Rain

Rain falls from the heavens
Misting sheets like curtains
Wash the roads
The cars
The people's crowns.
It clouds his life
Depresses him
Uncleansing drizzle
Tripples, freezes his hands
A cigarette comforts him
Smoke wafting past his face
People hurry past hunched
Stooped in an effort to avoid
The downward plummet
Liquid clouds falling to Earth.
Buildings rush skyward
To meet the droplets.
Millions, like an invading force
Invading his world, his thoughts.
Consumed with Rain.

Stand Alone On A Stage

Stand alone on a stage and be.  Be that person deep inside that yearns to break free, to exist, to breathe.  That person that yearns to surface.  To lurch from the yoke of the water's grasp and gulp down lungfuls of acrid air - heavy in the incense of a ritual to be observed yet not obeyed.

Stand in the light and be seen.  Seen for the most vulnerable face of you, made raw in the spot's light.  The honey glow of truth and redemption and fear.  Numbing fear of failure to be ignored and trampled on, trounced, made ready for the purchase of a new grasp.  A new grip.  A handhold on the granite face of that thing you call life.

Stand with nothing.  Nothing but your honesty.  Your honesty that in that moment alone you are true and real and strong and nimble.  Feel that mutinous heart beat from deep within that cavernous chest and answer back with a quiet calm and resolve born of redirected fear.

Stand and see.  Not the audience or the curtains or the stage, but your own hands and feet.  See what you inhabit and own.  What you control.  What husk you are and will leave.  But for now, here you are.  In this moment.  On this stage.  See with the eyes of ten thousand men and women what space you occupy and in whose body you live.  See the mirror in your own mind and adore that shell of yours for the vessel it is to guide you through this pain and love and peace.

Stand in that pool and feel.  Feel that charge, that electricity, that inspiration, that perversion of a talent that you have at your disposal and stand in awe of what you will spend a lifetime seeking and chasing and yearning and loving and being in deep addiction to.  That resonance that feels so good and seems so hardly out of reach.  Be lifted to your toes by your own inspiration.  It bubbles to the surface.  You part your lips.  You open your mouth.  And you . . .

Stand alone on a stage.

What The Hell Is Wrong With People?

A bill was passed in Michigan today that started life as a piece of anti-bullying legislation despite the fact that it ended up being opposed by all of Michigan's State Democrats and the father of the boy who inspired the bill.  Why the opposition to the bill after wanting it to help the young people being bullied across Michigan?

Because of a last minute addition to the bill:

      "A last-minute addition to “Matt’s Safe School Law” protects “sincerely held” religious beliefs or moral convictions from being considered bullying. Critics feel the language will give anti-gay bullies a “license to bully” by providing an exception. ”This is just unconscionable,” said Matt’s father, Kevin Epling of East Lansing. “This is government-sanctioned bigotry.”"

In other words, if your religion tells you to hate people for being different, then it's a-okay to bully them.

This of course prompts me to ask:

WHAT THE F*** IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?????

Not that I don't like a choice bit of hatred . . . no, wait, scratch that - it's the opposite, right?  I really can't stand this level of government and church sponsored hatred.

There is something broken in our society these days, and it's not the other guys.  It's us.  You know why?

Because we as a society have no balls.

I really don't believe that the majority of folks are a**h***s - I truly think they are the minority - it's just that the majority seems to have absolutely no balls when it comes to standing up against them.

It's time for the rest of us - you know, the good ones - to stand up to these morons, these dunces, these sacks of human effluence, and tell them to shut up, sit down and let the smart ones drive for a while.

I'm Not An Artist Anymore

I have a confession to make: I'm not an artist anymore. 

I've always been an actor. I've always needed to perform.  For all intents and purposes, I've been doing it as long as I can remember. 

I remember the moment my mother looked at my father after I had finished performing yet another little "skits' and said to him, "we should get him into theatre".  I remember my first class, my first presentation, and my first show.  I remember the audience.  The applause.  It appeared as though this was what I was and had ever been. 

I was 9 years old. 

I continued down the path, gaining experience and praise until at 14, I was invited to join a local agency.  The first parts came, and then the first series: "The Adventures of the Black Stallion".  Three years we shot - in Canada, France, and New Zealand.  Some amazing times and memories were made.  I loved working.  I loved earning money.  The show ended after 78 episodes, and I chose to stay in Vancouver rather than head south to LA, to sun, and to bigger and better.  I picked home over away because I had spent so much time away, that I wanted to make a home.  I thought I would grow here.  Other series came and I worked a lot, but plateaus were reached.  A friend of mine has said that Vancouver is less a springboard and more a diving board.  And although many exceptions have proven the rule, in my case it seems that the rule proved the rule. 

I'm happy with and proud of what I've accomplished, but the artistic element in me has remained unfulfilled.  To be fair, I have brought it on myself.  I've long regarded what I do to be the business that it is.  I'm not in the scene anymore.  I checked out years ago.  I'm not a very "actor-y" actor and am a solitary one at that, and with a family my priorities have changed.  But I do feel that I may have done myself a disservice.  I don't feel connected to what I do anymore by doing it.  It is - in my opinion - supremely difficult to be artistically fulfilled as an actor in the film industry without having long term projects - at least the fulfillment that I want. 

My artistic connection to acting is maintained by the teaching of it.  I've been instructing people in the ways of screen-acting for some 19-ish years.  I've been accused of being a good teacher, but I would argue that I'm not such a good teacher as I am a good director.  I can read people, notice their foibles, tell when they're lying.  I love the psychology of acting and bringing students to new breakthroughs.  I love showing people how deep and difficult acting is when done right and how brilliant and rewarding it is when submerged in it. 

I'm approaching forty now.  Sure I'm aging gracefully, and while my children make me old before my time, my wife keeps me young with her own youth.  Age tends to sharpen one's focus though, and I've realized I don't want to be just a businessman actor, I want to be an artist again.  I need to stretch, to shake off the rust.  I need to go back to my roots - I need to go back to the theatre.  But I also need to go my way.  Honestly. 

I love acting.  Always will.  I also love directing.  This is why I've decided to start a small - some might say tiny - theatre company in the new year.  Original material.  Brilliant young actors.  A long journey.  I have no idea of the details (yet) - only that it needs to breathe.  Bigger and better.  Always bigger.  Always better.

Dear Mark Zuckerberg

Dear Mark Zuckerberg,

I think you're great.  For real - you were amazing in Zombieland!  But if I may be so bold as to suggest that your recent changes to Facebook, while brilliant for ADD afflicted chihuahuas, doesn't really jive too well with your more seasoned users - you know, those of us with a firm and troublesome grasp of linear time and in possession of one set of eyeballs.

Now, while I understand that Justin Timberlake convincingly argued the benefits of expansion in that wicked restaurant scene, I would also like to point out that that character was also later arrested for possessing drugs that may or may not lend themselves to wanting 150 different things to look at in one's newsfeed while meticulously cleaning one's home at three in the morning because one's waiting for a cake to bake because one suddenly became hungry in the wee hours after an all night pool party.  Just saying . . .

I'd also like to point out that while you displayed razor sharp intuition picking apart the Winklevoss twins' lawyer in that boardroom scene, that doesn't mean you have a profound grasp on what I'd like to see in my newsfeed within a newsfeed (hint: It's not what friends are "liking" on other friends' statii).  Algorithms are sexy and stuff, but they can't be used to read my mind.  Only my wife can do that - and even then it's mainly only concerning whether or not I had that last cookie, or whether or not that girl that just walked past was cute or not.

Don't get me wrong Mark, I like your Facebook thing.  It's free, it's a good networking tool, and it lets us all creep our exes' profiles to see if they wound up better or worse off after dumping us.  The thing is most people like our social networking the way we like our relationships - initially exciting, eventually dependable, and with no huge sweeping changes that leave us confused and scared and trying desperately to figure out why it keeps bringing up stuff from last week in the middle of a conversation about Farmville.

Thanks for your time,
Richard

P.S. I hope they make Adventureland 2

Stop Stupiding Up the Planet

 Here's the thing - everybody's good at something.

Some of us are good at studying.

Some of us are good at sports - like gymnastics . . .

Others of us are good at eating bananas . . .

. . . okay, maybe that's a little much.

But the point is, we all have different strengths and talents.
Some people - scientists like Mr. Darwin for example -

- are good at being smart.

While people like Mr. Limbaugh -

- are really good at being pig-headed, ass-faced drug addicts who cater to the lowest common denominator and pander to the extremists by playing their own fears against them.

See?  Everyone's good at something.

Every time I read the comment sections on news articles about Evolution online, I get the sense that the people who are really good at eating bananas are fancying themselves as being on the same level as Mr. Darwin.

Well, they're not.

These people get scared because science seems to be contradicting certain deep-seeded beliefs.  They say that humans and apes are not descended from the same ancestor.

Although I wouldn't mind sharing an ancestor with the fetching Janet here - I'm sure you'll agree.

As a species, we have a lot of beliefs about nature and the Earth - some of them substantiated by science, some of them refuted.

The thing is however, that I can assure you that believing in something or not, doesn't change or make true or false something that exists or doesn't exist of its own accord.

My humble request would be that we let the people who are good at being smart take care of the smart stuff and led the banana eaters take care of the bananas.

Haters Gonna Hate . . . Because They're Assholes

I have a lot of great fans.  Fans Tony the Tiger would be proud of.

They visit me on my fan page, they visit my website, they visit this blog, they write their government representatives to tell them how great I am, and some of the more female and attractive fans even send in bikini shots of themselves posing with cakes because they know how much I like cakes.

But then there are the anti-fans.  Not Auntie Fan - she's lovely.

No, I'm talking about the haters.   You know the ones - the total douche-bags that live on the internet and smack talk everything that comes their way.

They are also known as trolls - as in the things that live under bridges and eat childrens' bones, only in this case the bridge is their mother's basement and the childrens' bones are Hot Pockets and Tang.

I've come across a few of these guys and gals over my years as an F-List celebrity (that's right baby, F-List - I've had it confirmed by NASA.  They apparently have a lot of down time these days).  

They're generally on YouTube and love to slam me and call me a jerk, and weird looking, and small.  Now to be fair, all of these things are true, but they wouldn't know that because they've never met me.

Although I may have met them.  I wouldn't know.  You know why?  Because although literally billions of people hate on me on the interweb, figuratively zero people have ever said anything to my face.  You know why?

Simple.  Haters are pussies.

These people hate on everything and everyone.  From that 14 year old girl Rebecca Black, to that 17 year old girl Justine Bieber, trolls attack anything that reminds them that they're angry at the world because their mom doesn't serve the Tang cold enough to their gaming liar.

So I say screw 'em . . .  not literally of course! 

I'm pretty sure they all have some kind of immaculately spread venereal disease that makes everything itch and 8-bit characters sexually appealing.