Into The New Year

I've been apartment hunting. Such an odd thing, since they need to deem you a person who is worthy of being rented to. It got me thinking about our society and the embarrassment of credit. What is credit? It supposedly an indicator that you are a responsible person with money. When I was a kid I remember my mom absolutely despised credit. She couldn't even stand hearing us kids tell her she owed us allowance. What is being owed something if it isn't slavery.

Okay I went too far.

But people put so much emphasis on having good credit. Yeah, our financial blanket is screwed because we weren't looking out. But if you see how the fat cats live, it's always in limbo, and always on the precipice of bankruptcy. Trump's been to the bottom. If we were to base our income to debt ratio, you think he'd have a better score than you? Uh-huh. And yet, we're the ones who feel a sense of sickness creep into our pride when we're investigated to figure out if we're worthy. I guess it all depends on how you handle the situation. Think what they should really try to figure out is how one got to where they got in financial issues.

One thing I noticed, and this should in NO WAY make it alright...everyone has some level of credit/money issue. I learned this thru a quick survey of people around me. The places I went to search for apartments...not one manager slammed the door in my face. Quite the contrary, they were relatively pleasant. Somewhat sardonic. Often times compassionate. This would've been a bloodbath in the 1980's. I would've been blacklisted, red markered...out on the rails if they saw my credit history. It's been said before but I guess it bears repeating, EVERYONE has to have credit history.

So what happens? They hit you up in college. Lots of offers for cards. Warnings were there, but no one listens. You buy books. Stiff coffee drinks. Lab supplies. Art supplies. Syllabuses. Food. Clothes. Booze. You party like you have a future, which...of course we have a future...we're going to college! Then when you graduate, you're in some weird limbo of financial nightmare. How'd it happen? Go over the list and you realize howit happened. On top of all that, you don't have parents that can bail you out. Luckily, mine did the best they could. I'm shocked they were able to afford college for 3 children. That's an act of thrift if I ever heard. Doesn't occur to any of us that we can live below our means. BUT, and this is a long "but"...we've seen what the bottom was and NONE of us want to get there. Instead, we get things we never earned.

My 1st job was when I was 14. Had to have my mom sign off on me. Loved it. Loved earning a paycheck. It was printed right on the check. It was official. I was on the grid.

So, growing up I had a work ethic. People play the lottery, in hopes of never having to work again. It never interested me. Remember I was the same kid who got the perfect attendance award and didn't show up to accept it. I had nothing better to do but to work. And I loved seeing that thru my parents.

Recently I had to train a kid in my job. His father was a very high profile lawyer. The kid never worked a day in his life. It was the strangest thing to have to deal with that, because usually you can relate stories of making stupid pizzas. Or scalding stories because fry grease melted off your fingerprints. Instead, this kid did the least possible and whined constantly. He isn't America. But he is a replica of his generation. Not that I fault him. His parents gave him everything. Never had debt in his life. Would not live beneath his means. I use to have a term for kids like him to come out to Los Angeles. They were "paid orphans." The parents basically paid to have them out of their site doing a hobby and calling it a job. They threw money at the issue, because in some odd way, that was good parenting. Never had debt. Doesn't know what no-frills generic food looks like. Am I bitter for his fortunate upbringing? Not at all. If he has no worries, he has no worries. But where does character come from? Does it come from dealing with the realistic world that won't hand them everything? That, most people face more disappointment in one day then he will in his entire lifetime?

This new year brings me to a new part of my life. Closing in on 40 years of age. Leaving that security blanket that has been easy. I think if we don't take chances, we're shortchanging ourselves. I'm going to flip my attitude this year. Nothing that isn't a challenge isn't worth taking on.

Victoria Secret & Overtraining

Today I worked on a Victoria Secret commercial for the holidays. I shouldn't give you details, since I signed a non-disclosure contract to not reveal such secrets. You know, things like...you will see lingerie. Women will catwalk with sullen expressions. Guys watching will look over to their significant others and just hate themselves. Oooo...don't mean to ruin that spot for you.

Anyway, it got me thinking about things. Mostly that, since I'm short, these Amazonian women would probably be the size of a jungle gym to a 2 year old. But more importantly, the idea of shape. Okay, most women who read this...hate me if you will...these women do not suffer from malnutrition. Nor had I seen any level of cocaine tweakage. Which I find funny.

In the outtakes...they are energetic. Smiley. Mobile. I guess I would be too if I were getting paid $25k per walk. But I'm not leggy. I don't have perky boobs. And lips like strawberries. Wait...I have fat lips, but it's from my aboriginal background which probably used it more for poisonous blow darts than making people try to buy boy shorts. I digress...

I'm sure a bunch of these models were doing blow. Or diet pills. Or the director. But hate as we mortals do, these are straight up angels on Earth. And there is NO shortage of wings that they put on these tarts. The footage was a showstopper. Most people stop cold when they see these women. Goddesses that most men would blindly steer ships to their doom over. I'm not going to lie, I'd take the rap for Caylee Anthony murder if they'd let me be the body makeup checker upper.

But guess what?...they wouldn't even give me the time over my own stupid demise. I guess we can still imagine. They filter from the sexiest of the sexiest and come up with this formula of what is considered underwear sale-able. A'ight, I'm making up words so it comes to my thoughts on overtraining...

...I notice last trip to the gym that I had been losing a LOT of strength. I use to be able to push 225 lbs. on bench. Recently, I could barely put up 185. I think when I dropped a lot of weight, I also dropped strength...which I was told would happen. That voice went silent, so I went the opposite direction and started going to the gym everyday. Each day...it seemed, I was backpedaling. My arms started to get doughy. The "cut" was softening. And I was struggling. Nothing is as frustrating as when your own muscles refuse what your mind is trying to tell it to do.

I was over training.

What does that mean? It means I was breaking down muscle I had already broken down and it never had a chance to rebuild. It meant my muscle twitch fiber had been depleted. It had been conditioned to accept it's soften broken stage because why bother getting stronger if I'm going to abuse it again soon. It was growing so efficient with my workout that it accepted its fate. Flab.

I heart my stupid production hat

I've scaled back. In fact, I've taken this week off. It's really really hard. Since I'm so use to doing some level of fitness. In the meantime I've been watching vids of what to do when I hit the gym again. It's definitely given something to look forward to. And maybe next time that 225 lbs. on the bench is going to feel like nothing at all.

Muscle needs time to rebuild. Buy Victoria Secret for your man, dammit.

How Did I End Up Here?

In a previous post, I wrote about falling asleep at 18 and waking up 36. It's weird how often I still dig into that past. Some people call that being haunted by it. I woke up this morning depressed that in my dream I ran into a college girlfriend. She was special to me. It represented a more idealistic time. We played house. She'd have dinner ready when I came home from work. Watch movies. Drink wine and talk about life and our future. I looked forward to everyday I spent with her. Woke up with so much warmth and love. I had HUGE plans then. California was in my path...the world was a positive place. I graduated in 2000 from undergraduate school. I'd applied to grad school in Los Angeles.

In my dream/nightmare, I ran into her again while going behind a supermarket dumpster area to pee (not sure what this was about). She was unloading boxes from a truck. She looked exactly like she did in school. Except more hardened...somehow. Life, I guess. She looked up and I couldn't believe it. She seemed angry. I explained that I didn't follow her, it was an amazing coincidence that we ran into each other again. She couldn't believe it. I came off as a stalker. But instead of getting weird, I made the best of it. I told her that I'd missed her. The friendship and dreams we'd had. In reality, she'd gotten married and has a kid now. I sensed she was still married in this dream. I gave her a hug. She was cold. She then hopped into a waiting limo, not once looking my direction and drove off. I kinda remember this exchange with her when she was a flight attendant and we met up in Columbus. It was heartbreaking.

I have NO idea about dream interpretation. I think a lot of us like to think it's your mind attempting to right the ship. I'm not sure, since this train of thought more or less derailed my Monday. What I do know is that sometimes in order to get peace enough to rest, I think about what the future is suppose to look like for me. I'm almost 40 now, and the future is in front of me. What are you suppose to dream of now?

I think of her every once in a while, and the overwhelming thing I think is...how did I end up here? My life was suppose to be a 50's show. I would be the dad who wore a suit to the office. Had a picket fence. Yard. 2 kids...etc...that's what I envision everyone who is married. But that all goes out the window once  you figure out that you aren't owed that. You have to earn it. And earning it is a ridiculous endeavor in Los Angeles. The city is harsh. Property is expensive. And this town is broke. It's crazy how much is within reach, but it might as well be on the moon. Thing about this town...if you don't find value to yourself, you will not get what you want. Too many people who undervalue themselves drive the workforce. Especially in entertainment. Fruits and nuts...with emotional problems.

I feel I need to value people more. I fell into it recently when, as more or less a consultant, I opened my big stupid mouth and said that half the people at my company can do the work. Basically shaving the value of everyone I'd said this in front of. How arrogant and stupid was that? In one fell comment, I parroted the very thought of the people above me who got rich off other people's demise. That's how my boss became who he was. He was able to streamline humanity into the desperate and the recently graduated. That was what was ruthless. And it pains me to believe that I'd been a part of that. That I could take a person's vocation and boil it down to a cog in the machine. And as with most cogs, the only value it has is that it can be replaced if broken. My boss is a very unhappy person. Haunted...I'm sure.

Nothing drives us more than needing to be needed. I think that's what my dream was about. My girlfriend needed me then. Felt great. That cold shoulder was the crushing thought. At work, I like having knowledge of certain aspects of the job others take for granted. Brag about it. Made people weary of my big stupid mouth. First impressions are hard to change. Bummer.

I'm not sure I feel at all needed anywhere anymore. It's weird to constantly belittle your value to a direction you're not clear on anymore. Like if I were to say that we were driving to Canada, at least someone would have a map. I certainly don't care about earning money like I use to. So what's the drive there?

Guys like me, we aren't suppose to whine about what we don't have. We just do. Gut check, move forth. A friend recently told me that I was an emotional person. I thought I came off as cold. She said that most people who try to be tough in their lives...have a lot of insecurities to hide. Or maybe my plans have changed dramatically. I think it'd be nice to look forward to something at the end of the day.

The Poor Dumb Bastard

I recently transferred my senior thesis film project from grad school to digital. I was ambitious then. Watching it again, I'm wondering...what the Hell happened to me?

I shot a 35mm short film on film. Look in your history books to remind yourself what film was. I also wanted to make as close to a Disney movie as I could. Since most of my previous movies were violent grotesque angry movies, typical of film school resources. Hey, it was either that or priest-molested-me-parents-don't-care drama. Take your pick.

To give you an idea of how big of a deal this had been, no other thesis project even considered this as an option. Why did I do it? I have no idea. All I know is the thrill I went through putting it all together. Getting a camera rental rate. Setting up film stock. Re-writing my story. Heck, even going over the details of every day meals. It was going to cost me $300/day. Which at the time didn't seem much. Looking back...what the hell was I thinking?

You can read a review of my student film here (I don't remember who sent the screener to this reviewer but I was touched by his assessment...although being a weird hothead at the time, I wanted to punch this dude in the throat for calling me "vague"...yeah...douchebag of me):
http://www.filmthreat.com/reviews/2305/

Anyway, I had an amazing time then. I had so many dreams to write and direct a feature film. I figure this was a step in the right direction. Sure there were people who told me I was foolhardy to blow all my money on a student film. But I had big dreams. I was one of those overzealous student that most teachers hated. In my mind, it was because I was so driven to go above and beyond expectations. I wanted to show those teachers I was different. A cut above the other losers who will fail. I had so many stories in my head. Vision is what some call it. Wanna hear a really humbling story?...

After film school, I went to work doing quality control work for a very large company. I eventually wanted to get a better position at another company we were associated with. But the only position open at the time was in the vault. Swallowing my pride, I transferred to the lowly job. One day as I was behind the counter, a production assistant was dropping off some film. I was checking it in. In the meantime, I was having a small chit-chat with her to pass the time. She said she was going to film school. I asked where. She was attending my film school. I brightened and started to talk about the program. She stopped me cold. "Wait...Tom...Tom Kuo?" My face soured. How did she know who I was? "They still talk about you in the graduate program...they project your thesis project to show what you're capable of doing in film school." My stomach went queasy. Here I was spoken about like some myth, but the reality is that I was checking film in some clerk job. With barcode scanner in hand, I went silent. The awkward moment could kill a rabbi. I remember when I first arrived to film school. They showed us films of past students. They were brilliant. Inspiring. They were successful. This production assistant left. I'm not sure this is the future she'd envision for herself. Cautionary tale perhaps. The reality slapping us both in the face. I hope she went forth and spread the news. Because I'm more than willing to spread it here.

What really is getting me, is that I've recently turned my back against the craft that had driven my life for over 25 years. Movies were my life. I ate, breathed and slept movies. I constantly kept journals of my ideas. I would have scraps of story ideas sitting around my home. I would write wherever I had time and space. I was so driven. I spent hours and hours in front of the computer pounding out pages of script pages. I had stories to tell. And NONE of it had form. But in my mind, it was such a cheap form of escape. I didn't have a job, so I'd write for hours and then go to the gym and then come home and write until I fell asleep. Ideas flowed. I'd get random sparks of inspiration. And I'd write it down. Somewhere along the way...I just stopped. I don't know when...it just happened. None of it interested me anymore. Maybe because I was so sick of hearing my stories that didn't have any interest to anyone but me. Dreams DO NOT make good story ideas. People resent you for wasting their time by telling them a dream you've had. Most pray for your death.

So, I've been sorta' cynical to the people who share with me their aspirations in this industry. I never thought I'd get to this point, but I just shut COMPLETELY down whenever someone tells me about their plans for the entertainment industry. I DON'T care who you had lunch with. How you pitched your script. What your script is about. A story idea you got while taking a dump. And especially your hopes and dreams about breaking into Hollywood. Dream and hope all you want. But don't think any of it equates to any form of logic. Because as hard as you work, nothing is going to propel you as much as being in the right place at the right time.

My friend Mark, has been working in the industry for years. He is famous in his field. You've seen him in movies. You've seen his friends in movies. Some with international stars. Mark is the type of person who when he says he's broke, it means he had to sell one of his five houses across America to buy a sports car he's been eyeing. To the rest of us mortals, poor means we didn't pay the electric bill and now burning community newspapers in a metal wastebasket to roast hot dogs. I bring Mark up because he really gave me an opportunity to see what it is to be connected yet so far from what you see on Entertainment Tonight.

The nuts and bolts of filmmaking...No one cares about. It's the worst feeling in the world to show up on an empty soundstage armed with plans and just absolutely lost when one thing goes wrong. You wanna know how to burn fat? Make movies. You will be too poor, tired and sick to eat. You hate humanity and  you wish horrible things on people. Afterwards...the finishing part...mixing music, sound effects, special effects, story editing, color timing...you just want to jump off a damn bridge. None of this is remotely glamorous. If you think so, more power to you. AND...it will never be a moment where you could remotely explain to someone who has never gone through it, the miserable crap you go through to make a movie. So you get to live through this misery alone while people tell you how wonderful it is to work in the movie business.

Then...strangely enough, after giving live birth and, in essence, crapping out your vision...and you get the movie on screens. And they see your work. And you're criticized or praised, you say to yourself..."Man, that was fun...I really want to do that again". Like some drooling idiot, clearly with mental issues. And you know something else?...You actually mean it.

Craig's List And Equipment

shopping on Craig's List Face

Been shopping online lately for a home gym. Perhaps I'd get to a point where I just ditch the gym membership. I know...I know...I only pay $14.60/month. But that's $175.20 a year. Yes, I used a stinking calculator to get that sum. My mom could do this multiplication in her head. I'm not joking. She's like an abacus. When I was a kid, I use to get drilled with simple math. She'd get real clever. She'd put it in real world situations.

Mom: Let's say you're going to buy those stupid Garbage Pail Kids you like so much. Each pack costs 50 cents. Tax is 5% in Ohio. You give the clerk $3.00 how much change do you get back?

Me: (hem-haw for the next five minutes-Mom tapping her finger on table, waiting impatiently) Um...the history of Garbage Pail Kids is an interesting one...

Mom would just shake her head in disbelief. How can an Asian child be so clueless to math. To put it in real world situations is the so practical too But I don't have that mind like her. My mind remembers numbers in sequences, years, dates and names. Some of my friends are mesmerized by how I can remember barcodes sometimes. I'm not sure where that comes from since I can't remember a word after I look at it a few times. I can remember a sequence of shots on a camera report we shot on a specific day. It's like I'm Rain Man. Except in Vegas, I'd think I lost all my money That reminds me, one time I was playing poker with some college buddies. I kept winning and didn't even know it. The other people had to tell me. I don't know what cards do what. Whatever. The game sucks anyway.

When I was a kid, I use to read my parents' English language books. It was fascinating. The books were grossly outdated, since I can't remember the last time I saw an Automat. Or Dad sitting at home smoking a pipe in slippers while the mom was baking a roast in a new invention called an convection oven. My reality was my Dad working until late into the night while I ate leftovers from whatever was in the fridge. I developed a high school drinking habit on his Michelob. Not even sure they even make that beer anymore. Maybe for my headache I can take Anacin.

Shopping for weight equipment on Craig's List, I think, is so ingenious I'm surprised I didn't think of it sooner. Here we have a group of people who are so angry and frustrated with their fitness equipment I wouldn't be surprised if you could get them to pay you to take it. You know what I see more than anything? (surprised answer)

Bowflex machines. If you've ever seen these things...it's like...medieval:

The Fitness Inquisition

I think the people buy these contraptions out of utter confusion. I mean, what do you exactly do here...you sit in that chair and...maybe order it to burn your fat. Those cables look vicious. Resistance without weights, I reckon. But isn't that what resistance bands do...for maybe a tenth of the price?

I wonder if it wasn't like a wedding gift. Like the "in" thing for that season of nuptials was a Bowflex machine. Anyone who puts it in their registry deserves a crappy honeymoon. Yeah, I said it. Requesting this as a gift is like giving your wife cookware for your anniversary. Actually, I'd like to get a good non-stick pan.

I digress, people buy all this hardware and just never get around to using it. Now...maybe I have committed a portion of my life to feeling more fit, but...fitness gear is expensive. I have no idea why other than I compare it to film/photography gear. They expect the gear is suppose to make money. Like a kettlebell would be for your cross fit gym. It pays for itself. I notice on CL they do have a lot of gyms that seem to have closed doors and you're getting a fire sale. BONUS! I mean, I hate to sound like a vulture but that's good pickin'.

Thing about dumbbells and weights...these things are never going to be destroyed. They do seem to follow people from place to place. Sometimes it gets passed down from generation to generation. So the price no longer seems like a factor. A weight bench, if treated right seems to have its place in most guy's garage. That's another thing. I get the feeling most guys have a gym dream similar to a bar dream. I've always wanted to own a bar. Just a place to hang out and drink and play pinball. And watch sports and do karaoke. I think most guys have this vision of a home gym too. They want that special place in their home to take out frustrations. Meanwhile get ripped. Never happens. Two reasons:

A) it's too convenient. That home gym gear will be there. So you walk past it every day as it mocks you. Until you finally cover it with an afghan your granny knitted. Now it's art. Look. exercise can be done anywhere. Hell, if you ride the bus or subway you can do pull ups on the bars. Try it and tell me how much cardio you get done running from the fuzz.

B) It becomes clutter. You know what makes a great place to put your baseball trophies? Something flat and sturdy. Like a bench perhaps? You can't believe how many garages I visit that people have to move storage boxes off the workout bench. Never occurred to them that maybe a table would've been cheaper.

This is such a great opportunity if you haven't investigated yet. HOWEVER, I warn you...if you buy it...use it. Actually, when you purchase this used gym equipment, look in your rearview mirror and check out the people you just bought this from...they cheering? Hi-fiving each other? Laughing and pointing at your car pulling away? Know why?...you just inherited their headaches. So prove them wrong and get fit with the gear they never could. Because you just gave it a good home. Get the last laugh.

The Very Awkward Gym Encounter

Ran into a co-worker at the gym today. I recently transferred to a new business within our company. So that means I transferred gyms as well. This one was on my way.

I met Bruce on the first day and thought he just had brain damage. Didn't know it then, but know it now, I was there to make assessments. I've been told he is pretty much OCD. He washes his face in a certain pattern in the bathroom every morning at the same time, using the same exact three handfuls of water. Life does not start without this ritual.

These days, I don't really buy into certain behavior patterns. Having broken a huge one myself, I know that if you consciously re-wire your brain into believing your actions can change, you can change it. Which is why it is extremely frustrating to watch as someone falls into a never ending pattern. It's especially rough when you know in your mind they don't mean it, but you just feel they may be just messing with you, because NO ONE can be this malfunctioned. But the brain is so intricate. The slightest shift in brain placement and you can either be Einstein or some drooling mental patient.

Bruce has a strange background. He went into one of the most illustrious film schools in the country. He graduated with a LOT of future famous filmmakers. He mentions them non-chalantly, but never holds any resentment. I get the feeling he may know they are famous but not know one of their movies. He counts himself as a film historian. Which is as useful as deck chairs on the Titanic. He sometimes refuses to believe the trivia is spouting is sometimes inaccurate and will start to pout like a child when you up the ante on the behind the scenes history that even he didn't know about. But he would get real insignificant facts. Like how an army of extras threatened to strike on "The Ten Commandments" because they were working long hours without a second meal. Think you'll see that news on "Entertainment Tonight" anytime soon?

I think something in his life held him back. I think I know what it was. He can't let certain thought patterns leave his brain.  For a filmmaker, that is devastating. Movies move forward, not in circles. You can't expect to spin your wheels on a focused thought and have audiences line up down the block. I mean, "Rain Man" did it for comedic effect (and yes...I consider "Rain Man" a comedy. I thought it was funnier than "The Hangover".)

One of his train of thoughts: he would ask me if I would be in charge of the music in the room. I've told him multiple times that I would not know where to begin. Which is where he would press "Who's in charge of the music?...you in charge of the music? Someone's got to be in charge." I make the huge mistake of actually answering him. "No Bruce, I'm not in charge" "How about you be in charge?" "What's music?" and so forth. Others watch in disbelief as I would lob this back to this walking mouth fart machine. His brain is just not wired properly.  But, much like Tom Cruise in "Rain Man" I get frustrated and repeat what he says to his brother "I know you can hear me...I know somewhere in there you can hear me that you can understand what I'm saying!" I want to shake him to death. At least I won't hear the same stupid comment stuck on repeat. Five minutes to Wapner.

So now that you have a bit of a background, I run into him at the gym. I didn't recognize him at first because he's in a tank top. He's hairy in that car salesman type if way. Wispy shoulder hair is one of the most awkward type of hair on this planet. How does it happen? I want to believe that hormonally our brains would shut this down knowing that we're now in blazing hot southern California sun. All it does it fades the dark hair.

I'm greeted with "Who's in charge of the music?" I glare at him. Don't start this garbage in public. If I'm on the clock feel free to babble Bazooka Joe jokes for all I care. This is my time. In my stupid brain I think that this must be a work thing and when he clocks in he would leave his affliction at work. I'm a dummy. Anyway, watching him workout is like watching an old-timey gym rat go at weights. Excruciating to watch. And silly. He huffs and puffs the largest weights he can handle. Shortens his sets to 3-5 reps. Poor form. Poor lifting habits. Poor dumb bastard. He is hurting himself. He hunches as if the years of poor lifting impacted his spine. He complains to me about the pain in his lower back. And it takes a lot of willpower not to pinpoint the source of his misery. Which is his ineffective, yet unwillingness to listen to advice nor implement new skills. It's a broken record. I want to help him. He isn't loss at the working out part...he just seems outdated. Physical fitness developments for him stopped in 1979.

Maybe about the time everyone slipped and dropped watch on who was in charge of the music and thus we got disco.

Fight Club - The First Rule Is...

my first real haircut in years- I loss weight, see!

I'm not going to definitively tell you what it would take for you to build muscle because so many people are going to react differently. However, I am going to tell you that if you do any level of cardio, you'll be burning that fat, but also muscle. I reached my goal of 150 lbs. Probably should lose more, but I feel pretty solid. When I stopped with the drinking, it just sorta' made my gut less queasy. Now if I can shake my chili cheese Fritos habit, I'm going to be in business. Kinda brings me up to my next goal...


...I remember watching that movie "Fight Club" when I first came to Los Angeles in 1999. It was a defining movie for me because the movie takes place in L.A. but doesn't necessarily say it. It actually is suppose to be Delaware. That's where all the credit card companies were, so what better way to destroy American infrastructure than at its debt. We're all back to square one. Many people in my generation salivated at that thought. But they also stayed away from this movie in droves because...well...that was also a generation that saw the irony of paying to see a Hollywood actor play poor but in reality was richer than Jesus. If Jesus would've pulled his resources. Blessed are the poor or something like that.


For me, I was just enthralled with director David Fincher's style. The guy is a graphic designer. His movies are so precise. You can't imagine his films shot any other way. A meticulous mind with a chaotic movie. Saw his name as a matte painter in the credits for "Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade" so you know he learned from the school of hard knocks. Another thing was Brad Pitt. Now, I wasn't all that into physical fitness at the time. I had my routine. I was trying to get stacked. But a lot was made of his physique. A lot of fitness folk call this shrink wrap muscle. The type that just slinks around the hardened solid muscle. You see bodybuilders have a gut and they all look kinda spongy. Not Pitt. He was ripped. Me? I was there as a senior in high school. Simple solution for me was that I didn't eat much and I did sit-ups until I was sick and pushups until my sit-up sickness went away.


I stacked on muscle weight. Mostly fat buffet eating girth. To me weight was weight. But that's so really not true. And the Ludus training taught me endurance, stamina, determination and some hate...you can watch a teaser of the torture we go thru here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jO3ofto2yPI


Well, now it's been years since I saw that movie. And my new goal is to get to Tyler Durden. One thing that I have to come to grips with is that Brad Pitt has an entourage and personal chef who makes this much more accessible.  I'm not six feet tall. So, if I get shredded, I will have to prepare myself to look scrawny again. Because, the type of muscle Pitt had was mostly cosmetic. He was built to fight raw. To give that illusion that he fought in some underground den while living off a can of pork and beans a day. I searched and came across his workout too.


Basically, HIGH reps ending with shorter reps but with heavier weights. For instance...3 sets of pushups - 75 reps each with 60 second rest period in between. This will make you ill. Then you do 3 sets of benching. Each one growing larger in weight but less in reps. So your first set is a lighter weight...but you do it 25 reps. The 2nd set you do roughly 20 lbs. heavier but 15 reps and the last is your max done with only 8 reps. He targets only one body area a day. Two days of cardio.


Now, for a lot of bodybuilders this is clearly against everything they believe. And I tend to agree. This isn't more about muscle building as muscle showing. Shred all that fat to show your muscles. That's the new goal.

The Beautiful People Grocery Store

You think it doesn't exist. But I found it out here in Los Angeles. It's not like it was a big secret. It's just that I remember when my Mom came out to visit one time we went there and she said I shouldn't go back since the prices were outrageous. She gauges everything by their fruit prices. So as far as I know, everything else in this store may have been a third of the price, but you may have to put a papaya on layaway (only poor people know what this means).

I'm talking about Whole Foods.

Twenty minutes earlier...
...I texted a friend to ask her what would be a good application for my face since I had scars on my cheeks. She suggested I get calendula. Didn't know it was a root from a plant. If it would make these pits disappear it could be nut sweat from a yak. She suggested Whole Foods. The mythical over-priced natural foods boogety-woogety yuppie fruitstand market once mentioned by my dear Ma-ma.

So I leave my place in run into my neighbor John. John is a good cat. A little on the bizarre conspiracy side. And I like to mess with him by being a smart aleck to his theories. My tactic is to play along with his ideas but throw in a stupid statement to illustrate his wild ideas. John: "Dude...there has never been a man on the moon" Me: "Then how did they get the cheese back?"

That would irritate the crap out of me, so I thought it'd be fun to unleash on someone else. As I was passing by I asked if he needed anything from the store. I was going to venture out to Whole Foods. He told me that I should dress up since every time he visits, he always runs into hotties. Alright...first it's 9PM on a Monday. Labor Day, no less. I glibly reply "I am dressed up, I got pants on, don't I?" He shrugged. My funeral.

I drive a few blocks down the road (instead of walk, since this is L.A. might as well go all out douche). And arrive in the parking lot. So far so good. Cantaloupe sitting outside the market fairly priced. It starts to dawn on me that my shorts don't necessarily cover it at this store. Nope. The thing is, there are plenty of people with shorts on. However, none don't carry a week of chili-cheese fries stain and Weinersnitzel mustard. Classy pressed, dry cleaned people walked around. This is 9PM mind you and people are on their patio reading. Honest to good books! I try not to read after the sun sets. I value autumn and winter so much for this reason. Short terms of sunlight. I am in some sort of yuppie mecca. Hostile territory.

As I enter, the smell of food rushes to my brain. Cooking food doesn't smell this fragrant at 9PM. I can feel this has been coordinated properly to ensure saturation of the Whole Foods vibe. Now I came for scar gel, I was staying for exploration.

You ever go into a different city and see products that kinda' resemble something you knew from a poorer neighborhood? Like you see a box of Twinkies, but at this store they have Egg Creme Sponge Cake? Yeah, the price reflects that. My barometer of a store is two things. One...their sunflower seeds. They sold seeds for 50 cents higher than the larger market. Strike one. The second thing is shrimp. We live next to the friggin ocean. Why charge $16.99 a pound?...it 'aint Prada prawns. Then I look around a see why...

..The beautiful people. So many and in every aisle and every crevice of the store. I was dumbstruck by the well groomed, perfect teeth and hygenic quality everyone had. My cheap Speed Stick and worn out shoes must've made 'em think I was homeless. Yeah, where ya' bleeding hearts now? Even the people working there looked like they stepped off a designer magazine. The checkout kids looked well-coiffed. Pleasant and the perfect mix of helpful but not overbearing. Trained like that, I bet.

Now I feel I'm getting punked. There was a female bodybuilder roaming up and down the rows like if she didn't find what she was after, she was going to hulk out on everyone. But, she was stunning even in her impatience. And...strangely enough, she as also pleasant excusing herself as she passed in front of me. I was in front of the ointments and gel. I guess she may have thought my issue was more pressing than her. Anti-itching butt cream was within reach, who is she to deny me access?

Anyways, this store pisses me off. Mostly because I couldn't decide whether or not the place came with beautiful people or that they became beautiful after they started shopping there. Or may maybe I was set up by the friend I texted. Or maybe my Mom was steering me clear of lifelong disappointment. Just so many questions.

I found my gel. I asked a guy who had to be named Sven or Thor where this calendula was. He knew immediately. Like maybe he was waiting for me to ask him where the ugly gel was. Didn't realize it was common knowledge. I could barely pronounce the name.

I took my gel, facial scars on my mind and hightailed it out of there, hoping no one calls the Plain Police. Yeah...at the Beautiful People grocery store, they 'aint plain clothes fuzz.

Sober Isn't Always The Most Sober Part 1

It's been over 50 days since my last drink. I still feel tired. In fact, midday...I feel like I could just pass out standing. Then someone would take photos, post them online and I'd be right up there with bat boy. The headline "Man dies standing up. Probably Doesn't Know He's Dead." Yeah, slow news week.

I did some research recently on these "side effects" of quitting the bottle. A lot of people have reported that their bodies, when denied something they've been living off of for years, health issues that arose from the quitting aspect. In other words, the body got fooled into believing booze was now a part of your chemical makeup. To retract that element from your body sustaining itself, means you're depriving it something it needs. How messed up is that? Some doctors have even prescribed NOT to stop drinking because to do so would be so shocking to the system that they would die. The body is so fascinating, that even if your brain decides to poison itself, it re-wires itself to sustain your living thru that. Penicillin anyone?

That would explain why my doctor suggested I give the drinking thing a rest. He wasn't firm, but he brushed off my drinking like it was a hobby. Like if building model airplanes with glue was giving me a headache, I should just stop. I guess they try not to sound too judgmental. He did happen to murmur some penis thing in between the alcoholism. That reminds me...if alcoholism is a disease...then wouldn't your employer want you to keep it secret, so if your employment comes into question, they could fire you for everything but this disability. Maybe I can now park in the handicap parking space. Course, if I really had a drinking disease, I probably shouldn't be driving anyway. Which leads me to...

...being booked into the Los Angeles County jail.

This happened roughly 5 years ago. One of my favorite season is football season. I'm not going to say autumn, winter or any of that nonsense. It's college football, pro football, high school football. Hell, if nuns played football, I'd show up to mass every weekend (I don't know crap about Catholicism so I'm making this junk up). I grew up in the Midwest, so football starts at a respectable 1PM. On the West Coast, it's 10AM. Now I'm not sure how many who read this are true degenerates, but I never imagined in my life that I would be sipping a bloody Mary at 10AM. Many Americans seem to believe this is a ritual. Ask anyone who does the Sunday brunch mimosa thing.

I go to this bar that is a mix bag of football fans. Mixed in that there are some serious drinkers at this dive. People celebrate birthdays, anniversaries and holidays at this place. I just happen to stumble upon it when I first moved to the Valley. It looked cheap enough. Well, the bartenders there do not hide the fact that they are there to get you drunk. Not just drunk, but you crawl out. I'm a Cincinnati Bengals fan, so for those who know football, you also probably know why drinking really soothes the loser mentality.

This particular year was exciting. My team was actually winning. I befriended a few Steelers fans who frequent the bar the way bonding happens. By me shouting smack talk drunkenly into their general direction. Drinking booze makes you stupid and invincible. It was my God given right to tear into these guys since years and years of being in the same division and suffering constant ridicule.

Drinks were flowing. I grew out of hand. I may as well place a very large void here since I can't remember the rest of the game, only that the Bengals did win. Their victory was my victory. The bartender, growing concerned called me a cab. I was livid. I threw napkins at them. I threw olives. I threw whatever cash I had in hand at them. And they finally escorted me out. Gently though. I was not the worst they've seen, and I got the feeling they felt sorry for me. I got in the cab, and this moment I look back with regret...

...because the whole time I was screaming and kicking the seat of the taxi cab driver. Shouting horribly racist things. Spitting, cursing, pleading that I couldn't be without my car. He took me all the way to my apartment which is when I pulled out a wad of cash and threw it at him and demanded he take me back. Poor guy was just an immigrant trying to make a living. And here I was, the fare that stood between him and his dream vegetable garden. Not that I was fully coherent. And he did the worst thing possible. He took me back.

There was my car. The bar didn't take my keys. The cab driver asked me if I was okay to drive. And I honestly believed I was. He left, probably grateful. I'm pretty sure he forgot to take my sweaty booze soaked cash.

And I commit the worst crime I could think of. I get in my car; start her up. And drove home. Fear is gripping when you start to feel yourself lose control. The smart thing would be to pull over the side of the road and wait it out. But I'm determined. The drunk mind doesn't think logic. It thinks goal. And the goal is to conquer this. I've been drunker. And guess what, when I get home, this will all seem like a nightmare. And I'll secretly high five myself for overcoming this. It's all a state of mind. Yeah right...I would've driven better if someone would've dropped an anvil on my head.

I do make it home. And what do they always say?  Most car accidents happen within a block from your home. At the time, I had a roommate that parked in the garage, so I couldn't use the space. I end up attempting to parallel park. Some of you may be groaning others laughing. Others may feel a mixed bag of wanting to kick my dumbass or choking me out. Either way...this parking job was going to happen.

I remember so very little. I do remember not having any level of control of anything. I drove stick shift at the time, which made what I was trying to do much more difficult. Well, I remember metal grinding on metal. And the sound freaked me out, so I drove out of the first spot and drove down the road to take the corner so that I could round back to search for another space. This was on a Sunday, so all spaces are occupied. I'm pissed. And getting more and more drowsy. I finally find a parking spot. And I beeline home. I think I've passed a few people along the way that seemed to be confused. When I'm drunk, I can almost see myself. It's not a pretty sight. I look pissed and ready to kill. Worst...this was when I had packed on 15 lbs. of muscle. So...not sure how many people want to get in the way of mini-Hulk.

I finally make it back to my apartment. I run as fast as I can to my bed and nosedive into it. I just want the day to end. And the very worst part...it wasn't even 2PM yet.

Living In Irony

Lone wolf workout today. I really enjoy these sessions since I put on my iPod and listen to music. I went thru the Ludus workout today, which you can read about here:
http://gladiatorconditioning.com/

One of the features an iPod has is something called "shuffle songs" which acts, more or less, like a random roulette music changer. What I enjoy most is when you're throwing a sandbag over your shoulder huffing and puffing and a song comes on that completely contrasts to your condition. Steve Winwood seems to encompass a LOT of irony in situations like these. Like naming your kid something expensive you could never afford...right Tiffany?

Anyway, "Back In The High Life" came on as I was drenched in sweat and wanting to puke my guts out under an early afternoon sun. Quite the high life. But this brings me to my friend Vince.

Yeah, I'm not hiding his name. He's guilty until proven innocent. If you want his number so you can harass him...I'm more than willing to pass it out.

This mug lives under what I call "functional irony." Picture it...

...It was another typical Sunday of booze filled recovery. I'd been off the sauce (so I'm just bored), so I figured what better way to waste time than to jam on an acoustic guitar. Well, Vince is sitting there naming off the tunes I'm playing. I think...yeah...we're jamming. Then he brightens up and says to me "you know what's a really good movie?...'Air Guitar Nation'" Now I've heard about this movie before and I'm pretty sure I broke the land speed record for skipping by it on the Netflix queue. I already know it's made by douches for douches. And I look at Vince, pick in hand...frozen in mid-strum a little taken back that my guitar playing inspired this. Alright, I'm a bit game for this. Moreso, that I didn't have a say as he was already changing the channel, convinced I would appreciate this. Any refusal was met with focused (albeit hungover) action.

To summarize, it's about a competition to see who the greatest air guitar player in the country so they can send them to the world finals in some country that is in desperate need of irony...I think it was Amsterdam. I'm not going to get into the weed thing...but...the obvious nature of this should not escape anyone. So I watch a bit of this documentary hoping that I would draw from it some form of entertainment. Instead, a sad vignette of a subculture that I had rocker dreams with lazy musical aptitude.

Yes, late night shows jumped on this phenomenon like a bunch of bored nuns dipping into cheap mull wine. Yes, they packed bars with super hip people that loved the intensity of spaz-oids. Yes, these were grown ass adults. But, Vince...oh Vince didn't happen to realize he was watching this with a guy who actually spent the time to learn guitar. Air guitar, at its funniest apex, is a brief moment at best. A few moments later, it becomes sad. Here are people who LIVE for this exposure. Strumming away at imaginary axes, making guitar-gasm faces, mimicking the greatest moves of familiar rockers. And it was taken to be a serious craft. I've played venues with legitimate crowds. I've felt the fear of being drawn out as a phony. I've faced the criticism of other musicians. And here we are...somewhat a mockery of a talent boiled down to pageantry and nothing but irony to support it. People don't turn from car wrecks...they slow down for them.

Am I a hater? Maybe. Who wouldn't appreciate having something that took years to learn and constant performance anxiety turned into a hipsters symposium? Wouldn't this be like showing "West Side Story" to The Crips and asking them to join because you can plie like Tony?

Maybe I'm old, crusty and no fun...but irony just gets on my nerves these days. In L.A. it's a movie called "The Room." It's full of irony. SO-bad-it's-good type attitude. What people don't know...and I've rarely mention...my sound mixing teacher did music for this project years ago, before it became a hipster's paradise. I remember him telling me that he's never seen anything so awful...and he's from Bosnia! If this flick is worst than genocide...hey...line starts around the block.

A few years later I was invited by hipster co-workers to go watch and treat it like "Rocky Horror." I couldn't do it. And to this day, I still refuse. Not my cup of tea. And before anyone accuses me of being a complete hard case about it...I once conquered "Resident Evil" while Britney Spears' first album played on repeat in the background. Irony can save you from looking like a raging homo. I guess sometimes you do need the sweet with the bitter.

Summer Is Over, But We'll Always Have Camp Memories

Ahhh summer...swimming holes...Mad Dog 20/20 binges...burnt fannies...But there were times that were a lot more innocent...
I remember, as a kid, going to a few summer camps. Whitewater bible camp. Vacation Bible School. Jesus's Great Outdoors. Okay, I made that last one up. But it might as well be. I grew up in Ohio. The bible heart of America. Hell, the state itself looks like a heart. Not really a human heart, but a Valentine's Day replica. Anyway, I was pawned off by my folks to these thumpers for two reasons:

1) Cheap. Most of the times the trip was funded by the church collection plate. I guess they figure that if they could get us into the wild they can indoctrinate us faster. And it did kinda' work. I can't tell you how fast I prayed when I got explosive diarrhea from the over-saturated generic bug juice I drained by the gallon. "Oh sweet Jesus, may there be a pine cone large enough for my cornhole!" "Cheap" happens to be one of my Mom's favorite words too.
2) Chinese people church. You wanna know a really screwed up combination. Take some already out of control judgmental people and introduce them to religion. I think my Mom is atheist. Never got around to asking. But I remember being at my Grandma's funeral, and I could've sworn when they talked about heaven, she rolled her eyes. Tough cookie, no matter how she crumbled. She'd drop us off at church only to go shopping on Sundays. That kinda' was a clue too. She'd pick us up, and...well personally I couldn't wait to get out of there. Her attitude was that they were Chinese and maybe some of that Mandarin language would rub off on us. Never did. Not that she pushed the issue...or tested us. I think for some, you find your peace on Sunday wherever you can find it.

Every summer they'd have a retreat. I remember Mom would bring the subject up subtly "Hey, instead of wasting your life around the house doing bunk, how about go on this retreat?...whitewater bible camp!!" In my mind, I'm thinking "Hell yeah...tackle the rapids. Cheat death. Just like 'Race For Your Life Charlie Brown'" Who gives a crap if I had to learn a few verses in between. This is how stupid I was. This is Ohio. The only rapids we have are if a bunch of rednecks stitched together a few Slip n' Slides. But I was sold. Must've been the humidity.

Meanwhile, my Dad was always in the background. He spent the better part of the summer running his restaurant and mowing the lawn. He's got a fixation for his lawn. I didn't realize until later that from a person who came from a concrete jungle of Taipei...the feeling of grass between your toes must feel like clouds. He really earned it.

Whitewater bible camp seemed to be a wash. It was on this really weird island in the middle of northern Ohio. It was actually on an old plantation. The rapids? A creek with a canoe. The rest was bible studies. Man...did that suck. Didn't have no archery. No horseback riding. Not even wallet making, like the Native Americans use to do :). We made suncatchers to bask in the rays Jesus provided us for the day. And like a buncha' damn Pilgrims, our noses were in scripture for about three hours a day. The other few hours were listening to missionary stories where the people of the Amazon were referred to as "savages." That was the best part. The guy who told these stories was a pediatrician. And had a jackrabbit laughing style that freaked me out. He was genuinely a nice guy, but I was a punk kid who snubbed any attempt at interpersonal connections.

I remember there was a main house where all the older kids stayed in. We stayed in cabins. Slave quarters to be precise. Stacked in bunks. Which was really cool. But the kids there were total Squaresville. The already knew the bible forwards, backwards and upside down. Me...I couldn't remember which day God rested. And all those dudes begat-ting other people. I'm like...this is pure smut. And I said so, to anyone near me. No one believed me. They went with it like the were rubbing elbows and children popped out. Those dudes laying pipe like you wouldn't believe. I guess before "Mad Men" or "The Simpsons" it was the best form of entertainment.

I spent a week here and something really interesting began to happen. The kids in my cabin...started to lighten up. Not sure if my constant snide remarks or open defiance to learn the Good Book had anything to do with it...But I guess they were like me, trying to gauge who the narcs were. Mid-week we were telling dirty jokes, making fun of people and conspiring to burn down the whole place. Cooler heads prevailed. We rode the damn sad canoes. But we'd fence with the oars. We'd splash water at the truly uptight campers. I added profanity into the community bibles so that the next group of readers had the privilege of reading the Book of Blow Job.

All and all, it was actually a good time. When Jesus wasn't involved. I get the feeling what we were doing probably was an affront to the almighty. But it was my damn summer...and you cannot force feed faith. You end up digging a trench and hoping the splash back wasn't going to be too awful. God and heaven above!

I caught myself rolling my eyes at that thought.

Juicy Juice

Alright, I'm doing the ultimate douchey thing. I'm at a Starbucks drinking a Pike's Roast tall and typing on a laptop. How many around me doing the same? How many with those epic screenplays that are going to sell...like...for a gazillion dollars. They peer above their screens scoping me out and probably thinking the same thing. But little do they know...I want to talk about juice.

Specifically vegetable juice. I don't know what inspired me to get into it, but...recently I've been into squeezing my own juice from vegetables. Maybe I'm a dummy, but I didn't think there was all that much juice in vegetables. And technically there isn't, compared to a more juice related item...like an orange. Even those take a lot of work to get very little.

So I went shopping for a juicer. These things are really pricey. I was shocked. It seemed to me, these things could be streamlined and put into the collective consciousness to make cheaper to the public and, therefore, provide a healthier juice alternative. I've read, and want to believe...they put all sorts of junk in the 100% juice we get from the store. I mean, a company can't mass produce a vegetable juice without it containing some level of preservative. Right?

I think a lot of people tend to believe they're too busy to properly juice. Which I completely agree with. I am lazy myself. The last thing I want to do is to blend a bunch of smelly vegetables and fruits and press it into a jar. But ever since I gave up drinking, I realize I wasn't lazy as much as I just couldn't be bothered. Plus that blending noise didn't bode well with the hangovers. Quite frankly...you get more benefit from eating the actual vegetable or fruit than juicing it. Which goes back to why these juicer cost so much. Alright, bitching aside...

I found an alternative that works for me...it you put some time into it. It starts with a blender. I use celery, spinach, carrots, cucumber and tomatoes. I dice these items up and place them in the blender under "chop". It takes some work but use a wooden spoon to push (SLOWLY) down to chop. Then liquify. It gets to a consistency of baby food.

Then I have a sieve...like this one:

You can find these at Target or WalMart really cheap. I put this over a tall glass and pour the blended mush. You'll notice this mush collect above the sieve as some of the fluid drains into the glass. That's where the press comes in handy.

First, you need to figure out the size of sieve you have. I wouldn't go with anything larger than 6" in diameter. That's the widest mouth of a glass. Also, I don't think they sell them, but it bears mentioning since you may find one in some Bangkok fish market and think the larger the size the more you can press thru. It's just a clean-up nightmare. As is a night in Bangkok. PLUS...the smaller sizes fits in nicely with...

...the orange juice press:

Mine is the one of the far right. The sieve fits perfectly in the press with all the mush. I use it to press the mush juice thru the sieve. Lookit' the juice just flow thru!

I scrape as much of the mush I can and press again thru the sieve. It drains nicely into the glass. I then pour the juice into a Ball jar, cap it and place in fridge. Some suggest you should cover in aluminum foil. Light is killer for the fresh juice. Know what else is killer for juice? Air. This bottle will last you roughly three days, so you have to drink sorta fast. This is what I consider a concentrate, so drink it straight or with a mixer. I squeeze a little bit of lemon juice in to extend the life and reduce the funk. But...the funk comes later.

Vegetables ferment like you wouldn't believe. Some people refer to this as rotting. And it leaves a pungent smell this side of Calcutta. Guess what it does when the enzymes in your gut reacts to it? Like toilet napalm.

For a few days while you're suffering the indignities of smelling like a hobo that tossed back a handle of Cisco, you will get a shot of energy tasting what comes down sucking down a garden. Yes...it will taste somewhat like dirt. Yes, it is really ripe and pungent. I cut it with freshly squeezed orange juice. But...you do feel energized. Go ahead and get creative with the mix. There is no right way, as you will discover. Waiting for passion fruit season to come around.

Another benefit I noticed...alongside making you feel energized, it does have an aftertaste that turns you off to eating. Don't know what that's all about, but I was not hungry for a solid half day. In my mind, the moment I started to feel hungry, I took sips of water and that feeling subsided. Try it and you tell me.

Maybe you'll start asking yourself why you would subject yourself to this gastrointestinal punishment. Well, like most things...we just have to get use to it. It's been a week and it tastes like juice to me now. I don't wince when I think of the concoction and I'm starting to enjoy the creative mixes I can make. There is obvious fear that you could potentially be developing a new form of diarrhea even people in the deep forest of the Amazon couldn't identify, but...it's a great way to get in your vegetables without the sodium of something like V8.

I'm a fan of making your own juice. There is a sense of accomplishment. It is a lot for so little, which seems to me, why people buy the juicer and be done with it. But, if you were concern about eating/drinking right, would taking the effort to make your own even be a question?

Turkish Bath Stare-O-Thon

I did promise that I would talk to you about the time I got busted for drinking. I figure, if we're going to be honest, we better be honest.

First things first though. I reached 150 lbs. three days ago. Hit my goal of weight loss. 7 lbs. in a month. I feel slim and trim. I feel lighter on my feet and my balance seems to be back. That is except when I was in the gym today...the gym I go to today has no barriers in the shower. It's like a very large area that looks like a Greek fight ring. The floor is slimy and there are limited hooks to put your towel. Alright, modesty is a big deal to me. There...I said it. I don't like my junk dangling in front of other dudes. I don't care...but sometimes, people really don't try to hide the fact they check out your junk. Worst, they make it a point to constantly catch glimpses. Anyway, when I entered this pit, there was a guy in the far corner. Look like a tall version of John Oats from Hall & Oats. Yes, hairier than a Persian, yet less hairy than Robin Williams.

I'm as straight as an arrow, but you couldn't help notice...the guy had a third freakin' leg. Yes, his twigs and berries were more like bowling balls and branch. Effe it. There I stood, clearly...ahem...proportionate to my body size, and here's a dude sporting a baby's arm. But get this...he checks out my junk! No b.s. Not a glimpse. Not a glance. Straight up stares. I'm not trying to draw comparisons here, but I tried my hardest not to look. I just can't go for that. But, I'm sure as women have boob radar, dudes have junk sonar. The guy just keeps looking. And here I am thinking "great...guy can't believe he's seen one this small and feels really bad." I half expect him to say something. Like "bro, stereotypes...sorry." Instead, I lather away hoping the following five minutes (the length of my showers) will end soon. So John Oats gets his Pert Plus and leaves. Thank God. I can finally clean the ol' b-crack.

So here's my thought process here:
-pray that we don't share the same locker area
-look around this musty room and look for someone with equal junk size to nod acknowledgement.
-cry silently. Reminding myself like a mantra that I can see my abs now.

So I get out of the shower and head to my clothes. Slightly slumped over until I catch a view of myself in the mirror. I look pretty damn cut. Hope the beotches in the locker room got bandaids...

...until I get to my locker. Guess who's standing on the other side of the locker row? Mr. Private Eyes.

I freeze in place. This can't be real. The locker room is empty. I can hear the water droplets hit the ground from my wet hair, it's that empty. I started humming to break the awkward silence. 'Cause he's looking. You ever feel that someone wants to say something but they don't? I get back to humming. What tune, you ask? It sounds like a mix between "Mary Had A Little Lamb" and "November Rain". It was filler until I can get my boxer briefs on. Yeah...I finally negotiate that. John Oats finally leaves. And I sit at the edge of the bench. Humming has stopped. I look in the mirror that is directly across from me. Sad sack staring back.

Then I start to think...

I'm in the best position anyone could possibly imagine. "Why?" you ask. Think about it...the stereotype is that all Asian dudes have small deezies. Okay...so expectations are low. I couldn't possibly disappoint. I'm pretty normal. So it's going to shock a girl.

And there is the truth you didn't want to know.

I skipped out of the gym. The sun felt great.

If You Break It We Can Fix It

Remember how flexible we were when we were kids?

Ben and Kayla

Man, I remember taking a few tumbles down a hill in heavily wooded forest area running into trees. This is how we played Army. No surrender. No retreat. And we really did believe if we couldn't evade "the enemy" a concussion or being permanently maimed was the better alternative. In my late 30's I don't even want to think about injuries. The powers that be don't want to repair whatever it is I just did to myself. I'm probably seen as a liability. And they'd rather run a triage on people who have real problems. Unless I have a rebar stuck in my forehead, I really shouldn't bother people. A ten year old doesn't think about co-pays, HMOs or being dropped from medical insurance. I think about rebars and foreheads.

Why can't we be kids again? Wildly flailing our arms as we take the beach of Normandy. Or dodge bullets by the calvary (being the darkest in my neighborhood guess who was always the Indian?). We didn't think about it, but that's cardio. Darting across fields. Cartwheeling down hillsides. Rolling into creeks. It's all some type of life spoof.

One time when I was a kid, I remember at recess we would play tag. You know the jungle gym bars that you climb across? Well, one kid got the bright idea to walk on the top of that. One kid was on one side of the bars and another on the other side, essentially blocking him in. What choice did he have? They were closing in...so...I remember this part vividly...in order to not be "IT"...he did a flip off the top of the bars and landed...squarely on his back. THUD!

I heard it all the way from the top of a tree I was hiding in. It was like a sack of wet sand. The aftermath was a body writhing around in pain. We couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying. It was that kind of situation. There were a couple of people who hovered over the body. Someone got the bright idea to take off his glasses...as if it was going to make him breathe easier. Just a crowd of kids watching this boy rock to and fro like a turtle on his back. Forget calling any teacher, this was entertainment. Half of us ran away from the scene of the crime. Laughing. And I'll never forget this...the one dude who was "IT" tagged the injured kid on the ground.

You'd do the same thing. In war, there are going to be casualties.

Here is a few workout lessons you can take from a baby...don't forget to drool:

http://youtu.be/GPkRYNGKJXw

Be Thankful For What You Got

I tell anyone in my past that I've given up drinking. However, I NEVER say that I'm an alcoholic. Nor preach to others the dangers of booze. I mean, to guilt oneself to quit is going to be counterproductive no matter how kind to yourself you think you are. A follow up question has always been, how did I kick booze?

My sister says that I'm just a stubborn pig-headed person. Which I kinda' agree with. I mean, I kicked smoking ciggies because I hated the fact that I was paying someone else to kill me. Slowly. If anyone is going to profit from my death, it might as well be me. I had some violent withdrawal symptoms. In the middle of the night sometimes I'd have a surge of energy that made my leg kick up--pretty much punting myself out of bed. It was aggravating and embarrassing, because it was so uncontrollable. When your body starts doing things your mind cannot control, fear strikes you at the most primal. The physical makeup that designs your every movement is imbalanced and you are about to get a HUGE lesson that your mind and body is not going to last forever. Mortality questioned.

I woke up from binge drinking with shakes. Dehydrated I would drink about a liter of water, followed by a few capsules of milk thistle, iron, B12, and St. John's. That did nothing. My head constantly spun. EVERY morning I told myself to remember how bad I felt that morning, so that I wouldn't repeat it. But inevitably, the cycle repeated. Drink to go to sleep. I didn't know any other way. The bags under my eyes grew. My face bloated. I woke up to a melted face. Splotchy and red. How the hell did I fall asleep at 18 years old and wake up 36?

I still hit the gym though. Pretty sure the patrons there were getting contact drunk from my booze breath and sweat. Nothing more demoralizing than standing in the shower in complete pain as lukewarm gym water poured over you whilst the hairy meatball of an overweight has-been gym rat in the next stall watches you shuddering while I'm trying not to sob because my life ended up like this. So scared to give up the bottle. Not scared enough to quit. And what did I look forward to?...enough energy to digest cheap sushi and washing it down with a grapefruit and some yogurt. Are we having fun yet? So you tell me, how many more days did I want to live like that?

I was addicted to a show called "Intervention." That seems kinda' ironic...addicted to a show about addictions. I use to go to work and trade episode topics with a co-worker who also loved the show. We'd laugh at the alcoholic who would pound mouthwash and then pass out on her lawn while her kids hopped over her like roadkill. There is something really dark in finding the humor in reckless behavior. Large fortunes have been made on this fact. I probably shouldn't throw stones though. One time I passed out in between the legs of a girl at a keg party and the only thing I could think to say was "your hair smells nice." Luckily she was in nursing school at the time. On the job training. Speaking of which, she had to wrestle the bottle of vodka out of my hands. Nurses are strong.

I think my biggest problem with drinking was boredom. How my life was spinning its wheels. Neither going up nor going down. But boy...when I got that first sip of booze, it was normal again. You know what is really scary? When your tolerance to something no longer has boundaries. In my prime, It took me a full day to polish off 750ml of booze. To a casual drinker this is about a week's ration. And then when I woke up, I swore some of it had evaporated. Oh it evaporated alright right through the sweat in my skin. One of my worst moments in life was when I was arrested. Not for drunk driving (although I should've been)...it was a nightmare. And I have a crazy story of having to turn myself into the Los Angeles po-po...which I'll regale in my next blog-o-roni. Meanwhile to mis-quote William DeVaughn, I'll be diggin' the scene with a gangsta' lean.

Squats And Your Chicken Legs

Squats. Blech. The word itself is a really harsh thing to say. Squats. I can't even think it without a conjured image of torture. It definitely seems like something that you have to do behind closed doors. Like combing your hair. Yeah...hair combing...that's the ticket.

I've taken to doing squats with the 50 lbs. sandbag. It's abuse to say the least. But it will carve up your lower mid-section. Even though you feel like you're giving birth. And your whole body hates you. I guess you gotta weigh how much you hate yourself.

The sandbag for this is great...one benefit that it has over the straight bar, is that it sits snug against your traps. In "work" terms you could be pressing a baby corpse. That drowned of course, cause babies don't weigh that much. Or maybe they do. I don't squat baby corpses. Unless they pay me. But I can't see a career in it.

Chicken legs are the goofiest thing ever on anyone trying to gain muscle. I see it at the gym at an alarming rate. I understand though. Whenever I try working the legs I always feel like I'm about to fudge myself. Especially the calf raises. I guess when you lift that area of your body, a great deal of exertion is on your lower abs. Which happens to be the part of your body you use for dumpage. That's a lot to commit to for the body parts that aren't all that showy until summer. And for internal damage, it sure may not pay. But you have to do them. It should probably be every other day too.

I must say...if developed properly, the real bodybuilders appreciate and will compliment you on your legs. I can't dodge it though. I need to get more leg workouts into my regiment. That's the other thing. We need our legs to walk and move us around. Whenever I do leg workouts I walk like I was prison raped. My legs are jelly and tend to steer me lopsided. Whereas in working the upper body I don't need to move much post workout. And you know something else?...I've never heard a girl say "hey, nice legs, sailor." 'Course I never sailed before either.

This week, I will torture my legs, the way I did with my upper body. I will go for less rest in between five sets. Squats and press. With my body weight. Let's see if I can get any definition. I mean, my legs aren't chicken, but they aren't defined either. They seem like doughy, but not saggy doughy...like shapeless and kinda' disproportionate to my upper body. two weeks of this and we'll compare the before and after. Something tells me I'll be moseying like some rhinestone cowboy.

The Incredible Squatty Man

You know...short people...when they get the slightest bit of muscle all of a sudden they start to look like midgets. Everything seems to be more squatty. So unfair. Perhaps it's just me. I mean, Tom Cruise is sporting some guns in the new "Mission Impossible" movie and he looks pretty sleek. I mean, the guy is over 40 and although standing next to Katie Holmes gives you perspective, I'd say he's done his part in the upkeep. Here's me slathered in chains (photo by Shannon @ http://theprimalsophisticate.com/author/theprimalsophisticate/). The Gladiator of Christmas Present:

153 lbs.

When I started to get muscle, I put it on all at once. It's strange...I use to get a lot of short jokes. But not so much anymore. I'm not sure why. I can't imagine anyone in my business being anymore sensitive. And I doubt getting bulky has frightened people in submission. In fact, I was expecting more jokes. I dunno...I never even really considered myself all that short. Until I went to a gym one day (about 8 years ago) saw a short dude and thought to myself "that dude is pretty short" only to realize, after looking in the mirror, he was taller than me. That was crushing to say the least. I know now why my mom was always telling me to stand up straight. I slouched a lot 'cause I thought I was James Dean. And that made me a rebel. But it only made me look like a hunchback. Quasimodo Without A Cause.

In this blog, I figure I'd list good things about being short:
-You're at boob level with tall women
-center of gravity is lower so you have more balance. And in case you're drunk, less distance to fall
-No knee problem
-can wear kid clothes or jeans you had in high school
-kids tend to listen to your stories, because you're talking to them at eye level

Okay, I couldn't think of anything else...because it straight up sucks sometimes. Mostly when it comes to the ladies. Yes, ladies want taller. Because they like heels. Not to wear, but to look good in. And I'm pretty sure they don't want to look like some high school prom photo. Dating pool is limited. Think about it...even short girls want tall dudes. Oh well, anyway...

...I gotta tell you about my friend that just broke up with his girlfriend. He gave me permission to recount it and form my own opinion so...I don't feel like a complete douche. So he tells me that his girlfriend of a year breaks up with him over the phone. A year. A phone. Yes, she was that spineless.

The girl in question, I've met. She's quiet and demure. Somehow he seethed with judgmental eyes. Which yielded itself to a streak of superiority towards our cro-magnon behavior. Sometimes. Yes, we act like numbskulls a lot of times. We're bored and somewhat still young, so there is always going to be a level of chicanery. Especially in a town where some have profited from it. But we're not out to be famous for any of it. We just like to blow off steam.

It was a 4th of July party we had. The very same where my sobriety began. I recall sitting in my living room watching a movie. Real drunk. This was AFTER I had woken up from the first session of drinking and here I was, beer in hand. My friend's girlfriend was sitting next to me. Magically appeared like some banshee. Actually, she could've been sitting there for hours, but my brain just tuned in to her presence. She sat quietly watching the movie next to me. It seemed as if she'd separated herself from the party. I decided to engage in small talk. My bloated sweaty face turned to her and asked her about her band. You  see, she played in a band. At that point I didn't know this. I thought it was just a hobby type thing. She never played anything the many times she's visited us. Not even mentioned it. Goes without saying, it probably wasn't important to tell me, because on her radar of importance...I might as well be Pan Am (they don't exist anymore).

She seemed genuinely interested in talking about her band. Then she talked to me about a tour she was about to go on. Okay, my math was working overtime...this wasn't just a hobby anymore, but straight up a real band with real shows. Most people would consider this a detail worth bragging about. Not her. Remember...I'm Pan Am. So, being that I'm only interested in what people say when I'm completely out of my mind drunk, I ask her how long she'd be away. She said a month.
On the road.
In a van.
With other musicians.

Now, as a kid watching "Partridge Family" I never expected hanky-panky. Mostly because they were all related, but I'm a grown-ass adult now...and not only a red light go off. I thought I'd won large prize at a carnival. This much freedom on either part is recipe for infidelity. Musicians aren't known for modesty, humility, loyalty, cleanliness, common sensinality, and other words I made up to illustrate how reckless that lifestyle can be.

C'mon, we're no dummies. But my friend seemed to want to remain loyal. In my mind, I had pegged him for the errant mate. Boy was I wrong. Phone call. End of relationship. A couple of scenarios come to mind. And none of them good. Or satisfactory as to having questions answered. Because you know something...?

...we're not always going to get closure in life. Do I want my friend to know definitively in the months leading up to this what was going on through her mind? Not really. It couldn't be anything good. And quite possibly could prolong hurt. When my best relationship ended that's what I was seeking. The "definitive answer." No answer was going to fulfill this empty hurt need that we all want. In a loving relationship or one that seemed like real love, there are just too many questions that come into play. Instead of the broken record, I think, as we get older, we just abandoned all that on the table. And that in itself seems to be a small victory on both sides.

You know what's a small victory?...I made it thru this month without a drink.

The Tree Trunk That Spoke To Me

"If you master building up your forearms you can lift the world" - So said the tree trunk with a Jamaican accent when asked how to gain bigger forearms.

The tree trunk in question was a former competing bodybuilder I had happened to ask at the gym what it took to get the Popeye sized forearms. His were bigger than a Louisville Slugger. And looked like he could take down walls with them.

The trunk in question was named Dennis. He was a professional bodybuilder at one point in his life. He seemed content to have left that world and entering the "retired" leg of working out. One thing he did point out though, his metabolism was so high, if he gave up heavy lifting he'd shrink. Now whether or not that was all paranoia in his head...you couldn't argue with results.

He was a very philosophical man. He told me to look around the gym and look at all the wrong way people work out. Bland. Bored. Just doing what they see others doing it. And it was all wrong. He never pointed anything out specifically but he seemed to enjoy giving and listening to all advice.

A very simple idea that Dennis pointed out: "If it hurts doing, then you're not doing it right, so stop doing it." Sounds simple. Not really. Too many people have too ingrained in themselves a technique that worked for them in the past. Yes that's good, if you're getting results. But bad form follows complacency. What he was reminding me was that I should look outside the box of working out and incorporate a form that isn't "common knowledge." His idea was that people forego form due to "common sense". Generally when doing a row, what do we do? We square up with a bench. Not so says he. Turn to the side at a slight angle and all of a sudden your triceps start to pop. It's all about slight adjustments.

The other thing he pointed out...look at what the serious bodybuilders are using as weights? Light weights. 25 pounds and under. Why? Because they care more about form then tugging painfully at a weight trying to induce muscle growth because size yields size. Not so says he. Muscle failure yields size and tone. All these guys at the gym curling huge weights seemed ridiculous to him. It was nothing but show and no grow. His advice...weight doesn't matter. The biggest strongest bodybuilding guys don't do the weights we think they do.

Lastly, before we parted ways he was kind enough to tell me his secret to larger forearms. Failure. Always to failure. Your muscle grows when it thinks it needs to do more weight. The more you exert, the more the muscles freak out and need to up the ante so that they can do the "work" involved. Not so much a secret as much as his way of telling me, don't worry about counting out the reps. The guideline is when you feel winded. He rarely did cardio. He called it "weight training cardio." Which seemed to mean he was burning fat doing weights. Proof was all there.

Most lifters get smug about their workouts. Dennis loved recommending magazines to get your knowledge. I asked him which one was best. His response "Any of them."

Day 20 & 21 Of Sobriety My Dinner With Seagal Part 2

So I reached my 21st day of sobriety. And how do I celebrate? By getting my car smog checked. Guy looks like he's about to fail me, which is going to really suck. But such is life in L.A.

I figured since I have time, I'd write about my experiences on set with Steven Seagal.

He's a looming figure to say the least. I remember the large trailers being pulled in specifically to cater to his needs. Oddly enough, I only saw him about 15 minutes before the shoot and 15 minutes after his last shot was wrapped. Guy really spent most of the time thinking about other things. Probably not so nice things.

During the shoot, allegedly he was being targeted by the mafia. Not sure which one, but a few months prior I thought I may have heard something where he was testifying against organized crime. He was Nico from "Above The Law" incarnate. One of the things he had in his contract was that production had to provide him with a separate Escalade that would shadow his own. Then peel off when they got a certain distance. Apparently that way no one would know which car to blow up. Jokes on him, he takes a wrong turn that thing would blow up on its own.

Anyway, he's a real professional. But a professional who has no problems making his displeasure known.

We had set up a boxing ring in a dojo owned by Benny "The Jet". If you don't know who he is, then you haven't followed martial arts in the 80's. It was to be a cage fight against the lead actor and Seagal. We had nowhere really to hang lights, so we mounted them on the top of the cages. I had the idea that it should resemble some prison cell, so I had my electrics rig work lights around the top of the cage. Now...for those who read my previous blog, this would be considered toplight. And this would also be a no-no in Seagal's world. Not sure where else we could've put lights, so I covered them up (as if he wouldn't notice).

The time came to shoot. There he came walking in...black gi, menacing. He was technically the bad guy in this one. First time. His character was an American fight champion. The best of what we had to offer. The lead actor was from Korea, he was the best they had to offer. So the epic fight was on.

There were about 100 extras that day. It was amazing. People were excited. This shoot was the center of attention and everyone would get to see Seagal in action. Even Kevin Grevioux (wrote "Underworld") and Philip Rhee ("Best Of The Best") showed up. I'm a dumb 26 year old in charge of two camera crews, lighting and shooting. We had a Steadicam rig moving with Seagal. And then he steps into the ring...

You can see this in the actual movie...when he enters, he looks up to the lights and grimaces. Not just grimaces, but I could tell in his mind he as going to have some choice words with me when this was all over. I saw it on the monitor and I froze. The director didn't seem to notice. But now it seemed I was in a doghouse. And this was just the first day of shooting with Seagal.

The shoot was long. Mostly because it was hot. We had air conditioning crank up after every take (due to sound issues) which was terrible since that just cleared the air of smoke. Seagal hated the hazing machine chemicals. It messed with his vocal chords in acting. According to him. So we burned sage. Sage is really like the smell of burning autumn leaves. Which is pleasant outdoors and you hear football in the background, but crappy when you're stuck in a non-ventilated room and extras are hacking up a lung. But the star gets what the star wants.

The other thing about the fight scene is that the body double for Seagal was the same height as him, but about 30 pounds lighter. We had to really move back when shooting that, and it was just limiting our shot selection.

Overall, the fight scene is mediocre at best. Seagal wasn't as fast as he use to be. A lot of the choreography was done during the shoot so it was really all piece mealed together. It was grueling to try to figure out how everything was going to be put together. My mind was putty.

Seagal never said anything to me directly. The production gave me a translator as the director was Korean and spoke no English. I never got bad news. It's the culture there. They never told me anything. I remember a certain day where the director would be dictating at least a paragraph of instructions and the translator could only say "looks good." Don't think that was his full edict, but I went along with it.

A lot of us on set were wondering how much Seagal was getting paid. He was only on the project for MAYBE a week. I found out later to the tune of $100K a day with less than 4 hours on set. Factoring in that hourly cost, he was making more than Tom Cruise.

That hurts my feelings.

I have to say though, I grew up watching his movies with my Dad. I think most lads do. And it was really awesome when my Pop said it was cool that I got to work with the guy (he thinks Hollywood is goofy in general, but loves John Wayne). To that, Seagal was worth every penny.

Day 18 & 19 Of Sobriety - My Dinner With Steven Seagal PART 1

Okay, I kinda promised an inside look at working in the movie business. Well...I really don't know much...because they purposely keep me in the dark, but I doubt the low-budget junk I've worked on is any different from the big dogs who just spend more money per day and have to deal with prima donnas whose lattes have to be a the right temperature.

After I graduated from film school, there was NOTHING. When I say nothing, I mean nothing. A lot of movies had picked up stakes and went up to Vancouver where you get HUGE tax breaks. I pimped myself out to whatever piddily production job I could possibly imagine that were left in town. I even walked into a porn company hoping to get an editorial job. When I walked into Vivid Entertainment one day...resume in hand, the receptionist looked me up and down, audibly sighed and just shook her head in disappointment. She thought I was there to audition as an actor rather than editorial. Didn't get the job. That was an all-time low.

I was broke and living in the very same expensive apartment I live in now. How ridiculous...too poor to live there but too poor to move. My days in Los Angeles were numbered. In fact, I packed my bags. Each piece of clothing going into my beat up old suitcase was like a nail in the coffin. This town wasn't going to have me to kick around anymore. Yeah, right.

The plan was to leave in the middle of the night. No letter. No notice. No nothing. They could keep my cheap Ikea furniture along with my pathetic collection of Garbage Pail Kids. Those bags were packed. I was preparing to be that a-hole who got drunk at the bar in small town Ohio telling tales from my "adventures" in Hollywood.  The night before my exit...I got the most interesting call.

This was waaaaay before cell phones. At least for me. I'm sure they had already existed but it was off my budget radar. My house phone rang. I answered it. It was my friend Mark. Mark and I have had a very long relationship going back to film school days. He had already been established as one of the premiere stuntmen in the industry. He knows many working industry people. His circle of friends is what a lot of us up-and-going-nowhere-types aspire to. And he's such a nice dude to boot.

Very casually he asked me what my plans were for the next day. Couldn't tell him I was leaving town forever. Couldn't disappoint everyone at once. I told him that I had no plans. He told me that I was to go out and meet up at Steven Seagal's home. He wants to talk to me. He gave me the address then hung up.

Yes, that Steven Seagal. Mr. "Above The Law". I was just hired to shoot a movie.

It's just that ridiculous.

The next afternoon, I weaved my way thru Brentwood. Rich and overprotective. Brentwood is the same place OJ lived. So you know it has to be good. I pulled into a gravel driveway that was blocked by large garage door. I announced myself to the callbox and the doors opened. I entered what was a compound. For legal purposes, I won't tell you the full design, but I can tell you...this Seagal guy is stuck in southeast Asia.

A very young Eurasian man opened my car door for me. I was half-expecting a sumo wrestling sized man with a bowler to pat me down, but Oddjob may have been on vacation.

I entered what appeared to be a monastery.  Incensed burned somewhere. And the late afternoon was casting long rays into the room. I had entered a Seagal movie.

The thing about most celebs is that they have many interests. Music always been somewhere in their cache. Seagal was no different. All over the floor, there were guitars strewn. EVERYWHERE. Different makes. Different models. Different vintages. It was amazing. Not sure what that was all about, unless he was shuffling it like dominos or they needed cleaning. I stepped around them like landmines. I made it to a bench chair.

Everything in his place is oversized. I'm short to begin with, so it just felt like "Honey, I Shrunk The Kids." I sat in an oversized bench. The arms were so high I couldn't even use them as armrest. So I just sat there, notepad in hand, legs dangling. The houseboy disappeared. Then a really large man returned. Enter Steven Seagal.

He's exactly how you picture him. Tan. Tall. And squinty. I jumped off the bench like some kid and introduced myself. He looked me up and down (not so different than the receptionist at the porno place) and disappointment washed over him. I was 26 years at the time. The average age of most cinematographers were somewhere around 50-60 years old. Couldn't tell if he wanted to laugh or cry. 'Cause he's really squinty. So I sat back down, clicked open a pen and put on my best business face. I was summoned over after all.

You can usually tell if people really listen to you by the time it takes for them to digest information. Seagal doesn't seem to want to listen to any end of any sentence. For instance, he asked me if I were Chinese and I said Taiwanese. I said I understand elementary Mandarin but mostly speak-- that's as far as I got before he started speaking to me in Mandarin. His Mandarin isn't bad. It's just typical of how most Americans who want to seem educated in that language delivers it...FAST. All his words pretty much blended together. I picked up the gist here and there, so we were able to move forth. It was very polite of him to make me feel like he was at my level. But we were going into a project, so we had to get past certain pleasantries.

Basically he had a few things dealing with camera work that was a must:
1) no lens under 40mm. This is because wide angle lenses are not flattering
2) No angle below eye level. As he is tall, he doesn't want to look like an ogre. I think his exact words were "I don't want to look like Frankenstein"
3) We gel all lights with a warming gel. It makes him look more...well..."warm"
4) No toplight. Toplight gives shadows under the eyes and also draws attention to thin hair

I scribbled all these notes down. And at some point I was even contemplating balling up the pages and eating it. Like some spy movie. He sat there looking at me for a bit. I think wondering if I had any questions. I had two in mind that I didn't think was appropriate at the time. One: Did he even read the script, because I sure didn't. Didn't even get a copy. Two: how much was he getting paid to do this project. That would've been rude.

As quickly as he appeared. He disappeared, saying goodby to me...in Mandarin.

Next up...On the set with Sir "Under Siege."