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.

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...

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?

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...

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!

Blast from the...you know.

Remember when this blog was fun?

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.