I have a serious problem with caffeine.
Why on earth does the "I before E" rule not apply to this word?
Friday, March 30, 2007
Gateway
I have a serious problem with caffeine.
Why on earth does the "I before E" rule not apply to this word?
Monday, March 26, 2007
Baby Face
It's time for another poll!
In Bible times, shaving my face bald would have been an act of grief and shame. I'm neither grieved nor shamed, but I'm thinking about doing it just 'cause. Thing is, as with most aspects of my life, I find myself completely unable to make this decision by myself. Let's do the adult thing and weigh the pros and cons, shall we?
Pros:
Cons:
Now that we've got that out of the way, it's time for you to decide!
In Bible times, shaving my face bald would have been an act of grief and shame. I'm neither grieved nor shamed, but I'm thinking about doing it just 'cause. Thing is, as with most aspects of my life, I find myself completely unable to make this decision by myself. Let's do the adult thing and weigh the pros and cons, shall we?
Goatee Pros and Cons
Pros:
- Keeps people from thinking I'm a girl.
- I look kinda like Jesus.
Cons:
- I can't think of any.
Now that we've got that out of the way, it's time for you to decide!
SHORN LIKE A SHEEP
An Official 42nd Floor Poll
Goatee
or
No-tee?
No Fun No Mo
My apologies, loyal readers.
I'm all out of "fun" these days. That last post sucked it out of me. Now I just wish I knew what the crap I'm supposed to be doing with my life. Acting is okay and all, but these days I'm feeling less and less passionately about it. My interests are shifting. It's time to quit playing around and get on with things. Do you know what I mean?
Anyway...
On the bright side, I'm finally finished with Naked Druid Lesbians from Brooklyn. We hammered that coffin closed yesterday evening. Can I tell you how blissful it was to get to certain moments in the play... moments that usually make me cringe, only THIS time, I was able to tell myself, "Hey! That's the last time you have to see that!" It was great. It almost made me forgive them for holding the house--I kid you not--twenty minutes for one old lady who wound up leaving at intermission anyway.
I'm all out of "fun" these days. That last post sucked it out of me. Now I just wish I knew what the crap I'm supposed to be doing with my life. Acting is okay and all, but these days I'm feeling less and less passionately about it. My interests are shifting. It's time to quit playing around and get on with things. Do you know what I mean?
Anyway...
On the bright side, I'm finally finished with Naked Druid Lesbians from Brooklyn. We hammered that coffin closed yesterday evening. Can I tell you how blissful it was to get to certain moments in the play... moments that usually make me cringe, only THIS time, I was able to tell myself, "Hey! That's the last time you have to see that!" It was great. It almost made me forgive them for holding the house--I kid you not--twenty minutes for one old lady who wound up leaving at intermission anyway.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Breaking News!
BREAKING NEWS!
Bow-WOW!
Bow-WOW!
Are Hags from Heck Hexing Hotties?
MacKenzie Denonno (27) may spend the rest of her days as an adorable pug after being attacked by witches while jogging in Central Park
by Forky Fourchette,
42nd Floor Crack Team Investigator
42nd Floor Crack Team Investigator
A new wave of crime is rolling over the New York like a swarm of fleas—and it has law enforcement officials sitting up and begging for answers.
On jogging trails across the City, attractive young women depart for evening jogs on their never-ending quest for beauty…and they’re coming back as dogs.
“It’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen before,” said chief officer Hamilton Brooks of the newly formed New York Canine Transformation Division Department. “Our women are being turned into dogs. Mostly pugs. Some chihuahuas, but mostly pugs.”
So far there have been an astounding 43 reported cases of girlfriends-gone-canine. Most recently, 27 year old MacKenzie Denonno. According to sources, Denonno went on her routine jog in Central Park around midnight two nights ago.
“It was just like any other night,” said her boyfriend Brandon Devonshire. “I came home from work and Macky left for her jog. It got to be really late and she didn’t come back. I was getting worried.”
“Suddenly I heard this scratching at the door. It was MacKenzie, only she had been turned into a dog. A pug. I could tell because she was wearing the same black jogging suit with piggie-pink running stripes. I picked her up and her tail started wagging really fast. She licked me on the nose. That was when I knew it was her.”
Devonshire, a devoted boyfriend, has since adopted Denonno and takes her on walks every evening.
“She really likes playing fetch.”
While the reason for the bizarre rash of transformations remains a mystery, a number of New Yorkers have pointed their fingers at a coven of local wicked witches.
“I don’t understand how people can be so judgmental,” said Worsheppe deDevil, leader of the coven. “We're just a nice group of ladies who enjoy an evening at the theatre. This is a perfect example of how out of control our government has become with its racial profiling. So what if I have green skin. So does broccoli. You don’t see anyone pointing their annoyingly manicured fingers at broccoli, do you?”
“It’s not our fault those irritatingly beautiful blonde bombshells are all turning pug-ugly. Eee hee hee.”
With wicked witches ruled out as suspects due to the possibility of hurt feelings, law enforcement officials are left without a clue.
Until the matter is resolved, however, the mayor has encouraged New Yorkers to care for their transformed loved ones by making sure they receive plenty of water, kibble, and belly rubs.
“And if they get out of line,” says Brooks, “A corrective swat to the rump with a rolled-up newspaper should prove very effective.”
More on this story as it develops.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
One Foot in the Grave
There were a couple of moments yesterday where I thought I was going to collapse and/or die.
I'm not kidding. I really thought I was going to die. My knees were weak, I was burning up with fever, I had chills, a hacking, painful cough, my head was reeling... So this is what it's like, I thought. This is what it's like to die on the streets of New York. Of course it's cold. Of course it's winter. And of course I'm penniless.
So this is how it all ends.
I didn't die, but I really thought I was going to. I whimpered softly in the subway station, feeling all dizzy and feverish. I wanna go home, I said.
Being sick...REALLY SICK...in New York SUCKS. You're millions of miles from home or anyone who cares about you enough to fetch a bowl of chicken noodle soup from a deli. I kept thinking of those Gothic novels where the heroine is told by the doctor not to go outside...that the cold air would KILL her. All this time I thought that was just some quaint little, "Oh, those ignorant people who thought the cold was deadly" sort of thing. Now I know there's something to that.
Still, I forced myself to do those two callbacks.
And when you think about it...REALLY think about it...these theatres are just dirty, cramped little black boxes. What the CRAP was I doing running around in the cold, risking my health--no--life for these people? Why? There's more to life than off-off Broadway shows. Isn't there?
The first callback was good enough to rent a proper audition space. The second one was in their location on the lower east side (WHAA??) on the fourth floor of this utterly ramshackle old building with a creepy Spanish-speaking doorman. Dirty, cramped little black boxes. I'm about to do my third show in New York and I have yet to feel like I've reached that "other level" people mention when they talk about New York theatre.
I vowed I would stay in bed all day today.
But do you have any idea how difficult that is? I mean, it was easier earlier. It was raining. But now it's clear as a bell and the gym is beckoning. I can't just NOT GO. I ate cake today. CAKE.
I'm not kidding. I really thought I was going to die. My knees were weak, I was burning up with fever, I had chills, a hacking, painful cough, my head was reeling... So this is what it's like, I thought. This is what it's like to die on the streets of New York. Of course it's cold. Of course it's winter. And of course I'm penniless.
So this is how it all ends.
I didn't die, but I really thought I was going to. I whimpered softly in the subway station, feeling all dizzy and feverish. I wanna go home, I said.
Being sick...REALLY SICK...in New York SUCKS. You're millions of miles from home or anyone who cares about you enough to fetch a bowl of chicken noodle soup from a deli. I kept thinking of those Gothic novels where the heroine is told by the doctor not to go outside...that the cold air would KILL her. All this time I thought that was just some quaint little, "Oh, those ignorant people who thought the cold was deadly" sort of thing. Now I know there's something to that.
Still, I forced myself to do those two callbacks.
And when you think about it...REALLY think about it...these theatres are just dirty, cramped little black boxes. What the CRAP was I doing running around in the cold, risking my health--no--life for these people? Why? There's more to life than off-off Broadway shows. Isn't there?
The first callback was good enough to rent a proper audition space. The second one was in their location on the lower east side (WHAA??) on the fourth floor of this utterly ramshackle old building with a creepy Spanish-speaking doorman. Dirty, cramped little black boxes. I'm about to do my third show in New York and I have yet to feel like I've reached that "other level" people mention when they talk about New York theatre.
I vowed I would stay in bed all day today.
But do you have any idea how difficult that is? I mean, it was easier earlier. It was raining. But now it's clear as a bell and the gym is beckoning. I can't just NOT GO. I ate cake today. CAKE.
Monday, March 19, 2007
One Teensy Weensy Problem
I got the callback. Go fig.
I was sick last night. Really sick. Chills, coughing, wheezing, the works. Sleep was fitful. I kept having sick dreams.
No, not sick dreams like eating puppy gumbo. Sick dreams. You know, the kind you get when you're sick. They won't stop repeating themselves. I kept dreaming I sat up in bed, turned on my Brackberry and received an email from the audition I went to last night inviting me to come back and read for the lead.
At about 5:30am I decided I was tired of dreaming this over and over again. I left Slumberland and did just that. And I got just that. And I'm going to do just that.
However, there's one teensy weensy problem.
I can't go outside.
Seriously. It's not because I'm afraid of rejection or I've become a weird recluse or anything. It's because the freezing air stings my raw throat so badly I feel like I'm about to keel over every time I take a necessary, life-giving breath.
So that's a problem.
In other news, today is my Mom's birthday.
I wish she was here.
Whimper...
I was sick last night. Really sick. Chills, coughing, wheezing, the works. Sleep was fitful. I kept having sick dreams.
No, not sick dreams like eating puppy gumbo. Sick dreams. You know, the kind you get when you're sick. They won't stop repeating themselves. I kept dreaming I sat up in bed, turned on my Brackberry and received an email from the audition I went to last night inviting me to come back and read for the lead.
At about 5:30am I decided I was tired of dreaming this over and over again. I left Slumberland and did just that. And I got just that. And I'm going to do just that.
However, there's one teensy weensy problem.
I can't go outside.
Seriously. It's not because I'm afraid of rejection or I've become a weird recluse or anything. It's because the freezing air stings my raw throat so badly I feel like I'm about to keel over every time I take a necessary, life-giving breath.
So that's a problem.
* * *
In other news, today is my Mom's birthday.
I wish she was here.
Whimper...
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Misadventure, thy name is Forky
There were witches in the audience tonight.
What else could they have been? No one talks about the pagan god Baal in such friendly terms.
"Christianity has long painted a grotesque picture of the Master."
"Yes, the great Master, may he live forever and ever."
"Few people know that he is a benevolent god. Bringer of life to the barren widows."
"Ay. We glorify the Master. The great Baal!"
And there I was, standing there in my nonsensical Druid robe, listening to this. All I could think was--I'm not kidding--"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."
Once I realized my first instinct was to find a way to smite these members of the audience, I moved away from them as quickly as I could. Killing audience members probably wouldn't have been the best career move.
I didn't kill those witches, but I DID keep a close eye on them during the show. I noticed, with some satisfaction, that they grinned snaggle-toothed grins at all the really awful parts of the show. Figures. I mean, they're witches. They're into that kind of thing. I said a little prayer for them, asking God to somehow use our tale of the naked druid lesbians from Brooklyn to move their hearts to repentance.
I don't think my prayer was answered. In fact, I think I heard one of the angels guffaw, "HA! Fat chance!"
Can't blame a guy for trying. I mean, it was either that or kill them.
In other news, God finally realized he left his Snoopy Sno-Cone machine running over the weekend and turned the dang thing off.
Either I'm coming down with a terrible illness that may claim my life, or this City of broken dreams is NOT the allergy haven I initially thought it would be. My respiratory system the past few days has been on the absolute fritz. Walking around in this cold weather makes me double over in hacking fits that cause even the most calloused taxi drivers from the Bronx shed a tear of pity. What am I allergic to? Nothing grows here! Except for a tree in Brooklyn but that's it!
After our witchy show, I had my Sunday night dinner at Poo-Poo Thai and gorged myself on pad thai noodles and fried tofu. I headed down to one of the main audition sites for a late-night audition. Went in, did my cold reading, dazzled the bored casting people who probably won't even call me back (as usual), went out.
On my way back to the apartment, mere blocks from Crime Square, I heard a happy little sound.
PAP! PAP! PAP! PAP!
Then there were screams.
I turned around. Two blocks away, a bunch of people were running my direction. Two cars swerved onto the street and peeled out, heading straight up 8th in a high-speed chase. The Hungarian tourists next to me jumped into the nearest doorway. I laughed nervously and joined them for a moment. Police sirens soon rang in the air. I quickly ducked Port Authority where the heat was on so high I found myself unable to breathe, thanks to my allergies or consumption or whatever I have.
That's all I feel like saying for now.
Oh, and for the record, those shots of brandy I keep taking really are medicinla. Um. Medicinal.
What else could they have been? No one talks about the pagan god Baal in such friendly terms.
"Christianity has long painted a grotesque picture of the Master."
"Yes, the great Master, may he live forever and ever."
"Few people know that he is a benevolent god. Bringer of life to the barren widows."
"Ay. We glorify the Master. The great Baal!"
And there I was, standing there in my nonsensical Druid robe, listening to this. All I could think was--I'm not kidding--"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."
Once I realized my first instinct was to find a way to smite these members of the audience, I moved away from them as quickly as I could. Killing audience members probably wouldn't have been the best career move.
I didn't kill those witches, but I DID keep a close eye on them during the show. I noticed, with some satisfaction, that they grinned snaggle-toothed grins at all the really awful parts of the show. Figures. I mean, they're witches. They're into that kind of thing. I said a little prayer for them, asking God to somehow use our tale of the naked druid lesbians from Brooklyn to move their hearts to repentance.
I don't think my prayer was answered. In fact, I think I heard one of the angels guffaw, "HA! Fat chance!"
Can't blame a guy for trying. I mean, it was either that or kill them.
In other news, God finally realized he left his Snoopy Sno-Cone machine running over the weekend and turned the dang thing off.
Either I'm coming down with a terrible illness that may claim my life, or this City of broken dreams is NOT the allergy haven I initially thought it would be. My respiratory system the past few days has been on the absolute fritz. Walking around in this cold weather makes me double over in hacking fits that cause even the most calloused taxi drivers from the Bronx shed a tear of pity. What am I allergic to? Nothing grows here! Except for a tree in Brooklyn but that's it!
After our witchy show, I had my Sunday night dinner at Poo-Poo Thai and gorged myself on pad thai noodles and fried tofu. I headed down to one of the main audition sites for a late-night audition. Went in, did my cold reading, dazzled the bored casting people who probably won't even call me back (as usual), went out.
On my way back to the apartment, mere blocks from Crime Square, I heard a happy little sound.
PAP! PAP! PAP! PAP!
Then there were screams.
I turned around. Two blocks away, a bunch of people were running my direction. Two cars swerved onto the street and peeled out, heading straight up 8th in a high-speed chase. The Hungarian tourists next to me jumped into the nearest doorway. I laughed nervously and joined them for a moment. Police sirens soon rang in the air. I quickly ducked Port Authority where the heat was on so high I found myself unable to breathe, thanks to my allergies or consumption or whatever I have.
That's all I feel like saying for now.
Oh, and for the record, those shots of brandy I keep taking really are medicinla. Um. Medicinal.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Wint'ry Mix
That was the forecast for today and dang if they weren't right on the money. You look outside at what appear to be soft little snowflakes, but soon discover that they're pointy pellets of ice raining down from the heavens like a plague of Egypt that didn't make the cut.
Another week drawing to a close. How do they do that? I mean, they go by so quickly these days. I don't think I like that...
Another week drawing to a close. How do they do that? I mean, they go by so quickly these days. I don't think I like that...
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Frustrating
Queen III and I saw a show last night. It's one of my favorite shows currently running on ol' B-way. Well, it WAS. Thing is, they announced last Friday that the lead was leaving on Sunday to go do the London premiere.
So while the rest of the cast was almost the same, they grabbed some generic 30 year old understudy to do the lead.
It felt like they just grabbed the first person who happened to know the lines and threw him in a costume.
While Queen III and the rest of the audience were pretty much delighted, not having seen the original guy do the part, I grew increasingly frustrated as the evening went on.
The guy is supposed to be middle aged. This person looks to be almost MY age. And he just doesn't "get" how to do this role! How come he gets to be understudy??? And these chorus members! I know they can dance or whatever, but one of them has to play a New York apartment super at one point. And MAN did that lisp just yank you right out of the production!
I couldn't stop thinking...why THEM?
Then I listened to the audience. They were talking about how amazing the guy playing the lead was. Then I realized something.
Sure, with a real, experienced actor you're going to get a more polished performance or whatever, but even so, it doesn't matter who you are. Anybody can dress up in your costume and play your part and the audience won't know the difference. They'll even talk about how amazing you were, even if you really weren't.
*sigh*
I think I'm going to need to get on some kind of medication before too much longer. I'm so up and down these days. I don't know. I just don't know.
In other news, Queen III is excited about tomorrow. She's planning on going to the Bronx Zoo, three art museums, Ground Zero, the Statue of Liberty (aka "the Statch"), tour the financial district, and finish up with an evening performance of Naked Druid Lesbians from Brooklyn. I suggested she might want to spread those activities out over two days. That didn't go over well. Can she do it?
So while the rest of the cast was almost the same, they grabbed some generic 30 year old understudy to do the lead.
It felt like they just grabbed the first person who happened to know the lines and threw him in a costume.
While Queen III and the rest of the audience were pretty much delighted, not having seen the original guy do the part, I grew increasingly frustrated as the evening went on.
The guy is supposed to be middle aged. This person looks to be almost MY age. And he just doesn't "get" how to do this role! How come he gets to be understudy??? And these chorus members! I know they can dance or whatever, but one of them has to play a New York apartment super at one point. And MAN did that lisp just yank you right out of the production!
I couldn't stop thinking...why THEM?
Then I listened to the audience. They were talking about how amazing the guy playing the lead was. Then I realized something.
Sure, with a real, experienced actor you're going to get a more polished performance or whatever, but even so, it doesn't matter who you are. Anybody can dress up in your costume and play your part and the audience won't know the difference. They'll even talk about how amazing you were, even if you really weren't.
*sigh*
I think I'm going to need to get on some kind of medication before too much longer. I'm so up and down these days. I don't know. I just don't know.
In other news, Queen III is excited about tomorrow. She's planning on going to the Bronx Zoo, three art museums, Ground Zero, the Statue of Liberty (aka "the Statch"), tour the financial district, and finish up with an evening performance of Naked Druid Lesbians from Brooklyn. I suggested she might want to spread those activities out over two days. That didn't go over well. Can she do it?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Superstar
I have long, curly brown hair and a goatee. My nose, a source of ridicule from my button-nosed siblings, is prominent and strong. My eyes are a deep blue. My eyebrows are thick and masculine. My face is wrinkle-free and pale and my cheekbones are high.
I look like Jesus.
Well, Jesus as portrayed by artists from the Renaissance and beyond. Friends joke constantly about my Jesus look. Queen III, upon seeing me again for the first time in six months, paused and said, "How much longer are you going to let this hair thing go on?"
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you're really starting to look like Jesus."
Personally, I love it. I secretly believe most men in business suits wish they could, at some point in their lives, adopt a similar look. Not permanently. That would be ridiculous. Just...for a season or two. Make no mistake, a pair of shiny shears will lop off my locks someday in the near future and I'll shed nary a tear, but for now, it's fun.
And also I feel as though I owe my being cast in these two New York shows to looking like Jesus. Directors are always looking for someone who looks like Christ so they can make some sort of uninformed statement about the Church. These two shows I've done here in New York have had religious elements and the ignorant directors have both leaped at the prospect of having the Son of Man on stage.
Hey, if looking like the Messiah brings home the bacon and allows me to follow my dream AND lets me play around with a completely different look...I mean...hey. Who says you can't have your cake and eat it too?
I was at Morebucks this morning, drinking my pre-workout cup of coffee. This Morebucks is frequented by a few homeless folks. The cleaner, more harmless, less crazy variety. But every now and then...
I sat down with my small half-decaf and was fiddling with my phone.
Crazy Jane: Jesus!
Me: ....
Crazy Jane: Jesus Christ!
Me: ....
Crazy Jane: Jesus Christ! Is that you?!
Me: ! (Holy crap. She's talking to me!)
Crazy Jane: Jesus Christ! Is that you?! Jesus Christ? Jesus? Is it really you?
Me: (Uhh...uhh...look up and say, "Sorry. You've got the wrong guy." No...don't do that. Just...keep looking down. Ignore her.)
Crazy Jane : (standing) Jesus Christ! You're here!
Me: (Ignore, ignore...wait, no! What are you still doing here? LEAVE!)
Crazy Jane: Jesus Christ!! Jesus!
Mannerly George: Excuse me ma'am, are you all right?
Crazy Jane: It's Jesus Christ! Look! He's right over there!
Mannerly George: Oh yes. Actually, I think that's just a man who looks like Jesus.
Crazy Jane: Oh. Yes. He does look like Jesus.
Mannerly George: Yes, he does.
Crazy Jane: Sometimes Jesus comes down and visits us in flesh.
Mannerly George: Yes, that's right. Jesus is with us all the time.
Crazy Jane: But he comes down as a person sometimes and we don't know it's him.
Mannerly George: I don't think I follow.
Crazy Jane: He comes down to see us sometimes, to see how we're doing. Most people don't see him. But I think I see him now. He looks like Jesus. It might be him.
Mannerly George: Will you be all right?
Crazy Jane: I'm leaving now.
(Crazy Jane rises, passes slowly by me.)
Crazy Jane: God bless you.
Me: Same to you.
* * *
Since that happened this morning, walking down the streets of New York has felt a bit like a job. Or at least something I need to be more aware of. I mean, looking like Jesus was all well and good when it was a joke between friends. But when people start to think you're the Man himself...
I look like Jesus.
Well, Jesus as portrayed by artists from the Renaissance and beyond. Friends joke constantly about my Jesus look. Queen III, upon seeing me again for the first time in six months, paused and said, "How much longer are you going to let this hair thing go on?"
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you're really starting to look like Jesus."
Personally, I love it. I secretly believe most men in business suits wish they could, at some point in their lives, adopt a similar look. Not permanently. That would be ridiculous. Just...for a season or two. Make no mistake, a pair of shiny shears will lop off my locks someday in the near future and I'll shed nary a tear, but for now, it's fun.
And also I feel as though I owe my being cast in these two New York shows to looking like Jesus. Directors are always looking for someone who looks like Christ so they can make some sort of uninformed statement about the Church. These two shows I've done here in New York have had religious elements and the ignorant directors have both leaped at the prospect of having the Son of Man on stage.
Hey, if looking like the Messiah brings home the bacon and allows me to follow my dream AND lets me play around with a completely different look...I mean...hey. Who says you can't have your cake and eat it too?
I was at Morebucks this morning, drinking my pre-workout cup of coffee. This Morebucks is frequented by a few homeless folks. The cleaner, more harmless, less crazy variety. But every now and then...
I sat down with my small half-decaf and was fiddling with my phone.
Crazy Jane: Jesus!
Me: ....
Crazy Jane: Jesus Christ!
Me: ....
Crazy Jane: Jesus Christ! Is that you?!
Me: ! (Holy crap. She's talking to me!)
Crazy Jane: Jesus Christ! Is that you?! Jesus Christ? Jesus? Is it really you?
Me: (Uhh...uhh...look up and say, "Sorry. You've got the wrong guy." No...don't do that. Just...keep looking down. Ignore her.)
Crazy Jane : (standing) Jesus Christ! You're here!
Me: (Ignore, ignore...wait, no! What are you still doing here? LEAVE!)
Crazy Jane: Jesus Christ!! Jesus!
Mannerly George: Excuse me ma'am, are you all right?
Crazy Jane: It's Jesus Christ! Look! He's right over there!
Mannerly George: Oh yes. Actually, I think that's just a man who looks like Jesus.
Crazy Jane: Oh. Yes. He does look like Jesus.
Mannerly George: Yes, he does.
Crazy Jane: Sometimes Jesus comes down and visits us in flesh.
Mannerly George: Yes, that's right. Jesus is with us all the time.
Crazy Jane: But he comes down as a person sometimes and we don't know it's him.
Mannerly George: I don't think I follow.
Crazy Jane: He comes down to see us sometimes, to see how we're doing. Most people don't see him. But I think I see him now. He looks like Jesus. It might be him.
Mannerly George: Will you be all right?
Crazy Jane: I'm leaving now.
(Crazy Jane rises, passes slowly by me.)
Crazy Jane: God bless you.
Me: Same to you.
* * *
Since that happened this morning, walking down the streets of New York has felt a bit like a job. Or at least something I need to be more aware of. I mean, looking like Jesus was all well and good when it was a joke between friends. But when people start to think you're the Man himself...
Sunday, March 11, 2007
6 Month Anniversary
Happy Anniversary to me! Made it from September 11th to March 11th in New York without dying. Six more months on the lease. Will I throw in the towel or will I rise like the phoenix and extend it for another year? Time only knows!
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
Bland
I'm at Morebucks Coffee this morning roasting the last of my tastebuds off the ol' tongue.
I ordered my usual small half-decaf. The barista explained that the pot of decaf was old so they were going to give me a decaf Americano instead.
A quick google search later and I understood why I didn't like this drink.
It's pretty much just hot water.
I drank it. But don't think for one minute I didn't walk back up to the counter and ask for a 50 cent refill of the real stuff.
In other news, I learned today that Aristotle died on my birthday. Could I be his reincarnation? I'm not very good at math. Perhaps it's some sort of cosmic irony. The great mathematician stuck in the body of some poor slob who needs a calculator to do long subtraction.
In other other news, 1995 called. It wants its lotus position back.
Seriously, y'all. Everybody in the cast does it as part of their warm up. They even "ohm". Not kidding. Shirley MacLaine style and everything.
What I want to know is how they think doing a hodgepodge of improv games and faux new-age meditation positions is gonna help their performances.
The girl who started the meditation thing with our cast also has this "positive energy" warm up.
It's easy. Here's what you do. You scream at the top of your lungs: "I am great!" followed by, "Everything I do is right!" and ending with, "I am perfect just the way I am!"
It doesn't take a great mathematician to tell you those statements are black lies. Especially when the director suddenly reappears--after abandoning us to face the New York Times alone on opening weekend--with grocery bags full of Fabreeze.
"What are these for?"
"Last weekend one of the audience members complained that some of the actors stink. So--now I know this might seem a little silly--but if you could all spray your costumes down with this..."
I think our director might be a little too literal-minded.
I ordered my usual small half-decaf. The barista explained that the pot of decaf was old so they were going to give me a decaf Americano instead.
A quick google search later and I understood why I didn't like this drink.
It's pretty much just hot water.
I drank it. But don't think for one minute I didn't walk back up to the counter and ask for a 50 cent refill of the real stuff.
In other news, I learned today that Aristotle died on my birthday. Could I be his reincarnation? I'm not very good at math. Perhaps it's some sort of cosmic irony. The great mathematician stuck in the body of some poor slob who needs a calculator to do long subtraction.
In other other news, 1995 called. It wants its lotus position back.
Seriously, y'all. Everybody in the cast does it as part of their warm up. They even "ohm". Not kidding. Shirley MacLaine style and everything.
What I want to know is how they think doing a hodgepodge of improv games and faux new-age meditation positions is gonna help their performances.
The girl who started the meditation thing with our cast also has this "positive energy" warm up.
It's easy. Here's what you do. You scream at the top of your lungs: "I am great!" followed by, "Everything I do is right!" and ending with, "I am perfect just the way I am!"
It doesn't take a great mathematician to tell you those statements are black lies. Especially when the director suddenly reappears--after abandoning us to face the New York Times alone on opening weekend--with grocery bags full of Fabreeze.
"What are these for?"
"Last weekend one of the audience members complained that some of the actors stink. So--now I know this might seem a little silly--but if you could all spray your costumes down with this..."
I think our director might be a little too literal-minded.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Exceptional
A high-stress I.T. position in New York City supporting two disorganized women for $18 an hour and a solemn vow that I won't audition or have any conflicts for the next six months?
Excuse me, but I am NOT some guy named Brandon from Baton Rouge! I'm the third in the proud line of the exceptional Fork siblings. And not one of us does things the traditional way.
Well, Forkette does. But there was a time when she didn't. You might not know this, but before she settled down, got married, had a kid, and got a dream cottage with a white picket fence, she was known by all as Dinah Carolina. That's right. The Dinah Carolina, the exceptional swing dance champion of the south. Now she's a nurse and can tell you what malady you're suffering from just by looking at you.
And Forko? My older brother? Forget about it! He's so dang exceptional he makes me look like--uhh--someone NOT talented. Like Betty Crocker. Everyone knows she doesn't make anything by scratch. It's all boxed mixes. So yeah. When I stand next to Forko, I start to look/smell a bit like suspiciously moist and delicious yellow cake with partially hydrogenated chocolate icing. Drill for oil? He does it. Play in three Irish bands? Check. Wed an equally exceptional girl from Europe and spirit her away to the States? He's done that too. (By the way, Forko, thanks for the generous gift card yesterday. Keep em comin')
Face it. Whether she likes it or not, my niece, Little Mab, just joined one of the more exceptional families on this hum-drum little globe. And despite my mother's best efforts to convince everyone we're a perfectly respectable, conventional trio of offspring, between Forkette's wild dancing days, Forko's Irish music and geological expertise, and my outlandish experiences as the family ne'er-do-well, this girl is in for some wild bedtime stories.
SO...
If I want to get in line at those hopeless cattle calls and sign up to be 178th on the alternate list, that's JUST what I'm gonna do! And no corporate biddies are gonna tell me other!
$18?? Are you KIDDING? This is NEW YORK, people! The McDonalds employees make, like, $28 an hour! Do they think I didn't learn a thing or two from my time at Eventual Practical Financial Services? I've already been paid $18 an hour to sit by a phone and twiddle my thumbs for three days. You make almost that doing "temp work"...and you don't even have to MOVE (or wear anything)!
And they want to pay me New York circus peanuts to do REAL work? HA! Don't make me laugh!!
Something better is coming. I'm desperate, but not hopeless. While my decision NOT to kowtow and take the first crappy thing that comes my way will probably make mumsie and daddums cringe, maybe my act of foolish defiance will teach them--no--the WORLD a little something about faith!
Something better is on the way. I know it.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go to the gym and work on my exceptional abs for my off-off Broadway show while listening to some defiant, I'll-Show-'Em!-I'll-Show-'Em-All!-style tunes on my iPod.
Because that's just what exceptional people DO.
Excuse me, but I am NOT some guy named Brandon from Baton Rouge! I'm the third in the proud line of the exceptional Fork siblings. And not one of us does things the traditional way.
Well, Forkette does. But there was a time when she didn't. You might not know this, but before she settled down, got married, had a kid, and got a dream cottage with a white picket fence, she was known by all as Dinah Carolina. That's right. The Dinah Carolina, the exceptional swing dance champion of the south. Now she's a nurse and can tell you what malady you're suffering from just by looking at you.
And Forko? My older brother? Forget about it! He's so dang exceptional he makes me look like--uhh--someone NOT talented. Like Betty Crocker. Everyone knows she doesn't make anything by scratch. It's all boxed mixes. So yeah. When I stand next to Forko, I start to look/smell a bit like suspiciously moist and delicious yellow cake with partially hydrogenated chocolate icing. Drill for oil? He does it. Play in three Irish bands? Check. Wed an equally exceptional girl from Europe and spirit her away to the States? He's done that too. (By the way, Forko, thanks for the generous gift card yesterday. Keep em comin')
Face it. Whether she likes it or not, my niece, Little Mab, just joined one of the more exceptional families on this hum-drum little globe. And despite my mother's best efforts to convince everyone we're a perfectly respectable, conventional trio of offspring, between Forkette's wild dancing days, Forko's Irish music and geological expertise, and my outlandish experiences as the family ne'er-do-well, this girl is in for some wild bedtime stories.
SO...
If I want to get in line at those hopeless cattle calls and sign up to be 178th on the alternate list, that's JUST what I'm gonna do! And no corporate biddies are gonna tell me other!
$18?? Are you KIDDING? This is NEW YORK, people! The McDonalds employees make, like, $28 an hour! Do they think I didn't learn a thing or two from my time at Eventual Practical Financial Services? I've already been paid $18 an hour to sit by a phone and twiddle my thumbs for three days. You make almost that doing "temp work"...and you don't even have to MOVE (or wear anything)!
And they want to pay me New York circus peanuts to do REAL work? HA! Don't make me laugh!!
Something better is coming. I'm desperate, but not hopeless. While my decision NOT to kowtow and take the first crappy thing that comes my way will probably make mumsie and daddums cringe, maybe my act of foolish defiance will teach them--no--the WORLD a little something about faith!
Something better is on the way. I know it.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go to the gym and work on my exceptional abs for my off-off Broadway show while listening to some defiant, I'll-Show-'Em!-I'll-Show-'Em-All!-style tunes on my iPod.
Because that's just what exceptional people DO.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Off-Off or Off?
I've done a couple of Google searches for our show and have been a little surprised by the results.
While I was under the impression that this theatre was considered Off-Off Broadway, TWO New York theatre ticket websites have us listed as OFF Broadway. And that's a big deal.
I can't make up my mind about this. Do I tell people I'm in an Off-Broadway show? When I leave Noo Yuck, do I update my resume to say "Naked Druid Lesbians from Brooklyn" was an Off-Broadway show?
What should I do? What would you do?
While I was under the impression that this theatre was considered Off-Off Broadway, TWO New York theatre ticket websites have us listed as OFF Broadway. And that's a big deal.
I can't make up my mind about this. Do I tell people I'm in an Off-Broadway show? When I leave Noo Yuck, do I update my resume to say "Naked Druid Lesbians from Brooklyn" was an Off-Broadway show?
What should I do? What would you do?
Monday, March 05, 2007
I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here
It's finally started to happen. I'm approaching the six-month mark and it's finally started to happen.
I kinda like living here.
I KNOW! I'm fully aware of the implications of the above statement.
"Wow. I'm in NEW YORK. NEW YORK! The Capital of PLANET EARTH! I love this City!"
That's when I step into a huge puddle and get grazed by a speeding SUV with a New Jersey license plate. Then I go to dropping F-Bombs like crazy and start missing my cat.
Oh yeah...I had a cat once...I think his name was Melba. Something like that, wasn't it? Gosh, I really miss him. I think.
The problem here is the whole split-focus thing. I don't remember if I posted about this already, but it bears repeating, especially for you wide-eyed little ones who are thinking about following me up here like some latter-day Pied Piper.
You come to the City to be an actor. There are opportunities here you simply don't find anywhere else. You walk into the lobby of the Museum of Natural History or the sanctuary of St. Thomas or down 42nd Street on a Wednesday night and think, "This is why NEW YORK." It's thrilling.
But then you remember you have to make rent. So you start courting temp agencies. And just when you get all excited about starting regular temp work, you remember you have six auditions next week. "Money or the Dream?" you think. "Money or the Dream?" You didn't come up to New York to become some corporate slave. You came up to act. So you tell the temp agency you're unavailable next week.
But then you remember you're running out of money. So you call and tell them you're available. Then you think, "But I didn't come up here to become some corporate slave!" You came up to act. So you tell the temp agency you're unavailable next week. But then you remember you're running out of money. So you call and tell them you're available.
It's exhausting. It's a little scary.
But still, I don't know that I'm ready to fulfill my mother's prediction that I'd move back home within the first year. I mean, I've got a lot of stuff in my bedroom. It'd be a real headache to move all that stuff. And besides, where would I go?
I finally know where to find the good deals on groceries.
I know how to avoid the sludge puddles on snowy days.
I know where you can go to get a really cheap but tasty plate of Thai food.
I know where you can find restaurants that serve only chocolate or peanut butter or grilled cheese sandwiches.
I know that if you need to go to the bathroom while you're out, just look for a Starbucks.
I know which churches are conservative and which are liberal apostates.
I know you don't go anywhere without a jacket and a pair of earplugs.
I know you carry a small umbrella with you at all times.
I know how the subway system works (or doesn't work if it's the weekend).
I know what it is to be afraid of snow and rain. I know how to be thankful for sunny days, dishwashers, washing machines, and large bathrooms.
Who knows what's going to happen in the next six months. Maybe I'll do what I always do and continue to wander just a little aimlessly through life and hope everything works out. Maybe I'll say, "Forget this. I want bags of money," and go back to school. Maybe I'll be mugged and left for dead. Maybe I'll become the Melba toast of Off-Off Broadway.
But whatever happens, my lease is for another six months. And until the blasted thing expires...
I think I'm gonna like it here.
I kinda like living here.
I KNOW! I'm fully aware of the implications of the above statement.
"Wow. I'm in NEW YORK. NEW YORK! The Capital of PLANET EARTH! I love this City!"
That's when I step into a huge puddle and get grazed by a speeding SUV with a New Jersey license plate. Then I go to dropping F-Bombs like crazy and start missing my cat.
Oh yeah...I had a cat once...I think his name was Melba. Something like that, wasn't it? Gosh, I really miss him. I think.
The problem here is the whole split-focus thing. I don't remember if I posted about this already, but it bears repeating, especially for you wide-eyed little ones who are thinking about following me up here like some latter-day Pied Piper.
You come to the City to be an actor. There are opportunities here you simply don't find anywhere else. You walk into the lobby of the Museum of Natural History or the sanctuary of St. Thomas or down 42nd Street on a Wednesday night and think, "This is why NEW YORK." It's thrilling.
But then you remember you have to make rent. So you start courting temp agencies. And just when you get all excited about starting regular temp work, you remember you have six auditions next week. "Money or the Dream?" you think. "Money or the Dream?" You didn't come up to New York to become some corporate slave. You came up to act. So you tell the temp agency you're unavailable next week.
But then you remember you're running out of money. So you call and tell them you're available. Then you think, "But I didn't come up here to become some corporate slave!" You came up to act. So you tell the temp agency you're unavailable next week. But then you remember you're running out of money. So you call and tell them you're available.
It's exhausting. It's a little scary.
But still, I don't know that I'm ready to fulfill my mother's prediction that I'd move back home within the first year. I mean, I've got a lot of stuff in my bedroom. It'd be a real headache to move all that stuff. And besides, where would I go?
I finally know where to find the good deals on groceries.
I know how to avoid the sludge puddles on snowy days.
I know where you can go to get a really cheap but tasty plate of Thai food.
I know where you can find restaurants that serve only chocolate or peanut butter or grilled cheese sandwiches.
I know that if you need to go to the bathroom while you're out, just look for a Starbucks.
I know which churches are conservative and which are liberal apostates.
I know you don't go anywhere without a jacket and a pair of earplugs.
I know you carry a small umbrella with you at all times.
I know how the subway system works (or doesn't work if it's the weekend).
I know what it is to be afraid of snow and rain. I know how to be thankful for sunny days, dishwashers, washing machines, and large bathrooms.
Who knows what's going to happen in the next six months. Maybe I'll do what I always do and continue to wander just a little aimlessly through life and hope everything works out. Maybe I'll say, "Forget this. I want bags of money," and go back to school. Maybe I'll be mugged and left for dead. Maybe I'll become the Melba toast of Off-Off Broadway.
But whatever happens, my lease is for another six months. And until the blasted thing expires...
I think I'm gonna like it here.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Deep Breath
Okay. So maybe I overreacted just a scosh. I'm here at Yummy Thai about to dig in to my Sunday night dinner and suddenly...little else seems to matter.
Lawd knows what this week will bring. Hopefully some money.
Lawd knows what this week will bring. Hopefully some money.
I Have HAD It!
***MAJOR RANT ALERT***
Just in case I haven't made it ABUNDANTLY clear...
...Theatre is the same EVERYWHERE.
It's like how in The Grapes of Wrath, the family moves from the dustbowl to the "Promised Land" of California and discovers the hard way that life in California is still life. With all its hardships and people dying in the backseat of your depression-era pickup truck.
The director was here for our opening night. Haven't seen her since. What director doesn't stick around at LEAST through the first couple of shows on opening weekend?? It's not as if the paint was even dry. We had changed things the night before opening and even the day of opening there were new things. And instead of sticking around...off she goes! I understand she's pregnant (by her male husband, no less!) and she couldn't stick around after opening night because she was feeling "tired," but she's about two months preggers. What is she, bedridden?
Then there's the backstage talk. Before the show starts, the "ladies" of our cast sit around, belching (no, really!) and talking about the VILEST of things. I don't even want to HINT at what they talk about. I put my iPod in and block it out so I can get myself focused for the evening, but it seems like whenever I do that, one of our two addled stage managers comes in to give us our time call. And even though I shout, "THANK YOU, FIFTEEN!" they look at me and say, all sassy-like, "You know, I'm JUST not sure you can hear me with those things in your ears."
The two bumbling stage managers are really something. One comes in and says, "Guys, we're at 10 minutes to places." ("Thank you, ten!")
Then the other one comes in about a minute later--no, seriously--it happened twice last night--and says, "Actors, we're at fifteen." ("Thank you...fifteen?")
Then the "ladies" of the cast start talking about how our stage managers are the BEST stage managers they've ever had the pleasure of working with. They're so organized.
Organized, huh?
At fight call, one of the stage managers will shout, "Okay, go!" while a bunch of dingbats who aren't in the scene walk across the stage and before anybody is even in place to do the fight.
Last night I came into the theatre very calmly...I was going to be totally smiley and happy. Boy, that was a lost cause. The other stage manager came RUNNING into the dressing room with this INTENSE panicked energy and fairly shrieked, "The late-night play had a dress rehearsal last night and so I need you ALL to check your props on stage because I don't see any of them there!!!!1!"
I RUN onto the stage. She's RIGHT! None of our stuff is on the stage! PANIC! HORRORS!
Maybe because we all JUST got to the theatre and our props are still in that box next to our costumes. GoooooOOOOooood LAWD.
Later we got sassed at by one of the stage managers. Like, REALLY sassed at.
"We have got to hurry from now on because the late-night show needs to be in this space at 10:30. (cue the wide-eyed sass right abooooouuuuut....now) Right now we're finishing at 10:35 and we cannot do that. Yes, Forky? You have a question?"
"Yes. Didn't we hold the house ten minutes last night?"
"................yes. We did."
At intermission, the "ladies" continue talking about their private parts, but also--shoot me in the FACE--add to the mix how they think the show is going.
You who did junior high/high school...even some college shows know EXACTLY what I'm talking about.
"Oh my gosh! Act one totally blew chunks!"
"Oh, man. I am just SUCKING tonight!"
"This sucks! We're just sucking! We can't suck in act two!"
"Yeah! Lets say our lines faster!"
"Okay! Yeah, we've gotta say them faster. We're going to rock the house now!"
I'm telling you, guys. It's enough to make you gnaw off your leg. After five years of professional work, you'll hear that kind of talk from one or two people in the cast. But not EVERYBODY. No, when you're really doing this professionally, people talk less about how they THINK the show is going and just DO THE DANG SHOW.
Last night we got back in the theatre after intermish and, of the 14 people we started with, only 8 remained.
Well, the post-show conversation WAS interesting.
"Think about it, guys. Those people were OLD. They wouldn't APPRECIATE something like THIS."
"Yeah. They're obviously idiots from Omaha who should be seeing the Lion King instead."
It's amazing, guys. These "ladies" simply cannot understand why people would leave. I mean, not even taking into account the naked lesbian boobies, let's look at this: the cast is on stage the entire time. When we're not in the scene, we put on these druid robes and stand against the walls of the black box and make creepy moaning and humming sounds behind the audience. The director also mentioned she wanted us to interact with the audience so's to invite them into the world of the play, right?
Well, this girl in full druid garb and drool trickling down her mouth, DASHES up to these poor audience members, then stops and stares at them for five minutes. Another one sits down in an empty seat next to some patron, looking like she's taking a druidic smoke break. They harrass the audience in the opening number by shoving their boobs in the audiences faces, in the crowd scenes, they swat the audience's legs...it's invasive. It's uncomfortable for me to WITNESS this.
Then when you add some rather shocking lesbian sex scenes, well. All bets are off. Seriously. The show had better be REALLY TIGHT and I'd better have a compelling reason to stick around for act two because I do NOT want to sit here and receive more abuse at the hands of Naked Druid Lesbians from Brooklyn.
I think that's enough. I think you see now. Yes, we're off-off Broadway, a mere two blocks away from the actual street and three blocks from a Broadway house, but even so--
Theatre in New York is still theatre.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Weekend Update
It's a beautiful day today. I mean...dang.
Got a big update to do this afternoon. Hold your horses.
Got a big update to do this afternoon. Hold your horses.
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