This post is later than a teen girl two months after prom night. Switchpod, my podcast server, crashed last week, so the archives died. Enjoy this new podcast here, or, as always, slap this in your iTunes: http://www.switchpod.com/users/fodj/feed.xml
I decided to walk around downtown Detroit today after lunch. Detroit's not half bad. Well, the river bank isn't half bad, then it goes downhill from there.
As an example of how out-of-touch I've been with myself for the last few years, it turns out my part is actually on the other side of my head. I'm sorry to have deceived you all.
Here's me looking up at pure corporate evil (read: the GM building). Don't get me wrong, the automobile industry rapes because it cares.
After the elation from the purchase of my George Carlin tickets subsided, I realized that the concert hall was in Flint, Michigan, an economically depressed hellhole about 88 miles away from Detroit. How depressed? Well, it isn't often that you can stand in the middle of the main street and take a picture.
After I parked outside of "The Whiting," a college auditorium that would house the event, I surveyed the area for possible food merchants. None to be found. So I walked. And I walked and I walked and I walked. For about a mile and a half. Then, I found a strip of buildings, most of them empty, barren, husks where food used to be served. Now, they were ghostly and dilapidated. Finally, I found a Ya Ya's, and they have chicken. On pitas. With neon yellow mashed potatoes.
Showtime. George Carlin's opening act was singer/songwriter Vance Gilbert. I fell in love with another man, and his name was Vance Gilbert. He was fantastic. And I was a dollar short of buying his album in the lobby. No ATMs? Not shocked. It may be my emotional state of mind, but his opening song almost moved me to tears. Or, it could be the fact that I was in the aisle seat and had to suffer the intense and unpredictable bladders of my Flintian aislemates.
Carlin came on an he looked great. A lot of you know that I was really scared for him after his most recent HBO special, in which he was noticeably off his game. This, it turns out, was the result of fluid build-up from a heart condition he had been suffering which was affecting his breathing and energy. Well, some expensive medical procedures later, and he seems like he's back to his old self. Unfortunately, he pretty much did the "Life is Worth Losing" routine, which I already know, but he DID throw in some new stuff and variations that made it worth it. Despite how much I wanted a picture with him, the place was packed and I was an hour and a half drive away from the hotel. So, I'll wait for him to do the Beacon again. He looks like he's got a lot more show left in him.
Deciding that spending my weekend witnessing the incredibly slow process of people feeding documents into a machine, I decided to travel to the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan. A hearty trip requires a hearty breakfast, and it wasn't long after my four mile run that I found myself at the sinister grip of Bob's Big Boy, who goes to same hair stylist as I do.
I have to say that Bob's Big Boy is not as big as the giant cheeseburger he wields like an ork's battle axe. It was on to Henry Ford's museum, which is basically a collection of cool stuff. Like this old car.
Here's an old Mustang that could have easily fit in my pocket on the way out.
Here's a cool race car that, despite how awesome it is, does nothing to convince me that race car driving is an actual sport.
This car was made as a bold stride into the future. Later, someone pointed out to the automakers that planes actually did exist and there was no reason for something like this ever.
Here's the Tucker Torpedo, one of the greatest flops in automobile history. They made a movie about it starring Jeff Bridges called Starman.
A question on everyone's mind when they pass this car is, "That can't be the actual car in which Kennedy got shot, can it?"
Your answer:
A question on everyone's mind when they pass this car is, "That can't be the actual car outside of which President Reagan got shot, can it?"
No...no that's the Weinermobile. And believe me, the Weinermobile doesn't have half of the majesty as this car, truly the symbol of the American automotive future:
Or maybe THAT'S the Weinermobile. But hey, it wasn't all cars. No no no! They also had other marvels of industrial ingenuity. Like motorized skates.
It didn't list a death count, but I'm sure those took someone's life and they screamed the entire time their bodies rocketed down the street toward oblivion.
Here's an interesting fact. Harley Davidson didn't always make motorcycles. In 1907, they made GAY motorcycles.
Somewhere along the way, Harley Davidson enthusiasts were introduced to rape, and their whole image changed overnight.
In the "Heroes of Flight" section, there were many fascinating exhibits, but when I saw the "Build Your Own Paper Airplane" station, I knew I'd be staying awhile. Brash and arrogant, I of course opted for the "Advanced" instructions. She was a good ship and, dare I say, a good friend.
But she would meet a disastrous end.
I actually briefly discussed rudimentary aerodynamics with a twelve year old and enjoyed it. Then his father, assuming I was a child molester, ushered him away. I then made a paper doll and told the father "This is you!" and ate it in front of him. None of this happened, but in my head it did.
I capped off the trip to a jaunt through Greenfield Village, a collection of old buildings and shops that Ford actually tore down and brought all the way to Dearborn only to rebuild them with the original materials. They had a courthouse in which Abe Lincoln practiced law (the woman told me that they even re-used the original plaster), Robert Frost's house, slave quarters (I have no joke, but I should), and even the ENTIRE EDISON MENLO PARK FACILITY, machines and all:
Of course, that's not all they had. They had working farms, weaving, pottery (I picked up a lil' something for a special someone), and animals floating around the place. My favorite was this friendly beast:
Best laugh of the day (BESIDES the Kennedy assassination car) was when I was walking in the "Working Fields" section of Greenfield Village and an employee asked me, "Do you like to grow things?" When I answered, "yeah, beards," she paused and laughed heartily. These people get the joke. It just takes a bit.
One last thing: I wasn't allowed to take pictures in the "Baseball as America" exhibit, but fuck these people. It was Jackie Robinson's jersey for christsakes.
It's not like I took it out and wore it. Well, maybe I did, but they didn't let me take a picture of the Honus Wagner tobacco card.
While you A-holes are waiting for my TRAVELOGUE 3: Return of the Jedi, I thought I'd do a lil' internet experiment. As some of you may know, I don't know my real father. But I got his name, bitch! He's called David Johnson (I know, it might as well be Bill Brown) and I chucked his name into Google images. Here are some of my favorite possible real dads:
I will be posting Travelogue 3 once my media server, Switchpod, is back online. Sorry for their inconvenient shit that they like to pull. I, on the other hand, can do no wrong.
I attended the star-studded Michigan premiere of MI: 3 last night, and I was pleased to see ones of tens of people enjoying the first entry in the race for summer blockbuster. Now, it being MI: 3, I was disappointed to find that Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones were nowhere to be found in the picture. Too many catchy abbreviations, America. Let's use actual language, shall we?
In short, Mission Impossible 3 entertained, but seemed like a giant mediocrity that was cobbled together at the last minute and at very little expense. As soon as the opening credits start, you can't help but wonder what sort of hurry the editor was in and what other (read: better) project she had on tap. The plot seems stolen from several movies (I kept thinking True Lies without, you know, all the humor) yet, as I've already stated, there DO happen to be some exciting, inspired moments. Inpependent of those rare exceptions, everything else in the film is bland. And I wouldn't even call it Mission Impossible so much as Mission Doable, but Highly Unlikely. The supposed trickiest and most dangerous part of the mission is omitted from the film. All we get to see is the aftermath. It's equivalent to seeing Luke pilot his ship into the Deathstar from afar, then cutting to the rebel base where we see the leaders say, "I hope he makes it," then cutting to Luke's ship exiting the Deathstar moments after it's already exploded. What the? Isn't there a middle part?
The most striking aspect to the movie is how few people were in the theatre. We don't get to feel it in New York, but in places like Michigan or Pennsylvania, theatres are hurting. I couldn't help but think that the future is bleak for the motion picture industry and soon, the only lucrative place to maintain a theatre is going to be the metropolis. These regional places will simply fade away. So, you think it's a bitch seeing a movie in Manhattan now, wait a few years. And be prepared to pay thirty dollars.
Final thought: I could watch Tom Cruise run around all day. Nobody does action like him.
It's easy to dismiss my recent arousal to action. I've cried wolf too many times, I suspect. Of course, those countless iterations of "I'm a changed man" were half-assed at best, meaningless, weak self-assertions that, ultimately, fell prey to the larger problem. It's all fine and good to say it's different this time, but it goes without saying that it's difficult to convince people of something that they openly wanted for me but I always rejected: an acceptance of my full potential. In a book I'm currently reading entitled Quantum Reality, its author summarizes Heisenberg's interpretation of the Copenhagen School of quantum theory as an observer-created reality that is founded on mere possibilities, potentials, and, most poignantly I feel, promises. Despite Heisenberg's assertion that there doesn't exist a "deep reality" behind what we see, I happen to identify with this idea of reality as an ever-evolving promise. The future, in effect, is promising. Whether or not that's good or bad is up to you.
And I know what you're all thinking (Jordan). My promise isn't aimed specifically at Brenda. We all go through intense desires to win back our loves with grand, sweeping gestures of change and self-enlightenment. Rather, this is aimed at all of my friends and family and, most importantly, myself. This isn't some self-delusional, granola-crunching, hippie moment of revelation. This is simply acknowledging what's been true all along. I will rock you, pure and simple. And all my imaginary "competition," in love, in life, in career, can, quite frankly, kiss my ass. There are countless carbon copies of "men" out there and I am happy to say that I am not only outside their league, but above it. And, despite my lofty yet achievable goal of becoming a working actor, I understand quantum theory, my niggas, and I guarantee that the other halfwits at Beth Melski casting aren't mulling over the Uncertainty Principle. Most likely, they're considering the Uncertainty Principal, a high-level educator at their hometown school about whom the students were never quite able to obtain both his location and velocity. Quantum physics jokes? Come on those KILL in Copenhagen!
Oooh, that reminds me, I'd like to construct a stand-up routine completely out of high-brow intellectual jibberjabber. Yeah, I'd get booed off the stage, but my friends would laugh.
"And says to him, I says, 'know it? I developed the mathematical principals SURROUNDING it!'"
Today marked my first day of actual work here in Michigan, the only state that, as a whole, means you no harm. The best thing about Michigan is that it doesn't want to impose. And it would love to freshen your cup of coffee for ya dere, dontcha know? The denizens of Michigan take even the crushing defeats of their sports heroes with a hearty "aw shucks" attitude. In New York, everyone down to your Indian cabby has an angry opinion on sports figures.
"I am thinking A-rod is being the ass of a horse!"
But today, as I got in the elevator of the building in which I would begin my midwestern torture, a fellow commented on my copy of the Detroit Free Press, which sported on its front page news that the Red Wings had been eliminated in the playoffs.
HIM: Hey, that there's a shame there, huh?
ME: (pause) Uh.........yes?
After a good-natured "we'll get 'em next year," the guy walked off probably believing what he had just said. There's something liberating about this place. Nothing gets at these people. There's no reason to get bent out of shape.
One reason to get bent out of shape is the copy facility in which I must spend the next six to seven days. There are only two machines committed to the project and two large, chatty black women operating said machines. Needless to say, these women and I got on immediately. The two ladies, the office manager, and myself shared stories of growing up in lower middle class families. My favorite exchange:
OFFICE MANAGER (ANTHONY): I can remember the smack to the back of my head my grandpa used to give me when I cussed. Phew, the kids today don't bat an eye.
LADY 1: Oh, lord, you couldn't say anything back then.
LADY 2: Oh, girl, you couldn't call nobody "man."
LADY 1: Ooooooh, I know! My grand daddy used to get mad if you called him "man."
ME: I wish I had that kind of guidance. My parents were a couple of foul mouthed fiends.
(LAUGHTER)
LADY 2: Really?
ME: Oh, yes, it was terrible. My dad would say the most disgusting thing possible, then I'd say the exact thing HE JUST SAID and I'd be on the floor.
(LAUGHTER)
Needless to say, Anthony and the ladies made the day fun. I regaled them with my observations regarding the differences between New York and Detroit.
ME: I can't get over how nice everybody is. I ordered a coffee, said Thank You, and the cashier said "You're Welcome." I was going to punch her in the face, I didn't know what to do. "What do you want from me?" I asked.
(LAUGHTER - at this point, I'm realizing that this is going just fine. I make a car battery hooked up to the nipples joke soon after and it kills.)
Regardless of how much happy laughter we were producing, the process is slow. I looks like I'm here for a bit, so I'm enjoying everything the Detroit suburbs have to offer. Like zero grocery stores. I had to drive two towns over to get some cheese and crackers. What gives?
After escorting the materials for this cockamamie project to Detroit this morning, I was told that the copy company would not be able to start until tomorrow. This means, I'm here for awhile, folks. The end is most certainly not in sight.
So, with an entire day now free, I traveled to college town Ann Arbor to see how they roll. Well, it's very nice. Very, very nice. And clean. And full of college students.
I went to Ashley's, a bar & grill recommended to me by former University of Michigan undergrad Jason. Ashley's sports 70 beers on tap, with an additional twenty or so on a rotating schedule.
This would have been a heaven a few months ago, but now, the mere idea of alcohol causes a sharp pain in my stomach, a grinding knot that renders me nauseated and blue. Still, I enjoyed a very good "Badger Burger," a greasy delight sporting Wisconsin cheddar and two glistening strips of bacon.
Having grown tired of the weird, sheltered feel of the town, I left Ann Arbor only to realize that the radio is against me. Ever since I started this trip, terrestial FM stations are determined to play every poignant, heart-rending song back to back to back. Not some songs. Every song. It all culminated in Rockette's "Must Have Been Love," which prompted me to listen only to the hardest of hardcore rap for the rest of the trip. There's only so much a guy can be reminded of his transgressions before he rips the radio unit out of the dashboard and tosses it into Lake Michigan.
Today, I left majestic Chicago. As fortune would have it, I experienced it in its worst possible state: cold, rainy, and dark. However, fun WAS had.
Here's the Wrigley Building. This was home to the famous bubble gum empire. Sadly, the building itself most certainly did NOT taste like bubble gum.
Here's Wrigley Field. Strangely, this place DID taste like bubble gum, and the fat man next to me tried to gnaw his way through his seat. And when I say "fat man," I mean "everybody in the whole fucking town."
Chicago is so windy, it straightened my hair. This had to be documented and never mentioned again.
This is Millenium Park. It's a lot like Central Park, only if it were designed by alien cyborgs who were hellbent on taking over Earth through abstract art and confusion.
Here's me and a giant metal cashew.
Here's an ancient Babylonian torture device used to coerce people into not laughing when they say "Babylonia."
Here's the boat I took for the architecture tour, christened "Chicago's Little Lady." It was named after a whore who was brutally drowned and thrown in the river. She was then boarded and sailed throughout the city by many citizens. This boat is a tribute.
Someone doesn't bother to carry an umbrella. Someone is sorry.
Here's a AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! ARGFHGHGHGHGHHHHHAAAHAHH!
Oh, and gay men love me, apparently. On the rainy architecture tour (which was awesome), a gay Canadian who also didn't bother to bring an umbrella, used his lack of foresight to try to bond with me. I was pleasantly aloof. Then, when I came back to Detroit, I got to the hotel, ran three miles, swam a few laps, and relaxed in the spa. A gentleman promptly joined me in the bubbly bath and sat right next to me. This is a rather large pool of hot, steamy action, so you could imagine my surprise when he chose a seat so close.
HIM: You come in here often?
Did he actually just use the old "come here often" line?
ME: Uh, no this is my first time. In the spa.
Awkward pause.
HIM: It's not that hot.
ME: Nope. Thought it was going to be a lot hotter (WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT???)
He then got out after I propped my head back and pretended to sleep. He hopped in the pool and I decided to get out of the spa and run for my room.
HIM: (from the pool) Have you been in the pool?
ME: Yup. Yes, I have.
I left with my sneakers barely on my feet.
Then, I decided to drive in to Detroit proper to eat at a place called "Floods." It was supposed to be soul food, so, I thought, that would be something pretty unique to the area. I walked in to Floods and glowed like I was made of fucking ivory. I was the only white guy in the place. Despite how confident I've been feeling, there's a difference between being bold and being bludgeoned to death with a karaoke microphone. So, I went down the street and had Greek pizza.
YOU THINK IT ENDS THERE??? FUCK NAW! I managed to drive from Detroit back to my hotel (about twenty miles) at night HAVING FORGOTTEN TO PUT MY LIGHTS ON. I really thought they were on. Nope. I can only hope that other drivers thought I was some sort of pilotless robot car. I'll read the paper tomorrow and see if anybody reported it.
Oh, there'll be some juicy tales tonight, my friends. I have a lead on the adapter, so we should have some interviews if everything goes well.
I'm IMing my best friend Paul as I wait for my hotel room to be ready and we're talking about sensitive subjects. I would love to bear my heart, but I've got about a dozen Chicago-style homosexuals breathing down my neck in a cafe. There are some woes of the heart I doubt they'll be sympathetic to.
Or, now that I think about it, maybe they could offer better insight than I'm expecting.
You can either download the Travelogue here or subscribe to this feed by placing the following url in the "Subscribe to Podcast" option in your iTunes task bar:
http://switchpod.com/users/fodj/feed.xml
Items that didn't make the cut:
* Some Michigan retard, it seems, went to Coney Island one day and brought back Coney Island hot dogs. "Coneys," as they're known in these parts, are hot dogs with chili, or "Coney Sauce," not so much spread on them, but smothered to within an inch of its life.
* Hotel Porn Titles: 1. First Timers 2. Raw Sex Trio 3. Xtra Filthy Sex 4. Sex at Work 5. Adultery (? - ed.) 6. Screwin' Young Things (! - ed.) 7. Sex with My Sister's Friends (I shit you not - ed.) 8. Sexual Overload (Fittingly, last on the list - ed.)
A small observation: both the feature film "What the Bleep Do We Know?" and a recent article in New Scientist called "Mr. Hawking's Flexiverse" make reference to "the observer." This is a key element in centralizing the perception of the universe not from within the universe itself, but from within the individual. One's perception of reality is really all there is.
As a quantum mechanical example, the New Scientist article references a test where a light beam is shot through a piece of paper with two slits in it, on to a piece of photographic paper which records the results. (This will all be part of my play, by the way). When the beam of light passes through these slits, it produces two slits of light on the photographic paper that gradate out and "interfere" with each other. You can imagine that, I'd think. If you shine a flashlight through a sheet with holes in it and aim it at a wall, you'll get two bright spots that sort of bleed into each other and fade into the darkness. Now, if you fire a single photon at the same two-slitted piece of paper, one would assume that it'll choose one of the slits and form one bright spot on the other side. But it doesn't. It produces the same effect as the whole beam. Hawking believes this is because the photon takes every possible path. What's interesting, is that if you "snap a picture" of this event, you only see one path. It's the way one sees the path that makes it so. All other paths cancel each other out.
I probably have taken huge liberties with the text, but it doesn't matter, really (which is in the spirit of the text, ironically). I read what I wanted to read. I interpreted it how I thought it should be interpreted. And if you can see that the path is clear depending on how YOU perceive it, why worry? You make it happen.
Forgive these first few posts for being so introspective, but, goddamnit, I've reached an understanding with myself that is unprecedented in my entire family much less in my own mind. I noticed that Amanda occasionally uses her blog to construct a list of goals. Part of this is most definitely for her but there's something about the public declaration of it that makes it solid. Here's the plan:
1. Go to Michigan and have a good time. I'm being sent to Michigan against my will at what I thought was the wrong time. After deep consideration, it's the perfect time. I may have a weekend with nothing to do, so I've decided to drive to Chicago and see a Cubs game, followed, the next day, with a riverboat architectural tour of Chicago's skyline (though, it is supposed to rain all weekend in Chicago. A detail I would've missed if I had never met a certain girl. Weather.com never seemed so bittersweet).
2. Upon returning to New York, immediately meeting with my commercial agent to pin down the legit agents worth going after and setting up a plan of attack. Mine, as I've written before, is a little on the crazy "look at me, look at me" side. Her's will probably be more conventional. I'm hoping beyond hopes that my agent has an in somewhere, because she normally has an in everywhere else.
3. Massive mail attack. Hit the agents. Hit the postings I find on my new Backstage.com account.
4. While waiting for an agent to work with me, keep hitting the Backstage postings. I turn SAG in May (insert joke here) so it raises a question, if I book something before I'm officially in SAG, do I have to report it? Do my employers? Anybody know?
5. Write my one man show ONE MAN (working title. Jordan and I also enjoy CASE IN POINT: YOUR PARENTS CAN FUCK YOU UP). It'll be a blend of family stories and quantum physics. Think Michael Frayn's Copenhagen, a parallel between atomic theory and relationships, and tales of one entire family hell-bent on destroying itself. Told by one man. Me.
6. Select and begin rehearsal on a play for the summer with Aaron Bergeron. Aaron is someone I've written about before. I was envious of him. I was scared of him. Now I'm looking him in the eyes and we're going to work together. And it's going to be amazing. The frontrunner for a play, so far, is Philadelphia Story. Anybody who knows Aaron knows he'd be perfect for the Jimmy Stewart role. Me? I'm Cary Grant, bitches. Truer words have never been spoken.
Holy shit, Amanda, that really works. It's so helpful to look at everything written out like that.
Having ignored my career for eight years, assuming, wrongly, that an Oscar would be sent to me via mail if I waited long enough, I am almost completely sans knowledge when it comes to talent agencies. My commercial agent wants to work it out with me after I come back from Michigan, so, in the mean time, I humbly ask for any input my friends might have.
I've heard good things about:
Harden Curtis (from what I'm gathering, this is my top choice) Paradigm
I've just plain heard about:
Abrams Gersh Innovative
I'm in the dark about:
The rest
What I'm looking for (and aren't we all) is a smaller place that has a good "teacher/student ratio" (if you will).
Also, here's my opening paragraph for the cover letter (all criticism welcome):
"Dear sirs (absolutely no women may read this),
I am a stage and screen actor currently enjoying success in commercial work in New York. As a newly minted member of SAG, I'd like to broaden my career into film and theater. Also, if you can find me roles, rest assured, I'll act the shit out of them. Ya heard?
Take on me, Gabe Silva"
All joking aside, I'm seriously considering using the "acting the shit out of them" line. I want to be noticed. I want them to read the letter and be taken aback. I want them to think that there's something wrong with me and I'm just the man they need.
Eight years and this is the first time I'm doing this. What'll be most surprising, in the end, is how easy it all was for me.
