) – although, I took a Vietnam history class in college. I’m not one to worship any human being, despite how much I agree with their ideas. I haven’t lost anyone close to me in 9/11 or the ongoing wars, although a close cousin was seconds away from riding the burning elevators in Tower One.

That said, I love Keith Olbermann now. Not like a lover, but like a fighter. A fighter for integrity in our presidency, demanding that Bush live up to his promises. I’m happy I read about Olbermann on a large-scale website like Yahoo! comparing him to Edward R. Murrow and his attack on Joseph McCarthy during his Communist witch hunt. I’m happy Olbermann is getting so much press. Of course, that’s to be expected when a liberal media sees one of their own attacking the Republican president. Hell, fine with me. I’m happy I saw him on the Today show yesterday morning, one of the biggest television platforms in the country, maybe the world, advertising to all to take a look at what he said on MSNBC.com.

Everyone should hear it. I feel hope in my heart, a warm and throbbing sensation, when I think about what he said. It feels like a turning point for me on a massive scale when it comes to criticizing the Bush administration and W in particular. All the politicizing and Machiavellian fear-mongering needs to be placed in check, and that’s why we have a free press as our fourth branch of government.

I want to rally around Olbermann, not the man, but the ideas. And maybe I don’t agree with everything he has said, although I probably do, but that’s not the point. There are ongoing wrong deeds that have been done, and so few out there have articulated as eloquently as Olbermann, how these wars came about and why there is still an emptiness in our hearts, as well as in lower Manhattan’s earth.

I’m scared every other day riding the subway into Manhattan (Mom, don’t read this), especially from where my wife and I live in Brooklyn. One of the more recently-publicized homegrown terrorists frequented an Islamic Center in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, a bomb’s throw away from our apartment. The fear disappears quickly when I think about the Russian mafia keeping our streets safe, but the state of our times is a reality worth remembering in the morning. We now carry flashlights in our bags in case an emergency happens while in one of the tunnels. It’s not like I carry a bomb-sniffing dog in there, a counter-terrorist Chihuahua in a Louis Vuitton canine-purse, but preparation for darkness is a safe touch. The fear leaves like a daily tally of things to do on my list – pay power bill, do laundry, worry about suicide bomber, recharge iPod – and we head to work like any other day, trying to make ends meet, and coming home still sane.

Although the effect of the War on Terror on my daily life is small, I would still like to feel a growing sense of hope, a tangible sense of progress towards a goal instead of this lost powerlessness when I think about our world and the hole in the ground. That’s why I love what Olbermann said. Stick it to the Man is as patriotic as flag-waiving and apple pie, so what’s wrong with a little direct confrontation of a president who has manipulated so many truths, mollifying us into compliance. It’s healthy, it’s natural, and it’s American.

Maybe I’m getting too political for someone trying to start an acting career. It’s better to save some mystery, and let audiences make up their minds for themselves. But I’m not famous yet, and I am an audience member not jumping a couch. One day someone will read this blog besides my wife and parents (I wonder who that will be) and my views may come to haunt me, but hey, opinions are like arses, and I have a plump and juicy one.

For now, I encourage more heartfelt annunciations of their own truths, and I look forward to the ripple effect of Keith Olbermann’s editorial. Let a unified understanding sweep over our country, and an empathetic ear listen to what is right. Rock on man-sticker!

Fake vs. Real - For the Naive and Easily-Hoodwinked

2006-09-13T18:53:00.000-04:00

After a difficult week building up to 9/11 and everything surrounding the ongoing wars in Iraq, Afghanistan and the global War on Terror, it’s a sharp contrast to read about the light deception that has bamboozled the general YouTube population of viewers.

“Lonelygirl15 is a FAKE.”

These words have rung out beyond the vast webscape of isolated computer geeks, techno newbies, and porn-seekers, into the valleys of Hollywood and the potential market of web drama. The summer soap of a would-be 15 year old and her buddy Danielbeast, suffering from a teen’s syndrome of unrequited love, drew hundreds of thousands of viewers weekly, waiting for the next installment of underage self-disclosure, in the form of a video blog.

I admit it. I was suckered in for a couple of weeks. I first discovered it with my wife while browsing the many “Most Viewed” videos regularly uploaded to the free video site, while trying to upload my own video/demo reel. It’s our new model of home entertainment and multi-tasking, that I’m sure is pretty common these days; TV on, sometimes music too, and laptop for alternate viewing pleasure. So my wife said it was time I put my own video out there, which I did, with the hopes of high view count, and potential employers beating down my door to host their TV show. Little did I know that the Tube waves were monopolized by one popular lonely girl.

But I uploaded it anyway, despite my no frills approach, with little hype, except for an email blast of my entire address book. I wanted all the buzz of Lonelygirl and thought of possibly casting a pretty young starlet to play myself. My wife disagreed. She actually said we should create our own fake parody of the young pair and their pseudo-confessionals. Oh, how prophetic she was.

Being that Jessica Rose is the actress that plays Lonelygirl15, this first-wave materialization of a soap opera blog has killed the model for “is it real or fake?” the way The Blair Witch Project killed it 7 years ago. And it’s dead before it even hit the mainstream population. It’s been done, the hype will always be questioned, so what form of hype will be next? Sure there’ll always be young, naïve entertainees out there waiting to be duped, in the next incarnation of fake vs. real version 29, but all my belief in the internet is gone. If you can’t believe in blogs, what can you believe in? Maybe I’ll turn to our politicians.

Crossing the line between reality and fiction seems to be the ongoing theme these days in all forms of media, a la James Frey’s much-Oprah-ed (it is now a verb, folks, right here, first), fictionalized memoir, A Million Little Pieces, creating so much buzz-turned-controversy. Are we all a little too naïve to even go out in the world anymore? If we’re not safe in our own homes surfing the internet, reading a book, or watching a movie, where can we be safe?

Although, according to the vast amounts of comments regarding the Lonelygirl out-ing, many of the viewers doubted the authenticity from the beginning. But what about me and my trusting nature. Those producers have executed on me confidence-theivery. I want to wash it all away. Wash the dirty, grimy trickery from my computer screen and look at safe and predictable, virus-laden porn like the old days of internet yore. But then I have to face whether or not those girls flaunt breasts of fake or real. Agh! I’ve been lonelygirled and I feel out of control. The only way to bring the control back, to gain a little perspective from it all, is to, wait it’s coming to me, yes… turn off the computer…turn off the TV… get out of my pajamas and go for a walk out in the ever-fabled world. Maybe a little fresh air, a gentle stroll and, quite possibly, get a life of my own. Ah, yes, that feels better. I'm not living in my mother's basement and I actually have a woman. Life is real again.

Remember and Build On It

2006-09-12T10:47:00.000-04:00

After working my paid standby position - waiting until 10am to see if the company will use me as a temp for the day, then leaving promptly from the building at 10am – I spent the day wandering the streets of New York, but not aimlessly. Julie suggested I go to Ground Zero and pay my respects, so with nothing but a rolling backpack and a half-smile – half happy from not working, Yay, and not making money, Boo - I headed down Fifth Avenue.

Coming from 47th Street, I imagined where the Towers used to be visible, all the way downtown. The Twins and the Empire State Building used to be my compass. I’d walk 20 minutes to school from Port Authority, green to New York in ’98, cross Fifth Avenue at around 30th Street, look up to see the Empire State, remembering my dreams and why I was here in New York, then look down Fifth to see the World Trade. That was my daily ritual and reminder. That’s why I chose Fifth Avenue, to remember.

Crossing 34th Street I looked up in awe of the tallest building in New York, the Empire State. As I watched a distant plane shining amid clear blue, my fears grabbed hold and I envisioned that plane drawing the same fate upon our remaining landmark. I shook it out of my head, literally shaking the horrible thought out, as it disappeared behind the building.

Keep walking, past the sample-sale shopping, past the Flatiron building, through more shopping a block over from Union Square, and down to Washington Square Park. Washington’s Arch, viewed from the north, used to frame the Twins when standing below its vaulting marble archway. All I could see now was the crystalline glass of Seven World Trade Center, newly rebuilt, and one of the taller structures surrounding the empty hole.

Past the students, past the speed-chess players and grizzly men selling weed – they don’t approach me like they used to, decked out in my corporate-wear – Fifth becomes Thompson and I walk below the trees, using Seven World Trade as compass to navigate.It feels like a neighborhood now, void of shopping, and lined with bohemian restaurants and the academic bars of NYU. A block down to the right, West 3rd Street is barricaded off to traffic, but not pedestrians. Groups of men in their dress blue uniforms and caps, gathered in front of Fire Patrol House #2 on between Thompson and Sullivan Streets. An elderly women in a light blue dress, with white embroidery, held flowers and a solemn face. Conversations flowed from the street into the fire house, as they held their own private memorial for their fallen brothers. A sign posted in front urged passersby to contact your local councilperson to help keep this fire patrol house from officially closing its doors on October 15th. Their website outlines the details: http://www.fpny123.net/.

I pause to reflect, and continue walking. These are real people with real lives, who were affected by an attack on our country, casualties of war, in the first battle of the 21st century. The affects are still felt here in this neighborhood street five years later. On Sullivan, I lose sight of Seven, but lead myself to Tribeca, finding Varick, then Hudson. Chambers lets me know that I’m close, and I turn right to the West Side Highway, looking left to see my first view of pilgrims and mourners. I feel the weight in my chest grow. I’ve been here every year since the attacks, but today feels different.

I follow flag holders, people in black “Investigate 9/11” t-shirts, uniformed police, and tourists in sunglasses, carrying cameras towards the pedestrian bridge, south along West Street. Approaching, I hear echoed names of the deceased being read off by family members, each set of names punctuated by personal pleas to their loved ones. I take the escalator up onto the bridge, crossing West Street along Vesey, and seeing the voices’ origins. Squeezing between others witnesses, I catch a glimpse of the multitudes of uniformed officers, firefighters and their family members, in a procession down the great ramp onto the dirt of Ground Zero.

The night before, President and Laura Bush placed wreaths in a pool at the footprint of Tower 1, now overflowing with flowers from the procession. I look around me on the bridge, and head down stairs for a better view. Telephoto lenses of roving press and regular photographers alike, line the stairway. Is this obscene? Last time I was here, without a ceremony going on, it felt disrespectful that so many tourists were taking pictures of this giant gravesite. But this is history today. I and everyone else there are witness to a remembrance of five years ago.

It has been five years. It’s hard to believe. I wasn’t even here. I’ve faced that guilt each year, that I wasn’t here when it happened. My New York, my home, and I wasn’t here. Not that I could have stopped them, nor do I have any EMT skills, but just to be here while my dear home suffered so much… I’ve never quite forgiven myself. Over time, Julie and I have shared these same feelings, not that it compares to the survivors’ guilt of the many firefighters being honored today. But over five years, we’ve come to realize that maybe we were fortunate by not witnessing first-hand, the terrible devastation. Insulated by distance and TV-filtered coverage, we could merely tour the aftermath, and delve within ourselves to make sense of it all.

Watching all the news coverage leading up to this year’s anniversary, seeing the children of 9/11 loss, and how they’ve coped without fathers and mothers, they speak of being lucky. Lucky to be alive, lucky at having known their families, and if they can feel lucky, then it’s okay to put things behind.

I pull out my cell phone camera, and I take a picture for my future children. I want them to know that I was there, a part of history, and I want to teach them about our times. That’s what shifts in me, and I continue across to Church Street. The name reading ends, and at the entrance to the PATH station, the true public event is taking place. Silent protesters, camera crews, people holding flowers, Iraqi vets, all nationalities, all cultures, with and without cameras stand without a view of the bottom, and listen to the official choir of the ceremony, filling the air with “Raise You Up.” Tears form in my eyes. Once a kitschy song to me by Josh Groban, in this context, I feel the need for purity and a straightforward, uplifting message through music. It’s followed by a lone trumpet’s rendition of “Taps.” Once again, movies have worn it down and I normally am not moved by this overplayed fixture of a dramatic mechanism, but in this moment, when the song suits its true purpose, solemn remembrance of the dead, I am stricken by more tears.

I follow the fence barrier. I hear deep, individual rings, and see three giant bells lining Liberty Street. Below each suspended bell are the names of those lost. People walk up, read the names, tug a thick rope attached to the clapper, and release. A man gives a short silent prayer, pulls the rope, rings the bell, and repeats three times. Three friends that he knew, and I decide not to take a picture of him. I regret raising my camera-phone. That was his moment, and I almost violated it.

It feels like all these people are violating this private moment of mourning for the families and friends, but this was a public event. It didn’t just happen to the 3,000, it happened to our country, and as countrymen and women, we can publicly mourn for their loss. And the mood around is not all mourning. There’s anger and confrontation between protesters and so-called patriots. There is a war going on because of this place, so people try to redirect their pain. And there are shoppers heading to Century 21, “New York’s best kept secret”, according to the building-wide banner topping the retailer’s façade.

A male news reporter fixes his wind-tossed hair, like a Pantene commercial, makes a joke about it, and I see his glowing ego shimmering in his pretty, brown hair. In his vantage point, sits a blue monster truck, at least two feet off the ground, bedecked in American flags, stickers, firefighter license plates, and magnets reading “We will never forget.” I can’t help but chuckle at the sight, and somehow it seems okay here since it’s owned by a firefighter. Why not be patriotic like that? It’s a nice contrast, but surprising to see in New York and not in some muddy, Southern pasture for off-road muddin’.

Along Liberty in the other direction, I continue circling the site, and I’m met by a collection of dress blues, followed by what seems to be the procession, entering from a gated area that leads from the Ground below. The procession converges on the newly rebuilt fire house of Engine 10, Ladder 10, and I finish my lap of the Hallowed Ground, by entering the World Financial Center. Inside the air-conditioned building, windows overlook the east, so I sit and take in everything, wanting to leave, but feeling the need to look, and look some more. I have an insatiable appetite for imagining the events, viewing the people, scrutinizing the remaining rock walls, holding back the Hudson from flooding the earth, and wanting to head home for comfort and rest. It no longer looks like devastation, as they repeatedly showed us on TV leading up to this day. It has a fully constructed PATH train to Jersey, a below ground facility for train entrance, and a clean dirt floor and walls. It will be rebuilt, and New York will be renewed.

I came here to remember and, also, to see the progress. I want the tallest building in the world back in our borders. I want the dream of New York back, as I enter the City from across the Hudson River, with Lower Manhattan bookmarked by the Freedom Tower. I want glowing glass, and human-lit sky to bare the torch of liberty, along Liberty Street. I want the Memorial built, and the dirt floor to be covered with man-made heights and accomplishments. Five years have gone by, and it feels like it’s time to move on, not just as myself, the individual, but as a unit, a whole, a City that deserves to be great again. That is what this day means to me, not like last year, not like four years ago, but what this present day means now.

Leave it Behind

2006-09-10T23:32:00.000-04:00

You can go months without seeing anyone you know, much less, see someone famous walking down the streets of New York. And I'll admit, I've had plenty of celebrity sightings in the past eight years of being here, but Thursday and Friday I saw five. Later on Friday evening on Julie and my walk down Manhattan together, we saw the beautiful blond prosecutor with glasses from Law & Order/Conviction around the Flatiron area along Broadway. As we approached Bleecker along Lafayette, we passed by Brian Grazer, Ron Howard's producing partner for Imagine Entertainment, and that's when I freaked out a little more.

Prior to that, I can't even remember the last sighting. This may seem like I'm celebrity-obsessed, and I do watch Access Hollywood regularly to keep up with the business. Yes it is mostly gossip, but it just seems a little odd to see fame so often and all at once.

This blog is focusing my goals. I'm putting myself out there, working out regularly and I can feel the energy shift. It's going to happen, and I am predicting it here folks.

What an amazing night, Friday. I don't want to reveal too much, because it is a bit personal, but I'll just say that Julie and I go on walks in New York; two to four hour walks down Manhattan and across the Brooklyn Bridge, and we hadn't done that in quite a while. After work Friday, we walked from work to Brooklyn on Jay Street, and caught the F train home from there.

The golden full moon hung above the eastern sky, clear and black and open as we approached the Bridge. A single beam of light shot up from Lower Manhattan, not exactly at the World Trade Center sight, but in remembrance nonetheless. It's blue hue reaching for the heavens, connecting the earthly to the infinite. Maybe on the 11th they'll place two beams, but I know the cost to the City is too much to keep all week.

We had the option after eating three roasted pork tacos with chunky guacamole, rice, beans, and sour cream at Chipotle – it may be a chain, but it hits home for us – to watch a movie at the AMC Times Square. We checked out the times on the outdoor board at around 7pm. The throngs of passers-by along 42nd Street were too much, bumping and avoiding, so we ducked by oncoming people-traffic and entered the building.

The line to the front ticket counter reached the doors. Each automatic ticket vestibule had a line of four or more. The chatter and the proximity of an entire floor occupied with moviegoers squeezed me into a private knot. I looked at Julie and said, after telling her earlier that I really wanted to see at least three different new movies, “We don't have to see a movie. We could just walk?”
“Yeah, it's such a beautiful day, I just don't feel right spending it inside all night, then having to go home.”
“You want to just walk downtown?”
“Sure, sounds good.”

And with that, we exited the horde into the Great River of People, east to Broadway. We made our decision. It was for our New York couple adventure, a substitute for working out.

This is when we have our best conversations, expressing our dreams and immediate concerns, flushing it out with each step down, and pouring it on the sidewalks. Julie will do the window shopping and once in a while we'll enter a retail dwelling, but it's onward and southward despite our corporate attire and my non-walking-dress shoes. Doesn't matter, just walk, push forward and manifest the metaphor for life.

We do it together. We do it with love.

The pounding of feet, the burden of over-the-shoulder bags, the constriction of tight clothing means nothing, O' Twin of the Walk. There's levity in our load, and gravity is but a foreign concept as our spirits soar along avenues and above the edifices, into the night and Golden Moon.

Triumphant Two, defending the soul from stagnation and desktops, affidavits and offer letters, voice mail and Blackberry prisons. This is our time, to leap from the banking towers along Park Avenue to the suspension heights of the East River.

We can see you there, on the Bridge, from a distance. We walked from you, lit and distinguished, and placed beside Chrysler and MetLife. You're so tall standing next to us, and I feel small in your shadow, but we have walked all the way here, and you are just another silhouette, topped with a shimmering candle among the other thousand slhouettes and candles. You are now in our night-shadow as we stand above the world, boats passing below us, putting you far behind our steps.

During the day we feel bound, but this night we are free, and this perspective has freed us. This is where we share our dreams. This is where we share our reality. This moment, in this present Now, is our world, and you are but a part of it.

Wipe it off on Me

2006-09-08T14:38:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I didn’t write a blog because I didn’t have work. That’s what happens when you’re a temp. I show up for work, bedecked in corporate-wear – slacks, button-down, tie – with no guarantee that I will be getting paid. On better days, like Wednesday, I showed up and within a half-hour, my temp agency let me know that I could go upstairs to 40 for my assignment of the day.

Thursday, though was a different story, and the decision to leave work is usually made at 10am. I could stay there all day if I want, but realistically, if there isn’t a call by 10, I’m done for the day. Instead of leaving though, I took care of bills on the computers in our waiting room. We wait in the bowels of the building, sub-floor 1, no windows, no natural light, no idea what the outside world might look like. I feel bad for my temp agents, spending their days in a single large room, no cubes, only desks, no privacy, forced to deal with the others neuroses and loud voices. But that’s their choice to stay there. Like I said two days ago, we all have choices. Brilliant.

After an hour of phone calls and payments, I fled the bowels, and headed south on a half-hour walk to a “Go-see”, or a modeling casting call for Hispanics… I can pass, and being of mixed-nationality, I can justify it too bitch! It was for Microsoft, a year of print ad usage of my image for $1,500, with potential for an additional $1,500 depending on my role in the photo shoot. If they didn’t want me as a principal, I had the option to be an extra for $500.

I used to live off of these shoots, getting one of those every month or two, and not needing to be a sucker in a three-piece, but as pounds are added, jobs are subtracted. I know the drill, so I’m in the process of dropping my fat-suit at the local McDonald’s and leaving it there for tourists to snack on during their Times Square visits. It’s good for egg rolls, fried chicken and funnel cakes. Maybe I’ll sell it to Six Flags and make an extra buck.

After the go-see, it’s uptown to check our P.O. Box, Jules and my last connection to the Upper West Side. We were forced out of our apartment, as the owners converted it into a hotel behind Lincoln Square, used formerly for students of Julliard and used presently for tourists and very vocal one-night stands and working girls. I should have recorded it for a no-fee sound byte on my website. Maybe I’d get more hits. But our PO Box keeps us hoping that one day we shall return to the comforts of Manhattan and the chill family life. Unless we move to LA, but Village living is over for us.

No mail. No checks, more importantly, at the PO, so it was time to feed the beast with a couple slices. Mind you, I’m on four hours of sleep per night, with early morning workouts before the no-job job, so I’m fading fast, stumbling for a break. I sit among the pigeons and cobblestones below and across the street from the massive Barnes & Nobles on 66th and Broadway. Fruit and vegetable stands surround me, metal tables and chairs, fixtures to this outdoor, street sanctuary. It’s no haven from New York noises, but it'll do to rest my feet and gorge myself on pepperoni and sausage. Delish… and wholesome too. Wholesomely dripping with animal fat.

Filled with guilt for consuming twice the slice, I set out on foot for a grand adventure back down the Broadway, and this is where I begin my run-ins. Let me preface this by emphasizing my consistent fortitude lately, at speaking to the Universe or God or the Infinite Is, whatever you prefer, about my desires for wealth and comfort through showbiz. When the lights go down, and the quiet of Bedroom Peace comforts me in the arms of my best friend and wife, I’ve been giving a vocal, “I’m going to land a series of national commercials, Law & Order spots, a hosting gig on MTV or VH1, E!, Fuse, or anything that will take us out of our current situation.” And I’m believing it. It will happen.

So my first encounter as I pass the outdoor restaurants that face Lincoln Center along Broadway, was with the guru of books on improving your wealth, Rich Dad, Poor Dad himself, Robert Kiyosake. I’ve read the book, and I’ve seen the infomercials. I also read his articles on Yahoo!. He’s a big guy.

I forage on, reaching Columbus Circle, joining the hordes at the corner entrance of Central Park. A Jazz group rehearsed, or conversed rather, for their later performance, as stated on their 12-foot banner, which sectioned them off from the passers-by, all sporting black T-shirts and instruments of choice. Watching them was a gray, slightly bald bulldog-man in a suit. His presence made me stop to watch the rehearsal near him, giving myself time to place his face. To my right a man stared at the bulldog, wielding a toothy smile in recognition, confirming my own.

A black T-shirt-clad woman crossed the space to shake hands, “Commissioner Ray Kelly, good to see you.”

Ah-hah! That’s what I thought, as I gave myself a pat on the back. NYC Police Commissioner Ray Kelly, whose face is consistently featured on the evening news. They chatted for a moment, until they were interrupted by a man reaching to shake as well, “Commissioner Kelly, just wanted to say you’re doing a great job. Thank you.”

The toothy-smile man took the cue and crossed next, “Just wanted to shake your hand, sir.”

Searching myself and my true feelings of my perception of him, I thought about the last five years after 9/11, and how there haven’t been anymore attacks, so far, and hopefully forever, and I found myself crossing to him, hand extended, shaking the hand of a man I had not met. “Your doing a great job.”

I laugh now as I hear the words coming out of my mouth. What a dork who’s publicly aware. But I really felt it. Why not offer up gratitude? Although as I shook his hand, I imagined a world of corruption, power and money, ever so brilliantly portrayed in Training Day with Denzel. A world where people like Ray Kelly enforce their Machiavellian will on the populace, telling stories of heroes, arrests and medals to the media, while they stuff their pockets with illegal money. I envisioned a young cop from one of the boroughs, working his way up the ranks, learning the reality of how law and order is dealt, being disillusioned by this truth, then accepting and thriving, no longer listening to the voice of conscience, while rules are enforced.

Of course, he could be a completely ethical and moral man, with a strong family and honorable life. I've read about his program creating NYC's own CIA/FBI unit that protects our City. My imagination likes to flex its drama muscles and summon outrageous scenarios, so I'll give Commissioner Kelly more than the benefit of the doubt. It's all in my head.

I left to pick up my headshots, and my final encounter was a fellow actor and photographer friend at Reproductions. He said we should do a shoot next week. I need to get to the gym every day before that. He's building his portfolio, so he gives his actor friends free shoots, and that’s why I have my new headshot. Thanks.

Then this morning, leaving the N train along 49th Street, going east to Madison, , about to hit Rockefeller, Julie and I are holding hands on our daily stroll to the office. I catch a glimpse of a young man with a slight entourage approaching, give Julie’s hand a squeeze to look up, and Zach Braff walks by us to enter the black SUV’s, those used to transport celebrities and politicians.

Julie and I smile at each other, and I say, “I am so jealous right now. I feel it in my chest how jealous I am right now.”

He’s a young man, about my age, who has a hit comedy show on NBC, a successful writing and directing venture cum generational film - Garden State, not to mention wealth and fame. Ah, yes, Grasshopper, it will happen to me. Oh yes, it will happen...

And I believe it. All these run-ins in the last two days must be signs, and I must be acutely aware of the famous energies out there, demonstrating my energy's "takes one to know one" level. And why not? I'm putting it out there like never before, posting blogs, videos, photos, resumes and anything to get me more work. So I'm happy the Universe is listening.

A Choice to Change

2006-09-06T16:05:00.000-04:00

It’s a strange feeling when you finally decide to work out again. My wife and I woke up at 4:55 AM, before the alarm, and asked in darkness, “Should we go work out?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m so tired. I hate showering at that nasty gym.”

Then we laid there for five minutes more, holding and enjoying the shared moment of peace and bodily comfort, before the alarm announced our good intention of working out before work. Snooze.
“Should we work out?”
“I don’t know. Should we?”

Silence.

“Should we work out?”And the skipping mp3 continued: hold each other in comfort for nine minutes more, alarm, snooze, ask the questions laden with guilt and hope for a better body, silence…

At 5:27, the cycle repeated, followed by a plea bargain, “We could walk for 20 minutes today. We just need to walk more anyway.”

Silence, except this time, my wife reached over and blinded me with the lamp’s hideous fire. I cringed and clenched my eyelids, fighting off the impending alertness, which aimed to melt away my drowsy peace. She has made the decision for us… today. Mu-wahahahaha!

Why is it so difficult when we know it’s so good for us? It’s not like we haven’t gone on the workout kick before and lost 20-35 pounds through months of dedication and diet. We know we can, but it’s that requisite, initial decision to make that commitment which causes the bedroom-alarm-clock dance. A choice to change.

Who can blame us? It’s ridiculously early, and we don’t like our new gym. We actually like certain locations better, but this particular Bally’s on 55th and 6th is most convenient to our day jobs. We loved New York Sports Club during high times, and miss it now, but there’s no way we can afford that without knowing for sure that I will even have a consistent day job. Summer’s over and vacations will be less, so as a temporary worker, a floater, I am not guaranteed work. So how can we plan and be responsible without knowing.

But who out there ever really knows anyway? I’ve never been a planner, always priding myself on spontaneity, carpe diem, and living life to its fullest. When facing up to my financial past, I initially balked and avoided calling up the Bill People, leaving that fearful task to my wife. I eventually chose to take some of the burden off of her and participate in my own, our own, financial life. But I had to make a choice. Now I see the big picture, and will not shirk my responsibilities. I’ll ask for help, but I won’t ignore and avoid them any longer… good for me!

It’s a tough choice to make. Well, any hard choice requires mulling over, but somehow, some way – it’s unclear to me why certain choices are made – the right choice for the right time will happen. And I’m all the better for it, for now.

The choice to help Julie rose out of her exhaustion from her workload, lack of sleep, ongoing stress of money and not having a consistent performing gig. My general love for her and wanting to make her happy also had some effect, no matter how minute. As I witnessed my damsel suffering, the burly, masculine hero decided to take over, and I grabbed the bills out of her hand and made the calls myself. Impressive.

Now, we share that responsibility, although, she is much better at budgeting than me. I’m working on it and learning the way. I’m a long way from clubbing ‘til 9am, to hear Paul Van Dyk spinning at Twilo. No longer closing down bars, we choose to have a couple drinks only, maybe three if we’re feeling cuckoo crazy. Wow, wild ones.

But I like our choices. I don’t have to feel like I’m keeping up with my younger brother, who is 8 ½ years my junior. I’m done with my twenties, and the twenties’ lifestyle is done with me. The road of excess, leads to some golden, shimmering tower of, what was it, oh, wisdom or something.

So my next wise choice, earned by experience and gratitude for life, will come at an inopportune time when an unforeseen, barren crossroads arises. I’ll look down one end to find a cul-de-sac. The other side will be a YouTube account, and I’ll choose to upload my face onto the great abyss, with hopes of hits and grandeur. Then I’ll go work out.

Learn How to be Schooled

2006-09-05T13:26:00.000-04:00

I continue from Sept 1st: Living in NYC is slightly different, where even $20/hr won’t get you by, but at least I’m getting by, slightly, for once in my life. And I’m proud of that accomplishment. I’m actually attempting to tackle the great beast, one body throw at a time. I just hope that I book something soon, or the beast will step on my head and pin me to the carpet. Donations from bankers or investors are accepted.

Sept. 5th: Today is a new day, and the city buses are now filled at 7:30am with students, teachers and administrators making their way to a new year. The air is filled with dread for some, excitement for others. I always enjoyed the first day, because work was sparse, the reunion began, and it was the promise of no mistakes made… yet. I had a clean slate, with new opportunities to shine or get by doing homework during lunch before next period.

But that excitement is only project-specific now, and not related to a school year cycle. And it’s been a while since I began a new project. I might have even felt that excitement my first day at my current survival-job at the investment bank. Oo, I got nervous to be an assistant.

My wife calls it the First Day of School whenever she starts a new show or project, because that feeling doesn’t really change with age or experience. She still gets nervous after performing on Broadway and working with famous performers, and the most brilliant singers in New York. It’s the expectations, and the hope that you’ll do well and make new friends, that gets your insides churning…

…I’m not feeling rather entertaining right now. I actually wrote a nice piece about my memories of Manhattan, pre-9/11, but it was erased while trying to publish it. Lesson learned, save the damn work before pushing the publish button.

Now that I’ve got that off my chest, I feel like I can move on.

The school year may have started, over a million students are back at school in New York City, and over six thousand new teachers are in place, but can we fix the problems of our age with education? Look at our society. We’re at war again and wagers of war have studied history. The Gulf Coast region still looks like a warzone, yet there are plenty of studied engineers and architects around. Mathematicians and economists have yet to figure out our re-grown national debt. AIDS is the new plague that has yet to be cured by science, not to mention cancer. People of the arts and journalists document our times, the good and the bad, but is anybody listening?

Fear is everywhere, swimming in the streets and floating in the fields, yet are we facing what it is we are truly afraid of?

At its root, all conflicts can be resolved, if both parties are willing to listen. But nobody is listening right now. They’re too busy firing bullets and exploding bombs to hear each other. And the leaders of every one of these conflicts comes highly educated. That’s why there is a call to ideals. We’re in... another… ideological struggle, so says both sides. Our highly evolved and educated societies stand for different things, therefore, our societies must attempt to destroy each other.

I know I’m wrong about that, but that’s what it feels like right now. Osama was educated but he became disillusioned and pissed off enough to hijack planes. Bush was educated at Yale, albeit C’s were common, but a C at Yale is better than an A at some Universities (I’m trying to give the benefit of the doubt to W, because I sure as hell am not a W supporter).

And I’m one for education, I’m a product of it. I have learned quite a bit about the material world and the history of it, but there is so much we don’t know, or rather, choose to remember. There’s something out there that we’re not learning, and each generation isn’t learning in turn. Everyone in their heart knows these answers already, but what we've learned or failed to learn, is to listen to the true nature of our humanity. To listen to the child inside of us that is afraid of the first day of school because he or she wants to make friends and be accepted. But the child is also excited, because she has a chance to start over, a chance to make better on the mistakes of last year.

Let's start over and make friends.

School Children, Al Basrah, Iraq: Photo by Jane Sweeney

Will Work for Art

2006-09-01T13:17:00.000-04:00

I answer the phone, on average, once every 20 mintues. For a total, so far, of 9 times in the past 3 hours. Do the math, that's three per hour. It is the Friday before Labor Day, the Real World's last hurrah before the onset of returning to Normal Times, school, and the harder grind. People are reminded that it's time to labor, once again, as the onslaught of cold weather brings us back to more productive lives. Produce more, vacate less.

That's no excuse for what I do. I get paid $20 per hour, to answer a phone with a quick and clever whip, "Freddy Banker's office... Sorry, he's unavailable at the moment, may I take a message, or would you like voice mail?"

After the caller's needs aren't met, she settles for voice mail, and I transfer her away while I face 20 more peaceful minutes of solitude. Before isolation, however, I am endowed with the difficult task of creating an email, and typing in the subject line "Pls call She Banker; x1234", then sending a blank message to the vacated banker. Yep, that's it. And it's back to reading the New York Times online, Google News, and scanning for Yahoo! Most Popular photos of the day, which usually consist of the previous night's skin, a Lebanese city destroyed, or a baby panda that fits on one finger.

This is what I do, and I feel no shame. I'm a grown, married man who makes choices of his own volition, although heavily-influenced by aforementioned wife, and I choose freely to be here in this haven of phone etiquette and billion dollar investment funds. I haven't ventured into the billion dollar fund, as of late, but I've decided to focus on the telephonic side of things. Some people can multi-task, but I choose to hone in on the most relevent first. Triage, baby, triage.

Hey, I need the money. I'm an artist, and bankers have subsidized artists for centuries, although, they haven't handed me my commision yet. But that is why I write freely today, and yesterday. They're money gives me this pre-paid computer, with a great deal on internet access, which is free-to-me access. And off I go into the wild, net-yonder.

Granted, there are a great many who don't make what I make, and do much more work, meaning physical labor, constant mundane tasks, watching the streets, putting out fires, or teaching children. Fulfilling, I'm sure these occupations are, and at some point in life, I've questioned whether or not I wanted to participate in that side of life. The choice is obvious: to enlighten the world of the plight of the Bartleby's of the 21st century.

No, things haven't changed much since businesses consisted of the boss, a sole worker, and a coal oven to heat the two in one room. Well they have, with electricity, phones, the internet, minimum wage, 401k's, Dental plans, Social Security, Income tax, among other small accomplishments in the last two centuries. But other than that, you still have the basic priciple of boss and worker. Worker earns much smaller amount than boss, in exchange for handling the tedious, repetitive, unchallenging business demands, on a daily basis. Ah, yes, things haven't changed.

So, am I complaining about my position in business-life, despite the many less-paid, overworked souls out there, relative to me? Hell no. I appreciate the time I have to write and read. I am thankful for the laisse-faire attitudes of the bankers I work for, with only a few who are particular with their needs.

If I didn't have a monolith of debt from 3 school loans, now consolidated, 3 credit cards, and a generous gift from a our former subletter, whom we owe the final month's rent, not to mention the regular bills of rent, food, utilities, clothes, travel, etc., etc., then I would be in a great-paying job that would lead me to a life of savings in fianancial baby steps toward owning a house and starting a family. But like I said, I am in debt, at 31 years old, upwards of $65 thousand. It happens, and you get used to it, but that monolith can't be knocked down in one giant swoop with a $20/hour job.

That's where the art comes in. That's where the I-better-land-a-national-commercial-soon comes in. If I land one, that runs for six months, extended from the average three months, I could topple $50k of the mountain, and almost begin to save for things to come.

Debt is personal, so is money, but truth is the only way to liberate myself of this dillema that I placed myself in over the last 13 years. From undergraduate school, to acting school, a trip to Europe in between, and a few months of rent on the credit card when I didn't have a job, I have created this monolith, and I can't seem to see the top of it. Maybe if I step far back.

But still, it's all relative. The poverty line grows, and people earn $10 thousand per year. I don't know how, but they do. Living in NYC is slightly different, but...

Naked and Exposed

2006-08-31T15:49:00.000-04:00

It's about time to rant and rave about the world at large, or the tiny one that I dwell in.

This is my first blog and I'm feeling pretty exposed, not that anyone will actually read this yet, but as I write more, I'll feel comfortable in the nude. And I look pretty good too.

Blogging is such a part of our world, and I may be just joining in and catching a late wave, but it's not about keeping up, it's about using the best form out there to express yourself and be heard. Though, as I and everyone else have seen, the whole world wants to expose their ideas, emotions, private & intimate thoughts, to a public that knows not who we are, in the hope that it will bring fame and, possibly one day, after a profound body of work is completed with all the media attention directed towards it... fortune.

Who doesn't want fortune? So which is the ultimate goal of all the bloggers out there? To get a little attention or purely just to find a place in the world to be heard, without the physical self creating a distorted, pre-conceived bias (as I include a self-portrait) in the many sponges out there, waiting for new, reprocessed, or used ideas to feed their hungry skulls. People want guidance. People want to commiserate, or simply feel self-important enough to believe that what I am doing right now will change the world.

At this point, I have all those feelings swirling around my solar plexus, shaking up some fear and self-loathing, not to mention, excitement and hope of actually contributing to the vast and infinite webscape of anonymous and known users, waiting to soak up the poignant, prophetic and profound voice of infinitesimal me.

Picture this... I'm sitting in a low-walled cubicle, window offices in my view, Manhattan below, on the 40th floor of a corporate, investment banking behemoth, Queens in the Eastern sky, blanketed by clouds and mist, a horizon of white, and although this morning, as I sat down, ate my buffet-prepared cheesy-eggs, hash brown rectangle, and mixed fruit bowl, I felt the cube walls squeezing me, and my butt muscles sinking into the routine. But through these words, filled with light and optics, switches and silicon, I feel infinite. It's happening as I write, through imagining the possibilities of what needs to be purged and told, not for the sake of the reader, whom may never be more than one soul - that being my wife - but for the sake of me. Just knowing that my private journal is public, transmorms and transcends the normal daily plodding of random thoughts and spells.

I'm understanding the need to put it all out there and be fearless once again. It's empowering and liberating. It's making my once-tingling solar plexus spread the tangible feeling to my torso, and my breath continues to expand the breadth of emotional reward that fulfills each idea through every keystroke, to my entire being.

This is quite a reward for doing what I always do, but this time, there may actually be a reader. It changes everything. I'm opening my backpack, taking out my journal, tearing out a page, and placing it in harm's way, without body armor or helmet, and lifting a glowing, flashing target to be pelted with on any occasion.

Cool. "Let it be", and with that, "whisper words of wisdom..."(1)

So am I doing this merely for exhibition's sake, for fame and fortune in the future, to let my manhood twist in the wind in a sadistic plan for anonymous flagellation?

No... I'm actually finding a freedom that I know will carry on in my regular day, a satisfaction in the knowledge that what I write, my consciousness, is not wasted. It has meaning and purpose and little by little, I will craft and hone a living breathing entity that is my consciousness, and it won't be for nought on this planet... and if I get a little cash one day for that effort, I'll tuck it in my belt, and keep exposing what I got...

(1) of course I quote The Beatles