concrete trenches

2004-12-31T17:05:00.000-05:00

Old Lang Sign

The new year neigh approcheth, and the time, I think, has come to say goodbye. The blog thing isn't really doing it for me anymore. So, out with the old, in with the new. Happy New Year, all.

2004-12-14T01:25:00.000-05:00

How hard is it?

So, here's how it goes: when you are invited to a party, and an R.S.V.P. is requested so that the hosts may plan how much to shell out for cheese and booze, you should R.S.V. fucking P. Seriously, how hard is it to hit the Reply button of your favorite email program and say "I can't make it, thanks," anyway?

And then, if you are one of the (I'm gathering from recent experience) 08% of the population who will bother taking 9 seconds out of their day to respond to an invitation, STICK TO YOUR FREAKING GUNS. Otherwise, the superfluous cheese that was bought for your sorry ass will probably be thrown away some cold, February afternoon hence when the funny smell is pinpointed to that paper bag in the back of the fridge.

2004-12-01T17:01:00.000-05:00

Where have I been?

Around. Doing things. With people. Writing music, waiting tables, auditioning. Around.

2004-11-13T18:04:00.000-05:00

a poke in the eye with a sharp stick

Yesterday, I had an audition. Wore my contacts, which only get put in for important auditions and performances. Haven't worn them since the Big Midwest Theatre Gig. The lenses are in all day, and I kind of forgot about them. Sitting home laptop sur la lap, right eye starts twitching, asking "Would you please GET THIS THING OFF ME?"

A couple of hours later I notice there's a slight halo around the lighting fixtures in the apartment. interesting.

A few hours after that, my right eye hurts like all get out.

A few hours after that, BG suggests I flush out my eye with some water, which instantly makes me want to die.

This morning, eye still hurts, but not tooooo bad. Head to work. Work proves unbearable (more than usual) and I leave early. I head to the Eye and Ear Infirmary, and am seen within an hour.

I have "Contact Lens Fatigue." The doctor tells me that wearing a contact lens is like putting a piece of Saran Wrap over a child's face. Sometimes, an eye just freaks the fuck out. And that's what's going on here. Freaking. He also wanted to know about the free actor's clinic I usually go to, because he thought he might meet some actresses with yeast infections. So, he's a pig, but my eye feels like I rubbed it with an S.O.S. pad, looks like conjunctivitis, works like I'm trying to pass an eye test through a piece of letterhead, and NOTHING HELPS BUT TIME AND ANTIBIOTICS. I kind of want to die. Instead, I'm gonna drink scotch until I don't give a shit how much I hurt.

2004-11-12T22:20:00.000-05:00

the stuff of dreams

BG and I were looking at an apartment to buy. it was a little dark, but Ray Charles did used to live in it until very recently. When I asked what the trap door in the floor was for, we discovered a second, apparently abandoned apartment underneath that we really assumed was included with the one above. There were giant shoes near the bed, and dozens of Calphalon pots piled in the sink. This apartment also had a balcony overlooking the beach and ocean; very convenient for a New York City pad.

2004-11-09T09:36:00.000-05:00

Bless his beautiful hide

Howard Keel passed over the weekend.

If you don't know who he was, or only know him from being on Dallas, well, then you need a little education in big baritone voices from the golden age of the Hollywood Musical

2004-11-05T13:46:00.000-05:00

Lessons learned

I've been feeling a bit funky the last few days, as many of my friends have. But, I think I've come to a realization, and I have Karl Rove to thank: Niceness blows.

Not only will my ends justify me means from now on, but my means will only be mean. If I want something, there shouldn't be any worries about such twentieth century concepts of "decent" or "underhanded." No, Herr Rove has shown the way. Strength through brutal tactics.

Screw everybody.

2004-11-03T18:47:00.000-05:00

It's mourning again in America

Dear Rest of the World;

I would like to sincerely apologize for my country. Just over half of the people riled up enough to vote have decided that our current leader is good enough for them. Please do not think that we are all bone-headed buffoons without feelings or brains. Just slightly over half of those of us who decided to vote. And they mostly live in the midwest, so you probably won't be seeing any of them in your own countries. Unless, of course, they're wearing a uniform.

But at least we aren't letting gays get hitched, or have rights, so that's something, right?

Please don't hate us. And please don't blow us up. At least not those of us on the coast. In four years, should there be anything left, I promise that nearly half of those of us who care will try to make it better.

Peace,
Sly

2004-11-02T16:02:00.000-05:00

Live free or die

There are times when I do believe that this is the greatest country in the world. Today is one of those days.

2004-10-29T18:02:00.000-04:00

Want it need it

If there is a god in heaven (and he's not too pissed off at me for not believing in him) perhaps he'd smile down on the BG and I, and let us get the apartment in Park Slope. The one with the loft bedroom, and the great kitchen, and the 14 foot ceilings, and the PRIVATE BACK FREAKING DECK, and the perfect spot for my keyboard.

And while he's monkeying with things, please let the interest rates not go up too terribly much in the next three years.

2004-10-27T23:15:00.000-04:00

I believe

The Red Sox are about to win the World Series and, even though there's other stuff on my mind, I can't think of a single thing to say.

2004-10-25T17:46:00.000-04:00

Yay! Even more rejection!

The Best Girl and I are going to buy an apartment together. We've been going to open houses for a while, scoping out neighborhoods, looking up porn on the internet. BG got us pre-approved for a loan. and we met with a broker. All our financial ducks are in a row, and now we're looking in earnest. Our prospects are somewhat limited by the fact that we don't make a hell of a lot of money, but BG has a fairly hefty wad of cash from her great aunt, so we can get something not terribly shabby in a not terribly shabby neighborhood. That's the hope, anyway.

We saw a not overly super apartment in a fan-fucking-tastic part of Brooklyn Heights. A block from the Promenade, shops, brownstones, coffee, dogs. Stellar. The apartment was workable. We put an offer on it, higher than the asking price.

And we were turned down. Because the owner thinks the co-op board will think we don't make enough money. I think the owner can go screw. We didn't really want her ground floor, no light, tiny pullman kitchen apartment anyway.*

But we REALLY wanted her neighborhood. BG's heart broken. I'm disappointed. And goodness knows how many more of these we have to go through before we sleep in a new, less crappy place that we own. In fact, I'm out the door to go to an open house at an apartment further into Queens. Groan.

*that's a lie. We did. And still do, a little

2004-10-20T22:43:00.000-04:00

Bambino Schambino!

So, and this may be speaking a little too soon, but I believe the Curse of the Bambino to be broken. Now, I'm NOT saying the Sox are going to win the World Series - which I realize seems antithetical to the thesis, but bear with me - but the "Curse" has been broken. And the person who broke it? Alex Rodriguez. Let me count the ways: Boston was going to pick up the A-Rod, but the deal fell through and the Yanks picked him up, effectively STEALING him from Boston. Then, A-Hole's career number was taken by another Yank, so he picked the number 13. Thirteen! Plus (although I didn't see the incident) A-Rod caused the riot police to storm the field last night.

There's still a long ways for them to go, and any old time Sox fan is accustomed to defeat being snatched from the jaws of victory, but mark my words: this is Boston's year.

2004-10-16T23:19:00.000-04:00

Evil Prevails

Sitting home alone on a Saturday night, trying to get my keyboards to talk nice to my computer while finishing the dishes and watching the Red Sox get their asses handed to them on a platter by the Yankees. Yoosh.

I have overcome evil in the keyboards, and the kitchen is clean. Unfortunately, it would appear the most soulless & moneygrubbing of all teams will prevail. Shame, really.

2004-10-12T18:32:00.000-04:00

Passing the love

One of my Midwest Theatre Gig buddies sent me this link, and I pass it along to you, gentle reader. Someone said the other day, in a generally left-wing based political discussion/Bush-bashing, that the Republican Party has always required an enemy. The Commies, Drugs, and now, Terror™.

Enjoy.

** update. jackass didn't put in the link. it's fixed.

2004-10-10T10:46:00.000-04:00

Doing

Boss picks up the call that is waiting for him.

"Hello . . . I'm fine . . . no, I don't think so."

Boss hangs up.

"Why do people ask me how I'm 'doing?' They don't care. they just want to sell me something!"

Boss walks away, sees a semi-regular at the bar. Says while passing by:

"Hey! Frankie. How ya doin'?"

Boss leaves before answer.

2004-10-06T19:19:00.000-04:00

Back in the saddle

First day back to the New York life. Up at 5:45am to schlep to an audition - it went well, but getting up before the sun, leaving your warm sleepy girlfriend in the bed sucks no matter what the outcome - and then off to the Bar for a shift of table waiting. It's like falling off a bike. A dirty, nasty bike that lands you in a puddle of stale beer.

2004-10-05T11:38:00.000-04:00

Home again

Oh, it's good to be home. Flying in over the city, with a bird's eye view of Lady Liberty and Central Park, I started to get butterflies in my stomach. But after a cab ride, grocery shopping, facial hair shaving by request, and sushi, the strangeness of seeing the Best Girl's face and form began to melt away. After seven weeks away this crappy Queens apartment wraps around me like a warm, safe blanket.

We have stuff to talk about, the BG and I. This was more difficult than either of us expected, and it is simply a matter of time before one of us gets another gig outside the city (I'm going to an audition in an hour, in fact), and we have to figure out how to make it better next time. But we will, I am sure.

2004-09-24T01:15:00.000-04:00

Meet the parents

My folks are driving up all the way from their home in the Deep South to see my show. About ten hours in a car. Bless their hearts. They have little money, but they're still trucking themselves up to see me strap on costume armor and strut about the stage. This will be the first thing they've seen me in since 1999. This is the first time I've seen them in about two and a half years. We don't get around much, my family. I'm pretty glad they're coming, though. It's nice to show off for your parents every once in a while.

2004-09-10T13:01:00.000-04:00

Kumbiya

The Great Midwest Theatre Gig is neigh upon me. In fact, today is about smack dab in the middle of the contract. It goes extremely well. Smashingly. This is certainly one of the best shows I've done, and absolutely the largest role. The reactions from the audiences seem to be favorable. Ok, actually, all but one audience has jumped to their feet during the curtain call; sometimes when I come out for my bow, which is equal parts really cool and really intimidating.

The theatre has been great to work for, very supportive. Sometimes the hardest part about being in a play is dealing with the different personalities in the company and in the tech staff. This show has no conflicts, no dead weights, no bastards. The most important thing to everyone involved in the show is the show. Everyone is checking their egos at the door and coming in to do the best play we can. Since I am the guy on stage through most of the play, it is a great relief to me. With all the egomaniacal producers, inept directors, and self-centered actors, I've had to deal with in the recent past, I'd forgotten theatre can be this nice.

2004-08-30T12:08:00.000-04:00

Packing it all in

Monday is my day off. It's the entire weekend for me, and for my cast, and for most Equity theatres anywhere. The whole weekend thing has to be compressed into this one day. So today, I golfed 18 holes; went to Chez Targ?t for a beard trimmer, mouthwash, and picked up a cheap hoodie because the nights are starting to get chilly; then many of us went to Outback (which was utterly appalling, foodwise, but was apparently a big deal to many, and frankly, my chicken parm last Monday night was a thousand times better); and then went bowling.

Golf was fine, but the whole evening was covered by a nasty, cloudy pall. I was grumpy, but hiding it. Mostly. My humor tends to skew towards the cruel when I'm feeling out of sorts, but I think I kept out of the realm of the offensive. Things have begun to get a little funny out here. I am surrounded by people who like me, people who I like. We get along, we have fun, we work well together. The show is going gangbusters and I feel very good about the job.

Yet...

I'm feeling lonely. I feel a little isolated. I like these people, but they don't know me the way BG does, the way my friends back home do. I don't really feel I can talk to any of these acquaintances on a particularly deep level. And because I'm lonely, or out of sorts, or whatever, conversations with BG have been less than steallar. She's got her own plate of lonely back home, with some sides of career and crappy city life, and our phone communication more often than not ends with one of us hurt or upset or pissed off. I'm isolated here, and I'm isolated from there, and it's not cool.

Not to mention the insomnia.

Really, thought, the gig is great.

2004-08-29T13:56:00.000-04:00

There's free, and then there's Free

I would like to thank my friends at St. Louis Bread Company for the free Wi-Fi. When I have a spare moment from rehearsing I can schlep up here to do a little high speed surfing.

I would ALSO like to thank them for employing the "SonicWALL Filtering Service," which has decided that some of my favorite blogs, including Pippa, Fish, and concrete trenches are Pornography!

Who are the morons who decided the definition of pornography includes dirty words or people talking about sex? I mean, pictures of people enjoying their baguettes is probably considered a turn-on somewhere, and they don't block their own site.

2004-08-21T22:04:00.000-04:00

Up to date Update

I want to tell all about the Great Midwestern Theatre Gig, and my new theatre buddies and our Olympic viewing, and the strains of being away from your Best Girl for an extended period of time. But I can't. I can't because I'm so tired I'm shaking. I can't, because I slept about two hours last night, awoken by a throbbing arm so asleep I had to pick it up with my other arm to put it someplace comfy. Then, the songs from my show were playing on endless loop in my head. And the cricket outside my window wouldn't shut the fuck up.

Apparently I can sleep soundly in Queens, but Jimminy Cricket will keep me counting the flecks in the stucco ceiling all night long.

2004-08-09T11:44:00.001-04:00

Back of my neck, dirt and sweaty

Back in Queens after a three and a half week working vacation in the woods. The city doesn't smell nearly as bad as I was expecting, but it sure is hot today. While I was a way in the woods the weather was mostly crappy; rain and humidity and clouds. Back in the city, sunny and hot. Just the kind of weather I'd want while having a working vacation in the woods.

It sure is good to be home, with the noisy A/C and the dying radio. And my stuff. And my girl's stuff. If only BG were here - she arrives tomorrow morning.

The experience of the Forest Summer Stock Gig was mixed. I met some good people. Some of them will be in my life for a while, I think. And some of them are going to be good professional contacts. The show itself was a notch above community theatre, although in some places it was a notch below - somewhere around a high school play. But it broke box office records at the theatre. That's either really great of really scary, depending on your point of view.

Well, today begins the preparations for the Great Midwestern Theatre Gig. My bike is already on it's way, and I'll be packing another box today full of stuff I want but don't want to haul through LaGuardia. And of course, preparations for the big Sly/BG Summer Reunion will begin in earnest this evening. Cleaning, shopping, and anxiously awaiting her touchdown tomorrow morning. I can hardly friggin' wait.

2004-08-05T10:30:00.000-04:00

Grumpy old man

Yesterday was full of my complaining. First off, the tea used in the show tasted a little "off" during the matinee. I found the pitcher where they make the tea and found mold growing on the tea bags. I have very specific issues with mold. Don't like it on my food, unless it's cheese that is SUPPOSED to have mold. In my tea, not so much. The stage manager says props is making fresh tea every day, it must be a bad bag. I'm no scientist, but I'm pretty sure that is not the right answer.

During the evening show, one of the Paid Slaves of the resident company is playing a fun little game to keep himself occupied. The chorus of the show has very, very little to do, and appear on stage for only two scenes. This particular Slave is entertaining himself by making eyes, winking, and blowing kisses to another Slave. My problem with it is HE'S DOING IT ONSTAGE! He's facing upstage, so the audience can't see him, and the other kid is not breaking, so no one in the audience is the wiser. However, between Kissy Face and his upstage brethren are six (fairly untalented) children trying to do a number. And they can see Kissy Face. And they aren't able to filter it out. And I can see it. And I go quietly apeshit.

There are two reasons for my apeshittedness. One: while I believe it's okay to have a limited amount of pranksterish fun on stage, one has to be responsible about it, and appropriate about it. If there are kids around, you don't do it, because the kids aren't so able to distinguish between acceptable and not. Two: Kissy Face has been complaining about his lot in life here at the Summer Theatre Gig. He works long hours, he's not paid much, he has to take out the garbage. He shows his contempt for his job by saying how easy the Equity actors have it. he shows up late for his call and slowly saunters into the theatre, and he doesn't apologize to the stage manager when she tells him to show up on time. He generally acts like a spoiled little shithead.

The scene ends and I take my apeshitting self backstage and right into his Kissy little Face. Please, I ask him, for the sake of those of us who are not up to his level of talent, fucking be serious on stage. He sputtered a little bit as I walked away, and the Artistic Director, who's also in the show, was right behind me telling Kissy Face what's appropriate and what isn't.

2004-07-28T19:05:00.000-04:00

The gentle sucking sound

I have a problem. I assume everyone is like me in my attitude towards theatre. My expectations are that other people will follow the same basic tenets I do regarding shutting the hell up backstage, listening to the director, giving proper focus, thanking the stage manager, and a hundred other things that I have spent my working life thinking everyone just knew.

They don't. I get frustrated. I get mildly homicidal urges. I sometimes yell, or sometimes I am cruel. Why can't everyone do it my way, I wonder?

I must not be the only one, though. On the way to the matinee today, the musical director asked the four actors in the car "So, how do you all think the show went last night?" Later, Gay Character Man said that for the next thirty seconds we all looked like Medusa after seeing her reflection.

2004-07-27T18:24:00.000-04:00

Stock blues

So here I am, about to open my summer stock extravaganza. I've seen 42 deer of various sizes. I've drunk beer and bourbon late into the evenings, playing pool and darts and talking about all manner of things. I swam in the swimming hole. Now all I have to do is be in a good show. But that's not really going to happen. At least not any time soon.

I'd like to spill indetail, but I really need to shut my eyes for a few minutes before heading out to the theatre full of consumptive, noisy children.

Sigh.

I live for the day when I can talk all about the good show I'm in.

2004-07-23T00:57:00.000-04:00

Kids and dogs.

Conventional theatrical wisdom advises never work with children or animals. When one is doing a play that requires kids (say, oh to pull something out of my head, "The Sound of Music) one must make the best of it. When one is doing summer stock, one must really make the best of it. After a full day of rehearsal with the kids in this show, I had a headache the size of the Catskills. One of the kids decided to spend his break pounding on the piano, getting "carried away" (his words). And they aren't exactly prodigies.

The youngest kid, I have a little bit of a crush on her (in a totally non-creepy, Jesus she's a five year old kind of way) with her freckled face and her little kid absent "r" (sample line: "Why don't I feel bettew?") and her scary old pro attitude. She's louder singing alone than all the other kids singing combined.

Saw four more deer today. Grand total: 34.

2004-07-22T02:25:00.001-04:00

Schedule

10am-12pm Rehearse

12pm-1:30pm Lunch

2pm Costume fitting

2:20pm Bike ride down amazing forest country roads, through protected forest land and bald eagle habitat to resevoir lake.

3:30pm-4pm Swim in lake, sun on rock.

5:30pm Dinner at theatre, three different kinds of pasta.

6pm-11:30pm Relax, shower, run lines, practice guitar (for the show), play darts, shoot pool, have a snort of scotch.

12am Bonfire, play with potato gun* Drink beer.

1:30am Help pull directors car out of ditch. He landed there trying to avoid hitting a deer**.

2:10am Blog, brush, bed.

* That is, a gun that actually shoots giant hunks of potato. The fuel is hairspray, the trigger is an electronic spark, like the kind used to ignite gas grills.
** Summer Stock Deer Sightings: 3 today, 10 yesterday. Grand total: 30

2004-07-20T18:41:00.000-04:00

90 Miles from NYC

I should have asked about internet service before coming to this gig. Turns out there's a DSL line and a wireless router here. Go figure. Unfortunately, it's on the first floor while I, cozy as I am, reside on the third floor a little too far from the signal. I'm going to sneak into the office tomorrow and put the router on a high shelf.

So far the gig is absolutely grand. I have great house, meals provided, doing a good show. The Equity actors are all pros, and the resident company of slaves, er, interns, are green but talented, the management sympathetic. Even the children (yes, I'm sharing the stage with children) are good natured and cute, if not totally brimming with stage presence and experience. The surroundings are fantastic. It's a forest, literally. I've seen fifteen deer since my arrival last Wednesday. Today, after spending quality time back in the city with the Best Girl, I went for a bike ride. I have my golf clubs with me for the eventual game or two. The lawn at the residence is big enough for me to practice my swing, up to about a seven iron.

Summer stock is kind of like summer camp for theatre folk. You're usually in the woods or in the boondocks or in the sticks. Everything is old and musty and in slight disrepair. You have to go with the mind set that it's about your work and being out of the city. Embrace the rustic, realize that it's not exactly a stepping stone to broadway, and you're bound to have a good time. I wish that the disastrous Scotland Theatre Excursion of 2003 could have been as good as this almost as much as I wish the Best Girl could be gigging here with me.

2004-07-14T13:02:00.000-04:00

Here I go

On a bus, and into the woods. These's probably little to no internet access where I'm going, so reports are going to be spotty at best. Have a lovely couple of weeks, everyone, and I'll report back later.

2004-07-13T11:30:00.000-04:00

7/13/04 To Do:

Museum of Natural History, see some frogs

Fahrenheit 9/11

Sushi

2004-07-12T18:59:00.000-04:00

I cry a little

On Wednesday I get on a bus and go up to my Catskills Summerstock Gig. After that, I fly out to the Big Midwestern Theatre Gig. One week back in the city in between. Gone 'til October. Today was my last shift at the stupid table waiting day job.

last week, there was a small parade of people with whom I work(ed) who said goodbyes, gave me hugs, wished me luck, blah blah blah. Today was a slow shift, I served a few people, cleaned up, counted my money, had a beer (because it's free) and walked out the door. Strangly anticlimactic. Here I am, going off to do a couple of theatre jobs, beating the odds and being a working actor in NYC, and no one seems to be noticing. Not that I want huge amounts of praise and awe; just a little bit.

2004-07-09T10:21:00.000-04:00

The dog ate my homework

Everyone who believes This story raise your hands. The only excuse better than this would be that the records were destroyed when the Pentagon was attacked on September 11th. And he's leading the fight aganst terror, so get off his back already! The world's better with Saddam gone.

2004-07-07T01:34:00.000-04:00

Senioritis

I realized, while shuttling hot wings and beer to my many patrons this evening, that I have one week left of the table waiting job before I go off to the Catskills and the Big Midwest Theatre Gig. Huzzah! I realize I've been thinking of these two jobs as a "break," but the reality is (and should be) that table waiting has been the break; the thing I do while I can not do the thing I want to do. BG pointed out that I'll be gone for a semester, or a quarter of the year, almost.

Back at the bar, it's awfully hard to care about these people, this work, this place, this food, this job. I have to still, not only because the Puritan work ethic of a Repressed New England upbringing demands it, but because I don't get good tips without kissing a hundred asses. But it sure is wearing thin, and it is making me foul.

In a week I won't care. In a week my biggest problem will be how to manage eleven weeks of separation from my Best Girl.

2004-07-01T11:05:00.000-04:00

The first reason I've found to like Yankees fans

Apparently Tricky Dick Cheney stopped by the House that Ruth Built and was met with a less than kind reaction from the fans.

2004-06-29T01:15:00.000-04:00

My weekend in short, declarative sentances

First there were mermaids. Coney Island is exactly how you imagine it would be. Taxes are fun if done with the right person. Watching Blossom Dearie is far more exciting than you might think.

2004-06-25T18:04:00.000-04:00

Unnerving

I saw three separate individuals today, all with curious lumps. One was the crazy fella walking up and down the audition line outside a downtown theatre, muttering "Red light, green light, blue light!" He had a grapefruit sized bulge on his left shoulder blade. There were two other guys, one at the morning coffee cart and the other on the subway, each with a disconcerting lump on the back of his neck. Bulbous, alien egg, mind control looking lumps.

And here I thought the Republican Convention was weeks away.

2004-06-23T21:29:00.000-04:00

It's the Taxman!

I'm doing my taxes.

Yeah, I know what month it is. I filed for an extension, and have finally gotten off my ass. Well, a little shove from BG helps.

Here's the thing. I haven't done my own taxes for about eight years. Before that, I didn't really file taxes at all, owing to the fact that I was a major league screw-up. For the last eight years, though, X's accountants have taken care of the odious burden of figuring out my finances in exchange for my being a convenient tax shelter for their primary client.

But now it's time roll up my sleeves and figure out what the hell all these forms mean. My head hurts. BG has offered to "help" me do the deed on Sunday in exchange for bagels, dinner, and perhaps a little tender lovin'. Not a problem. Hopefully I'll learn what the hell I'm doing for next year.

At the moment, it's looking like I'll be getting a bit of money back this year. In fact, I may be able to write off more than I earned...

2004-06-22T11:50:00.000-04:00

I want more

I am looking forward to getting out of the city and doing a couple of theatre gigs. It will be nice to be on a stage where I don't have to supply my own costumes. I've high hopes these gigs will refill the tanks of optimism. Especially since I'm giving up a) the family reunion, b) a fun Evil West wedding and c) 12 weeks of time with BG.

2004-06-16T19:25:00.000-04:00

Advancements

I don't believe the world has been made better by equiping anyone who wants one with a cell phone/walkie talkie.

2004-06-14T18:24:00.000-04:00

No Fear

I've been working on a new piece that I want to debut at an audition tomorrow morning. It's a "pop" piece. I don't believe pop is my strong suit as a singer. I'm much more one of those classic broadway baritones. The leading man type voice. But pop...i dunno.

Time was I was able to do anything. Not that I was able to do everything well, but I could do it, without much fretting over quality and such. I have this romantic notion of my past fearlessness. Today I'm working on this song thinking how it doesn't sound quite right, it's not warm enough, it's too high, it's too long, it'll invite too many comparisons to the guy who originally sang it, blah blah blah.

I want to go in and sing it anyway, to hell with the reservations ringing away in my head, just to say I did, and that I can. To say I can still be fearless. But there is that persistent voice nagging me about wether I should. What's the difference between fearless and stupid?

2004-06-11T22:44:00.000-04:00

Stream

What's really on my mind?

It's been so bloody hot in the apartment, even though it hasn't been all that hot in the city, that sleep has been difficult lately. The lack of sleep has translated far too easily into snipping and sniping at home. Last night BG suggested a couple of sleeping pills. Ah, sweet little blue pills. You have saved the tranquility of our home, and I thank you.

Will they just put him in the fucking ground already? You'd think with the 'round the clock coverage the media has been giving the recent demise of Reagan they were expecting the stone to roll away from the tomb. Well, if that were the case, I suppose they'd have turned the cameras off after three days.

Speaking of state funerals, I Inadvertently (I was buying an air conditioner, see above) saw a few minutes of the proceedings. Our current leader was eulogizing with his usual rhetoric subtlety. When focused that reptilian stare straight into the camera while saying the Ronnie was standing face to face in the glory of his savior, I had to walk away. George really puts the mental back in fundamental, doesn't he?

2004-06-11T13:27:00.000-04:00

Best joke I heard yesterday

The Boss' dad, the Owner of the bar, referred to his six children as "Two redheads and four shitheads."

2004-06-07T21:15:00.000-04:00

OK, I watched my tape. Everyone can discuss now

The Boss asked me this morning if I knew what he did last night.

"YES!! And I don't want to know anything!"

No New York Post today, even though it's the best entertainment value in the city and was sure to include laughably worshipful tributes to the Gipper.

Times Square, walking with my face toward the pavement (the anti-tourist) to avoid any early morning billboard changes.

I'm such a dork.

2004-06-07T09:21:00.000-04:00

Don't tell me about the Tonys!

Last night BG and I made our way deep into the Slope to see Mike Doughty - formerly of Soul Coughing, currently of superfine solo work - at a hipper than thou club. We were the first to arrive, and camped out at the bar right next to the stage. We figured it would be nice to sit, plus we would always have easy access to refreshments.

On the chalkboard outside, Doughty's opener was listed as "DJ Chuck" (or something, I can't remember his name, so we'll just call him Chuck). He was the worst DJ on the face of the planet. I've been to wedding receptions with better jockeys. The term DJ, especially when refering to one opening for the originator of "small rock" at a hipper than thou club, conjures someone spinning tunes, mixing beats, manipulating the music for the enjoyment of the crowd. Instead, DJ Chuckles played an endless stream of crap rock including, but not limited to: Night Ranger, AC/DC, and the inimitable "I Knew The Bride When She Used to Rock and Roll." I wonder, as this was a hipper than thou club, if the unsettlingly awful music is the next logical step in the "Trucker Hat" phenomenon of last year. The occasional good song, I assume, was an accident.

Doughty came on, an hour after the billed time, to rescue us. Our choice of seating, while seemingly clever in the empty club, turned out to be somewhat less than ideal. We were sitting in the path to the outside, so every few seconds someone would rub their ass against our knees on their way to smoke, or pee, or whatever. Someone behind me had a hand held video camera (Doughty allows taping of his concerts) with a very bright light attached. Some giant man with dreadlocks cascading all the way down his back ended up standing in front of us, blocking our well thought out view for much of the concert. Still, we had the best time. We have photo booth pictures to prove it. And a gentle ringing of the ears.

Going to the concert forced me to miss the Tony's last night, so don't even try to tell me who won what. I don't want to freaking know. I've taped it. Don't spoil it!

2004-06-04T01:24:00.000-04:00

I just be like fuck'em

"The Jackson are my parent and my brother Kevin's parents. Thomas is my brother in-law and my sister and they are the parents of Kim and Rashawn."

I'm appalled. Yesterday I read plays for a class of high school students in the Bronx. The stories these kids tell - crack dealing, smoking embalming fluid, teen pregnancy, hitting and stalking, murder, robbery - are heartbreaking. The way they tell them is frightening.

"Gurl plz, don't even let that get to you, my moms me on the same. I just be like fuck'em."

These kids are writing the way they speak. These are plays, after all. but the way they speak. It is another language, not English. Bill Cosby got some flack for criticizing the way inner city youth speak. He's concerned that the language creates a barrier to success for these kids. "You can't be a doctor with that kind of crap coming out of your mouth," he said. I agree with him. BG, in her Harlem middle school, has a student who wants to be a doctor, but he can't even spell the word.

Coming from my relatively privileged background, I want to know why these kids aren't being taught the basics. Why aren't the schools doing better? Why aren't the teachers correcting the spelling and grammar in these plays? But then I watch the kids filing into school, past the metal detectors and security guards. I watch a kid get searched because he doesn't have a bag and he doesn't set off the detector. I hear the principal, bullhorn in hand, telling the kids what to do. I hear about the kid, one of the playwrights, who has been shot four times. Who can worry about grammar when it's more important to worry about eating today, or taking care of your little brother, or your baby, or your mom.

I wish someone with the power to affect a change could plop themselves into the middle of one of these schools for a day, without that pesky Heisenberg crap, and really SEE what an inner city school is like. What would our President see, I wonder, after he walked through the metal detector of this Bronx tech high school. It seems to me that right now, Bush be all like fuck'em.

2004-06-02T21:45:00.000-04:00

My pal Dionysus

The theatre gods are apparently smiling down upon me. I just got hired to play a gig upstate. Catskills, here I come!! This, plus the Big Midwestern Theatre Gig leave me one work week shy of the holy grail of the Equity Actor: Union Health Care.

Also (because one must sacrifice to the gods to keep them happy) I am spending tomorrow morning in the Bronx, performing plays written by inner-city high school students. I did this gig this last year; same program, different school. Always interesting to see how the kids respond when I refer to myself as a "nigga."

2004-05-31T11:03:00.000-04:00

Lilacs and weeds

Spent yesterday afternoon lounging in Central Park, eating a picnic lunch and smoking a little happy treat. Nobody in New York cares if you smoke a little weed in the Park. Nor do they care if you are drinking beer, or have an open bottle of champagne in your rowboat. We ate and smoked, and then read monologues to each other out of a classical monologue collection. We're such dorks. Best day ever.

2004-05-28T13:14:00.000-04:00

Summer itinerary

This summer hasn't even begun, really, and already it's bursting with travel plans. First up, there's the wedding of BG's college roommate. This is my second wedding among The Cult Friends, and should be lots of fun. I'm planning on taking an extra couple of days away from work to visit with other people in the Evil West I haven't seen in a while. Also, I will be packing my clubs to play a round of golf.

The following week BG and I are skipping down to The Deep South for a family reunion. My sister got it into her head that it would be a good thing for all the siblings to get together for a weekend. I have been hoping for a summer job to preclude my presence. Alas, no such luck.

I am excited for BG to meet my parents, but being around all that sibling energy makes me profoundly uncomfortable. My place in the family dynamic is a far cry from where I am now as a person. Also, I am a little embarrassed by my Mother. How is BG going to react to her racism, subtle and not so, and her fundamental Catholicism? And what happens if Mom brings up politics? For someone as uninformed (and proudly so, it seems) as she, she has very strong opinions on what a good job Bush is doing, and how well the "War on Terrorism" is going. Plus, the parents have gone on the Atkins diet, and while they have collectively lost over 100 pounds, they have given up beer. What am I going to do without beer!?

2004-05-27T16:42:00.000-04:00

Overheard at reception

"You gots to ax me to use my pen. You put it back. PUT IT BACK! You don't touch NOTHIN' on this desk! You don't touch NOTHIN' on this desk!!"

2004-05-25T20:06:00.000-04:00

Law and Order
or, how to be a goodie goodie

Backstory:
A few weeks ago, the Best Girl and I were in Brooklyn, very early in the morning. We got in the cab and said Queens. The driver told us he did not want to go to Queens, it was late. "Are you refusing to take me where I want to go?" I asked.

"Please, my shift ends in an hour and I live in Brooklyn."

"So you're refusing my fare?" I repeated while I pulled out my cell.

"Have pity on me," seriously, her asked for pity.

I dialed 311 and he started to drive away with us in the cab, but did not turn on the meter. He said he'd take us to where we could get another cab. BG and I were pissed at this point; who wants to argue with their cabbie ad 4am? BG told him to pull over, and opened her door, "I'm getting out of this cab whether you pull over or not!" He pulled over, we got out and the cabbie rolled on. I got through to the 311 line.

Today
The hearing was this morning. The Taxi and Limousine Commission is on the 8th floor, and when the elevator door opens the first thing you see is a giant TLC on the wall. Walking into the lobby, decorated in grey carpet and panel fabric chic, I saw a room full of people who looked like cabbies. The receptionist took my letter and motioned me to another room, where I was the only occupant.

Ten minutes after my arrival I was called by a bailiff (or at least a guy with a badge) and escorted to the judge's chamber, along with the cabbie and his lawyer. He brought a lawyer.

The judge was about 117 years old and had two giant hairs poking out from his nose. I was sworn in and gave my statement (see above), speaking clearly and loudly for the tape recorder. Then the cabbie's lawyer questioned me. His first question was "Were you coming from a bar?" followed by "How much had you have to drink?"

Then the cabbie gave his statement. Here's the thing. The guy lied. Completely and utterly lied. We were drunk. We chatted him up. We wanted to get out of the cab for no reason. We stiffed him $3.10. The cabbie handed the judge his trip sheet, which was his evidence of his picking us up, planning to go to Queens, and dropping us off a few blocks away. The judge looked at it and said "For the record, I've never seen a trip sheet so neatly done up before." I liked him, hirsute nostrils and all.

The lawyer eventually said his client would be willing to plead to something like "acting rudely." Refusing a fare is a fairly serious offense, and can lead to suspension of a hack license. Rudeness is a fine and two points on the driver's license. The judge asked me if that was OK. I'm not out to ruin anyone's life, and he did start to drive, even though he never turned on his meter, so I said yes. I wanted to say "Yes, even though he's a lying liar who lies!" but left it at a simple yes.

The judge turned to the cabbie. "You are very lucky, sir, because I would have found you guilty."

2004-05-24T00:45:00.000-04:00

Jack LaLanne

Something has clicked in me, and it requires that I run. I've never been much of a runner. When I played soccer in my youth, I was always the last to finish my laps. Sprinting I was fine, but extended jogging, not my forte. Perhaps it was the undiagnosed asthma.

As I became an adult, I would occasionally go for the jog, and would end up in pain of some kind or another. Mostly joints. I am a big-ish guy. Tall and broad. I assumed that the stress of all that mass hitting the pavement over and over was the cause of the pain, and have always fancied aerobic activity that involves wheels or beds.

For the last two weeks, however, running has been all I want to do. It's been sporadic, but I've been out jogging up a storm. The hotter the weather, the more I want to go sweat in it. It's also been more or less painless, except for the sore muscles wondering ehat the hell is going on and why they can't be sinking into the couch, where they belong.

Perhaps it's my advancing years, perhaps it was doing that showcase with guys on either side of my birthday with spectacularly fit physics, perhaps it's the upcoming Midwest Theatre Gig or career worries, but I want to get in shape. And not just "Oh, he looks nice," because frankly I'm already there with a couple of extra pounds. I want to be damn fine. I want to be able to take my shirt off onstage and have it be a serious costume choice. I want to be able to tuck my tee shirt into my jeans without worrying. I want to be fit and LOOK it.

If only it didn't make my ass hurt so much at the end of the day.

2004-05-23T16:29:00.000-04:00

For money I will

I'm one step closer to being a telemarketer. The company called me back yesterday, impressed by my "theatre and marketing background, and my obvious phone skills." Hmm, fooled them. I'm going in for an interview on Tuesday, and we'll see. I still do not know what the wage is, or if I am constitutionally capable of being a telemarketer. I sometimes have a tough time asking someone to move over on the train, let alone if they want to buy a subscription to the Symphony.

2004-05-21T11:26:00.000-04:00

If you thought serving burgers was bad

I have about 10 weeks or so before I go to my Midewest Theatre Gig. The summers are slow at the Bar. I am having a little trouble making the ends meet. So it's time for a second job.

I don't know if I can take on another food service job. Doubles every day. On my feet for twelve plus hours. No, there must be another solution. And there is, but dear god it makes me feel dirty.

I have submitted my resume to a telemarketing company.

It's not as low as it could be: they solicit arts patrons to buy season subscriptions to theatre, symphonies, etc., and the calls aren't totally cold. But still, to be the guy who calls during dinner, feeling the cold emnity from the other end of the line. Hearing "No" over and over again.

This is not my beautiful life.

2004-05-19T23:13:00.000-04:00

Not wheezing, but drowning

Boy: I should be over this stupid cold by now. Maybe I should go to the doctor.

Girl: You don't need to go to the doctor.

Boy: But I feel like crap. I'm coughing all night long.

Girl: You don't need to go to the doctor.

(ten hours later)

Girl: I feel like crap. I felt better, but I slept and now I feel like crap.

Boy: Yup. That's sounds like my entire week.

Girl: Yeah, maybe you should go to the doctor.

Boy: Yeah, maybe I should. I'll call and see if they have time when I get off work

Girl: I have all day off tomorrow. I could go in anytime.

Boy: Not the tune you were singing to me this morning.

Girl: Nope. Will you draw me a bath and call my Mom?

Boy: Only if ask me in a slighty more pathetic way.

Girl: (tremulously) Will you (cough) call my Mom?`

2004-05-17T09:07:00.000-04:00

Exit, stage left

Show closed. Theatre threw us a tiny party in the lobby while the cast of the next on-book extravaganza took over the theatre. Several margaritas later I said goodbye to my favorite three, with promises of a party later and thoughts of drinking dates future.

High points: met good people, got to see someone miss her entrance by at least 30 seconds (about ten years in stage time), lots of backstage chocolate.

Low points: lingering cold turned to almost lost voice, newly replaced bonding on front tooth came out before a show while eating soup.

2004-05-15T23:20:00.000-04:00

Grand Central, 10:30 pm

Usually I try to get into the car that will put me right in front of the stairs at my stop. This is part skill, part luck, as the conductors vary their stopping points by as much as ten feet; the difference between the top of the stairs and between the two stairwells. I am not the only rider with this penchant, and the middle cars are usually packed, even at night.

Tonight I was tired from two shows, and thought it would be nice to go into the front car, where there is always a seat. Well, because of a deadly combo plate of the Broadway line trains not running into Queens and not many 7 trains, the front car was full. No sitting for Sly. Fine, I have David Byrne on the iPod and a magazine. Even standing I figure I'll be ok.

It took a little time for me to realize that the car was full of a bunch of teenagers. They were comparing Lazer Park score cards and wearing rosary beads around their necks. A youth group, maybe? Teens, when bunched in a group, and especially on subway cars, do not talk to one another. Oh, no. They SCREAM AT ONE ANOTHER, HIGH PITCHED AND FOUL MOUTHED (even a youth group; "Fuck you" sounds so much better coupled with a crucifix). David Byrne was a no show in my ear buds. Teens also have little sense of other people, especially if you are over 22. You are invisible. Pushing, shoving, swearing. I don't want to be on this train.

When we get out from under the East River, the kids crowded in front of the door (because that's where you stand, right in front of the door) start bobbing and weaving, looking outside. I thought maybe Kobe Bryant was waiting on the platform. The doors open and seven arms shoot out, palms up, to catch the enormous raindrops falling from the sky. Lightning, thunder, and a very wet walk home.

Even now flashes of lightning are reflecting off my laptop (unplugged and Airported). My hair's still wet, but I've a glass of wine and a bed calling my name.

2004-05-15T12:27:00.000-04:00

... gone tomorrow

I met three of my cast mates for dinner before the show last night. We sashayed around the East Village, having Mexican food and going into thrift shops and buying coffee. Eleven dollars for a burrito I can see, but four dollars for a fucking Diet Coke?

We chatted as we walked along St. Mark's Place, mostly separated into sexes like a junior high dance. J. and I were checked out by some nice young gay man. More fun for him than for me, but it's nice to be given the slow once over.

It's so refreshing to do a show where everyone in the cast is good people. It is especially nice to become fast friends with a couple of them, meeting socially and generally having a good time. I know that these people will become another set of nice actors I meet on line in the early morning, hug, chat with, and then don't see again for a few months. The friendships formed during a show are often lovely and impermanent. But we're having fun today.

2004-05-14T08:40:00.000-04:00

Let's not hide it now that they know

"The world will see how a free system, a democratic system, functions and operates transparently, with no cover-up" - Donald Rumsfeld.

Uh-huh.

Another interesting part of this bed time story is how there are more pictures, but the military doesn't think they should be released. You know, for the protection of the accused. The Secretary said he'd LOVE to released them, and get it out of the way, but some lawyers in the administration don't think it's a good idea. Damn lawyers. Also, isn't that what Ms. Rice said about testifying? I'd love to, but I can't.

I'm sure this isn't going to get any better...

2004-05-12T11:16:00.000-04:00

Hot and hard

I put the air conditioner in the bedroom yesterday. Ever try to sleep with a Lear jet idling in your window?

BG has fears about what happens in ten years, or five years, if this whole acting thing doesn't work out. The numbers are against us, any of us, making it in the biz. She doesn't not want to be standing in the EPA line in the early AM, wondering how twenty bucks is going to buy a weeks worth of groceries, and will the temp agency call with work this week or not, and can does the free clinic have any openings this week.

Nor do I.

I want to be able to reassure her, but everything I say comes out wrong. Or doesn't come out at all. We approach some things so differently, it is hard to realign the brain cells to fit her needs.

2004-05-10T09:44:00.000-04:00

Theatre Geek

It may not be earth shattering, but for someone who maintains an ever updated list of people to thank during his acceptance speech, this is important news.

2004-05-08T09:44:00.000-04:00

Swallowing pins and needles

One of my castmates, a very funny guy with Broadway credits, has been sick lately. It started with an allergy type feeling and then moved into his chest with a rattling cough and a voice that would be the envy of James Earl Jones. He's beginning to feel better now. I'm beginning to feel worse.

It started two days ago, during Thursday night's show. A little tickle in the throat. Yesterday I woke up with some pain. A little post-nasal drip irritating the chords. My voice (thankfully) is hardly affected. Makes the singing a little more work, but it still sounds fine. This morning, after a Popsicle, night time cold medicine, a little icy-cold gin insurance, and eight hours sleep, I feel as if someone poured Drano down my pie hole. Thick, nasty gobs of phlegm are being endlessly produced and the inside of my throat is fire engine red. Yet my voice, as far as I can tell without belting showtunes and waking up my sleeping girl, remains unaffected.

The funny guy last night brought donuts to the theatre, as a thank you for people being so nice to him while he was sick. Another cast member asked if he got lucky. See, the tradition is if you bring donuts to the theatre you are announcing to the cast that you got some sweet lovin' the night before.

"I should be so lucky," he replied.

"I dunno," I said, while making my Throat Coat tea, "you've certainly fucked me."

2004-05-06T17:09:00.000-04:00

Such a superstitious lot

Who was the first person to go belly up on opening night? Who was the first person, in his first song, to lose his place, lose his lyric, and get the shit-eyes? Who actually needs me to answer that question?

Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it in semi-public like this. Thank you, Fate, for pinching my ass like that.

2004-05-04T09:49:00.000-04:00

To tell the truth

I have a friend. We knew each other back in the Evil West, where we were in a couple of shows together. We hung out quite a bit, shared many a glass of wine, kveched, got together to play music, and generally enjoyed each other's company. My friend went off to the Big City before I, and has a fancy graduate school education.

Here's the thing, my friend is not all that good. In the right project my friend is fine, but range is a problem. My friend is ambitious. My friend is dedicated. My friend isn't nearly as good as many I know. I am always very supportive of my friend. I encourage my friend to audition, to get out there, to take more vocal coaching, to just go and do it.

Am I really being kind to my friend?

Sometimes the Best Girl asks for my support and encouragement (as I do her) and I am happy to give it, because I think she is fabulous and talented. It has nothing to do with my level of affection for her. I thought she was great before she was my girlfriend. I believe that I am objective about such things; there are people whom I loath but acknowledge their talent. But with my friend, it is my level of affection that makes me continue to be supportive. Acting is all my friend has ever wanted to do, and all my friend has pursued for the last ten years or so. My friend is very attractive, so there will be jobs out there. It's just that I feel a little guilty perpetuating a white lie.

2004-05-03T23:33:00.000-04:00

Shit-eyes

The expression an actor gets when they forget a line. The lights kind of go out, and the pupils are directed inward, perhaps to some interior projection of the script. If you've ever been onstage, you've seen shit eyes.

Come to my show tomorrow night, and you'll see a whole stage full 'em.

2004-05-01T21:32:00.000-04:00

Just what kind of shabby outfit is this?

Hey, it's spring in New York, and I'm in a play, so posting has been less than regular. Both of you will just have to deal.

I signed my contract Friday for my Great Midwestern Theatre Adventure. I am simultaneously very excited and leaving skids. Big role. Biggest I've done, I dare say, since college. And that doesn't count, because I didn't know anything back then.

Also on the skid-making: current show. We open Tuesday, and have yet to run the damn thing. Some scenes we've done once in the last week. Oh. my. god. We work through the show step by step tomorrow, dress it Monday, and put it in front of people (theoretically casting agents and Clive Barnes) Tuesday. You know that dream where you're plopped in front of an audience in a play where you know nothing about what's going on? or you're giving a big PowerPoint(tm) presentation about something you know nothing about? This is just like that, except I don't get to wake up.

Fun group of people though, including the powers that be. Details of them to follow, but as a tiny tidbit I leave you with: the producer gave all the ladies of the cast tiny origami sculptures today because it's May Day, and he isn't even gay.

2004-04-22T09:39:00.000-04:00

In the house

Momma BG is in town for a week long visit, the first since her baby girl moved to town. Poppa BG won't come near New York. Probably ever. She spent the night on our couch last night, and will be staying in the City for the rest of the trip. It should be fun. BG loves her mom, and it shows, and I love seeing them together.

2004-04-19T16:24:00.000-04:00

It can hang you up the most

It's spring. Actually, it's more like mid summer today, but the proximity to the freezing-ass cold of this past winter makes today my official First Day of Spring. I biked to work, which is quicker than taking the subway and almost as much of a workout. Also, the warmth has caused many a city dweller to ditch outerwear. I enjoy the occasional glimpse of a pleasing curve or line.

Tonight, almost a year later, I begin rehearsals for my second NY show. I met a guy on an audition line last week who has been in seven shows in the last year. But he, like me, was standing on the line, so perhaps resume size doesn't matter.

2004-04-15T10:05:00.000-04:00

Painless

I got a (non-paying) job yesterday, start rehearsals on Monday, the gig is in May. A staged reading. I went in for a supporting character, and got the seven song singing lead. Just like that.

In other career news, the Big Midwestern Gig is still on hold, waiting for a) something better or b) my agent to sign off on it. The stage manager called to ask why she hasn't received my contract yet. Um, because I haven't signed it. They have program deadlines, apparently. My agent says they all say that, don't worry. I trust her. She's been doing this a long time. But still, if it were up to me I'da pounced on this like a duck on a junebug.

2004-04-11T11:37:00.000-04:00

The politics of condiments

As I dropped the check and cleared the table, the picky gentleman said to me, "You sure have a lot of Heinz ketchup around."

"Yeah, I guess we do."

"It's only helping Kerry you know."

I walked away with his dishes.

A few minutes later, the picky gentleman brought the check up to the bar and said, "You know, all this Heinz, it really is only helping Kerry."

"Well, perhaps he needs the help."

2004-04-09T23:50:00.000-04:00

The Formative Years, Part II

We drove back home jittery with the adrenaline high of petty larceny and the caffeine of a late night Denny's celebration. We recalled our little adventure all the way home, laughing and embellishing all the way. Bob dropped me off and I snuck in through the always unlocked dining room window.

In the next few days, several plans for our booty were suggested and nixed. Placing it on a teacher's lawn, done before. School yard, pat. Nothing was coming to us. Finally, with Bob's instance to remove the Savior from Bob's trunk we decided to give Him a glorious resurrection.

We drove to Howard's Marina (it was called a marina, but there was nothing "marine" about the lake four miles outside of town) on a foggy night and sat in the car. Finally, when we thought the coast was clear we dragged out Jesus and walked him down a long, rickety dock.

"Hey, His hand is gone," I noticed as I labored on my side of the cement Savior.

We put him on the end of the dock, facing the water, arms (and hand) stretched wide. As we were leaving we saw a light come on in Howard's cabin and we started to run. The dock started bucking under our escape. I turned just in time to see the statue topple into the lake with a loud splash. We jumped into the car and took off. Laughing and half scared to death. Howard was, in addition to his Marina duties, a member of the Sheriff's Department.

The next day Bill and I drove back to the scene and tried to find the statue. The water was murky, as there was a slight wind coming in from the wide lake. We couldn't see bottom. We poked around with a stick, because if you can't find what you're looking for and you are sixteen years old, you poke around with a stick. We couldn't find him.

"Maybe he's risen!" I joked.

"Nah," said Bill, "it hasn't been three days yet."

2004-04-07T23:27:00.000-04:00

This I know

If you drive up in an (ok, it was cool) giant pink Buick, and two of your stars are driving it, and they are wearing feather coats and pink fishnets with gymsocks and majorette hats, and you are coming to my restaurant to do a photo shoot in the bathroom (yes, the bathroom), then you are probably not in an off-Broadway show.

2004-04-06T16:51:00.000-04:00

Spring Forward, land on your face.

This morning BG was making her way out the door to visit a friend on Long Island, and I was looking forward to a leisurely morning sipping coffee and reading the virtual paper. Turns out there was one clock in the house not reset on Sunday, and that was the one we were using this morning. Leisure time turned into half an hour before work and BG missing her train.

I went around and changed the clocks, because I was awake when an hour evaporated last Sunday morning. My Mac clock suddenly said 3:15AM, so I changed the alarm clock, and then went for the atomic baby. This clock resets itself via radio waves to the US Atomic Clock. I assumed it would change it's own bad self. I examined the myriad buttons on the back and toggled the one marked DST, because Spring is when we're off DST . . . right? If only I had a clock that could tell me when I don't know what I'm doing.

2004-04-01T22:40:00.000-05:00

A Good Liberal

I'm listening to Rep. Barney Frank on Air America Radio, the liberal radio project. I think I may have fallen in love with him.

Air America Radio? not so sure. Barney Frank? oh, yeah.

2004-03-31T22:12:00.000-05:00

The City Loves You. Also, It Wants to Kill You

I had one of those days where everything meshes together just so. The trains came exactly when I needed them to. I made three auditions today, with a minimum of waiting in line. Saw a poker buddy on the line. Even auditioned well.

My plans for the day were to include going to Brooklyn to watch an open dress rehearsal for BG's new show. By the time I got home, I was in no condition to go anywhere. Too tired. Way too freakin' tired.

At some point in the day, between audition one and work, I was walking down 7th Ave, my mind clicking away. An idea for writing popped into my head, as I was staring up at an iPod billboard. Where is it now? Still attached to the billboard, I guess.

2004-03-30T21:25:00.000-05:00

May I Present

Ladies and gentlemen, whichever is which, the leader of the free world.

2004-03-28T16:44:00.000-05:00

Keeps Raining
(or, my attempt at being a Goth poet)

It comes without my being aware. Suddenly I am foul, without a clue as to the cause. There is a hollow, an emptiness that has no way to be filled. I am angry at everything. Seething.

/Goth poet

Last night I fell into a black mood. Don't know why. On some level, I don't care. Except that if I don't examine it, it's bound to come back. BG gets the brunt of it, of course, being the person trying to figure out why her man got all sullen and snippy.

These moods used to be the norm for me. An all around thing, or around all the time thing. No more, say I. No more.

2004-03-24T14:29:00.000-05:00

What's wrong here?

This is NEWS?

That isn't news, people; it's called acting. Groan. Some other Earthlink "News" stories include:

"Writer Uses People From Real Life In Novel"
"Accountant Remembers Error From Last Time Spreadsheet Went Across Her Desk"
"Taxi Driver Takes Shortcut"
"Painful Memories of Lost Love Inspire Poet"

Well, must be a slow news day.

2004-03-24T10:49:00.000-05:00

dance, monkey.

Two auditions this week in which I was sure I would be getting a callback. Nothing. Today though, I am going to a dance callback, and I am more than a little nervous about it. I'm not much of the dancer. I'm not even sure I'd want to work at this place, truth to tell, except that a job there + the job this summer = 6 months of health care. Regardless, it's freaking me out. I just hope I don't crash into anyone.

2004-03-23T09:17:00.000-05:00

Madam Arcati, at your service

I had a dreamlast week that I came across a box of stuff I didn't realized I had. Some of the contents of the box included a raft of CD's I assumed lost in the move.

The other day I received a package in the mail from X containing some old programs from the Decadent South and Repressed New England that I didn't realize I still had.

Coincidence? Or am I finally psychic?

2004-03-17T09:50:00.000-05:00

Magically Delicious

I've never been big on St. Patrick's Day. I don't go out of my way to wear green. I don't slap on the Lucky Charms accent. And there's no way in hell you're going to get me to drink green beer. I mean, what's wrong with you. It seems like one of those strange American holidays where something arbitrary is celebrated because of it's inherent commercial value. Blech.

Today, though, I'm going to wear green. I'm going to let the one quarter of me that's Irish come out. I'm going to be spending all day and all night at the restaurant serving beer and hopefully raking in the dough hand over leprechaun fist.

2004-03-16T09:22:00.000-05:00

Reasons

I moved to New York for the greater opportunities offered here. I moved to New York because I want to act. I moved to New York because I was not getting what I wanted out of The Evil West.

Yesterday I had an audition for a show in Repressed New England, and am going to a callback for it today. Also, I was offered my first regional theatre part; the lead, no less. Get this, though: my agent is sitting on it because there may be better things in the queue. Saturday, I am auditioning for another show in Repressed New England.

This is why I moved to New York.

In other news, a shout-out to the Best Girl, who, it turns out, has been one of the three people who regularly reads these pages. (me: "How'd you find it?" BG:"You advertise on NYCBloggers.") Which is why I'm not writing about my recent tryst with the gay dwarf and the horse. You can feel free to comment, if you like. Perhaps help me with my over use of commas.

2004-03-15T10:35:00.000-05:00

House of Blues

The search for an acceptable domicle continues. We've looked thus far in Washington "How much longer do I have to sit on this damn train?" Heights, Park "Need to be an M.D." Slope, Brooklyn "Pepople live here?" Heights, Hell's "Ass-end of Manhattan" Kitchen, and The Upper "$400,000 for a STUDIO!?" East "Look, I can stand in the kitchen and the bedroom at the same time!" Side.

Yesterday we went back to Washington Heights with our expectations somewhat lowered. It's not that bad a neighborhood, really, and the commute isn't bad. BG takes the A train to Harlem every morning for her job, and it's speedy-speedy she says. And the apartment we looked at was bigger, if not better, than the current manse. And it was certainly better than the itty-bitty tiny Hell's Kitchen apartment past Tenth ave that was smaller than our living room and next door to a rehab clininc.

Gawd, but this sucks.

At the end of the hunt, BG and I started to have a conversation that ended with "I need to know that I'm more important than New York." I couldn't answer her. In reality, I don't want to choose. They're equal and I don't want to have to compromise either way. But my first reaction was "Crap, not again."

2004-03-12T19:22:00.000-05:00

Good enough

Tuesdays audition was a relevation. I was nervous and it showed. I was a little off key. I forgot lyrics. To an ABBA song. I kicked myself in the ass for several blocks afterward. I walked to the Drama Bookshop and browsed audition self-help books.

I keep repeating myself on this, but I'm sick of shooting myself in the foot by being a) underprepared and 2) being so worried about what people are thinking.

Mostly it's about what people think. I could not be less proud of myself in that regard. I worry about what the three people who might read this post will think. I worry about what the train conductor will think; what the newsie will think' what the random girl or guy on the street corner will think. If I weren't concerned about what people think, I wouldn't have a comments feature. I wish I could be one of those people who don't give a shit about what others think - my Dad is one - but I fear I will always be the one who worries about it.

2004-03-09T09:56:00.000-05:00

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Back in the Evil West I engaged in a little of the psychotherapy. Once a week I met with Bob, and Bob and I would talk about what was bothering me. Mostly we'd talk about X or we'd discuss my career agida. Bob helped me see how much I needed to move to New York. Bob helped me be ok with myself and my feelings about the family. Bob was an arts fan. He kept poetry journals in his office, went to the opera, told me stories about the famous people he'd grown up with, and even saw one of my shows.

Bob was old. He was frail looking, but he rode his bike every day until he took a spill on wet leaves and broke his leg. He's been doing this a long time. Once he told me that, until he met me, he used to tell patients that the only people who truly knew what they looked like were actors. After working with me and my somewhat unrealistic self view, he had to change his position.

Yesterday I had an audition for a Broadway tour. I thought I blew it. I'm going back today for a callback. Shows what I know.

2004-03-08T19:21:00.000-05:00

Oh. No.

The news is bad. While celebrity deaths generally merit only a "oh, gosh, too bad; I liked their work."

This is so very different.

2004-03-08T09:23:00.000-05:00

Take my shift. Please.

Not a one of my coworkers is willing or able to pick up my Monday lunch shift. Three auditions today. Well two, since I have already skipped one on account of haveing to be at work later. Another is at 3:40, which is easily late enough for me to make after work. The sticky one is at noon. It is also the most important one. I don't get to audition for a Broadway every day. My options boil down to a) call in sick, which I am constitutionally incapable of doing; b) going in and telling the boss I need to leave for noon and will be back a.s.a.p.; or c) quitting. Or d) maybe my agent can swing a later slot.

There is no way I am not going to that audition.

2004-03-07T18:59:00.000-05:00

A Walking tour of Brooklyn

A lovely one bedroom, nicely appointed, great layout. Courtyard garden, laundry, storage, bike room, very high ceilings, dishwasher. Bus stop close by. Right outside the window, in fact. Ground floor. Four hour commute to Manhattan.

Here's a recently remodeled one bedroom where the kitchen is in the living room. Literally. Everything was done to look like the break room of an investment brokerage: dark woods, green marble counter, working fireplace right nest to the built in SubZero.

Right near the MetroTech, here's an apartment ready to move into. Well, first we'd have to pull up the wall to wall carpeting that I am quite sure was once beige. And we'd have to paint. And fumigate. And possible remove our eyes with a broach.

2004-03-04T18:26:00.000-05:00

Schmolitics, or This Is All I Have To Say On That

I was excited by the prospect of Howard Dean. Here's a guy who, call him crazy if you want to, spoke what he thought and was an actual, friggin' LIBERAL. All the crap about electability aside, I was charmed by his utter lack of political skill.

Now the race is on between the Cadaver and the Moron. I certainly think ANYBODY is better than the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but I'm not terribly excited by this contest. It might be interesting to see if W. can smirk his way through the debates this time, or if Kerry can survive the Right's painting of him as a flip-flop artist.

One thing I do know, there are others who comment on the this much better than I, and I'm leaving it to them.

2004-03-01T20:56:00.000-05:00

Might not want to do that again

When making a pot of coffee, it is theoretically possible to forget to place the carafe under the filter basket. In such a theoretical instance, it would be possible for the heating element to short out, with only the smallest bit of popping and sparks. With the theoretical burner theoretically shorting, it could happen that the power strip into which this coffee maker is plugged would not trip, causing an excess of heat where said power strip is attached to, oh let's say an extension cord. Now this extension cord, if the heat were theoretically high enough, could begin to smoke. And melt.

This is the beginning of what could be called an Electrical Fire, and is undesirable in one's place of work.

Theoretically

2004-02-29T11:51:00.000-05:00

Nice to be missed

Friday I finished my lunch shift, glad to be done after yet another day of getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to stand in a line to show my wares. Such a long week it was, but working with some of the more delightful coworkers and knowing that soon I'd be home with my feet up, perhaps a glass of wine or a smokey treat in my hand (or maybe both?) propelled me through the shift with humor and a sense of purpose. Plus, I got to watch The Boss bartend. He sucks at it. I enjoyed watching him drown.

On the way out, I said my goodbyes, including a hearty "Goodnight!" to The Boss, and headed out into the night. Hmm, should I get a drink first? Naw, I'll do a couple of errands and then head home.

Sitting on the platform at 49th Street, my phone beeped to tell me I had a couple of messages. I couldn't connect, being underground and all, so I decided to wait until I came up out of the tunnel in Queens to get the messages.

Halfway under the East River I remembered I was supposed to work a double.

2004-02-26T18:47:00.000-05:00

hard

Up early every day to stand in line the line, run to the bar, sing, go home, work, audition.

This is why I moved here.

This is why I moved here.

This is why I moved here . . .

2004-02-23T10:10:00.000-05:00

I hardly knew ye

Mr. Safety is moving out today. In true new York fashion, my first thought was "I wonder if his apartment is better than mine."

2004-02-22T00:17:00.000-05:00

The Formative Years, Part I

I was a member of a terrorist organization. We engaged in larceny, kidnapping, and fraud, among other less than upstanding activities. We were LOVONNE: The Lawn Ornament Vigilantes of Northern New England.

Our holy crusade was to rescue the lawns of our bucolic town from the oppression of gnomes, flamingos, and those gawdawful bubble-butt wooden cutouts. Cement woodland creatures quaked with fear at the very mention of our name.

The ranks of our cell would shift, depending on who could stay out, and who could get a car. Bill, being raised by his grandparents, was a mainstay of the group. Bob had a gigantic old car, a relic of the seventies, and would often be the wheel man. Under cover of night, we would drive around, spot some offending piece of outdoor bric-a-brac, and remove it. Sometimes we would transplant it to another location, usually the lawn of someone who had offended us

One night I was at work when Bill and Bob walked in, shit-eating grins spread across their faces.

"We found the ultimate target?"

"Excellent. What?"

"We'll tell you on the way. We'll pick you up at 11:30."

Off we went in Bob's boat of a car. Twenty-five miles north of town we passed a small house, no bigger than a double-wide trailer. I'd passed this house countless times, it was on the road to the "city" where we went to see a movie. Facing the house, standing about three feet high and arms straight out, was the personal Lord and Savior of the occupants: Jesus Christ.

We parked down the road a few dozen yards. Bill, whose grandparents belonged to the Assembly of God, began having second thoughts about the stealing of the Messiah, so he became wheel man. Bob and I got out and strolled casually toward the house. When we were close to the statue, we dashed onto the lawn and each grabbed an arm. Christ was made of concrete, and weighed at least a hundred pounds, but we hoisted him off his pedestal and lumbered toward the car. Bill popped the trunk when he saw us coming and jumped into the drivers seat. He turned the car over as Bob and I hefted the statue into the trunk. He didn't quite fit at first, but we shoved him in as best we could and took off.

2004-02-19T23:23:00.000-05:00

Chemist humor

I hope it's on purpose that the chemical name for this particular pill begins with "Ta-DA!"

2004-02-19T00:22:00.000-05:00

Why Aren't I Asleep?

Head pounding. Mind restless. Too much wine. Witches of Eastwick was on, and I got hooked because one of the actors in the movie, a supporting part, turns out to be Nathaniel Fischer, Sr. on Six Feet Under. And then I had to stay for Jack sticking his hand into a tub of ice cream. And then, well, it's near the end and who wants to miss the giant, asymmetrical Jack Monster?

2004-02-18T22:45:00.000-05:00

Bienvenue

Landlord called tonight, asking to have keys left out for an "inspector" to come by. Hm. He doesn't know BG lives here with me. Shouldn't be a problem. But it is messy. Small piles of clothes, a few too many dishes. I don't like the idea of someone tramping about my apartment while I'm not here, and while the cleanliness is less than stellar.

2004-02-17T17:24:00.000-05:00

Dumbert Dumbert

Dear Middle Aged Guys,

I don't think anyone else is going to tell you this, so I guess it's up to me: you look foolish. You look like you don't realize you left your twenties fifteen years ago. I don't know why the twenty-something girls were with you but I can assure you it isn't for your looks, and it certainly isn't charm. Also, I don't know if you noticed, but while you were downing your multiple Rolling Rocks and glasses of port (seriously, port!?) your young, um, escorts only drank about a third of their beverages.

Oh, and one suggestion: you should keep your voices down when you talk about "trying to get some twenty-five year old pussy."

2004-02-15T13:05:00.000-05:00

Swinging Bachelor

Bracing myself for a week of alone time. So far, after kissing BG goodbye at the ungodly hour of five thirty a.m., I have spent the time sitting in on the couch in my pj's, listening to NPR, web surfing, playing with my new favorite software, and wondering why I haven't moved in three hours. Bracing indeed. I'd go for a bike ride, but really, it's below thirty degrees outside. I'm not crazy.

Actually, I've been feeling a little bit on the grey side. I don't know why. I haven't actually felt depressed, but I can spend easily three hours in the same spot. Beautiful, if cold, New York day. I should go do something - anything - with it.