Monthly Archives: October 2012

34. James’ Reasoning for Actors’ Fckd-Upness


It’s really hard to be an actor. Perhaps you don’t find it to be a taxing career: “Oh, so you got paid to prance around on a stage like a cat? That’s your job? TOUGH. TITTIES.” Ok. Fair enough. But if I can understand your point of view, why don’t you kick back, grab a brewski and a frozen kit kat, put one hand on your money maker and read this. (For the record, you’re putting your hand on your BINGBONG for a sense of warmth and security; not to get your jollies…. please don’t jerk it to my blog. I asked you politely.)

If you’re silly enough to become an actor, you surely have your reasons. And I have mine; I get addicted to the connection. I’ve done scenes with another actor where I felt more passion than I have in some of my “intimate” relationships. When I’m in a scene that is really clicking, I forget about everything else and all that matters is that connection with the other person; all I care about is them. And it feels REALLY good because I know that all they care about is me. That’s it. The connection is all that matters; the fact that two people are having a singular honest moment together without barriers, without fear. And then the scene is over, and I go back to the mundane. I go back to the world of defenses, insecurities, walls, blockages, emotional ineptitude, indifference, selfishness, solitude and disconnect. I hate it. Sometimes I feel more alive when I’m living in imaginary circumstances. When I am thrust back into the cold, heartless, narcissistic world I constantly crave that connection. But I want it in real life.

I want someone to be with me. To really be with me. To be present, and not just physically. When we connect, all that matters is that connection. All that matters is that raw, bleeding, pus-filled honesty. And those moments aren’t taken for granted. They’re cherished. Because in a scene, all that matters is that current moment. Each moment is unique and precious. And you cherish it while it lasts, but you live for every single moment. I want to take the vulnerability of the scene-work and inject it into my real life; relationships without walls, without fear, without indifference, without solitude. I want intimacy. That real intimacy. I want to feel alive. I want to feel the selflessness of making someone else feel their own beating heart. I want that beauty of tearing yourself open stitch by stitch for someone else, hoping that they’ll love what they see, hoping they’ll love you more for shattering your own rib cage just so they could see the true nature of your heart. And then I want them to do the same. I want to feel at home.

And here’s the kicker, motherfuckers. Actors don’t really get to have a physical home. Most people who live “normal” lives get to find a city, find a job there, settle down, find a neighborhood, make a home, be friends with their neighbors, etc. Most people get to nest somewhere. Actors? Ha! Only if you’re lucky. We go where the work is. Some contracts last 2 months. Some maybe last a year. But all jobs end. And then you go somewhere else. And you meet people, love them and then leave them. And then you do it all over again. So we don’t get to call any physical place our home. Instead, we look for someone to call home. I know I do. I want to look someone in the eyes and feel at ease; like that feeling when you’re sitting by a fireplace drinking a cup of peppermint tea in your most comfy sweatpants, socks, long-sleeve tee, infinity scarf, snow falling lightly outside, Christmas tree tastefully lit at your side, sound of crackling firewood. I wanna look in someone’s eyes at feel that. I want that someone where it doesn’t matter where we are; it’ll always feel like home.  And maybe I get lucky enough to find someone like that at a contract. BUT THEN THEY LEAVE. They leave. And I get thrown for a loop. Cuz where the fuck did my home go? When will I feel at home again? Where do I call home? Most people, they get sad and they go home. Where is that for an actor? Where the fuck is that? Home is where the heart is. Show me where that is, please.  Cuz every time I find a new home, it gets ripped away. So I may have misplaced my heart. So what do I do? What does any other actor do? Find another contract. Go through the robotic movements as follows:  Audition. Connect. Book job. Take job. Make new friends. Finish contract. Rip out heart. Go back to auditioning. Piece together heart. Start over.

Excruciating. Trust me. Excruciating.

I don’t have the luxury of being stationary. I think a lot of stationary people lust after this transient lifestyle. Well, bitches, appreciate what you got. Because, unfortunately, I don’t  got what you do.

Perfect example: I’m in a hotel room tonight. Hoping to take a 12 hour bus ride back to New York tomorrow. Just to audition more and then leave the city again.

Don’t get me wrong; I love acting. But this is why we’re all fucked up. So if you see an actor and you think, ‘Damn, that hoe looks tortured.’ They probably are. They’re probably in love. And they’re probably thinking, ‘Fuck, love is quite inconvenient,’ and….

‘I wanna go home.’


“And I’m surrounded by a million people. I still feel alone. Oh, let me go home. Oh, I miss you, you know. Let me go home. I’ve had my run. Baby, I’m done. I gotta go home.”
~”Home” by Michael Buble



33. James Has Secrets He’d Rather Die With


Everyone has secrets. Some of them: you can’t wait to share with someone. Some of them: you would rather give a blumpkin than admit them to someone. That’s OK. That’s life. You make mistakes, but you move on. But when you see those happy couples who say, “Oh, we’re so close; we share everything.” Maybe that works for them. But that isn’t a steadfast rule.

I used to think that intimacy meant not keeping secrets. I thought that if you truly wanted to be as close to someone as you could, you should tell them everything. But I’m not sure that’s true. Because not every secret will bring you closer together. There are harmless secrets like this: “Once when I was cooking dinner for my family, I drooled into the pan. My mom told me not to tell any of my other family members. So I didn’t. They ate the meal. They thought it was delicious. No one knew that I drooled.”


But there are secrets that are less lighthearted and way less funny. Maybe, if you’re alive, you have royally f*cked up once or twice. Hopefully you learned something. Maybe you regret it big time. You don’t need to tell that secret to anyone. Anyone. Not your family, not your cat, not your pillow, not God, not a stranger, not your significant other, not your other cat, NO ONE. No one deserves to know your secrets. No one is entitled to know your secrets. Because if your Terrible Awful is something that is TOTALLY out of character, if it’s something you would never do again, if it’s something you can’t really believe you did in the first place, if it’s something that you told yourself, ‘If I tell no one then maybe the thing never happened,’ then you don’t have to tell anyone. And maybe you shouldn’t. The only exception I can make is a therapist. Because if you’re guilting yourself to death over something and you need professional help, then by all means be honest with your therapist. Because they’re getting paid mucho (Canadian) dollars not to judge you. And who knows, maybe your therapist has some naughty doorknob fetish that she’s never told anyone. But BACK TO THE POINT, JAMES! Maybe your Terrible Awful makes you sound like someone you don’t want to be; it portrays an image that doesn’t currently match the one you  are striving to embody; it doesn’t represent the best you. You don’t need to tell anyone. I’m not saying you shouldn’t. But you should never feel like you have to, like it’s required of you.

You have a right to your privacy. No matter your status: dead, alive, single, taken, possessed, repossessed, zombified, mortified, ashamed, proud, ambivalent, drunk. It’s your choice.

Here’s an example: your number. You know, your NUMBER. Wink wink. Like. How many people you’ve stuck it to. In the butt or other orifice.  Maybe your number is high. Hypothetically, if you tell someone that you’ve had sex with 10 people in 8 years, they might think you’re skanky because their PeopleFucked to YearsPassed ratio is smaller than yours. But they don’t know your circumstances. Perhaps once was a drunken mistake. Perhaps one was a friend with benefits. Perhaps you have been with so many people because you’re not willing to settle.

Maybe you’re me. I’ve dated a lot of people. A lot. And I’ve had sex with some of them. And maybe some people think my number is high. But I think that’s a judgement. I mean, high compared to what? Yes, I’ve had more sex compared to zero. But that doesn’t mean anything. Me? I’m just looking for the right guy. And sometimes I’m with the wrong guy for too long, and I figure it out too late. Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I was lazy. Maybe I stayed in relationships too long. Maybe I jumped out of them too fast. But the bottom line is I’m not settling. So why do I have a “high” number (if you’re a virgin)? Because I’m looking for the One. If I had found the One, my number would stop climbing. Hm. So here are my options: have a low number by making it work with just anyone, regardless of my happiness, regardless of our compatibility. OR. Have a “high” number by looking for someone who will treat me right, make me laugh and have a good heart.

Listen, bitches, I’d rather be a f*cking slut than die miserable.

“I’ve asked about you, and they’ve told me things. But my mind didn’t change; I still feel the same. What’s a life with no fun? Please don’t be ashamed. I’ve had mine, you’ve had yours, we both know. We know.”
~”Take Care” by Drake feat. Rihanna