Christmas 2009

We survived the blizzard of 2009 and the streets have turned to sludge. The cold wind and sidewalks packed with tourists and piles of snow make walking around the city unpleasant. And here I am, scrambling to do SOME sort of Christmas shopping before I leave for South Cuhlina on Xman Eve.

But the Christmas shopping song goes a little something like this:

"Oh boy! I've got GREAT ideas for Christmas presents!

I hope everybody likes their gifts.

I hope they do.

What if they don't?

They probably won't.

Nobody's going to like what I'm getting them. It's a bunch of junk they don't need.

They probably won't really know/care about work I'm putting into this.

It's not like I have a car, you know. I'm trudging through this gross winter weather to gather all this stuff...

And I could be using this money to buy food and pay rent!

And it's so cold outside! MAN!

Why won't these people walk faster?? The sidewalk is on the ground, not up in the sky! Freakin' tourists!

I HATE New York! If I didn't have waterproof boots I would be SO pissed off right now!!

This is STUPID! I HATE CHRISTMAS!

I'm going to Chipotle and then I'm GOING HOME."

So I haven't gotten much shopping done.


In other news, tomorrow a group of us is caroling for a bunch of sick children at the Cosmopolitan l'hopital. And by "group of us" I mean two people. Since everybody who originally signed up bailed.

So I'm back to my original thesis that, during the holidays anyway, people are generally undependable and the idea of being generous at Christmas is well-intentioned but kinda stupid because, well, honestly, there's too much going on and everybody's busy trying to create picturesque Christmas memories for themselves.

Hey, I do not blame them. We all want lovely Christmases. And if you can pull it off, go for it. Deep down, if I'm totally honest with y'all, I'm still looking for a way I can get out of this.




Sorry to be such a Debbie Downer, gang.

I think it has to do with that first Christmas I spent here in New York, all alone. Something died inside of me as I cried into my Pad Thai noodles. Or maybe it woke up.

The next Christmas was in Texas with Mom and Dad. I managed to make it home this time. But it was minuscule. It was a little bit lonely. The Grandparents weren't with us. Forkette was working at the hospital in SC as she always seems to do. Forko and Waffelle were over in Europe. It was us. Just us.

And you sort of realized the warm, gang's-all-here Christmas that you thought was magic and would last forever wasn't real.

Hence, having passed through the Vally of the Shadow of Christmas Death still standing, I no longer try to take comfort in Bing Crosby or hope for cool Nintendo games under the tree or count on a curiously quiet Baby Jesus being born to a pristine mother with manicured nails in a barn that doesn't smell like poop.

I find the current state of Christmas--that is, the Christmas most Americans celebrate...you know, the one with rows of beautiful girls doing synchronized high kicks--to be empty and utterly unsatisfying. Words cannot describe the horrors of Christmas 2008 and seeing, as if for the first time, "After Christmas Sales" on the 26th.



Are we all such suckers that we can't see the Greed Machine plowing its way through our lives, teaching us to be discontent and to hurriedly move on to the next shopping spree? Christmas, that holy time in which we celebrate the birth of a person who came to rescue a bunch of lost, lonely, forgotten, and screwed up people, lasts for twelve days and yet, thanks to TV commercials and newspaper ads, the sun doesn't set on the 25th before people declare the entire holiday to be dead and buried.

That's one of the reasons I've tried so hard to get my family to observe SOMETHING of the Twelve Days. To stretch out this season of joy. To snap them out of the secular consumerist zombie mode that grips even the very buckle on the Bible Belt, where people wearing Scripture verse t-shirts stand in line at Gift Returns on "Two Turtle Doves".

I know what this sounds like. This sounds like one of those young, holier-than-thou rants where, in five or ten years I'll look back on this and think, "Oh how cute. I used to be such a fiery idealist."

But there's something deeper here. The point is Christmas. The point is that, in a world that's perpetually on the verge of blowing itself up, people are confused because, no matter how many gifts they buy at discount prices or how many times they listen to 'Mele Kalikimaka', they don't have that magical mix of anticipation and nostalgia they usually feel at this time of year--thanks, no doubt, to the generally accepted notion that, sooner or later, a nuke is gonna go off and WWIII will finally begin.

And in the midst of ALL this...

...Christ comes.


Bethlehem is packed with tourists. Mary and Joseph, dirty, tired, and with no hotel reservations, are just another couple of faces on the sidewalk. They don't have iPhones. They drink street vendor coffee instead of Starbucks Christmas blend. Joseph says tomorrow night they'll stay on his friend's futon. But the baby is coming now. There's no room at the hostel. So Mary has her baby on a subway platform without drugs. They put their baby in a cardboard box after dumping out the rat droppings. And out in New Jersey, angels appear to a drag queen and a couple of Muslim taxi drivers who barely speak English. Good tidings of great joy.

The Savior has come. And everything is about to change. Nothing will be the same.

Celebrate that.

Christmastime

Hey gang. Apologies once again for not posting much lately. Been super busy with gigs and all that sort of thing.



This past Thursday I participated in the Nyah Nyah Academy's Christmas party. 600 people in attendance. And there, in the middle of the room, they'd set up what amounted to "art school entertainment".

Three models dressed in Santa costumes and four easels set up with artists working on paintings of us. The idea, of course, was to provide the guests and patrons (lots of student pieces were for sale that night) with a chance to see a painting go from blank canvas to fully realized.



I thought it would be funny to try a Michelangelo's David pose, what with all the Santa stuff on. I worked with an excellent painter named Steve and, well, this is what we came up with.

Nice to know that I've still got it in spite of all those Hot Pockets.

Pudge

What a week. This Thursday I spent a grand total of ten hours without any clothes on. After the 6th hour, it becomes such a nothing thing. There's gotta be a way to make this interesting again...

Christmas fever has hit New York. It's time to buy, buy, buy. Tourists are here in droves. Meanwhile, I continue to be 7lbs heavier which is very apparent in the sculpture room as the love handles I worked so hard to be rid of are now making an extended cameo in the sculptures. But that's the trade-off, right? You wanna get bigger, you've gotta get a little fatter first.

And this was lit on Wednesday.





-- Post From My iPhork

Location:8th Ave,New York,United States

Sculpture Room

And this is where I'll be working for the next two months. Fun times abound. All I want for Christmas is for the heater to keep working.



-- Post From My iPhork

Back to NYC

The lady in the seat next to me smells STRONGLY. Guuuh.

Looks like we're going to be stuck on the runway in Atlanta for a long time just finding a place to park.

Kinda sad to be going back. South Carolina is so comfortable and clean. But there's a lot of work to be done over the next two months. And it's not going to get done if I stay in Columbia.

Sculpture in the morning, painting in the afternoon. And most nights busy with gym classes or more modeling gigs. Oh man. Fun times are ahead!


-- Post From My iPhork

Thanks, thanks

On the plane with my darling Sarah on my lap. It's gonna be a great trip. Free Wifi. Incredible. I feel like I'm in the World of Tomorrow. There's an angsty kid sitting next to me who plugged his ears up with those lousy iPod earbuds. He gets the window seat. Appropriate. So he can glower at the world below like some sort of latter-day teenage Grinch.

I'm in the middle seat. I wonder who the person on the left will be.

I survived my trip to New York's most famous dermatologist, Dr. Zizmor. For a measly 500 clams he removed that pesky speck next to my belly button. It turned out to be a pink, non-cancerous mole that looked like a cross between a skin tag and a wart. And thanks to my tactile fixation after years of playing videogames, I couldn't stop picking at it. And artists were beginning to paint it in.

We can't have THAT. Snip, snip.

Our friend in 38D has yet to show his face. For a "full flight", it's looking a tad scant.

But back to Dr. Zizmor. This guy is a star, y'all. Everyone in New York knows who he is, thanks to his tacky ads on the subways. And who can forget his role as pioneer in the world of facials? Dr. Zizmor's patented chemical peels!

When he popped his head into th waiting room and said, in a quick, nervous manner, "Iddlebe five minnits, Jooahn," my heart went pitter-pat. It's HIM! It's really HIM! I was going to have my speck removed by a STAR.

And he did it. All while chewing a stick of gum.

Looks like the procratinators are all here. A family of red-dot Indians. Thanks for keeping us from an on-time departure.





-- Post From My iPhork

Letter to the Hamlet Director

[Director],

Thanks for seeing me today. Sorry if I was a little on the nervous side. It was just one of those things that hits you all at once... You're an actor in New York City, standing outside of the audition room with 'To Be or Not To Be' in your hands, about to go in and read that centuries-old monologue and...well...it was just sort of staggering. Thank you for that singular opportunity. Best of luck in casting and I'm sure I'll see you around.

Thanks again,
[Fork]

November 1st: NYC Style

As seen at Union Square the day after Halloween. (click the image for a bigger view)

Not wasting any time, are they?

Old Hats

Bernadette was cute. But honestly, she was no Liza.

Maybe that's a good thing. It means she'll probably live a lot longer.

Star-studded benefit to raise money for dogs. You'd think she'd sing a few more funny songs. As it was, what started out almost as "the Best of Barbara Cook" turned into "Bernadette Sings the Sad Ones".

Hugh Jackman, Daniel Craig, Stephen Sondheim, Arthur Lawrence, and other celebrities were in attendance. Bernadette's best friend, Mary Tyler Moore, made a cameo. Mandy Patinkin was supposed to be there but couldn't make it. I don't know why. It's not as if anyone will work with that nutcase anymore, ever since he manhandled my beloved Toni Collette.

But that's neither here nor there.

It was fine. But once again, I felt out of place among the tuxedos and evening gowns. And the ghastly opening number--a slightly reworked version of the opening bits of 'Into the Woods'--was sung by a handful of people, some of whom didn't know the words and stumbled embarassingly and obviously over the language as they piped in at the wrong time and sang the wrong verses.

It's that sort of "hey Maude, let's get dolled up and put on a show for our bored rich friends!"

"Okay June! I haven't been on stage since 1964, but this'll be fun!"

And we're all supposed to be delighted when a bunch of rich has-beens galumph around on a stage, don't know the song, can't do the box step in unison, and have some truly crap-tacular comic timing. Mary Tyler Moore, we love you, but your ship has sailed. Stop talking. Stop trying. Just smile and let Bernie speak for you.

I've encountered this sort of thing now several times since moving to New York. The Broadway Nazis will call me a hater and promise to contact the acting coordinator to get me fired from ever working in this town again. But I mean it, y'all. This sort of thing cheapens the art. It cheapens theatre. Beyond the cheesy musicals. Beyond the tourist shows. Because it makes me realize what theatre actually is (most of the time--not ALL of the time). A bunch of people getting together to play make-believe in front of a bunch of other people. And it begins to seem utterly ridiculous.

Yes, theatrical storytelling has been around since ancient Egypt. I've sat in many a theatre in New York City, spellbound. When it's good, there is nothing like a live performance with real folks living out their experiences before your very eyes.

But this brand of "giving it one more go without paying attention during your one rehearsal because you're 105 and are used to 'winging it'" horrifies me. It's not cute. I'm not laughing with you that you screwed up your one part. I don't care that you're old. Carol Channing was BORN old and she still manages to get it right. Quit play acting and get off the damn stage!

Maybe I'm being too harsh. Maybe I should just let them have their fun in front of all the old Upper East Side swells who used to be showbiz bigshots but are now forgotten and powerless.

Maybe when I'm their age I'll feel differently.

But I probably won't.

Bearded Fanny

Quick questch:

Can anyone explain to me why they don't sing Fanny Crosby hymns in the Presbyterian Church?


Modeling update:

Super-busy week coming up. At some kind of art school for several hours every day. Then December/January are already booked completely solid--four hours in the sculpting studio at FancyTimes School for High Brow Artists, then three hours as...are you ready for this? Jesus Christ. AND a ministering angel in Gethsemane.

I think the artist is going to use a different head for Christ and use my head for the angel. He says he has a bunch of friends who have great beards.

But I don't want to be a sissy angel. I want to be the (Son of) man himself.

So I'm trying to grow a beard. Aaaand it looks pretty awful. My goatee has always been pretty good. A source of pride, even. But the hair on my cheeks has always been really patchy. Hence "pretty awful".

But I'm not giving up. It's time to give it my best shot. Because at some point in January I'm also posing as Orion the hunter. So in addition to being 10-20lbs heavier (yeah, like THAT'S gonna happen without the help of anabolic steroids. I've worked all year just to gain five paltry pounds), I need to have that ultimate symbol of manliness, a Chuck Norris Beard.

Tomorrow I see Bernadette Peters at a benefit. I won't tell her I'm going to be in the audience. I don't want to make her nervous.

Forky's Week of 'Ween: And the 'Weener Is...

It was a tough call. Paranormal Activity had me clutching my computer desk Spider-Man action figure, hoping that fiddling with its joints would distract me from my rapid heartbeat. Drag Me to Hell was a hilarious romp that ended with something so unexpected my brain kept rejecting what I saw and pretty much filled my Halloween-o-Meter to well-past full.

So who would have guessed that a little 1961 movie would surpass them all?

Yes, the winner of this year's Forky's Week of 'Ween is The Innocents, based on the popular story "The Turn of the Screw" by Henry James. Subtle, eerie, well-written and brilliantly acted, this is the only movie I saw this year that resulted in disturbing dreams. Watch it alone and in the dark...and prepare to be chilled to the bone!

Forky's Week of 'Ween

2009 has been on the fast track to being the least spooky Halloween since 2008. No scary games released this month (last year's "Dead Space" on PC, coupled with a slightly opened window, a chill wind, and a set of Bose headphones salvaged last year's Month de Mort for me).

And it's pretty late in the season to start scrounging around for one of yesteryear's catalog of ghoulish games.

So it's time to go back to the movies.

This year on Forky's Week of 'Ween we have:

The latter-day Blair Witch Project that's got America's kids sleeping with the lights on, Paranormal Activity

Sam Raimi's hilarious horror hootenanny, Drag Me to Hell

The infamous Roman Polanski's 1965 disturb-a-thon Repulsion (movie snobs say it's the second most terrifying movie of all time--this particular "Scariest Movies of all Time" list DARED me to watch it by myself with the lights turned off. I accept the challenge)

And one other film.

But which will it be? Right now there are two candidates, the original Night of the Living Dead and arguably the most disturbing movie on Earth, Eraserhead. I've not seen either, but I've heard plenty about them.

Now's your chance. Cast your vote or write in a candidate. Hope! Change! Yes we can!

Spooky, idn' it?

Back

Back from Disney. Fun times. A bit crankier this time around. Everything felt more expensive somehow. I think we were all dehydrated the entire weekend. Still. Fun times. It's not quite as "magical" when you go back so soon.

Oh noes! Modeling gig isn't 9-12. It's 9-3!! And here I was scheduled to be somewhere else at 12:30. Time to do some shuffling.


-- Post From My iPhork

I'm at Disney World!

-- Post From My iPhork

Toy Story Double Feature - Mini Forkish Review

Suspicions were confirmed last night in the previews before the Toy Story 3D double feature.

Toy Story 3 is about Andy going to college. And Woody, Buzz, and the gang are given away.

I mean, we all figured it would be something like that once Disney's own "Buzz Lightyear gets recalled to Taiwan and wacky rescue adventure 2.0 ensues" plotline was thrown in the garbage can from whence it came. Hey, the last line in part 2 even hints at it. But now that it's confirmed, watching Toy Story 2 just sort of pissed me off.

Because Jesse is right. Eventually all toys are thrown away and forgotten.

Or in the case of the trailer for Toy Story 3, donated to a preschool where they are destroyed.

And THIS is why Toy Story 2 pisses me off. Because I really feel like Woody should have just gone to freakin' JAPAN!

I'm going to call this one right now: Toy Story 3 ends with the gang narrowly making it back to Andy's room after a series of misadventures that result in even more Buzz Lightyear-thinking-he's-a-real-space-ranger silliness. Fast forward a few years, and now Andy has a kid. The toys take comfort in knowing they will be played with again. The End. Three-picture deal with Disney complete. No more rumors of nightmarish direct-to-video sequels.

But in keeping with Pixar's current trend of "They DIDN'T just do that! THEY DID!" plot surprises, one of the toys is going to be "killed" in the process. My money is on Slinky Dog. :^(

That said, watching the films back-to-back completely changes my mind about the two. Everyone says Toy Story 2 is better.

I used to think so as well, but now I think the first one is superior. It's simple. It's compact. And the line readings in part 1 are so much more interesting and chuckle-worthy than in 2. First one that comes immediately to mind: Woody's "(pleading) He's not a space rang--(anger)--errrrrrr!"

Granted, the animation for Utility-Belt Buzz in 2 is truly inspired.

In a funny way, I almost feel as though it's wrong to look at them as two seperate movies. Thanks to the merciful lack of exposition, most people think of 2 as picking up immediately where the first one left off. It doesn't feel so much like a sequel as an extension of the first film.

But as the story kicks in, the differences between the two films can be more distinctly felt.

Maybe it's because they really took their time with the first one (plotwise) and weren't dealing with cramming in two storylines and showing off the power of their fancy new computers bestowed upon them by the Mouse.

2 is still good, but when watched back-to-back instead of with those vital nostalgia-forming years in between (which imo, is why people love the second one--it's like the ultimate fan-service sequel--seeing an old friend after years apart and picking up right where you left things), it feels a little bit like what it really was: Pixar trying desperately to fix the HORRIBLE direct-to-video sequel Disney was about to shovel out.

As pretty as it is, it's a little half-baked in places. Motivations aren't as clear. Andy's about to grow up and throw the toys away. Everybody's talking about it. Everybody knows it's going to happen.

But we HAVE to get back to Andy's room!...so...we can be thrown away together?

It's similar to the conundrum J.M. Barrie presents us with in Peter Pan. Wendy isnt a child anymore. Soon she will be a young woman and must leave the nursery. She's growing up. But Barrie comforts us in the notion that, while the dread inevitability of growing older is something we all must accept, it's also beautiful and part of the awfully big adventure that is simply LIVING.

Toy Story 2 offers us no such consolation. Emily throws Jesse away. Andy will throw Woody and the gang away. But that's okay...because in the end...they'll all be in the landfill together. Yeah. Thanks Pixar. All we need now is a dialogue-free montage of a young couple falling in love, growing old, and the wife dying of cancer.

Oh yeah, and the 3D is great. The dated CGI in 1 (Andy still looks a bit freakish in both films. Thanks for teaching us how to do it right, Final Fantasy people) can be excused thanks to the marvelous sense of depth...the toys feel REALLY small now. Or maybe the world is just REALLY big.

Still great. Still better than every single one of Pixar's subsequent films (I just wasn't a 'Monster's Inc.' person and I still think 'Wall-E' is well-intentioned but ultimately unfocused and terrible. Sorry, guys). Good times. Go see it. Worth the cash, if only to see the first one again in 3D-o-vision.

But Jesse is still right. And Woody should have gone to Japan.

Peace Prize

So apparently you don't have to do anything except not be George Bush.

At the Universe Diner. Exhausted from yesterday. 6 hour modeling job for a talented group at the Nyah Nyah Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants. It's always a pleasure to work with students who show great promise and instructors who work with you to create a good pose.

See? I can be positive. I like my job. I just don't like hippies.

So six hours of standing on one foot with a twist and a bend. Had to keep my eyes wiiiide open the whole time due to balance issues.

Then came the Toy Story double feature. Three hours of 3D.

By the time I got home, I could not WAIT to close my eyes.

Gym today, sculpture afterwards.

So that's teh update. My omelet is here.





-- Post From My iPhork

"Blog-a-Boomerang" or "Some People Are So Touchy"

It's happened again! DAMMIT!

That's the second time in ONE YEAR! First Nutty MacDonald (who still hasn't paid me one red cent) and now the School For Art School People Club!

I didn't think anybody read this thing anymore! Dear LORD.

Come to think of it, nobody DOES. Except my family and cyber-stalkers who leave anonymous comments and attempt to ruin the personal lives of people they don't even KNOW! It was a JOKE, people! Read a couple of these posts before you reveal your nasty selves as artists who harbor secret disdain for models because you ASSUME we're all divas!

Man. Blogs are like...boomerangs. What goes around... Say nothing interesting and nobody reads em. One false word and the cowardly cyber-stalkers are on you like hounds. Maybe I should have paid more attention when I was going through my ABBA phase.

I'm not saying any more than that for now. There may be more later should we find ourselves unable to reconcile this little misunderstanding as I will most DEFINITELY want to set the record straight.

Not that it really matters. It's not as though this blog gets a whole lot of traffic anyway. This ain't the New York Times website people. Let's get a little perspective here. Oh, AND a sense of humor.

Every entry you're posting...
Is a boom-er-ang you're throw...sting...?

It I swear. As much as I hate to draw the comparison...it feels EXACTLY like...THIS.

The money is at 1.27

Welcome to October!

It's here. Woke up this morning and had to reach over and pull on another blanket. New York always does these things in a timely fashion.

I feel like I never stop working these days. Going to the gym this morning, then it's Narcissus time, teach a gym class, then over to keep modeling for this book.

Yes, a book. On drawing the figure with/out clothing. So it takes twice as long because every pose has to be done twice--once with, once without.

The nice thing about Narcissus is the painter is only doing piece by piece. So yesterday she was working in my leg which meant I could do whatever I wanted with the rest of my body as long as the leg stayed still. So you can imagine all the stuff I tried to get away with.


Nah. I just read a book.

And I finished it just in time. Because October is Agatha Christie month! And this year is all about Miss Marple!

In other news, everyone keeps asking me about gym stuff and training and that sort of thing. Seriously, y'all. I don't know. You just go and lift stuff till it hurts. I dunno.

Okay. Time to get on with this chilly day! Looks like I'll have to dress warmly...uhh. Or...un-dress warmly?


-- Post From My iPhork

Shoot Me Now

I'm doing my best to not chuck this slippery little weasel out the window, but man. AT&T needs to get their act together before I punt this 3GS into the Hudson. 5 bars, 3G, and no Internet, email, and every single call in the last three days has dropped.

No ma'am. It may have pumped my hip full of lethal doses of radiation, but at least my Blackberry WORKED.

Update for today...had to cancel a session with the Narcissus painting to go to a commercial shoot. It's an industrial so it will likely only air within the company...like on their jumbo-tron TVs at their secret headquarters in the North Pole.

But getting paid $625 to sit in a luxury camper drinking coffee and nibbling on French fries ain't half bad.





Wait. That's not true. It is half bad. Call time was 12:30 and they didn't use us till 5:15. Hurry up and wait.

We were playing office people--a commercial advertising some new network. I was apparently the I.T. guy because no other respectable New York businessman has hair like mine, even after the recent haircut.

So it was kinda fun. Shooting on 6th Ave in Midtown just as all the businessmen are hitting the streets.

It was cute when people realized they were about to walk in front of the camera. They'd duck about two feet before they actually reached it, then stand back upright JUST as they passed in front of the lens. Nice try, folks. Nice try.

So it's back to Narcissus tomorrow. And Othryades. I'm pulling double-duty tomorrow, friends! It's a good thing I worked my lats and dlats today!

Mostly Job Update

This was supposed to be a really great post I wrote on the subway ride down to the art school. But my iPhork deleted it. So look at this picture instead.

Back to School

It's awfully hard to care about showing up to classes on time when the instructor is always late.

Portraits. All day. 9:30-5. It's like a kind of punishment.

Portraits are the most unpleasant kind of modeling you can do. Because all you do is sit there.

Usually they out you in a comfy chair.

And the entire gig becomes about trying NOT to fall asleep.

It's awful. Especially in these classroom settings. There's no music. Nobody talks to you. You're on your own.

Remember those school days? It'd be right after lunch. You're in biology. And you want so badly to stay awake. But you just can't. And your head keeps tilting downward. It's awful. Remember??

I thought about putting a pin in the back of the chair. So if I leaned back too much it would start to stick me.

But that seemed like a dangerous idea. And while they don't call me Johnny Danger for nothing, I'd rather not self-mutilate any more than I already do.

So I have two 5 Hour Energy shots ready to go. And the iPhork is set to some peppy music for the breaks.

9:50. Class started at 9:30. And the instructor isn't here. New York City! Where everything's better and the artists are passionate!


-- Post From My iPhork

Three Years Later

It seems my three year anniversary of moving to New York City is being totally upstaged by the whole September 11th thing.

I guess a couple of buildings falling down are more important than me following my dreams of becoming a star.

So while everybody over on twitter and facebook attempts to be profound and poetic with their "On this day I'm a New Yorker too" status updates, it looks like I'll just have to enjoy this cake by myself.

*nom*nom*nom*

-- Post From My iPhork

Thanks

Oh yeah. But while I was still smiling from being called buff by a total stranger (my New York friends say I'm "obviously fit" as opposed to "buff"), along came a little boy with his arms full of beach stuff.

Being the buff stud that I am, I held the gate open for him.

"Thank you, but bad hat."

Whaa?

Then I remembered I was wearing my Yankees cap. Wow. Cousin Joey wasn't lying about the whole Yankee thing down here.

At the airport. Just finished a pulled pork sandwich and about to go through airport security. I'm going to do my best to carry this relaxed feeling with me for the next few days. We learned from the kayaking tour guide that dolphins in captivity live 30 years longer than dolphins in the wild (the ones that just die of old age).

The moral of the story is that stress makes you die faster.

Deep, cleansing breaths. What? Me worry?

-- Post From My iPhork

So Buff

I was walking down to the beach this morning to meet Dad for a swim at high tide.

I met a rather dumpy woman with a deadpan expression at the gate to the cabana area. Her mouth hung agape.

"Whoa...How'd you get so buff?"

Heh heh. That's awesome.






-- Post From My iPhork

Beach

At the airport waiting to board the delayed flight to Hilt On Head. The parents rented a villa for the week and the fam has been coming and going the past few days. Lameness abounds, however, as most everybody, including my niece and nephew, went back to work this week instead of taking a day off to see moi.

So it's just me and Dad for the next four days.

Me and Dad. At a beach resort. With a LOT of scotch.

This is gonna be awesome.

***

But first I have to get over this horrible urge to purge. When the computer lady called to tell me the flight had been delayed I thought, great! I can go grab breakfast at a diner!

I chose Renaissance because the quality is generally high and the amount of food you get for your dining dollar is also high.

But not this time. You'd thing breakfast would be prime business time for a diner.

There was soap in the water. The home fries tasted of day-old cooking grease. I could (though probably shouldn't've) barely choked down the omlete.

And now my stomach wants to empty itself.

But no. Must be strong. Just keep playing iPhone games. This too shall pass.


-- Post From My iPhork

Fat Trickery

The Shaking-Spear-a-thon (have to be cautious--that Google search engine is a fell beast) is OVER.

It's MORE than over. It's OVAR.

Thank the LORD. I'm sorry, but two nights walking up 8th Avenue at 4:45am was enough to make me call that theatre company's artistic director and tell her that keeping actors until that time in the morning isn't only cruel, it's DANGEROUS.

Didn't I tell you about the robbery two winters ago? I was coming from an audition after dark, walking up 8th Avenue, when BANG! BANG! Two gunshots. Screaming. People running. Then two cars peeling out and zooming past me and a frightened family of French tourists.

But I digress.

YES! Danger! On the streets! I kept thinking about the gloomy predictions of those professional trend-watchers who all agree that New York City is headed for pre-Giuliani-ville FAST. It gives one pause.

In other news, Parker Posey was recently diagnosed with Lyme disease. Just like what I had. Maybe I should call it "our" Lyme disease.

Huge Mistake

This fund raiser is the dumbest thing I've ever done.

No offense.

But when it's 1:30am and there's no audience, howzabout we all go home and *pretend* like we just read the play?

But no. We can't do that. Instead, everyone plays like we're all part of some grand thespian tradition of pushing onward despite the fact reason screams, "Don't! Everyone's gone home! You actors are all that's left!"

So when she starts saying, "Oh for a muse of fire!" everyone cheers, like, "Yeah! Our drama club is the BEST!"

They're already $1000 past their goal. I mean. Come on.

But no. Home at 5am.

On the bright side, everyone agreed that my scene reading as the French princess in Henry V was probably going to be the highlight of the entire 24 hours.

Off Broadway. Off Broadway. Eye on the prize... Must stay positive. The artistic director directs Off Broadway...

Okay. Time to roll out of bed and read these other two plays for the first time before the 10pm-4am portion of the day.

Oh, for a muse of coffee...



-- Post From My iPhork

What a Weekend...

It begins now.

Went to the gym this morning.

On the choo-choo to New Jersey right now. Beginning work on the Ezekiel sculpture. This is gonna hurt. A lot.

After that? It's off to see some old friends of mine from Everycity, TX in their Fringe show.

After that, it's back to the gym to get/do the new kettlebell routine.

After that, it's home for a little while to print script pages and get organized for...

The Shakespearathon. That email I sent out was a total bust as only two of the, like, 20 people I sent it to could manage to make any kind of pledge. I know times is tough, but come on. Two bucks, people. I'm not asking for your life savings. I don't know why this is annoying to me. I don't even really LIKE this theatre company all that much. I suppose I thought attaching my name to something like this would generate a smidge more interest.

Whatever. It's all good.

And by "good" I mean "dreadful". The hurricane is here and New York City is set to be soaked all weekend. Which is especially lame because I'm participating in two very late nigh portions of this blasted fund-raiser. The first is tonight from 1am-4am, the second is tomorrow from 10pm-4am.

And with subways running once every half hour at that time of morning, there's an excellent chance I won't be getting home until 6am from both of these readings.

Which is why I'm praying the rain scares our audience away, if only for the late-night portion. If nobody's there when we start reading at 1am, will they really ask us to stay?

Why did I agree to something like this? Well, the woman who is running this thing is also a director of Off-Broadway shows. I guess I figured if I scratched her back she might scratch mine sometime.

Yeah. Or maybe I'm just a chump.

Anyhow, it's gonna be a wild 48 hours. Here we go...



-- Post From My iPhork

End of August

August is almost over.

That's pretty good, if you ask me.

Things have slowed back down again, for the most part. The show is over, summer art classes are finished... tonight is my last night modeling for this Christian artists group out in Brooklyn.

Not much else to report. Well, actually, there IS, but right now I don't have time to write it all down. Stuff like the Shakespearathon, teaching the new kettlebell class, beginning a sculpture based on Ezekiel or Isaiah or something, intentionally gaining weight with a weight-loss app on my iPhork which I love, a trip to a beachside villa in September and Disney World in October...

Yeah. I'd write about all that stuff.

But I don't have time.

Gotta start moving toward the subway.

Nearly There

Why am I not getting paid just to be alive? I'm so busy! I feel like I'm working for the man!

But I'm not. I'm working for myself.

I feel like I'm my own executive administrative assistant.

If I have to put up with any more of my own shinannigans, I'm going to start posting about how much working for myself sucks.

Booking travel, setting naptime, pirating video games...it's not easy, people!

Tonight is the final performance of our little show. Come on and see it! It's swell!

Gray Hairs

I had to download one of those New Age 'Music with relaxing nature sounds' albums today.

I know. I always thought they were kind of cheesy.

But listening to the thirty second sample on iTunes, I was more than a little surprised at the way I very nearly passed out in my computer chair listening to a snippet of "Woodland Rainstorm".

Holy cats. Am I really THAT wound-up?

It's been confirmed by numerous people this summer: "Fork, you're the most high-strung person I know," they all say. This is usually followed by a comment or two about the increasingly visible and numerous gray hairs that are sprouting up.

"If you'd just learn to RELAX...to let things GOOOO..."

I texted my trustworthy massage guy. He's out of town till the 31st. I found myself typing, "Stressful summer. Can't seem to relax." That got me to thinking.

Good GRIEF.

This summer HAS been stressful!

*bites nails, worries over what to do about it*

Summer is Here

And not a day too late. *Lots* of people even complained that we've had such a relatively cool summer. As if something was dreadfully wrong with that. In fact, it looked like we might get through August without hitting 90 degree weather here in the Big App.

Well, we finally got it. And waiting on the piping-hot 100 degree subway platforms only to have our sweat-drenched bodies frozen by the air conditioners in the subway cars is fun again. And did I mention the summertime smells of New York City?

Anyone for a hot tuna melt?

Babies on Parade

In case you don't know, long time 42nd Floorer Bibb Leo File and his wife just received a little bundle of joy. Owen Arthur Leo File was born on August 14th, 8lbs, 6oz, 20 1/4 inches. The mother is doing well and I can only assume the father is too. Since he won't send pictures of the little squirt, we just have to imagine what the little angel looks like.

When out of money, a Fork is fine too

Naw, I'm not really out of cash. But I'd have a lot more if Nutty would freakin' pay me the past month's rent like he's supposed to.

There's a word for this. When you take something without paying for it.

Anybody care to venture a guess as to what that word is?

Futon Get!

Futon's here. I can finally stop sleeping on the floor like an alley cat.

In other news, we open our little show this Friday. I'm currently en route to one more rehearsal before the final dress tomorrow.

I'm really sorry for not having posted more about this one. I guess it just sort if feels like if you've done one you've done em all.

But this one was a little different, thanks to Our Leading Lady.

We have a huge make-out scene in the play. I'm not talking about a peck on the cheek. No, this is the kind where the director shouts out, "Grab 'er boob!"

OLL has been frustratingly icy. It's not anything personal and I get that. Hey, she really wanted her talentless boyfriend to have my role. I get it. I'd be mad too if I had to make out with me. Rippling muscles? Taught sinews? Who needs em?!

Her new thing now is directing the kissing. The make-out scene goes something like this:

Part 1: Surprise! I'm smitten with you! I hope you don't mind that I'm kissing you. I'll take it nice and slow and be very tender because I'm still not sure you're okay with this, but I want to make you comfortable so you'll want more.

Part 2: I take it you're okay with this. Now I want to eat your face.

Part 3: Goodbye. Hope you don't mind if I take a little taste for the road.

It's part 2 where the problems arise. I'm playing this like someone with a lot of pent-up sexual energy. As a result, I'm totally pouncing on her.

And she doesn't like it. Because it's not her boyfriend.

So she's decided that if I start kissing too fast, she's gonna pinch my back really hard. If I go too long with it, she's gonna push me off.

Way to be in the moment, Baby Doll.

We'll see what happens tonight. We're running that scene because the director thinks OLL is really stiff and doesnt appear to be enjoying it.

Me? I'm ready to throw down.

As for Nutty, I'm at a loss. I doubt I'll ever see that July rent.

I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve though...

-- Post From My iPhork

Back in Business

The Internet man came. Oh wow. The iPhone just capitalized "Internet" for me. Whoa! It did it again! I didn't realize the Internet was a proper noun.

Yep. I decided the new TV was a little more of an extravagant Christmas-style gift so instead I went with...




An iPhone.

Now, some of you may remember a couple of years ago when I bought an iPhone 3G. I hated it.

But time heals everything and after becoming a big fan of the app store through iNez, my iTouch, I started warming up to the blasted thing especially now they've put it on steroids (what do you think the S stands for?) and made they keyboard bigger. But it wasn't until I figured out you could watch movies--yes, talking pictures--on this thing and that doing so makes a subway trip WAY more tolerable--that I decided I was ready to leave buttons behind.

And so far I'm fairly pleased. In true Apple fashion, the first time I tried to browse photos and use the camera the stupid thing crashed. But my first iPhone crashed every time a dead cat sneezed so this wasn't a huge surprise.

But now that the initial bugs are out of the way--man. This thing. I got lost looking for the restaurant I was supposed to meet Sethro and Syrup at for din din.

I was annoyed at first. Then, quite suddenly, I remembered I didn't HAVE to be lost.

I pulled out the iPhork and hit the maps button. In no time flat, Big iBrother had fixed his eye on me from outer space. And in old-fashioned Russian submarine style, it followed me as I walked to blocks east and found the restaurant.

I'm now convinced that every new New Yorker needs to be issued one of these things when they move to the City. It's like...the future, man.

In other news, the drama with Nutty has passed, but if he doesn't pay his share of the rent today he's in for a surprise. Because I know where his violin is.

-- Post From My iPhork

All Out of Internet

I have a whole lot of money right now.

I've finally been paid--or am in the process of being paid (ahem. Nutty)--for all the gigs I've had this past summer and whooo doggies, do I have a lot of dosh.

So the question arose.

What do I do with all this extra green?

Obviously I lock some of it away.

But what about the rest of it? What about the fun money?

You see...I've fallen in love with someone.

She's from Best Buy. She's 40 inches. She goes up to 1080p. She's crystal clear, like looking through a pane of glass. She's LCD. She's paper-thin. She's the hottest thing on the market.

And there are children starving in Africa.

Oh who cares! You wanna judge me?? WELL I could also be a better steward of my dollars by living in Orange, TX where rent is cheap so I could have more to send to the African orphans!

In related techno-news, the internet has run dry on my expensive computer (which I paid off!!). Yep. Apparently, even though it was working before, NOW they need me to pay $40 to have some schmucks come and "install the internet" onto my machine.

And the earliest they can do that is next Thursday.

I'm sorry, but the next episode in the downloadable Monkey Island pirate adventure game series comes out on MONDAY. NOT THURSDAY.

So I called back three times asking--no--DEMADING an earlier time!

I wasn't saying something. It was absurd. Kept getting the same "Sorry but Thursday is the ONLY day" crap. It's New York. It's a five-minute job. I must not have been saying one of their key buzz words. But what was it?

Oh! Yeah!

"I need this for work."

Suddenly, they were SURE there were more times available.

So hopefully the internet man will come with his marvelous box and refill the internet on my computer. Because I'm all out.

And finally...

Time Out New York, the hip n cool weekly magazine at all the checkout counters wants to do an exposé on--guess who?--moi! Yes, I've hit the big time!

Apparently the whole nude modeling thing has become a source of tremendous interest to the public at large.

I was encouraged by the writer to go online and view the series to get an idea of what it's all about.

Umm.

"Art School Model of the Week"?

"Meet Candice"? "Meet Malcom"? "Click for photos"??

6-8 nude photos, all looking at the camera with a sassy smirk?

And an interview segment that reveals just how stupid and depraved Candice and Malcom really are.

This isn't artistic! This is them trying to use some loophole to get nudity in their mag!

It's like...Fancy porn! Ugh!

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Moved

Nearly there.

I would post pictures, but I forgot to bring my memory card reader. I'm pretty sure it's at the other apartment.

And by Other Apartment, I don't mean the one behind the little door that seems really great but is actually a trap. I mean the one that I used to live in.

And every time I make a trip back there I wonder why I put up with it for so long. I guess because moving kinda sucks.

Seriously. It's not been the most fun thing I've ever done in my life.

But what AM I thinking? I've completely forgotten to mention the play I'm in rehearsals for.

It's an adaptation if this cheerful story. I'm playing Robert.

Yes. More feminist drama. And you know what THAT means. Yep. And we've got 'em. In spades.

It's actually kind of irritating. I don't think I've ever been in or read a piece of feminist theatre that didn't have some sort of lezbionic overtones. It's so weird. I know men are pigs and y'all girls want to be free and all, but seriously. SRSLY.

Okay. Time for bed.

Moving Day 2

The moving guy overslept so I have an extra hour to do some last-minute packing.

It's incredible. I just can't seem to get moving until I have a specific time limit. Is it from playing too much Super Mario Bros. as a kid? If I don't hear the "da doo dee doo, doo dee doo, DOO DOOO!" signaling that time is running out, I barely move.

Well, that sound effect just played and I'm doing a killer job!

More later.

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Moving Day

The mover is coming this morning.

Time to get to work.

But I'm so sleepy.

Sleepy because of what happened last night. Was up all night long. Man, y'all. Just...man.

I'll tell you later. Threats of legal action be damned.

As Rizzo says in the dreadful 'Grease,'

Some people are so touchy.

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Trains

I'm telling you guys...the subway system in NYC is SO EASY.

Once you understand that the trains pretty much just go up and down (and that in Manhattan, downtown doesn't mean "where the most tall buildings are") it's a breeze.

Express trains stop at the white dots. Regular trains stop at the black AND white ones. And if you wind up going the wrong direction, simply disembark, walk across the platform, and catch the next train going the opposite way.

But these other trains...these actual TRAIN-trains?

Forget it. Using them requires a whole nuther level of understanding and observation.

I *naturally assumed* the train I was just booted from was headed to Manhattan.

I mean, don't all roads lead there? Isn't Manhattan like Rome?

Apparently not. As the Irish-Italian conductor so brusquely informed me. Nicky O'Carlo. He's a tough guy.

In other news, Heaven's sprung a leak. How'm I supposed to move all this junk if Manhattan keeps doing its best impression of Seattle?

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Oh yeah...

And did I mention the sculpture of moi that's waiting for me...in Philly?! How the crap am I supposed to get there? If I don't pick it up soon, the sculptor is going to throw the cast away. And then my mother will be without a Christmas present.

I mean geeze! It just doesn't stop!

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It isn't any fun

Moving sucks.

It really does.

I don't know what else to say on the matter. Just that moving all of your worldly possessions on foot makes me feel for people in the old days. You know. When people moved things by covered wagons or something.

Because just when I think I can make some serious headway, I have to stop and remember, oh yeah, I don't have any of the large pieces of furniture I need to put these things anywhere.

And I don't want to call the man-with-a-van guys yet.

So I'm concocting a plan to move these giant pieces of furniture...by myself. It can be done. It's *only* two blocks. I mean...how hard could it be to move a computer desk two blocks to the east?

This is stupid. Why don't New Yorkers have pickup trucks?!? I need one, stat!

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Moving

I've got the keys.

I've got the apartment.

The problem is, we've also got a severe thunder storm warning.

No sooner had I finished trip #2 (I plan to start sleeping over here TONIGHT--the previous tenant left her air conditioner) than the rumble of thunder shook the buildings in Midtown and the raindrops began to fall.

Here's hoping it clears up after an hour or so. But according to weather.com (full 3G signal on my Blackberry--whew! I forgot to check that when I looked at the place) it looks like we're in for stormpocalypse. AGAIN.

Which is okay. Because this summer it seems as though every dog owner in the City is leaving their plastic baggies at home and the sidewalks become poopwalks in no time flat. So it's nice that the Lord is trying to keep things sanitary.

I think the rain has let up a little. Time to make a break for it...

More later.

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Back from Drama Camp

Back from Connecticut. And I'm pretty sure those red spots on my ankles are ant bites. Because Lord knows I didn't set foot in the stupid Connecticut woods. I don't have a death wish, you know.

The retreat wasn't as dreadful as I thought it might be. In fact, it was a kind of fun bonding experience with a bunch of strangers. We got all the big group scenes staged and had a swell time living in this weird barn-like building that was built to be a hippie yoga/meditation/interpretive dance studio.

And...I guess that's all there is to say about that.

Just a few more days before I get the keys to the new apartment. Really anxious to see what the catch is. Because there's GOT to be a catch. The more I think about it, the more suspicious I'm becoming. Because it's so close to Times Square, it's a really decent sized studio, it's quiet, it's clean...and for some reason, it's cheap. That's why I'm suspicious. A place like this? They could have gone with $1675 at LEAST.

But then, after having heard about the weirdly wonderful deals people have been finding all over the place--what with the economy and all--maybe I should just quit asking questions and be happy I'll soon have an apartment that only needs one air conditioning unit to cool the whole thing off.

Theatre Retreat

Finally, the South Carolina Videos

They're a little on the quiet side so you might have to turn them up a notch or two.

These videos include a tour of the new house and, of course, twelve minutes and fifty-nine seconds of completely inappropriate baby antics!

Wait, what?

I was just informed the town of Mystic is very near Old Lyme, CT.

They're talking about going hiking in the woods later.

I want the city.

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Choo choo!

On the Amtrak to Mystic, CT. Home of Mystic Pizza and the Draco's Egg structure where we'll be rehearsing.

At one point the train stopped for several minutes and some guy came on the intercom and mumbled something in a very low voice that nobody could understand. I don't have any idea what he said, but my imagination happily filled in the blanks.

"Two trains have collided on the tracks ahead of us. We may be stranded for days. Please be patient."

I took that opportunity to drink it all in. The woods on either side, the narrow car, the feeling of the seat I'd be stuck in for the next three days.

It was just like 'Murder on the Orient Express'! Only without a world-famous detective. Or a really cool train. Or snow. Or a murder.

Next stop on the Broadway Express, Theatrecamp, CT.

Rapture.
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Calm Before the Theatre Storm

One down, two to go.

It's another one of those days where I wonder why I spent so much time coordinating my outfit this morning since it would spent the vast majority of the day folded up in the corner.

I'm trying to enjoy myself. See, tomorrow morning it's the 7am train to Connecticut.

I think the idea of having a theatre retreat is bizarre. The only retreats I've ever been on have been church-related and generally involve a little ponderous soul-searching or some meaningful moments of worship.

But not this retreat. No, this is a *theatre* retreat where the cast of the play hopes to knock out most/all of the scenes so we can cut back on rehearsals when we get back to Manhattan.

And there may be some substance abuse. But I don't know. Whatever. I'm not messing with that crap. Especially not with a bunch of strangers. Because that's really what they are to me. Strangers. I don't play video games with them = I don't know them.

I understand the director/playwright team thought this would be an awesome opportunity for everybody to do something fun and unusual. I get that. That's cool.

The issue I have is they planned the retreat to go from Wednesday evening to Sunday evening.

And if you know nothing about New York, know this: it's expensive.

And I'm not cancelling three modeling gigs so I can take the weekend to make zero dollars for a play I'm doing for free. In fact, we aren't being fed either. If we want to eat this weekend, we have to buy a weekend's worth of food at the nearby grocery store.

But who knows. May have the time of my life. The train ride should be fun.

And I have 'Coraline' on my iPod so if things get really bad I can relish in a stop-motion near-Christian allegory about the nature of temptation and how evil works.
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Don't Eat the Model

The loony art instructor forgot she requested a model for today so I'm sitting here waiting to pose while this class of freshmen girls finish their paintings of two dozen donuts. With sprinkles on top.

These art schools are so weird. I wonder what their parents would say if they knew what their kids were doing with their money.

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Another Finished Painting

Consider the lilies of the field...

Click for larger image!

Do you see the twist here? That Solomon is considering the lilies of the field? The lilies Jesus was talking about were probably bright red and not at all like the Easter lilies you're thinking of. If you look closely you can see them in the distance and also a couple on the dish I'm holding.

I'm only making $12.50 an hour. And in this town the cost of living is just WAY higher. I should ask for a raise. Especially since palace dress code is toga without any underpants. It's kind of embarrassing when the Shekinah Glory blows past. But hey, those concubines are kinda cute.

I'm also King Solomon's body.

It's good to be king. I think I'm going to use my kingly staff to skewer some bread and figs since they put the table so far away. Why'd they do that? And why did that pale slave put flowers on my dish? Does he think I'm going to eat those? I wouldn't consider those lilies of the field! And I really wish he would put on some underpants. Maybe I need to make it a little more clear that the no underpants rule doesn't apply to the dudes too. Hmm. Well, I don't want to embarrass him by telling him that in front of my concubines. I wonder if she remembers the time when we first met...


Maybe we'll make the cover of a Bible study! Or at least a daily devotional!

I'm Through: Nickhoalle Edition

I'm through.

I know I've said it before.

And each time I came back for more.

But this time I'm really through.

Nickhoalle is no longer a part of my life.

So I'm sitting there, getting everything ready for the week. Sending out emails to Nickhoalle and Alvin about our training sessions and my availability for the next few days.

Now, I've got a *lot* of stuff going on this week. Modeling all morning and day, all week long for a summer workshop at Fancy New Art School.edu.

In the evenings, rehearsals, more modeling at Art School for Talentless Rich Kids and teaching the group gym classes.

And finally, on Friday is the weekend retreat to a place called "Draco's Egg" with the cast of the play. The idea is that, when people aren't drunk or high or talking about how much they love Obama, we'll knock out all the major scenes for the show and not have to rehearse so much in the coming weeks.

Yes, things are packed pretty solid this week.

I looked at my schedule and, sorry, Nickhoalle, but I can only fit you in two times. I'm swamped.

Email sent.

Nickhoalle, who missed a session and never called to tell me she wasn't dead, and who suddenly skipped town for a week-long business meeting, emails and calls back.

"You WILL give me three days this week and you WILL give me a better selection of times to work out. You work for ME!"

Readers who have been following my many misadventures will remember Consuela back at Eventual Practical Financial Services.

Consuela and I butted heads a number of times. There were a bunch of "I'm quitting TODAY" moments where I made sure I had all personal affects in my messenger bag as I left the office for the day.

But I was also seeing a therapist named Eddie at the time.

"Fork, is quitting your job because you have a conflict the *mature, adult* thing to do?"

"............."

"Fork...?"

"Nooo. It's not."

For a while now, I've been struggling with how to deal with Nickhoalle, worried that she was another Consuela. That I needed to be mature and just push through this. I mean, sometimes you hate your job. Sometimes you have to work with people who don't like you.

But you know what guys? Today helped me see that maybe this *wasn't* actually a Consuela situation where I was being an indignant child.

After all, being told that I'm Satan, asked if I hate my life, that I'm not as big as her *other* personal trainers back in Dallas, that my hair is ugly, that the exercises I give her are all stupid (and please know, 42nd Floorers, I stay up the night before our sessions working on routines that I hope this woman will like), that I'm trying to make her look like an idiot, being told I don't know what I'm doing, that exercises I give her don't work, that she won't won't WON'T do a warm-up or stretch beforehand, that I'm wasting her time and money, and threatening to take her business elsewhere if I don't give her exactly what she wants...

Having her call me a liar (from her email: "I understand you being busy, we all are, but I don't feel like you're fitting me in.") and demand that I give her more days and options made me realize something.

Life is too short to hate waking up in the morning because you know that, at some point in the day, you have to deal with an extraordinarily hateful hag from heck.

ESPECIALLY if you still haven't been paid for a *single session* of training you've done.

That's right, folks. Vinnie, the gym owner, has been on vacation and the manager Chris fed me some line about not being able to get on the pay schedule until Vinnie gets back from wherever the crap he is.

No, this isn't Consuela all over again. This is something different.

But you know, maybe right now is the wrong time to be a trainer. After all, with my schedule the way it is, I can't consistently meet with clients the same time every day. Sometimes I simply have weeks like the one coming up. And there's nothing I can do.

It'll be another thing when I finally move to Cackalackee and don't *have* to be at auditions or modeling gigs. But that's not how things are right now.

So I emailed Nickhoalle and told her I'd be talking to the gym manager about finding her a trainer who would be able to work with her schedule and...specific tastes in working out.

So that's it. It's over.

And...

...Man.

I'm...

...I'm SO HAPPY.

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Housey Update

Guess what?

I got the apartment. WOOT!

Tomorrow I hand over two cashier's checks for first month and security deposit, sign a piece of paper, and they hand me a set of keys.

Expect a video tour of the new place in the next day or so. It's pretty incredible.


View Larger Map

Building number is 347. See that little grove of bushes? See that little walkway to the left of them? Well, at the end of the walkway is a gate. Inside the gate is an enclosed courtyard and a two story house (maybe a carriage-house in days gone by). My new studio (with a real kitchen area, two large, south-facing windows, an air conditioner, and a big bathroom with a REAL BATHTUB) is on the second floor.

Which means in addition to the cheap rent, the rent stabilization, being one/two blocks from most major subways, having a grocery store, my gym, a Duane Reade, Broadway theatres, the restaurants on 9th Avenue, I don't have to worry about neighbors clomping around upstairs. Here's hoping the next-door neighbor is a quiet Puerto Rican lady with no sub-woofers.

Normally, living right between 8th and 9th avenue would SUCK because of the tourists and all the people going to the restaurants on 9th. But because the apartment house is OFF the sidewalk and tucked away behind the Scientology building, it's REALLY quiet. That's what really sold me on this.

Now, it would be AWESOME if I could know for sure that there aren't dead kittens in the floorboards, but I guess that's part of the risk you take when you move into a new place, right?

Healthy Update

UPDATE!

Got a call from the doctor who treated me for Good Tyme Lyme (that sounds like a new color of a Crayola crayon--or something you put in a margarita). And guess what? Remember how we weren't QUITE sure if it really was really REALLY Lyme disease because the blood tests came back negative?

Well, you can all breathe a sigh of relief because the blood test they did the day they gave me the antibiotics came back WAY positive. The lab technician also mentioned something about the bacteria having a huge party and dancing to Michael Jackson's disco albums.

I told the doctor the "day three and pox-free" thing and she was really happy the antibiotics were working so well. I think she was excited that it actually was the dreaded Lyme disease after all and not something boring like hay fever. The fact that we caught it super-fast was even cooler.

So yep. Turns out I was absolutely right in my diagnosis/paranoid suspicions. Thanks, internets! Maybe I should add "Web M.D." to my name.

And you know, this whole thing makes me wonder...why the crap are they reforming the health care system? I mean, I don't have proper insurance like everybody else with "real" jobs, I have this green card that says "self pay" that ACTS like insurance. I use it exclusively at this Hell's Kitchen clinic. So all I do is flash this card, pay $40, and I can be seen and treated rather quickly for Lyme disease.

So yeah. It's not ideal, what with the occasional runaway taxi and falling pianos, but then again, I always look both ways when I cross the street so I'm not THAT worried.

If they have a Health Care Tea Party in New York, somebody sign me up. I can't imagine what would have happened if I had to wait nine months to see a doctor.

This guy is kind of a freak, but the video is pretty interesting.




In other news, it looks like Nutty is going to have to call up Yoko and figure out some new living arrangements because this little Forky is going Wii Wii Wii all the way to a new studio apartment.

Well, to be perfectly accurate, I MIGHT be moving to a new apartment. I'll find out in two or three hours once the credit checks go through. Other than that, it just depends on what the landlady thought of me in the little "interview" we had this morning and if she thinks I'll be a good fit in the building.

Mom and Dad Fourchette were good enough to act as guarantors. If you have a guarantor, they pretty much don't care about YOU unless you seem like a dirty, bugle-playing drug addict with four labradors.

If everything goes through I'll post another update with all the deets on this place. No sense in typing it all up if Yolanda is just gonna call and say, "I sorry, is no good for joo." Let's just say, it's so practically perfect in every way, I almost wonder if there isn't something DREADFULLY wrong with the place. Like dead kittens hidden in the floorboards or something.

It's right behind the Midtown offices for the Church of Scientology. The comic potential here is a little mind-boggling.

She's Alive. She's ALIVE!

Don't worry folks.

Nickholle is alive.

And the first thing she said to me?

"Your hair isn't as curly as it was last time. What, did you actually *brush* it? Curly hair is so ugly."

I wonder how long it takes to learn to become a court reporter. They say it's America's best-kept job secret.

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Day Three and Pox-Free!

Well folks, here we are at full day number three of the Doxycycline and I'm happy to report that, aside from some lingering hip pain (the bacteria is known to attack large joints for some reason), all the rashes are gone or diminishing,

the lymph nodes are back to their mostly normal size,

neck is no longer stiff,

fever/chills have FINALLY abated--I can actually sleep the whole night through for the first time in a month and a half--and, most importantly,

my muscles have stopped shrinking. Do you have any idea how much time and money I've spent getting them to their pre-Lyme size?

Funny to think that one bacterial infection and BOOM you're back to having the arms of a Japanese schoolgirl.

So yes. The Lyme disease, the pox, whatever it was, appears to be withering away thanks to a ten dollar bottle of aqua-colored antibiotics. It looks like I'm cured!




At least until the sequel. When they discover that...something survived...

Nickholle?

Nickolle didn't come in for her training session this morning.

I called and emailed. Nothing. Which is weird because she has a Blackberry and usually responds within minutes.

Oh I know. Since we met at 11 on Monday she probably got confused and thought we were meeting at 11 today instead of 8.

It's 12:30 now.

No Nickholle.

You know what's funny? During our last session two days ago we were doing box push-ups. She finishes and says, "Wow! These really get your heart going, don't they?"

"Yes. They're a really good exercise."

"Wow. My heart is just pumping! I can really feel it going! I don't think I've ever worked this hard before."

"Yep. That's why I'm here."

"My dad just dropped dead in a gym. Worked out every day of his life, was in great shape, but this thing in his heart killed him. Same thing happened to his father. And I'm JUST like my dad. Look like him, act like him, everything. And he was at the gym working out when suddenly he fell over dead. They tried to revive him three times but it didn't work. I bet I'm going to die in a gym too."





Still haven't heard from Nickholle....

Good Lyme Charlie

Whoops. Maybe I spoke too soon.

The magic wonder pills haven't quite cleared up the constant ache in my hip. And the spots are still there. I guess you can't expect something like this to heal overnight but still. It would be nice.

Since the tests came back negative (which, it turns out, is not unusual if the tests are performed at the early stages) it makes me wonder if we diagnosed this thing properly. Especially since I got the tick off within 24 hours of being bitten which typically reduces your chances of contracting the disease a big, fat ZERO. Generally needs two to three days. Hmm.

Can't think of what else it could be though...any ideas? The most creative diagnosis wins a prize!

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Rosemary's Lyme Baby

Remember that scene in that creepiest of creepy movies, "Rosemary's Baby" where Rosemary, who has experienced an unusually painful (and evil!) pregnancy, starts to suspect the witches next door have something to do with it ("Pain is a sign that something is WRONG!") and she threatens to go to a real doctor, not the witch doctor? And suddenly the pain stops?

That totally just happened to me. I don't know if it had anything to do with my threatening to go to a "real" doctor in case it turns out the one yesterday misdiagnosed me...

...Or maybe it's just the antibiotics are working.

Either way, something sinister is *probably* going on. I think I may be carrying the devil's bacterium.

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Twist of Lyme

GUESS WHAT?!

The results are in!

The nurse was both horrified and intrigued!

More blood was drawn! An EKG was performed!

I am the lucky carrier of borrelia burgdorferi! a.k.a. LYME DISEASE!

Named for the tiny town of Lyme, Connecticut, Lyme disease was finally "discovered" in 1975 when a bunch of housewives banded together to figure out why all their little children had been diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis.

The doctor who went over all my symptoms and checked out all my target-shaped rashes had the TIME OF HER LIFE. She said she specialized in infectious diseases or something like that and I was the second-ever person she'd seen who had (by her estimation anyway) the classic, textbook case of Give-This-Kid-Some-Antibiotics-STAT! Lyme disease. Big smile on her face the whole time. And since I was the textbook case, I got the textbook treatment.

Quoth I: "There's a rash on my foot, one by my knee, one on my groin by my lymph node, and one on my shoulder that's new as of this weekend."

"You probably didn't know you also have a HUGE one on your back, did you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, you probably can't see it. But it's very large and very pronounced. Wow. This is so cool. Does your liver hurt?"

I guess the guys at the lake this weekend thought I just had a target-shaped sunburn on my back. Or maybe that the target was to show New York theatre where to aim when looking for a bright new star. Or maybe to show people where to direct their gifts of money and expensive electronics.

I suppose what they say is true:

I get lyme with a little help from my friends.

Fortunately, one EKG later, my disease-loving doctor got a $10 bottle of Doxycycline into my rashy hands and the first of 42 pills has been ingested.

Hopefully it won't turn out like this. (watching) Oh man. That's not even funny. Oh my gawd. Uhh...I wonder if I can take two of those pills...

Okay! Start sending your get-well gifts and care packages!

Back in Town

And not a moment too soon. Seriously, y'all. Something's still wrong. VERY wrong.

On Thursday before we started our six hour drive to Upstate New York Land, I called the clinic and left a message on the Queen Nurse's voicemail asking her to call me back if they had received the results from my blood test.

Well, somewhere during the drive up I wound up with a voicemail from her.

"Yes, your lab results ARE in and...umm...we really need you to come in first thing Monday morning. We'd also like to know how you're feeling right now--if you're okay. So yes, please make sure you come in on Monday morning and tell them we need to see you so you can make sure to be seen."

Well THAT was fun news to get after having JUST arrived at our lakeside retreat for the weekend.

With the extremely spotty phone signal we had at the cabin, I used my schmartphone to rule out viral meningitis, although my neck and jaw were/are extremely stiff and painful to move. The low blood pressure and the curious large red circular patches appearing all over my body are unusual as well, as are the sudden "itchy attacks" that happen once a day for about twenty minutes on the tops of my feet. And, of course, those nutty nodules are all starting to swell again.

It really makes me wonder why the idiot doctor I saw two weeks ago didn't just go ahead and prescribe some generic antibiotic even though he was pretty sure it wasn't lyme disease.

Anyway, pictures and videos of the wacky weekend to come. If I don't die first.

Getting Out of Town

It's time for another nutty Fourth of July adventure. This time it's a return to the rustic charms of upstate New Yuck with Jimmy Crack Corn and company. We leave this afternoon, drive five hours, and get there just in time to go to bed. It's going to be awesome!

That is, if I don't die of viral meningitis.

Oh, and there's one hurdle I have to clear before I can depart on my weekend of fun.

Another session with Nickoalle.

Some Thoughts on Michael Jackson

Does anybody else think the rapid deification of Michael Jackson is a little bit weird?

Granted, the guy DID just die. And there's no denying his achievements: the #1 selling music album in history... the moonwalk...

But let's not forget, he was also the trailblazing pioneer in the realm of washed-up celebrities prone to embarrassing meltdowns who seem to exist only for their next freak-show moment to be made public.

Seriously, y'all. Two days ago if I'd asked anybody what they thought of Michael Jackson, they'd have wrinkled their (normal-sized) noses and said, "Well, I like 'Thriller' but the man is a total perv who should have gone to jail for what he did with that kid from 'Home Alone'. Guilty, guilty, guilty."

But today, they've swept his baby-dangling episodes under the rug and all we're seeing are images of him at the height of his career in the bright and bouncy 80s. Nevermind the WEIRD goings-on at Neverland Ranch, his pet monkey Bubbles, his Frankenstein attempts at preserving his youth and beauty that resulted in his face melting off, and those curious rumors about the Elephant Man's skeleton hanging in his closet.

One friend said, "It really makes you think about your own mortality!"

I admit, even I was a teensy bit saddened by the news.

But now I understand why.

People aren't mourning Michael Jackson. They're mourning themselves. They're remembering those carefree childhood/adolescent days in the 80s when your Dad came home with individual copies of the BAD album for each of your siblings because you just COULD NOT SHARE something that rad. Michael Jackson's death really just reminds us that we're not children anymore. I'm not 8. I'm almost freakin' 30.

And that sort of thing makes everybody sad.

It's not like he was cut down in his prime, either. At least we'll always remember Marylin being eternally beautiful. No, with Michael we got to watch him decay into a pitiable sideshow attraction and are left with plenty of unpleasant memories of him.

It almost begs the question, if the Weekly World News online edition is to be believed, why he waited until NOW to fake his death instead of doing it YEARS ago.

Nhikchoalle Continued

I've seen Nickhoalle a couple more times since I last posted.

"I am SO ugly. My legs are SO FAT. I can't believe how fat I am. My friend had lipo, you know. You're the devil. I hate you. I blogged about you, but don't worry, I didn't use your name. I called you Satan. I can't believe how fat I am. My best friend had lipo and she HATES working out and she's SO BEAUTIFUL now. I can't believe you do this for a living, that you put your body through all this to be able to tell other people to do it. You must hate your life. You must hate what you do."

I really REALLY don't like Nikchoalle.

Every time we meet it's like an hour of sunshine.

I'm starting to question whether the iPhone is worth all this abuse.


* * * *


In other news, I think I'm dying. I twittered about this, but nobody seemed to care since Michael Jackson also died today. Which makes sense because I always worry about the health of cracked-out celebrities over the health dear, dear friends.

I think I have lyme disease, the Silent Killer. The Weekly World News did an exposé on it years ago and I've never forgotten it. I was bitten by a tick while on an outing in the Jersey woods a few weeks ago and suddenly I've developed flu-like symptoms. Chills and hot flashes, aches, fatigue, occasional headaches...

Or it could be swine flu. I DID go on a crowded airplane recently...

Whatever it is, I think it's slowly killing me. And crap. Me without my medical insurance. Oh well, Obama is going to pull an Evita and change all that anyway. Free, free, free. So I guess I should be happy that everybody else gets screwed while I get free healthcare and every hospital in America becomes like a Primacare.

Oh LORD. The thought of THAT sends a chill down my spine.

Or maybe it's the lyme disease.


* * * *


Since I don't know which family members read blog, I can't post about the whole "Daddy's Dyin', Who's Got the Will?" shenannigans going on down ol' Carolina Way.

It probably isn't a good idea to talk about the Luv Gov's recent scandal either. But that's okay because my Mom doesn't actually work for HIM so it's not like this is really messing with her job anyway.

I CAN, however, tell you about what my roommate Nutty McDonald is up to these days.


Oh, maybe I shouldn't. It isn't very nice to air another man's dirty laundry on the internetz for all to see.



Oh. What the hell.



Yep, he's still sleeping till 4pm every day. He says he doesn't need a job because he's busy studying for the MCAT. He wants to go to med school, you see. Which makes sense because he's never had a REAL job and has no savings. He's utterly penniless. He eats Milk of Magnesia because he can't afford anything else.

Anyway, Psycho Yoko is all nervous about the upcoming piano recital. She proposes consuming two pots of coffee so she can stay up all night practicing.

Ever the helpful gentleman, Nutty tells her, "No, dear. Don't drink coffee. Take some adderall."

What happens next is the stuff that after-school specials are made of.

Not satisfied with Nutty's laughably small recommended dosage of a fourth of one of the teeny-tiny pills (she's REALLY nervous, y'all), Yoko takes a half. Feeling no affect after five minutes, she takes the other half. Still nothing. So she takes the other pill (yes, instead of giving her just that fourth of the pill, Nutty gave her two whole pills).

I could tell you what happened next, but I think this video does an adequate job. Let's just say we knew there was trouble when Nutty got a phone call from Yoko screaming, "MY SKIN IS ON FIRE!"





Then again, Nutty REALLY didn't want to stay for Bible study last night so there's a chance he was lying about the whole thing. He lies. A LOT.

I'm free from personal training tomorrow and have taken two sleeping pills to see if I can sleep through the night without being woken up by a case of the shakes.

R.I.P. Michael. You're the lucky one. You got out before things got--

Whoa! My tooth is really aching!

Getting old SUCKS!!

The Train in Spain...

Yesterday was my first day of personal training.

I have mixed feelings.

It's a little awkward. Because you're a trainer in New York City. It's different than been a trainer in Poughkipsie. They expect something different. I don't know--more polish? More confidence?

And if you've been lifting logs for the past year, it can be hard to grasp the notion that other people *can't*.

But despite how awkward it is, one thing keeps me moving forward with this, keeps my eye on the prize and gives me the boost I need when I feel like giving up:

The iPhone.

Client #1: Hektor Salsa-Verde

Hektor used to be in really good shape. Then he became a serious drug-addict. Now he's a born-again Christian working at Times Quare First Happy Clappy Church of Ecclesitonians. He's raising four children on his own and on the waiting list for a liver transplant.

He clearly can't afford the $1400 40-session package. And what's more, he doesn't need it. At most, we just need three sessions to teach him proper form and how to use the elliptical machine.

It won't make Them happy, but I don't care. I got in this business to help people. The iPhone can wait.

For now.

Client #2: Alvin Simon

Alvin is pretty hopeless. He's from Australia but has an accent I simply cannot place. He's in New York for five weeks with an internship at the Untied Notions building.

He's about my age, a lanky beanpole, and, of course, has a secret desire to get buff.

But towards the end of our session he almost passed out. Like, "What the crap is wrong with this guy?" passed-out.

I sat him down and got him some water. "Did you have anything to eat or drink before you came here?" I asked. He, sheet-white, replied, "I had a hotdog and chocolate croissant at 2."

It was 6. Dude. We've got our work cut out for us.

And finally,

Client #3: Nihkcoalle

I kind of hate Nihkcoalle.

She was the one that made me think personal training wasn't for me.

Brassy, sassy, hateful, rude, with a mouth like a sailor, middle aged, flabby, unwilling to change her diet, entitled white princess from Dallas, she pissed me off so much I put her through a circuit I knew would make her sweat. But do you think she stopped talking for two minutes?

Nope. Instead I heard about her exercise-loathing hog of a best friend who used to be 260lbs and then had liposuction and is now, like, 125.

I mean, just LOOK at the RIDICULOUS way she spells her name. RIGHT AWAY you should know what we're in for. A woman who, all her life, has said in thick "Dally Girl" voice, "Ex-CUSEME. It's not spelled Nicole. It's spelled NHIKCHOALLE."

But she really wants to lose weight. So we're meeting two more times this week, which means I have to see her nappy face for two whole hours. Ugh. I don't wanna.

iPhone.

iPhone.