I volunteered in Iowa in 2007 because, like you, I had friends serving in Iraq, friends who were looking for jobs, others who couldn’t go to the doctor because they couldn’t afford it. I felt that had to change. So, I knocked on doors. I registered voters.
And I’m volunteering again now because my friend Matt got a job at a Detroit car company that still exists, and Lauren can get the prescription she needs. I’m volunteering because Josiah is back from Iraq, Chris is finishing college on the GI Bill, and three weeks ago, my buddy Kevin’s boyfriend was able to watch him graduate from Marine Corps training. That’s change! And we can’t turn back now.
So, before I close—and as I wonder which Twitter hashtags you’ll start using when I’m done talking—hashtag SexyFace—I ask all you young people to join me. You don’t even have to put pants on! Go to commit.barackobama.com and register right there. And the oldies out there, you can do it too.
Let’s keep fighting for a president who’s never stopped fighting for us! Go online. Find your local campaign office. Call your friends. Call some strangers. Volunteer. That’s how we’re going to win this thing.
I really enjoyed listening to Rahm’s speech. But he’s a mayor now, so he can’t use four-letter words.
But I’m no mayor. So, I’ve got one for you:
VOTE.
Within seconds, #SexyFace was trending on Twitter. I had a hunch that it might go viral—that’s why I put it in there. To my amusement, the trending continued throughout the night as people started co-opting it to tweet their favorite hot pics of Zac Efron and Justin Bieber, two legitimately sexy-faced artists in their own right. I enjoyed scrolling through and seeing a nice balance of politics and smiling faces, but maaan, did it piss off some die-hard politicos who were cranky that anyone would use the hashtag for something other than tweets about voter turnout. (Of course, this amused me even more.)
How dare you, Jared Oban? America never needs an excuse to tweet Zac Efron pics! My phone started blowing up with texts from Obama White House buddies, campaign folks, and other friends from across the country: They liked the speech! The Los Angeles Times even called it a “generational takedown of the Republicans” because it stood in such stark, energetic contrast to the old-timey nonsense they had put up on a pedestal during the RNC. Woohoo, mission accomplished! When I jumped off my couch and yelled at my television a week prior, I realized one goal of my speech was to swing back at regressive rhetoric by uplifting younger, more diverse voices.
I was glad that a speech defending the progress America had made under Obama was well received, because it was about more than just that campaign, or that election, or even about the age-old fight of Democrats vs. Republicans. Politics is personal—on a selfish level, it was about me, and my desire to get married one day. And it was about my friends—and yours—who were finally getting access to better jobs and health care, and serving openly in the military regardless of their sexuality. It was about people we may never get to meet, and doing things to make their lives better, not just cockblocking stuff other people had done or wanted.
There’s no denying that being asked to give that speech and having it go well felt like a special moment for me. My parents, who watched with Josh from a special seating area in the arena, were proud. In the big picture, the convention and the campaign were about making America a fairer place to live. While my primary motivation for delivering a kickass speech lay squarely in my belief that Barack Obama and Joe Biden deserved a second term, I felt like my professional journey had come full circle.
Unlike all the silly “White Castle to the White House” headlines, my government coworkers didn’t see it as a hindrance that I came from the world of entertainment. Being in DC thankfully hadn’t made me lose my voice as an artist. I’ve always believed in the power of thinking creatively and discussing serious topics at the same time—in many ways, that was the essence of an administration that prioritized the input of a younger generation. If nothing else, at least after this I had one more credit on my Google search results: #SexyFace.
1?And left the nails for the next person, don’t worry.
2?Actual quote.
3?Except for winning a Pulitzer.
4?When President Obama signed the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, we made sure that soldier was invited to the ceremony.
5?I did not describe it this way. But I might have if they let me.
6?Willie Robertson from Duck Dynasty spoke at the 2016 Republican National Convention. They really do love that show!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE HOW TO DO BUSINESS WITH GANGSTAZ
A few years ago I was offered a small part in a tiny independent Indian film shooting outside Mumbai. The dark, dramatic script offered me the opportunity to play the type of brooding role I hadn’t done before, so I welcomed the challenge. It wasn’t going to be the kind of payday people often think of. For two months of work, I’d make $11,000, before taxes. On that pretax eleven grand, I would need to pay a ten percent commission to my agent, another ten percent to my manager, and five percent to my lawyer.
Compared to Hollywood (universally known as the capital of morality), what you should know about Bollywood is that Indians tend to abide by their own set of contradictory standards in business. Yes can mean no, No can mean no, and the infamous Indian head wobble can mean “yes I understand,” which can also mean… no. If you’re unfamiliar with these rules, I assure you they are both infuriating and impressive—you might want to pull your hair out and high-five someone at the same time. Doing business in India is a bit like playing mind games with the world’s best poker player.
I am terrible at poker.
After you accept an offer for an independent film, it’s standard practice for the producers to quickly wire-transfer your salary into a third-party escrow account that is released to you according to the filming schedule. After I accepted, a week went by. Then another. Three weeks before I was set to leave for the shoot, instead of a confirmation of the escrow transfer, I received an emailed first-class ticket on British Airways from LAX to Mumbai. This seemed so fancy!
I called Spilo. “Dude. Can you ask them to give me the money they spent on that ticket instead? I can buy myself an economy seat and pocket the rest!”