Morning writing

         Once upon a time, there was a little boy who had become trapped in the body of an adult. You see, he had been a child for all of his life and had grown very fond of the experience. But one day, his body was no longer his. His body had grown several feet. He had stubble. People called him sir.
And the child inside the body remained unable to process these changes, which had happened so subtly and over so much time that there was no moment when they actually happened yet there they were.
Suddenly, the world had so many demands and it seemed as though it was impossible to meet them all. The little boy was terrified by the constant bombardment of responsibility and wanted nothing more in the world than to shrink back down to the size of the middle-schooler he felt he was inside.
So the little boy looked up at the light-polluted night sky and when he finally saw a star, he made a wish with all his heart. He scrunched his eyes closed and felt every grown-up piece of him willing himself to be young again. He bargained and pleaded with the cosmos to return him to being a child. An ache, starting in his chest, crept through his body until it reached his eyes and a single droplet rolled down his cheek.
He went to bed that night, expecting to wake up ready for the first day of seventh grade.
But that’s not how the world works, and the next day they turned off the water.
The little boy spent the day spinning in his mind coming to terms with the fact that there was no going back. That he would never again effortlessly exist with his means of living provided simply because he was.
The little boy took a deep breath and pulled out his pocketbook and wrote out a check to the Department of Water and Power. Then he got dressed, ate an apple, and left for work.
The next day, the little boy woke again, still in the oddly aged body of some hairy twenty-something. He rose from bed with a sigh and wrote another check, this time to the Gas Company. Then he got dressed, ate an apple, and left for work.
Everyday the little boy got up, paid for the things he needed, ate the food he had to, and worked the job he needed to pay for the things that kept him alive. Everyday it got easier and easier. He learned to manage his income and expenditures.
Then, something magical happened. The phone rang and it was the little boy’s mother. She asked him how he was and if was seeing anyone and that she missed and loved him and oh, won’t you come visit soon, I know you’re so busy but I’d love to see you. And the little boy told her he loved her too and he’d love to visit, but maybe next month.
He said good-bye and hung up the phone, returning to his morning bill paying. As he comfortably slid a bill into an envelope that was just the right size for it, a proud smile crept across his bearded face.

Not quite a tweet.

I’m not very quick to form opinions. I’m not quick to form opinions, I’m still not sure how I feel about Swiss cheese. I know deep down that it’s cheese and therefore, I should like it. I know that I love cheese, the Platonic form of cheese, but I just don’t enjoy Swiss. I’ve never, not a single time, have I put Swiss cheese in my mouth and said “this is a pleasant experience.” But I still grab a slice from the platter at every party.

The Pho King

I was sick the last few days, and naturally craved soup. I, being the well cultured individual that I am, decided that I wanted to get pho. My decision was 80% based on a joke involving being the "king" of pho.

My fever had lead me to an odd sleep pattern. I found myself waking up at all odd hours of the day. Seven, Eight in the morning. I finally managed to gulp down enough green-dyed jager-flavored cough syrup to pass out until a far more manageable hour. Nine PM. At which point, I made the choice to seek the aforementioned pho.

Fortunately, I found a 24 hour pho place that was only a few miles from my place. Pho Citi in Silverlake. I arrived to be greeted by the kindly gentleman behind the counter whose v-neck was deep enough it revealed his chest stubble. He asked me to wait a minute. It's cool, I get it. I've worked shitty jobs too. He's got shit to do. And I had to decide which type of Pho was acceptable to order. Trite and tendon? Really?

I figure out what I want and set the menu back to let him know, ya know, I'm ready to order. No reaction, but it looks like he's kind of busy, so I don't say anything. Another customer comes to the counter. He helps them and goes back to what he's doing.

"I think I'm ready to order," I say. And he gives me this look like fucking whatever. Look, dude. Your job sucks. Bummer. Do it anyway.

I order the rare beef pho and he places the order with the cook in the back. In the meantime, his shift relief arrives. "I had to deal with the bitchiest customer today. It was like you wouldn't even believe." They do their respective eyerolls and the cook puts my to-go container at the window.

The cashier hands me my bag with the soup in it. And in the most bullshit passive-aggressive voice says "Thanks so much for coming. Come again soon." I honestly think he does shit like that to get a reaction out of people. Because his job is so tiresome, he can't help but want to provoke people with his sarcastic crybaby bullshit.

Pho was great though. Good Pho and I passed right the fuck back out.

I woke up at like 1pm. I slept like a narcoleptic. No, like a narcotics addict. I finally came out of my small coma and wanted more pho. So I drove back to this place, figuring asshole's shift was finally over.

I was right. When I arrived, he wasn't there. Turns out, he doesn't work 18 hour shifts so his job isn't really as bad as he thinks and he needs to shut the fuck up and stop being such a little girl. Or just kill himself. Seriously. No one cares about how bad his job is in this economy.

I arrived back at the 24 hour Pho place. At lunch time. The door is wide open, so I walk in. Two dudes are sitting at tables doing paper work. One of them tells me that they're closed.

"What?"
"Closed. No open."
"You're... 24 hours... "
"No Pho."
"But it's lunch time. All you serve is Pho."
"No pho."
"I really just want some soup. Do you know somewhere else that sells pho?"
"I don't work there. Go now!"
"You don't have any like... in the back I could—"
"No Pho! Go now!"

So yeah. Things got a little heated. Turns out, passive aggressive is a better attitude than aggressive aggressive, but aggression has no place in a business model. Especially not in a food service job that lives on tips. You wanna be a dick? Get a real job. The rest of us have shitty jobs and we just have to deal with it cause we know we're not hot pho king shit.

Space Brain Fever

I've been sick the last few days, and that's my excuse for not updating. Please, enjoy the following images I made while succumbed by Space Brain Fever.

Prom Queen of California

Fuck this town. The stars are ground down to gravel and paved in the sidewalk for everyone to walk on. It’s a dying behemoth, heaving under the weight of its final throes. Everyday a hundred thousand small town prom queens from all over Nebraska, Idaho, and all the other loser states come here to pay homage to the letters in the hills. Tomorrow they’ll bring me my coffee when I’m too hung over to speak. Back home they were hot shit. Now they spit in my eggs cause they know they’re not going anywhere, but they can’t go back.

They write their letters home. How they saw a movie star. A real-life movie star. They don’t mention he was a shitty tipper. They don’t talk about how many promises they’ve been seduced by. Then they’re thirty and the game is over. Just another weathered face, tired of filling my cup. There’s nothing left for them but they can’t go home. This is just how life is sometimes. But they can’t go home. Then they’re forty. An old apron on laundry day, hanging on the rim of the hamper, stained by strawberry jelly and God knows whatelse.

Fuck this town. If you’re not drowning you just haven’t realized it yet. So breathe in deep as you get off the bus. That haze is your life now. Fingers to the bone every day and you think you’re ready. Ha.

But buy that ticket, because fuck this town. Ain’t anywhere else on earth that’s got what she has. She’s the brightest star in the sky and you know she’ll kill you but the glint in her eye seduces you. She reels you in and sets you down on that couch. She’s all “ra-ra” and kisses your wounds and whispers those promises in your ear as you’re about to fall asleep. She’s a tease, but you’d do anything to have her. She’s the prom queen of California and God you want her so bad. Give it to her hard. Fuck this town.

No Careers for Young Men

In an interview yesterday, I was told that I wasn't interviewing for a job, or a career. I was interviewing for a lifestyle. It's an unrelenting force. You take it home with you. Your vacations become time with clients. Your hobbies become golf with executives. It consumes you and never lets you go.

Honestly, that sounds amazing. I want a job like that. I need something that I'm so passionately possessed by, I can't let it go. I don't want a job that I leave at the office. I want something that takes up all my time and grinds me to bits and leaves me wanting more.

Because I don't want a Hollywood career. I want the Hollywood life.

I've known it since I got here, that this is a beautiful city of people willing to help if you can help them. I'm always trying to help. You put enough in and you start to get returns. I've seen it already, and I'm gonna keep seeing it.

I don't know if I got the position. But I do know that if I did, I'm gonna be the best damn assistant possible. Not because it's good for my career, cause that's not a thing. And not because it's what my boss wants. I'll be the best damn assistant possible, because I have to be. I refuse to settle for anything less.

I'm not gonna stop till I'm more than everything I want to be.

Fuck you. And your little dog, too.

I don't mean to sound like a stand up in 2004, but God dammit if people haven't let this tiny dog shit go.

Seriously, what the fuck do you think you're doing? When your cutest accessory is a canine, you need to rethink your life. I'm tired of you coming into the store, holding your little yappy piece of shit chihuahua-doodle. And I shouldn't hate on the dog that much, cause it's staring at me like Jeff at the end of The Fly. It's all your doing. You've ruined two, no three lives every day that you do that. Mine, the dog's and your own.

You claim that it's a helper dog, that it assists you in living. But we know that your pathetic dog can hardly bare to get out of the sad little bed in the corner of your room, let alone do any worthwhile task that helps you. When your dog needs a baby bjorn, it's not even laughable. Your dog caught your celiacs? How's that even possible.

They say that dogs start to look like their owners.

Your dog's not gonna be a good attention whore, like a sad old woman that slops into her fuck-me pumps and hits the club like no one notices she's not twenty-two anymore.

You can't bring it in here, we sell people food. How's that not clear to you?

Papa's New Bag

After many fruitless attempts applying to jobs with a pussy piece of shit cover letter, I wrote this monster last night while drinking my second Mickey's.

To my potential future employer:

My name is Tony Tallarico and I'm perfect for this job.

I’ve got a degree in English from the illustrious San Jose State University where I ran writer’s workshops, worked two jobs simultaneously, and still found time to get a bachelor’s degree. I’m serious.

What do you want to hear? That since I’ve been in LA, I’ve found an internship, worked a day job, taken improv classes, and been a volunteer PA on a couple sets? Well, good news. I was just listing shit I’ve done. I’m busy seven days a week trying to hustle this town. Ryan Daly’s office at Zero Gravity Management wishes I had more time that I could dedicate to interning for them. Word around the water cooler is that I'm the best intern they've ever had. 

It's been said that I write epic coverage. Samples are available upon request.

Look, there are two things about me you need to know. The first of which is that I’m amazing. I’m the best person for this job because I crave the satisfaction of approval. The second of which is that everyone else is an idiot. Let’s be honest, you wouldn’t still be reading this if I hadn’t caught your attention. Everyone else is busy telling you about how they “completed tasks in a goal oriented fashion,” or whatever, and I’m here giving you the straight dope. 

I’m sick and tired of stocking shelves to pay my bills. I’m a grown man and I’m willing to work damn hard to make myself a somebody. Give me an interview. You’ll love me. 

Best,

Tony Tallarico

925.989.1007

I don't give a fuck. I am the best.

Nice problems to have.

I need a job. I'm not unemployed, I work at a grocery store in Hollywood. I've been employed by the company for half a decade now. It was a great place to work while going through college. But now I want a career. I need a job that at the end of the day, I feel that satisfaction of knowing that I did something worthwhile.

I'm busy seven days a week. If I'm not stocking shelves or scanning groceries, I'm either at my internship or improv classes. My internship gives me that satisfaction, two days a week. I can leave there knowing that I learned something that day and it feels damn good.

My improv classes give me a different satisfaction. It's still based on the idea that I learned something, but the satisfaction comes from the creative element of it. I created something, and even if it was as short lived as those moments on stage, there's still a powerful sentiment that comes from creating.

Yesterday, I applied to a job at United Talent Agency or UTA. I'm excited about it. I know that the job itself will be soul draining. Long hours, low pay, and extremely stressful. Did I mention it's an entry level mailroom job? But even a position in a mailroom offers more potential for growth than where I am.

I haven't heard back from them. I assume it's because of the massive number of applications they receive each day. Or maybe it got marked as spam, who knows.

But here's the rub. I absolutely love improv comedy. It gives me an opportunity to get creative juices flowing with other people in an environment that harbors it completely. I want to pursue improv comedy and continue taking classes at UCB. But I know that I can't do that if I have a nine to five (more like seven) job at an agency. I know that my Monday through Friday will be devoured by ten hour days. I know that the weekend classes at UCB are almost impossible to get into.

Working at UTA would offer me the growth potential, industry insight, and connections that will undoubtedly help me further my career as a screenwriter. Classes at UCB will help me hone my craft and teach me the lessons I need to be a better screenwriter. Ah, there's the rub.

What's a kid in his quarter-life crisis to do?



Do I continue working at the unrewarding grocery store to pursue academics in improv? Or do I take arms against the monotonous melancholy of melon stacking, and by opposing miss out on the thousand natural pleasures which comedy is heir to? To perform, and it is by performance that I must indulge that I've never considered myself an actor. No, I'm but a funny guy making observations and witty comments at apropos moments. But perhaps it is a strength that I've never fully explored.

Pox upon it.

So, I don't post as often as I should.

I don't work as often as I should either. I've gotten over it, so should you.

In other news, I've been writing like crazy lately. Completed a first draft of a pilot with my friend and writing partner Anthony. We're currently getting feedback on that before we attack it with revisions and try to get some meetings. 

While we're waiting for some fresh eyes for that pilot, we're going to start breaking a new story for a feature. I'm looking forward to working with him some more. The pilot was a good experience and I'm hoping that we can bring some of that momentum to feature writing.

I've been doing some solo writing as well. Working on a hero's journey story in a steampunk setting with magic.  Yeah, all of those things. It's gonna be awesome. Check the first five pages after the jump:

First February Post!

This is the first post of February! Isn't that exciting.

I hadn't made an update in a while, but for good reason-- I'm either extremely busy or incurably lazy. I'd like to think that I'm busy but I do spend my little bits of free time liking photos myself on Facebook. I've been spending two days a week at my internship and learning the representation side of the entertainment industry. Really fast-paced and sort of intimidating, but I think that I could really excel at it.

Tuesday is my UCB improv101 class. Absolutely an amazing experience. Something that I think is really cool about the improv game is that it gets me out of my head. I'm just doing things. And it turns out that sometimes those things are really funny. I've been beginning to realize that there are two different sides of Tony. When I'm comfortable, I shine. I'm on my A-game and making things happen.

When I'm out of my comfort zone, I clam up and get nervous. Which is, I think, normal.

But I need to expand that comfort zone, and I think the only way to do it is to spend more time in the situations that make me uncomfortable.

He said, blogging from his bedroom.

Womp womp.

But really, It's something I've recognized and am working on improving.

Goals for 2012:
-Get a full-time career job thing. You know, one in the entertainment industry that pays my bills. I think that's a great first step.
-Get comfortable. Really comfortable. Anywhere. I've got to be more relaxed to just be me. I'm not the obnoxious kid from high school and I don't have to be silent to be accepted. I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. Gosh darnit, people like me.

Metaphysics of Demons

Demons have been classically aligned with the supernatural. They are hellspawn from another plane, attempting to possess us and control our actions in the real world. But what has gone for too long unrealized is that they are actually a metaphor. They're not really supernatural multi-planar beings, but rather elements of the real that inhabit our personalities. They are the elements of us that we hate the most because they have a tendency to rise up against us in our moments of weakness.

Demons can pervade our lives in many forms. Anger, greed, addiction, etc. They are personal aspects of self that can take the reigns of our lives whenever we let them. This is why so often, in twelve step programs, we are required to give our power up to a higher being than our self. Because demons can control us, but if we are forced to appeal to a higher power then perhaps that power can grant us strength against them.

I'm a smoker. It's a terrible habit and has been since I started it. It's disgusting and I'm personally repulsed by it. But in my moments of intoxicated weakness, I find myself desiring to light up. There's no stopping that want. It will always be there. The desire is a biological ramification of addiction to the drug nicotine. Experts say that addiction rewires the brain, forcing it to rely on that chemical to achieve satisfaction.

So if there is nothing that I can personally do to overcome that addictive force, then how can I banish it, so to speak? An appeal to a higher power is required. But to accept a supernatural higher power to counter a non-supernatural force seems whimsical to me. As though I'm but playing pretend to conquer something very real.

A good friend of mine is involved in a twelve step program and has maintained her position as an atheist. My friend's higher power is peace. My friend appeals to peace, not only on a global level but on a personal level to achieve power over the demons that plague.

My point is not so much the methodologies of a twelve step program, but rather the nature of demons. They aren't horned beasts from other dimensions hellbent on destroying our existence. Rather, demons are aspects of the real, parts of our lives, that have the ability to possess us and control us. They whisper in our ear when we are weak and define the logic by which we must abide.

It is by this understanding of demonology that we come to terms with the idea of the devil. If the devil is the source of all evil and the spawn of all demons then he too is an aspect of the self, within us all and capable of terrible things. It is up to us to master those elements of ourselves whether they are greed, sadism, lust, or wrath.

It is up to us to find the peace of self that leads us not into the reigns of our demons, but lets us work towards a greater sense of well-being with the world.

I've been in LA for almost a month now. So far I've seen three "celebrities." My first encounter was on my third day. I went to see the a show hosted by Jimmy Pardo at UCB theater. Pardo does warm up for Conan. In the audience that night was Labamba. It was a huge moment for me. That was Labamba. Labamba sat a few feet from me for a show. My mind was blown.

The next encounter was seeing Eugene Mirman while driving. He was walking with some lady. He was wearing a t-shirt and looked like any other schlub on the street.

Today, Zach Woods came to the store I work at. I saw him for about a second and a half.

Oh, he plays Gabe on The Office. I'm starting to realize that my definition of celebrity may be a little loose.

I was taking a stack of empty boxes to the baler and I heard a voice I'd heard before. It was weird. I recognized it, but not immediately. I turned my head and I saw him talking to someone else.

The dude is tall. Really tall.

I realized who he was. Then I baled some cardboard. But I've been thinking about it for the rest of the day. I'm still adjusting to the fact that actors on television are also people in real life. That's when I realized that I divide reality and television. And I think that's probably a healthy response.

But there is a reality that exists in television. It is a world that is entirely distant from my own. It doesn't exist within the real world that I experience. But elements of it are real. Zach Woods is a person and he bought some orange juice today.

It's still weird to see people that you see on television in your own world. There he is, existing in my life. This is my world, but there he is, from another fucking, planet buying juice.

Just do something new.

While talking to a good friend of mine, we came to the subject of ham and brie sandwiches. It's not an uncommon topic, given my propensity towards eating ham, brie, and sandwiches. Subsequently, we were also discussing how we would both love to lose some weight.

For the record, she's gorgeous and looks amazing the way she does.

I'm a hot mess of man that needs to drop 15 pounds just to get back to where I was 4 months ago and those nachos bell grande aren't helping.

After I assured her she looked great, which she does, she made an observation that blew my mind. It was completely obvious but I'd never recognized it. It was one of those hidden in plain sight deals. You know what she pointed out to me?

She knows what a ham and brie sandwich tastes like.

And then I realized: I know what it tastes like, too.

Why keep eating something again and again when you know what it tastes like? Sure, there is the satisfaction of getting exactly what you expected. But isn't the satisfaction of trying something new, and exploring something else even more rewarding?

Now, all of this seemed much more mind blowing when I was wasted. But I think that it's still pretty good. Branch out. Try new things. Don't stay comfortable. Do something new.

Do something new.

Multi-Pronged Assault

It's been a full month since I've posted to this blog and my, how shit has changed.

1) I finished my classes. After my trip to LA earlier in the semester I became a supercharged dynamo aimed to destroy any assignment in my path. So I did. I passed them and applied for graduation.

2) I found a Trader Joe's in LA that would accept my transfer application. I now work at the Hollywood Trader Joe's on Vine. It's phenomenal and the crew seem like a good bunch of folks, but I still miss all of my friends at the Coleman store in San Jose. 212, I <3 you.

3) I packed up my entire life into a 16' Budget truck and drove it almost 400 miles to LA. The drive was phenomenal. I stopped at Harris Ranch with my dad and ate a steak the size of my head.

4) I signed up for improv101 at the Upright Citizen's Brigade Training Center.

5) I Interviewed for and landed an internship at Zero Gravity Management in Santa Monica.

Each of these things is absolutely vital for my multi-pronged assault of the film industry. My internship will teach me how the industry works and put me in contact with people in the representation field. My UCB class will get me in contact with other comedians and actors. Again networking but also a chance to demonstrate my comedic chops and work my way through the UCB ranks. I'm continuing to work on my feature screenplays and enter screenwriting competitions.

Oh, and I'm working on a blog that will give me web exposure. So that's a thing.

Here I am, LA. Let's fucking do this.