what've i, what've, what've i done to deserve this??
So my American network television show, Smith, got cancelled a few weeks ago. No one gives a toss, moving on.
I still can't bring myself to leave LA. Perhaps something about actually owning a car for the first time in ten years has something to do with that. Every third person I've met so far in this city has a story about how they started out in what my parents still insist on calling the "Adult Entertainment" industry. Most of these stories are very touching, and involve sick mothers, incarcerated breadwinners or, fairly traditionally, chemical dependencies.
It's a saddening tendency; sometimes I'd give every third dick in the talent roster to hear one person reply with something like, "Well, the unemployment office listed a vacancy for a fluffer in the 'manual labour' section, I got the job, liked the work, liked the hours, worked hard for the money shots and just look at me now!" But it's not going to happen. That's my scary segue into how I almost almost considered a job in the porn industry. After multitudes of psychotropic drugs and a nice Anne Heche-esque breakdown in the desert, I decided that's not the life for me. Queue up Leigh and some scary punch you back into reality but not really moments and everything is a-ok. She let me hang her upside down by her toes and I screamed a lot. If that's not love, I don't know what is.
So what's next on the plate, Jonny Lee? Well, I got my call for duty aka Angelina said hey, Jonny, you're hard up for work, why not go to a minefield in Angola? SO I AM GOING. TO A MINEFIELD IN ANGOLA. To do a documentary and hopefully end up in traction but hey, it's for a good cause. Irony is everywhere. You don’t even have to look for it; it will just be there with no clothes on. In the form of some girl you married three years ago with her voodoo witchcraft asking you out to pig n' pancake for a hearty meal. And you obviously accept.
I still can't bring myself to leave LA. Perhaps something about actually owning a car for the first time in ten years has something to do with that. Every third person I've met so far in this city has a story about how they started out in what my parents still insist on calling the "Adult Entertainment" industry. Most of these stories are very touching, and involve sick mothers, incarcerated breadwinners or, fairly traditionally, chemical dependencies.
It's a saddening tendency; sometimes I'd give every third dick in the talent roster to hear one person reply with something like, "Well, the unemployment office listed a vacancy for a fluffer in the 'manual labour' section, I got the job, liked the work, liked the hours, worked hard for the money shots and just look at me now!" But it's not going to happen. That's my scary segue into how I almost almost considered a job in the porn industry. After multitudes of psychotropic drugs and a nice Anne Heche-esque breakdown in the desert, I decided that's not the life for me. Queue up Leigh and some scary punch you back into reality but not really moments and everything is a-ok. She let me hang her upside down by her toes and I screamed a lot. If that's not love, I don't know what is.
So what's next on the plate, Jonny Lee? Well, I got my call for duty aka Angelina said hey, Jonny, you're hard up for work, why not go to a minefield in Angola? SO I AM GOING. TO A MINEFIELD IN ANGOLA. To do a documentary and hopefully end up in traction but hey, it's for a good cause. Irony is everywhere. You don’t even have to look for it; it will just be there with no clothes on. In the form of some girl you married three years ago with her voodoo witchcraft asking you out to pig n' pancake for a hearty meal. And you obviously accept.