LaunchPad

Interview with Sunil Nayar, Co-Executive Producer + Writer of CSI: Miami

Getting There.
It was early on an overcast Wednesday morning. 7:00am - early for me, anyway. And by overcast, I mean that the sky was tinged a kind of disappointing gray that makes getting up at seven even harder. Half comatose, I slipped out of bed and into my car. I knew that the drive from my West Hollywood apartment to 1600 Rosecrans Boulevard, Manhattan Beach would be unpleasant. Every freeway into or out of LA was a caged parking lot. Two hours later and with seconds to spare, I arrived at my destination. Tape recorder in hand, I checked my watch again for the eleventh time in as many seconds. It was 9:01 - I was now officially late for a meeting with Sunil Nayar, co-executive producer of CSI: Miami - television’s number one show. On Earth. Was I a little nervous? One could say that. Then again, flustered, high-strung and maybe a little neurotic would be a bit more accurate.

Corral Trekker

"All that we are is the result of what we have thought. The mind is everything. What we think we become." - Buddha

I better write this before I forget: (written sometime in late May, 2007)

   I'm in Airlie Beach, in northeast Oz. Gateway to the Whitsunday Islands, located at the southern most point of the Great Barrier Reef - 74 breathtakingly beautiful and largely undeveloped islands. Here, the artistic touch of creation at its best is on display. Beneath the water's translucent jade surface, the reef is furious with marine life. Rich sunsets ignite the skies and burn long into dusk. Endless horizons, utter tranquility, uniterrupted beauty....

   My experience here has been partly experiencing this paradise on Earth. But it has also, and in large part, been a training ground - forging and conditioning wits and emotions, determination, and, ultimately, self-worth.

Big word, I know.

   I spent a month (most of April and part of May) on the Coral Trekker, a tall ship (imagine a smaller pirate ship) complete with eight sails and a capacity of eighteen passengers and crew. Bob was the skipper: a man so weathered by the sea, so salt-crusted, and so very sharp- tongued, yet of so very, very few words. It was only after more than a few canned whiskey n' cokes did he ever so slightly quiver a lip.

Top Chefs

I'm pleased to announce that I have started a new section of my blog called, Top Chefs (because of my love for the Bravo reality show, I humbly borrow the name, and add an 's'). In this section I will have articles/interviews with the most well-known, innovative, and upcoming chefs in today's culinary scene. The first article, which is featured below, is one about celebrated chefs, Wolfgang Puck and Neelam Batra.

 

Bon appetit!

 

 

 

 

   In Beverly Hills the heat is stifling. Not the usual LA summer bake this afternoon. Today is more of a broil. A daring few venture out from their valeted cars, quickly diving into the nearest air-conditioned boutique or cafe. It’s a little past the lunch rush hour, and the buzz inside Spago shows no signs of slowing. The cool umbrella-shaded patio is alive with chatter. The local standard of “jeans as formal wear” dress code is nowhere to be seen. Tom Ford power suits and high-end summer dresses abound. Frequented by celebs and industry power players alike, Spago has long kept its title as one of Hollywood’s premier dining hotspots, a rarity in the transitory world of Los Angeles cuisine. So it’s only fitting that its founder/creative force is arguably the greatest celebrity chef the world has ever known.

   He emerges from behind a pair of swinging doors, long and purposeful in his strides. Amidst orchestrated chaos that swirls around the main dining room, Wolfgang Puck enters, sifting past tables, chairs, diners and staff. A few quick stops to sprinkle greetings and smiles and then he moves on.

“Hello.” His voice is clear, slightly accented- an added morsel of charm to his persona. The handshake is strong, served with a flash of strikingly white teeth and vibrant and very blue eyes. But enough of the small talk. “Okay, half an hour.”  And the table is set.

Over tea

  Last night I was flipping through a journal from a fews years back when I lived in Spain. This is the entry that I came across-

...As he sipped his tea, he thought back to what he had endeavored. It all seemed so far from where he was now...his heart was pulsating gently, breath relaxed, his face calm and serene- a bit weathered now, but after any great storm things are never quite the same. He sipped his tea, and became entranced by the solitary flame of the candle at his table. The flame, he imagined, was not unlike him- alone on its own journey headed toward an inevitable end. Every now and again straying from its course with every breeze that passed, yet able to shine upright, brilliantly unflinching. Until the next breeze passed.

     Home would have to be one of his stops. Home. He didn't want to think of it right now. He was here and sipped his tea, lost to the charm of his flickering companion. He was exhausted. Rest was what he really needed. The tea was simply an excuse to people-watch and hopefully find another person to talk to. Here, amidst the calm of tea and candles, he reflected upon his predicament. Time would tell...Until then, well, even until then seemed out of reach. So he sipped his tea, knowing that decisions would inevitably be made that would forever change the remainder of his journey.

For now, at least he had his candle.

"Though the sun is gone, I have a light..."

                                                       -Kurt Cobain

"I'd like to thank the Academy..."

I'm at a crossroads- Go into a family business, or move up to LA to do something unexpected and creative.
You could say that this photo is my first acting gig - me pretending that I've made my decision.  

A day in the life

Tomorrow perhaps all this will change. But for now there is the rest of today to enjoy with you, my friend.

-Thai fishermen on tsunami-devastated Ko Phi Phi.

 

Me encanta

Complete disbelief when I finally held a copy of DNA's issue in my hands...utterly unreal. I am loving this!

 

What a difference a day makes

June 23, 2007

  As the train wheezes its way to the northwestern city of Chiang Mai, my thoughts still linger in Bangkok. It was only a day, but one without time, expectation, or consequence.

And, in part, that is why I enjoyed it so much.

  But it was not only the sheer thrill of spontaneity that made that first day in Thailand so utterly unique. It was much more complex than that...

   It was the three of us, foreigners to a new space as well as to each other. It was the outdoor food stand where we first met- with its boiling, curried noodles, and all things deep-fried. It was the night bazaar's constant, manic blur of light and beautiful color. The clattering screams of people, taxis, and everything moving. Tthe distinct tang and decay of Kho Sahn Road. The stagnation of the air- soiled and dripping. The absence of breeze.

   It was a listless afternoon in the park, as we sought refuge from the infusion of filth and dampness of the city. It was riding in flimsy riverboat ferries, fumbling through mud-water canals- almost Venice, only crude and confused, and nothing remotely like it. It was a vague awareness that, somewhere within reach of wherever we stood, slick palms and fingers shook and agreed upon the asking price of discounted humanity.

  But above all else, however, it was such an enjoyable day simply because of the three of us. The circumstances that brought us together. The newness of our jokes, the freshness of each other's faces. And the simple fact that we were no longer alone.

  For now, we are to each other, makeshift allies, of sorts- with no other past than the shared events of the day before. Aware of freedom to disband at any moment.

  Yet deep from within, we remain united by everything about this very place that, for us, makes it foreign. It is a particular unease- some may call fear of the unknown- that holds us together.

At least for one more day.

Color my world

Let me get this shit off my chest:

  I was crossing the street two days ago in my home town, "the OC", with my two female cousins. A guy in a car harassingly shouts out to me, "Hey, nice tank top, buddy! Real nice color!" The three of us turn around to him. I shoot him a "thumbs up" as if to say, "Whatever, prick," and continue walking. What a dumbass. Getting in the last word, he finished by screaming, "Fag!" just in case I mistakenly thought he was actually paying me a compliment.

Welcome home, Andre.

    Surprisingly, I was pretty shaken by this seemingly small incident. Why had it gotten to me? It became pretty clear right away. There is a point when enough is enough. You can only put up with petty narrow-mindedness for so long. After that, it's GO TIME. My blue tank top had obviously threatened this blindly bigoted individual. But, that's his issue, not mine.

  And then I thought about it a little more. Since when were blue tank tops considered to be "gay"? And more importantly, what the FUCK is that supposed to mean? The word "gay" used as a description of something stupid or weird or bad is wrong for so many reasons. Mainly because it dehumanizes an entire group of people.

   And what the hell do bright colors have to do with sexual orientation? Frankly, if all it took was a pink tank top to make me not want to stick my dick in a girl, I would have been gay long, long ago. It should be obvious to anyone with more than a peanut-sized brain that males who are afraid to wear any colors, brand names, cuts or styles of clothing just because they assume they will appear gay are not men at all. In fact, I suggest they physically examine themselves closely just to be sure they still got a pair between the legs or even had a pair to begin with.

   Clearly this problem extends far beyond a mere piece of clothing. It is about discrimination. I would think that by now already we have had plenty of heroes who have shown and led humanity the way forward. There are no more excuses.

   So here's a message to all real men, gay or straight: If you like pink, WEAR PINK. If you like speedos, bask in the glory of spandex. Be yourself, and to hell with those who have issues with it. You're simply exposing their weak-mindedness through your own courage and strength.

   And a "manly" challenge to homophobic bigots and all others who cause further dissension and strife among an already conflicted humanity: GROW UP or SHUT UP.

A Slice of Advice

A mental note: never go to a butcher to get a haircut. Even if it costs about $1.90. Even if you're sick. With Hep A. And slightly delusional. It's just not worth it.