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!