There's a moment at the very top of Celine Dion's Taking Chances DVD when the intro music has swelled to the very top of the progression and the entire band is sustaining that energetic chord and then...She is revealed on a platform (crossing myself). The. Crowd. Goes. Wild. We all ate that shit up. I was in the audience for the taping of it here in Boston. I get to rewind that moment where she centers herself and decides to put on a show. Without that centering breath (which usually happens backstage), the heart beats too fast; you're too excited; you can't hear the music over the blood pumping in your ears; and you're jittery and not in control of your body. In a case like that, the show's over before it starts. A fellow NYC actor friend claims he booed a performer 6 notes into her song. On the other side of the spectrum, Trevin got seven (notes that is).
As singers and actors we learn the muscle memory to immediately get in the emotional space to make the magic happen at our command. (Don't know what I mean by magic? Search for Gladys Knight singing Memory [the correct title of the song not Memories] on DWTS, as well as Felicity Huffman's post-surgical scene where she has an emotional meltdown in Transamerica. The fucking Pacific was drier than my eyes in both instances.) Learning to go in reverse, however, and actually deactivate the stage persona, work in another mode and dial it the fuck back in order to get other shit done is another matter entirely. "Not to put too fine a point on it," but the emotional strain that comes from rubber-banding between those two extremes at the drop of a hat is yet another issue.
I'm currently working on living in the middle. I'm either on (effervescent) or off (a cunt), but there's a wonderful halfway point where most normal people live. Wait. I think I may have just figured something out. (I never ever claim to be normal; that's too subjective a word.) It's also hard to find validation in an industry where your value is based on how known you are. So if you're not Usher, you're nobody. Get ready, Self Esteem. Here comes the barbed wire. There are days when I get so depressed about the whole thing, the only thing that'll bring me out of it is an entire pint of Willie Nelson's CoUNTrY Peach Cobbler ice cream and some really good ear-pulling, soul-staring, neck-biting, lip-sucking, sweat-drenching, musk-inducing, creampie-making, accidentally-slobbering-on-the-person-under-you sex, with a generous mix of I Love You's sprinkled throughout. (Please.)
So yes the industry is tough, but when we're taken care of, it can be glorious. As of last year at least, Christina Aguilera earned $225,000 an hour (which more than likely means per episode and not per hour worked) for The Voice, while the other coaches pulled in $75,000. My personal best was several thousand dollars (personally negotiated, thank you very much; but don't ask me what I do with my money because I have no fucking idea) on top of airfare, car service and hotel (Mandalay Bay in Vegas; Gaylord National Resort in National Harbor, MD; and Atlantic Club Casino in Atlantic City), plus all meals, including room service. I know: not the big leagues, but I was completely stoked. Not only did I learn a valuable lesson about negotiating (just ASK - I'm worth it), I was just happy to receive it all because a) that doesn't happen to me everyday yet, b) I worked for it and c) there's always enough negativity and silliness in the world to find your ass later on no matter where you are. So enjoy every nanosecond of whatever feeds you.
Case in point: people who contribute almost nothing to something, but want everything and don't know anything. And regardless of socioeconomic background, color or creed, these ni**as are everywhere. To them, I say...
I want to re-film this scene, but recast myself as the teacher and Aaron Taylor-Johnson as the pupil. His real life girlfriend is about twice his age. So it'd be like he's robbing the cradle with me.
Does this count as legitimate rape?
Okay. I know I need to chilluminati.
A big band version of this song needs to happen. (Come on, Berklee.) Loved loved LOVED Pushing Daisies, btw. You should come over, smoke with me and some of my friends and watch this shit. Iss goood.
I didn't watch the debate. All that shit's been decided. I'm voting a second term for Obie. While I'm in the voting spirit, my penis nominated this video president of Chelsea, NYC. It's straight, but when have we gays cared about that when it's come to large packages? Exactly. Oh yeah. Here comes the new vice-prez now.
Have fun and be careful, everybody.
Historical Fact: Before the advent of bricks, the Great Ball of China, which can be seen from the top of my neighbor's house, was constructed of old socks, recycled scraps of yarn and Pamela Anderson's old hair by a race of giant kitties. And I'm preeetty sure that's true because...
Present Fact: I'm high as balls right now.
Future Fact: I will probably be showing my balls at the underwear party Saturday night. Oops. It's priiivaaate.
Pluperfect Fact: That shit was like that when I got here.