Blood on the sheets
No, this is not a story of innocence lost or some raunchy "that time of the month" sex story. Dear lord, get your minds out of the gutter. The title did get your attention though, huh?
So, I woke up the other morning and saw a little drop of blood on my white sheets - up around where my shoulders would be. At first I thought it was just a spot, maybe a balled up piece of cat hair, something inconsequential. I go about my business and the thought didn't really enter my mind again until I woke up the next day and saw it afresh. At this point I stopped and really took note of what it was, a drop of blood. A drop of life, one might say. What concerned me about the whole thing was that it was just a drop. You would think if you were bleeding there would be more. Understand, I'm not asking for a pool of blood. A pool of blood would have been bad. Very bad. But a single drop? And from where? I looked, there were no open wounds. No fresh scabs.
Recently, I worked on a new TV show, Jericho, and had to shave my head, chest and arms. No, I wasn't playing a bald transvestite. I was playing a victim of radiation poisoning. A very cool show and a very cool part. Tune in - Jericho, CBS, Wednesdays 8pm. OK, enough of the shameless plugs.
The reason I bring this up is because of nasty little things known as ingrown hairs. Women know about this. Gay men know about this. Your typical car mechanic knows nothing about this, unless he is a gay man or a woman. I now have a much greater respect for the shaving, waxing and removal of unwanted hair. I also have a greater understanding of the discomfort associated with said unwanted hair growing back in. Oy. But this what we do for our art. We change and adjust in order to become something or someone else. Fun. Weird at times, but fun. The part on Jericho seems to follow a pattern in my acting career: the guy who gets killed or dies or, more specifically, dies a horrible death. It doesn't make for recurring parts, but boy its fun.
One of the first jobs I had was playing Rhona Mitra's (know for Boston Legal and Da Ali G movie) boyfriend on Party of Five. I didn't die per say, but she was fucking Scott Wolf's character behind my back and a little part of me died when I found out. That was the beginning and it only went down hill from there - a figure of speech more than a statement of fact. Cut to Threat Matrix - played a middle Eastern terrorist who got plastic surgery to become white and blow up the Chicago Commodities Exchange. I was blown up in a bomb truck at the end of the episode. I wasn't coming back on that show. 5 years later, or so, I ran into someone on that show. She was dead sure we had met or worked together. I couldn't remember and with a girl like that I think I'd remember. Turns out she remembered me from that show and said I was the best part of it and they should have spent the entire series looking for me. Nice words. It meant a lot to me. But it wasn't to be - I died and the show eventually got cancelled for a myriad reason. It's ok, the exec producer went on to be the driving force behind the little known phenomenon Desperate Housewives. And yet, I've never been on the show or had an audition... interesting. Apparently he didn't share the sentiment as this young actress.
CSI - died of an overdose of sugar, drugs, alcohol and sex. Nice way to go, very fun to shoot. Very fun.
My piece de résistance was a little short film that looks like it will never see the light of day: "The Disappeared." I got to play a Russian mathematician who got abducted in Chile while solo camping, was abducted and tortured to death by an psychotic ex-Nazi. True story. Acted my balls off and killed in it. I must call the director and find out what's going on with is.
So, when you think about it, a little drop of blood on a white sheet is nothing more than a drop of blood on a sheet. But I say we make it a symbol of my career. The image that translates my good fortune to play people who lack such a virtue. The image that translates my passion for the darkness that can only be seen by the light that surrounds it. The image that translates the unceasing nature of this industry's desire to either see me dead or kill me off. The image that could be nothing more than an ingrown hair that has been scratched and the scab fell off in the middle of the night allowing a small amount of blood to be discharged from my skin and adhere to the white cotton sheets bellow.
I think it's probably the last since I don't really believe in symbols. But I'm not going to complain if this fachachta industry wants to keep killing me off, 'casue I'm going to be laughing all the way to the bank.
So, I woke up the other morning and saw a little drop of blood on my white sheets - up around where my shoulders would be. At first I thought it was just a spot, maybe a balled up piece of cat hair, something inconsequential. I go about my business and the thought didn't really enter my mind again until I woke up the next day and saw it afresh. At this point I stopped and really took note of what it was, a drop of blood. A drop of life, one might say. What concerned me about the whole thing was that it was just a drop. You would think if you were bleeding there would be more. Understand, I'm not asking for a pool of blood. A pool of blood would have been bad. Very bad. But a single drop? And from where? I looked, there were no open wounds. No fresh scabs.
Recently, I worked on a new TV show, Jericho, and had to shave my head, chest and arms. No, I wasn't playing a bald transvestite. I was playing a victim of radiation poisoning. A very cool show and a very cool part. Tune in - Jericho, CBS, Wednesdays 8pm. OK, enough of the shameless plugs.
The reason I bring this up is because of nasty little things known as ingrown hairs. Women know about this. Gay men know about this. Your typical car mechanic knows nothing about this, unless he is a gay man or a woman. I now have a much greater respect for the shaving, waxing and removal of unwanted hair. I also have a greater understanding of the discomfort associated with said unwanted hair growing back in. Oy. But this what we do for our art. We change and adjust in order to become something or someone else. Fun. Weird at times, but fun. The part on Jericho seems to follow a pattern in my acting career: the guy who gets killed or dies or, more specifically, dies a horrible death. It doesn't make for recurring parts, but boy its fun.
One of the first jobs I had was playing Rhona Mitra's (know for Boston Legal and Da Ali G movie) boyfriend on Party of Five. I didn't die per say, but she was fucking Scott Wolf's character behind my back and a little part of me died when I found out. That was the beginning and it only went down hill from there - a figure of speech more than a statement of fact. Cut to Threat Matrix - played a middle Eastern terrorist who got plastic surgery to become white and blow up the Chicago Commodities Exchange. I was blown up in a bomb truck at the end of the episode. I wasn't coming back on that show. 5 years later, or so, I ran into someone on that show. She was dead sure we had met or worked together. I couldn't remember and with a girl like that I think I'd remember. Turns out she remembered me from that show and said I was the best part of it and they should have spent the entire series looking for me. Nice words. It meant a lot to me. But it wasn't to be - I died and the show eventually got cancelled for a myriad reason. It's ok, the exec producer went on to be the driving force behind the little known phenomenon Desperate Housewives. And yet, I've never been on the show or had an audition... interesting. Apparently he didn't share the sentiment as this young actress.
CSI - died of an overdose of sugar, drugs, alcohol and sex. Nice way to go, very fun to shoot. Very fun.
My piece de résistance was a little short film that looks like it will never see the light of day: "The Disappeared." I got to play a Russian mathematician who got abducted in Chile while solo camping, was abducted and tortured to death by an psychotic ex-Nazi. True story. Acted my balls off and killed in it. I must call the director and find out what's going on with is.
So, when you think about it, a little drop of blood on a white sheet is nothing more than a drop of blood on a sheet. But I say we make it a symbol of my career. The image that translates my good fortune to play people who lack such a virtue. The image that translates my passion for the darkness that can only be seen by the light that surrounds it. The image that translates the unceasing nature of this industry's desire to either see me dead or kill me off. The image that could be nothing more than an ingrown hair that has been scratched and the scab fell off in the middle of the night allowing a small amount of blood to be discharged from my skin and adhere to the white cotton sheets bellow.
I think it's probably the last since I don't really believe in symbols. But I'm not going to complain if this fachachta industry wants to keep killing me off, 'casue I'm going to be laughing all the way to the bank.
posted by Adam Donshik at 10:29 AM
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