Pablo.

I have a print on my wall of the Marx Brothers. Well, its actually just Chico, Harpo and Groucho. I like the photograph itself because they all have this kind of half smile but Harpo, who is in the middle, is the only one looking at the camera. The other two are looking at him as if he just said something inappropriate… which, of course, never happened. My dad constructed this print for me which I liked because he was the one to expose me to these fantastic old comedies. Plus, in the past, my father’s presents were never very good. Never. Not that I don’t appreciate them when I can convince myself he thought about it for more than 5 minutes, which is rare. And even with the print, I had asked him to make it for me long long before he gave it as a present.

I haven’t spoken to my father in several months. Probably the longest we’ve gone. Please don’t think I don’t love my father or that I think he raised me poorly, because its simply not true. His faults are only apparent now that I’m much older. Recently, I started to feel that I was defending him a lot. Trying to convince everyone else that he was just a little flighty. That generosity and selflessness existed if maybe a little hard to see. Not to strangers, of course. To them he is a goofy artist sweetheart. But to those he’s known the longest, its hard to tell if he cares about you or if he just likes to hear the sound of his own voice. It began to take a lot of poking and prodding to extract him from his own little world. Like a teenager. That’s what finally pushed me over the edge; I was somehow expected to maintain the relationship. I was supposed to be thankful he brought me into this world while giving him undying support as his mind went somewhere else when I wasn’t talking about him. So this last time he confused something I had told him a number of times (causing somewhat of a problem for me) I just couldn’t laugh it off. In fact I couldn’t say anything. So I didn’t, and I haven’t.

So I look at Harpo, with that sheepish expression and I think of my dad. Half smiles. It’s a great picture even if its warping after only 3 months because its was pasted to a board most likely 5 minutes before I received it as a present. Just like everything else. I don’t want it to fall apart. I want it to be better.

Strikes and gutters.

What a week. So, after a couple fine Guinnesses Monday morning at the Burbank airport, I flew off to Las Vegas and proceeded to slowly drink until about 6am the next day. That was fun. Good to see some friends I hadn’t seen in a while. Of course, Nick winds up the only on there who loses all the cash he brought to gamble with. Oh well. I am getting better at craps (well, apparently not that good) and I did eat and drink like a king. Which rules.

Back to the grind by Thursday though I must have ingested something bad because Friday was spent trying to rid my stomach of the evil inside it. Jesus. I haven’t been that sick in a long time. Luckily it was a 24 hour type deal so work yesterday was bearable aside from feeling like, well, like I’d been really damn sick the day before. I feel even better today, my day off, where sleeping all day doesn’t cost me a shit load of money like it did on Friday. Damnit.

In better news, March Madness seems to be going in my favor. Except Duke. Damnit, no one saw that coming. But with UCLA and Florida playing like fucking champs I should be the winner of my little pool. Kickass. I’m gonna be so bored after April 3rd.

Actually, you know what happens next weekend? That’s right. The weather in Malibu stops being stupid-cold and nick gets to go to the beach! Oh yes. I bitch about LA a lot but its most redeeming quality (aside from the tv/film opportunities) is the beautiful ocean. I’ve been patient all winter, and we know how much nick dislikes the winter. Seriously. Fun in the sun is to come.

Maybe I’ll have my headshots reproduced by April. Never-ending process, I swear. Later.

Nick is out. & Name That Movie!

I'm going away for a couple days. Here's some movie quotes for the occasion.

~ ~ ~

"But our trip was different. It was to be a classic affirmation of everything right and true in the national character. A gross physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country. But only for those with true grit. ...And we are chock full of that, man."

~ ~ ~

"There's nothing wrong with letting the girls know that you're money and that you want to party."

~ ~ ~

"'Why do this?"
"Why not do it? Cause yesterday I walked out of the joint after losing four years of my life and you're cold-decking "Teen Beat" cover boys. Cause the house always wins. Play long enough, you never change the stakes. The house takes you. Unless, when that perfect hand comes along, you bet big, then you take the house."
"Been practicing this speech, haven't you?"
"Little bit. Did I rush it? Felt I rushed it."
"No, it was good, I liked it. The 'Teen Beat' thing was harsh."

Working out is for losers.

Must go to the gym. Must trick brain into thinking it will be fun and entertaining. Must ignore headache and other effects of unhealthy lifestyle.

I'm gonna go. I'm gonna go. I'm gonna go. I'm gonna go. ...

Red Bull will help me. ...when I go. ...eventually.

New chapter.

I thought about writing a blog on myspace, again.

I didn't. ...Again.

Perhaps I will later. Its not like this stupid page isn't linked to that even more stupid one. Its that I can at least pretend on this one that only the select people I know are reading it. Delusions, yes. Heh heh, oh I'm so great.

I am an actor again. That's cool, huh? The long period of planning and saving and relaxing and waiting and getting pissed that I know I needed to do things this way regardless of what anyone else tried to tell me is drawing to a close. Granted more of this is in store, I'm sure, but for now I am across the runway and my nose is lifting.

Time to watch the tires leave that tarmac.