Auld Lang Syne

Happy New Year, folks!

It's finally here. New Year's Eve. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm not dreading it.

I hate New Year's.

But, as I just said, I'm not loathing it quite as much this year. Is it that Christmas was really simple and low-key and, consequently, didn't result in the usual "I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S OVER!" blues?

Could it be because, unlike last year, I feel as though New York is a little more like home? Like the many marvels and dreams-come-true are a little closer to my fingertips?

Or could it be because I traded my tabby cat for a ukulele?

Whatever the reason, don't forget to partake in the Forkish New Year's tradition of reading my favorite book of all time. Might I recommend this edition?

Something New

You learn something new every day.

Shopping for Mom

My mom doesn't like stuff.

I think she used to. Back when. But after taking it upon herself to deal with the estates of all our old relatives who pass away, she's come to this new way of thinking. It's just this: Stuff accumulates and clutters, and in the end, someone else has to throw it away for you.

But you still have to get her something for Christmas.

I may be in a counter-cultural mood right now, fully prepared to wish people a Merry Christmas all the way until January 6th, but my mom is a bit more efficient. Like that one customer who came into the store.



Customer: Oh no! I'll never get a Gii before Christmas!

Me: Well, just remember, Christmas begins on the 25th. It doesn't end until January 6th.

Customer: (beat) Yeah. I need it for the 25th.



My mom would probably say I don't need to get her anything. In fact, in addition, she'd also say that I qualify for Medicaid and food stamps.

But even though she says that, she doesn't mean it. The gift part, I mean. She does mean it when she comments on my lamentable financial situation. You have to get her something. You just have to. It's mom.

So I ask you, 42nd Floorers, what do you get for the woman who doesn't want anything but expects you to get her something?

Counter-Cultural

After my brief stint at NofriendoWorldLand this--er--Holiday, I've emerged, totally turned off to the whole American Christmas thing.

Here's the plain facts, folks: Christmas makes people into monsters. Folks say Christmas is magic for children? No. The anticipation of getting surprise presents is what's magic. No, folks, Christmas, as it stands right now, with its built-in obligation that you have to give people presents--the perfect present--is a total humbug.

I sound like a total Grinch, don't I?

But seriously, folks. Seriously. I don't see how anybody can work retail in the busiest high-tech toy store in Manhattan and not be a little changed by it.

"Well, those eBay people will have a Merry Christmas," said one upset mother who couldn't secure a GiiWhiz Machine Game for her kiddo.

Excuse me, ma'am, but I'm about to puke on your shoes.

I thought Christmas wasn't about toys. You should be able to have a merry Christmas with or without presents!




Still, I wouldn't mind getting that new ukulele...

Merry Christmas from New York

On my way to the 14th Street station.

The C train pulls into 42nd street.

Some poor soul leaps from the platform onto the tracks in front of our train.

The reason I know this is because when the train stopped, the doors didn't open. Instead, we were stuck inside while the people on the platform screamed in horror or covered their mouths in disbelief, all staring at our train.

A large black family inside the train became hysterical and, thanks to their matron's knack at reading lips through the windows of the subway car doors, in a moment we all knew what had happened.

Carnage and chaos swirled around us as we all stood there, locked in our subway car, knowing that somewhere under our street-worn shoes, there was a mangled body.

Merry Christmas!

The End of the World

New York is about to look like this:

Pray for me.

Mele Kalikimaka

I hate Christmas.

No really. I do.

Something has GOT to be done about this.

For the second year in a row, I feel like Christmas is happening for everybody but me. Ain't got no tree. Ain't got no turkey. Ain't got no egg nog. Ain't got no stockin' or reindeer.

Whaddoo I got? I got a bunch of angry customers screaming at me for the Nofriendo Gii shortage.

"Why don't you just make more?"

"Why don't you just want it less?" I reply.

No really. I do.

Seriously, folks. There's nothing more awful than to see desperate parents clamoring for this thing. They glare at you, they yell at you, they tell you you're a loser and that's why you work at NofriendoWorldLand instead of doing something more important with your life.

No, I'm not kidding! They're awful!

It's time to get rid of presents for Christmas. I've got no money to buy stuff for people. Good grief. I just want to eat lots of delicious food, see my friends, and somehow, some way, see Nelson. Presents, schmesents. What I wouldn't give for a declawed cat!

Wait...does that count as a present?

These Days

These days.

These days are busy.

These days include a regular 9-6 at NofriendoWorldLandStore.

Then there's something in the evening. Usually it's a rehearsal for 'Midsummer'...which I'm still proud to be apart of.

Sometimes it's "temp work", which I'm happy to still be able to do without feeling embarassed.

Things are busy these days. I don't even have time to think about the fact that I'm going to turn 28 in a few short months.

I guess there are worse fates.

A couple of things:

A. Don't trust a clergyman who hasn't worked retail during Christmastime.

and

2. Don't trust a clergyman who hasn't lived in a place where crazy people accost you on a daily basis. And when I say "crazy", I don't mean a general crazy. I mean bat-sh!t crazy. Scary crazy. Crazy like, "Oh my gosh...I'd better hand over my wallet or there could be trouble.

and

3. If you want a Nofriendo Gii this year, you'd better let me know soon.

Okay. That's all for now. Sorry for the dearth of posts. Things are...busy.

Oh, but wait!

I'm playing the ukulele in 'Midsummer'!!! Puck's a plunka-plunking!

Royal

There's purple on the tree this year.

Gorge

'Midsummer' opens on the 6th.  I have to show off abs again.  But wait--we just got through Thanksgiving!  Not a good time for vain actors who want nothing more than for plastic surgeons to somehow come up with ab-implants.  

Let's see.  What have I gorged myself on this past week?

A combination of various turkeys and hams

Ab-o-meter Damage: 2 

Turkeys and hams are high in protein.  Nothing says 'muscles' like meat.  No worries here.

South Carolina Pulled Pork BBQ and collard greens

Ab-o-meter Damage: 6

Normally, I'd lump the BBQ into the combination of various turkeys and hams, but not when slathered in sweet, sweet sauce that is probably really bad for you, despite its heavenly taste.  At least the collards are high in iron.  And bacon.

Sushi

Ab-o-meter Damage: ??

I'm still not sure about this.  Is sushi supposed to be good for you?  All the anorexic girls in New York eat it because they think it's healthy, but I'm pretty sure I've seen some chubby fish swimming around the sea.

An impossible number of cookies and pastries, including, but certainly not limited to, pumpkin pies, Forkish Pumpkin Log X-Treme, 12 layer chocolate cake, 12 layer butterscotch cake, apple cake, ice cream, candies, etc., etc.

Ab-o-meter Damage: 8

This is why I'm getting back to New York today and going straight to the gym.  Once in a while is okay, but one must control oneself.  And I...I just couldn't.

Aunt L's Sweet Potatoes

Ab-o-meter Damage: 10

The Hitler of Thanksgiving dishes, Aunt L's Sweet Potatoes...where do I begin?  Topped with an inch-and-a-half of melted marshmallows, once you got to the thin layer of sweet potatoes beneath, you quickly found that the sweet potatoes weren't just sweet...they were sweet.  I'll be on the elliptical machine for two days before I manage to work off the calories consumed in this sugary confection of sweet, sweet goodness.  I tried to stop eating it.  I really did.  But I just...couldn't...stop...stuffing...my...face...

Oysters

Ab-o-meter Damage: negligible

Gross-o-meter: Off the charts

I've become a firm believer in trying new things.  You never know what you might be missing out on.  At our cousin's annual Day After Thanksgiving feast, I finally decided to cowboy up and try this South Carolina delicacy.  I'm glad I did.  But it's going to be a while before I go hunting around for more food that looks like aborted fetuses.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!  It's time for me to get back on the plane and return to Nofriendo World.  I'll see you in hell!  Christmas hell!

The Strike of the Stagehands (or The Stagehands Strike Back)

The strike of the stagehands is affecting my brilliant career!

Oh wait.  No it's not.

In fact, the production of 'Midsummer' I'm currently in (wait--have I mentioned that yet?) will probably benefit from the fact that there's nothing to see on ol' Broadway but 'The Lion King'.

So everyone, make the trip out to Brooklyn in two weeks and see Puck plunka-plunk on the ukulele!

I'm actually quite delighted to report that this production has been tons of fun to be a part of.  The actors, for the most part, are all very talented, creative people.  The director isn't an insecure female, easily intimidated by the overwhelming talent of pronged dining utensils.  

Yes, this has been a hap-hap-happy show to be a part of!  Who knows if it will be any good, but you know, sometimes a cast that's obviously having a good time makes up for many shortcomings.

Too bad I have to be freakin' shirtless.  AGAIN!

Thanks. Give me.

Welcome to Turkeyanddressingandpumpkinpieville!

I'm in South Carolina for the next several days. I'll miss the big parade down Broadway and the cold weather and celebrating a major holiday alone in my apartment.

Instead, I'll be stuffed full of sugary, buttery foods until I can eat no more and get diabetes.

That's what happens when you go South.

Hope yawl have a real good time this Thanksgiving. Somehow, it's become one of my favorite holidays. Maybe it's the food. Maybe it's because Christmas Heck hasn't quite reached the inevitable degree of horror we all know is coming.

Okay. I'm going to eat more now.

Who'll Stop the Rain?

There have been lots of things to write about in the past few weeks, but nothing could get me off my kiester and onto the keyboard again like the news that our freakishly warm weather (60 degrees!) is about to be flamboozled by a freakin' cold front.

I could cry. I really could. I don't want this. Please...please...America, if you're listening to me, don't sign for this when the postman comes a-knockin'. Tell him to send it back to Canada.

Seriously, guys. Who says global warming is a problem? What we NEED to do is kick up our CO2 emissions and warm this place up so we can prevent things like this from EVER HAPPENING AGAIN.

Think of all the shivering babies.

A Pint of Love

Give one of these to someone you love.

They'll thank you.

Back to the Forest

Well, folks, it's time for me to face those 'Midsummer' demons. Here we are, a little more than a year later, and guess what?

I'm doing Puck again. This time, however, it's a thoroughly normal, low-budget, bring-your-own-costume production in a ramshackle black box in Brooklyn.

And there's NO SINGING!

That's no way to overcome my fears!

So what do y'all think? Seeing as how it's low/no-budget, I figure they could use a ukulele interlude at some point in the second act. Anybody opposed to the notion of Puck plunka-plunking a jaunty rendition of "Why Must I Be a Teenager In Love"?

Mrs. Yuck

I've been out of the loop this week. That's because I've been apartment/dog-sitting for a friend who lives nearby. She left for the week and asked me to look after her precious pup. In exchange, I could stay at her spacious apartment and get away from Dirty Roommate for a few days.

In the end, however, I just traded one dirty roommate for another.

42nd Floorers, meet Mrs. Yuck.

Mrs. Yuck isn't her real name, of course. It's the name I gave her after spending fifteen minutes alone with this dog. First, let me point out that white swirl in her eye. No, that's not my artistic prowess at work adding a little sparkle and shimmer to the canine's eyeball. That white swirl is really there.

This dog is completely blind, completely deaf, has arthritis, weird boils all over its back, pees every fifteen minutes, tries to bite your face if you pet it under its chin--but really only gums you since it's only got, like, three teeth--and has a brown beard.

Yeah. A totally yucky pooch. Can't see. Can't hear. All it can do is smell a little bit. It's like the dog version of--no. I can't. Can't say it. I'm NOT going to make a Helen Keller joke. She was a great humanitarian. This is just some wrinkled old dog.

The thing is, the person I dog-sat for seems to think this once homeless pup is pedigree. My instructions included everything shy of feeding that four-legged prune paté from a crystal goblet.

I was supposed to let the dog sleep with me so it wouldn't feel lonely. Yeah. Except it's about a hundred and eighty years old so it quivers like mad and shakes the whole bed. At one point I knudged it in my sleep which set it to barking the bark of the banshee. So terrifying. Enough was enough. "Okay, bitch, you're sleeping outside."

And since it's a girl dog, it's okay for me to call it that.

When I got back to my apartment, there was a bird in my bedroom.

So that's what I did with my week. What did you guys do?

Oh My Broadway

My friends don't make any sense. Not a lick.

So as a Hallamaween treat, JJo sends me two tickets to the Schnauser Schaperone, just about my favorite show on Broadway. I've seen it three times.

Thing is, I've seen it three times.

Three.

And since JJo didn't pay for the tickets--he acquired them from friends of his who had to cancel their trip to the NYC at the last minute--I got to thinking, "You know, I tell people about this show all the time. I just love it. Maybe instead of hogging them to myself I should share the wealth."

So I started calling up my friends.

And they all said no.

Kids, these are free tickets. To a big-time Broadway show. A show that I love. They're front-row center. These tickets would normally cost $120 each. Did I mention they were FREE?

Yeah. All my friends turned me down. I couldn't GIVE them away.

"I'll be too tired."

"I've had a long week. I want to go drinking."

"That's too inconvenient for me."

"You mean I have to leave work and RUN to the theatre and sit and watch a SHOW?"

Yeah, I know.

So my friend Jams suggested I scalp them.

Scene: Crimes Square, 7:45pm

Me: Umm...excuse me? Sir? Umm...I'm so sorry to bother you. I know you're busy and this is Crimes Square and all, but...would you...um. Would you like to see the Schnauser Schaperone toni--"

Bronx Bob: F--kin' f--k your f--kin' s--t f--k a-s tickets, motherf--kin f--ker!

Yeah. Forget that.

In the end, I managed to give them to my ukulele teacher, but only after promising to pay him an extra $50 a lesson if he took them off my hands.

Queen III, after hearing my story, gave this dramatic reinactment of what my friends said to me:

WHAT? You're trying to give me FREE TICKETS?! To a BROADWAY SHOW? The nerve! And after all I've done for you. And this is the thanks I get? This is too inconvenient! I can't take your free tickets! So DON'T EVER ASK ME AGAIN!!

Sidewalk Rage

As some of you already know, when I moved to the NYC from Everycity, USA, I was thrilled at the prospect of not having to drive. My road-rage had reached such a fever pitch that I started worrying I was going to lose my salvation.

The only answer seemed to be that not driving would restore me to my usual laid-back, not uptight, anal expulsive self. The self you all used to know.

But when I arrived in the NYC, it didn't take more than a week for me to realize that my road range merely channelled itself into a different form: SIDEWALK RAGE!!1!

How the crap does a person get over something like this? It's a real problem!

Imagine with me:

You're walking down the sidewalk. You've grasped the understanding that your feet are your wheels. You have somewhere you want to be and the faster you move, the sooner you'll get there. You aren't going for a stroll or promenade. You're on the move.

Now imagine there's swarm of people poking their way down the sidewalk that stretches before you who are outside enjoying the 86 degrees and 90% humidity and the exhaust from the buses.

They're walking slowly.

And they're in your way.

What's wrong with them? Don't they realize that this isn't the sort of place you go to to drink in the scenery? Times Square I can understand. That's where the tourists go to experience "New York". You expect it. But TENTH AVENUE??? Either pick up the pace or get out of the effing way, grandma! My life depends on it!

I know what you're thinking.

"Those slow-pokes deserve to get yelled at."

But the thing is, you mustn't yell at them. As much as they might enjoy it, (Omaha Annie: ...and we were walking along minding our own business when a REAL NEW YORKER yelled at us, "Move yer caboose, lady! Dis ain't Central Park!" It was so exciting!) you have to restrain yourself and be polite. You weren't raised in a barn. Or Jersey.

The only way to get past road rage is to hit the sidewalks with a working knowledge of some very simple principles.

It's taken me a while to learn these lessons and rules du pavement I'm about to impart to you. I'm still working on them myself. But hopefully you'll find them useful.

Here we go.

figure 1

Lesson #1: Remind yourself that New York City is one of the most densely populated cities in the entire world. If everyone on Planet Earth wants to be here and "here" is about the size of Six Flags Fiesta Texas, that means that there are about three people per square foot. So as you're stepping out, take a breath and remind yourself, "I'm going to bump into someone." (see figure 1)

Lesson #2: Taxis (and buses) are alive and want to eat you. Under no circumstance should you attempt to provoke, outrun, tease, touch, feed, stop, or fight a taxicab. It will kill you. Every time. And if it doesn't kill you, it will paralyze you from the neck down.

This rule is of tremendous importance. Taxis and buses are not just aggressive, they're prone to "snapping" like those terrifying pit bulls who are usually docile and friendly, but all of the sudden develop bloodlust and eat your face off. Even when it's your turn to cross the street, you'd do well to keep your eyeballs on any cabs that are stopping or idling at the crosswalk. Because they're hungry. (see figure 2)

figure 2

Lesson #3: The streets and sidewalks are revolting. That poop you just stepped over has about a 40% chance of being human. Not only can you expect to play hopscotch the entire way to your destination, but once you get there, if it's a friend's apartment, please, do as the Japanese do and do, do, remove your doo-doo shoes. And if you see some weird New Yorkers walking around barefoot, say a prayer for them. They'll be dead by the end of the week. (see figure 3)

figure 3

Lesson #4: If you're approaching a tight spot on the sidewalk, someone will be approaching that very spot from the opposite direction. This happens so often that if it doesn't occur, assume the Rapture. You must either squeeze past them or be polite, screech to a stop, and step aside until they pass--even though doing so will add precious seconds to your trip and completely halt the forward momentum you've built up. You can try stepping into the street to avoid the tight spot altogether, but this must be reserved as the ultimate last resort since such a manouever can cost you your life. (see figure 4)

figure 4

Lesson #5: Regardless of weather, seasons, temperature, or time of day, there will always be puddles in the streets. No one knows why. Just avoid them.

Lesson #6: Unless you're a blindly optimistic sort of person, it's foolish to expect that you'll be able to pass easily through a block that has a hotel on it. Take another street. Trust me. It's so much easier. This rule mostly applies to people who live in Midtown near Times Square. The downside is that quiet streets are usually that way because the crazy lady with the shopping cart and/or dog in a stroller probably scared everyone away. Still, the lesser of two evils, I always say. (see figure 5)

figure 5

Lesson #7: Times Square. Are you insane? Are you kidding? Don't. Even. Try it. Nothing--and I mean nothing--is more dangerous to the recovering sidewalk rager than a walk through the center of the universe.

If you learn nothing else, remember that taxis will eat you. But if there's one other thing to keep in mind, it's that, to the serious sidewalker, Times Square mustn't exist. That is, you must retrain your brain to think 37, 38, 39, 50.

If you MUST pass through (oh GOD!), remember that the space north of 42nd and south of 49th is no-man's land. And don't be at all surprised if the person you're with looks at you in disbelief and says, "You're going through...THERE? But...but that's crazy!" If your reply to them is, "It's crazy, I know. But it's the only way" then godspeed.

and finally...

Lesson #8: On any given block in New York City, there will be people hotter than you. 3-4 on longer blocks, 1-2 on smaller blocks or if you're far west. Everybody knows it. Everybody worries about it. Nobody admits it. Don't worry. It's normal. Just remember: they're more insecure of themselves than you are of you. Or maybe not. (see figure 6)

figure 6

With these rules tucked away in your prefrontal cortex, there's no reason for the byways of this sooty City to get your goat. Now go on out there and make some people get out of your way with the shine of your delightful demeanor! Good luck!

Scarecut 07

It's a haircut. It's new. And it's mine.

I can't believe it.

As the stylist snipped away with her shears, I watched in disbelief as inches of my life fluttered to the floor.

It's also REALLY curly. This picture doesn't really do my curls justice. It's almost embarassing how curly my hair is.

SO embarassing, in fact, that, before I got THIS haircut, I was asked by "friends" no less than five times if I got a perm.

And even when I DID get this new haircut, I bumped into a friend of mine on 43rd and he asked the question that makes me want to do nothing more than kick the asker in the 'nads, "Did you get a perm?"

I decided, at that point, that it was time for it all to go. Back to actually having normal, boring, short hair. After all, how's anyone supposed to take me seriously when I walk around looking like Little Orphan Annie?

But then, another friend of mine, (the Cachinnator, in fact) reminded me that people WANT curly hair.

Me: They do? I thought Everybody wanted straight hair.

Cach: NO! Everybody has straight hair. And they KNOW how boring and flat and lifeless that is. What they WANT is curly hair.

Well, can't argue with that reasoning. So we'll see what happens if I stop using so much leave-in conditioner and just apply a simple dollop of pomade instead.

Who knows...?

Retro

It's a new day in New York City!

That's mostly because it's not hot anymore. It's cool. Like, mid-seventies cool. Dig it?

I've got an audition today. I have to dress like a normal person and play with a rubix cube. Dig it?

And if I book it, I get $500! Well, they pay me $500. They don't just GIVE it to me. But they'll practically be giving it to me.

I think I'm going to go for "rumpled musician". I'll be wearing my East Village ensemble--you know the one. It's the one I bought at H&M and keep in a state of wrinkledness so it looks like I'm a poor schlub from Hell's Kitchen. Toss my ukulele over my shoulder and voila. Instant artist.

I'll be sure to wrinkle my brow if I suspect they want "tortured".

In other news, I finally paid off that HDTV I bought a year ago! Sweet! Good timing too, because I most certainly did NOT buy anything at the expo yesterday. I did NOT have someone help me build a custom PC and finance it at $66 a month with no interest for a year. Nope. Not me.

And since I DIDN'T buy a sweet new PC with all the coolest gaming bells and whistles, I WON'T need lots of gifts in the form of cold, hard cash and cheques for Christmas and my birthday.

And THAT, my friends, is my reason d'etre.

Full Plate

It's funny how much more you notice all the smokers in NYC when your allergies are acting up.

I'm not even kidding. It's like everyone here is a freakin' chimney! Even the babies!

(insert picture of adorable baby with cigarette and word bubble: "F--- you, motherf---er!")

Tomorrow I have a full day. I haven't had one of those in a while. And that's depressing. Especially since, after a recent phone call, I was reminded by a concerned friend that I live in New York City and could go to any number of museums or parks or anything to while away the hours with. I could buy a $30 pair of tap shoes and start taking tap lessons to add to the two stage combat and ukulele lessons I'm already taking.

I DO have a good excuse though. It's been a little hot and hazy this past week. Tomorrow is supposed to be about five degrees cooler with possible showers. That'll take care of "a little hot and hazy". At least, I hope it does.

So tomorrow I'm going to the gym, then I have a 1:00 ukulele lesson.

We're very excited about the ukulele lessons these days. Our current Forkish Songlist includes:

I Can't Give You Anything But Love
Tonight You Belong to Me
I'll See You in My Dreams
Ain't Misbehavin'
House of the Rising Sun
and
Love Me (made popular by Elvis)

Yeah, that's about all of them so far. I've got a new one coming my way tomorrow and then we're going to get started on Christmas songs. I have to start now so they'll sound REALLY good when I tote Ukulele Li'l to parties.

I know, I know. Everybody let out a collective groan and mutter something about being glad you're not going to have to endure listening to my plunka-plunking on Christmas Eve. Let's just say anything could be better than that out of tune violin that we had at the Christmas party last year.

ANYTHING.

And then after that, a buddy of mine scored free tickets to some dumb convention that a person like me would have ZERO interest in. Not even kidding. New York is so lame.

And then after that, it's back to the gym. We go twice a day now. Once for each bicep.

And we also use the royal we.

They Don't Have Maps

My mother is Grand Dowager Empress of THIS state?

Stage Combat 101

SO...


I'm in Stage Combat 101 on Sunday afternoon.


Our teachers are Mitch, the large, jolly Italian who usually runs the course, and Stanley, the young stud with big arms, radio announcer voice, and too-tall hair.


There are only four of us in the class. One level-headed girl from the midwest, one waifish, big-haired, loud-mouthed, insecure actress type, and Steve Urkel.


When it came time to do shoulder rolls, Steve asked in a voice so stereotypical you'd think he was just doing it to be funny, "Should I take my glasses off for this?"


The first thing we did was learn how to "push" the other actor. This amounted to Actor A taking his hands and quickly popping them on Actor B's so's to create the sound of being hit. It was Actor B's responsibility to "act" like they had just been hit.


After about a minute of being repeatedly slugged by Steve Urkel, I finally said, "I think you're doing it wrong."


Thirty minutes later came class No. 2, Stage Kombat.

Stage Kombat is the serious class for people looking to get their certification and is taught by slightly out-of-shape wannabe pirate-types, Jimmy T. and Wally P. The next eight Sundays is all about getting certified in unarmed combat.


Our first exercise was throwing a mime shotput at someone in the class. That person then had to react realistically to being hit by a ten pound metal cannonball.


Wilbur took the first mime shotput. Hit him right in the shoulder. He began screaming in pain before the invisible ball even made contact and immediately hit the ground, writhing in agony as make-believe blood gushed out of his make-believe shoulder from which protruded a make-believe bone. For what must've been a quite literal five minutes, we watched uncomfortably as he wriggled and yowled about on the floor in make-believe throes of burning barrels of pain.


Wally P. and Jimmy T. then observed that we were all looking uncomfortable--horrified at Wilbur's pain, yet too fascinated by the raw human emotion to look away...


I wanted to say, "Actually, I can't stop watching because I'm so embarrassed for him and, quite frankly, I sure as hell hope I don't have to pretend one of these stupid mime shotputs gets chucked at me."


The next shotput hit me in the ribs.


It's going to be a long eight weeks.

Sucks to have short arms

Happy September 11th!

I thought about going out and buying a great big cake and decorating it with candles and having a good old time today! A real celebration! Today is cause to celebrate, after all. It's September 11th! And you all know what happened on September 11th, don't you? Of course you do!

Funny thing, everybody is being all emo and sad today. To make matters worse, it's even a dreary, rainy day! Everyone feels crummy.

But not me. I looked at my calendar today and kicked up my heels. So everyone else can go about with frowns on their faces, but not me! I won't let them get me down! I'll enjoy this great day the way all New Yorkers should! With a beer in one hand and a bunch of confetti in the other.

Happy One Year in NYC Anniversary to me!

I'm Back

Well, folks, it's true. I left New York for a week and went to Texas. Then I went to Virginia. Then I came back to New York and the next morning my lymph nodes were both swollen to the size of baby golf balls.

I want health insurance.

Subway

Be careful what you touch in the City.

You never know where it's been.

FORK SMASH!

UGH! I hate that stupid job at that stupid store! I HOPE they fire me! Whogivesacrap about those lame managers who can't effectively run a high-profile shop in the heart of the biggest, most impressive, most famous shopping district in the COUNTRY--no--WORLD!

I did NOT come to New York to PLAY. I came to be a STAR.

They OBVIOUSLY have NO idea who they're dealing with.

Coney

...and lug them around ALL DAY!

It Never Ends

Today I was officially hired on as a permanent part-time employee of Nofriendo World Land.

Mr. Williams called me again this afternoon.

And it's about to start raining.

And you know how New Yorkers are about their disasters.

The cover of the AM New York (the free subway paper) this morning was a woman hunched over with her hands in her face and a huge headline, "WHAT WENT WRONG?"

They were referring to the massive train meltdown that happened yesterday due to flooding from that morning's downpour. To read the headline and see that picture though, you'd think the sub-head would be something like,

"Hundreds perish as drops of water fall from sky!"

or "Morning commute turns deadly as subway tunnels fill with water!"

or "Dozens still missing as subway cars float out to sea!"

or "New Yorkers blame weatherman! Scapegoat for commuter delays to be lynched!"

or "And it's Bush's fault!"

And now there's a 90% chance of rain tomorrow. This should be interesting.

Mr. Williams

About two days ago I tried to call my mom on her snazzy new MePhone. I wanted to congratulate her on her recent appointment before the Senate to Duchess of East Cackalakee.

Something went wrong.

Horribly wrong.

Lines were crossed. Something--I don't know what. Never got through to her. But I did get through to somebody else.

Though the connection was bad, I could make out the dulcet tones of a husky black man's voice on the other end.

"Hello? Hello? I can't hear you. Hello?"

That doesn't sound like my mom, I thought.

I decided to hang up and try again.

The connection was better this time. And the black man's voice rang out loud and clear.

"Hello? Hello?"

Confused, I did the only thing that made sense. I said, "Hello? Hello?" back as if the connection was still bad and hung up.

I was really confused now. I tried to make sense of the whole thing and, in doing so--and this is going to sound really REALLY wrong, folks--but in trying to make sense of why a black man was answering my Mom's phone, my first thought was, "Did they give her a servant? It is East Cackalakee..."

Then my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number.

"It may be that guy. Umm...I'll just let him leave a message. Maybe that will clear everything up."

A message was left. Sure enough, it was that guy. He didn't know who I was, but he saw that I tried to call him twice and he wanted to know what I needed. His name was Mr. Williams and his number was ###-###-####.

"I'm NOT going to call this guy just to tell him I dialed the wrong number," I said to the message lady as she asked if I wanted to delete the message. "YES! Get rid of it!" I replied and hit the 7 button.

That was a big mistake.

Since Monday, I have received no less than five phone calls and two more voice mails from Mr. Williams.

"Fork, hi, this is Mr. Williams calling. I saw you called on Monday and was just wondering what you were calling about. Please call me back at--"

"Hello Fork. Just trying to reach you. This is Mr. Williams. Please call me back. You called twice on Monday and I'm not sure what you needed."

Mr. Williams, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I dialed the wrong number. Leave me alone.

April Showers

At about 6:00 this morning I was wakened by blasts of thunder followed by thirty minutes of absolute torrents of rain.

Then it stopped and it didn't rain a drop for the rest of the day.

I left my apartment and walked to work. There were a couple of little puddles here and there, but nothing major.

I got to work at Nofriendo World Land. The usual morning Gii line in front of the store was really short.

I went inside. There weren't many people there.

I went downstairs.

OH MY GOSH! The break room is flooded!

I suddenly remembered the sound of the waterfall in the stairwell of my old apartment building. That t'weren't no waterfall.

I then got a bunch of emails from folks saying the ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ123456 trains were all down due to flash flooding. Millions were probably drowning in the subway tunnels even as I sat in our damp break room. I checked my Blockberry for news.

TORNADO IN BROOKLYN! END OF THE WORLD EMMINENT!

Not a good day to be out.

But that didn't stop Palooka Mom from galumphing up to me at 2:30.

Palooka Mom: WHY aren't grown-ups allowed to sit on the floor of your store?!

Forky: Excuse me, ma'am?

Palooka Mom: We're not allowed to sit down on the floor! What am I supposed to do while my kid trys out these games?? Why can't I sit down on the floor?

Forky: Well, ma'am, because we don't want anyone getting stepped on--

I couldn't hold back.

Snarky Forky: --and because this is a store. (tilts nose in the air slightly)

Considering it was 96 degrees with 100% humidity, drowed commuters, tornados in the boroughs, and all hell breaking loose, I think I handled that pretty well.

I wonder if she harasses the clerks at Macy's about plopping her caboose their floor.

Harumph.

Oh my Gosh

I just posted the 102nd post of this year!

Something I've Learned

Something I've learned:

I will never dispose of a cup or container of liquid refreshment into an in-store garbage receptacle without having first depleted it of its contents.

That's because I know that somebody is going to have to empty the garbage can. And if it's full of curdled coffee, chances are the goop is going to leak out of the bag and onto the slacks of the poor guy who takes the trash out.

And in New York City...that guy is me.

My First Tip

As you all know by now, we "sell out" of Nofriendo Giis every day. Of course, by "sell out" I mean "sell however many the managers decide to sell that day so's they feel powerful or whatever."

If you grovel grovel at the right manager--I mean really beg and kiss their butts--you MAY be able to get them to give you the hook up.

Well, we peons don't like that and have started a little revolution of our own.

Once or MAYBE twice a day if we get customers who REALLY want one and are nice or funny about it, we sneak a Gii up to them and sell it on the sly.

Last Friday I got a lady on the phone.

"Thank you for calling Nofriendo World Land, this is Forkissimo speaking. How may I help you?"

"Hi. Do you have any Gii?"

"No, ma'am, I'm sorry. We only have three left and unless you're in the store right now, we'll be sold out by the time you get here."

"Noooooooooooooooo!!! But my son's birthday is on Sunday! What am I gonna do! I'll do anything! ANYthing!"

"I'm sorry ma--"

"My husband is in Long Island! What if he comes up right now?!"

"Umm..."

"Please! Help a desperate parent! You'll be a hero!"

"A hero, huh?"

"Yes!"

"Okay ma'am. Hold for one second. Left me see what I can do."

I asked one of the leaders of our Gii Revolution if he thought it would be okay to give her the hookup.

"We give her our blessing. Permit her to purchase the Fun Machine."

"Ma'am, can you husband be here in an hour?"

"YES!"

"Okay. Have him come up to [undisclosed location] and have him ask for [me]. We'll hook him up. But tell him to be discreet. We can't afford to get busted."

The hubby showed up and gave the secret password. I slunk away and returned with the parcel.

Having paid, he dashed out--but not before looking at me and saying, "Thanks a million, buddy. Lunch is on me." He slapped a 20 in my hand.

Lunch, schmunch! I buyin' a bottle of vodka!

And that's how I got my first tip.

SpoilerZ

Page 256.

He's not dead yet.

If I don't get a dead kid by the end of this brick, I'm going to be pig-biting mad.

Almost halfway through...had to take a break. My eyes were getting crossed.

I'm REALLY going to try and finish it today. It's everywhere. Everybody's talking about it. Particularly people who haven't read the books.

I'm scared to go out.

* * *

Chapter 18, Page 350

Come on, kids. Didn't you see Lord of the Rings? What are you doing WEARING that?? Take that stupid thing OFF and put it in the magic bag! What the crap, J.K.? Why do you do this to us?

And Harry, do you have a mild case of downs syndrome? This is the SEVENTH TIME we've been over this! The KEY is USUALLY found in the thing you initially thought was a piece of CRAP.

There's no way I can finish this thing today. I'm reading as fast as I can--even skipping chunks of the rather tedious, question mark-filled prose and going straight for quotation marks.

It's only six. I managed to cover a hundred pages in an hour and a half. So that means if I keep reading at this pace I should be finished at midnight.

Hmm.

Wish me luck.

X-PUNGE!

If it's wrong to laugh at Queen III, then I don't want to be right.

X-MAS!

I've been thinking about money lately.

By that I mean more than usual.

I remember the fancy Christmas party I went to last year. This was the big one. This was it. This party was the reason I moved to New York. Uncle Milty's contact was hosting. All I was supposed to do was latch onto Auntie June (the hostess) and hang on as she whirled me around the party introducing me to bigwigs in the entertainment industry.

That didn't happen.

So instead of rocketing from hapless schmuck to Off-Broadway actor, which, I must confess, was what I had in mind, I did the next best thing: I went to work at NofriendoLand (thanks, Mom!).

Since then, my evenings have been filled with rehearsals for basement off-off Broadway shows that don't pay, and bedtime ponderings of the, "Goodness. I wasn't expecting THIS" variety.

This lofty dream that's so close...and yet, so far.

But something else happened at that Christmas party that I had forgotten until very recently.

Once, at the party, I realized that these best-laid plans to give me a career boost had all but crumbled around my ears, I began a conversation with one of the hottest Broadway actors in attendance at the party: a ten year old kid.

If a show on Broadway needed a kid in the past four years, this kid was the one they called.

I told him I worked at NofriendoLand.

His eyes got wide. He asked me a million questions. I became the coolest person in the room.

I thought about the irony of it all. Part of me wanted to strangle this kid. He was the darling of the party. While the hostess was passed out on her chaise, all the agents and folks who were supposed to meet ME were all goo-goo and gaa-gaa over this little thesp.

But then I was struck by the fact that this kid, who had what I wanted, wanted what I had.

I think it's would be the coolest thing ever to be a career actor on a big stage. He thought it was the coolest thing ever to sell Nofriendos and have access to all the latest video games at a super-cool video game store.

Isn't that funny?

X-PLODE!

I'm fine, in case any of you were wondering.

But a word of caution--when it rains in New York, don't go outside. Seriously. That's the SECOND steam pipe that's exploded in my vicinity on a rainy day. The first one was down the street from our rehearsal space. There was a BOOM and everyone started running.

We were far enough away that we stood there and watched the pandemonium. Some older New Yorker looked at us and said, "What was that? It sounded like a steam pipe blowing up. Or maybe it was a car bomb. I'm getting out of here."

I thought this was an island, not a riverboat.

Calihentay.

It's freakin' hot here.

Best Day Ever

This blog entry began with two swigs of Southern Comfort. Just a little something to loosen the typing fingers.

I was working at NofriendoLand today, as usual. A grandmother came to the game area with her two grandsons. After about 45 minutes of going from game station to game station, the grandmother looked at me and shook her head.

"I don't know how you all do it. I've only been here for one hour and already I've got a splitting headache. What do you do when you go home in the evenings? Drink?"

To which I replied without hesitation, "Ma'am, it's like you read my mind."

Six o'clock rolled around and I began the walk home, thrilled at the prospect of a Monday night all to myself. Don't get me wrong. I'm terribly grateful to be doing a fourth show in New York City, however off-off it may be (and still slightly beaming at my characterization being described in a recent review as "vivid"), but make no mistake: doing Kingly the 2 six nights a week sucks. It sucks HARD CORE.

What's even more grating is how oblivious the director seems to be. Even the guy playing Kingly is ready for our raggedy little show to be over. We're scheduled to have a show on the 4th.

"Doing a show about a bunch of obscure British monarchs on the 4th of July? That's...un-American," said one of our cast members. She went on to say, "Who's that big of a schmuck to be in New York City on the 4th of July and go see an off-off Broadway production of SHAKESPEARE instead of going to see the fireworks?"

Word spread quickly through the cast to uninvite every family member, friend, and schmuck who was considering attending our Independence Day performance. No audience = no show, right?

We got an email from the director this morning.

"Hey gang! Just wanted to let you know we've got at least two people reserved for the 4th of July!"

It's funny how, as I sighed upon reading those words, I could literally feel the sighs of the 14 other cast members who were reading this email at the same time--cast members who really wanted to go to Coney and see the hot dog eating contest, throw back a few Jell-o shots, then head out to see the fireworks.

Maybe it'll rain. Who knows?

I walked home from NofriendoLand, thinking of all the things I could do with my evening. I got in and checked my mail. That's when I looked up and saw the posting on the bulletin board.

Dangit! The first tenant association meeting is tonight! And it starts in two minutes!

I threw my stuff in the apartment and turned right back around, heading for the garden about a block away where the meeting was to be held.

I was met with a bunch of middle aged folks who introduced themselves. Most of them had lived in that building for about a decade and, since the building had recently fallen into a serious state of disrepair and neglect, they finally decided to form this tenant association to see if they couldn't get a few things taken care of...

...like, for example, the front door which no longer shuts. It just stays open. All the time.

"And which apartment are you in?" they asked.

"I'm in apartment 2."

Their eyes went wide.

"OOOH! You're the FIRST!"

"The first since HER!"

"The first person to brave the apartment since SHE moved out!"

"Well, there WAS that other girl."

"Yes, but she only stayed for a few months. No sooner did she arrive than she packed her bags and was gone again."

"Excuse me," I said. "What do you mean by 'brave the apartment'? What happened there?"

They looked at one another as if collectively wondering who should spill the beans and if they thought I could handle it.

"She was a witch."

"A Turkish witch!"

"If I were you, I'd get a bundle of sage and hang it in your apartment."

"She was a horrible woman."

"JUST horrible."

"She would hold our mail hostage."

"That's right. She would pick up our packages while we were out during the day. Then she'd come to our apartments in the evening and say, 'UPS drop off package for you. You want? You have five dollars?'"

"She also held some old woman hostage, I heard."

"No, that's TRUE! It wasn't a rumor!"

"No!"

"I'm a masseuse by trade and she would stop me in the halls and say, 'I see men coming and going! You are an evil woman! Don't think I don't know what's REALLY going on in your apartment!'"

"She would post these ads in the paper...in the romance column. These men would show up to meet her thinking she was this exotic young belly dancer--"

"Apparently, that's what she was in the old country."

"--and they would feel so sorry for her that they'd take her to dinner, then dump her off somewhere as soon as they got the chance."

"She was the world's biggest pack rat. When they cleared out her apartment they found piles and piles of old newspapers. She even kept her garbage. Bags and bags of it."

"She was such a fire hazard they finally turned off her gas."

"But still she wouldn't get rid of her junk. Instead, she'd come knocking on my door knock knock knock 'Excuse me--may I bake potato?' NO! You may NOT bake potato, I said."

"I think someone died in there."

"No. TWO people died in there."

"I know her sister was dead for days."

"Yes. Then there was another woman who died there. They rushed her to the hospital, but the doctors said she was already dead as a doornail."

"Both of them in there. Dead for days."

"She would wander around the streets at night. She had this little dog she'd walk late at night... and she wore this bright red wig."

"Oh! The red wig! I remember that thing!"

"And remember when she moved out?"

"Here for years and years and years...longer than any of us..."

"And one day...she disappeared."

About that time--as I was about to say, "What do you mean she disappeared?"--the meeting got underway.

Why do I feel as though my life has just taken a major turn for the weird?

A Turkish Witch.

Almost Forgot...

Oh yeah, and if you've been toying around with the idea of coming up to New York City for a rousing weekend of fun, now's your chance. Roommate is gone for the next 8 weeks and the second-hand air conditioning unit has been installed in the front room. That means you could have a cool room with a couple of world-class air mattresses all to yourself!

I've already got Candie (remember? From Eventual Practical Financial Services?) and her husband penciled in to stay here for the last weekend in July. Why haven't you made a reservation?

Southwest is flying to New York these days! Grab a cheap flight and come on up for a weekend!

Kingly

First dress rehearsal is tomorrow night with opening night on Thursday. Last night we were supposed to do a full run-through--25 actors crammed into a tiny dance studio on the second floor of some leaning building in the West Village. But we couldn't.

Because, for the third time since hitting the "home stretch", the actor playing Kingly was out sick.

Yeah. How do you rehearse Kingly the 2 without a Kingly the 2? Well...you...can't.

So we just ran through a couple of scenes instead. Then I went home and played video games.

Today I'm off from Nofriendoland. I'm going to inquire about a part-time proofreading job for some...something place.

Oh yeah. That guy who's the actor/assistant director/note-giver said something yesterday that made me laugh.

While our director was giving notes, he leaned over to the girl playing Miss Queenly. Remember, this actress' interpretation of "weepy" means stamping her feet and yelling at everybody--almost exactly how you'd imagine someone playing the Queen of Hearts.

(Example:

Advisorly the Guy: Dispair not madam.

Miss Queenly: I WILL DISPAIR! WHO SHALL HINDER ME?!)

The guy says to Miss Queenly,

"It is SO cool that you have access to that 'dark place'. Most actors don't. But the way you're able to tap in to that really dark part of you is SO POWERFUL. It's freakin' AMAZING. Most actors can't do that."

HA!

Yep. That still makes me laugh.

Giving

It hurts my heart a little bit that Everycity Shakespeare is in its opening weekend and that, for the first time in four years, I'm not a part of the festivities.

It hurts my heart a little bit MORE that I'm doing Kingly the 2. Now, there's nothing terribly WRONG with Kingly the 2 in and of itself. But let's face it, you know you're not in a good acting situation when one of the ACTORS in the show is also the ASSISTANT DIRECTOR and, surprise! the primary note-giver.

So I finish delivering some lovely Shakespearean poetry in the way that only I can and I get,

"Try to enjoy the words less. Speed it up and don't worry about hitting the consonants. It's a technique thing."

I beg your pardon?

Today I completely reinvented my character so's to give 'em what they want while NOT sacrificing Shakespeare's poetry. Call it...disguising my technique.

I gave as good as I got. And if they don't like what I gave 'em today...well...

"Tough tittie," said the kitty.

Kingly

Somebody please remind me to write an update on how Kingly the 2 is going.

Forget it. I'll write it now.

I should be heading there this very minute. It takes about a half hour it walk down there--if I want to get there a little early so's I can be seen as the responsible type.

But I'm not interested in the 30 minute warm up.

A 30 minute warm up?

Seriously. A 30 minute warm up.

THIRTY MINUTE WARM UP.

WARM UP.

Not WORKOUT.

WARM UP.

Whaa?

I've got much more to say about the state of Kingly the 2 which goes into its first preview next week. But for now, I need to begin my 30 minute walk downtown.

So I can warm up.

Daily 'Date

UPdate, that is.

My computer has gotten over its 2 hiccups. Thank goodness. It was wreaking havoc on my computer gaming time.

"Tonight You Belong To Me"--the easy version, not the ridiculously crazy-good one little-known banjo/ukulele maestro Steve Martin plays--has been successfully learned. Now it's time for some friends of mine to make good on their promise to learn a) the trumpet section and b) the boys line. I'm looking at YOU, A-Dub.

But also, I've managed to learn "I Can't Give You Anything But Love (Baby)". You know, the song Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant sing to the leopard. I feel like if I can learn maybe five more songs, I can take my show on the road...or subway station.

I'm up early today. The Nofriendoland Store needs help: they're getting in about a zillion pallets of Gii systems and they called me yesterday because apparently they need a ukulele player with a BFA to help them unload it.

I'm so much more qualified than this...

And also...I still need to rant about Mad Moms. But I don't have time for that this morning. Gotta jrink my java and get to work.

But before I go....

This morning as I was throwing my lunch together, I glanced up at the Quick Oats container on the top of the fridge. From the angle I was looking at the box (and also how freakin' sleepy I am), it looked like it read:

"Mix hot water, salt, and cats in bowl."

2Go here

2

While I wait f2or my 2computer 22 get over these 2hiccups, go here.22

2

Something's going wrong with my computer. It's suddenly typing the number 2 all by itself. I won't press anything and, ZOTT!!, a 2 will appear. Let's wait and see if it happens again.



Okay. I'm waiting.





I'm not crazy. It was doing it like crazy a minute ago.




I'm SERIOUS! It would suddenly pu2

THERE!

It just did it! Did you see it?!2

It did it again! I didn't type that! What's going on here?! Do I have a virus?

This is so strange. It's like...my computer has 2 hiccups! 2

2ACK!2

What the CRAP?! They're getting worse! How do I make 'em stop?

Ukulele Friday

Make no mistake, folks, I'm still learning the ukulele. So don't dub me "Ukulele Fork" just yet. Stumming is going pretty well but it still sounds a bit...twangy. Like, "Oh. This guy's still learning."

And I only know one song: I Can't Give You Anything But Love (Baby), although my teacher is going to be out of town the next few weeks so he's going to give me Tonight You Belong to Me to learn over the next few weeks. A-Dub, start learning the trumpet.

The biggest problem comes from "ukulele thumb"--the instrument is so small that you have to really squeeze the neck down in order to play barre chords with your index finger...and your thumb starts to kinda hurt after a while.

So while you're waiting for me to plunk out pleasing tunes, do your unused smile a massive favor and check these ladies out! Your tapping feet will thank you!

A Birthday Party

Today the Nofriendoland store is being rented out for two hours to host a birthday party.

The celebrant? The young son of the famous Nelly--co-host of the popular "Gegis and Nelly" morning show.

Nelly's assistant has been coming into the store every day to make sure everything will be in order, that the 1500 balloons will be released at the right time, and that the keys to the city will be given to the tyke.

Can you imagine? Being so rich you could rent out a store at 10 Rock and have your assistant plan the whole thing?

No doubt film crews will the there as will a number of stars of the morning talk show world. Maybe even Rosie!

And where will I be?

I'll be interviewing for an office job.

Yep, I'm not on the schedule today. That's okay, really. I'm a teensy bit jealous at not being able to babysit a lot of screaming rich children while their bored mothers booze it up in the Cokémon corner. But aside from that, I'm not too torn up about it, especially since there's an 80% chance of Apocalypse in the forecast today.

Not a good day to be out.

Oh yeah...

The reason I miss my ukulele is because I don't have it with me. I'm at rehearsal for Kingly the 2 trying to focus on learning these lines. Obviously, I'm failing at that. And even if I DID have Ukulorelai with me, I probably wouldn't feel like strumming on it anyway.

WHAT AM I SAYING??

Seriously!

I'm not being a sad-sack. I'm being transparant and vulnerable!

I think I'm getting confused again...

I Miss My Oo-Koo-Lay-Lay

RATS!

I don't have good news to report. I'm really upset about that. I mean, it was one of those things where they've kinda penciled you in, you start getting excited about doing this role...

But then some other guy shows up and knocks it out of the park--at least THEY think so, anyhow. They send you the "Oh my gosh, we feel so bad telling you this!" e-mail and you reply back as sweetly as you can assuring them that there are no hard feelings and to have a great time doing the show you really kinda thought you were gonna do.

I guess it's good. A person wouldn't feel like he'd accomplished something if he were handed role after role on guilded platters. There have to be those nutty surprises to make sure you're really appreciating your situation.

HOWEVER!

I still got upset. I still felt like packing my bags and going home.

BUT!

Instead of deciding (once again) that the stresses of living in New York City compounded with the rejection one faces from the world of the off-off Broadway stage are impossible to bear, I clicked iRene the iPod over to the hap-hap-happiest of toe tap-tap-tapping ditties.

Perhaps I'd be in a more able mental state after a dose of glee-inducing hot jazz from the Roaring 20s.

STILL!

I'm awfully tired these days. For those of you who don't know, my older brother Forko is now DR. Forko. And he surprised everybody by deciding that Copenhagen was the place for him.

So instead of going to Houston like everybody thought he was going to do, he's going clear to the other side of planet earth.

Of course, this hasn't sat well with most of the Fork Fam, particularly Mammy Fork (Dr. Forko IS her firstborn, after all) and Grandmammy Fork (who thinks it won't be long before everyone leaves her all alone).

This and, well, Forko and Waffelle had helped out a lot with Grandmammy Fork. With them gone, who will be there to drive her to her doctor's appointments?

I can't help but feel as though it's my turn to...y'know.

Hold on--this is all rather hasty. I haven't even finished listening to these ragtime tunes.

I Love My Oo-Koo-Lay-Lay

That's the proper way to say it. Oo-Koo-Lay-Lay. Maybe it's more like Lehy-Lehy--a broader, more open vowel sound. But I know the Oo-Koo part is right.

Once again, work and creativity collide on the 42nd Floor. Here's your update:

NofriendoLand is my new turf for the summer months. The pay is crap but it's pretty enjoyable. What's not fun about selling video games to people? So what if I'm dining on crusts of bread and drinking water from the tap? I'm doing something I like, dangit.

(side note: the tap water in New York is actually the best in America. And really, it ought to be once you consider the steps that must be taken to make it drinkable. Guess it goes to show that nothing is completely irredeemable, not even the toxic sludge at the bottom of the Hudson)

The NofriendoLand managers even gave yours truly a free copy of "Pirates of the Confusabbean 3". In order to access the Dueling mini-games that they wanted to use for the big Pirates Event at the store last Saturday, you had to first beat the game. And that's exactly what I did.

While I was supposed to be working.

Mexican children would come up to me and say, "Meester, can I play?" and I'd say, "Beat it, you squirrely cupid from Constantinople! Can't you see I'm WORKING here?"

Seriously. Who has more fun than me?

Thing is, the game developers didn't put much thought into the game aside from "Hey, let's throw this on the shelf and hope people who like the movie buy this piece of junk!" Getting through the game was such a chore that rewarding me with my VERY OWN COPY seems almost...cruel.

It's like, I get the joke.

In other news, had a callback this evening. Hopefully I'll post some sort of good news within the next 24 hours.

And by good news, I mean BESIDES the fact that we're FINALLY (no really--FINALLY) done with the tablework for Kingly the 2.

THAT was painful.

See, we have a lot of Shakespeare nerds in the cast. You know the type. They can scan a line, tell you if the ending is feminine, what a dactyl is (I wanted to know if there was such a term as rannosaurus rex--nobody laughed)...

But the biggest grievance of all: They're REALLY into the history plays. They can tell you who's who, who did what, who Shakespeare paints as good in one play and evil in another, and most of all, which order they go in.

There's nothing nerdier in Shakespeare world than being into the history plays. That would be kinda like those odd people who enjoy talking about English nobles and monarchs before the time of Queen Elizabeth. Suh-NOOZE!

Y'know, I oughtta give them some credit. Maybe it's just not my bag. The world needs people who literally get giddy and giggly talking about Shakespeare's version of English history.

I'm not one of them.

Miss Piggy

Two things you'll never see in 21st century Shakespeare: A white guy playing a black (or green) dude and a woman who's not afraid to play her character as vulnerable and even a little bit weepy.

First rehearsal for Kingly the 2 was last night. We read through the play. My part--or parts--are a lot smaller than I thought, but I've got a couple of really nice monologues so that makes me happy.

The reason it makes me happy is because listening to these actors read reminds me of why I like doing Shakespeare.

Yes, YOU the actor know what you're saying. YOU have the script in front of you, etc. But lookit: The audience is going to need a little help. Let's face it, none of the people out in those folding chairs REALLY likes Shakespeare. It's something they endure because they think it's good for them--like medicine or a trip to the dentist.

It's high time actors realized their mission isn't to get on stage and act like they're better than the audience because they're doing SHAKESPEARE and you AREN'T. Their mission is to get the audience through the 3 hour production as painlessly as possible.

There is one thing...the one thing....the ONE thing....and I know I've mentioned this before....the ONE thing that really gets my goat in Shakespeare is....

Modern women.

There's this tendency with 21st century dames to make every Shakespeare female a shrew.

And Lawd, Lawd, Lawd. I wish they wouldn't.

I'm reminded of longtime 42nd Floorer A-Dub's performance as the confused, distressed wife in Comedy of Errors. It made so much sense. She was not only being true to the way Shakespeare wrote the character, but she was totally sympathetic. And funny and charming and all the things the character is supposed to be.

It was interesting.

I did Comedy a few years later at Everycity Shakespeare and the woman playing the wife played her as--guess what?--a shrew. And who wants to watch a crabby woman speaking in iambic pentameter for 2 1/2 hours?

I know I don't.

Winter's Tale was the same way. As Shakespeare wrote it, the gracious Queen is desperately, hopelessly confused but still very much in love with her nutty husband. But in our production, the actress played the Queen as being so angry and defensive you kind of thought, once Judge Hatchett brought out the surprise DNA test results that proved the child WAS the King's son, the Queen was going to drag the King's butt to divorce court.

The Queene in Kingly the 2 is supposed to be frightened, powerless, and ready to cry at the drop of a hat. Her kingdom is in tatters, her husband about to be captured and killed, and just about anybody could come up and lop off her head. Instead, she's playing it like Miss Piggy by way of the Queen of Hearts.

You don't have to play the character whiny and weepy all the way through...but just remember: sometimes it's in that perceived weakness that dignity and strength are made more evident. Raging against the tears and barking out orders to your ladies in waiting because things aren't going your way just makes you look like...Miss Piggy.

Wha-BAM!

"Do you have any other games that require you to get very active? My son doesn't get very much exercise and I really want him playing a game that will get him active."

"Honestly, ma'am, all I can recommend there is an outdoor playground."


I actually managed to say that without sounding snarky at all! I'm so proud of me! I'm really taking the servant approach this time around!


"Do you have a controller for feet?"

"Uhh...no."


Working at this store is great.

* * *

In other news, over the past three days I played through the entire "Pirates of the Confusabein'" movie tie-in video game (thrown together to make a quick buck off the movie) and though my arm is tired from all that controller-waggling, it was worth it. I can now tell you EVERYthing about the upcoming movie. I'm a walking Spoiler. At least until midnight tonight.


I had a dream the other night that I had been invited to Romney's house because I was good friends with one of his (many) sons. I don't even know what Romney looks like. All I know is he's Mormon. I started to discuss theology with him, then reason told me to switch gears and discuss Mormon church history if I hoped to make him see the light. Unfortunately, I woke up just before delivering the final blow.

But he was a really nice guy. Kinda simple in a warm, harmless sort of way. I'd vote for him.


Tonight we begin rehearsals for Kingly the 2. Better go buy a highlighter. No, that can't be it. Hiliter? Hilighter. No. Hy-lytor. Hy-tlor. Hitlor. Hitler. Holy crap!


Ooh! And I walk by the Scientology offices every day. There are always about three to five Church(tm) officials smoking and glugging coffee out front. I bet their theatan levels are through the ROOF! One wants to say something to them, but...what?

Busy

Welcome back to Busytown.

I started back at Nofriendoland yesterday. They summoned a select handful of us to return and do some part-time for the summer months. I had a lot of fun yesterday. It was pretty slow for the most part so I spent a good deal of the day playing games.

I know, I know. I totally suck. I work at a toy store and get paid to play video games all day long.

Well, it's not ALL fun and...you know.

Really, it IS important to know how to play the things, especially since, 9 times out of 10, you'll have a Clueless Mom (a new type!) bring her 2 year old to play "KillAr KarnAge 2" and be baffled when the tot stands in front of the TV holding the controller and looking around as if to say, "Whaddam I supposed to do with this?"

"Play the game honey! Play the game! Excuse me, sir? Could you show my infant how to play this game?"

"Certainly, ma'am. Okay little guy, first I'm gonna need you to take the controller OUT of your mouth."

My feet hurt. And whoo-boy was I tired last night.

Thursday we begin rehearsals for (oh. I have to come up with a fake name for this...) Shakespeare's Kingly the 2. (That'll work) It's not as popular as Kingly the 3, but this director is really excited because he feels this show can be used to make a number of--GET THIS!--anti-president, anti-religion statements!! How cutting-edge!

Naw. We'll see. I have about 8 small parts... I play almost ALL of the servants. I'm considering making them comic servants. Wouldn't that be fun?

And then there was the audition for the other show. It's pretty much a two person show that was written by one of the better actresses from Naked Druid Lesbians from Brooklyn. She's also playing one of the "two persons" and she really REALLY wanted me to audition. Seriously. I walked into the audition chambre and she lept up and started planting kisses all over me.

And as fun as Nofriendoland is, one can't help but think, "I could totally be making more money than this."

Oh! And I'm taking ukulele lessons in addition to the Auditioning for TV/Film workshop.

So things have become busy. I just wish they also became more lucrative.

And more hair. Y. (I've stopped having the flashbacks, but I AM still a tad miffed about THAT little misadventure)

Sweeny Todd

I learned something this morning.

Hair cutters, stylists, barbers...whatever you want to call 'em...

They do NOT want your hair to look good. They want it short, frayed, and nappy and they will do everything in their power to keep it that way. Because if your hair looks BAD, you'll have to keep going BACK to get them to make it look good again!

Case in point. I sort of felt like my hair was getting a little long. Nothing I couldn't handle, but maybe let's take an inch or two off the back.

MISTAKE NUMBER ONE:

I went with an internet recommendation.

MISTAKE NUMBER TWO:

I got a guy whose first language was not English.

MISTAKE NUMBER THREE:

I listened to other people.

MISTAKE NUMBER FOUR:

Once the reaping began, I didn't have the balls to stop it.

* * * *

I got to the salon. The little man smiles brightly at me and says in a coy manner, "Allo Forkee. Joo seet down. Make jorself comforble."

He washes my hair in the sink. Ahh. This is fine. A regular scalp massage. Water's a little warm for it to be good for the hair, but not too bad.

"How joo want me to cut?"

"Nothing much," I said. "It's the first time I've ever grown my hair out and I just need maybe a little bit off the back and just a basic clean up to get rid of split ends and what have you."

"Oh. Jokay. I know wha wee doo."

The shampooing done, the guy yanks my hair in his mitt, then PUUUULLS and TWIIIISTS and WRIIIINGS it out. My instinct was to say, "OW! What are you doing? Easy, buddy! It's hair, not adamantium! These hairs are more than a year old! They DO come out if you pull them like that!" but I bit my tongue.

Then he sat me in the chair and started combing it like some sort of...crazy comber, ripping through all the snags and tangles. Again, "OW! Geeze, dude! Don't you know hair is most fragile when wet? And when you tear through these knots like you're doing, you're doing a tremendous amount of damage to the ends which will be more apt to SPLIT!"

But again I said nothing.

He got to work. Suddenly he started shearing my locks with a hair-thinner.

Wait.

A HAIR THINNER?!?!

EXCUSE ME?!

"Joo have a lot of hcair. I joos theen eet a leetle beet."

I didn't know what to do. I kept thinking, "Fork, you've GOT to stop him. Tell him to stop! Do NOT let him THIN your hair!" But then another voice replied, "But I can't stop him NOW! It'll look WORSE! I dunno...maybe he knows what he's doing!"

(This sounds really stupid or whatever, but I'm really shaken and a little bit traumatized. Do you realize how long it takes for hair to GROW? Do you realize how much I WENT through to get it this length?)

He laughed and said, "Looka all the hcair I cut offa joo!" I looked down and gave a VERY weak laugh as I saw the PILES AND PILES of hair sitting at my feet.

I told him it MUST be able to be pulled back.

"Looka. I cut offa bou' a-three eenchiz. Is good, no?"

He left JUST enough that I can pull it back only if it's wet and if I comb it back until it hurts. Then I get a teeny sprig that I can tie back.

Then he said, "Joo like-a me to dry it for joo?"

That was when I almost lost it.

"ARE YOU NUTS?! Do you have ANY idea how bad that is for hair?! Are you TRYING to make me look bad?!"

And that's when I realized...

(insta-replay of all the hair faux pas the stylist committed in my 15 minutes in that chair of hairy horrors)

Yes. That's exactly what he's doing.

I remember reading on various websites in the research I did when I started growing my hair long that you MUST look at barbers as the enemy. Your friends will say, "You should get it cleaned up." Don't listen to them. Your Mom will say, "You should get it cut." Until you're ready to go short, don't listen to her. Don't listen to anybody.

Barbers and stylists may seem all nice and sweet on the outside, but inside, they want your hair short. They want it snagged. They want it popped. They want it ripped. Because that kind of hair is messy hair. And messy hair means you'll come back for more.

"This keepa joo good for two months!" said Guapo with a cheery grin. "Then joo come-a back a-see me!"

For two months? If I came back for another haircut in two months there wouldn't be anything LEFT!

I ran out of the stylist shoppe and went to the nearest dark window. I took my hair down and mussed it up a little bit.

He bobbed it.

He effing bobbed it.

I almost collapsed in utter disbelief. I could hear passers-by muttering. Some were pointing. Some laughing. Tourists took sneaky pictures with their cell phones. I ran to 10th avenue. Yes, I'll go to 10th. 10th avenue is quiet. Not many people there. I can get home without anybody seeing...THIS.

"Hey! Look! It's Thoroughly Modern Millie!"

I...I'm going to lie down for a little while. Yes. Lie down...

Don't trust people. People will hurt you. People will screw up your hair and make you look like somebody's kid sister. Whatever you do, don't trust anybody else. I mean it. People are just gonna screw you up. Don't listen to them. They're idiots.

Right now you're all thinking, "Oh my gosh, Fork has lost it."

That's because you can't see me.

Maybe Queen III's early-morning observation is right. Time to change the quote at the top of the blog.

Eerie...

A link to a Youtube video below.

Is it a metaphor for temptation or merely another way to sizzle off a few extra brain cells?

You tell me.

Happy Friday!

Mormons

Mormonism is FASCINATING!

I'd write more on the subject, but I have to get back to my books. Suffice to say, I think Joseph Smith may have been onto something!

I mean, he totally made it up. Yeah. That's what I meant to say.

*ahem*

Strikes Again

Our buddy Fred Phelps strikes again!

Honestly, part of me can't help but think it's all a terribly funny joke. The kind that I would make.

Isn't it funny...

Isn't it funny how a bunch of things in the late 90s-early 00s started with "e"?

e-mail

e-store

e-harmony

e-motion

We all know what happened then.

The e-market crashed and that was the end of e-commerce.

I'm glad we finally found a letter that really works... I!

Now THAT'S a letter we can all get excited about!

Lemonade Diet

Hey gang,

Not a lot going on these days. We finished the show, I'm still moderately depressed, and I'm doing a lot of research on Mormonism.

The show went really well. Again, you really can't beat an hour and ten minutes of downtime playing Nofriendo DS or reading about Joseph Smith backstage, coming out to deliver five lines, then stuffing your mouth full of chocolate chip cookies.

I'm still not sure what to do with myself, although my interest in ukulele lessons has been renewed thanks to the possibility of a nice, normal office job which will enable me to pay for lessons in Brooklyn. I can hear the tin-pan alley tunes drifting up the stairwell as I type this. Junga-junga-junga-junga-jung...

WAIT THE CRAP!

DID I JUST SAY NICE, NORMAL OFFICE JOB?!

Yes. I totally did.

I know I vowed I'd never go back to one of those, but as I'm not on a Lemonade Diet like my friend here, I need to be able to afford food.

It's not that I'm a sad-sack. It's that I'm so conflicted. On the one hand, if I'm going to work from 9-5, I'd like to be doing something I enjoy. That means moving (possibly back to Texas) and going back to school so I can get some other skills that will save me from losing my soul in the office tower. Also, for all his yowling, I really do miss Nelson (remember him?)

(I have this recurring dream in which Nelson makes the move to New York. Five minutes later he runs away. In one of the dreams, Queen III gave me her dog to look after. I lost him too.)

On the other hand, I'm in New York. My apartment is rent-stabilized. It's (a little) less than $2000 a month and three blocks from Times Square in Midtown Manhattan. With rent shooting up absolutely EVERYWHERE, I'm seeing more and more that this little nook is actually worth its weight in Gold Plates.

Everyone wants to live in New York. Who cares about the poop-strewn promenades? That...and I like my friends up here. And an actor works all his life to get to either New York or L.A. If they leave either of those cities, where else CAN they go?!

Maybe I SHOULD try the Lemonade Diet. They say it provides clarity of thought (along with clarity of bowels).

The NYC

I'm done with the four weeks of "temp work". I'm back to being a shiftless wand'rer on the streets of the NYC.

We also just finished the second of our three weekend run of that play I've been writing about. It's going really well. Honestly, it's my favorite show ever. It's an hour and fifteen minutes long. I sit backstage and play Pokémon for an hour and ten, then go onstage and deliver some closing exposition with two other guys and stuff my face with chocolate chip cookies.

Yep, you read that correctly. Another New York credit, this time on 42nd street, two blocks from the lights of Broadway. And all I do is say five lines and eat cookies at the end of the play. It doesn't get much better than that.

In fact, I've written a poem about it. It's been a while since I've written one of these, so excuse the dust.

Play o' mine,
Play o' mine,
Makin' me feel mighty fine.
It's not the best, but I'll not lie,
It beats a three piece suit and tie.
I sometimes think, "My life's a waste!"
As bankers leer and leave with haste
When I come knocking at their door,
Begging, "Please, one penny more!"
But worries all I cast aside
And try to just enjoy the ride.
This might be close as e'er I'll get
To Broadway's lights and all of it.
Pills and booze might mar my way
When I'm a star, but not today.
For now on cookies I will dine.
Play o' mine,
Sweet play o' mine.

:^|

For the sake of the folks who prefer my shorter posts (and really, who doesn't?!) here's a short one.

I think my brains are turning into mush.

I have to get up at 6am so I can do crunches, go to the gym, then hop on the subway and head to "temp work". However, after I've hit the sack at around 10 or so, my roommate comes home at 11, takes a shower at 12, and goes to sleep around 1.

Noisily.

He usually makes phone calls during all this.

I sleep with a pillow over my head.

As a result of getting 5 hours of sleep, once I get home from "temp work" (which typically involves me almost falling asleep in mid-pose) I spend my days lazing about. What else can I do? I'd like to say I do something productive with this time like work on a snazzy new poem or a play that will bring me moneyhappiness, but I don't. I usually just sort of...sleep. Maybe play a few video games. Then, if I'm really feeling charged up, I'll frump myself down in front of my computer and do an online Bible study.

And all because my roommate couldn't just be the freak quiet when he freakin' comes in at midnight. Yes! HE'S to blame!

Honestly, am I asking for too much here? I sort of think a roommate who understands that teflon pans do NOT need to be soaked overnight and who doesn't sing opera in the shower at 12:30am wouldn't be hard to find.

Who'm I kidding? Roommate could be worse. Much worse. I should thank my lucky stars.

So I sleep during the day.

Oh, and eat. I've taken to binge eating. Isn't that the saddest thing? It's a good thing the only thing I have food-wise in this apartment are a variety of fruits, whole grains, and non-fat cottage cheeses. I suppose I could do some real damage with the numerous jars of peanut butter I have hidden around the apartment like so many peanut butter jar-shaped Easter eggs, but that's why I hid them in the first place.

Once you get a mouthful of nonfat yogurt topped with all-natural granola...you just can't stop! Everything must be eaten!

All-natural dried apricots!

SNARF!

A cup of all-natural applesauce!

SCHLORP!

An all-natural peaunt butter and banana sandwich!

SMONCH!

A handful of all-natural strawberries!

SNACK!



I need a steak in the worst way.