This Is My Blood: Pacífico

Everyone has a moment, when they are doing an activity that they like, at which point they realize that this thing—whatever it is you're doing—will never be more than a fun little hobby. There's a difference between enjoying participating in something and being truly good at something. Being good is rare. There's absolutely nothing wrong with being fine or average at something. Playing pick-up basketball at the local rec center can be really enjoyable, as long as at some point you can let go of the delusion that you'll one day be playing in the NBA. Cooking a quiche can be satisfying as long as you're not spending the 45-minute bake time fantasizing about making that quiche on The Great British Bake Off. If you play bass in a garage rock band with your friends, I will gladly listen to you play a local gig, just don't tell me that you think you are going to be playing Madison Square Garden eventually. I'm not saying to defer legitimate dreams, I'm just saying that it's helpful to be reasonable about it.

I did some theater acting in high school and college. Nothing crazy—five musicals and four straight shows total—but it was enough that I considered "acting" an extracurricular, one that I truly enjoyed. Occasionally, I received compliments for what I did on stage—La Salle was a small pond, so it was a little easier being a big fish every once in a while. But at no point did I consider myself a "good" actor, and never once, ever, not a single fucking time did I ever consider acting in any capacity after I graduated college. I enjoyed the fuck out of every moment of my few acting experiences, but I knew during every single performance that it was not effortless, that I was not talented, and that this did not come naturally.

I knew this for sure during my time in a production of Recent Tragic Events. I've written about this a few times on the blog before, because it was my favorite play I ever performed in, and I have fond memories of portraying the comfortable stoner on stage, and bonding with the intimate cast over drinking games (to practice for the drinking games our character played on stage). This was the 9/11 comedy, if that rings a bell for any of you Lasallians reading this. Good shit.

It's funny—I'm sure if you asked any number of La Salle administrators at what point they realized Joe K*** would never be a professional actor, they would point to Recent Tragic Events too, but for different reasons. They would talk about the infamous Swearing Sunday incident, in which I performed the script as originally written, curses and all, which was against school policy, and so on. I already wrote about it HERE (it's #140), and yeah, it was pretty unprofessional.

But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about another line, this one innocuous. It was a simple line of dialogue. Too simple, maybe, because I could never quite get a grip on it. Basically, my character (Ron) walks onto the stage, which is Waverly's (played by Hannah) apartment. I'm supposed to be Waverly's friend, comfortable enough to help myself to the contents of her fridge. I walk stage right, open up a mini fridge (I forget if it was an actual fridge or I was miming it), and say: "No. No Pacificos."

Easy, right? Three words. The motivation is clear: Ron is thirsty for a beer, and he is disappointed that there are no beers in Waverly's fridge when he goes to look. Every time I said it, though, it just sounded so unnatural to me. I tried it like the outcome was expected, and I tried it like the outcome came as a shock. I tried to play it sarcastically, like I blamed Waverly for my sobriety. I tried elongating the second "no," like I was trying to delay the confirmation that there was no beer. I tried to change the first "no" to "nope," as if that could add a layer of slackerdom to my character. I tried to heap judgment, I tried to play innocent, I tried to give the shakes, I tried to throw it away, I tried to hold it back, I tried to keep it a secret, I tried to completely deadpan, I tried, I tried, I tried. "No. No Pacificos." I couldn't fucking do it.

I'm not even saying that the director or any of my castmates were giving me shit for this particular line, or even noticing my struggles with it. And I didn't ask questions about it either. This was a private struggle, and I never really won. Four performances went by and I flubbed it each time. Pam and I watched the DVD five or so years later, and I had to practically cover my eyes and ears when Ron entered through the free-standing door frame and walked stage right to the refrigerator. To this day, when I try to say those three words out loud in order, it sounds preposterous, like I'm still reading a script. It has become a sort of aphorism to honor of the infallible truth that I was never really good at acting, not really, and that that's okay. There's no Pacifico, there never was any Pacifico, and at this point, I'm okay with that.

That's interesting, though, because over the past week or so, for the first time in my life, I have opened up my refrigerator and have not been able to say "Nope, no Pacificos" while telling the truth. There was indeed one can of Pacífico in there, waiting to meet its demise via This Is My Blood. It's interesting because this is a path of logic I've never considered. Perhaps the reason for my inability to sound authentic while talking about a lack of Pacífico is that I have never even held a Pacífico, let alone drink one, let alone want one and not have one.

So, here we are. I drank a Pacífico. To do my due diligence, here is what I noticed about this beer from a beer-tasting point of view: smelled like metal but thankfully didn't take like it, color of yellow straw, normal adjunct beer taste with large overtones of fermented apple. (Pam didn't taste the apple—if you think I'm not a good actor, then you should ask me how competent of a beer taster I am.)

 

I would love to tell you that I finished the beer, walked to the fridge, and finally conquered that line of dialogue through my act of method drinking, but that's not true. At the end of the night, I opened the fridge and said aloud: "No. No Pacificos." And it still sounded preposterous. I'll never be a good actor.

But at least I have an excuse now: I finally know what Pacifico tastes like, and I didn't really like it. And so when I say the line again—"No. No Pacificos."—I'll know that it's the motivation behind the words that is hanging me up. Ron is supposed to be sincerely disappointed that there are no Pacificos. Since I didn't like the beer, then I find it hard to connect to Ron's disappointment. I'll never look in a fridge and note the absence of Pacifico with sadness.

A good actor would be able to fake it, though. Which again confirms that I am not a good actor. But fuck, man, did I have fun acting, just like I had fun drinking this beer I don't like. It's important to remember when you aren't good at something, but at the end of the day, it's important to remember to do what you love anyway.

NOTES

BEER: Pacífico (the script didn't have the accent on the i when I said the line)

STYLE: Adjunct Lager

ABV: 4.5%

BREWED BY: Grupo Modelo S.A. de C.V.

LOCATION: Mexico City, Mexico

PURCHASED AT: Chase's Hop Shop

PAIRED WITH: a Little Debbie oatmeal pie

GRADE: 1 puke out of 5

 

BEER COUNT: 510