So with all the H1N1 pandemonium floating around lately, its apparently leaked into my subconscious. I officially just had my first swine flu nightmare (more like a napmare, though, since it was in-between winks on my uncomfortable couch).
Anyway, get this.
Important Fact: the H1N1 vaccine (and most vaccines, for that matter) contains "inactivated viral antigens". Basically, it's like giving yourself a small Einstein-tampered dose of the disease so that your immune system can drop kick the real thing in the future.
If there are still dosages left at the university tomorrow morning, I'm planning on getting one (...so what, call me a paranoid douche. there's a time and place for hot & sweaty, and it's definitely not during finals or my merry effing Christmas).
Important sidenote: Jurassic Park is amazing
Important relevance: Don't watch it before getting vaccinated.
How the hell does this all tie together? Welllll it just so happens I watched the entire Jurassic Park trilogy last week; and my horrifying napmare went a little something like this...
A couple *cough troglodyte cough* U of S Archaeology students somehow diddled with the H1N1 vaccine by filling the "inactivated viral antigens" with frog DNA, like the scientists did with dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. Somehow I realized this just as the needle penetrated my pores, a second too late. Now can anyone remember what happened to the dinos in JP because of this mixed frog DNA?
That's right. They were ambisexual (could change sex like frogs).
So suddenly, as if it made 100% sense, I grew blonde hair, long nails, and a bra (not breasts, just a bra *sigh*). The archaeology jerks then proceeded to chase me around campus -- what they planned to do with me once they caught up, God knows -- and it was absolutely t-e-r-r-i-f-y-i-n-g. Somehow I sprouted high heels around Place Riel, but then fell down the stairs and was totally paralyzed. As I looked up, archaeology boys descending with drooling smiles, I SCREAMED and then
Woke up.
No bra, no blonde hair.
Phew.
If Freud and Joseph were right and dreams are just coded messages about our real lives, I'm not quite sure what this one was trying to say. Don't get the H1N1 shot? Don't fall for an archaeology kid? Don't dress in drag?
Well damn, I can't promise I won't do any of those.
Seriously, though, I understand that everything that happened in this dream is utterly impossible from one tiny flu shot (I'd need at least a good surgeon and $100 La Senza gift card for that), but yet I can't help keep hearing that famous Jurassic Park quote: "nature will find a way..."
P.S. If some crazy Jurassic Park-like science thing does go down, please film it and then kill me before anyone else gets the chance to make two shitty sequels. Thank you.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
bureaucraps
A french kiss for whoever can answer this riddle:
What is something that never smiles but always stares; something that flies but doesn't have wings; something almost everyone owns but is impossible to get?
...
Answers? Anyone? Tongue's waiting...
Give up?
It's a passport. A bloody fricken' passport.
Detect my disdain? Good. See, this morning my mom phoned to say that since we're going to Hawaii in February, we should renew our passports ASAP (they expire in March, and the goverment warns against travelling with id that expires within six months of vacation or something). So after only a mild dose of complaining, I grabbed my passport and darted straight down to Wal-Mart to get my picture retaken.
Now I don't know about the rest of the world, but a passport isn't something I'm necessarily concerned about every day. Sure it's a life-line when travelling, but otherwise it never really crosses my mind -- until I started thinking about the expiry date, that is. So although I still had four months left, all of a sudden it seemed like those sixteen weeks wasn't very long at all. My brain, bored in traffic, started conjuring up worst case scenarios, mostly revolving around being late and subsequently missing out on Hawaii.
Cut to Wal-Mart. Fortunately this process was painless -- I'm out with my photo pack in ten minutes. Unfortunately, it was unjustly windy outside (my hair was a wreck), I hadn't shaved, and my clothes thought it funny to bunch up in awkward places. Translation: my pics could pass for Amy Winehouse. I contemplated requesting a re-shoot, but the visions were getting worse; if I didn't hurry up and renew, not only would I miss Hawaii, but I would be damned to stay stuck in Saskatoon for the rest of eternity! AaaAAhhh!
So I threw my cash at the photographer and sprinted out with passport and pictures clutched in my knuckles. Irrationality was taking over -- I swear I heard a greeter shout: "welcome to Wal-Mart, may I see your passport?"
Next up was the government building. These places terrify me... I always feel extremely out of place and unwelcome. Or like I'm doing something illegal. And not to criticize the system or anything, but, well, why the hell do they need policemen stationed at every door? True, they're the oldies who probably catch more gum disease than criminals, but really? And maybe I wouldn't make fun of these old people if they were a tad nicer, but come on. They're grumpy. I mean, ever wonder why majority of adults are angry and frustrated but most grandparents are endlessly nice and sweet and kind? It's because you just don't see the angry old grumps as much -- they're busy trolling these tall brick government buildings.
Anyway, I took the elevator up to the passport office and waited in line. When it got to my turn, Officer Agnid asked what my business was. "Renewing my passport," I replied. Well the rest is a whirlwind of bureaucratic bullshit. I'm first told to fill out a specific form for easy renewal, but then find out that I can't because my previous passport was issued when I was under 16. Therefore, I have to essentially start from scratch because they need all original id, guarantor's signatures, government issued id, $100, a vial of blood, and my first born child.
And you know what I said back to that load of bureaucrap?
Ok.
Honestly, besides blog-venting there's nothing I can do to ease the passport pain. Guess I'll just have to fill everything out properly, bide my time, and do the whole thing over again six years down the road. Getting angry or staying grumpy doesn't solve anything. It just guarantees you a job with the government.
What is something that never smiles but always stares; something that flies but doesn't have wings; something almost everyone owns but is impossible to get?
...
Answers? Anyone? Tongue's waiting...
Give up?
It's a passport. A bloody fricken' passport.
Detect my disdain? Good. See, this morning my mom phoned to say that since we're going to Hawaii in February, we should renew our passports ASAP (they expire in March, and the goverment warns against travelling with id that expires within six months of vacation or something). So after only a mild dose of complaining, I grabbed my passport and darted straight down to Wal-Mart to get my picture retaken.
Now I don't know about the rest of the world, but a passport isn't something I'm necessarily concerned about every day. Sure it's a life-line when travelling, but otherwise it never really crosses my mind -- until I started thinking about the expiry date, that is. So although I still had four months left, all of a sudden it seemed like those sixteen weeks wasn't very long at all. My brain, bored in traffic, started conjuring up worst case scenarios, mostly revolving around being late and subsequently missing out on Hawaii.
Cut to Wal-Mart. Fortunately this process was painless -- I'm out with my photo pack in ten minutes. Unfortunately, it was unjustly windy outside (my hair was a wreck), I hadn't shaved, and my clothes thought it funny to bunch up in awkward places. Translation: my pics could pass for Amy Winehouse. I contemplated requesting a re-shoot, but the visions were getting worse; if I didn't hurry up and renew, not only would I miss Hawaii, but I would be damned to stay stuck in Saskatoon for the rest of eternity! AaaAAhhh!
So I threw my cash at the photographer and sprinted out with passport and pictures clutched in my knuckles. Irrationality was taking over -- I swear I heard a greeter shout: "welcome to Wal-Mart, may I see your passport?"
Next up was the government building. These places terrify me... I always feel extremely out of place and unwelcome. Or like I'm doing something illegal. And not to criticize the system or anything, but, well, why the hell do they need policemen stationed at every door? True, they're the oldies who probably catch more gum disease than criminals, but really? And maybe I wouldn't make fun of these old people if they were a tad nicer, but come on. They're grumpy. I mean, ever wonder why majority of adults are angry and frustrated but most grandparents are endlessly nice and sweet and kind? It's because you just don't see the angry old grumps as much -- they're busy trolling these tall brick government buildings.
Anyway, I took the elevator up to the passport office and waited in line. When it got to my turn, Officer Agnid asked what my business was. "Renewing my passport," I replied. Well the rest is a whirlwind of bureaucratic bullshit. I'm first told to fill out a specific form for easy renewal, but then find out that I can't because my previous passport was issued when I was under 16. Therefore, I have to essentially start from scratch because they need all original id, guarantor's signatures, government issued id, $100, a vial of blood, and my first born child.
And you know what I said back to that load of bureaucrap?
Ok.
Honestly, besides blog-venting there's nothing I can do to ease the passport pain. Guess I'll just have to fill everything out properly, bide my time, and do the whole thing over again six years down the road. Getting angry or staying grumpy doesn't solve anything. It just guarantees you a job with the government.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Say it ain't so
To dump even more salt on my celebrity wounds, Ivanka Trump married Jared Kushner yesterday afternoon.
October 25th.
My birthday.
It was a lavish affair, held at Trump National Golf Course. Five hundred celebrity guests, immaculate weather, and a wedding dress designed by Vera Wang topped off the spectacular scene. Registry items ranged from $200 - $500, as well as a reported $1350 sterling bowl.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, I was eating KFC after opening my own presents. One of them, believe it or not, was Ivanka's new bestselling book "The Trump Card".
Tragic? Painfully so.
October 25th.
My birthday.
It was a lavish affair, held at Trump National Golf Course. Five hundred celebrity guests, immaculate weather, and a wedding dress designed by Vera Wang topped off the spectacular scene. Registry items ranged from $200 - $500, as well as a reported $1350 sterling bowl.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, I was eating KFC after opening my own presents. One of them, believe it or not, was Ivanka's new bestselling book "The Trump Card".
Tragic? Painfully so.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Vive la Revolution!
Hear that?
...
It's silence. Too much, in fact, and it's all my fault. Letterman's admitted to shtooping his staff, Oprah's gained twenty four pounds, and Beyonce's been at the centre of a Kanye-versial explosion.
And where was I?
In the shower. Doing laundry. Buying seedless grapes only to find out that they weren't seedless and throwing a tantrum.
Enough.
The water's cold, the laundry's clean, and the grapes are gone. Welcome back, bloggies. I missed you.
...
It's silence. Too much, in fact, and it's all my fault. Letterman's admitted to shtooping his staff, Oprah's gained twenty four pounds, and Beyonce's been at the centre of a Kanye-versial explosion.
And where was I?
In the shower. Doing laundry. Buying seedless grapes only to find out that they weren't seedless and throwing a tantrum.
Enough.
The water's cold, the laundry's clean, and the grapes are gone. Welcome back, bloggies. I missed you.
Monday, October 5, 2009
The Bum
I'm amazed by something I saw today -- truly amazed! While on campus running to and from business meetings, group gatherings, and back to back classes, I caught sight of something that shook me to my core.
A bum.
Not a buttocks, but a bum. The homeless kind. [Disclaimer: I'm not saying that bums' bums bum me out, but rather most bums, even attractive bums, are irrelevant to this bumnalysis].
Going on... so I saw this bum, right? I recognized him from his sleeping on buses, his begging for change, and his scant winter clothing. But here's the thing...
HE WASN'T A BUM ANYMORE.
He'd transformed into a genuine Sears-clad, laptop toting, cap wearing college student. Like Serena morphed into Sailor Moon... minus everything sexy and plus everything normal.
Gahhh! My world was flipped upside down! Was it for real? Had he escaped poverty?? If so, great for him! I feel... proud. That's right. Proud. My little tyke who I once had to glare at for peeing in the snow while drinking from some paper bag was now on his own in the real world.
Listen closely, college kids. Learn the lesson here:
This man was -- I hypothesize -- an alcoholic. He had little money, he ate poorly, he slept and peed in strange places, and he eyed up the opposite sex with sometimes frightening glances. And if that description isn't a paraphrase of 95% of college kids in the whole wide world, I dunno what is.
If this man can clean himself up, it's time the rest of us do too. Stop acting like university students. Be more like the bum.
A bum.
Not a buttocks, but a bum. The homeless kind. [Disclaimer: I'm not saying that bums' bums bum me out, but rather most bums, even attractive bums, are irrelevant to this bumnalysis].
Going on... so I saw this bum, right? I recognized him from his sleeping on buses, his begging for change, and his scant winter clothing. But here's the thing...
HE WASN'T A BUM ANYMORE.
He'd transformed into a genuine Sears-clad, laptop toting, cap wearing college student. Like Serena morphed into Sailor Moon... minus everything sexy and plus everything normal.
Gahhh! My world was flipped upside down! Was it for real? Had he escaped poverty?? If so, great for him! I feel... proud. That's right. Proud. My little tyke who I once had to glare at for peeing in the snow while drinking from some paper bag was now on his own in the real world.
Listen closely, college kids. Learn the lesson here:
This man was -- I hypothesize -- an alcoholic. He had little money, he ate poorly, he slept and peed in strange places, and he eyed up the opposite sex with sometimes frightening glances. And if that description isn't a paraphrase of 95% of college kids in the whole wide world, I dunno what is.
If this man can clean himself up, it's time the rest of us do too. Stop acting like university students. Be more like the bum.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Big City Women
I know, I know. Zero posts in August. Boo hoo.
Actually, my month long blog-hiatus was probably a good thing. Sometimes it's best for us writers to take a break and let our minds re-fuel with new ideas. I could have forced myself to puke out posts, but they would've probably been just as chunky, smelly, and unfunny as real vomit.
First of all, let's back-track. From Aug 25th - Sept 1st, I dived down to Chicago and New York City. Great places! But I'm not here to bore you with places; I'm here to entertain you with people. Women, in fact. Big City Women. So without further ado, let me introduce you to Jane, Mary, Stephanie, Joan, The Queen of Tuesdays, and Miss Frisk.
Jane, a 65ish woman I met on the plane from Saskatoon to Chicago, was either eccentric or lunatic. We sat beside each other for two hours without saying a single word. During our descent, however, she started asking questions about where I was from, where I was going, etcetera. Turns out she was from Chicago, and went on to warn me about certain neighbourhoods, shitty restaurants, and drive-by shootings. Two things about her interested me: one, she had a son in Big City advertising (my career goal), and two, she was wearing a large expensive ring (sign of wealth?). Somewhat shamingly, both those things led to me giving her my name and email address. I don't even think she knew what email was. Anyway Jane, if you're alive and listening, I'm sorry I led you on. Let's just be friends... but only if you're rich.
Next is Mary, another 65ish woman (the start of a depressing geriatric trend). She was a ticket-taker at the Indiana Beach rollercoaster themepark. The only thing she said as we entered the gate was: "Now I wanna hear you scream!". Umm, Mary? I want to hear you shut up -- you're rickety wooden rollercoasters make me nervous enough.
Now Stephanie was only 11. Tall, yes, but only 11. We had supper with her and her family one night, and her dad reminded us every five minutes of just how young Stephanie was. Did he think we were going to hit on her? Sorry, dad, but I only whore out to old ladies with expensive rings and city connections.
Joan the Docent was our 65 year old guide through the Chicago architectural boat tour. She often went off topic a lot to talk about her personal tastes in real estate. Joan was awesome.
Now if I thought Jane (the old lady on my plane ride to Chicago) was entertaining, that was nothing compared to the one on the way back. A 65ish year old spinster sitting one row ahead was so cheery and giddy about life that we quickly named her "The Queen of Tuesdays". Why? Well, it was Tuesday and she was loving it. Plus, she seemed the type to orgasm over cheap movie nights and Toonie Tuesdays at KFC. She chortled violently every time the stewardess mispronounced "Saskatchewan", and gabbed tirelessly about things like Saskatoon berries and airport transfers. Trust me, if you never meet The Queen of Tuesdays, you're not missing much.
Finally, after claiming luggage back at our home airport and clearing customs, my two travel buddies were given permission to exit the airport and go home. I, however, was randomly selected for a random bag search. Argh. Now let me introduce you to Miss Frisk.
Miss Frisk was a pokey, proddy airline guard who loved opening my suitcase and asking embarassing questions. In fact, I'm not sure some of her questions were even official. Example:
Miss Frisk (holding laptop): "Any adult content on here, sir?"
Me: "Umm no--"
Miss Frisk: "ANY AT ALL, sir?"
Me: "Really, no--"
Miss Frisk: "Webcam pics? Girl on girl action? Double penetraish?"
Me: "NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!"
Anyways, despite this strange vacation overview, I had a blast. Of course there were wonderfully beautiful glamazons strutting 5th, plus decked out models on Michigan Ave and gorgeous actresses with angelic voices... but for every million of those in NYC, there's a hundred frumpy airline guards, ten retired docents, and one Queen of Tuesdays.
Actually, my month long blog-hiatus was probably a good thing. Sometimes it's best for us writers to take a break and let our minds re-fuel with new ideas. I could have forced myself to puke out posts, but they would've probably been just as chunky, smelly, and unfunny as real vomit.
First of all, let's back-track. From Aug 25th - Sept 1st, I dived down to Chicago and New York City. Great places! But I'm not here to bore you with places; I'm here to entertain you with people. Women, in fact. Big City Women. So without further ado, let me introduce you to Jane, Mary, Stephanie, Joan, The Queen of Tuesdays, and Miss Frisk.
Jane, a 65ish woman I met on the plane from Saskatoon to Chicago, was either eccentric or lunatic. We sat beside each other for two hours without saying a single word. During our descent, however, she started asking questions about where I was from, where I was going, etcetera. Turns out she was from Chicago, and went on to warn me about certain neighbourhoods, shitty restaurants, and drive-by shootings. Two things about her interested me: one, she had a son in Big City advertising (my career goal), and two, she was wearing a large expensive ring (sign of wealth?). Somewhat shamingly, both those things led to me giving her my name and email address. I don't even think she knew what email was. Anyway Jane, if you're alive and listening, I'm sorry I led you on. Let's just be friends... but only if you're rich.
Next is Mary, another 65ish woman (the start of a depressing geriatric trend). She was a ticket-taker at the Indiana Beach rollercoaster themepark. The only thing she said as we entered the gate was: "Now I wanna hear you scream!". Umm, Mary? I want to hear you shut up -- you're rickety wooden rollercoasters make me nervous enough.
Now Stephanie was only 11. Tall, yes, but only 11. We had supper with her and her family one night, and her dad reminded us every five minutes of just how young Stephanie was. Did he think we were going to hit on her? Sorry, dad, but I only whore out to old ladies with expensive rings and city connections.
Joan the Docent was our 65 year old guide through the Chicago architectural boat tour. She often went off topic a lot to talk about her personal tastes in real estate. Joan was awesome.
Now if I thought Jane (the old lady on my plane ride to Chicago) was entertaining, that was nothing compared to the one on the way back. A 65ish year old spinster sitting one row ahead was so cheery and giddy about life that we quickly named her "The Queen of Tuesdays". Why? Well, it was Tuesday and she was loving it. Plus, she seemed the type to orgasm over cheap movie nights and Toonie Tuesdays at KFC. She chortled violently every time the stewardess mispronounced "Saskatchewan", and gabbed tirelessly about things like Saskatoon berries and airport transfers. Trust me, if you never meet The Queen of Tuesdays, you're not missing much.
Finally, after claiming luggage back at our home airport and clearing customs, my two travel buddies were given permission to exit the airport and go home. I, however, was randomly selected for a random bag search. Argh. Now let me introduce you to Miss Frisk.
Miss Frisk was a pokey, proddy airline guard who loved opening my suitcase and asking embarassing questions. In fact, I'm not sure some of her questions were even official. Example:
Miss Frisk (holding laptop): "Any adult content on here, sir?"
Me: "Umm no--"
Miss Frisk: "ANY AT ALL, sir?"
Me: "Really, no--"
Miss Frisk: "Webcam pics? Girl on girl action? Double penetraish?"
Me: "NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!"
Anyways, despite this strange vacation overview, I had a blast. Of course there were wonderfully beautiful glamazons strutting 5th, plus decked out models on Michigan Ave and gorgeous actresses with angelic voices... but for every million of those in NYC, there's a hundred frumpy airline guards, ten retired docents, and one Queen of Tuesdays.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Cure for HPV
No, not the human papillomavirus. Geesh get your head out of STI Alley... and Double Entendre Avenue, if you please ;)
Anyways, my lowbrow bloggies, I thought I'd open up with something sincere today. No Britney Spears mad gabs. No Beyonce. No Pokemon. No placenta. A few pornstars, maybe, but no bathroom peeper.
As most of you know, I'm a writer keen on pursuing the entertainment world. Mostly I write screenplays in hopes of making a sale (having currently completed five feature specs) or at least clenching an option. It is an unfortunate fact, however, that Hollywood is as impenetrable as The Virgin Mary. More unknown writers wilt and die than wannabe actors, directors, and gaffers combined.
I, however, know how to beat the system.
A few months ago I stumbled upon a revelating fact. Los Angeles does not only have one billion dollar entertainment industry; it has three:
H - ollywood
P - ornography
V - ideo games
HPV. At least if my top choice falls through, I have two interesting backups. Better odds, right? Wrong. Why waste my time on one of these stupid ventures only to fail and have to start back at square (or frame or bed or pixel) one?
So what's better than scaling to the top of the Hollywood world? Or Pornography Planet? Or the Video Game Universe? How about climbing all three -- the whole galaxy of entertainment -- at once?! Oh yes, bloggies, take notes. Donald Trump once said: "Be ruthless to ruthless people you meet on your way up if you don't intend on coming back down". The entertainment industries are infested with these people, these sharks. The only way to deal with them is fight. The only way to win is to have power. And the only way to get power? Combine all available resources.
Eureka!
Film pornstars playing videogames.
...
Now isn't that the most AWFUL, gut-wrenching, jaw-grinding idea ever thought up?
Good. Those ideas seem to sell.
But I'm not actually being serious, am I? Well no. The main point of this post is to probe one scary question: what's your selling-out point? At what price can the Hollywood sharks skewer the meat strips off your bones?
If you answer "I would never sell myself out!", you're either a fool or a liar. If your answer is anything under $10, please get tested.
Temptation lures the best of us. We have a tendency to romanticize instead of rationalize (whether it's "I'll wait tables until I land that Broadway lead", or "Once I'm done school, I'll start work and meet the man of my dreams"). As you know, these circumstances don't "just happen", and it leads to everyone developing their own unique case of HPV: fall-backs to brace yourselves if you don't accomplish what you really want. The truth about life is that almost anything you set your mind to is possible. The painful question is 'what cost will it come at?' I could throw out a million examples involving surgery, sacrifice, sexual favors, monetary transactions, and/or illegal acts, but you already have a pretty good idea what those entail. This is not to say you should never take risks; rather, what I'm getting at, is that you must take smart risks.
Think about JK Rowling -- a classic rags to riches story. She was a giant failure right up until adulthood, having suffered an exteremely short lived marriage and was practically homeless. In a commencement address to Harvard university, she said:
JK's cure for HPV was hitting rock bottom. She had no other option, so she was forced to succeed or fail. Thankfully most of us won't ever know such extreme hardship, but that is not to say we won't be aquainted with common failure.
I'm not going to Hollywood because I wish I were a screenwriter. I'm going because I've put thousands of hours into writing screenplays and I believe, with more work, I can make it. Groundwork's required -- confidence's foundation is aptitude, not arrogance.
So the cure for HPV is simple. Be prepared. Fling harpoons at the sharks instead of throwing yourselves. I'm not guaranteeing you'll survive the waters, but at least you'll have gone out fighting.
Anyways, my lowbrow bloggies, I thought I'd open up with something sincere today. No Britney Spears mad gabs. No Beyonce. No Pokemon. No placenta. A few pornstars, maybe, but no bathroom peeper.
As most of you know, I'm a writer keen on pursuing the entertainment world. Mostly I write screenplays in hopes of making a sale (having currently completed five feature specs) or at least clenching an option. It is an unfortunate fact, however, that Hollywood is as impenetrable as The Virgin Mary. More unknown writers wilt and die than wannabe actors, directors, and gaffers combined.
I, however, know how to beat the system.
A few months ago I stumbled upon a revelating fact. Los Angeles does not only have one billion dollar entertainment industry; it has three:
H - ollywood
P - ornography
V - ideo games
HPV. At least if my top choice falls through, I have two interesting backups. Better odds, right? Wrong. Why waste my time on one of these stupid ventures only to fail and have to start back at square (or frame or bed or pixel) one?
So what's better than scaling to the top of the Hollywood world? Or Pornography Planet? Or the Video Game Universe? How about climbing all three -- the whole galaxy of entertainment -- at once?! Oh yes, bloggies, take notes. Donald Trump once said: "Be ruthless to ruthless people you meet on your way up if you don't intend on coming back down". The entertainment industries are infested with these people, these sharks. The only way to deal with them is fight. The only way to win is to have power. And the only way to get power? Combine all available resources.
Eureka!
Film pornstars playing videogames.
...
Now isn't that the most AWFUL, gut-wrenching, jaw-grinding idea ever thought up?
Good. Those ideas seem to sell.
But I'm not actually being serious, am I? Well no. The main point of this post is to probe one scary question: what's your selling-out point? At what price can the Hollywood sharks skewer the meat strips off your bones?
If you answer "I would never sell myself out!", you're either a fool or a liar. If your answer is anything under $10, please get tested.
Temptation lures the best of us. We have a tendency to romanticize instead of rationalize (whether it's "I'll wait tables until I land that Broadway lead", or "Once I'm done school, I'll start work and meet the man of my dreams"). As you know, these circumstances don't "just happen", and it leads to everyone developing their own unique case of HPV: fall-backs to brace yourselves if you don't accomplish what you really want. The truth about life is that almost anything you set your mind to is possible. The painful question is 'what cost will it come at?' I could throw out a million examples involving surgery, sacrifice, sexual favors, monetary transactions, and/or illegal acts, but you already have a pretty good idea what those entail. This is not to say you should never take risks; rather, what I'm getting at, is that you must take smart risks.
Think about JK Rowling -- a classic rags to riches story. She was a giant failure right up until adulthood, having suffered an exteremely short lived marriage and was practically homeless. In a commencement address to Harvard university, she said:
Failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.
JK's cure for HPV was hitting rock bottom. She had no other option, so she was forced to succeed or fail. Thankfully most of us won't ever know such extreme hardship, but that is not to say we won't be aquainted with common failure.
I'm not going to Hollywood because I wish I were a screenwriter. I'm going because I've put thousands of hours into writing screenplays and I believe, with more work, I can make it. Groundwork's required -- confidence's foundation is aptitude, not arrogance.
So the cure for HPV is simple. Be prepared. Fling harpoons at the sharks instead of throwing yourselves. I'm not guaranteeing you'll survive the waters, but at least you'll have gone out fighting.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Trumped
For those who don't know, Jared Kushner recently got engaged to the stunning, chic, sweet, smart, articulate, wealthy, elegant, savvy, chest-endowed Ivanka Trump.
LORD ALMIGHTY! What does he have that I don't?!?!
Well... Harvard schooling, an MBA, a newspaper company, a law degree, New York connections, and multimillionaire status. Psshh, I say he's compensating.
But deep down everyone knows that they'll never end up with their celebrity crush, right? Actually, it's not even that deep down -- it's pretty much a surface floating fact. That doesn't mean we can't dream, though. After all, if everyone really believed in dreams or put stock in them, what would that say about our capacity to recognize true love and follow our hearts? That's why whoever wrote "A dream is a wish your heart makes" was either hopelessly romantic or asexual. Reality? A dream is a wish your crotch makes. If our hearts churned out dreams, we would be broken-hearted every day. Instead, look around. People are generally happy with their state in the world. So here's my advice: if one of your dreams is ever shattered, remember that it has nothing to do with your heart; nothing to do with what's inside of you, alright? Your affection and passion and motivation can't be smashed by a few broken dreams, so protect your heart and let your crotch take the beating.
...ok that came out wrong. Oh well, you get the idea.
LORD ALMIGHTY! What does he have that I don't?!?!
Well... Harvard schooling, an MBA, a newspaper company, a law degree, New York connections, and multimillionaire status. Psshh, I say he's compensating.
But deep down everyone knows that they'll never end up with their celebrity crush, right? Actually, it's not even that deep down -- it's pretty much a surface floating fact. That doesn't mean we can't dream, though. After all, if everyone really believed in dreams or put stock in them, what would that say about our capacity to recognize true love and follow our hearts? That's why whoever wrote "A dream is a wish your heart makes" was either hopelessly romantic or asexual. Reality? A dream is a wish your crotch makes. If our hearts churned out dreams, we would be broken-hearted every day. Instead, look around. People are generally happy with their state in the world. So here's my advice: if one of your dreams is ever shattered, remember that it has nothing to do with your heart; nothing to do with what's inside of you, alright? Your affection and passion and motivation can't be smashed by a few broken dreams, so protect your heart and let your crotch take the beating.
...ok that came out wrong. Oh well, you get the idea.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Hey Asshole, want some butter?
Back in grade nine, I started working at my hometown's one and only movie theatre. Being naturally skilled at popcorn scooping, I quickly advanced in the ranks to a box office position and, three years later, attained the highest accolade achievable by mortal cinema staff: projectionist. Throughout those four tender adolescent years my every emotion was molded by that theatre. Anger, joy, jealousy, arousal, and utter contempt. Mood swings came and went with the movies -- comedies brought joy, dramas induced sadness, and anything Halle Berry raised embarassing questions. A strong part of my personality that formed was patience. People may not know it, but theatre workers are extremely tenacious. Let me elaborate with a recent example.
SCENE:
The theatre lobby is bustling with crowds rushing to see the latest Beyonce thriller, "Obsessed". An OLD BALDING BASTARD approaches the concession counter.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Gimme four cokes and popcorns! And a kids thing with blue sucker and slushie whatsit.
CIVILIZED DEVON: Which sizes of popcorns, sir? And I'm sorry, but we don't have blue suckers. I'd be happy to give your child a green one and complement it with a tasty raspberry slush, though.
The Old Balding Bastard doesn't even respond. Civilized Devon does the order without losing his cool. The man pays and leaves.
END SCENE
Everyone knows that popcorn sizes and sucker flavors aren't the end of the world, right? I've learned to not get worked up over these ignorant, obnoxious people. But, how would the scene have gone if I let my real emotions show through?
SCENE:
The lobby is bustling with crowds rushing to see the latest Beyonce thriller, "Obsessed". An OLD BALDING BASTARD approaches the concession counter.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Gimme four cokes and popcorns! And a kids thing with blue sucker and slushie whatsit.
BLOG DEVON: What sizes of popcorns?
OLD BALDING BASTARD: I dunno. Medium. Make it large. No, medium.
BLOG DEVON (getting angrier): Did you want butter?
The Old Balding Bastard starts cracking jokes with his buddies, completely ignoring Blog Devon.
BLOG DEVON: Butter?!
Still no answer.
BLOG DEVON: Hey Assole! You want some butter?
The entire lobby freezes, turning to see the commotion.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Uhh sure, whatever.
BLOG DEVON: No! It's not whatever. It's my job, alright? I ask if you want butter and you say, since you weigh 400lbs, "yes, fourteen layers please". And while we're at it, it's not called a 'slush whatsit'. It's a slush puppy, bitch. Get it through your fat meat head -- we have blue slush puppies, not blue suckers. And speaking of drinks, we sell Pepsi. Not Coke. Honestly, douche, what masterpiece movie are you in such a rush to see that you can't give me these tiny details?
OLD BALDING BASTARD (gulp): Obsessed.
BLOG DEVON: Obsessed? Obsessed?! With Beyonce??? Alright, all the single ladies put your hands up!
All of the single women in the lobby tentatively raise their hands, confused.
BLOG DEVON: GOD! GET REAL BLOODY LIVES!!
Blog Devon jumps on the counter and starts spitting at the single ladies with his weird drool-jet tongue squirts. He kicks over the popcorn equipment (crushing three children) and yanks the butter machine out of the wall, pounding the knob and firing streams of hot scalding butter into the panicking crowds.
BLOG DEVON: YOU WANT BUTTER WITH THAT? HUH?! MORE BUTTER???
SCENE.
Moral of the story: If you have trouble remaining calm around idiots, remember that they aren't worth an ounce of your time or energy. Seek professional help before attempting anything drastic. And if you can't afford therapy, try writing blogs.
SCENE:
The theatre lobby is bustling with crowds rushing to see the latest Beyonce thriller, "Obsessed". An OLD BALDING BASTARD approaches the concession counter.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Gimme four cokes and popcorns! And a kids thing with blue sucker and slushie whatsit.
CIVILIZED DEVON: Which sizes of popcorns, sir? And I'm sorry, but we don't have blue suckers. I'd be happy to give your child a green one and complement it with a tasty raspberry slush, though.
The Old Balding Bastard doesn't even respond. Civilized Devon does the order without losing his cool. The man pays and leaves.
END SCENE
Everyone knows that popcorn sizes and sucker flavors aren't the end of the world, right? I've learned to not get worked up over these ignorant, obnoxious people. But, how would the scene have gone if I let my real emotions show through?
SCENE:
The lobby is bustling with crowds rushing to see the latest Beyonce thriller, "Obsessed". An OLD BALDING BASTARD approaches the concession counter.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Gimme four cokes and popcorns! And a kids thing with blue sucker and slushie whatsit.
BLOG DEVON: What sizes of popcorns?
OLD BALDING BASTARD: I dunno. Medium. Make it large. No, medium.
BLOG DEVON (getting angrier): Did you want butter?
The Old Balding Bastard starts cracking jokes with his buddies, completely ignoring Blog Devon.
BLOG DEVON: Butter?!
Still no answer.
BLOG DEVON: Hey Assole! You want some butter?
The entire lobby freezes, turning to see the commotion.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Uhh sure, whatever.
BLOG DEVON: No! It's not whatever. It's my job, alright? I ask if you want butter and you say, since you weigh 400lbs, "yes, fourteen layers please". And while we're at it, it's not called a 'slush whatsit'. It's a slush puppy, bitch. Get it through your fat meat head -- we have blue slush puppies, not blue suckers. And speaking of drinks, we sell Pepsi. Not Coke. Honestly, douche, what masterpiece movie are you in such a rush to see that you can't give me these tiny details?
OLD BALDING BASTARD (gulp): Obsessed.
BLOG DEVON: Obsessed? Obsessed?! With Beyonce??? Alright, all the single ladies put your hands up!
All of the single women in the lobby tentatively raise their hands, confused.
BLOG DEVON: GOD! GET REAL BLOODY LIVES!!
Blog Devon jumps on the counter and starts spitting at the single ladies with his weird drool-jet tongue squirts. He kicks over the popcorn equipment (crushing three children) and yanks the butter machine out of the wall, pounding the knob and firing streams of hot scalding butter into the panicking crowds.
BLOG DEVON: YOU WANT BUTTER WITH THAT? HUH?! MORE BUTTER???
SCENE.
Moral of the story: If you have trouble remaining calm around idiots, remember that they aren't worth an ounce of your time or energy. Seek professional help before attempting anything drastic. And if you can't afford therapy, try writing blogs.
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