As we head into the final week before the Oscars, I'm always reminded of my true passion. Artistically, I'm probably a better writer than I am an actor, but it started with being on stage. As I learned of TV and Film I knew what I wanted to do the rest of my life. It was never about money, or fame, those were side effects of success. It's too bad that so many with the opportunity end up ruining their lives. Being an actor is difficult. You want people to like you, who you are, and when that public persona gets tarnished, the audience takes it out on the box office. Sure we like to think, "we'll they have millions, they'll get over it", but imagine the difficulty of having every piece of dirty laundry aired. My parent's divorce was a disaster, but at least it was not on the cover of a magazine. My friends broke up because he fell in love with a girl at his work, but they never got the Brangelina vs Aniston treatment. I remember when I met Vince Vaughn a few years ago a girl said to me, "I love him. And I'm glad that he's with Jen(Aniston). I'm on her side, not Brads." I replied, "You know that he was in Mr and Mrs Smith with Brad and Angelina." I don't think he's taking sides like all the readers of Star Magazine.  Every time you're drunk, puking, passing out, picking your nose, getting gas, and taking your kid to school in sweat pants some asshole with  diggy-cam is in your face. That being said they could move. Or not get wasted a bar where 50 people with flashes aren't standing at the door. As an aspiring writer I want you to like my brain, my ideas, my words. I could be a fat, bald, bearded alcoholic weirdo, but you might think I'm a genius. (only the beard to go!!) what has to be worse is the "journalist\handy cam TMZ reporters" and their brilliantly thought out questions. On a reputable Toronto news station, the lead reporter was asked what is one question she would ask any of the Oscar Nominees, she replied, "I would like to ask Natalie Portman if she knows what sex her baby is?" Would a sports reporter ask a Stanley Cup winner what kind of vegetable would he plant in his organic garden? Probably not

When I was 17 I got to be an extra in an audience scene in the movie We're No Angels with Robert DeNiro and Sean Penn. It was the first time that I'd seen the way in which movies were made. The scale of them, the accuracy. There were PA's pulling leaves off trees to make it look more like winter. All these people, all over the set who's particular job made this tiny stretch of road look like the 1920's. A cathedral, a town ,a bridge, and huge center gazebo. I guess that I looked enough like a homeless child, because they asked me to stay on after the crowd scenes. Before I knew I'd missed weeks of school, and was spending every day watching two greats work their practice on a terrible script. Not to mention that Demi Moore was in it, and I was 17!! Every night closed my eyes and dreamed of that Kutcher-Fucker. I think what struck me the most was when the camera was off. The way in which these bigger than life stars were quiet, soft-spoken gentlemen. Penn was in the midst of being a Hollywood bad boy, and DeNiro was...well DeNiro. I asked them about movies, and how they rehearsed. I wanted to know the angles and the process. I'd watch them repeat the same lines, the same way over and over again to perfection. And unlike every other of the masses, I never fawned over them.

I dreamt of being in their position one day. One day deciding how an imagination can be brought to life. I knew then and there that if I was going to do anything with my life(and I'm still undecided) something about the recreation of words into pictures was going to make me happy. The idea that I write things now that bring any emotion to people, no matter how simplistic, excites me. What's great is that I'm just warming up. I'm just getting into the flow of being able to write everyday. Those of you that read this are fueling my drive, and guiding my ideas and influences the way an audience should. (and I thank you) This process is the step that I need to take in order to keep that person that works full-time with two kids, separate from the brewing volcano of stories that spew from my head.

Of course I hope to entertain. I hope that I can enlighten or inspire. That each reader, whether they like it or not sees effort and desire. That each of you help me grow as writer, and as person. And one day when I'm up on that stage amongst my heroes, and Jason Reitman hands me a golden statue, know that it was you that helped me get there. I'll stumble through a speech remembering all the times that I dreamt of making it there. I'll thank a shit load of people that only other people in the room have heard of. An agent, a lawyer maybe, and all the people that believed in my ability to never shut up. Then the wife, kids, maybe a mistress. The things I'll have to leave out will be much longer. Empty rooms, time alone, long bus rides. All the times that I've stared into the shit pile that life delivers with wonderment. Every time I've seen the world fall apart in front of my eyes. My mother above, Paula, all my brothers and sisters, my Bio-parents, the surrogate family's I've joined, scotch, Dunhill's and fine cigars, BMX bikes, crocs with socks, the moon shining through the window at the top of the stairs, BC ferries, a Car accident or two, and a few dozen hearts. So Since I'll forget to thank you then, let me take the time now. Thank you. Your time is precious and you spent three minutes reading some angry rant about nothing, and I appreciate it. I've tried to be vulnerable and human in my stories, and you've responded by sharing similar information. You've let me know that you like my brain, my words and my ideas, and that keeps me working harder. So years from now when you get out of some piece of shit movies I wrote and wonder what happened, or when I pull it together enough to get nominated for an award, but refuse to respond to your "poke" on facebook, remember this letter. Maybe print it off? I'll eventually become so big that I'll pretend not to know you at some fancy restaurant where I'm complaining about the service, and you remind me that I used to write about assholes like me! In those times ahead it will be about the money, and the fame, and I'll want as much of it as I can get my hands on. Divorces, coke binges, late-night bisexual encounters...that's the life. And it will all be because of you...

Thank You