tuckerblogs

[tuckerblogs]

What Are You Doing Here?

I’ve been watching a lot of Star Trek. I don’t mean recently, I mean... in all of my existence. 

I watch a lot of Star Trek. 

unirregardless, something occurred to me.. The Tellurites got the shaft in the Federation  nothing you do is special. 

Pick a Star Trek show. I don’t care which, so long as it isn’t Voyager. Enterprise. Discovery. In the first or any season of your picked show, the entire crew saved the universe countless times. They met new species, some people died, a God figure playfully threatened to annihilate existence (multiple times, multiple figures; all independent and unrelated), approximately 22-26 times. That’s just one ship, Who the hell knows what was happening with the rest of the fleet. So... why doesn’t every last crew member on these fantastic voyages have a dozen High Schools named after them? Why aren’t they all Admirals after the 2nd time they saved the Universe? Why isn’t their very presence at supposedly historic moments giving them a enough recognition to at least get a promotion? Laverne and Shirley got a friggin network sitcom out of a date with Potsie and Richie. You’re telling me Ensign Gates doesn’t deserve a pay bump to Jr Lt after dealing with the J’nail, the Borg, AND Dr. Crusher’s cringeworthy production of Cyrano de Bergerac?

Haven’t these been truly shocking adventures? Sheeee-it, even Mot the barber was technically present when the Enterprise D first entered the Delta Quadrant. Whoopi was there, she’ll tell you. So why isn’t Mot a legend? 

(There’s a reason she always wore hats.)

Because it’s all typical. 

Like Syndrome said, when everybody is special, no one is. The future is mired with destruction, threat, and somehow, redundancy. As we grow older we are required, and expected, to repeatedly save the day without merit or recognition. In fact, to lapse in these duties is to become repugnant, like the Tellurites. 

We have to save the world every day with no hope of relief, but continue to explore without hesitation. 

And drink like Morn.

[tuckerblogs]

I... I don’t like Humidity.

Like a Westerosi rat farmer, I spent 15 years in the land of eternal summer. Sure, it got hot, almost annoyingly so, but oh... a dry heat, Internet. A dry heat for all. 

Not so with this Chicago bunk. It’s mid August and I’ve had my fill of Summer love. I want Autumn to fall NOW, because I cannot sweat no mo’.

I am never dry from my morning shower. I wipe my forehead 4 or 5 times before I’m done brushing my teeth. My days are swampy messes in a tie and dress pants where I come home more sweaty than Charles Barkley after Hot Wing Wednesday. 

So after 2 1/2 months of “Summatime,” I’m done. Pack it up, swimsuits and boats. You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here. Winter is coming, and it better hurry the fuck up.

[tuckerblogs]

Ahoy, cheezos...

I don’t know where I am. I’m lost. 

Not physically, of course. My phone has a GPS, and even a scant glance around the current surroundings reveals that this is, yes, this is in fact my living room. I live here. This is where I live now. 

What I mean is that I don’t know where I AM. Where am I in life? I have 2 kids, a loving wife, and I am miserable. No, not miserable. Lost. 

I am now back in Chicago. Los Angeles is over. 15 years are over. I called the bluff on the belief that brighter pastures lie in the Midwest. Sure, there’s more rain, and vibrant green growth is a more constant staple of Illinois, what with the 15 year drought LA coincidentally experienced in the precise time frame I lived there, but I always thought that I would strut back here like Doug Braveheart, the main character in Braveheart (I stole that joke), and people would be just itching to take my kilt for a spin.*

*That’s not supposed to be sexual. I only meant that I thought I would appear to be a big fish in a small pond, and the correlation between the word “itching” and a course, woolen man wrap from the 13th Century** was the direction the bus was headed in my mind. That sentence was upon us whether we liked it or not. I’ve been drinking, and I won’t shy from obvious connections if it gets words down. 

**Wikipedia states that Kilts were en vogue in the 16th Century, making me, Braveheart, and all the previous footnote wrong.

Anyhoo, here we are, in 2017, continuing a blog that was already behind the times when it started in 1994. Yes, that’s right: 56 years of drivel about Miley Cyrus and beer cans that no longer exist. You’re welcome, Internet. What were we talking about? 

Oh yeah, I’m sad and shit. Totally lost. Stuck in Chicago as a reformed Californian who yearns to tell a tale, but telling it is like.... hard, man. Won’t you pity me? Won’t you join me at the mopey table so we can all excuse our lives on the gumption that we be SO talented, but this stupid world won’t recognize it. And why should I make content for them when nobody’s looking? Bish Pish Nish Fish, as Katy Perry says nowadays. Yeah, WORLD! You gotta ASK me for my shit. I ain’t creating pro bono! I’m just sitting here, making no calls, showing nothing to anyone, horribly offended that you haven’t knocked on my door. It may be Riverside, but it feels JUST like LA! 

Of course this, like all of this, is bullshit. I have a paid Voice Over gig to record tomorrow, along with 2 national auditions. What I have to do tomorrow morning would have been described as heaven 10 years ago, or 5, or 2 weeks ago. It’s a fickle business, and I am a fickle man. Misery is creativity, and business is good. But conviction and dedication make product, and product leads to success, killing the motivator... On we go...

Like I said, I’m lost. Stay tuned.

[tuckerblogs]

White Sunday (with nuts)

While things may seem the same, they’re askew to a minimal degree... barely noticeable to the passing eye, but a keen observer can note the variances.  For instance, it’s snowing.

But, it’s not. The passing fancy at a phone says that there be flurries, but the keen observer looks to a window, and goes “nah.” Now, I should note that this is a smart phone, we’re talking about here. It ain’t no dummy phone, foo. Still, it’s not snowing,

Granted, it’s GONNA snow. 90% chance tomorrow. A Snowy Sunday. It’s just that everything here says it’s happening, but a look at the window casts doubt. We’re certain it is, but... it ain’t. 

I mean here we are. We’re here now. The weather says snow. Where’s the snow? I bought a jacket, boots... I even bought one of them things to wipe your windshield with. 

(Home.)

So where’s the snow? I’m ready. Let’s do this. I rented a truck and everything. I’m here. 

Snow.

[tuckerblogs]

I Shot a Reality TV Show And All I Got Was This Lousy Misdemeanor Ticket for Commercial Filming Without a Permit.

There’s a lot of fun to be had on a TV set. Usually, there are twizzlers and all sorts of strong tape, but sometimes a little unexpected fun arrives. 

Most of the time, TV shows follow rules. I’m not talking about the “One Lifeline Per Contestant” sorta rule or even the “Bad guys shouldn’t be THAT ugly” type. No, I’m talking about the ones that involve the law, like make sure people get paid, make sure nobody dies, and make sure you have permission. That last one is a bit of a sticking point. (2nd one’s pretty important, too.)

So when you say it to the right people but they ignore it, things get hazy. Yes, I like money, yes I like working, and yes we’re in a closed environment. In 15 years have the cops EVER shown up? All it takes is once. 

So I have joined the ranks of the rebels that wander this desert wasteland with a record. I’ll probably have it thrown out, but today... today I TRULY am a member of the Industry. 

And I’ll get someone else to pay for it.

[tuckerblogs]

Indecisión Me Molesta

I’ve been in a state of indecision for the last 6 months. Okay, the last year. FINE, the last 15 years. 

(Since the time this film changed cinema forever.)

Ever since I moved to LA, I’ve wondered how long I’d be here. My dreams said forever, but my resume and bank account usually said until the 15th of the month, at best. Now there are 4 of us. I’ve got little mouths to feed and littler hands to hold. The LA I moved to is a distant memory, and the dusty Valley I inhabit now is all too suppressing.

If we were to return from whence we came, things might be different. I don’t know. I feel I’m too far down the rabbit hole to give up my current vocation and slide into, I don’t know, maybe a carpet cleaning franchise or sell used Mitsubishis. I work in Television, Internet. You know those people who tell stories on the little screen? Who steer the national zeitgeist with visual wonder? I collect their timecards.

But it ain’t all glitz and glamour. Sometimes I have to order office supplies. 

(Get me ALL the pencils.)

Living in Los Angeles means there’s always another Powerball drawing around the corner. There’s always a phone call or an email that can suddenly change everything, that will bestow upon you a windfall of good fortune and cold, hard cash. Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve heard that can happen, but never actually experienced it. 

If we go back to Chicago, I can work in TV. People there need pencils, too. Still, it’s hard to shake the feeling that I will have stopped playing the lottery. In Chicago, I’m just some guy in an office. In LA, I’m still just some guy in an office, but at ANY GIVEN TIME, Lou Diamond Phillips could show up. That changes your perspective. 

So it’s stay here and potentially be poor forever while my kids go to shitty schools and hope for the star of The First Power to offer me a chance at the Big Show, or move home and freeze while making local Muffler commercials for a UHF while my kids dream of field trips to the Graue Mill 2 foot tall waterfall. 

Should I stay or should I go? My torture is endless. Ask me again in 6 months. Or a year, but please Lord, don’t drag your feet for another 15.

[tuckerblogs]

A little Something For The Ladies...

My oldest daughter is a big fan of superheroes, preferably ones that are also princesses. She digs the princesses too, but the winds are changing and she’s moving towards more active action figures. 

(Batman performs for his adoring fans.)

At the corner of princess and superhero lives Wonder Woman. Fyona LOVES Wonder Woman. So imagine our surprise when we discovered that buying a Wonder Woman action figure is harder than buying a beer at Disneyland.**

**The beer is at California Adventure, not Disneyland.

Mark Ruffalo apparently had a similar problem.  Basically, you can’t find female action figures in stores. The Current Hulk’s search for a Black Widow figure for his daughters led him to discover that Scarlett Johansson may exist on the movie posters, but she sure as hell doesn’t in the toy aisle. Apparently, Disney and the other toy makers feel they have the girl market covered with princesses, so they don’t bother to make girl action figures. Batman has been forced to hang out with Rapunzel and Cinderella, and while they’re both lovely people, they’re a bit too chipper for his demeanor.

Female Superhero Action Figures are nearly impossible to find. Even when going to the great pit of despair (The Internet), Amazon and eBay will supply a Wonder Woman or Black Widow for roughly 75 to 100 bucks. What is this craziness? Where are the caped ladies? 

Well, I found one. I did it. I got my girl a Wonder Woman for 25 bucks. It only took 2 weeks of searching and 11 bucks in shipping, but by God, my daughter will know the joy of playing with a 2529 year old Princess who can fly (without an invisible plane since 1988!) and has a Batman for a prince. 

Rapunzel is going to be pissed. 

[tuckerblogs]

Hola Amigos! Kweee Pass-ah? In a bit of a situ over here with the coffee. I know we’re busy, but if we could just have a lil’ bivouac in the break room for a bit, that’d be great. Mmm’kay?

People, coffee is not a game. It’s not a toy, nor is it a dessert. It’s a tool, a means through which we work. And someone has scratched that tool. The next time I find some sort of flavored pumpkin bullshit permeating through MY break room, I’m pulling the plug on the whole affair.

Now, we’re not here to blame people or point fingers, unless that person was Susan. The coffee we purchase to go in the maker is the ONLY acceptable option. Don’t bring your flavored bunk in here like you’re doing us some sort of favor, Susan. That’s right. What I said earlier was a trick. We ARE here to blame someone. We’re here to blame Susan. 

Susan, if you want your coffee to taste like a diabetic sugary squash, then do us all a favor, buy a Keurig pod, and take that shit to Post Production. The law of the land is lawlessness back there, and you and the other heathens can mix it up with your teas and hot apple ciders all day long for all I care. When you’re in Production, you drink Seattle’s Best like the rest of us. 

Good meeting, folks. Back to work.

[tuckerblogs]

Busybody Electric

Busybodies are everywhere, Internet. They bustle and panic, claw and clamor. This can be good, and this can be really, really bad, especially with too many cooks in the kitchen. At this point, if they insist on screwing it up, then by all means, screw away. 

I’m a man of means, and I mean it when I say “Back off, man.” Sure, email’s cool and all, but if you don’t get a response in 5 minutes, wait 5 more. If you’re CC’d on an email, no need to reiterate somebody else’s inquiry. What do I mean? I mean these reply alls: 

Emailer 1 (5 minutes ago): Can you send us a (Blank)?

Emailer 2 (4:45 minutes ago): Tucker, so and so wants a (Blank).

Emailer 3 (4:30 minutes ago): Tucker, are you seeing these emails?

Emailer 1 (4 minutes ago): I emailed Tucker requesting a (BLANK), Emailer 2.

Emailer 3 (3:40 minutes ago): Has he sent it? I’ll email him again.

Emailer 3 (3:35 minutes ago): Tucker, Emailer 1 emailed you looking for a (Blank). Can you send it, please? 

Tucker (3 minutes ago): A (Blank) is on the dropbox. 

Emailer 4 (2:45 minutes ago): (Blank) is on the dropbox? Sweet!

Emailer 2 (2:30 minutes ago): Tucker, can you download a (Blank) from dropbox and sent (sic) it to me? 

Tucker (2:00 minutes ago): Emailer 2, you uploaded (BLANK) to the Dropbox. Do you not have it? 

Emailer 1 (1:30 minutes ago): Emailer 2, can you send me (Blank)?

Tucker (1:00 minute ago): (Blank) is a Goddamned blank W-9. You can also Google it and find it. 

Emailer 2 (:45 seconds ago): Link? 

Tucker (:30 seconds ago): I’m kind of busy getting our film permit, cameras, crew, hotel rooms, flights, and carnets right now. What do you need (Blank) for again? 

Emailer 1 (:20 seconds ago): Don’t I need it one every week with my timecard?

Tucker (:05 seconds ago): unsubscribe

[tuckerblogs]

I also made this recently. Sure, I hate selfies, Instagram, and any personal gratification, but this is WAAAAAAY different. 

Let’s also ignore that I have a TV show named after myself. 

(https://www.youtube.com/user/TheTuckerMaloneyShow)

[tuckerblogs]

Follow Me on Insta-gauche!

I don’t Instagram. It’s annoying enough looking at pictures of myself, let alone trying to get others to look. Who could possibly be in love with their own face that much?

(Or their own expressions?)

It takes a special kind of ego to want to show someone a squinty close up of your face, particularly when you’re usually looking at the screen, not the lens. Selfies and the Instagram culture are the vapid crying out for validation. It doesn’t matter if you’re underneath a tree, standing on a rock, or 30th row at the Remember The Dragons concert. I shocked a lady once by my lack of Selfies. She suspiciously looked at me and offered, “but what if you’re at an UHH-MAZING concert?” Well, then I take a picture of the Concert. How else would I remember the Dragons? (Although if I see an actual dragon, I pray my addled brain will retain the image, and not just tell me to check my iPhoto folders.)

I know I’m a curmudgeon. I know I don’t have enough voh-dee-oh-doo to hang with the cool kids. I don’t even try. I still wear Tevas and have an iPhone 5. I have cable. I have a job. There’s no way I could fit in with this Periscoping Shutter-Tinding hep cat crowd. So.... No Instagram for me. 

Follow me on Twitter. 

[tuckerblogs]

Much Too Creamy

I put too much cream in my coffee this morning. 

I could add more coffee, but then I’ll have too much coffee. I’m only an Amateur in the Coffee League, and usually have to issue a cautionary press release to the office when having a second cup. “Warning,” it reads. “This man has had too much coffee. Ignore wanton outbursts and avoid the bathroom in 30 minutes.” 

But I control the means of Production. I order the coffee to be made. I order it from Staples. I decide when there’s too much coffee percolating, not you, Susan. Stick to your inane “research.”

Let there be MORE coffee! We have two machines, use them! Fire up the Urn in Post, too. Let us fill this hall of business with the rich aroma of beans. What are we but mere entertainers, filling the world with our rich and historical slices of human reality? Who will history remember, I ask? 

Not you, Susan. Probably not me, either. And God willing, not Reality TV.

[tuckerblogs]

No Summer Tonight In My Coffee

Summer’s practically over and here are my totals: 

Barbecues: 0

Beach trips: 0

Sailing: 0

Baseball Games: 1

Fairs: 0

Concerts: 0 (Since 1999)

Weekend Trips: 0

Camping: HAHAHAHA YEAH RIGHT IN THE WOODS? FUCK YOU

Work: ∞

Don’t worry, though. I have a lot MORE work coming in the fall.

[tuckerblogs]

Press Release from Tucker Blogs:

Attention, Internet: 

In the past I have made many, MANY statements about my unabashed hatred of New York City, all based on hearsay, movies, drunken opinions, and the Yankees. 

I hereby retract ALL negative statements about New Yawk. As I sit here in the Bronx having a... beverage and filming a TV show, I am having a fantastic time. And the people! Oh, jeez. 

(Couple of New York nuns)

This town is pretty fun. In fact, it's a lot of fun. I'm going to a Met game Friday, and I've eaten more bagels and Veal Parm in the past 3 days than I have in the last year. 

Pause for dramatic effect....

I love New York! 

note: I DO NOT retract any statements I've made about the Yankees. FUCK THE YANKEES. 

Thank you for your time. 

[tuckerblogs]

So Bored, man....

Man, am I bored. I am a person who is currently bored. I have to kill time at work until it's time to kill time at home. I am a bored man. 

(But man shaped.)

My family's out of town and I join them soon, but not soon enough. So here I sit, bored. I've been promoted, I'm getting paid more, and I like my job, but these in between stages are.... you guessed it: not exciting.

Sure, things will pick up. Things will reach astronomical levels of excitement, settling just below the breaking point of insanity, but not today. Probably not tomorrow, either. Next week looks good, but we're probably pushing the shoot schedule, so it could be more tedium. Also, it could be boring. 

Bluuuuuuuuuurg. Maybe I can hide in the bathroom until it's time to leave. 

[tuckerblogs]

All Quiet On The Western Coast

Oh man oh man oh man oh man oh man oh man.....

Look: this isn't a confession, and it's certainly not an anecdote. I'm simply trying to explain the change that's coming, and how we'll be different for long after. This is the calm. These are the last moments of a time that doesn't know it's ending. The sky shows Spring, but I am in Autumn.

I got hours left, internet. The clock is tick ticking and I'm fret fretting about the compound aimlessly when I should be a driven line. How does a soldier feel before battle? Do trees smell terror? 

(This one does.)

There is nothing more to take from me. I can only listen to the bees and the lawnmowers as they buzz of peace. Okay, maybe this is merely melancholy and dismay, and the lifestyle that has borne me these many years will just have to be put on pause for 9 days. Whether I can subdue it, I know not. My face will hold an expression of calm, until the end has come. 

My mother in law arrives tomorrow for a 9 day visit.

[tuckerblogs]

I’m tired of smelling, of being winded walking up a flight of stairs, and of having to wash my clothes twice as often. I’m tired of the looks of disdain, the feeling of worthlessness, and the clumsy excuses. It’s time, people. It’s time to stop going on Facebook. 

I’m not quitting right out, mind you. That’s not a good idea. Sure, the swan song of the addict goes a little something like this…

"Oh, I’m not going to quit

I’m just gonna cut down.

I can control this if I want

Stop doubting me, you fucking clown.”

Actually, the official addict’s swan song has better lyrics, but I don’t have the licensing rights. 

I can’t just “quit” Facebook, because despite it’s annoyances and foibles, like non-sequitur complaints about unmentioned locations or jobs. One guy has a lot to say to his fellow “SIDs.” He can’t believe what SIDs have to deal with on a daily basis, and that most people have the nerve to think SIDs actually do something totally different. Another guy loves violence. LOVES it. He’s super proud that his home state now allows him to carry a concealed weapon, and only Facebooks videos of people getting punched on the street. Occasionally, there’s a car crash video with the subtitle, “STOOPID C$%T!” So, that guy’s balanced.

No, I can’t quit Facebook because family members see pictures of my daughter, and therefore DON’T call me every three days. That’s pretty valuable to me. So I’ve decided to pull back. I’ve deleted the app in my phone and have never really been to the webpage version, so I should be good for a bit. 

Maybe I’ll start smoking again to celebrate.