Application to USC-1998

When I was home for a few days over Christmas I cleaned out my old desk. I found a handful of interesting things but definitely among the most treasured was this, my Freshman applicant essay to U.S.C. that I wrote as a senior in high school.
I have been wondering where I put a copy of this for the longest time fearing that I hadn't saved one, but, here it is. I always remembered being really proud of it and looking at it today it's interesting to see some if my writing traits and patterns forming early on.
My punctuation and spelling are characteristically poor but my phrasing and knack for painting pictures with words are there. I remember thinking that the smoke filled room was a nice touch as well as the brave use of the word "damn." My English teacher at the time encouraged me to try and integrate my involvement and achievements into the "narrative flow" so if it sounds self aggrandizing, well, it IS an applicant essay.
I haven't changed once thing about it, so here it is.


Charles Stephen Pecoraro - Freshman Applicant – Soc. Sec. # xxx-xx-xxxx
E S S A Y
Prompt: Tell us a story which will help us to know you better.
I laid my head down on the piano. “Stop sticking! Can’t you flow?” I was at home, seated at my piano and I was working with a difficult fingering passage in J.S. Bach’s Giga in his Partita no. 1 in B-flat Major, and my fingers just would not obey my efforts to play it properly. I hearkened back to the words of my father, a professional jazz musician.
At the innocent age of nine my father was accompanying his father at funerals, weddings and general Italian celebrations or all kinds. At the weathered old age of seventeen he was touring the East coast with trio’s and quartets and had been in more speakeasies than there are easies to speak. He told me about the time when he had a gig at the Three Deuces in Manhattan, in 1937. This is the tale my father weaved: “Can’t barely see that guitarist, so much damn smoke in this room,” were the fumbled words of a neighborhood patron of the Three Deuces night club, as he sat at the bar across from the band stand. He focused in on the featured soloist. Hardened callouses danced across the strings of his 1932 D’Angelico Excel with a passion untamed and a talent that had been honed on the road for as long as his clouded memory could reach. His father, a legend of the Vaudevillian circuit, had bought the guitar for him in the disorderly and cluttered, but magical, store of John D’Angelico, a mater guitar craftsman who had a never ending passion for perfection in every instrument he sculpted. That night, however, his fingers were beating the fret board into submission and igniting a wildfire that caught everybody’s intrigue. His fellow musicians starred in bewilderment at the sudden rush of divine improvisation that even Charles himself could not believe.
The lesson my father taught me was an inspiration and back at the old eighty-eights, I was trying to encourage myself. I thought of the time when I was a sophomore, brand new on A.S.B. and I had a dream of putting on a swing dance at Troy. I remembered how the reality of the idea was enough to keep me up at nights. I dreamed of all the dancing, all the fun, and best of all, the live jazz orchestra. It was obvious that a genuine swing dance would only be successful if there was an outstanding live jazz orchestra. So I set to work on it. I worked ever chance I could because this was something that I wanted in the worst way. This was my first time doing anything remotely like this so I learned all the rules by inadvertently breaking them first. I remembered when I arrived at the dance: the way everyone was swaying and the way the music crept in through my ears and proceeded right to my feet so that I just could not keep still. I had to dance. But I was so nervous because before my eyes, my dream was alive; it was actually happening. Fantastic things that I had dreamt became a reality and it all materialized because of a passion that I had for this dance. Yet, more importantly, because of the passion I had to bring jazz to my peers so that they could feel the excitement in the music that I hear. Between being A.S.B. President, a member of Troy Tech, principle trumpet in the Jazz, Marching, and Concert bands, three hours of piano practice a night and having the lead in Bugsy Malone, the school’s play, I managed to make it happen.
I envision myself at U.S.C. because of all U.S.C. can do for me and all that I can bring to you. U.S.C. is known internationally for their outstanding music department, and I know that my dream of writing what I have inside of me can become a realization there. I look forward to the excitement of a large school in a large city. With it’s broad base of religious, ethnic and economic groups, there is a rich culture in Los Angeles, particularly at U.S.C. in which one can draw a very deep and thorough education. I am a hard working, innovative, open minded student who is hungry to get a great big bite of his dream. I know that U.S.C. is the college for me to attend because I will create great opportunities for myself there. There is a tangible energy in the air at U.S.C and I want to not only experience it, but I want to help create it.
I suddenly arose from my daydream, wondering how long I had been sitting there with my head on the piano board. The impression on my forehead gave some indication. Having thought all this, I realized that I, like my father, could accomplish anything that I wanted to. I just needed to redouble my efforts and my excitement and I knew that when I saw the results, that would be the greatest reward of all; knowing that I had accomplished an important goal through hard work.

I Walk Briskly

I walk briskly. The elements strike my face. I stare at the sun and I stand outside in a maelstrom.
I greet those whom I pass. I trip not seeing the uneven pavement. I hear the music. I smell the aroma. I taste the abundance. I walk briskly.
I walk briskly and in tempo. I feel the cobble in the street ‘neath my feet. I feel the cashmere of my socks softly ‘gainst my peds. I feel the tightness in my hands after a salty meal.
I hear the chorus of man. The melody rings and clangs, the din of culture. I hear the want, the cries for love, the fear of death, loneliness and public speaking.
I taste the hunger, the desire for the real, the flavour of truth, of depth, of sincerity. The sweetness of concern, the satisfaction of authenticity is all anyone wants but what no one talks about.
I embrace a friend. I feel the sadness in their marrow.

“Oh my friend, I love you. With this embrace I wish to calm your trembling. I wish to soothe your pains. I wish to warm your shivering soul and to apply a cool salve to your burned heart. I wish to make you whole with touch, with embrace; with love that does not begin with, nor do I wish it to end with, me.”

I walk briskly, but it seems not so briskly as when I started walking. I now walk with a sore knee and a pebble in my shoe. I walk, with joy, with hope, but I tend to look at the ground more and check for cracks and chewing gum. I’d like to pick up the pace and walk like I did when I began walking, freer, younger and bolder, but it’s dark out these days and I’m not sure where I am or where I’m going.

I walk, I walk, but I do not walk alone. I walk with those I love. We walk together. And I try and walk in the light.

Authentic

Searching.
Discerning.
Gathering.
Praying.

Piecing.
Inventing.
Applying.
Complying.

Curious.
Dissatisfied.
Hungry.
Faithful.

Human.
Caring.
Relevant.
Authentic.

An old piece

This is something I wrote in August of 2004. I just ran across it and thought it interesting that it should apply in some ways to my life today but within a different context. I suppose we only change so much. It's just alright. I'm not sure I ever really finished it, but I didn't want to change anything. I kinda think I was planning on making them into lyrics, but, well, I don't think I'm much of a lyricist. I just write how I speak. Ok.


The Things I Feel are lovely.
They’re ripe and fresh and bloody.
They’re wounds derived from loving.
I live and think, think and love.

My joy it sinks and rises.
My loneliness surprises.
It impassions me to write.
I breathe and write, write and writhe.

And the timeless days,
(that)play out in my mind.
Are made hazy by the joy we both shared.
And the smiles on my face
make my eyes a different shape,
so the scenes I see are poorly lit.

The sweets that pass my teeth.
Fill the space between my sheets.
It’s through eating I achive.
I grieve and eat, eat and thieve.

Don’t contemplate the Future,
Or second guess the Past.
Focus is Present
The task at hand
Stay the course.
Well done,
Son.

We Don't Ride Bikes Anymore (12/10/06)

It’s interesting how much of your parents you can see directly in yourself. I mean, it makes sense that a product originating from two sources would carry their traits. But, it’s interesting to recognize those traits in both your parent and in yourself and then appreciate the parent and feel that much closer to them.
Both of my parents are people of deep character. They think about life, about the human condition, they treat people well. And they both effect people they talk to. You can easily feel from both my parents that if engaged in a conversation with them, they care about you. But if I had to categorize the way my parents relate to people, I would say that my dad is more public and my mom is more private in their approach.
My dad puts on a show. He will spin a tale and stand up out of necessity, out of sheer need to express. And it’s funny because I’m prone to think of my dad as the entertainer, but seeing my mom in front of a class room full of kids, it’s unbelievable how she works the crowd. I don’t know how she does it. Neither my father nor I could ever wrangle an elementary class, and with such aplomb!
My mom has a shwazé, an élan, a fine air of classical literature, the sentiment of dramatic and the heart of a mother the size which could easily love an entire orphanage. My mother has that type of capacity. She has size of love that reaches into a hard-hearted, neglected, rebellious, sharp-tongued 13 year-old and absolutely melts them, wining their allegiance not just for the day but the rest of their public school days in Fullerton. My mom has legions of rough kids in every class in the Fullerton school district who are loyal to the bone. And if you don’t show respect to Mrs. Pecoraro, one of these toughs will straighten you out before my mom has to say a word. Again, it’s unbelievable.
My mom gets so excited about the growth of a child. I have seen her ecstatic over an example of one child who overcame a learning barrier, learned to feel better about themselves or who finally understood the logic behind long division. Her focus really is on others.
Over the years we’ve often discussed my mother’s childhood and the environment she grew up in. It seems very unusual to me in terms of presence of parenting. But in short, my mother, the middle of five children, never really learned to have much regard for herself. Because she felt lost in the middle and was seldom noticed, recognized or made to feel “special”, my mother went about life as if such were the case.
On one hand this makes my mother a very giving person, selfless and thoughtful. She’s this way with the people in her life. I can’t even measure how this plays out in our relationship. There isn’t a son on planet Earth who has a mother who loves him more than mine. Unfortunately many of you don’t have a problem excepting this, but for those of you who think your mother loves you, she might as well hate you in comparison.
Anyone who has ever met my mother knows this. A case in point, upon meeting my dear friend and coworker Katherine, my mother very earnestly expressed, “it’s nice to meet you. You’re so lucky to be working with my son.” Katherine, of course, knew this to be true, but was taken aback by such a bold statement of love.
My mom’s not blind to my faults but she definitely is near-sighted. And if she does recognize them, she will never mention them to anyone else, ever, only to me. She displays this amount of loyalty to my father as well. And I can’t tell you what a prized virtue that is in a companion. My father is very fortunate to be able to say that my mom never embarrasses him in public by saying he’s wrong, or putting him down. And she would never mention anything to friend that might be between them. My mom hears women complain about their husbands all the time, but no one can say that they have ever heard my mother say anything negative about my dad. I hope this rings as priceless to your ears as well. I fear it’s far too rare a quality, that sort of fidelity. The sort that puts the friendship, the commitment the privacy of two lovers before any other on the planet; two becoming one. That’s how it’s done.
Here’s an example of how much my mom loves me. When I was a child we would go to Mc Donald’s a lot for lunch. Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest but we went mostly for the toys in the happy meal. And the great part, the part that makes these trips such a prized memory of my youth, is that we would hit up the four or so closest Mc Donald’s to see if we could collect all the toys in the series. How fun is that?! It would be so great traveling around, like a mission. And the sense of completion I would feel after we had gathered up all the Big Foot monster trucks or Muppet Babies on tricycles, well it felt very nice, until the next series came out.
What other mother would do that? What other mother would have the patience or plain interest to spend that time with her young son Mc Donald hoping for a couple hours? Or spend hours on end going from antique shop to antique shop? Or go on explorations to the “secret park” and Brea’s Best burgers on our two Schwinns. Man, we had so much fun. My mom IS a lot of fun. I miss going about having fun with my mom. Those times are rare these days.
You know, I’m out here in L.A, I’m working a lot at the restaurant, I’m studying acting, I’m auditioning, I’m shooting I’m trying to live a balanced life. I have got to be out here, right? I do think so. And the noise of all the “stuff” that seems to be going on at the “moment” makes me sometimes forget what it’s like to be at home, or what home even is. And when I realize this I feel like an orphan out here. I feel like I don’t have a home. You know where home is for me right now, the restaurant I work at.
When I’m at work I have my work wives, my LA mom, plenty of uncles and brothers, my big sis, some little sisters, cousins of sorts, it’s all so familial. I’ve come to realize that I rely on these people a lot emotionally. I would have never thought it would be that way. And with my L.A. friends getting married off one by one, well, it leaves a void of intimacy.
I know that I draw Katherine and Jessica nearer and nearer as we grow in our love for one another. As I think about it, perhaps I require them to be friends as well as mothers to me. I’ve definitely asked more from them emotionally than I have with most girlfriends. That’s a funny thought. I’ve never had the thought that they fulfill a need I have for home.
Actually, last week, as Katherine and I had just moved Jess’ stuff back into her mom’s house, we were having a Newcastle and a smoke on her porch and I remember distinctly saying that that moment felt so much like being at home. It was so familiar, that feeling of having busted your butt to move in a friend and then relaxing with a beer and cooling off on the porch. It was so satisfying, that need for being needed, coming through in the clutch, being called upon to be a friend. You only ask a good friend to help you move. And I suppose I felt, within a very practical application, that I was and I had good friends, in L.A. What a golden moment.
And if I can delve deeper for just one more paragraph, I can’t say how much I enjoyed finally seeing Katherine’s home. It was so, well, homey. It had signs of a mother and a father and a brother and I actually met her grandmother, along with her three dogs. It was just so nice to be in a home, a home that wasn’t furnished almost entirely by Ikea. It was a real home with flavour and colour. I loved it. And that’s what I love about going to Jess’ house too.
That’s probably why I like to pick her up and not meet somewhere, so that I can go inside her home and give her mom a mom hug, all warm and comforting. Like Yesterday when I came in and I shared their burger and fries. Oh man, it was the only family meal I’ve been a part of in ages. It was so simple, and I didn’t even think about it at the time, but it was so nice, so warm.
I also love coming in so I can see all the old family decorations up, and be in a house that has about as many antiques as my parents’. And when Jess mentioned Kath, her and I having some vino with her mom, relaxing in front of the fireplace, well, I could get emotional about fireplaces. They hold a deeply special place in my heart from the early days of my childhood. I could sit forever on a foot stool or upon a rug within the warm embrace of a two-log fire, especially with them.

It’s great that I have what I have in Los Angeles. I can’t imagine not knowing these people and not having them in my life, in my heart. I love them. And I can see how I’ve been a part of making LA my home, making Miceli’s my home, it’s how I like to feel, how I probably need my life to feel and these are wonderful thoughts, but in another sense it saddens me.
I’m saddened because I will never know home to be like the home I knew. “Home” for me will never exist like it did, not even as far up as college never mind high school or before. When I return to my parent’s house it is always so wonderful, it is familiar and filled with memories. My mom’s cooking, the décor, my dad going to bed late and waking up even later, my mom up before everyone drinking coffee, reading the paper/her Bible/Tolstoy…
But I’m not the same, My parents are not the same. I am a man, they are older, we don’t ride bikes anymore. And I don’t even want to return to that time, but I think what I DO wish, what I definitely wish, is that I could simply spend more time with my mom and dad. I miss out on the nitty gritty. I miss out on physical touch. I have missed out on the majority of the past seven years, since I went to college. And I have seen my parents, well, grow older, as is the course of life. And I want to be there for that stage.
I want to share these years as we grow as friends, as a close chord of three. Sometimes I think, “what have I done? What have I missed in these seven years. How long will I continue to miss out on familial intimacy? Will I miss an entire decade?” I can’t believe how quickly that time frame approaches. I feel these feelings even though I also feel like I am where I am supposed to be. I feel God working in me, loving me, building in me, whispering to me, holding me in his hand.
I feel joy in all of this. I feel a quite, moist-eyed love in my heart about my life right now. It’s wonderful in all of the smallest ways. It’s wonderful in the way that my street has lots of leaves on it. It’s wonderful in the way that I can practice piano at 1am at Miceli’s with the ghosts. It’s wonderful that I can spend the first minutes of my birthday with Jess at Canter's, talk with Kath for two hours, go over Ryan’s and see grandma Green before we head out to the Italian bakery for a sandwich and some wonderful friendship, do absolutely nothing in our underwears around the house with Tony and laugh till we cry about a specific humour pretty much only we share. What jewels these moments are to me.
As I write this I am teary because I am so blessed. My cup overflows with goodness. God spares no wonderful thing from me. I couldn’t have more touching people in my life.
I guess I just miss my mom and dad.

My Dad's 88th birthday (12/01/06)

Yesterday was my dad's 88th birthday. I wasn't able to spend it with him and my mom but we got a chance to talk twice, once in the afternoon and once at 2am that night. The night conversation was great.
We talked about all sorts of things, about being artists, about the nature of art and life of an artist. We talked about my future and the non-artistic desires I have for it. My dad and I connected in a really great way last night. It was a conversation I'll never forget for a couple of reasons.
Although we don’t see each other as often as we’d like, my dad and I talk quite a bit. He will often ride the train from Fullerton and I will pick him up at Union Station downtown. It’s great to be there as he steps onto the platform and looks around for me. My dad’s a good height and has an unmistakable look so I usually spot him quickly and shoot a high pitched whistle his way. When he hears it he looks over and sticks up his hand as do I. We greet each other with a great hug and I carry whatever he has brought with him, which is usually a bag filled with foodstuffs and what-have-yous from my mom along with a pair of pajamas and a toothbrush for the stay overnight.
We then grab a bite to eat either at Phillips’ French dip, Canter’s Deli, the Farmer’s Market or a new place. The evening most often consists of a special movie and then more coffee shops for dessert and coffee. We frequent the Silent Movie Theatre on Fairfax as much as possible because one really cool thing about my father’s age is that we can see a movie together there that he saw with his dad when it first came out in the 1920’s. These are usually in the Douglas Fairbanks/Rudolph Valentino vein, which is great because I grew up hearing stories about my dad seeing them as a child. So to see them together is really special and a great father/son time.
Last time my dad came up we saw James Bond at the Chinese theatre. My dad hadn’t been to the Chinese in easily thirty years, at least, when he and my uncle Steve were living in Beverly Hills as bachelors. It’s always great reintroducing my dad to the perks of living in Los Angeles. And it’s great because, even though he’s been in California since 1954, L.A. is now my stomping grounds and I get to show him my spots. They’re great times and we both look forward to them so much.
My dad will often ask when he can hop the train next and because I work so much I’m often times reluctant to give a specific date. But, I must say that I’m pretty decent at remembering what’s important in the long term scheme of things. I morosely like to call it my, “deathbed perspective.” I try and imagine what decisions I will be happy about and which I will regret when I am old and dying. This easily clarifies my dilemma. And it’s always in favor of spending more time with people I love, particularly my dad.
Our best conversations are usually late at night. These will be at Canter’s or Mel’s at two in the morning over coffee and our second dessert of the day. I try and get new stuff out of him when he reverts to old stories just because I want to hear what he’s got to say about different things. I know he likes the old stories and I do too, but it just feels like I would be talking to a grandfather and not my father if all we talked about were the stories I've heard all my life. I mean, this is my dad, it’s important that even though he’s much older than me, we still are able to find common ground. It’s not difficult, I’m an old soul and he’s a hep cat so we probably meet half way and relate as two 45 year olds.
Also, it's not like that's all he talks about. Like I've mentioned before, my dad has a lot of the present on his mind. Politics, new music, film, new applications of Biblical truths, my dad’s always thinking and is often lost in that thought. I definitely take this trait straight from him. My mom is much more present than either one of us. I mean she has a deeply resonant soul, but she’s much more with it.
My pop and I will often talk about encounters he’s had with folks at our family restaurant. Or he might mention an interesting conversation had at his men's Bible study. Or perhaps he'll bring up some non-sequitor thoughts he's been chewing on recently. Those are definitely my favourite moments because it's new shit he's spinning.
Last night was interesting because I don't very often feel like a peer of my father, but as I was talking about my amorphic thoughts and feelings concerning my future, about acting, about humanitarianism, he kind of got down on my level, I can’t really explain in what way, but it was more of a peer type conversation than I commonly remember having with my dad.
I mentioned to him how I really enjoy acting but I don’t see myself being completely fulfilled by it alone unless I was able to parlay my success as an actor into more of a humanitarian role. We discussed how I am definitely an artist in many senses, but I also feel very academic in thought and demeanor. And in some ways I feel like the academic side to me is slower moving than the entertainer whom is always putting on the act. I know that they’re not mutually exclusive, but I sometimes feel very unlike other actors I know. This sort of fish out of water sensation is not a new feeling for me and is in fact a theme to my life. I’m still processing these thoughts. I’m sure I’m not along in these feelings, but being an only child makes me think I’m special, so, I might as well be.
My dad said that he had been thinking and praying for me about these very same notions. And mentioned the times I had spoke of them in the past. And he had this to say about it,
“you know son, these thoughts and feelings are very personal, very intimate. I can understand that you’re at a crossroads of sorts, and that you’re thinking about the future, but there is only so much I can tell you because while I would go the distance with you down whatever road you would choose, I can only do so much. These very close feelings are really between you and our heavenly Father. I don’t know what the future holds for you but I do know that God has wonderful plans for you.”
Now my dad has often told me to seek advice from God and I find all the wisdom in the world in those words. And I do do this, often. In addition to this my dad has, in equal doses, given me personal examples from his own life (old stories) about when he was in a similar situation. It is through the stories of his life that he relates to others, not exclusively, but a lot of the time. So for him to not tell me a story is very interesting, and actually refreshing.
And maybe that’s the reason I felt we related on common ground in that conversation, because while we have sincere faith in God’s timing and goodness, we both felt a level of uncertainty about the future, and that was just fine. I mean, what’s very cool in a very strange way is that, as my father gets older he thinks more about what is to come after this life. And while we both have faith in God’s timing and goodness in this area, in definitely falls into the realm of uncertainty.
It’s interesting now that I think about it, because I think one of the reasons why we sometimes meet at a disconnect concerning life’s travails and bents, is because my dad has seen so much life that nothing seems like a big deal to him. He has been through wars, depressions, revolutions of all sorts and at this point, although he’s probably always had a strong sense of this, he is perpetually cool and nothing ruffles him. For him, it’ll all work out fine. And while he’s concerned about my quandaries, I think he feels a distance from them, and I sense this. But last night he really got what I was feeling, perhaps related to it, and we dealt it out. It was a man’s moment, when you think about your life and what you want from it, as a man. It was a time where we both looked at the great mystery of life, with all of our love and curiosity concerning it.
We’re both deeply passionate men. We look at small things in life. We think about the wonder of intimate things, thoughts, hopes, disappointments, relationships and the wisdom concerning them. We are kindred in this way.
It was a good conversation, good and healthy and satisfying.

Vegas (11/15/06)

Let me start off by saying I strongly dislike Las Vegas. Yes, there are things I like there, in fact things I LOVE in Las Vegas, but as a whole I strongly dislike it. The reason is this: I say “yes” and “no” everyday to many things. I have, over the course of my life, through failure and success, decided on certain convictions. Those who know me know that I am a man of faith. However, those who know me intimately know that I weigh my convictions very strongly in my mind and in my heart and take these thoughts to God in conversation to see how he weighs in on them. I don’t like to make judgments or decisions on how I feel about convictions until I have had this maturation period.
I have, for some years now, been taking this process step by step with God and desire to have our relationship be fresh and vibrant and not so strongly based on what others tell me or interpret for themselves.
I want the most out of my life. I know that the most impact my life can have is if I follow God’s will. Paul quotes Isaiah 64:4 when he says in his first letter to the church in Corinth,
“no eye has seen,
no ear has heard,
no mind has conceived
what God has prepared for those who love
him”
This is what I feel to be among the most true things in my life. My life can be truly valuable only if I love God, and by loving God I obey God to the best of my understanding. And he will take me places that I could never conceive of, never imagine in my wildest dreams. “No man can conceive…”, what a grand thought. And I only want these things because I feel that my life will have an impact, not for glory of self. The thought that I can influence people’s lives for the better, well, I’m pretty high on the idea, especially recently.
Well Vegas is a place that has many things I wish to say “no” to in my life. And it’s not always because I desire to say no, but because I know this is truly what I want for my life. I did not feel deprived to what I said “no” to this weekend, instead I genuinely felt great for making decisions that, when given the option, defined my character in the positive.
Am I alone in this? Does anyone else, regardless of faith, feel that it’s important to make decisions that are wise? Does anyone else feel it’s important to deny yourself certain pleasures in order to have greater satisfactions? Must one have faith to believe that these sacrifices will be worth it in the future? I rarely, if ever, hear this language emanate from secular sources, “deny, sacrifice” it seems people think they’re entitled to avarice with no consequences. And does anyone else feel that the word “sacrifice” is not negative, but that it carries value, honour and in fact, pleasure?
Why am I made to feel so old? Why am I made to feel so disconnected with my generation? Why have I always felt that way? Why do I feel that I need to clarify that standing alone (veritably) is not an act of pride or ego but an act of my soul’s conviction, that I would be living a lie to live any other way?
Can I be honest for a moment without being judged? Can I say how hard it is for me at times, how exhausted I feel sometimes, how I can feel out of place, or how lonely it can get because of what I choose? Can I utter these thoughts aloud without having to explain that choosing this road is not about my pride? That I don’t feel I am a martyr? That I’m not seeking pats of the back or admiration?
Can I confess that I, at times, just want to give in? Can I confess that, at times, I just want to say “yes” to many things that seem comfortable, that seem soft and exciting and warm? Can I tell you, in all honesty, that I feel it would be a relief at times? At times, I want to give in. I want to give up. I want to be “free.”
But just because it would be easier does not mean that it would be better for me. Just because one load might be temporarily relieved doesn’t mean a much heavier load would not be placed on my back, my heart. Being “free” from conviction would only make me a slave to impulse and chain me to the consequences of those intemperate, unchecked desires.
And why do I feel that I sound so impassionate when I use phrases like, “consequences of those intemperate, unchecked desires?” Does anyone know me to be dispassionate, void of fervor, not a strongly sensual human being with a taste and curiosity for many things?
I am no less a man with feeling, with impulse, with passion and with strong desire than any other. In fact, more so than many, I desire much of what the world has to offer, beneficial or not. So I reject the notion that I do not desire the things I say “no” to. I just see them differently and so choose differently. And again I also refuse to associate these choices with feelings of superiority or judgment upon those who choose differently.
There is joy in wisdom. There is freedom in wisdom. And don’t you disregard the word “wisdom” as ancient, as irrelevantly religious or inapplicable to your life. Wisdom is the way to live your life best. Those with wisdom live lives well. The choices they make in turn bless their lives for the extent of their lives. They grow old with peace. They’re families are whole in heart and they pass the beautiful blessings of wise living on to their children and grandchildren. And these wise people are spread all over. They’re not just old white Billy Graham types of folks. They’re in every culture, or every colour.
There is less hurt, more joy and a fuller life when one considers what the wise choice might be given a dilemma. I don’t hear many people talk about wisdom outside of faith communities. And perhaps that is because the term wisdom connotes absolute Truth, and our popular culture has no interest in there being a “wrong” or dealing with consequences. But wisdom is more precious than fame, more valuable than money and of far greater application than plain knowledge. Knowledge is beautiful, I’m as curious a man as you’re likely to meet, but wisdom is eternal, wisdom is divine and your life will flourish with it, suffer without it.
I am obviously passionate about it. But you see, I live in a community (Los Angeles) and work in a profession (entertainment) within a world that flies in the face of these thoughts of mine. I believe these things. And it’s very easy to ignore your convictions, it’s easy to become deaf to wisdom when the din of society clamours in your ear. For me to live any other way would make me less of a man because I would be betraying myself and lying to everyone around me. I can’t like that kind of life. It’s not worth living. I choose to be a man.
And so, when I go to Las Vegas and am shown a sample of “VIP” life, I am a person who starts thinking about how I feel about it and why it’s not something I find value in, even though I’m supposed to, as an actor, as a man, in my curious, hungry, sensual youth.
I know who I am. I know what my life is about. Of course I am continually learning, and always seeking more truth but I have always lived my life true to my heart, loving my it and those around me as fully as I know to at that time. There is so much I don’t know, so much I’m curious about, so much I mull over and marinate in, which is the very reason I’m writing this. But what I do know I will not turn a deaf ear to sate hedonistic impulse.
Don’t get me wrong, I had a great time in Vegas for a number of reasons, (a good amount of them Prince related). I enjoyed the company immensely and had a good time all around. But it’s great to be presented with strong temptations to remind you of what your character is made of when you have real opportunity to fuck up that hard fought character.

Eventuality of Relationships? (11/15/06)

Are relationships destined to wane? Will time tear nearly everyone of them apart? Why must people grow apart? Must they? Is it only through extreme dedication that relationships can weather the tests of a lifetime of changes? From moving locations, to introducing new people (i.e. marriage, work relationships, new friends. children…) A marriage only stays the course of a lifetime if divorce is not an option. When it’s not an option then the couple has no other choice than to make it work, and hopefully make it work well.
I attended a wedding recently and the pastor said the following interesting words, “a common piece of advice given to newlyweds is to never keep score when it comes to doing things for one another. But I say keep score, and always make sure you’re losing. Because giving is wining in a marriage.” I found that an interesting way to phrase it. I have found that consistent love and giving only produce positive fruits. I would hope that when the relationship is strained and all I can think of to do is to give more, it would heal wounds and strengthen bonds proving my commitment in the relationship and my love for them. And I do love them.
I think that every relationship is destined to change as is every person. The person who does not change is not healthy, is not growing and is not becoming better. This is true as well of a relationship. The hope is that these relationships also grow and strengthen as they change. I believe it will.

My life at Miceli's, Part 2 (11/08/06)

... It was at that moment that I burned that poor girl on her naked back that the guy she was out with says to me, "Hey! Charlie! How are you?!" In that split second I went from sadness over Jill's condition, to extremely apologetic over the loss of this poor girls first layer of skin, to shocked over seeing this guy and then incredibly humored by what I will explain. You see, the guy who was having dinner with said burn victim was none other than Tommy Mooseknuckles, a guy about 23 years old, who comes into Miceli's on a semi-regular basis.
The very first time Tommy Mooseknuckles came to Miceli's he had a party of about five and put his name in as "Mooseknuckles", which apparently is a synonym for camel toe which is a common pejorative term for the shape that emerges from between a women's legs when she is wearing pants that are too tight, e.g., the shape of a moose’s knuckle.
Tommy was banking on the hope that I would announce loudly, “Mooseknuckles, party of five. Mooseknuckles…” I didn’t get the joke because I hadn’t heard the term before. I inquired because he gave the name in such a schmarmy way that I knew something was fishy, pun intended, He explained, I obliged and we all had a good laugh.
Well, because of that memorable incident I have called Tommy, “Mr. Mooseknuckles” ever since, often times forgetting his real name. And about two weeks ago and a VERY busy Sunday night, Tommy walks in with his out-of-town buddy, Jake. They come in, I promise them a short wait and a good table as always and they sit down,
Shortly after arrives a party of two cute girls. They put their name in and take a seat near Tommy and Jake. I walk over to the guys, chat it up for a minute and offer to buy them drinks so Tommy looks like he’s got some pull at his local hang out. As I turn I see the two girls looking at me like they’re thirsty so I think, “what the hell” and offer to buy them a round.
I after I had dropped off the refreshments I soon realize that the four are talking and hitting it off nicely. I also notice that I haven’t got any deuces (restaurant slang for a two person table) available at the moment but I DO have a four-top. I call Tommy over under the guise that he’s got a phone call. I ask him if he wants me to suggest that the four grab a table together, you know, to help ME out. He agrees and I slyly make my proposal to the other three and they take the bait.
I pass by a couple of times to chat it up and at the end of the night I see that they’ve exchanged numbers. Tommy gives me a, “we’ll see what happens” type of look. They leave. And here, two weeks later, who do I brand like a baby calf on the ranch but Christina, one of the very same girls that I set Tommy and Jake up with, on like their third date, really enjoying each other’s company. It was the weirdest experience. I was so overwhelmed by all stimuli that I could hardly process all the pieces of the experience. So I just started laughing as I gave Christina a big hug and apologized profusely for searing her like ahi tuna. After that they left and I took their unfinished plate of nachos cause I hadn’t had the opportunity to eat at work. They were good.
That, plus the nachos and the Crown & Coke really lightened my mood even though I still felt the sting of the night’s previous events. Life is so strange sometimes. Tragedy and comedy all mashed up together. I’ll tell you what though, I had a really good time with my work wives. They love on me so much. When I sneakily picked up the tab they covered me in kisses and hugs and mashed their boobs on me. It was great. I had a wide ass grin on my face. I love them.

My life at Miceli's, Part 1 (11/08/06)

My life at Miceli's is pretty much divided into two types of nights; the night where my two work wives are scheduled and those they are not. I relish in the former, endure the later. When they work my night is filled with a number of wonderful incidents, little happenings and physical contact that both please me and make the night more enjoyable. Suffice to say I enjoy them. Last night was such a night.
Those unfamiliar to my work environs, it goes like this; I work in a restaurant where every waiter is a singer, they actually have to audition to be there. We have a pianist who plays and when the singers have an opportunity, they sing; jazz, opera and/or Broadway, it’s a great place to work. Also, those unfamiliar to where my talents lay, it goes something like this; I don’t sing very well. But I do play half ass piano, half ass trumpet and having since worked at Miceli’s, learned to play half ass drums. So I am the drummer/manager to the singing/waiter. It’s a fun atmosphere.
Last night, a Tuesday, a typically slow night, was not really that slow at all. When a Monday or a Tuesday get busy it is usually more hectic than a busy Friday or Saturday because; a) we are mentally prepared for a more easy going night b) we are staffed for a more easy going night. After one of these unexpected Mon or Tues rushes I usually feel a little more drained, a little more sapped of energy. And it was at the end of this type of night, with the fun of my two work wives mixed in, that I came across Jill.
Jill was a woman at the bar who was drunk. As I was with one of the wives at the front desk Jill drops the entirety of her bag on the floor in front of the bar. I heard the disruptive clamor. I looked over and saw Jill hunched over the contents. Then I heard Jill plop on the ground. “Here we go…” I thought to myself. “I’ve got to deal with THIS now. I’m spent and enjoying time with my wives and now, when the night’s nearly over, I’ve got to play manager.”
I walk over to the woman and kindly ask, “ma’am, can I help you out? Can I help you collect your things?” There was a small, child like, inaudible whisper. “Ma’am, can I help you gather your things together” I persisted. “No,” was the soft reply. I responded with a soft, “ok, let me know if you need my help” and headed back to the front desk with the thought that I’d let her manage herself since she was inebriated and probably didn’t want any assistance, (as most drunks folks don’t.)
I was hoping that Jill would soon be on her feet and gather together back at the bar stool hopefully sobering up so that I could call her a cab but the pace at which she was moving didn’t suggest that that was the course of events to unfold. After some time I walked back over, knelt down beside her and said kindly, “ma’am, I’d like to help you gather your things if that’s alright with you.” I believed I heard a faint answer in the affirmative so I squatted down beside her and gathered her things together placing them back into her bag.
I then began a campaign to get Jill up and over to a nearby bench. Ten to fifteen minutes later, after gaining her trust, talking with her, consoling her, investing in her, and in some way connecting with her I got her over to the bench with a couple of hot rolls and a strong cup of coffee. I urged her to drink and eat so that she’d feel better. I found out that she was staying at a nearby motel (fleabag) which she insisted on walking back to. I knew she wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom let alone two blocks away to the motel. I insisted on finding her a way there even if that meant I had to drive her myself.
During this time the wives had left to go to Mexicali, a joint five minutes away that we frequent after work. They had been calling me repeatedly expressing that they a) wanted me to get my but over there, b) wanted updates on the situation and c) warned me not to drive Jill myself because she could be crazy and pull a knife on me. The wives threatened to call the police to handle the situation if I didn’t do it myself. I told them that I would be there as soon as I could.
I didn’t want to call the police on Jill. She was a woman who was clearly in a bad spot. I knew she was drunk but the meds that spilled out on the ground when she dropped her purse made me think that her incoherence was not solely an affect of alcohol. I really felt for her. She wasn’t someone I could dismiss so easily as I might a homeless woman or someone who is beyond my ability to help in any way. I at least felt, as a fellow human being, as a child of God, that I could make sure she got back to her motel.
I urged her to drink the coffee and eat a roll as I quickly went through my restaurant closing procedures. I rushed around the place helping out Bill the bus man clear the tables of cheese shakers, wine glasses and dirty plates. I shut off long strings of Christmas lights. I turned off the piped in loungey swing classics. I close the lid to the piano. And as I was talking with Robb, one of my waiters, he lets out a jarring, “OH SHIT!” looking over my shoulder in the direction of the bar. It was at that moment that I heard a horrible sound.
The sound I heard was a crack, a slap, a crunch, a smack and a thud all rolled into one. It was the sound of Jill falling face first into the Italian burgundy tiles that line our floors. They’re not very forgiving. I rushed over and stood over her, aghast at the sight of her face down, directly into the floor, legs and arms sprawled about, green Bic lighter firmly grasped in hand.
I rushed over the phone and dialed 911 as Robb and a kind customer rushed over to her and rolled her over. I had a hard time looking at Jill but once I did I had a hard time looking away. Her face was fucked up. And there was a small pool of dark blood that had gathered where she had landed. I think she busted teeth, split lips and cracked nose. I’d be surprised if she didn’t. Using your face as a cushion for the falling weight of your body might result in few bruises.
In the proceeding moments an ambulance arrived, callously asked her questions, roughly strapped her in and briskly took her away snatching her bag of meds, microwave popcorn, Marlboro lights and a snack sized pack of Milanos leaving only the small pool of dark blood to remember the incident by. Before I knew it, Raul came by without me asking and had mopped that up too. I was grateful.
I went about the rest of my closing duties in a strange stupor. I was obviously affected by this whole episode. It all ended so abruptly. The wives had gotten their wish in a weird sort of way. And after driving to Mexicali and relaying the story they were not happy about Jill’s fate but felt better that I had not gotten shanked.
In the retelling of the evening’s events I lit a much needed cigarette and promptly began speaking with my hands. And in doing this I promptly pressed the red hot cherry of my Nat Sherman classic king sized cigarette into the exposed back of the girl sitting to my right. And SHE promptly let out a squeal that was equal parts, surprise, pain and terror.
(story continued on next blog…)

16.5 mi (Saturday, October 28, 2006)

I'm pretty sure that I've lost most of my objectivity when regarding distance running. For some reason running 16.5 miles doesn't astound me. Yes, many runners traverse much greater distances than that. But THAT fact has nothing to do with THIS fact, I am not a runner, yet.
And I'm not sure I wanna be. I'll tell you this much though, I've gotten to like it quite a bit more since my last masochistic diatribe [I'm coming clean (with dirty language.)] Matter of fact, I've felt really great during some of my runs. But I've got to remember that I can't rush my progress for the simple reason that my body needs time to adjust, acclimate and strengthen.
On Sunday I ran 14.42 miles in 2hours and 25 minutes and at the end of it I was feeling pretty good. I had the mentality that I could possibly bust out 20 before too long if I just kept putting one foot in front of another. Well, as good as I felt I still needed a few days rest but I felt I took too many (three) and in addition to a few other circumstances I felt I needed a good purging. I told myself I would run 15 miles+ and see what would happen.
I set out about 1:30pm and kept a decent pace. Before I knew it my 1 hour and 15 minute lecture on existentialism was over and I was still feeling ambitious. If I was going to do 15 it would only take a small amount more in time than it took me for 14.42. So when I came to my usual turn-around points to start heading back I kept going farther out. At every opportunity I took the longer distance. Having never "run out of gas" before I felt there wasn't really any distance I couldn't manage if I simply kept a good pace, refueled and hydrated.
I'd say I started to struggle pretty hard at mile 12. The pain in my hips, the anterior (outside) of my knees and ankles had started to become real. In addition to this my gluts, hammies, quads and calves began to give me signals of trouble. By mile 14 I had filled up my water bottle 4 times, ate two Cliff Shots, five Jelly Belly Sport Beanz, two shallow pockets full of salted pretzels and some nutrition bar but I felt I was getting scarily close to empty. And yet I felt that the "one foot in front of the other" philosophy would take me home without any worry.
Well, I had had to stop a few times to stretch out my back side but by mile 15.5 I was walking. I was humbled. My muscles were just shot. I would have about 30 seconds of inspiration, cursing at myself, praising myself, shouting out to Jesus to get me home, talking to my feet to not let me down... and then I would pay for it dearly with every muscle and joint below my belt screaming at me including my testicles, (poor bouncing motherfuckers keeping time for miles and miles.)_I don't exaggerate when I say that the last three to five blocks were scary. I really didn't know if it was physically possible for me to make it back to my apartment by myself. Through God's grace, a lot of swearing, singing songs about my foolishness and the pain to come I made it back crashing promptly to the floor of my living room. I thank God that Carrie, Tony's fiancé was there to get me my Gatorade, pretzels, snacks, and to rub my calves to keep them from cramping. My body was covered in salt from so much perspiration. I mean, I felt granularly all over.
It was at that point that I finally looked at a clock and saw that it read 5:30pm. I had been out for four hours and running something like three and a half. But the unfortunate part was that I was due at work at 5pm. I had completely lost track of time. I don't know what I was thinking. Well, I do and it sure as hell wasn't about time. It was pretty much about survival. I was so focused. The rest of the night and into today I've been worried that I haven't been refueling well enough resulting in me eating a lot.
It's a funny feeling for a chubby guy to "need" to eat to fuel my body. I'm used to eating out of desire, gluttony or plain oral fixation. Needing to specifically refuel and strategically consume is very foreign to me. In the past when I've been hungry my reaction is, "hey fatso, you don't 'need' to eat anything right now. You've got plenty to burn around your midsection." But now it's different and it's taking some adjusting. My body is burning so much it astounds me. On a 14-16 mile run I can burn 2200-2500 calories. For a healthy diet the nationally suggested daily consumption is 2000 calories. So you can see how I might be concerned about getting my nutrients.
I think part of my loss of objectivity is that I'm currently reading a great book about Dean Karnazes, an Ultra-Marathoner who runs 100 milers all the time. The tales are so inspiring that I feel like I could sneeze off a paltry 15 no prob (In all fairness to myself, I COULD have done 15 and been quite alright. But that last 1.5 of the 16.5 nearly killed me.) Dean looks straight into it and preservers. Pain and everything are there but he keeps on. It's good stuff, but I gotta stick to my training schedule.
I plan to run a lot between 5 and 10 miles. This will build up a solid base for me to build further upon. I don't think I'll do another 15 miler till Dec. but I'll have to see. I might get arrogant again. I mean, who am I kidding, I post these stupid updates all the time. It's true, I only do it when I achieve a personal best, but I really enjoy the kudos and encouragement. I'm kind of a whore about it. I drop my latest distances all over at work. I can't help it, it's gotten under my skin and I like it. It's a good feeling to make progress. And I suppose it's the only area in my life where I feel like progress is being made. And perhaps that is the reason I wanted to take it too far too fast.

11.5 Miles (Thursday, October 12, 2006)

New personal best in distance as of this morning(10/12/6).
Today's run:
-11.5 miles
-1:50 hours
-9'30"/mile pace,
With a big ole hill right in the middle of the run.

It was a good run today. I just kept on feeling good. I had some Goo and Clif bar shot Bloks with me along with some water to wash them down. I know that helped. Plus I bought those little round band aids you put over needle shots in the arm and stuck ..em over my nips so that they wouldn't bleed.
It's funny the pains that come and go during a run. When I start out everything hurts; my knees, my lower back, my left hip and my ankle.. But, as I pass through mile one I'm good and warmed up. If I do the run that goes up and over Barham, the big ole hill, then my left hip and right knee hurt because it's at an angle. But after I come down the other side, stop in Miceli's for a glass of water and a piss and continue on, I feel really good. Everything is well lubed up at that point, which is just about four miles deep. That's also the point at which I start to get thirsty, round mile 4 and 5. I think I popped a Clif bar shot Blok in about that time.
I believe it was around mile six or seven that I slurped up the Clif bar strawberry Goo and washed it down with a couple hearty gulps of water. And within half a mile I felt a wonderful second wind. When you read that a large part of running is the mind game, I'd say that's absolutely true.
I always run with headphones on. There are a lot of runners, mostly old school, who are purist about it and believe that running with headphones inhibits two fundamental elements of running; the conversation that bonds two runners running together and the ability to listen to your own body. They also feel that it's dangerous because you can't hear cars or are generally less aware of your environment.
These things are true for the most part, however, I find the benefits to outweigh the detriments by more than a sufficient amount. When I go on longer runs I like to listen to a lecture, a sermon or an interview. I just get them through iTunes as a podcast. For example, I often like to listen to Pastor Chuck Swindoll. I find he gives great insights into God's word and what it has to say about life, the nature of God and all sorts of things. His pod casts, which are taken directly from his Sunday morning sermons, are always under 28 minutes, you know, a Sunday morning sermon.
Or, last week I listened to a guest lecturer from the 2006, ANU-Toyota Public Lecture series, speak on the nature of freedom as presented in Thomas Hobbes' The Leviathan. Sometimes I'll listen in on the economic state of India and it's emergence as a World super power, or, like today, I distract myself of my aching left partially torn ACL (self diagnosed) by paying attention to a great introduction to a philosophy class taught last Spring at, I can't remember where, which focuses on existentialism in literature and film. I really enjoyed today's lecture.
After I finish the spoken word section of my run I then listen to high octane music that lifts my spirits and makes me wanna yell stuff out loud as passers by in cars think I'm escaping the asylum. Such music includes or course, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, White Stripes, Chili Peppers, Styx, Muse, Rage Against the Machine, Prince, Wolfmother and a little fast paced Miles Davis.
From what I can gather, the key element to effective running music is usually a driving tempo. Also of main import are ripping guitar solos, squelching lead vocalists, a kick ass drummer and music that builds to sound bursts and orgasmic climaxes.
As a final note to today’s running recap, I never stretch before I run. I read and heard that it is damaging to attempt to stretch cold muscles. And more so than this, I had much pain in my left Achilles tendon due to over pre-run stretching. I do my warming up on the road like a real runner. On the converse, I do stretch a healthy amount (but probably not enough) after I run because lactic acid builds up to repair your muscles and if you don't spread it around you get real sore.

A pleasing new trend in hand soaps (Tuesday, October 10, 2006)

To cut to the chase here, I have to say that I am very excited about the new trend in hand soaps in public restrooms. I have noticed over the past year that not an insignificant amount of restrooms now carry the foam style hand soap, and this my friends, is progress.
Firstly, every single foam soap I have ever had the pleasure of disinfecting with has had a pleasant aroma. In addition to this, foam hand soaps ALWAYS rinse off with that nice, clean feeling that other liquid soaps often fall short of supplying.
Many times I have had to struggle to get the "moisturizing" feeling off of my hands while cleansing with liquid hand soap. I hate this struggle. If I want my hands to be moisturized I will get some hand lotion. Who's kidding who, what are you trying to do, save time? I'm not looking to cut corners in this department. It's like combining a hot dog and a coke so that you can enjoy the savory nature of the frank and yet be satiated by the cool, crisp refreshment of coca cola. In the hand lotion department, a dab will do me, IF, I need it, (which is seldom.)_Another benefit of foam soap is that it does not drip or contain colour so that it will not stain the counter top or gather in a runny, dripping, pink amalgam. And I will tell you something that is HUGE in my hand soap world, the company that could MOST benefit from a switch to foam hand soap would be IN N OUT Burger. I LOATHE their pink, liquid hand soap. It absolutely STINKS! As a matter of fact, I often times will forego a premeal hand washing SOLEY for the reason that every time I lift that glorious burger to my beautiful face I am slapped with the revolting stench of that stomach turning, fucking disgusting, pink goo. It's chemical and clinical odors are repugnant at the very least and completely clash with the homey, welcoming and nurturing aroma that wafts up from your roundish, burgery smiling friend.

GO FOAM! I LOVE YOU!

Men are from Mars and so is Veronica (Monday, October 09, 2006)

Here is another interesting story that happened to me recently. Again, I was working at Miceli's, it was last Saturday night and it was busy. On busy Fridays and Saturdays I;
-play a lot of drums
-seat a lot of folks
-talk to customers
-keep an eye on the floor in general.

Suffice to say that I'm a significant presence. People often ask me when it will be MY turn to sing. I wish I had a better answer but I try and retain my dignity by saying something overly defensive like, "well, I play piano, trumpet and drums, I'm a writer and an actor and I toss a mean pizza pie but, I cannot sing. I wish I could. I really do. But I feel it would be an insult to these artists, (the singing waiters) who have studied voice their whole lives, if I were to hack through some Sinatra standard. So no, I do not sing, BUT, I DO play drums here." Some speech eerily close to that. Hey, when you work in a restaurant and interact with masses of people on a daily basis, you get asked the same questions over and over. So it only makes sense to have solid plug-in answers. _In the middle of the evening I overheard James the cashier comment, "hey, Veronica Mars is on table 82."_This is significant not because I follow Veronica Mars or have even EVER watched Veronica Mars. It is significant because of the following back-story.
Back round April of this year (06) I attended an event to raise awareness for the children's crisis in Northern Uganda. The event was held by the group Invisible Children, an organization founded by three mid twenties guy from San Diego, two of which I know from USC, one of which is my little brother in my fraternity, Alpha Gamma Omega. The event entailed tens of thousands of people literally sleeping over-night, outdoors, on this certain night, all over the US and in other countries. It was symbolic in that it mimed what Northern Ugandan children have to go through every night. It was called the Global Night Commute and I strongly urge you to look it and the Invisible Children group up. They are worth you while.
The event was very successful at garnering media attention and there were a handful of news crews in Santa Monica with us. Because I was planning on being there for the entirety of the night I decided to meet some folks. As I was walking around I happened to overhear a guy and a girl talking about actor stuff. Ever being the curious one on tips and opinions regarding the business I turned around and said, "are you two actors?" They both replied in the affirmative with which I followed, "that's great because I'm looking for theatrical rep (agents for film/tv) right now and I'm curious about your opinion. Are either one of you represented?" The fella said he was not but the girl said she was. When I inquired by whom she was repped, she replied matter of factly, "William Morris."
I don't suppose you have to know much about entertainment or agencies to be familiar with the name William Morris. I mean, the first time I heard of The William Morris Agency was when I was a child watching I love Lucy. Suffice to say they are HUGE. And if they are repping you then you have got something good going on. I replied with enthusiasm and asked where she was from, where she went to school, you know, chit chat. She seemed really nice and friendly and she was obviously really cute, so, not wanting to over stay my welcome, I bid them adieu and good evening and departed to meet some more folks.
On the way to doing that I ran into a few of my buddies and excitedly told them, "hey, I just met this really cute girl. She over there in the red coat with the cute hat and the blond hair." And as if it was a competition they all clamored, "dude, that's Veronica Mars", that's Kristin Bell", "she has her own show", "she's super famous", "she's gorgeous", "she's here to talk to the media about the cause" and so forth. And truly, the first thing I thought of was this unattractive and obnoxious girl I knew in the second grade named Kristin Bell. I had never heard of Veronica Mars, I had never heard of Kristin Bell, but I HAD just talked with her and I thought she was cool and cute. I found it entertaining.
So, now that you're caught up, we go back to Miceli's and you see the scenario I was in when being informed about table 82 and said celebrity. That's when I began to map out my plan so as to have an interaction with her. First, whenever I sat anybody near her and her parents I,_-made sure she could see my face_-sounded like a sincere and amiable fella(which I undoubtedly am)_-perhaps threw out something charming/humorous (also am)_-I NEVER looked at her_-perhaps twice I passed by and cleared a few plates from the surrounding tables_-I made sure to do my "Matré d" talking thing with a table or two around them so as not to seem out of the ordinary.
AND, the neat part was that she could see me playing drums, so I felt like a cool musician. Finally, as their meal came to an end, I walked by and kinda peaked over at them and said real familiar like, "hi there, how was everything tonight? How was your food? How was the entertainment? Did you get dessert?" Stuff like that, not all in rapid fire succession but just casually.
As I did this I mostly made eye contact with her parents just so as to treat her like a normal human being and not a celebrity. Not that she was acting like a celebrity or anything, I just think most people who are recognizable and who still act human enjoy when someone treats them normally.
But THEN, I pulled out my fake but sly double take and paused my conversation on her and said, "...weren't you, weren't you at the Invisible Children thing..." "YES!" she sincerely exclaimed. "THAT'S where I know you from. I was trying to place you all night." "I'm Kristin", "I'm Charlie" we exchanged with a handshake. "Yes I know, BUT, I didn't know that then" I humorously replied inferring that our interaction late that night in April was genuine and human void of any celebrity cognizance.
We went on to talk about her parents and their stay out here for the weekend and funny enough I told her the story about Casey and the head shot (see previous blog). I don't know why in the world I would tell her that but I don't think she found me creepy. It was a really nice conversation filled with anecdotes about me at USC, her being on billboards and all sorts of fun things. I was really impressed with how I was keeping my cool which was a challenge in part because of her celebrity but mostly because I found her really attractive and really sweet. When I realized that I WAS keeping it cool, I began to LOOSE my cool.
So I ended the conversation with an invitation to come back and say hello and wished her parents a safe flight. I hope she does. I'd like to take her out.

Decidedly NOT a creep. (Monday, October 09, 2006)

A few happenings of note have happened.

Two days ago I was working the front desk at Miceli's Italian Ristorante and in walks this cute brunette with real "girl next door" looks. She has really pretty eyes and an adorable smile and she puts her name in (Casey) as there is a short wait and she is soon expecting her friend to arrive. Not long after her friend arrives I call her name and bring the two women over to a fine booth, a booth I like to sit cute girls at so they can see me playing drums and know that I am a cool musician who HAPPENS to be working at a restaurant.
All the while I am walking about, taking care of business and such and when I pass her I recall my thoughts going from, "she's really cute" to "She's really familiar" to "uh oh, I know where I know her from and this is weird and kinda creepy."
So, once I realize where I know her from I am faced with the decision of whether or not I'm going to tell her. What the hell. I walk over at the end of the meal and say, "hi, is your last name Peters?" "Uh, yes..." she replies. "And was your hair blonde at any point?" I further inquire. "uuuhhhh... yes it was" she again replies with suspicion. "Well," I jump in head first, "I have an usual story for you. It's borderline creepy. Can I sit down?" I think I actually just told her friend to scoot over.
At any rate I take a deep breath and launch into the story of how when I first moved out to L.A. two years ago one of my roommates, Brian Murphy, worked at NBC. And at the time I was in desperate need for advice on headshots. To help me out he would bring loads of shots that made it to the waste paper basket of one of the execs. And he, myself and my other roomy, Tony, would go through them and pick out our favourites, as well as ridicule the lousy ones. Fortunately for my story, Casey's shot was one that I liked and so kept in my file for reference.
Well, two years later, I still have Casey's headshot and have perused the "keepers" pile every so often, usually when I get the itch to shoot again. And in doing this perusing I had inadvertently burned the name "Casey Peters" into my subconscious. Never did I imagine that I would actually meet one of the "keepers".
So, after wrapping up said creepy story she seemed surprisingly not creeped-out. I found this encouraging and a relief. After all, I know I'm not a creep. I might be a few unsavory things but a creep is not one of them. Perhaps shmarmy, but not creepy.