LIVER SPOTTED SCROTUMS ARE NOT MY PASSION IN LIFE!

“Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead.” – Joss Whedon




Mr. Whedon, I declare! (Yes, said like Miss. Scarlett O’Hara) I did not see that coming! I am touched and inspired. I can hear him now in San Diego at Geekic Con, speaking to a bunch of comic book-holding virgins dressed like Klingons. NuqDaq 'oH puchpa''e'… oh yes, that was indeed Klingon. Geeks everywhere, simmer down. Before you all bust a nut prematurely in your sensible Fruit of the Looms, all I could find was, “Where is the bathroom?” (I was looking for, “Yippie! I finally touched a boobie!”) God bless all the Comic Con, Renaissance Fair and Wizard and Warrior freaks. If we didn’t have them to compare to, I wouldn’t be quite as hot. You can’t have the light with out the dark.



If you have been reading my blog, you know that I love, no, relish in, placing judgment and categorizing folks. What I am about to reveal about myself is not something that I like to admit, and if was someone else admitting to this, I would eat them alive. In my opinion, what is behind the fabulous curtain should never be revealed, so I apologize if I ruin the glamour that is Colby. I know that it’s hard to imagine, but I, a spectacular sex god, am a closeted … supernatural-loving-geek. Anything supernatural! I eat that sh*t up! (I am coming out! Hand me my pocket protector!)



Speaking of Mr. Whedon, I love me some “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”! I said it! I can’t get enough of watching some little blonde chick kicking supernatural ass. (Very lez-liscious!) The way I am with vampires (Team Edward! He sparkles like diamonds!) and monsters, is the way 11-year-old girls scream over that whore Miley Cyrus. My shame is now public, but I will accept it and keep watching “The Vampire Diaries,” “Supernatural,” “True Blood,” “Charmed” reruns, and many more shows and movies of that genre. I am free! You might be wondering, why is this bitch talking about vampires and shit? Let me explain how this is going to come back around to a point.



I appreciate Joss Whedon because you can tell he loves what he does. He creates worlds filled with characters that you can tell he cares about. He chases his passion and is successful because of that. I love any man who puts David Boreanaz in two shows. (Someone wipe my chair. Okkaay?) I also appreciate Oprah (doesn’t everyone?) because she has built her universe (and ass) from her drive and passion (… for food). The bitch is a bit cray-cray I truly believe, but she is amazing. All that power, fame and followers will make anyone completely full of themselves. (Just one fan and I think I am that whore Miley Cyrus.) Both of these people found their passion and went for it, and that is what I want to talk about. That is what I want to do in my own life. What is my passion? (Really someone tell me!)



I don’t base “passion” only on career choices and monetary success. (Though I would roll in a pile of cash like a little piggy in mud!) I think that chasing any goal or dream with gusto is amazing. That could be anything from starting a charity to starting a family. You have to find what will make you feel energized and hold on to that. My two best friends are a lesbian couple. I love me some lesbians! (I wish I had a tool belt wearin-lesbian as a boyfriend sometimes!) My dear friends have built a beautiful family with a handsome (and very smart) little son, whom I adore. That is success and it should be cherished. Watch me get all mushy! Feelings? (It hurts.)



Again, what is my passion? Where do I find it?



Since I arrived in Los Angeles, I have gone back and forth about freeing up time to act. I want to have an income that keeps me on the comfortable side (no starving waiter for me), but with a “real” job comes the normal nice-to-five schedule. So, what is a girl to do? Night job? Day job? Waiter? Actor? More money? No money? AHHHHHH! (Slap me, I am panicking!)



I know when I came here I had passion and drive. Where did it go? Did I lose it completely? I have a hunch that while on my journey over the last six years, a few of the jobs I have held along the way have sucked the life out of me. I will never forget them, and I will never set foot in one of them again. They were so off my path, and submerged me in such negative environments that my chi was f*cked up. (I need to call a medicine pigmy man or something.)



When I first moved to this fine city I was working a normal retail job at American Rag. I was management. (Drunk with power! “I said, refold that sh*t!”) The hours were somewhat flexible, so I was able to audition while I was working there. I ultimately left because the owner and policies were horrid! (The discount employees got was bull-to-the-shit!) During my time there, a friend approached me to work at a bar with him. I didn’t know many bitches, so I finally said yes. I didn’t need the money, but I went along with it for the “fun” of it. I would now have two jobs. (Bitch please! Slap me the next time I say yes to sh*t like that!) I ended up not having a day off for four months! I only got those days off because I got strep throat. Amaaaazing vacation! I wanted a warm tropical climate, but instead I got a 102-degree temp that made me moist all over. Swamp ass anyone? (I was a vision!)



So, one afternoon, my friend escorted me to a meeting with the “manager” while the bar was closed. The “interview” was about three minutes and I got the job. (He looked at me and said “nice” … that was it??) I reported to work that Friday to be “trained.” Looking back, if I had known what the reputation of the bar was, “trained” would have made me nervous. (No, I will not let you be the caboose, bitch!) I was told that I would be shown how to get ice, when to stock things, my cleaning responsibilities, where the kegs were kept and all the other sh*tty jobs the bar back gets stuck with. Grand! I was livin’ large in L.A.! The dream, if you will. (Hey Angelina! Hola J Lo!)



I arrived dressed in my cutsie Abercrombie look, and ready to work and flirt. When I approached the door, the picture my brain received from my eyes made me literally take a step back. I think things short-circuited. (Johnny 5 was f*ckin’ sick to his stomach!) I walked in and pretended not to notice my surroundings, and I had the office door in my sights. I found my “friend” in the office, and I said, “Who the f*ck am I going to meet HERE?” Let me explain something to my readers. This bar was called the Gold Coast, or if it was named correctly, it should have been, “Where-Old-goes-to-wait-for-Death’s-arrival Coast.” Oh yes, the average age was around 55. (That is being kind.) I learned that the young guys that hung out in the bar were all hookers, and saw me as a new bitch on their territory. The old men loved me, and the young ones hated me. I was sure that this princess was going to get cut.



I walked out of the office to be shown my job, and I was a professional. I was rather good at the job, so I know I can get down and dirty when it is needed. I am not someone who backs out when I have given my word. I will say that being groped, being followed into the one-person bathroom, having my neck smelled as I leaned over to grab glasses and seeing a man walk around in a diaper (not the norm, I will say that) with a “beer” in his hand all night, was NOT what I signed up for. Oh, let me say … it wasn’t beer. (Oh yeah.) I did my job, and I got out. The tips were fun and all, but it did not make up for the lack of social life and the negative vibe I experienced every weekend. All of the sudden I had no time or energy to do much else. I was work, work and more work.



The months I spent at the Gold Coast taught me what I didn’t want to do in life, and what I didn’t want to turn into. I realized that I wanted love and a partner. I wanted a career. I wanted passion in all aspects of my life. That place punched me in the face each night with sad faces and sad stories. I was friendly with the regulars and played off the pervs that like to touch. I did my job, but after the strep throat weekend, I departed. Can you blame me? There are many stories to tell, but let’s just say that they all involved inappropriate behavior on the parts of many customers. Sometimes the story involved security rescuing me and watching the bathroom door after I went in, and sometimes it involved other staff members trying to grab me in the ice room. (I am a lady!) If what I have said has not been enough to convince you of the type of place it was and why I needed to leave … did you not read “diaper” and “not beer.” I think my case rests.



Right after American Rag I had a position with a company that I loved, and it was how I met my two best friends, but the time came that I was to move on. Other things needed my attention and I needed to get busy. I found a retail job in management that I thought would allow me the time to do what I came to do. That job was working at a “design show room” that sold wallpaper and f*ckin’ “high-end” paint. I thought, “I LOVE to decorate and talk colors, so this is grand!” Oh my God! Each morning, after day two, I wanted to stab myself with the little metal thing that was used to open the paint cans. Mixing color? Dusting shelves? Standing around for hours and hours with nothing to do … I am sleeping and typing right now. It sucked the life out of me to enter that store. Each night that I went home, I felt a huge weight come off my shoulders, until I realized I would be going back in the morning. (Plopped right back down.) The sad thing was that it was not normal flexible retail hours. I was again doing nothing I came to L.A. to do. Needless to say I ran screaming one day when I quit. It took two months to hit my breaking point, and when a can hit the floor and went everywhere … I was done. F*ck yo’ paint! F*ck yo’ wallpaper b*llshit! I am f*ckin’ out of here! (Yes, I got ghetto!) It was liberating, and I didn’t care at all about being unemployed. I knew I was going to be just fine and actually better since I would not settle again for some ridiculous job.



Let me tell you that I am not a flake. I am not some person without any direction who hops from job to job. I have a college degree from the University of Washington, and I know how to do a job well. Currently, I have been at the same job for almost five years, so obviously I found something I enjoyed. I want that on the record. I just had some bad luck and hurdles to leap over to get to where I wanted to be. I didn’t quite know where that was … but whatever.



The very next job on my resume is the Pièce de Résistance. (Oh, I don’t put any of these shitty jobs on my resume for real.) After the paint store, I thought that working at hotel in the evenings would be a good idea. I would be able to audition and still have free time. I was ready and I found a gay hotel. Oh blessed be! My people were calling me home. How perfect was this? Adorable me, working the front desk … I would be the highlight of the hotel for sure. We would end up in a magazine with me posing by the bell. (Cheese!)



So, I got an interview (horray!) and I went in. All I knew was that it was a gay hotel in West Hollywood, so I made sure I looked good. I don’t go to certain types of establishments, so I had never heard of this place and its reputation. I arrived at the San Vicente Inn on a cloudy day. (You will see how this comes into play later.) I was greeted by the manager, and I was taken into one of the rooms for the interview. I did not find this weird, since the main office was open for public viewing, so it was not a place to perform an interview. (If he asked to see me nude … different story.)



The interview was normal and it went well. I was told that I could work a few different shifts through out the week, and they understood I was an actor. They told me that it was a gay hotel; they talked about the busy seasons, the rules and lots of other things. I felt ok about it, and it was a small hotel, so I thought it would be just fine. Was it my dream job, or the dream job my parents had for me with my Business Degree … NO! It was going to allow me to make money and pursue my dream. I was on Cloud 9 for about 24 hours. (Who knew that a sunny day could be my “dark” cloud?)



I arrived the first day looking as cute as possible. It was sunny that morning, so the white pants with a complimentary shirt were a smashing choice. (I was making the most out of pre-Labor Day months.) I arrived for a morning shift before “guests” were out and about on the property. (Pool, decks, cabanas and that type of sh*t.) I met the manager there for training, and let me say that this job was going to be a piece of cake. Within an hour I had it down. I shadowed him the rest of the morning. We walked the property. We spoke with guests. I got introduced to the handsy housekeeping staff. (Bitches liked long hugs “Hello.” I was waiting for the “Nice to meet you” blow jobs!) I thought that, aside from those boys, that all was going to go well. I would make it work.



An hour into my morning, guests began to gather around the pool. I watched from the desk as they came out in their towels and swimsuits. It was a warm morning and everyone, from a distance, looked to be in fine moods. All seemed normal, and then it happened. A man dropped the towel and bared all. Then, it happened again and again. It was a naked epidemic! I was not a fan of what I was seeing. I didn’t blush, but I was confused and really upset. I looked at the manager, who “forgot” to not mention the gay CLOTHING OPTIONAL hotel part. He then tells me this fact, only after seeing my shocked face. At the time, I didn’t know what to say, since it was my new job, and I had only been there an hour! Well, I know what I wanted to say.



“Sir, if I was looking at a pool full of naked Colin Farrells, Brad Pitts and Chris Evans … then I would be in whore hog heaven! What I am seeing is a bunch of flabby asses, jiggling moobs (man boobs) and liver- spotted scrotums dangling in between old man thighs as they bend over! I didn’t even know that taints could sag! This is not right! Why would someone open a hotel that encourages this? This is not God’s way! Get a priest up in this hell hole and clean it out!” But, I didn’t say that. I said, “Oh. Cool.”


Oh, and I won't even talk about the one time a HUGE (meaning size) bull-dyke came in and took it all off. Gay is gay, so who can tell her hell no!? I felt like I was at the deli counter wanting to make a french dip. (Enough said!)



Needless to say, I kept my eyes open for any new job that would be appropriate. I spent five months checking-in guests, checking-out guests, answering phones, handling nightly reports and all the other normal hotel things. I also had to deal with the handsy housekeeping boys and the creepy “General Manager.” He looked like an animated piece of leather that had not been Armoraled in years. I also put up with guests hitting on me, or calling the desk at night to see if I would “visit” them in their rooms. (Ring. Ring. Are you a top or bottom?) I put up with the drunks. I put up with men touching their wee-wees while looking at me, and the whores did not hide it at all. (Heellllooo! Meet my little sausage!) I witnessed acts that no lady should have to see and that were not allowed in public areas, so I had to tell them to take it to a room. I became the bitch mommy at the desk. I enforced rules and I kept f*ckin’ order. No one got away with sh*t on my watch! I took out my unhappiness on every horny perv I met. I had to leave when I saw what my life had become and when I was made aware of all the sketchy and dirty things that went on behind hotel room doors. (Oh hellz no!) Each day after that, I felt dirty when I left. Alas, I found a new job because I was moving on up! Things had to change! I left and I have been here, in my current position, for five years now. Is it my passion in life and has it allowed me to act … not really, but I enjoy it at this point in my life. I believe that every experience has a learning lesson, no?



This year I pursue my passion. This year I chase my dream. I said this in my first blog that it was time, and I was changing things up. I don’t want to do something that I “enjoy” because I want to do something that I “love.” In May, I am taking my first Stand-Up comedy class, and after that I go on to improv classes and other acting classes. I am also going to get out in the world and live again. (Hello Boys, I’m dating again! The line goes to the left.) I am going to spread my wings and fly. Am I meant to be a hugely successful actor? Who knows, but I am going to try. For the past five and a half years I have given up on trying, and now that doesn’t cut it for Colbs. I am not going to let five-year-old Colby’s dream of being an actor go down in flames without a fight.



I don’t want to settle. I don’t want to be scared. I want to live like we all should intend to live. We get one chance, so the over achiever in me wants to do it right! No one should want to f*ck it up. Find your passion. Find what you love. Jump off and fly, and who cares if you fall once in a while. As kids we would fall all of the time, and we said “F*ck this shit!” All right, we didn’t use that word. We said something more along the lines of, “F*ck this crap!” We got up and we learned how to do things, and we learned how to avoid making the same mistakes. So, I am not going to be afraid of falling, because I know that I am strong enough to get right back up and learn my lessons. I think we all can do that, and we should not be afraid of anything. So, get to it! You may find me on Oprah one day, or working the check out line at a Piggly Wiggly, but if I am in love with it, so be it!