Don’t be frightened! When a Bennington student, 10 minutes beforeyou come up to the podium hands you a mace, that he made, If you don’t bring it to the podium withyou, you will never be Bennington. So I would like to thank you Ben for helpingme put the fear of God in the audience tonight. But I have to put it down because I’m anactor, and I am really weak. That was heavy! It wasn’t like a prop. That shit was real! Thanks Ben. So now I’m going to read. And I’m not off book. So I might be looking down a lot. Thank you, President Coleman, Brian Conover,faculty, students, family, alumni, some of whom are dear friends of mine who have travelledall the way from the big city to see me hopefully not humiliate myself tonight.
And especially thanks to you, the GraduatingClass of 2012. See, as a joke I wrote, hold for applause,and I was actually going to read that. So you kind of killed my joke! Let’s do that again. 2012, hold for applause. 2012! Wow! I never thought I’d see 2012. I thought perhaps the Mayan calendar wouldprove correct. And the end of the world would have been thegreatest excuse to get me out of this terrifying task of delivering the commencement speech. But wait! According to the Mayan calendar here, whendoes the world end? December — December 2012. Damn! Okay. Maybe I shouldn’t talk to the graduateseager to start their new lives about the end of the world. Okay. Really? Really? Of all the novelists, teachers, playwrights,poets, groundbreaking visual artists and pioneers of science, you got the TV actor. No, no, and I actually heard you petitionedfor me. Oh, you fools! You know what, for those of you who didn’tpetition for me, I would love to later on talk about the problems in the Middle Eastand the downfall of the world economy. And for those of you who did petition forme, I don’t have any signed DVDs of the Game of Thrones. But I am happy to talk about the parallellineages of the Targaryens and Lannisters later at the bar. You see, it took all of my strength, and,of course, a little extra push from my wife Erica for me to agree to do this. Because I don’t do this. In my profession, I am told by people whoknow what they’re doing, where to stand, how to look, and most importantly, what tosay. But you’ve got me — only me — my wordsunedited and as you will see quite embarrassing. Okay, let me think. I’m thinking. [But actually I didn’t read that. That was ad libbed.] Let me think. What has — everyone and their uncle toldme, as I desperately seek out advice on how to give a commencement address. “Tell them what they want to hear.” “Talk about your time at Bennington.” “Know that there is no wrong speech.” I like that one. “Just keep it brief.” That was my father-in-law. “Be brutally honest. Tell them how hard it is after you graduate.” We’ll get back to that one. “Just watch Meryl Streep’s commencementspeech at Barnard and you’ll be fine.” What did Beckett say: “I Can’t Go On,I’ll Go On”. So even if I don’t burn in your hearts andminds long after this speech is over. Even if I don’t inspire you to reach forthe stars and beyond. Even if I am erased from your memory afterone glass of wine tonight — Where am I going with this? I can’t go on. I’ll go on. You know, I won’t speak of my time here,like some old fishermen. You have already had your time here. You have your own story to tell. But I have to say. For me, it did start here, in Vermont, ona very rainy night. It was 1987. And I was a prospective student. The rain was coming down so hard, it was impossibleto see that I was meeting the person who would later become my greatest friend and collaborator. A freshman, who would, 17 years later, introduceme to the woman that became my wife. I’ll call him Sherm. Because I do. It was late at night, on the road, right therenear Booth House. And despite the dark night and the heavy rain,this place was so alive. The lights pulsed from each of the dorms. Now I was a kid from New Jersey who went toan all-boys catholic high school. I was four-foot something. I mumbled when I spoke. I wore a sort of woman’s black velvet cape,black tights, combat boots and a scowl. But here at Bennington, I was home. And I have to say it doesn’t get better. Let me clarify. There are not shinier more important peopleout there. Your fellow students, you friends sittingaround you are as good as it gets. Twenty two years after my own graduation,I have worked with my rainy night friend and fellow graduate Sherm on countless productionshe has written, in all stages of development from living rooms to off-Broadway. Brooks, Ian, Justin, Brett, John, Matthew,Jim, Sean, Hyla, Nicki and The B are all classmates I shared my time with here and still workwith, and am lucky to call my friends. We are very spoiled here. People always say to me, “for such a smallschool it seems like there are so many of you”. I find that really interesting. And I kind of think that’s perfect. We can’t help it. We burn very brightly. Please don’t ever stop. Graduates, now when I sat where you are rightsitting right now, I had so many dreams of where I wanted to go, who I wanted to be,and what I wanted to do. Theater companies I wanted to start with classmates. Movies, I wanted to be in. Directors I wanted to work with. Stories I needed to tell. It might take a little time, I thought. But it would happen. When I sat there, 22 years ago, what I didn’twant to think about is where I would be tomorrow. What I would have to start to do tomorrow. And I graduated in 1991, a great year. A time of resurgence for independent filmsin this country. A time of relatively affordable rents in NewYork City. See, I assumed that I could make a livingwriting my plays, acting way off off off Broadway. And hopefully, you know, one day, join theactors I loved and respected in those independent films. TV – oh, what, no. What! Are you kidding me? No, didn’t even consider that. I had much more class than that. Much more self-respect than that. And so bothers — What I didn’t have was cash, a bank account,a credit card, or an apartment. I just had debt. A big hungry, growing larger every momentdebt. So as you will tomorrow, I had to leave beautifulVermont. Attack the life that I knew with socks anda tooth brush into my backpack. And I slept on ouch, after couch, after couch,after couch at friends’ apartments in New York. Until I wore out the rent paying roommates’welcome. I didn’t want a day job. I was an actor, I was a writer. I was a Bennington graduate. I had to get a day job. I dusted pianos at a piano store and let thosestreak for five months. I worked on the property of a Shakespearescholar for a year pulling weeds and removing bees’ nests. I went on unemployment once but for not forlong, I couldn’t handle the guilt. Eventually I was able to pay rent for a spoton the floor of an apartment on the Lower East side. But my roommate had a breakdown and disappeared. He later resurfaced in a religious cult. I’m making this sound romantic. It really wasn’t. I helped hang paintings at galleries, paintingsthat inspire you to think, I could do that. And then finally, after two years of job andcouch surfing, I got a job in application processing. As a data enterer at a place called ProfessionalExamination Services. And I stayed for six years. Six years! Longer than my time at Bennington. From the age of 23 to 29, well they lovedme there. I was funny. I wore black no cap no tights. I smoked in the loading docks with the guysfrom the mail room and we shared how hung-over we all were. Everyone called each other shortie. What’s up short? How you doing shortie? So how so hung-over shortie? I called in sick almost every Friday becauseI was out late the night before. I hated that job. And I clung to that job. Because of that job, I could afford my ownplace. So I lived in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Yeah, you say that now. Oh, my kingdom for a time machine. Yeah, that’s right. I lived in an industrial loft. My rent was $400 a month. My dream of running a theater company withmy friend and fellow Bennington graduate, Ian bell had died. I won’t go into those details but neitherone of us had any business sense and the theater we lived in. It had no heat or hot water. We didn’t smell very good. But we had our youth, but youth gets old veryquickly. You’ll see. So Ian moved out to Seattle. And I moved up the street to my loft. And I still didn’t have heat. In 1993, industrial loft meant not legal tolive there. See, I don’t want this to sound cool andI feel like it’s sounding cool. Ad lib. But I did have hot water — hot water inmy bathroom, which a friend of mine using that bathroom once shouted, it smells exactlylike. A summer camp in here. It was true. For some reason, in the middle of Brooklyn,there was earth in my shower – actual earth and then oh, look, mushrooms growing fromthe earth. But I was safe though. The ideal fire control company was right acrossthe street where they make all the chemicals that put out chemical fires. I did not fear a chemical fire. I would be OK. And all those chemicals in the air were OKtoo. Because up the street we had the spice factory,they made spices, and that just covered everything up in a nice cumin scent. I had a rat. But that was OK, because I got a cat. His name was Brian, no relation. My grandmother had given me a pink pull-outcouch. Oddly no friends or recent graduates wantedto crash on my couch. So I put the couch on its end, so Brian couldclimb it and look out the window. I had only the one window. I myself could not look out the window. It was – it was quite high. So I had no heat. No girlfriend. What! Are you kidding me? No, acting agent. But I had a cat named Brian who told me ofthe world outside. And I stayed for 10 years. No, don’t pity me. There’s a happy ending. When I was 29, I told myself the next actingjob I get no matter what it pays, I will from now on, for better or worse, be a workingactor. So I quit my position at the ProfessionalExamination Services. My friends really weren’t happy about that,because it was so easy to find me when I worked there. Work – that was the only place I had theinternet. This was at the beginning of the Internet. And now I didn’t have either the internetor a cell phone or a job. But something good happened. I got a little pink theater job in a playcalled Imperfect Love. Which led to a film called 13 Moons with thesame writer. Which led to other roles. Which led to other roles. And I’ve worked as an actor ever since. But I didn’t know that would happen. At 29, walking away from data processing,I was terrified. Ten years in a place without heat. Six years at a job, I felt stuck in. Maybe I was afraid of change. Are you? My parents didn’t have much money. But they struggled to send me to the bestschools. And one of the most important things theydid for me — and graduates, maybe you don’t want to hear this – is that once I graduated,I was on my own. Financially, it was my turn. Parents are applauding, graduates are not. But this made me very hungry. Literally. I couldn’t be lazy. Now I’m totally lazy but back then, I couldn’tbe. And so at 29, in a very long last, I was inthe company of the actors and writers and directors I’d start out that first year,that first day after school. I was. I am by their sides. Raise the rest of your life to meet you. Don’t search for defining moments becausethey will never come. Well, the birth of your children, OK, of course,forget about it, that’s just six months. My life is forever changed, that’s mostdefining moment ever. But I’m talking about in the rest of yourlife and most importantly in your work. The moments that define you have already happened. And they will already happen again. And it passes so quickly. So please bring each other along with you. Everyone you need is in this room. These are the shiny more important people. Sorry, it sucks after graduation. It really does. I mean, I don’t know. At least it did for me. But that’s the only thing I know. You just get a bit derailed. But soon something starts to happen. Trust me. A rhythm sets in. Just like it did after your first few dayshere. Just try not to wait until like me, you’re29 before you find it. And if you are, that’s fine too. Some of us never find it. But you will, I promise you. You are already here. That’s such an enormous step all its own. You’ll find your rhythm, or continue theone you have already found. I was walking downtown in Manhattan the otherday. And I was approached by a group of very sweetyoung ladies. Easy. Actually they’re sort of running feverishlydown the street after me. When they got to me breathless, it was really— they didn’t know what to say, or couldn’t form the words. But it came out that they were NYU freshmen. And they were majoring in musical theater. Of course, come on. They were like science majors. They are running after me. “What musicals are you doing?” I inquired. “Well,” one of them said, looking downat her shoes, “we aren’t allowed to be in plays in our freshman year”. Now they were paying a very high tuition tonot do what they love doing. I think I said, “Well, hang in there”. What I should have said was, “Don’t waituntil they tell you you are ready. Get in there”. Sing or quickly transfer to Bennington. When I went to school here, if a freshmanwanted to write direct and star in her own musical, the lights would already be hungfor her. Now I tell the story, because the world mightsay you are not allowed to yet. I waited a long time out in the world beforeI gave myself permission to fail. Please, don’t even bother asking, don’tbother telling the world you are ready. Show it. Do it. What did Beckett say? “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.” Bennington Class of 2012, the world is yours. Treat everyone kindly and light up the night. Thank you so much for having me here.
And especially thanks to you, the GraduatingClass of 2012. See, as a joke I wrote, hold for applause,and I was actually going to read that. So you kind of killed my joke! Let’s do that again. 2012, hold for applause. 2012! Wow! I never thought I’d see 2012. I thought perhaps the Mayan calendar wouldprove correct. And the end of the world would have been thegreatest excuse to get me out of this terrifying task of delivering the commencement speech. But wait! According to the Mayan calendar here, whendoes the world end? December — December 2012. Damn! Okay. Maybe I shouldn’t talk to the graduateseager to start their new lives about the end of the world. Okay. Really? Really? Of all the novelists, teachers, playwrights,poets, groundbreaking visual artists and pioneers of science, you got the TV actor. No, no, and I actually heard you petitionedfor me. Oh, you fools! You know what, for those of you who didn’tpetition for me, I would love to later on talk about the problems in the Middle Eastand the downfall of the world economy. And for those of you who did petition forme, I don’t have any signed DVDs of the Game of Thrones. But I am happy to talk about the parallellineages of the Targaryens and Lannisters later at the bar. You see, it took all of my strength, and,of course, a little extra push from my wife Erica for me to agree to do this. Because I don’t do this. In my profession, I am told by people whoknow what they’re doing, where to stand, how to look, and most importantly, what tosay. But you’ve got me — only me — my wordsunedited and as you will see quite embarrassing. Okay, let me think. I’m thinking. [But actually I didn’t read that. That was ad libbed.] Let me think. What has — everyone and their uncle toldme, as I desperately seek out advice on how to give a commencement address. “Tell them what they want to hear.” “Talk about your time at Bennington.” “Know that there is no wrong speech.” I like that one. “Just keep it brief.” That was my father-in-law. “Be brutally honest. Tell them how hard it is after you graduate.” We’ll get back to that one. “Just watch Meryl Streep’s commencementspeech at Barnard and you’ll be fine.” What did Beckett say: “I Can’t Go On,I’ll Go On”. So even if I don’t burn in your hearts andminds long after this speech is over. Even if I don’t inspire you to reach forthe stars and beyond. Even if I am erased from your memory afterone glass of wine tonight — Where am I going with this? I can’t go on. I’ll go on. You know, I won’t speak of my time here,like some old fishermen. You have already had your time here. You have your own story to tell. But I have to say. For me, it did start here, in Vermont, ona very rainy night. It was 1987. And I was a prospective student. The rain was coming down so hard, it was impossibleto see that I was meeting the person who would later become my greatest friend and collaborator. A freshman, who would, 17 years later, introduceme to the woman that became my wife. I’ll call him Sherm. Because I do. It was late at night, on the road, right therenear Booth House. And despite the dark night and the heavy rain,this place was so alive. The lights pulsed from each of the dorms. Now I was a kid from New Jersey who went toan all-boys catholic high school. I was four-foot something. I mumbled when I spoke. I wore a sort of woman’s black velvet cape,black tights, combat boots and a scowl. But here at Bennington, I was home. And I have to say it doesn’t get better. Let me clarify. There are not shinier more important peopleout there. Your fellow students, you friends sittingaround you are as good as it gets. Twenty two years after my own graduation,I have worked with my rainy night friend and fellow graduate Sherm on countless productionshe has written, in all stages of development from living rooms to off-Broadway. Brooks, Ian, Justin, Brett, John, Matthew,Jim, Sean, Hyla, Nicki and The B are all classmates I shared my time with here and still workwith, and am lucky to call my friends. We are very spoiled here. People always say to me, “for such a smallschool it seems like there are so many of you”. I find that really interesting. And I kind of think that’s perfect. We can’t help it. We burn very brightly. Please don’t ever stop. Graduates, now when I sat where you are rightsitting right now, I had so many dreams of where I wanted to go, who I wanted to be,and what I wanted to do. Theater companies I wanted to start with classmates. Movies, I wanted to be in. Directors I wanted to work with. Stories I needed to tell. It might take a little time, I thought. But it would happen. When I sat there, 22 years ago, what I didn’twant to think about is where I would be tomorrow. What I would have to start to do tomorrow. And I graduated in 1991, a great year. A time of resurgence for independent filmsin this country. A time of relatively affordable rents in NewYork City. See, I assumed that I could make a livingwriting my plays, acting way off off off Broadway. And hopefully, you know, one day, join theactors I loved and respected in those independent films. TV – oh, what, no. What! Are you kidding me? No, didn’t even consider that. I had much more class than that. Much more self-respect than that. And so bothers — What I didn’t have was cash, a bank account,a credit card, or an apartment. I just had debt. A big hungry, growing larger every momentdebt. So as you will tomorrow, I had to leave beautifulVermont. Attack the life that I knew with socks anda tooth brush into my backpack. And I slept on ouch, after couch, after couch,after couch at friends’ apartments in New York. Until I wore out the rent paying roommates’welcome. I didn’t want a day job. I was an actor, I was a writer. I was a Bennington graduate. I had to get a day job. I dusted pianos at a piano store and let thosestreak for five months. I worked on the property of a Shakespearescholar for a year pulling weeds and removing bees’ nests. I went on unemployment once but for not forlong, I couldn’t handle the guilt. Eventually I was able to pay rent for a spoton the floor of an apartment on the Lower East side. But my roommate had a breakdown and disappeared. He later resurfaced in a religious cult. I’m making this sound romantic. It really wasn’t. I helped hang paintings at galleries, paintingsthat inspire you to think, I could do that. And then finally, after two years of job andcouch surfing, I got a job in application processing. As a data enterer at a place called ProfessionalExamination Services. And I stayed for six years. Six years! Longer than my time at Bennington. From the age of 23 to 29, well they lovedme there. I was funny. I wore black no cap no tights. I smoked in the loading docks with the guysfrom the mail room and we shared how hung-over we all were. Everyone called each other shortie. What’s up short? How you doing shortie? So how so hung-over shortie? I called in sick almost every Friday becauseI was out late the night before. I hated that job. And I clung to that job. Because of that job, I could afford my ownplace. So I lived in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Yeah, you say that now. Oh, my kingdom for a time machine. Yeah, that’s right. I lived in an industrial loft. My rent was $400 a month. My dream of running a theater company withmy friend and fellow Bennington graduate, Ian bell had died. I won’t go into those details but neitherone of us had any business sense and the theater we lived in. It had no heat or hot water. We didn’t smell very good. But we had our youth, but youth gets old veryquickly. You’ll see. So Ian moved out to Seattle. And I moved up the street to my loft. And I still didn’t have heat. In 1993, industrial loft meant not legal tolive there. See, I don’t want this to sound cool andI feel like it’s sounding cool. Ad lib. But I did have hot water — hot water inmy bathroom, which a friend of mine using that bathroom once shouted, it smells exactlylike. A summer camp in here. It was true. For some reason, in the middle of Brooklyn,there was earth in my shower – actual earth and then oh, look, mushrooms growing fromthe earth. But I was safe though. The ideal fire control company was right acrossthe street where they make all the chemicals that put out chemical fires. I did not fear a chemical fire. I would be OK. And all those chemicals in the air were OKtoo. Because up the street we had the spice factory,they made spices, and that just covered everything up in a nice cumin scent. I had a rat. But that was OK, because I got a cat. His name was Brian, no relation. My grandmother had given me a pink pull-outcouch. Oddly no friends or recent graduates wantedto crash on my couch. So I put the couch on its end, so Brian couldclimb it and look out the window. I had only the one window. I myself could not look out the window. It was – it was quite high. So I had no heat. No girlfriend. What! Are you kidding me? No, acting agent. But I had a cat named Brian who told me ofthe world outside. And I stayed for 10 years. No, don’t pity me. There’s a happy ending. When I was 29, I told myself the next actingjob I get no matter what it pays, I will from now on, for better or worse, be a workingactor. So I quit my position at the ProfessionalExamination Services. My friends really weren’t happy about that,because it was so easy to find me when I worked there. Work – that was the only place I had theinternet. This was at the beginning of the Internet. And now I didn’t have either the internetor a cell phone or a job. But something good happened. I got a little pink theater job in a playcalled Imperfect Love. Which led to a film called 13 Moons with thesame writer. Which led to other roles. Which led to other roles. And I’ve worked as an actor ever since. But I didn’t know that would happen. At 29, walking away from data processing,I was terrified. Ten years in a place without heat. Six years at a job, I felt stuck in. Maybe I was afraid of change. Are you? My parents didn’t have much money. But they struggled to send me to the bestschools. And one of the most important things theydid for me — and graduates, maybe you don’t want to hear this – is that once I graduated,I was on my own. Financially, it was my turn. Parents are applauding, graduates are not. But this made me very hungry. Literally. I couldn’t be lazy. Now I’m totally lazy but back then, I couldn’tbe. And so at 29, in a very long last, I was inthe company of the actors and writers and directors I’d start out that first year,that first day after school. I was. I am by their sides. Raise the rest of your life to meet you. Don’t search for defining moments becausethey will never come. Well, the birth of your children, OK, of course,forget about it, that’s just six months. My life is forever changed, that’s mostdefining moment ever. But I’m talking about in the rest of yourlife and most importantly in your work. The moments that define you have already happened. And they will already happen again. And it passes so quickly. So please bring each other along with you. Everyone you need is in this room. These are the shiny more important people. Sorry, it sucks after graduation. It really does. I mean, I don’t know. At least it did for me. But that’s the only thing I know. You just get a bit derailed. But soon something starts to happen. Trust me. A rhythm sets in. Just like it did after your first few dayshere. Just try not to wait until like me, you’re29 before you find it. And if you are, that’s fine too. Some of us never find it. But you will, I promise you. You are already here. That’s such an enormous step all its own. You’ll find your rhythm, or continue theone you have already found. I was walking downtown in Manhattan the otherday. And I was approached by a group of very sweetyoung ladies. Easy. Actually they’re sort of running feverishlydown the street after me. When they got to me breathless, it was really— they didn’t know what to say, or couldn’t form the words. But it came out that they were NYU freshmen. And they were majoring in musical theater. Of course, come on. They were like science majors. They are running after me. “What musicals are you doing?” I inquired. “Well,” one of them said, looking downat her shoes, “we aren’t allowed to be in plays in our freshman year”. Now they were paying a very high tuition tonot do what they love doing. I think I said, “Well, hang in there”. What I should have said was, “Don’t waituntil they tell you you are ready. Get in there”. Sing or quickly transfer to Bennington. When I went to school here, if a freshmanwanted to write direct and star in her own musical, the lights would already be hungfor her. Now I tell the story, because the world mightsay you are not allowed to yet. I waited a long time out in the world beforeI gave myself permission to fail. Please, don’t even bother asking, don’tbother telling the world you are ready. Show it. Do it. What did Beckett say? “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.” Bennington Class of 2012, the world is yours. Treat everyone kindly and light up the night. Thank you so much for having me here.
