Selma - Controversies and Snubs

This morning while listening to a news quiz show on MSNBC, I heard the host refer to Selma as a "controversial film." As in: President Obama screened what controversial film for cast and crew this weekend? DING DING DING Selma! The guesser earned 100 points, and the host earned my complete frustration. UGH. Really? Out of billions of adjectives, that's the one some writer picked? Sigh. How about historic, dramatic, timely, award-nominated... Oh right.

So fine - let's talk about controversies and snubs. Because with the way Selma seems to be affecting audiences nationwide, I suppose its fair to admit there is a big white elephant in the room.

First: the LBJ "controversy." Friends, that's a non-starter. Read the Washington Post article, and then go watch the film. Selma shows President Johnson for who he was: A Master Politician. And Dr. King is shown to be a Master Activist. They both did the job in the way they knew how, with the resources they had. The End. That's no controversy.

Second: As awards season shifts into high gear, I know I personally have been disappointed by gaps in the nominations. I'm not the only one. But I refuse to call it a "snub." A snub by definition is done with intent. So let's call it instead a "miss." And here are my thoughts on the "Misses:"
1. Selma has received Academy nominations for Best Picture and Best Song - these nominations are great honors, amid strong competition this year. Ground-breaking films like Boyhood and Birdman are sharing this category with us. We are in stellar company.
2. Many great films and individuals in the past have been overlooked by the Oscars. Here too we are in stellar company.
3. Ava DuVernay and David Oyelowo, Carmen Ejogo, Bradford Young - they are all going to be just fine. They have faced much bigger hurdles than an empty trophy shelf to get where they are.
4. Selma speaks for itself. If you are unhappy with the nominations, cast your vote at the box office. Because at the end of the day, an Oscar is a huge honor - perhaps the highest in our industry - but money makes movies. Not accolades.
5. This is the most important thing I want you to know about Selma. When Ava created this film, I don't think she envisioned an audience whose demographic reflected the Academy. Selma wasn't made for a generation that REMEMBERS SELMA. It was made for all of those who weren't born yet. Like me, yes, but much more importantly, for the young men and women like our four girls who played the roles of the victims of the 16th St Baptist Church bombing. When I hear them speak about how this movie has changed them... When I see how my friend Heather has taken her middle school students in Dallas to see the film and talk about it... When my cousin in Kansas shares with me something her daughter found out about Viola Liuzzo that I didn't already know (and believe me that's not an easy trick)... Well, those are the awards for which Selma and Ava and David - and all of those who worked on the film - have been nominated and have won.

For more information on how students can see Selma for free, click here.

Selma - Discovering Viola Liuzzo

I was sitting in the hair trailer, quietly contemplating the past week of shooting on location in Selma, Alabama - an experience that will warrant an entirely separate blog post - when Colman Domingo tapped me on the shoulder. Colman plays Ralph David Abernathy in the film, and has been the heart of our cast. A person I will forever be grateful for having met. He was sitting in the chair next to me getting his hair sifted on (Hollywood magic!) and he spoke some powerful words to me that I will keep for myself except to say this: He said, "Viola is with you." I wept. I would like to share with you the story of how I discovered Viola. While preparing for the audition for Viola, I did my obligatory actor type research. I found pictures, I wiki'd, I googled. The role in the script was almost non-existent, just a few simple lines from a woman to her husband, telling him she was heading to Selma to participate in the marches. The director, Ava DuVernay, essentially rewrote the script, and in the process fought to make women a more vital part of the story - hence Viola's inclusion. The script didn't say much more about Viola, just how she was there, and then murdered, so I had to make quite a few of my own choices. I started digging. The deeper I got into Viola's story, the more overwhelmed I became. We only get a glimpse of her courageous existence in the film, but beneath that is an ocean of pain and bravery that I was stunned to find. I want to tell you the whole story, but it would take one hundred blog posts, a film, a field trip, and a tattoo. Because Viola's life isn't just her own. It is her children's, it is a movement's, a race's, a gender's, a conspiracy laden miasma of buried truths, disseminated misinformation and resentful failures on the part of people who should have known better. I will tell you more of her story, but I'll start here with this experience. The image I have of Viola in my mind is the photograph of her marching along the highway. She is focused, determined, weary. She carries her shoes in her hands. The shoes were the first thing that struck me. I hate wearing shoes. While shooting the scene with David Silverman of Viola and husband Jim at home watching the Bloody Sunday footage, and subsequently planning for her departure, I insisted on being barefoot. All I wanted for the entire month of shooting was to pay as much respect to her spirit as possible. It was my job alone to make sure that Mrs. Liuzzo's voice was heard in the few words and multiple moments I had on camera. I was absolutely overwhelmed with the monumental responsibility.

On a day off from shooting I went to visit Viola's marker on Hwy 80. True to the words I'd read, it is incredibly difficult to spot. I drove past it four times before I finally arrived at a lonely, fenced in granite marker at the top of a hill off the highway in Lowndes County, Alabama. It was 3 in the afternoon, 100 degrees and cloudless. I parked the car and stepped into the enclosure. Old plastic flower wreaths were shattered and scattered about, from weather and time, and grass overtaking the stone covered mound was a testament to how few know who Viola was. I stayed at this place for an hour. I spent most of the time pulling weeds and rearranging the old flowers, talking out loud to no one at all. Well, to Viola, I guess. I told her I was sorry. It should have been Meryl Streep. It should have been Cate Blanchett. I wasn't sure why they hadn't called yet to tell me I was fired, that Kate Winslet would be taking over. Because Viola deserved that - the greatest actress in the world. She has deserved so much that she hasn't received, as does her family. I asked her how she had the courage to do what she did - leave a family that she loved, travel hundreds of miles alone, in spite of what society told her women, wives and mothers 'should' be doing and fight so fearlessly for what she believed in. It seemed super-heroic. That day, at Viola's marker, I received a simple answer. What Viola Liuzzo and thousands of others did in 1965 wasn't an example of superhuman courage, unique and godlike motivation or power. They were all just people. Just people. Like me. And you. If we were all in those same shoes, (or out of them in Viola's case) we would and COULD do the same. I could represent Viola because she wasn't different, she was a mom and a wife and a nurse and a student and a white woman who wanted change. So maybe Colman was right. Maybe Viola was with me. I desperately hope that she got to be there on our last day of shooting and stand again in triumph at the steps of the capital in Montgomery, and listen again to words of hope spoken by a man with a gift for oratory. And I hope with all my heart that each of you will get a chance to discover Viola and be changed by her story as well. And if you find her marker on Highway 80, please take her some fresh flowers and some weed killer. I can't get back there again until March.

Selma - Being the White Girl

On the Edmund Pettus Bridge, June 2014
l to r: Omar Dorsey, Me, Andre Holland, E Roger Mitchell
photo-bombers: Tessa Thompson, Colman Domingo

I want to talk about racism. And I don't. So I'm going to. Seven months ago I got cast in the (now) award-winning film Selma. To say that after twenty years of an acting career that this was the pinnacle is the simplest way to put it. It was and still is a mountaintop experience. It has changed my life. But not in the ways you might think - I'm not getting calls from JJ Abrams asking me to play Alana Solo (sigh). That's OK. These changes are better. More important. So I'm going to try and share my experiences with you through this blog. Try and approach it piece by piece so that someday I can look back and remember all of this. But first, I need to talk about Being the White Girl. I need to talk about racism.

A dear friend has been making a joke, at which our audiences are joyfully laughing night after night. And each time I cringe just a little. Here is the joke: "I'd like to introduce my co-star tonight, who is starring in the film Selma, which I'm sure you've all heard about - it's getting tons of great reviews and award noms... If you want to recognize her in the movie, she's the White Girl." Everyone laughs. I smile shyly. Afterwards I proudly take pictures and answer questions about the film, including the occasional "You don't play a racist, do you?" Thank God, I don't. I didn't have to say the "N" word. I don't think I could have, but I'm glad nobody asked. Because in the film it does get said.
In the film Selma, a LOT gets said. Some of it is obvious. Some of it though... Some of it has been making me think. And I can't stop thinking. And part of me is REALLY uncomfortable with that. Because I'm the White Girl. And right now I see color EVERYWHERE. I can't stop seeing it. And I'm asking myself ALL THE TIME: Am I racist? Is what I'm thinking racist? Is this blog post... racist?? Part of me wants to stop seeing color, but I think that is part of our problem RIGHT NOW. I think I'm not the only white person who'd like to pretend racism is over - because 'I'M NOT RACIST'. If only I can shut my eyes hard enough, if only I can look every black person in the eye and not see black, then it's all done. Over. We can all "just get along." Gosh, that would be so much easier. Because in my heart I want more than anything for everyone... no matter what... not to suffer anymore. That's an easy thing to get on board with, right?

But that's not reality. It will never be my reality again - at least not for a long long time. Because its still out there. Racism. I can't stop seeing it. And feeling responsible. And I HATE that. But I'm also glad for it. My self-awareness is SO uncomfortable. I wonder if every African-American I look at notices that I am paying extra close attention right now. I'm so sorry for that - I don't want to make anyone feel different or exposed or isolated or JUDGED. But I do want to CHANGE. I want to change ME, I want to change our COUNTRY. Because we as a nation haven't gotten it right yet. So I want to talk about racism. And I want you to talk about it. With me, with everyone. Because right now I know there are things I can do differently, there are things I can do better, so that, God Willing, SOMEDAY, I can close my eyes and rest. Knowing that it truly is over.
Until then, I'll be uncomfortable. But at least I'll be awake.

Stages of LA

A friend of mine has taken the leap and is out in Los Angeles for pilot season. It's a story that makes just about every LA actor shift uncomfortably in their seats. Hell, it makes EVERYONE shift in their seats. It's making me shift around so much that I had to blog about it. She asked me if, much like stages of grief, there are stages of LA. Well, Chita, there are. Here ya go:

The Stages of LA:

Stage One: Delirious Hope
In Stage One of the LA experience, the sunshine causes a massive shift in the Hope gland. Symptoms, which are often self-perpetuating, include an urge to exercise or at least go outside more frequently, wide eyes, deep breaths, and random giant smiles. Call it the "fresh off the bus" syndrome. During Stage One you often run into random, 'meaningful' celebrities (mine was Breckin Meyer), food will taste better (surprise, its Southern California, where food is just fresher) and you will be bombarded with LA's favorite form of religion: New Age spirituality! Get ready for lots of SIGNS, and plenty of serendipitous meetings and parties. LA loves a Stage One-r and gets easily infected by their momentum. This is a good time to take meetings and buy a new pair of shoes.

Stage Two: Prideful Determination
Ah Stage Two - elusive and curious. In Nature, a Stage Two-er resembles a Lone Wolf. In Stage Two the freshness has begun to wear off, but the residual momentum has become more than just kinetic energy, it is now a habit. There is a sense of ownership of place - this is your territory now, a place you belong... but not quite. Because in Stage Two, you are still DIFFERENT. There are two major symptoms that define Stage Two. The first is a sense of peaceful superiority, rightfully earned. While others failed to take a risk, leave the pack, jump in the dangerous rapids, YOU, Oh Stage Two-er, were more daring. More brave. More crazy. And you did it. You are here, in LA, and you took the leap. This is it, the big time, and you didn't DIE when you jumped. Like a marathon runner moving one leg in front of the other, you are in it to win it, and that's more than most anyone can say for themselves. This will be enough to sustain a Stage Two-er through the most terrifying of ordeals: getting started. The second key symptom is directionless determination. While in Stage One, you taste the excitement of locating the Best Local Farmers Market, In Stage Two you are now dealing with the more undefined task of "Realizing the Dream." Stage Two-ers are easily recognizable at Headshot print shops and Samuel French stores. This is where they gather, and you will see their heads held high. Note the slight odor of denial.

Stage Three: Stupidity
Stage Three and Stage Two are like a pair of first-time two-steppers - they can never decide who's leading. It will be awhile before someone is fully in the throes of Stage Three. The shift comes when the internal clock, planted within by society, friends and loved-ones (albeit unintentionally) - when this timer starts to reach the RESULTS stage. Each clock is different, but they all eventually cause the reality check gland to start producing massive amounts of Comparison hormones. It should be noted that the Reality Check Gland is absolutely necessary for survival in most human beings, but is missing in a few select folks, namely Tom Cruise. It is also questionable as to whether or not Glenn Beck has one. Stage Three is triggered by the RCG generating an arbitrary desire to place a tangible value on experiences gained thus far - in effect, to QUALIFY the LA journey. You will question the judgment that lead you to leap from the safety of the pack into this wilderness of highways and palm trees. Had you chosen to watch the movie version of this wild, action-packed adventure, you would have left at about minute fifteen, out of sheer boredom. Is it Stupidity then, that led you to believe this leap was worth taking? In due course, a Stage Three-r has begun to recognize other LA people who have done the same thing they are doing - and unable to identify a DIFFERENCE, you can no longer maintain the Stage Two, Lone Wolf mentality. Stage Three-rs are often found screaming and crying in their cars, chugging lattes at the nearest Urth Cafe, and shaking their heads in the relative darkness of movie theaters while watching recently nominated box office failures.

Stage Four: Selective Nostalgia
Stage Three is tumultuous and painful, and does not often last long. In the LA journey, one either shifts back to Stage Two, or transitions into Stage Four. Stage Four generally begins when you finally start to develop an immunity to self-loathing. Assisted by several occurrences of senseless rejection, the exhaustion of perpetual denial brings itself to a stage of almost euphoric reminiscing. A fully progressed Stage Four-er generally seeks the comforts of the noble aspects of the craft. You will often begin the Artist's Way, sign up for a Level One performance class of some sort, or apply for Grad School. The Stage Four-er has difficulty recalling the impetus for taking the Leap, and simply remembers the past as a time when life was easier, simpler, and BETTER. The 'Thousand Yard Stare' is shared by Stage Four-ers and life sentence prisoners alike. Stage Four is the darkest stage of the LA journey, and can last several years. A Stage Four actor is sometimes unfairly labeled as the Bitter Actor, and is generally not the best person to seek advice on the business from. Ironically, most Stage Four-ers make excellent dramatic actors, if the role is well written and involves a storyline about 'home'.

Stage Five: Benevolent Resignation
Stage Five is one of the most difficult stages to attain while still living in LA. Most actors will need to leave LA before they can actually shift into this final stage. In Stage Five, the awareness of the Bigger Picture has come into full realization. The Inner Clock is silenced, the Reality Check Gland is satisfied by evidence of the ability to exist and receive occasional lattes and new shoes as necessary. Recognition of others on the same journey no longer generates a need for separation, but instead is the impetus to establish a new pack, a new family. Stage Fivers have the charming habit of defending the honor of LA to those who have not taken the journey. Stage Five is not all peace and gummi worms, however. A Stage Five-r is actually a vicious fighter, a dangerous enemy, and a pain in the ass to live with sometimes, because Stage Five-rs have lived through the toughest war, the war with themselves, and are occasionally susceptible to Post Traumatic LA Syndrome. This is necessary to keep the Drama Gland, the same gland which caused them to take the leap in the first place, free of blockage. However, once in Stage Five, generally an actor is equipped to balance hope with experience, reality with television, and journey with destination.

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT
Any of these stages is subject to be HALTED if the actor books a job or makes out with a celebrity. The concurrent stage will resume accordingly depending on how long it takes to spend the money earned, or whenever the celebrity doesn't call back.

Go East, Young Woman.

I am leaving for Berlin in two days. Yeah, Berlin GERMANY. My great grandmother came over on a boat in 1913, leaving her German roots (which were more specifically planted somewhere in Russia off the Wolga River) and headed West, young man. And now I've started a fantastic journey which involves quite a bit of heading East. Towards the rising sun. Poetry Alert - this concept is pinging on quite a few levels for me. The idea of Going West is a deeply ingrained American, perhaps even masculine, and definitely youthful spirit. Our young country went West 160+ years ago, searching for land, hope, gold... any number of symbols of American freedom. The West has, for a long time represented so much about the American spirit of space, independence, the future.
The New World is the West.
And for maybe more than a few years I have been drifting back East. Back to Atlanta - sure, that's an obvious one. Over to the Old World of Germany, where East and West have only recently been on speaking terms. But there are other metaphors that I can't help but apply as well. Eastern spirituality has been calling to me lately - yogic retreats, Hindu prayer groups, poly-theistic notions of God within everyone and everything. What does it mean to feel this need to unstitch myself from the fabric of generations of ambition and progress? Am I just getting old, too tired to push further West? Is there any meaning at all in this faintest of patterns? What's left to discover and explore?
When we got to the Grand Canyon last May, I had this little game I would play with myself. I would pretend that I was a pioneer, traveling for years across the uncharted trails of the Midwest, dragging my restless family in tow, not knowing or being able to explain why I needed to keep moving or where the hell I figured we'd end up. And I would imagine that insane moment of vertigo when after the hundredth boring hill you looked up and saw the canyon gaping out in front of you. 'Oh crap.' And 'Oh wow.' In the same breath.
There IS something new about being pulled East. Something more feminine, more creative, in a way the opposite of the pioneering spirit, in the way that one side of the coin is the opposite of the other. If going West is the Young Man's dream, maybe going East is the Young Woman's path. Or maybe I just like to travel.

And one last note: the link I placed up there is a link to the fundraiser campaign we are hosting to generate some financial support for this international collaboration* which has already brought me so much expansion, and may in the future (as it builds momentum) support other wandering artists like me. If you wish to contribute in any way at all, I would be very grateful, even simply for your thoughts and well-wishes. Thanks in advance. -T

*International Collaboration: I am traveling with a small group of artists to Berlin to perform a Fassbinder play titled Bremen Coffee. I play the lead. I will also be doing comedy improv shows every night after the play. It is a dream come true.

How Do You Measure Excess?

Ah... even the title of my blog post is indulgent. It sounded like such a clever title that I had to use it, whether it really applies to what I want to say or not. "What the heck am I doing?" is probably a better title. The novelty of my move has worn off and the old habits are rearing their ugly heads. I haven't started yearning for LA. I don't know that I ever will. I truly don't think I 'pulled a geographic.' But I'm going to be straight with you here. I think I may have lost my navel-gazing mind. I don't think I can even admit to you what a strange place I am in... I don't want to sound, well, crazy.

I gave up my career, which I had previously given up everything else for... but I never really had a plan. I didn't really ever know what I wanted, specifically, so I couldn't ever really say if I got it. The title of my Blog is Lucky Star, because the phrase that I have found best describes this phenomenon (or essence) is "I was born under a lucky star and I'm just trying to stay under it." I get this image of me, staring straight up into the night sky, like a seal with a ball balanced on her nose, just trying to keep that star balanced above my life.

And now here I am, Square One. Again, I have no goals, no plans, just whims and urges. Most days I pretend that it's fine with me that I live this way - many of my urges lean towards having fun, eating, sleeping and having adventures. But then there are the days when I realize that I may not be able to keep living this way forever, or worse, that I may not WANT to. Its kind of like there is some sort of protective chemical inside my body that puts me to sleep soon after I start thinking this way. If I could just stay awake long enough to make some real choices... And now I'm getting sleepy, very sleepy...

Home

I've been living in Atlanta now for four and a half months. I'm sitting tonight in my little attic apartment with the door open to let in the cool Fall air. Tomorrow morning I will go four blocks down the street and spend the day working as an office PA for a film production company, helping to coordinate commercials, corporate videos and even indy films. And then in the evening I will go rehearse for a hilarious Christmas improv show at the theater that I have been playing in since I was barely drinking age. I will sneak out afterward to have dinner with two amazing German directors who came in to town five weeks ago to help us put up a Fassbinder play in Decatur. They will be leaving on Wednesday to go back to Berlin, and I will be close on their heels. Well, maybe I'll wait til Spring, but it will be difficult to be patient until then - the work we did together was some of the best work I think I've ever done.
I'm on the stage again. I'm trying to pay my bills doing things that I am proud of - voice overs, production work, plays... It's not glorious. But it's what I can give and keep giving, because it doesn't drain my heart. I love being busy, I love being challenged, and I love being close to my family.
I will never say it was a mistake to have moved to LA. I don't hate LA. But four months later, I still cannot tell you why I left. I do know that I have not spent one moment wishing I hadn't moved. And I can give you plenty of reasons why I'm glad I'm here now.
Seasons.
Everyone coming to my house for Thanksgiving.
Neighborhoods.
Trees.
Theaters.
Friends.
Smaller Ponds.

Leaving LA, Part 2

Let's see. May 29th, the last entry in my blog, was a Friday. I was sitting in an Extended Stay hotel - now I know what that is, and its terrifying. Tiffany and I needed one last place to stay in town so that we could get her to LAX in the morning. We had spent three weeks insisting on the Four Hour Rule: Do not plan anything further than four hours ahead. The exceptions were few, but included such things as booking the flight, which Z had done a week earlier, when we had been on the road two weeks and it felt like things were coming to a close. When we started the trip, we honestly didn't know where we were going to end up, or how long it would take us to get there. But after two weeks I had started to tap into a long buried well of... for some reason the word 'spirit' feels right here...Anyway, I had begun to feel like a seed probably does when it's been tucked deep into the richest earth, warmed sufficiently and soaked just enough that the shell that has kept it safe has now become a flimsy, uncomfortable restraint.

In church retreat terms, it was time to come down from the mountaintop. So we booked a flight out of LA for Tiff, because all my stuff was still there, and while the Southwest has amazing places every 150 miles, Texas is a Whole 'Nutha Story. We could have called some friends and stayed at their house, reveling in one last night of vacation. For some reason though, Los Angeles didn't feel like part of the deal. So we chose a crappy cheap airport hotel, spent way too much on a neo-cuisine sushi dinner, and went to bed early.

When I came back to the hotel after having dropped Tiff off, I felt... well, that's the thing. I can't really say what I felt, even now, months later. Ask a prisoner what they feel the day before they are to be released. I bet the answer is not relief, or anxiety, or excitement. I bet instead, their eyes will glaze over a bit and they will get quiet, and you won't get any answer at all. Wow - I guess I'm being a bit dramatic here, but it's true - when I got back to LA, when my big roadtrip was over, I didn't really feel anything at all. I just kept going. In my mind I was ready to find an apartment and get going again on my acting life. That was Friday.

Sunday afternoon I called my Dad. He flew into town Wednesday night and by Thursday afternoon I was back on the 10, heading East. By Sunday I was sitting in Tiff and Z's apartment in Atlanta, and I'm not quite sure how I made it that far. I wasn't relieved, I was devastated. My life was irrevocably changed, going back to LA was an insurmountable obstacle - I had jumped into the void.

Without question though, I had to do it. I just knew. It was time to go.

This summer has been intense. Someday I'll be able to look back and describe the highs and lows, the moments when it was almost a disaster, or the glowing signs of change and forward movement. Or maybe this will all be a blur, like a car accident. Right now I feel like I'm simply along for the ride. Like my life was heading this way inevitably, and I'll be lucky if I get to pick where we stop for dinner.

So if I'm not steering, who is? And where the hell are we going? If success is only an accident, and if we aren't in control at all - What would you do with your days?

Flying over Phoenix

Ha ha! Take THAT! Warner Music Group! That will teach you to try and protect copyrighted material! For my next trick: a final episode of Southwest Escape 2009, using music that other people created, in order to (GASP! SHOCK SOUND!) introduce great bands to my friends and family, who might spend their hard earned coin on an album of their own. What a nasty music pirate am I! YAR!

Thank goodness for broad sweeping corporate censorship. And... bitter rant finished. It really didn't take much to get my selfish way, of course, and now you can enjoy the sounds of Widespread Panic and Kings of Convenience while viewing the final adventures of Tiff and Tara one-point-oh.

A friend mentioned that it seemed there was a lot we were leaving out. Which of course is true - this trip was very much about some soul-searching for both Tiff and I, and I quickly realized soul-searching makes terrible web-vision. It does, however, make for good bloggering, so I will take some time over the next month to try and reflect on what 3400 miles can give a person, besides a lot of gas receipts. In the meantime, thanks for watching and leaving comments, sending prayers and thoughts our way. It all, without a doubt, made a difference.

If I Tell You...

... then I'll have to kill you. But someone leaked some top-secret footage of Tiffany and I visiting a very unusual gas station in the middle of Southern Arizona, just off the I-10 Southeast of Tucson. I really can't say anymore. I may have already said too much. If you are reading this...

Bats and Rocks

So Tiff and I decided to flush out a real tourist destination for our Memorial Day Weekend excursion. We chose Carlsbad Caverns, in the Southeast corner of New Mexico, dangerously close to Texas. Here is a video of our thrilling adventure. Needless to say, two weeks of camping and driving is starting to take its toll. We have also been followed by a storm cloud for quite a few days now, and it has made tent sleeping especially challenging. Also, we are reaching the end of our travels, as we head back to LA to face reality. Not quite sure what that is yet, but it will definitely involve some changes, for both of us. You can't help but have a little perspective adjustment when you see this many places, people, sleeping places...

We are getting a little melancholy. Time seems to slip by faster now like the last bits of sand in the hourglass. I hope you've enjoyed these videos as much as we've enjoyed making them - there will be a few more, but the bulk of the party has gone home, and its soon going to be time to start cleaning up. The Scion will be 3000+miles older, and we will both be a little browner. Keep watching though. The craziest things always happen long after the party should have been over...

Shibapu

(Not Sipupa, which is what I've been saying for the last week...) Shibapu is the mystical entrance that connects the spirit world of the Anasazi (Ancient Pueblo) Indians to the realm above, which is the earthly realm. Isn't that interesting? The Ancient Pueblos believed the spirit world was DOWN BELOW, as opposed to up in the sky or in outer space somewhere, like modern religions believe. Which means that places like the Grand Canyon are held especially sacred, and of course you'd better take care of the Earth, since it's your dead ancestors' roof...

So New Mexico is known for having a lot of spiritual locales as well. Strange, that seems to be a re-occurring theme in our travels: Grand Canyon is the Shibupa of many Indian tribes of today, Sedona with its Vortices, Mesa Verde - duh, and now we have found a few spiritual stops in NM, namely Taos and Truth or Consequences. You'll have to do a bit of your own research to see why, but here's our video to give you a taste!

I don't want to spoil the surprise, but we didn't end up hanging out in El Paso, TX after all. The border crossing and dirty street vendors, reminiscent of a banged up Canal St, had our recently attuned instincts protesting insistently. We drove right through and ended up in a fantastic little neighborhood just 40 miles further down I-10 called Mesilla. The best Mexican food I've had in awhile at La Posta, and a little peace and quiet in a hotel to avoid yet another storm and the screaming-children-at-6am effect that camping in Southern NM tends to include.

I am exhausted! But our trip continues to unfold in a way that suggests the spirit world is as close as the nearest canyon or swimming hole, and our kachinas are making sure that we get to the next moment safely, and with nothing more than a door ding or a broken nail to contend with. We are indeed Blessed.

Mesa Verde Thirsty

Now twelve days into the trip and finding the Southwest to be more and more stunning and surprising. It really has everything, from high to low, deserts, mountains, wet and dry... Tuesday night we slept safely in our tent as a summer storm swept over us, threatening to blow us into the San Juan River. The tent not only stayed in place, but kept us dry! It was so much fun that we decided to get a hotel room the next night...
Here is the next video. It's a review of our visit to Mesa Verde, as suggested by my friend Big Jay, the best Sous in all of Asia de Cuba. There is also a few shots from our exciting trip down the Animus Rapids, weighing in at Class 1-3, three being the scariest. The entire boat was filled with guides in training, so we got to really ride the meat of the river, which was also at its highest and fastest, running 4100cfps for 5 miles. It took us about 2 hours. Enjoy!

All my Exes Live in Vortexes

Your impatience is stifling. Here is the next video!

So Saturday morning we drove south from our little campsite to Sedona, AZ where the hippies roam free. We spent the morning in a local coffee shop listening to spoken word artists and a gal who was singing solo for the first time. Here's her MySpace page. Adorable. At one point in her as yet unrehearsed spiel, she mentioned her distaste for her former home: Los Angeles. Sensing a theme here? We took the afternoon to mountain bike around the stunning rock formations of Red Rock, and then got back to the campsite early so we could cook turkey burgers over our first campfire. By the way, I make a great fire, and Tiff makes a heck of a turkey burger and chopped potato feast.

Sunday morning we broke camp early and spent the day making our way to Cortez, CO. Along the way we took the scenic route through the Painted Desert and stopped in the Petrified Forest. In brief: it was a bunch of pretty rocks. The desert is stunning, but my favorite part was the gift shop, where rock and fossil collectors could spend a lifetime drooling.

I have had moments of panic, and a few tentative emails to the various income providing organizations with humble requests to excuse my extended absence. I have moments when I can't believe what I'm doing, and then moments when I can't believe what I'm doing. I have also had a few really strong moments of clarity, and that's what this is all really about. Can I go back to waiting tables? Is it time to find a new place? The more miles I put on the Scion, the closer I get to an answer...

Slide ROCK!

Wow - what have I gotten myself into? Its 9 days into the road trip and I'm already overloaded with footage and stories! Literally overloaded - my hard drive is filling up and I'm learning a fantastic lesson in letting go of holding on. Clothes that get stained, bugs on the bumper of my new car, sunburn and bloody nose - its just part of the life I have chosen. Can't argue with inevitability! So here is the next segment of our journey. Thanks for hanging in there through our ups and downs. I miss you all, and rest assured, decisions are being made. Heading out this morning to play in Meas Verde. OMG - I'm in Colorado. Amazing.

Arizona Loves You

Well, we have driven almost a thousand miles now, and the next stops we are featuring in our latest video are the Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon National Park, South Rim. The Scion is holding up amazingly well, but already the Sprint service is useless in the less-populated areas. So the videos will be uploaded as I can find hotspots. Of course the IPhone’s 3G network allowed Tiff to upload the sunrise from the lip of the canyon and send it swiftly to her boyfriend in Atlanta. Guess who will be jumping ship as soon as the new version of the IPhone comes out. Cross your digital fingers for tethering technology!! Free us all, Steve Jobs!

Just outside of the Grand Canyon we stopped in Cameron, which is one of the last and oldest Trading Posts in the country, smack dab in the middle of the Navajo Indian Reservation. We enjoyed ridiculously heavy and tasty Navajo Tacos, which consist of fried bread (Yes, really) topped with beans and beef and cheeses and two shreds of lettuce. I was having trouble enjoying the tacos, however, because I had noticed that my gas gage wasn’t budging – it had been sitting at 7/8 of a tank for a while, and my trip meter read over 100 miles. I was about to sick up my lunch by the time we got to a gas station to fill the tank, just to make sure the gage hadn’t busted on my brand new car. Sure enough, it was right. I have been getting almost 40 miles to the gallon – in the mountains, as well as the desert with AC blowing full blast. Eat that, Prius.

May 9-11 Las Vegas

So the next leg of my trip has been posted - but here's the deal: I am on Sprint's broadband card, and that means limited data! So I can only upload these damn Video Logs once each, and Blogspot didn't make the cut! If you want to see what happened in Vegas, check it out here and be sure to leave suggestions for songs to listen to on the road, places to go, etc! And special thanks to Z, Mike and Chris for the fun times and Encore hook-up.

Leaving LA

Ha - Got you with that title, didn't I? So I am hitting the road - here's the real story. Check back regularly for updates. Be sure to comment and subscribe!

Staycation

'Tis the year of my Jesus birthday. I have, like many people, a yin and yang approach to birthdays. On the one hand, I dread them. Planning parties and waiting for the guests to arrive is the worst kind of anxiety. And there is always the let-down of expectations vs. reality. On the other hand, I love the attention, the turning over of a new leaf, the opportunity to indulge in self-care and self-appreciation. So a birthday is a yearly balancing act. This year, I tried something new. I invited my best friend Tiffany to come stay with me for the week leading up to my birthday. I refused to plan anything in advance, other than that I would not have to work or audition for the entire week - that we would be free to do whatever.

Ideas bubbled over: should we drive up the coast or down? Rough it or stay at a gorgeous earthy resort? For sure, we would be hitting a spa, and many tasty eating spots. But as the week began, and evolved, we realized that staying home was exactly what fit us best. Each day was spent getting up at a reasonable hour, making breakfast, and choosing a simple event or two to fill the day - whether it was a trip to the local camelia gardens (see insert) or a day at the spa. Each day guaranteed at least two culinary experiences, and one shopping excursion.

It was the best birthday to date. I laughed and cried and caught up on some great films (Norma Rae?? Fell asleep before the end - we decided Sally got her Oscar for acting the MOST CONSECUTIVE DAYS of anyone that year). And at the end of it all, no excessive gas or hotel bills! Of course I made up for it with cute clothes and a serious massage/facial, but - as Tiff said, at least I had something to show for it.

The other day I read an article in UTNE talking about the new fad of stay-cations, and I realized I wasn't original. But I am on to something, even if some one already coined the phrase. Staying home is a good way to get away.

The Faint-Hearted

I was feeling a little under the weather when I crawled downstairs to watch Barack's Inauguration speech. So perhaps that influenced my perception. But I have to be honest. I felt a little like I was back at college, and that I was sitting in a classroom on the first day when the professor is explaining the curriculum and handing out the syllabus. And you are looking around at everyone and thinking "Oh crap. I wonder if I can still drop this course..." I couldn't help feeling like this next semester is going to be one helluva lot of homework. Maybe more than I can handle. I mean, when I signed up for this course last November, I thought it sounded like a lot of fun - historically important change, the ousting of the fat cats, a grass-roots, all-hands-on-deck-so-we-can-turn-this-ship-around movement. The kind of experience that makes us all puff out our chests just a little and strut around the pen.

Oh, except that for some reason, the real work is ahead of us. I don't think I'm being paranoid, thinking that Good Old Barry was looking right at ME when he referred to "those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame." BUSTED. I mean flat-out, ladies and gentleman of the jury please observe Exhibit A, poster child, CALLED OUT. That's me he's talking about. A video game playing, sleep 'til noon, waiting tables after thirty, bona fide Los Angeles ACTOR. GULP.

Maybe I should have read the course description before I signed up for BootStraps 101. I would have seen that the pre-requisites included at least one course in Tightening your Belt, and space in your schedule for voluntary service to mankind. So much for that Battlestar Gallactica marathon I was planning...