An actor's observation

Back before Marlin Brando first hit the Broadway scene in A Streetcar Named Desire back in 1948, acting was pretty generic. You had notable exceptions like Bettie Davis and Jimmy Stewart, but for the most part it was the assembly line technique of muttering lines like "Come and get me, coppers! You'll never take me alive, see! Yeah, see!" (Insert crappy Edward G. Robinson impersonation here) But when Brando came along, that all changed. Acting suddenly became real, something from the gut, something that could hurt actors who weren't careful. It was all because of the Actor's Studio in New York. It altered the way we looked at drama. Film became visceral, all because of a small school of revolutionaries.

Those revolutionaries are dying off now. James Dean made three films then died in a car crash. Brando had his career, went nuts, got fat, then died. Shelley Winters won an Oscar, made The Poseidon Adventure, got really annoying, then died. Just a couple of days ago, an actor probably only a few people have heard of, Anthony Franciosa, died. Yeah, yeah Paul Newman's still around, but with the exception of Road to Perdition, his only big product these days is salad dressing.

As someone aspiring to become something more than what I am in terms of acting, I hope actors today understand the doors that were knocked open by these people. Their numbers are dwindling. Their legacies are eternal. They inspire the actors who today are willing to rip their hearts out and throw them against a wall. Those are my favorite actors: the ones who are willing to sacrifice for the sake of honesty on stage or in front of a camera. Really, it's the only place that people like us are ever 100% honest. The rest of the time, it's a crap shoot.

Thank you Stanley Kuwolski.

So it often occurs to me as I wander the streets of my neighborhood, hands shoved into my pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, and my eyes vacantly staring ahead, that I wish I was made of Peanut Brittle. Who doesn't like Peanut Brittle? (I mean, of course, besides those people with peanut allergies, and/or loose fillings. They don't like it.) Peanut Brittle is truly wonderful, and to have ones own body constructed entirely out of such an amazing substance would have to be great!

Just think about. You'd be recognized everywhere you went as, 'The guy who's body is constructed entirely out of Peanut Brittle' or 'Peanut Brittle Man' . You would probably get your own late night talk show or a sitcom deal out of the whole thing. I'd be willing to bet you'd get a hot, celebrity/model girlfriend; a different one every 10 days or so, and maybe even someday get a Presidential Nomination.

What a life? What a tasty treat? What a wonderful dream?

A beagle can't catch a break!

So the Joplin, Mis-e-ry job hunt is just as fruitless as ever. It reminds of that old children's classic "Snoopy Come Home" where poor ol' Snoopy and his feathery pal Woodstock are stuck out in the cold, cruel world all by themselves. Whenever Snoopy seeks shelter at a place of business, sure enough there's a sign saying "No Dogs Allowed". Aww, dammit not again! And then you hear that booming bass voice singing "no . . . dogs . . . allowed". That's pretty much how I feel with the job hunt right now: No Peck Allowed.

It's the only time I've ever cried during a cartoon.

Sesame Street has been brought to you by . . .

. . . not the letters Q or W. Read on:

http://www.cnn.com/2005/WORLD/europe/10/25/turk.letters.reut/index.html

Whoa! Easy there, Oppresive Spice. They're just letters. Usually people have a problem when those individual letters are combined to form "words". And sometimes these words can be combined to form "books". Then the next thing you know, Jerry Falwell is protesting Harry Potter.

I blame the phone company. They took q and z off the dialpads and now Turkey has to follow the example of SBC's evil regime.

What's next to be outlawed. The symbol for pi? How about all of the Latin alphabet? It's a dead language anyway? Who are the only people who use it? Doctors. And no one can afford to talk to them anyway.

Hey, I know! Let's outlaw Jerry Falwell.

Joplin, Missouri

Where the doors are shut tight, and the minds are shut even tighter . . .

My first blog. This is being written as I try to rise above the fog of yet another job rejection.

"Dear Mr. Peck,

Thank you for applying to ____. At this time (we have chosen another applicant/the position has been filled/please go fuck yourself) but we appreciate your (interest/enthusiasm/desperation) and will keep your resume and application (on file for one year/in mind/as toilet paper). If any other positions are open in the future we hope you will (take the time to re-apply/keep us in mind/not walk into our HR office with a sawed-off shotgun).

As always (thank you for considering us/we wish you luck in your pursuits/please go fuck yourself).

Sincerely,
Please go fuck yourself

OK, I might be exaggerating. Only one company said please go fuck yourself, and in their defense someone had just walked into their HR office with a sawed-off shotgun. But you've all had these infuriating form letters that basically say you're not important enough/you don't matter/hey, how'd you get our address.

Hard not to take it personally. I'm living in Joplin, MO now so I can be closer to my family. But this town does not have open arms towards outsiders despite what the brochures might say. And I'm feeling like a serious outsider right now. I used to live in Chicago. Life was pretty good there. I miss Chi-town. I miss LeRoy. (a couple of you know what I mean!) Maybe it's time to rethink some things.

To paraphrase Tennessee Williams: Joplin is a great city to be from.

Later