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.

Hello, Would You Like to Fuck?

I came to an interesting realization tonight. It makes me part narcissist, part misogynist, part delusional perhaps, yet mostly self aware and truthful.

I’d just seen a movie with a girl I’ve been fucking for a few weeks. Post movie we’d fucked, once, for about 40 minutes. I decided I didn’t want to stay over, so excused myself saying I wanted my own bed that night. She wished me luck battling the subway system, and I kissed her good night as I headed out.

Walking onto the eerily empty 3am subway platform I noticed a girl, solid 7.5, sitting on the bench. She smiled. I sat down at the opposite end, and minding my own business wrote down a quick thought in my moleskin I had with me from an earlier class.

“What’r you writing?”

I looked up to see her talking to me, and we proceeded to make small conversation as we rode the train.

“I get off next stop, I’d love to hang out sometime, we should keep on touch”, I said.

“Sure,” she responded, “what’s your number? Last name?” After exchanging information I bid her good night as I got off the train, and it hit me.

I’m good.

Now, not the kinda good that walks into a bar and every girl wants to jump me. But the kinda good that I know as soon as I begin talking to a girl, that if she agrees to exchange information, I pretty much know that we will have sex if I want to. Barring a last minute flake on her part, or an unusual girl who clarifies on the second date that she wants something serious or is a devout Mormon, I’m pretty much vag deep without pulling down my pants.

I’m aware this sounds sick, and I’m not on the prowl like I was a few short months ago. It’s just that it’s a powerful realization to come to, that I can pretty much make sure sex happens when I want it. If I want to get laid, I can, and easily.

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.

Sincerely,
Your server

Guys Like Us Are the Most Honest Men Around

I came far in the past year in my own game. Went from a fuck or 2 a year, to what should be shaping up to 3 girls a month. Alot of my friends, even those who encouraged me to “get out there more, fuck around some more” now think I’m crazy. Especially those in relationships.

Whenever I develop feelings for a girl, almost immediately I develop feelings of being constricted and locked down. So that’s how I know I’m not “ready for a relationship” – as if it’s something to aspire to – and that’s how I am (slowly) learning to avoid feelings in the 1st place.

They call us perv’s. Perverts? US??? We’re just the most honest men on the planet really. Most guys settle down, because they are doing exactly that. SETTLING. DOWN. Settling for less, because they’re too cowardly to admit that all they want is pussy, or too scared to go out and get it.

“Until you’ve experienced love you’re just an immature guy in your 20’s running around chasing women”, they say. Yes Mr. Relationship, let’s talk again after the bitch who’s “loyal” cheats on you. Besides, who chases women? That’s where they go all wrong. As Roosh always says “Don’t put the pussy on the Pedestal.” I think I’ll take a naked poster of Mila Kunis, write that phrase across her tits and hang it above my bed. It’s where I’ll continue to mark my notches.

Fucking one girl may make you feel loved and wanted. Fucking many girls will make you feel like a man who can fend for himself.

Sure, we have to lie sometimes about our intentions to get the fuck, keep her around etc. But at least we aren’t lying to ourselves, and aren’t dishonest to women about the very thing they need. They do need to feel loved and wanted, and little do they know the men they’re with secretly just want more pussy, and they’re the easy way out of having to chase it. Even when the guy in a relationship is an Alpha male, and she is super hot, chances are he’s with her ONLY because of the pussy, not because he’s in love or anything like that. But in that case, being in a relationship is perhaps to be commended.

Bottom line, we may lie, but at least we are true to ourselves. Happy hunting.

PS: In the name of full disclosure, I don’t know if Mila’s ever posed naked. For a camera that is.

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

Me VS My Laptop

Ok, this isn’t working. You’re not getting this done. You need to prepare, shut off communication for a few hours. Reflect on this role.

Goddamit dude, c’mon do it.

Close this tab..x out Twitter, log off Facebook. No I can’t log off Facebook. Facebook is one of those things, kinda like breathing, ya know? It’s supposed to not stop, it’s good to have it open. Healthy.

Ok dude stfu, close Youtube, there, done.

Close blog, no wait refresh page, check stats. Ok not bad, steadily climbing. Not bad at all man.

Fuck, I’m hungry!

Shit dude, focus.

Ok, write post about what i’m thinking now as I attempt to shut off my computer.

No!

Yes, inspiration strikes, you write. Ok.

Dammit. I hear kids playing.

Turn on Pandora. No. Yes. Prepare the fucking script already, it’s no easy role. No.

Ok, pause writing. BRB.

Good there it is. Shit, too loud, volume down.

Yes I actually just did all that. Fuck what song is this it’s annoying. Change channels. There much better.

Take picture for the blog, it’ll be stupid and boring otherwise. Ok fast.

Shit. Turn off the flash. There. Better angle.

K hurry upload it.

Shit Imagine by John Lennon just came on. I gotta listen to the whole song. Turn that volume back on.

Ok SIGN OFF THIS MOTHERFUCKING THING.

My Inner Beta

I usually avoid becoming Facebook friends with any girl I have a romantic interest in, at least for the first few weeks. And by romantic, I mean anything ranging from a bar-slut you want to pump and dump/be steady fuck buddies with or a cute girl you met and asked out for drinks, and have a feeling she isn’t the fuck buddy type, if there even is such a thing as not being a fuck buddy type.

Well I took my own lesson with blue-haired girl, and haven’t friended her, and won’t at least not until I get the bang, hopefully this weekend. I didn’t take my lesson with another girl I met at a get together a friend was having at a bar. I friended her before getting her number. First mistake. The reason I did that was because I wasn’t sure if she was with a close friend of my buddy or not…until my buddy said, “Hey, she’s single, go for her.” So I did. I walked over to her and said let’s grab a drink tomorrow night. Good.

“Be bold. Make your move. Ask her out. Just kidding, fuck her without asking her out. Or forever regret it.” – Cookie Monster (just kidding he never said that)

But now, I’m sitting here, a day before our meetup, and am thinking twice before posting anything on Facebook, because if i keep posting stuff, she’ll think I sit at home all day on my computer. Which of course isn’t remotely true. Honestly. Now on one hand, I’d hate to have my verbal stream of diarrhea that is my Facebook feed cut off, as I feel it’s a good method of expressing myself, and I have legit things to post about. On the other hand “Dude, WTF, posting on Facebook more than once a week? So 2007.” Possibly, but irrelevant, as I’m discussing the reason why, in my current state, I don’t friend the bitch right away.

On another note, I’m taking this girl to a spot I usually reserve for girls I want to fuck, more than date. It’s a hip neighborhood type bar/lounge. But with a divey vibe to it. Pool table + couches + exotic beer list = fun but very cozy spot. I am however second guessing myself as to my choice of locale for tomorrow night. Perhaps I should have chosen something more upscale? But no, why am i treating this girl differently than any other girl I went out with for a drink. I dunno, but something about her screams date material only. Perhaps it’s my inner beta coming to the surface, perhaps it’s just me, not wanting to conform to social dictates of the PUA community saying not to put any pussy on the pedestal.

(Oh, by the way, anyone ever get the feeling between the time you met her originally and set a date, to the time before the date, that she’s not interested/date won’t be good, etc.? Maybe she’s just a really shitty texter…

Which is why I also like to avoid texting…)

Besides, I’m not a PUA anyway. I’m just a regular dude, who loves constantly approaching girls (as I haven’t been in a long term relationship recently) and having a good time.

“Good night moon.

Good night work and your annoying boss that always emails.

It’s time for you to come and play.

Turn your phone off, sidle up to me.

I’ll grope you, feel you, strip you naked and fuck you.

Good night world.”

-livingnowalways

Time will tell won’t it.

The place DOES have a pool table...

This represents the 8 ball.

Except I’m stupid so I posted a 7. Kind of the way you see a girl, think she’s a 9. Look again and she’s a 7. Least she could do is strip dance on the pool table.