Guess What Today Is!

Me: Happy Mardi Gras, Candie!

Candie: It's not Mardi Gras. It's Fat Tuesday.

Me: That's what Mardi Gras means in French.

Me: Happy Mardi Gras, Ginjur!

Ginjur: What are you talking about? It's Fat Tuesday.

Me: Yeah, I know. That's what Mardi Gras means in French.

My Smoothie Runneth Over

There are so many things I could post about today. Let's see...what would be the most interesting?

I could do another rant about tiny blondes driving enormous suburbans as though they were mini-coopers. Meh. Better not. The ladies didn't like it the last time I made a post about Death-UVs...

How about how nobody knows what's going on at rehearsals for Fiddler? That one of our main cast members is about to take his family on a week-long cruise (which the director is totally okay with) and he won't be back until the beginning of tech week? Or that we had our first blocking rehearsal last night only there was a Bar Mitzvah in the auditorium and we had to rehearse in a tiny classroom instead? Or that we still haven't touched any of the ENORMOUS dance numbers that fill this deceptively LARGE show? Or that Lola Levenstein, the director herself, is in a local production of Evita right now and randomly DOESN'T show up to rehearsals? Nahh...that's not too interesting to anybody but me...

Or how about the fact that Candie, the receptionist on the 42nd Floor, is out this morning getting her arm put in a cast because she found her husband's secret collection of internet porno videos and felt so angry, violated, and betrayed that she punched a wall and broke her wrist? Snooooooze!

No, this morning I'd like to tell you the most interesting thing of all:

Most blender pitchers have removable screw-off bases.

When you make something in your new blender--for example, a fresh fruit smoothie made with delicious strawberries, bananas, a spoonful of all-natural peanut butter, some honey, all-natural reduced-fat milk, two scoops of vanilla protein powder, and a couple of ice cubes--make sure the bottom of the blender pitcher (the part with the blades that connects to the base unit) is COMPLETELY screwed on.

Otherwise, you'll be running out the door early on a Monday morning--early because you have to cover the front desk for the aforementioned jilted receptionist who's getting her arm put in a cast--thinking about how you're going straight from work to the gym and then to rehearsal, so you need to bring enough food to last all day--only it has to be kosher because you're going to eat it in a Jewish Community Center--plus making sure you have rehearsal clothes and your cell phone and iPod and script and music, all the while trying to keep your long hair down and flat so it won't curl and make you look even more like a college student which will make the security guards stop you and ask to see your Eventual ID badge...

...and with your travel cup in hand, you yank the pitcher off the blender and pour the smoothie into your cup. Then you wonder why nothing is coming out of the pitcher. Then you look at the blender and see that your smoothie is still there...along with the bottom of the pitcher.

I tried so hard to laugh about it. I mean, delicious pink goo oozing all over your kitchen counter when your mind is filled with Jewish kosher laws and receptionists with pornographic wrists and you're already late as it is and THIS happens? What isn't funny about that?

It's like how when you skinned your knee as a kid and your mother told you, "If you cry, it'll only hurt worse and you'll bleed more."

I've taken that old wives tale with me into adulthood but modified it. Now, whenever bad things happen, I try hard to laugh at them. After all, getting upset about bad things only makes them worse, right?

Try as I might, I just couldn't see this as being very funny.

So when I can't see the funny side of an unpleasant situation, I resort to Plan B: Divine Intervention.

Maybe there was some greater purpose behind it all. Maybe the delay caused by my smoothie spill kept me from getting into a fatal accident with a tiny blonde in a suburban.

So allow me to take a moment and raise my empty glass in humble tribute to God...and the smoothie that saved my life.

A disaster waiting to happen. Like the Titanic.

From the Blog Graveyard

JJo's blog, Central Earth, has been resuscitated. Go here!

Cartoon Riots Turn Comical

42nd Floor Press
by Forky Fourchette

Toontown, California -- About 2,000 of the world's most beloved cartoon characters from Bosco to Mulan chanted "Death to America" and "Death to France" and "Death to Mexico" as they set cartoon fires to cartoon buildings, beginning what many are calling an all-out cartoon riot.

But these cartoons aren't laughing.

The protests began peacefully, but soon took a comical turn when one 'toon launched a lemon meringue pie at Yosemite Sam. Soon, cartoon pistols were fired and giant mallets were drawn. Onlookers described the scene as "horrific, yet funny".

"It all started out so calmly," said Snow White. "We held hands and marched through Toontown together singing 'We Shall Overcome'." The pale princess went on to describe the feeling of unity that ran through the crowd.

It didn't last long.

"A shot was fired, something happened, I don't know," stammered a shell-shocked Spongebob Squarepants, "It was all a blur. Then someone started playing the Th-Th-That's All Folks song--you know, the famous Looney Tunes theme. Once we heard that, I'm sure you can guess what happened. Everything went straight to hell."

"Of course you know this means war," said a battered Daffy Duck.

News helicopters have been unable to effectively track the chaos as a large cartoon "flight cloud" has completely covered Toontown, from which fly stars, oversized fists, and words like "BOINK!", "BIFF!", and "KAPOW!" One helicopter was forced to make an emergency landing after being grazed by a particularly powerful "AH-WOO-GAA!"

"We're furious," said Felix the Cat, who has been taken into custody for intentionally dropping banana peels on busy thoroughfares. "We demand to be taken seriously."

"We're especially angry with Mexico," said Dumbo's Mom. "They have no respect for American copyright laws and put completely unlicensed murals of us on all their buildings for the whole world to see. It's a mockery of free speech."

When asked if she had ever seen a mural of herself, Dumbo's Mom accused our reporters of "missing the point" and led a mob of talking woodland creatures in "Death to America" and "Death to Bush".

Many humans fail to see the purpose behind the riots and are calling for their immediate end.

"This is stupid," said Nimber O'Werner, an anti-protestor in the cartoon protests. "When they said there was another cartoon riot going on, besides the idiotic ones in the Middle East, I didn't realize they were being literal. This doesn't make any sense."

"We're cartoon characters," said Pocahontas in response to O'Werner's comments. "Tell that [expletive] we don't have to make sense."

Toontown hospitals have already reached their limit and have turned away even the cartoon elite, such as Warner Bros. well-known Bugs Bunny and pals.

"I was the only one of us to make it in," said Speedy Gonzales, a Mexican-American mouse. Mr. Gonzales suffers from a bent tail and a large pink knot on his head that stands about a foot tall. "I thought I was muerto for sure. I only hope the others are bueno."

Political leaders around the world have been unable to bring the violence to a halt, despite their best efforts. Many have already thrown in the towel, calling the riots "hilarious" and "side-splitting."

"We have no idea what they want," said Condoleezza Rice in an exclusive interview with the 42nd Floor. "They keep protesting but they aren't making any demands. It's unreal, like being in a--well, a cartoon."

Rice informed the 42nd Floor that she has tried to contact Scrooge McDuck, the financial muscle behind Toontown.

"He said, 'Don't mess with me, gerrill' in that thick Scottish brogue of his. Then his nephew, Donald, grabbed the phone and I couldn't understand a word from that point on. I heard gunshots and yelling--it reminded me of Saddam and his brothers--until a custard pie came through the receiver of my phone and hit me in the face. It was delicious, but the surprise attack left me feeling unsettled. If they can attack via phone-pie, who knows what else these 'Toons are capable of?"

Three city blocks of Toontown have already been completely and literally erased with a giant pencil eraser, leaving empty white space where buildings once stood. Earlier attempts to destroy buildings with sticks of ACME dynamite were abandoned after they consistently blew up too soon, leaving everyone in the vicinity black and charred, except for surprised, blinking eyes.

"We intend to show the world that we're serious this time," said Mr. Bluebird. "If it means wiping out Toontown and everyone in it, so be it."

"You guys are idiots!" raved Nimber O'Werner in response to Mr. Bluebird's comments early yesterday afternoon. "How does destroying your home prove anything other than you guys are all looney tunes?"

"Art reflects life," Mr. Bluebird added ominously. "And besides, I'm not a Looney. I'm a Disney character, you racist."

The 42nd Floor has it on good authority that many famous characters, including the Triplets of Belleville, the casts of Futurama and Ninja Turtles, and 97 of the one hundred and one dalmations have been evacuated. As always, the 42nd Floor's crack team of investigative reporters are in the thick of it and will keep you updated on the worsening situation in Toontown as news on the cartoon riots continues to develop.

In Other News...

So I decided to take the parking garage elevator today. Normally I use the stairs and shoot cute little "my body loves me" grins at the elevator users as I descend, but for some reason I've got shin splints and they were bothering me this morning. That and somehow, despite leaving early and hitting no traffic, I was running late.

Maybe it was because of all the singing I was doing in my car. You see, I sang for the Jews last night (there's a play title in there somewhere-- "Now in previews, the critically acclaimed I Sang for the Jews! Get your tickets now!"). I went to my first rehearsal for the Everycity Jewish Community Center's production of Fiddler on the Roof. It's going to be...quite an experience.

Forget the fact that there's no stage manager.

Forget the fact that we barely have enough people to play the townspeople of Anatevka, to say nothing of the mob of Russians who pop up several times over the course of the play (everyone ALWAYS forgets about the Russians--even when I did the show the first time, the director had to recruit junior high boys to portray the threatening, snarling mob of Jew-hating Ruskies--they were just adorable).

And forget the fact that our Tevye, as genuinely good as he seems to be, is doing the most amazing mimic of Zero Mostel. Those kinds of performances never sit well with me. I remember living in Alaska. We were doing The Music Man and the guy playing Harold Hill was a Robert Preston-aping Mormon (is there any other kind?). He copied everything--right down to ol' Robbie P's peculiar doubled-over march down the steps of town hall. Everyone raved over him while I thought to myself, "He's a parrot."

No, the most amazing thing about this production of Fiddler is that--wonder of wonders and miracle of miracles--last night when I sang for the Jews (buy your tickets now!) I sounded GREAT! The girl playing Hodel freaked out (in a bad way) and said, "I didn't know they were getting a professional to do your part!" So while the latter part of rehearsal was spent fanning poor Hodel and convincing her that she would, in fact, be just wonderful in her role, I smiled a little on the inside and felt a tiny bit of my previously shattered confidence return.

...Until this morning...when I woke up and decided that they were all lying about my singing. After all, they were lying the first time when I did the show at Smalltown Americanabury. Why shouldn't they be lying now? It was a ruse! A ruse to get me to stay in the show after they'd already lost so many other people (Russians not included--we don't have any to lose).

So at 8:57 I quit singing, got out of my car, and hurried into the elevator (honestly, I kind of liked not having to walk down ten stories). A woman was talking to a friend about her ex-husband who had been in an accident and has amnesia.

"Yeah--and yuh wanna know the best part? He thinks we're still married! Haw! Haw! Haw! He looked up at me and asked how I was and how our house is an' I told him, 'We got divorced' and he asked me, 'Well...where do I live?' Ain't that jus' a kicker? Haw! Haw! Haw!"

I wanted to turn and say, "Wow. He must've been a real idiot to marry a heartless little harpy like you! For better or worse, sickness and in health...I guess those words didn't really mean anything, did they MR. SCHAIVO!"

Okay, that's not quite what I thought. I mean, I realize I don't know the circumstances of their divorce but come on. I'm still recovering from Singles Awareness Day and to hear people flippantly talk about their divorces just makes me want to puke all over their heads.

"Curse you and the entire free-love generation, I say!"

That's what I should have said.

In other news, the cartoon riots are still raging.

And the Winner Is...

Loyal readers, we have a tie!

For the first time in the history of our popular polls ("Whose Fault is it Anyway?" "Who's the Bigger Diva?" and "Unholy Hellidays" to name a few), the number of votes for two of our candidates have come up the same!

Unfortunately, intelligent design didn't favor Real Penguins, however cute they may be. Rather, the clear winners are The Penguin and Vice-President Penguin!

Ladies and Gents, I give you the winner of the 42nd Floor's President's Day Penguin Poll!

The Vice-President Penguin!

A Reminder

Just remember, tomorrow is your last chance to vote in the President's Day Penguin Poll! Represent!

Cartoonies!

Penguins on Parade!

It's time to vote!

Real Penguin

The Penguin

Vice-President Penguin

Happy Lupercalia!

Guess what today is!

Christmas in February

This weekend was quite a little adventure, I must say. J-Bo and B-Tru came through and the three of us journeyed to Wackytown to support our dear friends, Mz. Moggles and Mr. Miltie in their two-night only Valentine production of A. R. Gurney's Love Letters produced by the Wackytown Hippodome. The production suffered the Curse of Amahl--that is, the mics never worked correctly. But, as Sammy Ray's wife observed, why would you want to mic such golden voices?

When it was all over and J-Bo and B-Tru and I were parting ways, I got that sinking feeling. You know, the kind you get when you suddenly realize that Christmas is over and you have to go back to work. It had been such a special time. A special, crazy time. The performances were world-class and, really, the show meant the absolute world to Miltie, who hadn't been on a stage in more than a decade. It gave him a new lease on life. He started walking every morning. He lost 30 pounds. It lifted him out of his depression. It made him feel important. It even meant a lot to Mz. Moggles, who insisted that she didn't care about it one bit, but by the time I hugged her goodbye, she had tears in her eyes and I could tell that she really missed the theatre, she just didn't know how to find her way back again.

Right now, everything feels like a television show that's about to end. Plot lines are wrapping up. Characters are moving away. Folks are getting married, babies are being born. 'Arrested Development' was canceled. The circle has come back around and I'm facing another production of Fiddler, the show that marked my first real step into pursuing theatre professionally. I almost left the 42nd Floor last Friday, fully intending never to return. I feel like God is taking a vacation from planet Earth and that the few prayers I'm submitting are going straight to voicemail.

It's a transition time--a time of change.

I dreamt last night that my hair began falling out in clumps and seconds later I was bald. And I was so excited about it for some reason. I remember patting my bald scalp and thinking how cool it was. Worst of all, it was one of those dreams that feel really REAL. I woke up in a cold sweat and immediately ran my fingers through my hair, relieved to find it still firmly attached. Nelson looked over at me, his green eyes at half-mast, and meowed sleepily, "Is it time for breakfast?"

In my pre-dawn stupor, I thought about Jung and what he would say about my dream. Except the only thing I know about Jung's dream analysis is snakes represent change and everything else represents sex (ironically enough). But I didn't dream about a snake. I dreamt about a dramatic change in my roguish coiffure.

So I decided Jung was full of crap and instead, I thought about Candie, our receptionist on the 42nd Floor. She recently bobbed her long hair. When I asked her why she did it, she said, "I just had a fight with my husband. I felt like I was moving into a different period in my life--and I needed to express that feeling by cutting my hair. Girls do it all the time."

Am I getting in touch with my feminine side? Is it time for me to make a dramatic change? Or is it just the post-Christmas blues?

There is one thing in particular that I'll take away from my weekend in Wackytown.

Mz. Moggles was very nervous about the show. She was nervous about the whole thing. She wanted Ozarka water. Everything else had too many minerals. She could feel a draft on the stage. A door must be open somewhere. She didn't want to know who was in the audience. It would throw her performance.

Finally, her mother said, "Honey, you're being a diva."

To which Moggles replied, "I'm not being a diva, I'm being superstitious."

Amen, sister.

In Memoriam

A-Dub already did a great one of these at her blog but I thought I'd do one for the 42nd Floor.

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT

November 2, 2003 - February 10, 2006

Here's to Arrested Development! Thanks for everything!

For the times that made us try to cry...

...and reminding us that it's okay to make huge mistakes...

That sometimes our cousin really is just some girl we know...

...and to respect the No Touching policy.

For reminding us to let our hair down...

...and that there's still plenty of meat on even the barest of bones...

...and to make eye-contact...

...and not to make faces...

Thanks for teaching us that sometimes things don't always go quite like we hope...



...and to not respond to questions we don't understand...

...and that sometimes it's okay to be a little cornball.

But most of all...that there's no place like home.

Rest, Fiddler!

Sorry I've been out of commission the past two days. I've been sitting at the Radio Shack headquarters in Sistercity getting paid upwards of $200 a day to do...well...nothing. There was a big national commercial shoot (directed by the guy who directed 'Nanny McPhee'--everyone wanted his autograph. No, seriously) and they needed a bunch of extras. My agent called and asked if I had anything going on and, when you consider that $400 is almost as much as I make working for Eventual for two weeks, it wasn't too difficult to leave a message for Consuela that I wasn't going to be at work for the next couple of days.

So for two days I sat, sat, sat. Eventually they got PRETTY close to using me but, like the Angel of Death did with the Hebrews all those centuries ago, I was passed over.

However, something DID come of all this. The first day I was sitting there when I noticed Lola Levenstein, a respected actress and director of musicals in Everycity, looking at me with her head tilted to the side and one eye squinted. Either she had a migraine or she was deep in thought about something. I discovered it was the latter when she said,

"What voice type are you?" she asked.

"What voice type do you want me to be?" I replied.

"Well, y'see, I'm directing a production of 'Fiddler on the Roof' that runs for one weekend at the Jewish Community Center in late March--and Billy Lawler, yes, THE Billy Lawler, just dropped out to do another job. And I was just thinking that you'd be fantastic in his part."

"Which part is it?"

"Perchik."

My blood ran cold.

"I've played Perchik before," I said.

"You HAVE? Well then it would be SO EASY for you, wouldn't it? I mean--you could probably do it with your eyes closed!" She was clearly desperate.

I thought back all those years ago when I was still a fledgling actor, always thinking I was much better than I actually was. I remembered my 'Fiddler' experience. It's a great show. However, my memory of it was utterly marred by some OTHER memories.

Bad memories.

Memories of one of the cast members filming the very end of my song--the one that ends on a bizarre, Ethel Merman-esque high note. It was the last tired note, in the last tired show, of the last tired production of our long, tiring summer. And it was awful. It was unbelievably bad. And nobody ever told me how bad it was. NOBODY. Not even my closest friends. Instead, I got to see it for myself. I was shocked.

Suddenly I realized why everybody was always so quiet when I entered the dressing room after that number. Suddenly I realized why the director told me I really needed to work on my singing. Suddenly I realized why my mother and sister said, immediately after seeing the show, "Oh honey, singing is just not for you."

I called it the Great Betrayal. Ever since then, I've been terrified of singing. I'm always convinced that I'm flat or sharp or completely off and nobody's telling me.

My instinct was to tell Lola Levenstein no. But then I felt a tiny tug of curiousity. Knowing what I know now, could it turn out differently? Could I face this beast that had scarred me so deeply...and win? Could I make amends for the damage I'd done to all those eardrums those many summers ago by tackling that Merman note one more time?

"I'll do it for fifty bucks."

Monday? AGAIN?

This Tuesday is broken! It feels like Monday again! All the signs are there: Getting out the door late, getting stuck in traffic, having piles of things to do, and within the first hour of making copies, mailing letters, moving boxes, and delivering documents up and down stairs, my hair went from slicked back and well-kempt to a total 'fro.

Then I also have a surprise audition for a low-budget romantic comedy this afternoon. I got directions to where the audition is going to be and "cased the joint" last night. It's being held in a trailer park. Hey, I told you it was low-budget.

Why can't they make some kind of breakfast cereal that makes you calm and relaxed when you get to work?

Short fuse

This is what they're killing people over?

Inventions of the Orient: The Foot-brella

Perfect for those rainy days!

Inventions of the Orient: Cool Stix!

Inventions of the Orient: The Nose-Blow Chapeau