Hovering Flies

It’s too easy to be derailed over a picture. I participate in 1 “modeling” site and have dormant profiles spread about the web. I don’t think I’ve shot one person that I hadn’t previously known off of that site in well over a year. As expressed by http://vimeo.com/18104656 (which I came across on APhotoEditor.com), there are a lots of skill and resources that goes into maximizing a production. One silly bastard who can’t spell their name properly might push me away from giving the next illiterate narcissist model a shot. It’s all so tenuous.

With that, I’d spoken to my home girl who is talent about her common problem: Enough work to be a professional (SAG/AFTRA, etc.) but not enough to make certain their is economic growth if not actually economic deterioration. I reminded her that none of this is guaranteed. No one is obligated to give us our opportunities. Opportunity is ours to generate by preparation and activity. As an actor/model, you hit an age (especially if you’re of color) where you are in that hellish middle ground. You’re not old enough and maybe not big enough enough to play Big Mama, Scowling Black Bureaucrat, terrorist’s fanatical family member, etc. So what’s a no-longer chica to do?

Cut and run or dig in with a different activity level seemed to be the only answer I was capable of providing. Make your own stuff or synch up with someone who is like minded to stabilize his/her project. Barter is a legitimate form of currency as long as everyone is getting what is of reasonable possibility. All the elements have to be agreed upon in advance. That takes organization which is sometimes an iceberg that can sink the largest of ships.

“I don’t work for free!” Nothing is free, fucker, but there is a point to that. You might want to be someone to stick to your guns and toil away in the manner that you know best. I can’t fault that. I don’t profess to know what works for everyone. I’ve been an underground/do-it-yourself kind of cat from the day I could lift my orb off of the bed without assistance so going against the grain is kind of de facto for me. I was also an artist long before being a professional so the constant drive to create is part of daily being not just a way to garner some scratch. The thing is I can’t stand flies keeping up with me. I’m funky. Flies will surround me if I stay in one place.

What timing! My boy is trying to eat me into abject poverty. He just ate his lunch and my dinner for his lunch. He still wants more and so he can add to the 3.5″ he’s grown in 7 weeks. That totally derailed my train of thought.

I guess back to thinking about my homegirl’s dilemma in contrast of a younger chick I know. Rather than gracefully backing out of a project she committed to she went turtle: No return calls, emails. So be it. Someone else gets paid. She didn’t hang in their long enough to know that I had been saving scratch to pay whoever did this particular project. Her history of entering the field is a different thing. Someone rightly told her she could make money at modeling/acting. She doesn’t come from artistry nor is she old enough to appreciate that the people you might pass on the way up are the same people you’ll be reaching out to help stop your fall. No bitterness, just the truth. The flies are going to get their laugh in there.

I was told a story about Wes Montgomery going to his garage to practice after working all day. He’d a put a blanket on the strings so as not to disturb anyone’s sleep. One “4 on 6” and several other monstrously skilled cuts later, his name goes into music lore. I want to make my “4 on 6”.

Humid on the Strip

Working working on the rail road. All the live-long-day. Strange year. Fell off on my productivity a bit but I’m picking back up. Some decent gigs fell my way that I haven’t minded catching so I’m brimming with whatever people brim with on brimming day. It better be good.

I’ve seen some things with these brimmed eyes, young man. Things you wouldn’t believe. C-Beams glitter on the planes of Orion type things. You know what kind of edge I’m running. Fumes, fission, power mad, desperation, desperado, infantile.

My pre-kindergarten tyke tyro is rapping up a storm. He’s snaggle at the moment and he’s eating as much as me. He’s learned his interest in rhyme through the variety of people in his immediate surroundings… well, not including me. He doesn’t want to listen to my old thrashing as he fears that it might be whack. The boy likes his beatings, did I mention?

Despite only dropping a couple of primary teeth thus far, the little monster has a pretty decent vocabulary that rivals and occasionally surpasses his older “peers”. If there’s any fear, it’s that he might get stuck in the wave of environmental influence. I mean, hip hop is kids’ music. I’ve fought saying that for years. Actually, I’ve said it before many many many times but I’m actually a cranky old bastard now.

Mode shifts, key changes, time signature counterpoint, diminished chords? Zig zag, please. The pulse of the metronome has been fine all these years, why stop me now? I’m older. I’m crankier. I don’t want someone yelling in my ear about trite shit. I don’t want to see little skanks, 2 years removed from high school writhing around draped in stripper weave while pooting out blah-isms through the melodyne.

If you as an “artist” and you aren’t willing to artistically leap off of a cliff and smash your whole state of being up in an attempt to defy gravity, you are really a peddler. That’s fine. Sometimes on the corner, I want to buy a bag of socks. Who doesn’t like clean socks? But maybe I’ll buy someone else’s socks. After all, you’re just selling socks.

It’s not a dry heat. It’s mostly wet and uncomfortable. I grew up in an L.A. where the Summer months were high 90s to mid 100s. I’d play basketball for hours on the blacktop which is now readily evident by my periodic inability to walk without a limp. Also, the air was a dingy shade of brown. Bonus for people who liked frequent smog alerts.

Socks are not dangerous. People who fill socks with change to konk you on the head are dangerous. Just saying something is hot doesn’t kick the Jedi mind trick into full effect. All that shit is moist. It’s tepid. It’s germane. It’s as dangerous as baby talk. It’s as stirring as a great grandmother grinding on a stripped pole at the Barbary Coast. You are not hard. My 5 year old will shame you on the mic.