An Open Letter to My Career

What happened between us?

I'm sorry. That's really no way to begin a letter. It's rude, and that is not what I am aiming for. My apologies.

Let's try this again, shall we?

Hi!
Long time no see!
How are you?
Really, tell me how you are. I genuinely want to know. Tell me stories, of your adventures during my absence!

I've been okay. Actually, if we're being honest (and believe me, the time has come for that) I've been pretty darn good of late. I earn money! I cook! My hair's growing out! Maybe it was the alarmingly long ponytail following me around that prompted me to follow up on you, my friend. That, and the fact that I ponder how close we used to be with an ever-increasing frequency. I remember when we were an inseparable, unstoppable duo; two badass hardass motherfuckers not to be trifled with. I know you remember too, those good old days. Glory days, if you will. I felt completely comfortable with you by my side, with your companionship and the fire in my belly that came with your presence.

Now...now I just feel awkward as hell when I'm around you man! Now I listen to a little too much Bruce Springsteen when I'm reminded of what we used to do and where we used to go. It's as disheartening as you can imagine, don't doubt that for a second. I shouldn't feel like that around you! Oh boy oh boy, is it ever sucky. Where once we'd talk endlessly about everything now I stare at my feet and fail to think of anything to say. I rack my brains for a conversation topic, an observation, a question, and I come up with donuts, a mighty zero. It pains me to be mute around you. Then again, it's not as if you bother to contribute to conversation, so you know. Cram it. Do you enjoy watching me flounder and stutter through small talk with you? Cram it twice.

I take that back. I'm sorry. I'm just nervous is all.

The fact of the matter is this: I let you down. My bad. That sounds flippant, but it's true. It's truly my bad. So, there you go. My bad.

I stopped calling you, I flaked out at every imaginable moment, I was forever defensive or hungover or impatient or broke and then I just became balls-out rude. For all of these things I could make up excuses, I could give long-winded reasons of why I morphed into a shitty pal and lacklustre partner-in-crime but I think the time for excuses came and went a long time ago. We stopped talking, and that's that. I actually stopped talking to everyone, but that's a crappy excuse at best. I wish my reason was something like,
"I'M SO SORRY I DIDN'T CALL. I WAS ABDUCTED BY SOMALI PIRATES"
"I FELL DOWN A WELL. IT WAS DARK."
"BOTH OF MY HANDS WERE CUT OFF AND IT'S REALLY HARD TO USE A PHONE AND COMPUTER"
"DUDE! I WOULD HAVE CALLED BUT I WAS DEAD! SERIOUSLY, I'M A ZOMBIE NOW!"

But alas, this is not the case. "I didn't speak to anyone for a while" is the best I can do. At least you know it wasn't personal, right?

So now you know I'm sorry.

Let's get a coffee. Or, I could make you a coffee. I make lots of coffees at work nowadays. It's one of my many duties. I make many, many coffees. Seriously though, let's breakfast or lunch or brunch or dunch. It takes me less time to get to places nowadays, and I'm much better at getting out of bed. Hey! I know! We could go shopping! We could get makeovers! Dude, let's buy new outfits! My theme will cease to be Geeky Slacker and you can quit with the whole Stand-offish Ice Queen vibe.

I'm sorry, that was uncalled for.

Seriously though... I know how much fun you are when you want to be, but you MUST realise how hard it can be to get through to you. Or to muster the courage to speak to you. You've gotta be more approachable! I say that in the nicest way possible, of course. I know I have a myriad of faults, but the least you could do is smile once in a while. Try not to let your default look be "ANGRYFACE". And don't say that it's because of me that you've got the angryface. I just apologised, okay? And you're far from perfect. In fact, sometimes you're downright pedantic and boring. In fact, I barely thought about you the entire time I was overseas. Take that. I loved being on the other side of the world from everyone, and that includes you buddy boy. In FACT, I'll level with you. I thought I could completely leave you behind, forget altogether that we'd ever been so intensely linked. I thought - and I kind of still do think - that I could run away into the happy wilderness and never ever see you again.

SORRY. Sorry sorry sorry. Back on track.

I had some damn high hopes for our relationship, duder. I still do. I think we can rebuild this. I know I was AWOL for rather a long time, but believe me when I say that I learned a whole lot after a whole lot of soul-searching and journeying. It was fucking epic, is what it was. It was like a Game of Thrones episode had a baby with a non-shit Eat Pray Love but with less Julia Roberts and more booze and expletives and without Javier Bardem. Actually, get rid of Eat Pray Love, that's gross. It was like an episode of Game of Thrones, but with less in the way of knights and more in the way of Spanish-speaking folk.

Seriously though, I realised that I do want you in my life. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. I'm sorry it took me so long to happen upon that nugget of knowledge, dude. Even though part of me says I shouldn't bother, I do know now that I want you around. I want to take on the world again, with you. I want to be an unstoppable duo, two badass motherfuckers not to be trifled with! I may tire of your endless nagging and your ambition, and you may grow weary of my apathy and short attention span, but I think we can make this work. Shit YEAH, we can make it work.

So. What do you say? Eh? Eh? Friends? Tentative pals? Come on, gimme a break here. Throw me a high-flying bone! We can do it! I know we can! We'll step back into the world and take it by the horns and pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and take it one game at a time and give it a hundred and ten percent while taking each week as it comes!

See you soon I hope.
Call me! Or I'll call you. Tell you what, I'll give you tomorrow to think about it, then I'm calling. I'm going to call the shit out of you.

Yours,

Reb

One or Two Things About #Winning.

I know I keep apologising for the lack of blogging.

I'm sure though, that it hurts me far more than it hurts you. To my handful of followers, and assorted friends that actually read this, I apologise from the bottom of my nauseous and feverish heart.

I'm sick. A full-blown, run to the toilet for fear of chundering in my bed, fever'd up, tissues littered around the bin sickness. It ain't pretty, I'll tell you that much for free. It also means that after being on a film shoot all weekend and not earning money, I've spent the last two days dragging myself to various places of employment and bailing after a couple of hours, thus still not earning any South America party-money. Luckily it's also the kind of sickness that makes it all too clear that I'm certainly not faking, so that's one thing I don't have to worry about.

Back to bed I went, to have bizarre sickness dreams. These include but are not exclusive to: wading around in pools of dead fish and monsters, and finding a boy I used to see in a jail in Denmark, doomed to spend the rest of his days living in a dirt pit. We had sex, then it was Christmas, then I woke up. I woke up confused, and had a coughing fit.

What the fuck was that.

Anyway.

Being sick means I now have time to write.

It also means that if I were to choose a word to describe the state I'm in at the moment, it would not be "winning". And certainly not #winning. Certainly not.

In a conversation earlier tonight with Dave, we discussed (amongst other things), the way in which various celebrities are treated during and after a spiralling trainwreck episode, whatever that might entail. In addition to this, it's interesting to note the difference between the reactions afforded to male, as opposed to female, celebrities.

For instance, let us ponder for a moment, Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears and to a lesser extent, Winona Ryder. During and after their spiraling downfalls, it seemed inconceivable that their careers would ever recover, given the vitriol and hatred sent in their directions, and the glee that everyone seemed to take in watching the trainwreck unfold.

Fastforward a little while, with the media and blogosphere having moved on somewhat, and their respective careers have recovered to varying degrees of success. I mean, if you call Lohan getting her tits out in Machete a "come back", that is.

Probably not #winning.

Charlie Sheen though, is an entirely different kettle of 7 gram rock slamin' fish.

After being fired from his hit TV show, and having endless nights of publicly described debauchery involving hookers and trashed hotel rooms, it seems as if his career is far from being shot and dead on the floor. Rather, he's become something of an internet hero. It almost seems as if now when one describes something or someone as "winning", then one must add a hashtag at the beginning of the word, and tip one's hat in Mr Sheen's direction.

Gaunt, chain-smoking and erratic, Sheen's interviews of late are a sight to behold. Soundbite after soundbite, interview after interview. It's fascinating, is what it is. Seemingly taking any interview that he gets requested for, Sheen appears to be on a mission to prove how much he just does not give a shit. That, in my opinion, is part of the reason why suddenly it's so hard to hate this person who really shouldn't be endearing in the slightest. He beat up on his wife, right? He's kind of fucking psychotic, right? But man, there's just something about Carlos Estevez that has made me spend the last half-hour or so looking up his recent interviews on Youtube.

I can almost imagine his publicist having a sudden brainwave.
"What the fuck do we do? Charlie was fired! He's fucked! I'm fucked!
Then, after an interview or two, and a few cocktails or lines of coke with his cash cow while watching the fall out of said videos ...
"EUREKA! Just let him say whatever the fuck he wants!"

I do think that there's something about Sheen's complete lack of remorse that is not only kind of transfixing, but also rather ingratiating; albeit, not deliberately so. I can't imagine he gives much of a shit about what Australian twenty-somethings think about his antics.

Probably #winning.

At any rate, I found that while I was watching "that" interview at the end of February, I was thoroughly entertained by this dude with a terrible TV show that just did not seem to give a shit about what the interviewer thought. Typically, a fallen celebrity will do a tell-all interview in the hopes of reaching as many screens as possible with their remorse and shame and "I was in a bad place and I'm so happy to be out of it and I'll never do it again please re-hire me" message. Sheen though, declared that he was in fact, proud of his recent drug binges (despite being clean at the time of the interview), and then seemed shocked that the interviewer was shocked that he could be at all proud.

The now-infamous interview spawned that first barrage of sound-bites, that Sheen proclaimed he was "bi-winning", not bi-polar, that he was "bangin' seven gram rocks, and finishing them!", that "dying's for fools!", that so much of his behaviour could be attributed to the fact that he has one speed, that of "GO!". He claimed that he made Sinatra, Flynn, Richards look like "droopy-eyed, armless children". Perhaps it's a respect (is that the right word?) often afforded to someone who sticks it to the man, who flicks a cigarette in the direction of the haters, but the steadfast, complete lack of shit-giving and the complete lack of self-censorship made me suddenly like this train-wreck of a man. It's as if his game plan at that point was simply, "Fuck it. Tell 'em everything."

Since then, the game plan seems to have altered ever so slightly. "WINNING" has now become Sheen's catchphrase, his battle cry, a brand if you will. Countless interviews later, and Sheen seems hell-bent on constantly mentioning how much he is, in fact, winning. Having been asked about what he planned on doing with regard to his child custody hearing, he texted People back with, "Born ready. Winning." Not that I mind that he's beating "WINNING" into the ground. If we focus on WINNING, then we overlook his comments about warlocks, tiger blood, not being of "this particular terrestrial plane" and countless other gems.

Charlie Sheen's incessant interview giving, and his complete lack of self-censorship during his at times almost stream-of-consciousness ranting has spawned all manner of Adonis-blood infused warlock children. These include not only countless youtube remixes (including this dubstep one I particularly enjoy), but also a game on Newgrounds, t-shirts and a Jimmy Fallon spoof that is actually completely on the money and hilarious. 

In particular, I'd like to direct your attention to this, a video starring Sheen on Funny or Die. On one hand, it's a shame to see the former superb young actor of Wall Street and Platoon (God, he was good in that...) fame reduced to this sort of stupidity. On the other hand, it's kind of fucking funny. It's Charlie Sheen's Winning Recipes in which the actor details the ways in which to cook while also winning. I laughed. I also felt my liking of Sheen rise a little more. Isn't that crazy? Perhaps then, we can equate "winning" to being synonymous with "not giving a shit" and "having a sense of humour and taking the piss out of oneself". Sure, much of the endless "winning" ranting on any talk show that'll have him is probably an attempt to stay in the headlines long enough to get a new television deal, but watching this video I find myself being sympathetic and laughing with (not at) someone who probably doesn't really deserve my sympathy. 

Charlie Sheen's Winning Recipes from Charlie Sheen

I think there's a few lessons we can garner from this Sheen business. 

I think most importantly, if you're going to go on a drugs n' hookers binge and get fired from your hit Emmy-award winning yet utterly terrible TV show, don't lie about it. Instead, embrace it! Revel in it! Then everyone will like you. Drug busts and debauchery don't have to be your downfall! It could be the resurgence your career's been waiting for. Isn't that right, Kate Moss? 

Try to Win, just like Charlie. Adopt an "I don't give a shit" attitude, insult a few people, get one or more (preferably more) porn-star live-in girlfriends and dub them your "Goddesses"! Hell, get yourself a catch phrase! Soon you''ll not only be the toast of the internet, but you'll have a regular spot on the nightly news. Any publicity is good publicity, right? Maybe you'll get a TV deal out of it! And an entirely new generation and demographic of fans wearing your face on a t-shirt! 

I wonder what Martin Sheen is thinking, when he turns on the news or ET and sees his hilarious train wreck of a son? I wonder if Emilio parties with him? I wonder if fellow brat-packer heart throb Rob Lowe wishes he could have his scandal over again, in this day and age instead of the 1980s? 

For now though, I have to admit that I'll be following this whole saga with some interest. That is because I honestly have no idea of how it's going to play out. Will he OD? Will one or more of his "Goddesses" kill him? Will he get re-hired onto Two and a Half Men after publicly insulting the show's creator, Chuck Lorre? Or will he suddenly get signed up for his own talk show? I'm really not sure. Judging by the recent Sheen's Korner however, my money's certainly not on the last option.

34 Minutes with Kanye

I just spent the last thirty-four minutes with none other than Kanye West.

It's not exactly the way I usually plan on spending half-hours in the evening when I could be finishing those alterations on that dress I bought yesterday, or watching the Flinstones, or taking Elvis for a walk (that's my dog, not the living ghost of The King)... but you know. So, I was aware of Kanye's opus being in existence, but only vaguely. Remember, I've only just recently arrived back from a few months overseas and my pop culture know-how is somewhat lacking. I felt compelled to get myself back up to date. Also, I'll admit to being just plain old intrigued ... how the fucking what would Kanye fill one-third of a feature film?

HURRRR. I direct nao.

The answer?

Slow mo. (I'm not even kidding, if you sped up all the slow mo, it'd probably go for about ten minutes)

Now, the trailer itself is essentially just an exercise in a few vague, pretty, slow motion shots. Somewhat ominous, in my eyes.

In that case, the film itself ... God, after the frequent sniggering subsided, confusion set in. Confusion, and irritation. Those who think Kanye is a douche, will think no different of Runaway. Those who think he's a genius ... might like it. While I think the odd song of his is tolerable, occasionally catchy, I was basically dumbfounded by the sheer self-indulgence and ... dumb of it.

Right, so it's directed by Kanye, with music by Kanye and high art aspirations by Kanye. Interestingly, script writing congratulations are reserved for one by the amazing name of Hype Williams. So not all the blame should be squared at ol' Kanye. From the opening chorus of opera stylings to the end credits and all the well-shot prettiness in between (credit to Kyle Kibbe), there may be a lot of blame you want to aim.

A step by step account ... Kanye drives his shiny car through a pretty forest. Meteor hits it. SLOW MO EXPLOSIONS. From the wreckage (Like a phoenix! Cause phoenixes appear from fiery ashes! It's symbolic, yo!) appears bird-girl (otherwise known as Victoria's Secret model Selita Ebanks), in a feathered "costume" so revealing it may as well not be there. Impressive boobs are impressive. She wakes up at his place. Creepy, perhaps. She bonds with a bunny and a fluffy sheep in his yard. Perhaps he wants to eat her? Definitely creepy. He takes her to see a marching band and fireworks show, complete with GIANT INFLATABLE MICHAEL JACKSON HEAD. Creepmax. Symbolic? Kanye probably thinks so.

Slow mo explosion, Kanye rescues girl. Symbolism.

The largest portion of Runaway revolves around a giant dinner party Kanye throws for birdgirl, interrupted rudely and symbolically by ballerinas and Kanye playing single notes on the piano. Then standing on the piano. Then singing about douches.

Then. Then Kanye and Birdgirl exchange a horribly awkward DEEP CONVERSATION, then they kiss, then she wants to leave so he convinces her to stay for a while, with his dick. Cue slow motion explosions again.

I'll say right now, that I had the good fortune to watch Runaway online while a good friend of mine, Dave, watched it at the same time. As Kanye's opus played on youtube, we were on Messenger, providing capslocked commentary of the goings-on. Funny guy. Funny combination. I'll admit to being in stitches during much of the video... and I know for a fact that your smartass friend yelling through the internet things like, "SLOW MO BIRD ANGEL BITCH!" isn't conducive to taking something seriously. I suppose that if I'd watched Runaway in a different setting, perhaps a gallery with everyone in the audience looking nice and without Dave sniggering in the background, I would look at the symbolism (she flies!) and the slow mo (so much slo mo...) and try to take it seriously and give it a go. I suppose that's not quite fair on Kanye.

Similarly, I suppose if I'm trying to be nice, ol' Kanye deserves "a fair go, mate!" with all the heavy handed PHOENIX RISING FROM THE ASHES! PEOPLE HATE THINGS THAT ARE DIFFERENT! symbolism, recovering from the Kanye-Is-A-Douche of the "Taylor Swift Incident".

But then again, I just watched this interview ... he cites Kubrick, he says he wanted to create a film "that was like, all stills" and that he wants "females to connect to the different emotions". Eh... nah. Sorry. Kanye, I can't take your directorial debut seriously. It's pretty, but ... no. You're still a douche.

Soz.