thecaptainlautner-blog

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TEN GAURANTEED CURES FOR SITUATIONAL DEPRESSION

1. Sun. If you can’t find any, turn off all the lights in your house and open your curtains. Natural light is better for your subconscious, not just for your physical health.

2. Hot tea. Sheldon Cooper was right about most things but definitely about this one. Feeling sad, have a hot beverage. It’s comforting.

3. A clean house. I don’t know if you’ve ever stopped to realize how a cluttered and messy house promotes gloominess and negativity but think about how you feel when the house is nice, clean, organized, and smelling fresh. Total difference in mood.

4. Essential oils. Read about these. Figure out which ones you think might help out the most. And even if it technically doesn’t work, your subconscious will assume it does, which causes ‘The Placebo Effect.’

5. Comic entertainment. Read a funny book or watch a funny movie. Laughter is medicine as proven by Patch Adams.

6. Less time on social media. I doubt I have to explain this one but spending hours and hours online can really help make a person feel more and more unmotivated and that does nothing for depression. Take up a different kind of hobby. Learn something new.

7. Exercise. Your physical health and mental health run side by side. If one is poorly, the other one probably is as well.

8. Avoid negativity for a little while. What you take in is seriously what you give back. You’d be shook at how much information our subconscious retains. Stay away from the horror, drama, and angst for a little while. Surround yourself with as much positivity as you can possibly get. Let your friends and family know that’s what you need in order to feel better. If they love you, they’ll understand.

9. Good karmic energy. Get out and do something to make your community a little bit better. Volunteer. Donate. Get your hands dirty. Do things to help others. It’ll make you feel good, promise.

10. Interior decoration. Use brighter colors around the house. Splashes of pale yellows and light blues, lavenders... these are the little things that happen to be kind of important.

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MINE

One of my all time favorite quotes comes from the film Scarface. While speaking to the woman he fell for at first sight, he says, “I liked you the first time I laid eyes on you. I said to myself, ‘She’s a tiger. She belongs to me.’” That goofball up there is a tiger and when I got to know her, when I saw her for who she was, I said to myself... She’s gotta belong to me. Where else is she going to go? I’m right here. 

In our world, a simple hug or kiss ends you on the front cover of someone’s magazine. You become a character created by the media; our puppet strings made of lies to make us easier to sell to the public. When you’re a public figure and you decide to stay one, there’s an emotional contract you’ve entered into between yourself and society. Your relationships, whether you like it or not, have become a plaything for people to talk and write about and whether or not what’s said is true, you’re still forced to participate by being a member of the audience. The connection that exists between celebrities and the general public is quite honestly an abusive one. It’s like being told you’re worthless by someone over and over. You begin by knowing and understanding the truth but the more you hear it and the more you’re subjected to the lies, the more it becomes easier to do one of two things. You either start to believe them or even if you don’t, the seeds of resentment begin to grow somewhere deep down inside. Or maybe it’s just me and I can’t handle headlines calling Paris and Cara Delavigne ‘Caris’ even though the kiss was a platonic one between close friends. Refer back to the title of this story. 

Kidding. 

Anyways, the stories about Paris and Cara probably wouldn’t have unnerved me the way it did if it hadn’t been for an online post someone made, turning it from something that wasn’t at all personal to something that was. All of us who belong to this community of entertainers and athletes understand that the media is going to do what the media is going to do; much like a three year old with oppositional defiance disorder. It’s even part of what bonds us as humans who understand each other’s plights. We all know we’re going to be lied about. When one of our own sells us out or participates in the dishonest publicity, it always feels like a slap in the face. Especially when it comes to this; to the first real, honest, beautiful thing I’ve shared with someone in a long time. 

As soon as Paris realized that I was upset about the whole thing, her mood instantly changed. She was none too happy about what had been said by a peer, she felt a little sold out, she was irritated that it caused a conversation between us, she was ready to go fix it... and then I opened my mouth. The ordeal caused her a migraine (she’s prone to them) so I at least had the decency to make sure she was alright and taken care of before I decided I was going to be immature about it. Not because I was annoyed with her in any way shape or form but in that moment, I felt I would get extreme satisfaction from saying something snotty and childish. I was feeling the jealousy bubbling in my stomach and rising into my throat like vomit. Word vomit. I knew there was nothing going on between her and Cara, but just the thought that anyone anywhere might think there was caused the following interaction. I suggested to Paris that maybe she should stick her hands and feet in hot water with her head between her legs (a trick I’d picked up from a friend who suffers from migraines). She agreed to try it and jokingly commented that people would probably wonder what she was doing. It was in that instant that my mouth started moving on its own. I replied with, “Well I’m sorry I can’t fix it. Maybe Cara can.” She looked at me, I looked at her. I could see in her face that she was doubtful she’d heard me correctly. I could see her attempting to grasp the fact that I was choosing to behave that childishly. I immediately felt bad but for any of my female readers, you have to understand something. I’m a man which means my pride would not allow me to immediately apologize. I was definitely sorry that I had said it at all, but instead of saying so, I chose to be stubborn about it. At least for a little while. She started crying. Her mouth turned downward, she scrunched up her face, sat there, and started to cry. I knew that she knew that I felt like shit and I knew that she knew that I couldn’t let her have it so easily, even though I wanted to which is probably why she told me to get out and give her some space. 

Walking around outside, giving her the time that she asked for, the only thing on my mind is how I could fix it. I knew I was wrong for being a smart ass. I knew I could have chosen better. I was mentally kicking myself. That’s when it came to me. The other night, we ended up on the topic of Twilight and how she’d always been ‘Team Jacob.’ I made a joke about how I had no problem whatsoever roleplaying as Jacob in bed if she was into it. I told her I would put the tattoo on my arm, put on some levis, and come straight through the bedroom door. As I was standing in the back yard beneath the bedroom window, I decided what better time to be smooth. What better time to do something sexy to take her mind off the immaturity that had come out of my mouth? I needed to redeem myself as well as appease the male dominance I wanted to exhibit as a reminder to us both of who she was with. Smirking, I picked up a few stray pieces of gravel and began tossing them at the window. In my mind, I was a regular Lloyd Dobler from the film Say Anything. She opened the window, wiping her eyes and sniffling. I shrugged my arms, smiling, and admitted to being ‘a jealous motherfucker’. She smiled and said she was a jealous motherfucker, too. I glanced at the side of the house underneath the window, to the tall black oak tree with the intention to smoothly scale them both ending in a clean finish on my feet back inside the bedroom. She warned me to be careful, and bless her heart, she had all the faith in the world that I would actually be able to pull it off. In my mind, and I’m still not sure how this happened, I smoke a lot of weed, I forgot that I have never once in my life jumped back and forth between house and tree in order to get inside of someone’s bedroom. I forgot, for that moment, that I was not actually Jacob Black. I sprinted for the back porch stairs, made a landing jump on top of them, twisted towards the tree- now... What I thought I was going to do was jump from the steps, grab onto a branch, and push off the tree. That’s not what happened. I ended up grabbing onto the branch but not close enough to the trunk, so instead of being able to push myself off of the trunk and keep the momentum going, I dangled. I was taken by surprise, but managed to hang onto the branch, scraping my chin, and swinging my legs towards the trunk, trying to get a good grasp on it with my feet. I’m not the type to give up easily, especially when all I’d been doing that morning was making an ass out of myself. The only way forward was up. I assured her that I had this under control, ignoring her sounds of concern. I hoisted myself up onto the branch, balancing myself, preparing to make what I thought was going to be a clean jump from the branch and through the open window. I made a bounding leap, extending my left leg out in a karate kick, the other folded Indian style behind it. I at least managed to get one leg through. The rest of me didn’t make it, leaving me no choice but to dangle from the window, the only support I had coming from the leg that had made it inside, clinging hard to the windowsill, the wood digging into the back of my thigh. I grasped at the window with my hands, having not had a very solid landing to begin with, slipping. Paris swore loudly and grabbed onto my leg and then my arm, trying desperately to discover which body part would be easiest to hold onto. Half laughing, but legitimately half scared, I yelled at her to call 911, not at all serious. I looked down at the ground underneath me, never more positive that this was not the best situation to be in, feeling myself slip even more, the only part of my leg left inside the house my foot. I tried to get a better grip on the windowsill with my fingertips only to find Paris holding onto my arm with one hand and using the other to dial 911. This made me laugh even harder, which made it even harder to hold on. I choked out, “I was KIDDING about 911!” She threw the phone onto the bed, the operator still trying to figure out what was wrong, I’m sure. We decided she was going to pull backwards on my arm hopefully yanking me up onto the windowsill, which turned out to be a foolproof plan, only I didn’t take into account that my head would be level with the top of the window. She grasped, she yanked, and up I came.... my head meeting the top of the window with more force than was even remotely comfortable. I heard a slight crack, felt a sharp pain, and then warm blood flowing from my nose, some swearing on Paris’ part. She helped me inside and got some tissue for my nose, smiling to herself because I didn’t have to say I was sorry. She knew. 

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LONDON CALLING

A post shared by LINKD (@linkd.co) on Feb 23, 2017 at 9:00am PST

What I’ve always loved most about London, aside from the people I consider family who live here, is the vibe. More than anywhere else I’ve ever been in my eleven years of throwing myself into other cultures, no one is more proud to be who and where they are than a Londoner. Catch an old gaffer coming out of the old Lamb and Flag in Covent Garden if there’s anywhere else he’d rather be and he’ll stand there, blinking, as though he’s just realized he must be way too pissed to understand what you just asked. Whenever I’m in London, one thing I’ve always noticed is that the city presents itself to every demographic the same way a working girl presents herself to her clients. There isn’t one person that wants to be here that can’t find something to fall in love with. The narrow road of old timey Fleet Street echoes the songs of Sweeney Todd to the imagination while Big Ben chimes loudly to remind us that it’s been one hundred and fourteen years since Peter Pan led the Darlings towards the second star to the right. If you’ve never been to London but you heard the food may be a bit different from what you’re used to, don’t worry, it is, but only in the best way possible. A western inspired roadhouse serves deep-fried pickles and chili-cheese fries. Or you might come across a Parsi café straight out of old Bombay. I even once found a semi-secret chef’s table, tucked behind a hot dog joint, giving Copenhagen a run for its money. If you haven’t eaten in London, get there as soon as you can- and don’t mind the rain. It makes for some pretty epic rainbows. 

These five amazing people I’m surrounded by in this picture are the main reason I ever come to London. In 2013 while working in New York City, I got a call from my friend Andy (not pictured here) who had been spending some time in London doing a BBC series for television called Cuckoo. He spoke extremely highly of the show, praised it for its dry British humor, and had nothing but wonderful things to say about the entire cast and crew. Unfortunately for him, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to play a recurring character because of scheduling conflicts; hence the phone call. He wasn’t quite sure in what direction the writers would go in order to not only squeeze me in but make sure I had a principle role, but he was one hundred percent certain it was a perfect fit. Over half a year later, I was flying to London, not so ready to play a man raised in a cult, yet willing to forget about every experience I’d ever learned from because none of it was about to do me any good. Tyger, Esther, Helen, Kenneth, Greg, and Matt made me feel so welcome and so at home; all my anxieties and insecurities were very soon forgotten. 

This is my fiancé. She’s a model for IMG and just very recently started acting. We actually just got back from London (which is what this post is about) while I was filming the fourth season of Cuckoo. Her name is Paris. Fitting, right? We met through mutual friends a long time ago and by some extraordinary measure, ended up so ridiculously in love that my own family thinks I’m a nymphomaniac now and probably pretty annoyed that we can’t even stop making love long enough to leave their house and go do it at our own. Because of this quiet but at the same time, really loud fact about us, I was a little weary about Paris’ best friend Baylee coming to visit us without headphones. No, I really did stress that she needed to bring headphones. Irritating my parents was bad enough; I didn’t want to scar the maid of honor as well. After we’d exhausted Baylee’s appetite for London by visiting places like Banya No. 1 and Westfield Stratford City, eating at places like Bar 61 and The Ledbury, and partying at clubs like Fabric and Ministry of Sound, it turns out she was too tired to give much of a shit about the headphones. Unfortunately, my parents had just arrived and weren’t ready to retire at all. Not even in the slightest. In fact, they were so excited to get their British adventure started, they suggested I just let the front desk know they’d like an extra key to the room I was in so that no one would have to worry about coming or going. After a ten hour day on set, I came back to our suite overlooking Hyde Park to find my parents still out on the town and Paris in the living room doing yoga on the floor. Remember how I mentioned her and I are no better than animals in heat? I can’t even recall if this has been my general behavior in any relationship but I do recall what happened when I watched her stretch her body into a downward dog position, teasing me by lifting herself perkily up on her tiptoes, her yoga pants stretching across her ass like a glove, an amused smile playing around her lips as she smiled at me, upside down, between her legs. I also recall what happened as soon as we got to it, completely naked on the living room couch. It was the sound of a key card sliding into the slot. What I do not recall was the key ever sounding that loud and ominous as it did in that moment. We froze, knowing we could run, but what would be the point? The door was already halfway open. In came my parents, pleased as punch about the day they’d had, smiles as clear as a rare day in London...until they spotted Paris and I on the couch, staring horrified at them, two deer in headlights. In case you’re wondering, everyone’s fine now. 

This is the most accurate representation any website has on Greg Davies’ personality. Greg is a six foot eight, forty-nine year old, ninety-two percent alcohol drinking, twenty-five year old girlfriend cradle robbing, pillock and one of my best friends. When I first met him in 2014, I was for some reason pretty confident that the first words out of his mouth were going to be something sarcastic and hilarious. Not because I’d been watching him in Cuckoo and his character actually is sarcastic and hilarious but because sometimes you just know something about someone. Their vibe hits you before they do and let me say, I couldn’t have been less disappointed. Greg is a twenty-one year old trapped in the body of a forty-nine year old. He’s always been the Jack of the group (you remember that movie with Robin Williams where he was a young boy trapped in the body of a much older individual? Yeah, that’s Greg). I was visiting him in 2016 with my friends Emma and Kylie, and my younger sister Makena. Before things got out of control, the way they always do when Greg is involved, we sat around the table playing Texas Hold Em with his married friends who lived next door and he insisted on betting oral sex instead of money. Did I mention he’s one of my best friends? We just wrapped the fourth season of our show and I’d be a little bummed in returning to Los Angeles while he stays behind in London, as I always am, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s a groomsman in my upcoming wedding and he’s coming to Vegas for my bachelor party. Having explained Greg fairly well, I’m sure you understand what that means. His long term girlfriend Jonnice will not be coming. He swears up and down she’ll hate American food. 

A post shared by Taylor Lautner (@taylorlautner) on Feb 2, 2018 at 9:37am PST

LOVE that this is something I can now do. Thanks Cuckoo. 

Now, my lady and I are back home in Los Angeles, looking forward to spring break with my sister in Miami this April. Amongst other things ;)

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I LOVE LA

You know there’s definitely a reason why so many people dream of living in Los Angeles and most of us can guess why. There’s a huge promise that exists out here; a promise that gives people the freedom to chase their dreams because... why not? There’s something better than a promise out here in la la land though; something you don’t hear about as often. It’s a quieter kind of background noise. A community of people who need nothing but the warm breezes, the sand between their toes, a crab shell bar right on the beach, the same old mouthy teens at every skate park, the yoga instructor on a sunday morning, the way when every morning the sun rises gold in the pink sky above the washingtonia filiferas, promising not another day of fame and fortune, but another day of happiness... which when you’ve lived in LA as long as I have... trust me, it’s all you need ;) 

The first thing Angelinos will sit there and bond over is food. The culinary scene is bursting with culture and the best thing about it is walking out of your door with a friend or two on a summer day and taking a few steps towards the food truck right on the grass of Westwood or Glendale. That’s probably one of my favorite things about my city of angels. People don’t care what color you are, what your background is, what you do for a living. We just want to eat together. 

This guy right here? His name is Marcus Kwan and everyone on the west side not only knows him, but they love him with the kind of passion reserved for someone who gives you smiley face pancakes for no reason, will cook anything you want regardless if it’s on the menu or not, and would have been fired by now if it wasn’t for his huge fan base because he has an amazing habit of giving food free to children and the homeless. We love Marcus. 

This is a favorite haunt for stoners who like to people watch, families who want to spend the day on a boardwalk, elderly couples who can’t take their eyes off of the sea life right on the pier, or kids who either really suck at skateboarding or kids who are really good and should be planning a future in it. One of my grandfather’s favorite places is Venice Beach. We come here about twice a week and neither of us ever get tired of it. 

This is Ryan. He hangs out a lot in Santa Monica. He’s been thrown out of Ursula’s Costumes, 7 Day Menswear, and Savannah because following orders and direction has never been his strong suit, but his favorite thing in the world isn’t taking pictures, it’s showing them. His wife and kids have a huge thing for Gilroy Gardens and they all go a few times a month. 

Welcome to my weird, fast, and fun city.