A butt out of the gutter

A butt out of the gutter.

That was a slogan used in the New Zealand “Stop Smoking” campaign several years back in the 1990’s. The very campaign that happened to feature my older brother Jason as their poster boy – his face was plastered on bill boards and bus stops from the tip of the North Island right to the bottom of the South Island.

Jason of the Golden Touch. When we were younger (when he wasn’t beating me up) Jason was always telling me that he was named after the Jason in “Jason and the Golden Fleece” – which is why he was always so successful in things.

Kinda spooky about how he almost always is really successful. Anyway, he’d gotten representation by a talent agent (as Jason lore goes) by being spotted in a Nightclub in New Zealand when he was dancing in a cage. Jason had ousted the actual dancer from their cage atop the pillar, and was going for it like there was no tomorrow. That’s when the agent happened spot him, gyrating away. When he descended from the pillar she pressed her card on him urging him to call – he had something, and she wanted to represent him.

Several days later he did just that, and was promptly signed. Now my brother is a surf freak, and would often skip auditions if the waves were good. His agent had gotten him an audition for the “Stop Smoking” campaign. On this particular day the waves were outstanding. Jason missed his scheduled audition time, but rolled into the studio just as they were getting ready to pack up for the day.

He then began spinning this yarn about why he was late. He almost hadn’t come as he had been so ashamed of his smoking habit. He knew he’d hit rock bottom when he was out of cash, walking down the street, and then picked a butt out of the gutter – just so he could finish smoking what the previous owner had left.

Jason of course told this with his typical blarney stone touch, and they ate it up – and even used his phrase “butt out of the gutter” in the campaign.



Now, this is all well and good – my only problem with this is that THAT STORY IS MINE! When we were about 9 years old, my Mum had a new boyfriend. They were engaged, and for that years summer holidays we were spending it with Mum, Roger and his daughter Joanne. Joanne was super old, I mean she was about 16 at the time. Maybe 15. And she smoked. Of course, Joanne introduced both my brother and me to smoking, letting us know how cool it was. That summer Jason and I had a pack of cigarettes when ever we felt like it, all we had to do was ask Joanne to go buy them for us (and give her a little extra cash for the trouble; or bake her some fudge).

We got home at the end of the holidays addicted to smoking, and were now without our cigarette dealer. What are underage boys to do? Well, I hit upon the brilliant plan of taking cigarette butts out of our grandparents ash trays. They were (and my grandmother still is) huge smokers. They’d often leave a fair amount of ciggy to smoke, and we could get our fix by secretly purloining these butts from their ash trays.

But, 9 year olds can only visit their grandparents so much in any given day, or any given week. Which is when I had my most cunning idea yet – walking home from a cigarette recovery operation I noticed all these cigarette butts in the gutter along the street – just laying there, unused! Why not collect these butts & smoke them!?! I mean it was cheap, economical, and in a way, recycling.

Anyway, that’s exactly what we did. Jason and I would pick butts out of the gutter, bring them home and when the folks weren’t around we’d scurry down to the bottom garden to have the last few puffs off of someone else’s cigarette.

Mmmmmm – smooth, clean taste.

So, you can understand my ire when I found out my childhood cunning had been stolen yet again by my older brother into a money making scheme.

It wouldn’t be SO bad, it’s just I never got my cut.

The whole truth, and nothing but the truth

So, my brother phones from New Zealand the week before Christmas last year to again ask his annual yuletide favor of me – namely can I please purchase a Christmas gift for the folks state side in his name, wrap it, and deliver it. He’ll reimburse me by sending the money out as soon as he knows how much I spend on the gift and he’s willing to go up to $100 US this year. Oh, and can I please call him prior to delivering the gift, so when the folks call he can answer any questions about the gift.

Being a (now) dutiful younger brother I agree to this transaction.

This year, I did a gift basket thing around a movie theme. Fine New Zealand wine, and tasty nibbles from France to antipodes all from the lovely Cost Plus, all wrapped up in a custom basket – and then a gift membership to Netflix.

I called Jason to give him the cost of everything and I also explained what he’d “bought” for the parental units for 2006. I got to trying to explain “Netflix” to a New Zealander.

“It’s this online DVD rental store, where you select movies from their database and “queue up” the movies you want to see in your account, and for a nominal monthly fee Netflix mails them to you free of charge one after another. You can keep them as long as you want, there are no late fees and if you’re good about it – you can see dozens of movies a month." To which my brother replied, “Frankly, it sounds made up.”

This became my favorite phrase of December 2006, to anything I’d be muttering, “frankly, it sounds made up.”

Jason reminded me that their local video rental shop in Wellington still just asks for your home phone number when you rent a video. You don’t even need a credit card. Ahh, the good old days. On the plus side there, you can rent a “Sing Star” at the video store. The great New Zealand answer to karaoke on the play station – with Sing Star you sing along with the actual music videos, and the game rates you and your opponent as to your pitch, tempo and volume. After a couple of drinks, you’re all loving it. Well, anyone at the party is, the neighbors, not so much. I mean, there is a limit as to how many times your neighbors want to hear you belting out “The Reason” by Hoobastank or fumbling your way through “Shuddup” by the Black Eyed Peas. (Take Fergies part in that, BELIEVE me – the rap is murder on your score.)

Anyway, this all just came back to me today as I got a call from my brother, now almost a month after Christmas, letting me know that he’ll be sending me my reimbursement funds very soon – the cheque is in the mail, or soon will be. He needed to verify my address to ensure that my $100 will be state side soon.

Frankly, it sounds made up.

I confirmed my street address, let Jason know that yes, my city is still Los Angeles, (spelled it twice for him), gave out my zip code and then he added U.S.A. or “Gods own country” as Bush likes to think of it.

He promised he wouldn’t actually write THAT on the envelope, as I would like to see the cash and not some federal agents at my door asking about a smart arse in New Zealand that they’ve come across by opening my mail illegally under a legal law that was passed in the midst of night while the grunions were running that actually makes the illegality legal in all but the freak states of Alaska, Hawaii and Texas.

Valley of the Kings

When I was younger I was a huge Wonder Woman fan. We’re talking pictures cut out of magazines, rushing home on Friday nights to catch Lynda Carter in Wonder Woman– well telling your Dad to apply the speed when driving your 6 year old ass home. Of course being six, I wouldn’t have said ass, but still, you get the point. I loved The Superfriends, and I even used to watch Batman in hopes that Wonder Woman would make a guest appearance (the closet we ever got was Batgirl). I also watched The Love Boat in the hope that Lynda Carter would be guest starring as my favorite Amazonian Princess – sadly the closest we ever got there was Charo.

I loved Wonder Woman SO much, that at school during playtime on the playground my friends and I would play Superfriends. I of course was Wonder Boy – with the girls fighting over who got to be Wonder Woman and Wonder Girl. The least popular friend of the moment was of course the evil villain we’d be fighting, and then we’d all battle crime on the jungle gym.

I had a costume party when I was 7; of course I had a red top with a WB logo on it (for Wonder Boy – not the WB network). There was a Wonder Woman cake with Wonder Woman paper plates, Wonder Woman napkins & Wonder Woman plastic cups – I even received a telegram from Wonder Woman wishing me a very happy 7th birthday. How did Wonder Woman know it was my birthday? Well, I’d invited her to my party - so she’d sent the telegram letting me know she appreciated the invitation but had business on Paradise Island that meant she couldn’t make it.


That year for Christmas I received perhaps the best gift a boy can receive – a Wonder Woman doll. Now this was New Zealand in the late 1970’s, so of course we didn’t actually have anything like an “official” Wonder Woman doll anywhere on the islands – those wouldn’t be available until the early 1980’s, but my Aunt was a doll maker, and a skilled seamstress. So my Dad had secretly commissioned her to make me a Wonder Woman doll. For Christmas that year, my brother and I had been with our mother in Paraparaumu – I still remember waiting with my brother in the hot New Zealand sun as my Dad was pulling up in his white Toyota to take us back home to Minihaha in Khandallah – Dad let us know he’d met Father Christmas that night and this year Father Christmas had left our gifts from him with our Dad. That way Dad was able to give them to us when we were picked up at the end of the weekend. Ripping the wrapping off the package, I can still remember the thrill of seeing Diana Prince right there in doll form. Diana had her own hand-sewn star spangled outfit, complete with magic belt, tiara, bracelets & lasso.



Later that year after Christmas when I was sick at home one week with some childhood illness (probably the mumps or the measles) my Dad even built Wonder Woman her own invisible jet out of plastic sheeting. I asked for and got my own mini “IRAC” computer – complete with blinking lights – both items had been built in my Dad’s workshop. With these accoutrements Diana and I were set for crime fighting.

Anyway, Wonder Woman was of course my most precious possession, and she was a huge hit with all my friends. Phillipa Scott would have me and Diana over for tea parties with Strawberry Shortcake and her friends Blueberry Muffin, Oranage Blossom and Lemon Meringue. Phillipa was sure that the boy of the Strawberry Shortcake bunch, Apple Dumpling, had a crush and as such would I mind very much leaving Diana with her sometimes so they could get to know each other better. Jodi-Ann Parker and Sharon O’Sullivan would always ask to play with Wonder Woman when they were at my house. Yes, Wonder Woman and I had a full social calendar, what with tea dates and saving other my other action figures and stuffed toys from certain doom at the hands of my brothers evil toys.

One weekend I went to stay over at Phillipa Scott’s house. She had a trampoline in her back yard and her mother was Scottish. Mrs. Scott made great rock cakes and Scottish Eggs. On this particular trip, Wonder Woman didn’t travel with me – I wasn’t sure she and Apple Dumpling were a good fit, and Phillipa and I had plans to be jumping on the trampoline a lot that weekend.

I returned home after a pleasant weekend of exercise and rock cakes to Minihaha. Things were eerily quiet down the far end of the house where my brother and I had our rooms. Walking down the hallway I made the right turn in the ante way to our bedrooms and opened the door to my room to be confronted from a scene taken from the Valley of the Kings in Egypt. All of my soft toys were facing each, arranged from smallest to largest, forming a roadway up to an alter made of wood. Perfuming the air of my bedroom was patchouli, the fragrance coming from incense sticks; smoke lazily rising from the hot orange tips of the sticks, smoke hazing the air, the tips glowing amidst all the perfumey smoke. I was able to make out a sarcophagus resting on the wooden alter. (I later discovered the sarcophagus had been crafted from a Roses Chocolate box.)

There’s something strange about walking in on a reverent scene of stuffed animals and toys – you know something is very wrong, but you almost don’t want to disturb things.

I placed my overnight bag on the floor and approached the alter, being careful not to disturb the statuesque soft toy honor guard. I reached down and opened the sarcophagus, and found a mummy lying inside. A doll sized mummy. A doll sized mummy, tightly bound by strips of snowy white toilet paper.

Ripping the toilet paper shroud from off the mummy I was horrified to find that it was my Wonder Woman doll that’d been defiled.

This all smacked of the work of my evil older brother - JASON!!! I can remember crying and running out of my room, yelling for my Dad and my older brother. Yelling that he’d been in my room, and had touched my stuff. Tears on my face, my lovely weekend ruined by his evil ways.

Not even in the comics or on the TV Show had Wonder Woman ever been mummified.

The reaction I invariably get to this story is “Wow, your brother is SO creative. Wow, he’s really talented, does he still build things? Oh, yeah, poor you, that must have been bad.”

Roberto - on his first blind date

Scene from a short film I did a while back.

Wonder Woman OOWANOWTS

Me performing as Lynda Carter - the resembalance is amazing!

Amy Sedaris

I got to see Amy Sedaris *live* in person last week at Booksoup in Los Angeles.

Funny, witty - and she smelled grrrreat. I asked what she was wearing, but she didn't remember as she mixes two or three things together.

What, me read?

My boss at work is crazy. Really. Well, crazy in her use of the written English language.

For example, yesterday she wrote that in our department I was a dianond in the rough.

Today we received the e-mail informing us that the department had to follow specific instructions in case A or B, and if we didn't do this then we weren't correct in either cases.

And a personal favourite - the e-mail thanking everyone for pitching in and going the extra milage.

I guess it's not so much that she's crazy (she is), but that she doesn't read what she's written prior to hitting send.

Or perhaps I'm not wordly enough. But, this does allow for work place jokes. I got to ask my coworker who's recently engaged how many carots her dianond ring is. With all theses cases around, who knows where to store anything - but it's lucky they're there with all the milage we've been putting on things lately.

Not dead yet

Bleeding internally. Well, that’s what the doctor says. Shouldn’t I urinate blood or something really dramatic?

Sadly no, in this case it’s nothing so obvious. I’m a bit tired now and again, but originally I just put that down to work. Maybe it’s actually cause my circulatory system is leaking itself into other systems in my body.

There was a boy in my primary school in New Zealand that used to pee blood. We were all really scared; partly cause he was mean as all get out, and partly ‘cause his urine was red. Other boys would go tell teachers, others would just steer clear.

Anyway, nothing so dramatic as crimson urine in my case, but still rather surreal. I feel phantom pains at weird times – especially as the doctor mentions different regions of the body, But I think that’s more cause I’m my Dad’s boy than anything else. All my Dad’s sons aren’t huge fans of hearing about blood or operations.

It’s well known family lore that when my sister sliced her wrist on an old door by accident that the nurses ran up to him when they arrived at the hospital leaving my poor sister with her tea-towel bound wrist clamoring for attention as my Dad looked so pale - like he was about to faint.

So, here I am, waiting to hear the results of my ultrasound. I wonder if Katie Holms felt like this when Tom ran the ultrasound over their kid.

I can't find my glasses - without my glasses

I can't find my glasses. My prescription sunglasses to be exact.

Very annoying. I remember having them as of Friday of last week, but now - the Borrowers have them I guess.

I hadn't even had them a year - sigh. I seem to be careless now and again with things like that, which is why I generally have a place for everything when I arrive home.

Keys on my monkey key holder right by the front door, rings in my African animal wood carving bowl, my bracelet from Boyd in my Fiji shell box on my dresser - but the sunglasses normally went straight back in their case in my bag.

The case is empty. Not even checking on consecutive days has had them turn up there. Strange how I do that, check the same place (in this case a very small space - the sunglasses case), JUST in case I missed them the first and second times I looked. I mean, my eyes aren't great, but they're not that bad.

I guess I'll go check the car,



again...

People are paying rent around here.

Well, that’s what I heard anyway. The other evening, my friends and I were leaving Largo in Hollywood – they’d driven up from San Diego to see Margaret Cho with me on my friend’s birthday.

As we walked down the street around the block from Largo, we arrived at their car. All of us were saying goodnight and then this tattooed guy in a wife beater comes purposefully marching up to us. Right away he demands that we “keep it down – ok” as “people are paying rent around here”.

Now, it’s not as if we’d been really loud – if we had then I could totally see his point. Anyway, his mission done with us, he immediately quick steps it over to other people coming on to the street also moving towards their cars. It’s always strange to me when folks feel they can impose their will on others with impunity.

Anyway, I spoke with my friends the next morning and it turns out the guy actually may have said that he has a 10-month old baby upstairs. Maybe I need to get my ears checked.

Well, whatever the case, it just makes it worse. 10-month old babies aren’t supposed to be asleep at night, and, shouldn’t he really have been at home looking after the infant, rubbing rum on the gums or something rather than accosting people in the street to keep it down?

I mean, people are paying rent around here.

Too Deep For Me

Strange, 2006 is already here.

New Year, new beginnings. To have a beginning does something have to begin? Is there no beginning, only afters, and no befores.

That's what Momentary Gods say, they look after the now and pass their section of time onto the next Momeg - always an after, never a before.

I may not have known you before, but I'll know you later.

Extended Family Blogging

Well, as my friend PC got me into blogging, so too have I introduced my cousin to this part of the online world.

I've included a link to her (mildly) amusing blog in the link section.

Enjoy!

Mandarins are special people food

“Mandarins are special people food. When we have guests come over, we want to be able to go to the pantry and know that there is a tin of mandarins in there.”

I can remember my stepmother being very empathic about this. She was furious that she'd found an empty tin of mandarins in the recyling.

With three teenagers at home, my parents had begun shopping at Price-Costco, buying the family groceries in bulk. The station wagon would pull into the driveway and they'd call my siblings and me out to the garage to help begin carting in cases of more green beans than anyone would want to eat in a lifetime as far as I could see. They'd gone overboard with French’s dried onions, canned peas, raisins and the aforementioned tinned mandarins in light syrup.

Not even extra fancy mandarins mind you, or mandarins packed in juice. Just your regular, run of the mill, light syrup mandarins.

Now, I have never, ever, ever, seen my parents serve a dish containing mandarins to guests that just “pop over”. A vodka tonic or other refeshment - yes. Tasty nibbly crackers with aged cheese and olives, yes, but mandarins? Tin opened and plopped into a bowl? No. Never. Not once. My Dad hasn’t in my recollection ever presented a mock Chinese stir-fry with mandarins to people that just happen to visit. He’s whipped up Indian chicken vindaloo, marinated beef satay, embezzlers purses, spinakopita, roast beef with roast vegetables, Boeuf Wellington with homemade horseradish. All of these items have been served to folks that have visited, but, none of these dishes contain mandarins.

Which is why it was curious that the parents of a family on a budget would be so up in arms that one of their teenagers had eaten a tin of fruit that cost under a dollar, way less than a dollar when you factor in that they were buying pallets worth of the same thing. A true low cost meal.

When I moved out, the first thing I bought when I went the grocery store was tinned mandarins. Drunk with new found freedom and purchasing power they were the first item opened when I got home and I ate them all - straight from the tin. I even left the empty tin on the counter for a few days.

So, if you happen to drop by, while mandarins are special people food you won’t find them here. After several months of gourging myself on the things, I can't stomach them now. I do however like knowing that I can get them whenever I want. So, if you do happen to drop my, how about some capers instead?

Wanna taste of the ladies?

Cleaning up my apartment, and I came across what should be really be a prior crime shot. A picture of how I saw my brother for the 1st 13 years of my life.

Fist raised, coming towards me for some "excersise", or "rough housing" as my step-mother put it.

Note the rings, and the nice snap buttons on his blue shirt. I had one in brown...

These boots were made for walkin…

A sentence to be wary of in any on line profile is “I like cowboy boots.” Take it from me.

It was one of those rare, rainy California weekends. The kind of indoor day that drives me to the net to pass the time. It so happened that I’d been chatting online, back and forth with a guy via email for a while. Will and I had gotten to the point of exchanging numbers and were around to the point of actually speaking on the phone.

You can tell a lot from a person by their voice. Someone might be able to maintain a fun face behind their email program, but it’s a lot harder to hide being a dud when you’re on the phone. From our conversation, all seemed normal and nice. Will and I shared musical tastes, we were around the same age, had comparable senses of humor - these are all good things to have in common.

So after an hour or so of chatting on the phone I agreed to drive on over, we could watch a bit of television, chat in person, maybe head out for a coffee or something.

Upon arrival, Will meets me on the landing in jeans, boots, a white t-shirt. He ushers me into his apartment where a Seinfeld rerun is just beginning. All normal there. He offers me some bottled water, and then asks “Do you like cowboy boots?”

Now, this is not a question I generally get, or, truth be told, expect. I often get where are you from, how long have you been growing your hair, do you pay taxes, are you legal, that sort of thing.

Thinking fast I explain that I don’t “own” any cowboy boots, but, I have in fact worn them on stage for several shows I’ve been in. Truthfully I only remember wearing them in Annie Get Your Gun, but I probably wore them in another production at some point.

My answer seems to please Will. He follows his first question up with “Would I feel embarrassed wearing them in public.” A little strange, but, I answered, that, no, I don’t think I would be.

Now, while I found it strange, the question caused me to have a sort of out of body experience. I was suddenly caught in a vision of all the “Help Desk”/Technical support assistance guys I’ve known at previous jobs. I could see the guys wearing cowboy boots with their acid wash jeans, old heavy metal rock concert t-shirts from the 1980s that they haven’t been able to give up tucked in and belted tight. The Scorpions logo stretched across an ever-expanding waistline.

I really need to learn to say “yes”.

Anyway, Will was delighted with my answer, and, he ran into the bedroom and returns with 3 pairs of cowboy boots; camel brown, black, and taupe. Will then asked me to put on the pair that I liked best.

Which is how I came to find myself on his couch, bottled water in hand and a pair of tight fitting black cowboy boots watching Seinfeld, desperate for the show to end so I can put my nice Rockport blue shoes back on and leave.

I don't cry at weddings

As a rule, I don't cry at weddings. Weddings don't normally move me one way or another. I can understand the emotion being them - two people so in love, saying they'll spend the rest of their respective forevers together, blah, blah, blah - but, I just don't connect. I guess I just don't believe in forevers anymore.

Perhaps it's due to my parents divorce happening when I was so young. I don't remember them ever being together. My brother and I were one of the few children growing up with divorced parents in New Zealand, so I may have had a jaded outlook on the entire marriage affair. I mean, if it (it being divorce) could happen with my parents, then it, meant people change, and, what's todays' truth isn't necessarily tomorrows' truth.

So, seeing people up in front of others talking about their undying love has always seemed a little, well, hollow.

I can remember my Dad's remarriage. I was mad. Mad as hell. In my defense, I was 9. And, AND! I had never met the woman he was marrying. I didn't even know my Dad was seeing someone! We,( "we" being my brother, my Dad & I) were living in Brunei at the time.

For the school holidays my brother and I had been visiting my Mum in New Zealand. Surprisingly my Dad met the Air New Zealand flight my brother and I were on in Singapore. Ok, hold onto your hats - this was 1981, and kids flew alone all the time. I normally got to hand out the sweets at the end of the flight being a "help" to the airstewardesses. In any event, my Dad had me walking to Kindergarden when I was 4 years old. So, (working on) intercontinental flights was nothing.

Anyway, we didn't end up back in Brunei. My brother and I were hauled into a cramped phone booth in Changi International Airport in Singapore, we had a receiver thrust into our hands and we were made to listen to some American chick with a really weird accent tell us how excited she was, that she couldn't wait to meet us and become our "Mom".

It's still a sore point to my step mother that in her wedding pictures I have a look that can peel paint at 15 paces. Well, it's 1981, so I think she should be pleased I have an artistic look on my face rather than having a bad perm (which my Dad had) and shoulder pads (which she had). Still, they're not my wedding photos so I guess a little peevishness on her part is forgivable.

My brother got married in the late 1990's. The boy that had hanged my soft toys from my bedroom ceiling, mummified my Wonder Woman doll, strapped me to a tree and whipped me with holly, tried to suffocate me, got me drunk, kept me from seeking medical help when I had a fractured arm, complained that he didn't get a slurpee when I'd split my knee open, did drugs scott free while I was suspected of being an addict, shot small animals and skinned them, the boy that had administered daily beatings to me, got married.

Somewhere, the boy had become a man while we weren't together. He'd found a woman to temper him, and married her. The same violent child had been remade as an urbane man burst into tears seeing his soon to be wife walk down the aisle towards him.

Still - no tears from me there. Dry as a bone.

Though I almost did come tears at being made to watch their wedding video under duress. Thank goodness it was only the "highlights" and not the whole damn thing. I had to be there for the live event for heaven's sake. We're only on this earth for a short time, and your time shouldn't be taken up with watching someone else get dressed up and walk down an aisle on telly.

Which brings me to last Sunday. My friend Megan got married in San Diego, to a man she's loved for years. I began cajoling her once she broke up with the "love of her life" when we were both coworkers. I'd helped prod her towards this new man, this wonderful guy, that unfortunately wasn't gay, Well, if I couldn't have him, someone I loved should.

She's feisty, funny, smart, strong, caring, witty, locquacious, loving and Megan posses a beautiful soul.

So, seeing her get married was the 1st time I think I've experienced what marriage is truly about. Megan was married in San Diego, at the Catamaran Hotel, on October 9th, 2005 right on the beach.

As she appeared on a balcony overlooking the sand and surf, the sun highlighted her dress, making an aura around her. She descended the steps glowing, looking remarkablt like an earth goddess of old - tears held in her eyes as she made her way down the aisle on her fathers arm. Megan had eyes only for Jim, which was probably for the best. She even forgot which hand to place the ring on when the time came.

But, as I sat watching the ceremony I was surprised to fell wetness on my cheeks. Well, rules are made to be broken.

I was crying at a wedding, and it was quite ok with me.

That's the natural look?

Agent hunting is hard work. I have an agent at the moment, but of course, you’re always looking for the next step up until you’re with a top tier agency.

Along the way you’re sure to meet up with some, well, questionable folks.

I had a call a couple of months back now, from an agents assistant who’d seen my headshot and asked if I’d come in for a meeting with the head of their commercial division. Sounded great to me, so muggins said yes!

Well, to be fair, I submit myself on a daily basis, and with my day job I sometimes forget everything I’ve submitted for. And, it’s not unheard of to be called in for a job based on your headshot.

Anyway, the call turned out to be a cattle call for the agency in question. The audition was to memorize some copy (a photo copy of a loan ad for the guys, and a moisturizer magazine ad for the girls) and then do a read for the head of the commercial division. I’m not sure how you head yourself, being the only commercial agent on staff, but there you go. Melissa, the head of the commercial division headed herself.

They’re actually a small to mid size agency, they have a name, they’re not in the top 10 by any means, but, they’re bigger than the agency I’m currently with.

So I gave my reading of the “copy”, and was told that I did a great reading. Then, Melissa asked if I was currently signed to an agency. I explained that yes, I was. To which she replied, “Then what the hell are you doing here?” I mentioned that they’d contacted me, and asked me to come in.

Well, we chatted for a bit, she wanted to know if I skateboarded, I don’t, but, she asked that I contact her in a week if I was still interested. I left quite pleased, having successfully auditioned for a short film earlier that week.

I was still very interested, until I started receiving the agency emails.

Now my current head shots are theatrical, rather than commercial. Melissa wanted me to get some new commercial head shots done which is not unheard of. She also included a list of photographers that the agency recommends, and asked to be contacted prior to booking the shoot. Part of their contract required their final sign off on any photographer.

Well, all the photographers that were recommended were a tad on the expensive side. And while Melissa was touting how wonderful they were, I couldn’t help thinking that I was looking at proof sheets from the 1970’s. The majority of submissions are done on line these days, yet, they also recommended a printer for getting pictures run off.



I couldn’t see myself getting any photos done with the recommended lot, so talked with my good friend Elena (who has some superb headshots, both commercial & theatrical) and made an appointment with her guy – for less than 1/2 the price of what was on Melissa’s recommendation list.



Well, Melissa said no, I couldn’t use this guy, and that I need to pick someone from her list to make sure I “didn’t get the wrong shots”, as she didn’t want me to “throw away my money”.

To which I replied “it appears that the recommended photographers are rather expensive for the service they’re performing. Do you receive a commission or finders fee for referring clients to them?”

Melissa wouldn’t answer this question, but, she DID direct me to another photographer, not on the main list, which she thought might be a better fit.



Needless to say, I didn’t end up signing with her after that!

But enough about me, what do you think of me?

Now, don’t get me wrong, you can’t like yourself too much. The Charlie Brown record I owned as a young child taught me that. Lucy coming over the mono speaker saying she had "thick beauty" that went down "layer after layer". Wise words indeed.

Lucy said she’d been loving herself for years, and still felt she had a long, long way to go. When poor moon-headed Charlie Brown asked if she felt she might be conceited Lucy replied with all the disdain that Lucy can muster that that, was impossible, as you can’t like yourself too much. Formative words for a 6 year old.

And, surprisingly spot on. Well, comedy is like that, a kernal of truth surrounding a joke. Though how better off would so many people be if they could just love themselves the way they are.

Which, brings me to a date of a while back; Rudel. We’d met online, had chatted back and forth in emails for a while. Exchanged photos, telephone numbers and thoughts on a number of topics.

Rudel had a lot of pictures to share. Most of them “pensive”. That is, him, looking off camera with either a thoughtful or constipated look. Depending on how you interpreted the shot. Sometimes combining both, a constipated expression wondering when a bowel movement would occur.

Anyway, we met for dinner. I had decided upon Indian, and Rudel had agreed. He informed me upon picking me up that he was vegetarian. Well, a vegetarian that ate fish, milk, cheese, just no beef, as his body no longer produced the enzymes to digest red meat.

I was tempted to ask what tests he’d performed to ascertain this sudden lack of enzymes, and did we perhaps need to stop by an emergency room. Anyway, the dinner was pleasant, though I found myself getting more and more waspish by the end of the evening. I considered myself lucky to get out of there for a $40 meal.

Well, Rudel had a better time than me, as he asked me out again. I guess being a sucker for a pretty face, or a glutton for punishment, you be the judge, I went. This time it was Japanese, where I was maligned for liking California rolls. Needless to say, I didn't pay this time.

Well, longer story longer, we went to his place to chat after dinner. Where I noticed upon walking him, a picture of him. Nothing too unusual about that, other than it greeted you upon walking into his place. Rudel eagerly offered to give me a tour of his apartment.

In the hallway, his cheery face greeted me from four pictures, in the bathroom Rudel looked again pensively downwards (the constipated look suitably fitting the room). The guest room had more shots of his face, and his master bedroom had him not only on the bedside table, but also on the walls. Framed, and lit.

I mentioned the many photographs of himself that were adorning the walls. Rudel was shocked to think there might be someone else there.

He ran to get a photo displayed on the coffee table with him, and his nephew. He was adamant that he didn’t only have pictures of himself displayed. I asked if the only reason this was out was because he really liked the way he looked in the shot, and the nephew was only incidental. Rudel mumbled something about liking the way he looked in the picture, but, his nephew was there too. Which is an error I’m sure would be corrected once Rudel became more proficient in Photoshop. Nephew, what nephew?

Now, I finally think I met someone who liked themselves too much. I do have pictures of me at my house. However, these are with friends, not solo. In fact, the only solo shot I have displaed is one that was taken by my mother, and I didn't tell her to take it.

None of my other pictures are of me, posed by me, directing friends to take me in the “pose” I had adopted. Rudel proudly explained that he’d thought of each shot, and had made his friends and siblings take the pictures. Then he broke out his laptop for an evening of viewing him in different poses in places he visited.

For some reason he started to get offended when I asked if there were any pictures with his shirt off. Don’t get me wrong, he had plenty of shots of him without a shirt, and in his underwear and swimwear. But, he was offended that I only wanted to see those.

He stated that if I thought of him as just meat, I could leave.

So I did.

I mean, don’t press me, give me an out, any out, I’ll take it!

Thank fully he hasn’t called again.

But, at least I’ll always have the (many) pictures he gave me.

Not long for this world

When I was growing up in New Zealand, my older brother was my nemesis. We’re 18 months apart, and actually get along really well now. J used to great pleasure in beating me up, and I took great pleasure in trying to avoid daily beatings.

I had some very good friends when I was younger, all girls which apparently was of some concern to my father, but not so much the various psychologists he consulted. Anyway. stayovers were always a treat.

I had an extensive collection of stuffed animals; I still have most of them now! There’s Koala Bear, Gregory – Koala Bears’ best friend, Yellow (a yellow bear), Dumpty Doo, and a whole bunch of others. Thinking back in their names right now, I see that I veered from the very creative “Dumpty Doo” to the banal “Yellow”, who is, in fact, yellow.

I remember staying over at my friend, Jodi Ann Parker’s house. They had this huge dog; well, huge to a 6 year old, called Dfa. “D for dog” was his full name, but we all called him Dfa. I guess I also had friends who were either lazy, needing help remembering that it was a dog and not a cat, or, really cutely creative. You be the judge.

The house where we lived at the time in Khandallah was called Minihaha. Named after the Indian princess. How a house in New Zealand built in the early half of last century was named after an American Indian princess is strange and a mystery I never looked into, but there you go.

My brother J and I finally had separate rooms at Minihaha, having shared a rooms since we were tiny. Mine private room being called the “old kitchen”. It was actually the old kitchen. It had a pantry, which you could access by rolling up a panel in the wall. This made the room rather cold during the New Zealand winter, and just as cold during the week of the New Zealand summer.

Anyway, I digress. I returned to Minihaha from my sleep over to find every soft toy I owned gently swinging by their necks from rope nooses all fixed to the ceiling of the old kitchen. Apparently as I had not been around for my brother to pound on, he’d taken to lynching all of my precious soft toy friends. A mass hanging is not something an under 10 year old reacts to well.

Forget about your worries and your wife

Had a VERY strange dream last night - it was a Doris Day/Cary Grant movie. An old Hollywood Comedy. The plot was Doris Day as a hussy stealing Cary Grant away from his wife. Being an old Hollywood Comedy there was, of course, musical numbers. What I remember best is Doris Day singing to Cary the following - to the tune of "The Bear Necessities":

Forget about your worries and your wife,
If you find that you can get with me,
We'll see how far we can be.

Hey - I just dreamed it, I never said my unconsciousness was the Tim Rice of lyricists....