Mile High Reflections

I’m sitting on the plane on my way to my first ever screening of a film I’ve been in. We were accepted to a festival in LA, and I’m half way through my flight.

My seat mate is a gentleman who works as a camera operator for the networks, mostly filming sports events, and, as someone who travels often, is well known to the plane staff and was kind and able enough to have the flight attendant bring me a few rounds of bourbon.

Martin Scorsese’s Hugo was just playing on the overhead screen as part of the in flight entertainment program on American Airlines. Although a slow moving film, it is one that tells the story of every filmmaker, actor or other sort of artist and was a rather apropos film to see at this moment.

It is a story of dreams, of something from nothing, of the true joy of acting and film. Aside from simply accurately portraying real life in a grittier way as movies are wont to do, it describes-no, it paints, the picture of a far more intricate process. See, film, when it was discovered was a novelty. More, it was magic. It was nothing more than a more complex and expressive card trick. Card tricks don’t talk, they simply entertain. Movies however, they can tell stories.

Ah, the wonder! A dragon chases a group of warriors! A rocket shoots the moon, who’s surface is likened into a mans face!

When the movie ended I glanced over at the laptop of someone a few rows in front of me, who with the in flight wifi was watching a modern TV show. The contrast is stark.

Although I’m generally far more into movies and TV that portray modern life, or at least life in some sort if realistic way, Hugo seems to have brought out a new side of the art to the forefront. It made prominent the idea of imagination, of classic cinema, of the romance which drew most of us into the business in the first place.

Listening to some old rap, Biggie etc., although not in the spirit of a movie set in France, and it’s reflecting upon my mood of appreciation for classic cinema and art. Notice Marylyn Monroe. Marlin Brando. The Greats. They didn’t simply act. They weren’t in their own heads. They were alive, they were vibrant, buzzing with a charismatic invisible force at every glistening moment they spent on stage or screen, dancing, acting, singing and entertaining an audience of mesmerized people.

It also reminded me of something I think about mostly every waking moment, which I suppose may sound a bit trite.

I will succeed.

I always know that, believe that, feel that, and know it has to be. You see, I don’t have a plan B.

Well, technically I do. I’m a capable individual and can take care of myself. But I don’t want a plan B. Because there can’t be one. As our wonderful character Papa George, the brilliant filmmaker told us, “the world is a machine and we’re all just a piece. We need to be here and have a purpose.”

I think we each know where ours is, and I most certainly feel mine.


Dear Cunt, I’m Going To Clear Your Plate

Dear Guest,

Classes. Something basic, yet complicated in its definition is what we deal with on a day to day, moment to moment basis in many an aspect of our existence.

One goes to a bar. He spies a beautiful woman, yet shies away from approaching her either for fear of rejectment or acknowledgement of his own inadequacies.

Or what he thinks are his own inadequacies.

In reality, what’s happening is he perceives himself to be a part of a specific group of people; a people that is unable to mix, mingle or be a part of any aspect of the subject of his adoration, interest or focus.

The fear of rejection is but a by product of the inner workings of his mind. Because he believes himself to be but a cog in the current events of his community, his surroundings and that of the general society, as opposed to an active, contributing part of a vibrant, successful and kind circle of supporters, he therefore lacks the self confidence to simply say hello to a beautiful woman.

Nail an audition.

Introduce himself to the CEO and prove himself to be worthy of that 150k a year salary.

You see, the moment one looks at life like an opportunity to prove, rather than explore and be stimulated by his surroundings, as Harold Guskin speaks of so eloquently about the actor’s audition process, he’s indeed simply a cog, a piece in the puzzle, as opposed to an advisor to the king.

The difference between the two, while very much a reality, began not as an issue of capability, but of inner self worth. The cog decided he must simply turn, move the wheel that moves the other wheel, while the advisor realized he was smarter than the king, and can better make the cog work.

Being in one class or another may be defined by the world at large. Working class – blue collar and white collar, millionaire, billionaire, immigrant. Personally I very much am aware of the difference between various peoples in society. Mexicans clean the tables in the pizza shop, models from Ukraine sell you jewelry and promote Vodka brands,  blacks steal that same jewelry, blonde bimbos find millionaire husbands and host charity events, get plastic surgery and send their bratty children to prep schools, and Jews control most of the above.

But I’m also aware that what I just mentioned is but a stereotype, a mere perception of the races, a division of the classes partly judged by the vocal minority of its disruptive, beautiful, or dumb individuals, and partially judged BY those individuals.

We’re all people. I may be serving you, I may have made your martini (you wanted it dry, shaken not stirred) but I sure as hell don’t feel like the image that comes to mind regarding servers, bartenders, housemaids or however else society deems it appropriate I view myself.

You may regard me with a certain air of superiority, intelligence or raw disdain.

Just know that I don’t care.

And if I did, I’d pity you.

Your server

Art or Acting?

I never really understood what being an artist meant. You see, I always had an intensity about me interpreted differently by different people. Some said I was OCD. Some said I cared. Art was looked at as something acquired, like the appreciation for beer, fine wine or foi gras. Interestingly enough, I set out to write a piece on the fluctuations of my mood regarding myself wanting to date seriously or be more of a free bird.

Which proves my point.

Creativity, being artistically inclined, is something one is born with. It’s borne of a frenetic impatience with the slow, methodic, plodding slightly boring – if melodramatic – pace of the doldrums of everyday existence. It isn’t a skill that can be acquired. Sure, anyone can learn to be a decent actor, painter, chef.

But an artist? That comes along with a responsibility. To oneself. To fulfill that incessant, pounding, hollow, painful, yet terrifiyingly thrilling sense of adventure. Need for adventure, for the expression which comes so spontaneously to those of us privileged enough to call ourselves artists.

It’s a natural, instinctual ability and need for expression. That expression finds its way out through various mediums. Some through painting, others through music and yet others through acting. Actors identify as “troubled souls” simply because we’re more in touch with the soul. We’re all troubled.

As usual, this piece wasn’t written, rather it splurged out while riding the NYC subway. Which again, goes to further my point.

Bringing myself back to my original thoughts I intended I write about. Girls. After dating one, I swear to not be back in a relationship. I say it’s impossible to be happy in one for someone like myself. Yet at times I’ll realize that’s untrue.

Stay tuned.

Art, Women, Wine and Life

We only live once. As a child, learning is what we must do. As we get older, a hunger for knowledge festers, grows, and develops until we must absorb what our mind desires. Beyond the basics of math, phonetics, basic science and other skills to be able to go about our day to day activities there exists a whole realm of topics that beacon the intellect of minds the world over.

Art. Who was Picasso? What’s his signature? His trademark? What drove him? To delve into his psyche, and the psyche of other greats is to understand the generations preceding us, to comprehend their brilliance, their take on events current to their existence. It reveals their shortcomings, their simplicity, their vision and their hopes.

Wines. The study of which I’m not adept at. The differentiation between a more full, more ’round’ wine and a lesser, more simple, but equally tasteful, may evade my taste buds, but admitting and acknowledging there’s much I do not grasp about different vintages is in and of itself a step in the right direction.

Women. I find many women I go out with, intelligent as they may be are lacking a certain class, a sophistication of what I believe a true woman should have. I’m sure many women feel the same about men. Peter Pan Syndrome is widespread. Facebook is a disease. A real man should have a working knowledge of the world, and a thorough understanding of what that knowledge should consist of is, in an of itself a prerequisite to joining the society cloaked in mystery that is the true alpha male.

Knowing how to do things, how to survive – and in turn to live – not necessarily in a post apocalyptic wilderness, but in the urban chaos in which we dwell, is a skill many are lacking. Social etiquette, and more importantly when to abandon it completely is a matter of perception, of class and sophistication. Not to mention utter necessity for anyone wishing to rise above the masses, escape the endless, mindless race of humanity and live.

Simply looking to enjoy oneself is insufficient to satisfy the ever-hungering human mind. Craving a new understanding, becoming a wealth of information, if not for oneself is imperative for one’s own intellectual and artistic integrity and curiosity.

The Art of Being Pleasantly Unpleasant

There are many things in daily life which are necessary pleasantries, which are in essence unpleasant and annoying, but mostly tolerable. Sometimes things cross the line. I’m an actor, and as such, all my non-thespian friends love to ask “how’s acting going?” in that tone, THAT tone, and if you’re an actor you recognize and hate that skeptical-disparaging-get-a-real-career-I-can’t-wait-till-you-make-it-so-then-I-could-be-friends-with-a-movie-star tone of voice.

How’s acting. Let’s get a few things clear.

1. You aren’t my friend. If we’re connected on Facebook, yet you proceed to ask me what the name of the show I’m on is…you suck.

2. You don’t think I will ever be successful. Oh, but you will! You’re going to make 80K a year, and have a boring life. You’ll also be thinking on your deathbed of how pathetic your life was, and how you should’ve been anything in life but what you were. You bitter critical old fuck. I’ll be sure to bring flowers to your grave.

3. You hope that when I become successful you will get lots of pussy because you can say you know me. Right? Wrong. At worst you’ll be handing me pussy on a silver platter. At best, they’re fucking you thinking of me inside them.

4. You ask questions such as “How’s acting going?”. I don’t ask you how’s doctoring going, how’s being an accountant or how’s zookeeping going. I ask how’r the wife, the kids, the job, the boring stuff. But then again, what should you ask? I don’t feel like acting’s a job after all, it’s my life. Maybe just stick with how are you? Especially since you don’t really give a shit. Continue reading

Dear Girls I Don’t Yet Know, I Love You.

“When life throws you lemons, grab life by the tits and fuck the shit out of it.” -livingnowalways

It’s been an all nighter. My brain feels heavy from all the weed, my body from lack of sleep. I spent all night chilling with my friends working on our latest project. I step outside. The air’s moist, warm from the sun which has been up for an hour. It’s not even 6am. The sun is so bright! Why is it in my eyes. I wish it wouldn’t shine in my eyes. My feet crunch over the gravel, it smells like morning.

A girl, maybe 20, jogs by plugged into her iPod. She wears black spandex pants and a grey tank top, ponytail tucked through the back of her baseball cap.

She looks fine, damn.

I begin walking toward the train station; I’d love to get home so I can go to bed already. My heads pounding, contacts are really sticking to my eyeballs now. I must remove them. I pass the local business men, some rushing off to the train in oversized baggy suits, some still exercising. I pass deliverymen delivering fresh papers to local homes. Those homes. So neat, little white picket fences, dogs running loose in yards. I smell fresh coffee being brewed, can almost hear bacon sizzling on stoves.

I wish no part in their life style, my own pursuits prevent that, yet this glorious morning makes me realize that’s no excuse for me to stay awake nights and sleep half of everyday. I’m accomplishing. I really am. But I must get back on track. I will be a whole new different type of person. I’ll get up early, eat properly, exercise outdoors. By the time 10AM hits I’ll be energized, dressed and showered, ready to further my career, read smart books and blog.

There’s a balance somewhere.

“And this is where shit gets twisted.” -livingnowalways

A part of me is depraved. And proudly so. I love to meet new girls, drunk,  high and forget life for a moment or two. Or live it. Yet, there’s also something to leaving your phone at home, trading in lust, for genuine love. Temporary, perhaps. Genuine nonetheless. I understand as much as the next guy, the thrill of the Hunt, the thrill of the chase for a new girl to fuck silly. But that doesn’t have to be without love. Is one to say that i can’t love many girls at once? Perhaps I can love humanity! So, here’s my letter to the cute girls of the world:

Dear _______,

You’re really sweet. We fucked the other night behind the bar where we met. You were so hot, so horny, and so helpless, you practically melted my cock with your sweetness. But instead, you took it like a champ, moaning with pleasure all the way through. We should get to know each other, perhaps go for coffee. Perhaps we share a common favorite book, or artist, and can go catch a book  signning, or jam session. Please don’t ask me if I’m using you just for sex. I don’t even know what that means. You’re cute, have great tits and ass, and you enjoy getting fucked as much as I enjoy fucking you.

So, let’s go to a lake, go boating, go on a hike, dust off those spandex. Let’s be healthy together. We’ll eat well, sleep well, and fuck well. Living, really LIVING, doesn’t always have to be under the influence. lets go out to the mountain side, leave our cellphones behind, and just be with eachother. I’ll lean against a rock overlooking a cliff and you’ll lean up against me, so that I can hear you breathe, and I can feel your ass up against my cock. We’ll feel together, in a loving way, yet so depraved, as you’d be so vulnerable to virtual stranger, and I to you. I’ll be happy to share an experience with you, and I hardly know anything about you; I don’t need to. Your breathing gets a bit shallower and quicker and my hand slides down over those spandex. Moist, like the air of the morning. I softly kiss you, and slide my cock over your thighs, and while hugging you closer I enter your wetness, and it feels good, I feel like I’ve known you forever, like I want to hold you forever. You and that cute little ass of yours.

I may do this again tomorrow, with your best friend, who also has brown eyes and perky breasts, and for the no reason thinks you’re a bitch. I’m not using you, and you’re not using me. We’re loving eachother, in the moment.

And yes, perhaps after our hike and fuck, if we have energy when we get home, I’ll turn down the lights, turn on the music, and we’ll have a mini Amsterdam mega-club right here in my own NYC living room, with all its illicit connotations. But for a moment, just a moment, together, we can clear our vision, and in the fresh mountainous air we can love, and be loved. I like looking at you. The way your beautiful breasts are outlined by your black tanktop, the way I can trace the outline of your slim body. Do you know at this moment I love you. I do not lust for you. I look at you, and am overcome by intense caring and love. I’d do anything for you, and you mean everything to me. 

And I barely know you. 

With every fiber of my body, the strain of my cock against my boxers, and the tears in my eyes as I’m overcome with emotion, love and passion, you’re truly mine,


“There are no lines between love and lust. Only passion exits.” -livingnowalways

“Imagine no possessions. I wonder if you can.” -John Lennon

She Had Blue Hair

“I think the fact that most men look at love with disgust, is because they look at love only in terms of relationship. Love is transient, many times fleeting, and almost always depraved.”  -livingnowalways

I’m in a very brooding, hopeful mood. I feel as if tonight is the calm before the storm, and I feel like things..scary, perhaps larger than life, loom in my imminent future. Perhaps they’ll be career related.

It’s exciting, yet terrifying, because every moment in history, in my Present, needs to be valued. Britney Spears didn’t get to where she was by drinking every night.

Ironic, but true.

Penned on a brisk November evening. Published tonight. (That isn’t correct, I wrote this all tonight. I just think that blurb makes me seem like a literary genius.)

I’m on the precipice of wild success, I can feel it stronger than I ever did. I almost feel a need for structure, perhaps to precede the coming week, to stabilize the madness. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll go swimming, then head to the premiere of “Fat Sick and Nearly Dead.” Healthy eating people, healthy eating.


I was at a bar last night. I met a girl with short blue hair. Within a moment, we were dancing together, her body pressed against mine. It was somehow more electrifying than such a thing ought to be. The music continued and we got more intimate. My lips pressed against hers, moving as one on the dance floor, oblivious, yet aware of our surroundings. Some places are so public, it’s essentially private, as no one notices you. Decadent? Sleazy? For sure. But certainly not cheap and meaningless.  We moved outside for a smoke. Pressed her up against the wall, my hand slid down from her neck, under her dress. Two people. Strangers. LIVING. In public of course. Or private. Like I could give a fuck.

Blue hair.

Not something I’m normally into, but this one was super cute, and not goth. Small black dress and heels. It was a great night, needless to say. When something about a girl excites me, something about her is different, is unique, is strange, especially something like short blue hair, it brings out the best and the worst in me. Some say it’s love, yet I don’t fall in love with a girl in one evening. It’s not straight up lust either.  It’s a combination of a sense of adventure and knowing that in a weird way, I’m writing my own history. I want to be able to look back when I’m 60 and say, “I really lived. Really really lived.” Being involved, or in a relationship with a crazy, miniature blue haired girl, is something that would make it all worth it.

I’m laughing, but deadly serious, and aware I may be in serious need of psychological help, but proud of it.

I could cry, I get so excited about moments like these. I’m ALIVE, how many people can say that??

I’m not drunk and I didn’t smoke up. I am high off I have no idea what I’m high off, maybe it’s life, maybe it’s the buzz from the beer I didn’t have tonight, maybe it is all of the above.

If I had her here now, I think I’d have meaningful, intense sex with someone who is as of yet still a relative stranger, so I can express my feelings.

Maybe I’ll call her now.


“Real love if something so real, so concrete, that when it happens, it takes over and recreates your vision. I believe love can be fleeting or permanent, but real love is driven by both people. Driven in a way that neither of them can stop.” -livingnowalways