This is my significant other, D. He has obsessive compulsive disorder of Howard Hughes like proportions and believes in Jesus.


I’m Jas. I go through periods where everything is horrible and I’m not really religious but I appreciate the fact that D acknowledges things like the fact that kids are dying trying to get out of Syria or that a giant chunk of the world’s population has no access to clean water doesn’t really add up to the more traditional interpretation of God.

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We share a tiny, tiny living space with my cat, Taxi. Taxi is a miniature siamese mountain panther. He walks like a predator and sleeps like boss.

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The love we all have for one another is compounded when someone (usually me) says something that reinforces the very likely reality that, were we paired with anyone else, massive chaos and unhappiness would ensue. The following is a collection of not only those statements, but the statements that I know are coming:


“I’m not watching another movie with you because we literally just watched one in the theater and that much sitting during the day makes me feel bad about all the things I’m NOT doing and – no, I’m not crying, stop it!”


30 Rock is not a “falling asleep” show because IT IS IMPOSSIBLE NOT TO PAY ATTENTION TO IT.”

“If you grow a mustache then so will I, and we both know I can’t grow a mustache on my face.”

“When I say, ‘put on some music,’ I do not mean, “play the latest Scriptnotes.

“I will grant you sexual privileges if you ___ for me.”
A. Feed Taxi after I realized that I have gone to bed without feeding him. I would do it, but I’m sleeping.
B. Shake Taxi’s food bowl at 6:00AM because he ate until he saw the bottom of the bowl and decided to run around the apartment and knock shit over until someone shakes the bowl to prove that it’s not empty. I would do it, but I’m sleeping.
C. Inspect the closet after Taxi bursts from it with a puffy tail. I would do it, but I’m 97% certain that Taxi can see ghosts and I don’t want to be near a ghost.

“I need you to play Billy Joel’s Moving Out again so I can make it look like Taxi is in a Billy Joel music video.”

The best worst damn thing on Instagram today #TaxiCat #siamese #billyjoel #movingout

A video posted by Jas Sams (@jas_sams) on

“Ham is a weird meat because it’s the only meat at the center of least 3 episodes of major medical dramas where someone’s brain problem turns out to be a tapeworm they got from eating ham. So basically, ham has the ability to will tapeworms into existence because it’s too much of a stretch for me to believe that these characters would take the ham out and leave it on a potential tapeworm palace long enough for tapeworms to fuck and lay eggs in it and then put it back in their fridge and eat it 3 weeks later. So basically, ham is magic and can create life. It just sucks that the life forged from the magic of ham is a brain hungry tapeworm. Oh, you aren’t hungry anymore? Bet you want salad now, don’t you?”


“I’m pretty sure that the illustrator for Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark just stared at a plate of overcooked pulled pork until he hallucinated the tendrils and fly pieces of meat taking on dark, nefarious, and demonic forms which he then sketched and submitted to his publisher.”

It’s true. If you stare at this long enough:


You eventually see this:



“HELP ME. It has been an hour and at first I didn’t move because Taxi was on my lap and I didn’t want to disturb him but then I started watching this clip of Angie saying Ham! on 30 Rock and I’M STILL NOT TIRED OF WATCHING IT.”

Weird affection looks good on us.

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This dog perfectly captures the essence of what happens in my brain whenever I find out that someone invited me to a party:

Try as I might to get out of the apartment and be the social butterfly I am in my dreams, I end up staying home a lot. Last year’s Comic Con saw me sitting in my car for nearly an hour as I debated whether or not to brave a party by myself until my friend and his people arrived. An hour! What the hell did I think I was going to sort out in the front seat of my grandmother’s Buick at 11:30pm on the busiest weekend of the year in San Diego?

It’s difficult to describe. I were to ever see a professional then they might describe it as a “chronic and crippling fear of being a dumb fucking asshole leftover from large chunks of your life where you were, for lack of a better term, a dumb fucking asshole.”

It’s ridiculous.

It’s tricky to deal with anxiety when you are someone who feels energized by social interaction. The more people you meet and talk with the healthier you feel. If you go for periods where you don’t see anyone, however, then you feel like you are doing something wrong in life which bleeds into other aspects of your life. Again, it’s ridiculous.

Growing up I had a dedicated cluster of close friends, so if I didn’t make friends elsewhere then whatever man; I still had my crew! Now I’m an adult. The crew has long since disbanded. And Los Angeles sometimes feels like the social equivalent of Mad Max: Fury Road. The requirements for platonic, interpersonal relationships are cloudy at best. You can totally fuck someone you matched up with through an app on your phone, but you’re weird if you say, “You like this thing? Holy crap, me too! Let’s trade numbers and text each other about random stuff that happens to us for the foreseeable future and hang out in person on the regular!

That approach doesn’t apply to today’s social culture. Perhaps this is why basic kindness and inclusiveness overwhelms me to the point where one might as well have moved Heaven and Earth just by saying, “Hey, the gang is going to a taco truck, wanna come with?”


It’s this kind of exuberant enthusiasm that I blame for the fact that I cannot account for HOURS of my Halloween.

One of my friends helps organize a long running Halloween party. It has been going on for seven or eight years and they have it down to a science. A lot of time and effort goes into the planning of this event.

Halloweeeen! #scottpilgrim #starwarstheforceawakens

A photo posted by Jas Sams (@jas_sams) on

As he showed us through the different areas of the house, the attention to detail inspired the same welling up of emotions that I usually experience when I watch a film about a scrappy animal that overcomes adversity to save its human. You know, that part of the movie where you think that the dog died, only to see him crest the hilltop as a symphony of positive, powerful music erupts from nowhere? Perhaps I’m overreacting, but if I had a glued 80 glow in the dark hockey masks to the walls to create a Room of Heads for my guests, then I would love to know if someone experienced an emotional reaction to my efforts.

What surprises me was that I was never really that drunk, yet there are giant chunks of time that I cannot account for. At one point there were supposedly over 350 people on the premises, yet I don’t ever remember seeing those crowds. Supposedly several people that I knew were in attendance, yet somehow I completely missed them. There were a few times where Dustin and I got separated for what seemed like 20 or 30 minutes, but apparently it was more like an hour or two. One of the hosts just published over 500 photographs from the night and, aside from some amazing photo booth shots, I am nowhere to be found.

But let’s pause for a second to appreciate this sweet photo booth:






It’s not that I need to be in the party pictures; it just strikes me as extremely odd because we were there from 8:30pm to 4am. So… where was I? What was I even doing? Did I just slip into an alternate universe for a few hours? 

After establishing that I had not blacked out or taken in a nap somewhere, Dustin said, “Honestly? I think you just experienced extreme sensory overload from being around so many people. I don’t know if you know this or not, but you are easily excited by crowds and … well. You don’t really focus that well.”

Dammit. I had been hoping that he somehow failed to notice the fact that it takes work for me to focus on the level of the most average of 6th graders.

However, he is right. Sensory overload makes sense – but it’s alright by me in this case. I like to imagine that I was running around at the speed of light being the social butterfly of my dreams after all.

My brain just couldn’t process how stoked I was.

 More Halloweeeeen! #scottpilgrim #thedriver   A photo posted by Jas Sams (@jas_sams) on


It’s quite possible that the girl beside me just ordered Tito’s and cranberry juice and was not charged for it. Unless she whipped out a credit card and the flight attendant swiped it faster than the speed of light, I do believe she simply asked and they just gave it to her. Dear God; is this what it’s like to fly on Virgin America?

plane1All air travel as envisioned by me, Jas Sams. 

People seem shocked when I tell them that I found my side job on Craigslist, probably because of the onslaught of posts that advertise a serving job only to reply to you and say that the position of server has been filled, but the one for prostitute was still available. Between the solicitations for amateur models, “servers,” and cam girls, however, you would be surprised at the kind of legitimate possibilities people throw out into the Craigslist universe. An acquaintance of mine found a lucrative gig making wooden lamps that light up when you touch them. He and his boss go to open markets around Hollywood and sell them to kind of people who are so hip that they equate bands like TV On the Radio or Grizzly Bear to the Olsen Twins’ stint in children’s pop music. Another acquaintance became an apprentice to a taxidermist and knows how to make shrunken heads from dead raccoons he finds on the side of the road which, apparently, there is a demand for. 

Because of a chance reply to an ambiguous job posting on Craigslist, I have fallen into a side hustle that sends me all over the country to take pictures of people in various stages of celebration. I’m a traveling makeshift photographer. Not only do I get to see San Francisco at least once every other month, but I also get to go to places I never thought I’d actually go to. I spent a few days at an international sauce convention in Kansas City. I went to Dallas, Texas and met up with one of my oldest friends to go two stepping at this shopping center dance hall called Cowboy’s Red River. Why, just last month I found myself in Alabama eating drive-through barbecue in a rental car. A rental car! The exotic buffet of cities only gets better once they add a 2007 Toyota Camry into the equation. I absolutely love driving rental cars. They’re guaranteed to smell nice, their windows roll all the way up, and their “CHECK ENGINE/OIL/COOLANT/BREAK” lights don’t immediately turn on and stay on due to “electrical issues.” 

Don’t get me wrong; I love my car. The inside reminds me of home because the multiple meals eaten, coffees spilt, and nights spent inside have all but sealed in the smell that I strongly associate with my father and his “work truck.” Driving a rental car, though, makes me feel like I can do anything. I don’t get to use rental cars on every trip, but when I do, it’s, “Watch out, world; Jas is gonna order ribs from a drive through window in Birmingham!”

For all of this traveling, all I really have to do is assemble a photo booth, run the photo booth, disassemble the photo booth, and ship it out. For my services I receive a day rate and per diem, hotel, transportation reimbursements, an occasional rental car, and sometimes – sometimes I get to fly on Virgin.

When I described my travels to an industry colleague, they downsized my experience. I don’t think they meant to; they simply couldn’t understand why I would be so pumped about flying to the Windy City to run the booth at a music festival.

“But it’s for work, right? I mean, ultimately, you are working. You won’t be seeing any bands. It’s not like you’re going on vacation.”

The truth is, for me, it actually is like a vacation. It’s my version of a vacation. It’s not like I could just take off and see these places without the added aspect of work. It’s stressful enough budgeting for gas in Los Angeles, so hopping on an airplane to go to stay in a hotel in a new city to work a music festival that I would never be able to responsibly afford tickets for brings me a sense of wonderment, newness, and honest relief that I rarely experience now that I’m an adult.

People who have money and stability don’t understand why people who do not have money are amazed by basic things like the possibility of getting a free vodka and cranberry on a Virgin flight. It’s not about the vodka cranberry. 

It’s about the fact that my basic ass is on Virgin America in the first place, staring out the window and over the shrinking rooftops of Santa Monica thinking,
“Bye, Los Angeles. I’m being fancy until Sunday afternoon.”




Somewhere along the line, it became normal for people to say,
“Ugh, quit posting pictures of your animals!”
“Ugh, if I see one more post about the wedding I’m going to throw up.”
Oh no, another person is having a baby. Gag!”

My dear friends, family, and Facebook acquaintances that I may have mistaken for actual friends until I showed up to whatever random event you invited me to and learned that you had pressed the “invite all” button and did not legitimately expect me to go nor did you understand why I was there but don’t worry, I’m not a crazy person so I never made a big deal out of it or anything:

I will never tire of looking at the photographs you choose to share from your wedding.

Don’t worry about posting too many pictures of you and your legally bound life partner wearing dope ass wedding outfits. I want to see you wear that enormous white or whatever color gown because, fuck it, you went all in. I want to see that sundress you wore for your nuptials because you were a punk as fuck bride who didn’t have time for Say Yes to the Dress to get all up in your business; there was whiskey to drink and cake to smear all over someone’s face. I want to see you wear a bomb ass suit because if you don’t like a good suit then what are you doing here? Get out of here! Unconventional wedding? Why, yes, I would love to see the pictures of you and your sci-fi themed event:

You will never hear me complain when you post countless photos of the origami cranes, hand strung baby mason jar candles, and all the other pictorial evidence of your bridal party’s toil and devotion to you. More, I say. I want to see professional pictures of handcrafted cake toppers where the boca is OUT OF CONTROL

If you have great aunt with curt smile that thinly veils her disapproval of a union with someone she considers beneath you, then post it! Afterward you can post the one where she has embraced her ancientness and balls out at your reception anyway because she realized she’ll be long gone if you ever decide you made a horrible mistake.

Post the video of that dance routine you and your life partner learned for the reception. I fucking LOVE The Final Countdown. Oh, wait; it’s to Take My Breath Away? I’ll take it, but there had better be a swan dive.

I will look through ALL of your smile booth photos, even the ones of people I don’t know, because smile booths are AWESOME AS FUCK. Especially when you don’t half ass it with the props!

Friends, are you with child? Are you and your partner expecting a baby?

Amazing! My staunch belief that the world is overpopulated and that everyone should be forced to pass a difficult, lengthy exam before becoming a parent will NOT deter me from LOVING THE SHIT out of your creative “We’re having a baby!” announcements, especially if they involve your dog or cat and their impending resentment.

Despite the fact that I cannot remember a time when pregnancy ever appealed to me personally, I think your monthly belly pictures are DOPE AS FUCK.

I will never say, “Oh my god, will you stop?” when you post pictures of your babies, especially if you dress them up as Hillary Clinton or a piece of sushi.

Shit, lady, you dealt with being pregnant for 9 months and your partner or the village in your life supported the crap out of you (at least I hope they did), so you can go as crazy as you want with the pictures. BABY FACES, BABY TOES, BABY ZOOLANDER FACES. I’ll like them all. I’ll probably “LIKE” them all, too!

I love watching videos of babies playing peek-a-boo. Did you know they they think you magically disappeared? They LEGITIMATELY believe that you blipped out of existence and re-materialized. When will they ever be that gullible again? Never! Tape that shit!

This girl that I knew in high school now has a family of her own and she posts random videos of her kids saying the weirdest stuff. I am almost 100% certain her daughter is Andy Kaufman incarnate and I think her family is just the coolest. Sometimes she will post videos of her kids dancing to random kid music. Kids dance by JUMPING ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE WITH NO DISCERNIBLE PATTERN WHATSOEVER. Adults hear music and do the Carlton or the Nae-Nae, but you put on something with a strong downbeat and a catchy hook for some kids and it’s ANARCHY.


My friends, in conclusion:

I ask that you pay no mind to the haters trying to bring you down with their public bemoaning of your triumphs and your successes. Don’t worry about the people who, when faced with a picture of your child, say, “National Geographic quality or GTFO.”

I do draw the line at people turning their families into weird, non-union YouTube reality shows.

But the pictures of your kid, cat, dog, or wedding party dressed as California rolls are A-OK.

Shit’s exciting. Take pictures.


The Scorching Fall.


Ah, Fall: the yearly, ritualistic retrieval of the box packed coats and sweaters from the top shelf of the closet; the annual jaunt to the pumpkin patch. The scarves, tights, and other superior pieces of fashion you get to wear when the chilly —

Oh, wait a minute. I’m not in Georgia anymore. I haven’t smelled the crisp, fresh scent of autumnal air in over three years. I haven’t felt the wave of appreciation for the array of colors and textures present in the leaves of the trees as they gradually adjust to the arrival of the winter season.

No, there is no autumn in Los Angeles. Here we have hot air and the smell of cracked pavement and gasoline for days unless you are fortunate enough to live near the water. The only way to catch a glimpse of an authentic fall season is to trek out to Big Bear or buy it at Michaels.

An accurate depiction of Planet Los Angeles.

That’s not to say that the weather never changes. For the past two “winters” the temperature did drop from an average of 76 to a “chilly” 68. It’s hardly Hothlanta, but I’ll take any reason to wear my Russian assassin jacket. This year’s weather patterns differ slightly in that it’s Los Angeles’s FIFTH week of 100+ degree weather. The construction trends of the 20’s, 30’s, and 40’s didn’t include a penchant for central air and, as a result, roughly 70% of homes have no central air conditioning.

In other words: I surprise myself every single morning simply by waking up and realizing that I didn’t have a heat stroke. My studio retains heat long after the sun has set and left the outside to recover from the scorch. Ditching the clothing gives no relief from the seemingly insurmountable exhaustion I feel for no reason. I end up napping for hours, only to struggle to break free from the chemical bond that results from a combination of skin, sweat, and low grade IKEA mattresses. Then I wake up and want to kill something.

Yay, even Taxi has sought refuge in any conceivably cooler space.


I want nothing more than to give him a chilled cat-mat, but he seems content just to sit on top of a freezer brick that I put in a plastic bag for him.

Maybe I should try to find giant freezer brick for myself. It’s a far cry from the ability to wear my assassin coat, but if this wave doesn’t pass soon then I either need to wear an ice-vest or just move into the local Ralph’s.


Thuper Thursday!

Is today a good day? Yes, it’s a good day. I just filmed my first national commercial for a popular energy drink AND the good people at Holl and Lane Magazine ran a cool little feature on me. I’m stoked to be interviewed, but even more stoked to be included in such an impressive lineup of women. Acting is tough and all, mostly because you hear “NO,” all the time and when you finally get a “Yes,” you walk into the job thinking you’re going to look like this…


…and then wardrobe puts you in giant white glasses and an offensively terrific sweater before they hand you a box of lemon flavored energy shots and order you to make a series of faces that resemble Steve Buscemi eating a cheeseburger. You do not look like your head shot or a hot vampire. Instead, you  look like this:

Photo on 10-8-15 at 4.14 PM #2
But acting isn’t as hard as, oh, KEEPING SOMEONE ALIVE WHILE THEY UNDERGO OPEN HEART SURGERY. Did you know that that’s what a perfusionist does? I didn’t until I read H&L’s write up of one. Check out the interview at Holl and Lane by clicking here or on the picture below and then read up on the incredible women who are out there making a difference.

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And Happy Thursday, everyone.



As It’s Remembered is ready!

My team of amazing friends and I have completed our first feature film that we made with virtually no money and even less time. It would mean the world to me if you LIKED us on Facebook. A social media presence can only help us moving forward with the distribution and festival selection processes. Plus, our Facebook page has cool things on it like production stills, screening announcements, and the first theatrical trailer. Yes, the trailer. It’s legit. It’s amazing. It’s exciting and we cannot wait to start taking this little feature that could to festivals.

I am so proud of this film, in fact, that I almost forgive myself for once thinking that an essay about watching a kid fall into the water fountain at Georgia Square Mall would be good enough to get me into Northwestern University.

We have come a long way, friend. A long way, indeed.

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I wrote this last Friday.

Hi, everyone! It’s formal wear day at the office du jour. That’s right! The people hired to keep the animators happy and healthy by feeding them fun snacks and organizing team building activities have mandated that everyone wear their prommiest, ballerist, fanciest get-ups to the office. I don’t really own anything too nice, but I do have this dress I got on sale at one of those stores where you can buy Slipknot memorabilia and ladies purses in the shape of clocks. So here I am!


Nothing like a stronghouse of Los Angeles’s finest animators wearing their Sunday best and looking like the cast of (Nerdy) Mad Men.

Now if only there were a tiny suit and whiskey tumbler for little dude here:


He’s my favorite employee because his tongue is literally too large to fit inside his head. I also appreciate workplace dogs as they provide a sense of calm and stability in a world that I find stressful and confusing.

Speaking of confusing, can someone explain why my phone thinks that I run one of those Open-All-Year Christmas stores? How did this even happen?


It did this last year when my iPhone Gmail app thought my name was “I HATE YOU JAS YOU BITCH YOU CAN GO AND DIE” but I forgot how I fixed it. Anyone got any pointers?


I’m part of an online group for women in comedy. Someone recently posted about dealing with feelings of shame that conflicted with her desire to post pictures of herself on her Instagram. Selfies are a guaranteed way to get likes and build a following, especially if you’re a woman, but she couldn’t help but feel like she was pandering by doing do. I wrote this response and I would like to share it here:

Hey. Hi. I have a lot of feelings regarding this societal attitude toward women posting self-featuring content online. If hear one more man talk about a vain bitch or see one more asshole post hateful trash about how selfies are linked to psychopathy and excessive narcissism as a means to shame ALL content creators, but PARTICULARLY women, into thinking that what they are doing is shameful and wrong, I will go off on them without hesitation.

This is fucking bullshit. Followings are everything in our industry. In addition to the sad fact that we are shifting to a new age where our worth to a brand is based on social media metrics, you can only help yourself by building a following.

Hell, building up a significant following is a great move even if you aren’t in the industry. Case in point: I once met a woman who was able to pay off a significant chunk of student debt because those selfies (you know, the pictures that apparently mean she could be a psychopath) got her a following large enough to attract sponsors – who then paid her some sick coin to feature their products in her pictures. She’s not an actress. She’s not vain. She’s not crazy. She’s a normal person and she’s lovely and has great taste and I LOVE that she has such a large following.

Who. The. Fuck. Cares if a woman is posting pictures of herself on Instagram? If it bothers you that much then quit browsing for cute girls on Instagram just so you can have something to bitch about. Quit shaming girls for being confident online.

Pictures of your face are guaranteed to get more likes and follows than pictures that do not have your face.

But “society is breeding vanity and narcissism!”

Yeah? You think it’s just about vanity and narcissism?

My response to this entire attitude is simple: “Have you ever been to an audition or even a regular job interview and had someone tell you, “Oh, you are great/adorable/intelligent/perfect/your videos are hilarious, but you just don’t have an online following that matches up with our client’s expectations.”

Oh, you haven’t? KINDLY SHUT THE FUCK UP, THEN.”

I’d be happy to know what your thoughts on the matter are.


This is why you read contracts.

I always get a little braver those days before Red Fury. I recently launched a full blown Tweet attack on Salesforce/Dreamforce due to the fact that my face has been plastered all over their advertisements for the past six months and graces things including but not limited to: busses, billboards, and entire walls of convention centers.

I had checked my Dreamforce paperwork and saw no clause anywhere that would give them the right to use my face to brand their product in perpetuity.

My tweets started to get retweeted – first by friends. But then by influencers. People with huge Twitter followings, many of whom were at Dreamforce and looking at my face.

Within a day, someone from the staffing company that I originally worked for called me and said, in so many words: “Cut it out.”

Apparently, in the generic staffing paperwork, there is a clause that says their clients can do whatever they want if they take your picture. I suppose whoever drew up that paperwork never imagined that their workers would be used in fully blown, regional campaigns. I plan to double check the paperwork.

I took down about 75% of my tweets and left the less aggressive ones be. Because, dammit, it’s still messed up that this billion dollar company won’t even offer to pay the agency that hired me or myself.

So, in light of all this, I urge all of you considering a good CRM platform to not choose Salesforce. Rather, show alternatives Base CRM or Highrise some love.


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