I don't do crap

...like write this blog. It's pretty typical of me, actually. I'll get an idea, like, "Oh snap, I should be the 12,000,000th person to write daily thoughts onto the internet!" So I drink three cups of coffee, go balls to the wall and set the mother-f'er up. Soon, though, I look at what I write and compare it to things I read. I cringe. I realize I'm not funny. I realize I haven't had an original thought since I was four years old and decided to drink pancake syrup out of a glass. Had I only hung on to that inspired moment of youth and not clouded it with self-doubt and booze.

Watching Football

One thing I'll take with me after watching the Giants play like a spent balloon is the importance of consistency in performance. Eli Manning could be safely defined as a streaky quarterback. Still, Last week I was pissed at the New York Post for poisining the Giants' psyche. The newspaper spent a full week attacking the young Manning, whining themselves hoarse over two recent lackluster performances. It felt like the Post was trying to kill the Giants season prematurely, so it wouldn't hurt as bad once they inevitably blow it in the playoffs.

But, no, the Post was a step ahead of me. The Giants' Week 12 loss to the Tennessee Titans caps a month of brazen incompetence.

How To Be Unemployed

Rule #1, Pick A Greek

For the out-of-work actor, I recommend the following daily excercise to nourish the idle artists' soul: after waking up, give yourself the chance to play a favorite Greek character. Just say to yourself, "Today, I am Jason!" From that moment onward, each of your choices must reflect the behavior of that classic character. You could call your wife an evil witch before leaving for work. You could shove your way through the sea of midtown pedestrians, while repeating, "Brothers and sisters, I have found the Golden Fleece!" And later, in the police precinct, you can tell the guard that only the folks in the Eigth Circle of Hell really get you.

How to Live

This career can often subject me to the whims of others. Between the neurotic, subjective casting process and the potential fascist director, I've gotten too used to following the lead of those in power. So how can I carve out opportunities for myself in such a crowded field of desperation? I think it's an eastern principle that states, "If you ignore your art for one day, it will ignore you for two." That seems reasonable enough. But then I heard this other expression; a Slavic one which declaims, "Too rigid a focus makes a too rigid heart." I've tried resolving those two seemingly disparate philosophies, but it only leads me back to that famous Italian credo, "Cook with what's fresh, or end up a dirty Sicilian." That should do it.

Philip Tideman

I try to keep things really clean. It helps my head from getting too cluttered. To stand and admire scrubbed countertops, an empty sink, and a fresh bag in the garbage bin allows me to move on with my day. Next, I brush my teeth. Hard. But I'm not the flosser you'd expect me to be, since I really dislike the waxy residue it leaves on my tooth enamel. I'm much more of a swish & gargle spitter.

At a certain point in the future I'd like to invite friends over, give them some tea and cookies, and have them watch me clean. I’d start by dusting the shelf tops, books, and electronics and continue with the thick-slatted window blinds. They wouldn'’t be able to comment until I have completed one full room - aquatic or otherwise. I'd begin by asking, “What can I improve upon? Was my rag stroke too brusque? Did I overlook any new crumbs that might have resulted from your snacking on my butter cookies? If so, I am sorry and I hope I can one day give you a good scrubbing while you shower. That will really show off my undying will to eliminate grime.”

After that, they could offer notes on my technique and execution. We'd finsh up the day with a domino of back rubs. Tallest person first! Speaking of rubs, I could really have a rib right about now. I'll bet the best barbecue in the world is made from women. Not female chefs, but actually made from women. In that Twilight Zone "To Serve Man" way. I'm sure that Adam'’s rib was really delicious. Like barbecue seasoned with god.

Most fools need to pay attention when I’m on my guitar. I’ve gone out most weekends to play at the Woodlawn Cemetary. It's usually quiet there and my audience just keeps growing. Which makes me wonder when there'll be more gravestones than living people. That'd be quite a lopsided battle. Granddaddy Dippy didn'’t want any kind of headstone. He travelled a lot on business, which I guess is why he didn't believe in permanence. Before he died, his instructions to me were to dig a narrow well into the earth, plant a tree seed and then toss his corpse on top of it, no coffin. Once the tree grew strong and forged upward, he thought it'’d be cool to pop back out of the earth one bone at a time. He was married five times.

The Crumplers

There is an NFL player named Alge Crumpler (first name sounds like "algae"). Could one invent a better name? It implies a wide variety of things. Could be a specialist within the scuba diving community; the guy called in to make a clean sweep of the ocean floor.

"For a job like this, we need the algae crumpler," the boss said, gnawing at the end of his cigar.

"Crumpler's on vacation, boss." And he was.

"Well then get on your horn and guilt the bastard here."

"I would, but, you see, he never gets to see his folks." The crumpler confessed this to me one day when we were young academy students.

"Where they at?"

"They live in Cleveland."

"And he's a man o'the ocean floor." The boss threw his cigar to the ground. "It don't add up, Keech. Just don't add up." I'm Keech, by the way. It's a pleasure.

...and it feels so good

I went to my high school reunion. Well, I actually went to the debriefing of the reunion. That's when the alumni ditch the polite reacquaintings in the cafeteria and head to a pub to drink 28 beers and call each other fag. I went to all-boys, Catholic prep school so the "fag" thing is obviously a joke.

When I arrived at PJ O'Shaunessey's, most of the bloated faces were pretty startled. I hadn't seen most of these men since they were old boys. In the years since, they carved out careers in law and finance, moved into neighborhoods I can only crash in, and adopted diminutive nicknames for themselves: James is now Jimmy, Peter insists on Peetie.

After ten minutes of exchanging startled handshakes and hugs with my old friends, I moved up to the bar and ordered some drinks. The helium of all the great-to-see-yous made me forget my legs and I knocked over a bar stool. Strange. I've spent the past eight years protecting myself from these guys' expectations and I felt so immediately puffed by their enthusiasm.

Home

I've been listening to the pipes lately. They give out a serious of pings and clangs each time I enter the bathroom. No one else is here in the apartment. I'm the only soul behind the locked door.

The pipes choked out their summer slumber, abandoning it to waft over the river and into the afternoon sky. Not a soul is with me in this apartment. My companions are these pipes, the brakes on a city bus, the fridge, a car honk, a Dominican radio station: the veins of a home.

Standardized

When did become standard for singers to lift and juggle the "i" sound in "God Bless America"? Whenever a seventh inning arrives, I'm forced to enjoy my favorite national hymn as "God Bless Amereeeecah." The singers must believe it gives them Gospel cred or something. Like, "Watch me go Boyz2Men on this bitch!"

If I had to sing this country's backup anthem, I'd hammer on the consonants. "Godddddd Bless Ammmerrrrrriccccccccccccah."
That'd shake up the system. Right? Wouldn't it? Well, I think it would. Shake things up.

Please, Carry On

You've heard it a thousand times from whiners just like me. An actor walks into a room to audition. There are a few apathetic, creative people behind a table and your photo/resume is laid out in front of them. The actor introduces himself. Some of the people nod. The reader smiles. The actor pauses to begin his audition, entering that awkward zone between polite reality and authentic fiction. The actor begins the scene - an event which he has spent maybe a full week preparing. After the actor has spoken his first line (possibly in a dialect foreign to his native tongue), the reader responds with his first line. And so this verbal dance, this dialogue, whirls until all the lines are spent.

But hark! I hear other speakers. Speakers whose contribution I did not foresee. Ah, look! The casting team behind the table has decided to chat. Better ignore them and carry on with the scene. Ah, they continue to chat! One seems to be evaluating the merits of my thousand-dollar photograph. And holding it up. And rotating it. Can't they see that I’m standing not three feet in front of them, looking just past their gaze and into my imagination?

I know how to solve this: I'll furrow my brow another inch and slow my speech down. This will affect a deeper earnestness in my portrayal and indicate that, no, I am thoroughly not distracted by their blathering. Now, not only will they value my performance, but admire my rigid focus in the face of flagrant disinterest. It will be a lasagna of appreciation. This really is one golden opportunity.

My Perfect Instrument

It's a shame that one can only read this blog and not hear me dictate it. You know why? Because my speaking voice is fucking delicious.

I had an audition this afternoon and instead of preparing the sides and trying to get off book, I simply hummed. I drank a gallon of Texas Crystal water ("It's like Texas in a bottle") and listened in on the elegant tones my diaphram was bubbling up into my facial cavity. It's like I wasn't even doing it, as if my vibrations were so ethereal that they evolved their own identity and my body just became a gracious host to their ringing beauty. I wish I could have gotten in the room and hummed for the producers and do fuck-all with the script. They'd understand that the tones produced could only spring from a vulnerable, talented soul.

Right now, I'm drinking warm tea with honey. This will massage and coat my throat to a point of total relaxation. My throat is a precious child and after articulating such grace, it's needs the most delicate treatment. If you say TLC, I think Throats Love Coddling. Sprouting from this hole at the top of my neck is my little velvet eel, the tongue. Soon enough, I will begin various diction exercises that will illustrate my tongue's agility. Art must be specific. And without a nimble tongue, my voice would echo only a vague brilliance. For most geniuses, this would suffice. However, I intend to make full use of all the startling abilities God has bestowed on me.

Notes from the Sofa

You know what's the best thing about being an actor? Waiting for a "You got the job!" call from your agent. No, really - in those waning hours of need, you get to treat everyone else who calls you like a pointless distraction. In one of those desperate periods yesterday, I kept my mind off the non-ringing phone by watching the news. And since there was live footage of a tragic accident (Cory Lidle's plane crash), it was a good news day. After a half-hour of watching NY1, the phone rang. "Sweet," I thought, "it's my agent and I got the job." But no, it was just my brother wanting to know whether or not I was okay. He lives in the suburbs, so he assumes that each Manhattan resident must be connected to a smoldering Upper East Side condo. I said I was fine, sitting on a plush sofa and eating macaronis. He said he didn't care about all that shit, he just wanted to know if I was all right. He hung up. I watched some more footage of the building and an on-the-street interview with some banker's slutty wife. She kept nattering on about how she, "needed to save (her) puppies!!! And one of them? Yeah, he's still in there! He could be in flames or something!!??" She later admitted that she actually lived five blocks down from the scarred building, which would put her precious pup a quarter-mile from any flames. But I guess we all want to ride the tragedy bandwagon sometimes.

Then the phone rang again! "Sweet," I thought, "now it's my agent and now I got the job." It was my mom. She wanted to know if I was okay. I told her about the sofa and macaronis then said something dicky like, "Can I talk to you later or something? I wanna watch this story develop, okay? Bye." My subtext was, "Why aren't you my agent with a job? Does it matter that you gave birth to me and funded my college education? I want to be on cable TV!" Disgusting.

Tony the Star

Now, all NYC waiting rooms are incubators for quirky behavior. As you sit at your scheduled appointment with your doctor or welfare agent, what can you do but stare at the fascinating, neurotic messes seated across from you? But sometimes, a real shining jackass rises above the fray, setting a new standard in annoyance.

So I'm at an audition for Law & Order (you've heard of it, yes?), sitting in a typically cramped holding pen. I only had to read a single line for this audition. So while waiting for my moment to shine, I opened up a very pretentious book called "The Personality of Animals." This is, I think, a pretty obvious sign to the other actors that I'm a far more high-minded soul and that they should respect this fact by not talking to me. In walks Tony Di Salami (not his name), saying something like, "Aww jeez, here we go! Linin' em' up again, eh?!" to nobody in particular but particularly loud. I hate him already. He sits down across from me. He's a tall fucker, dressed in leather cowboy boots, tight blue jeans, a Harley Davidson t-shirt and a beige leather jacket. Nice.

"Here I am! Everybody watch their knee caps!" He extends his body in a seated spread eagle - arms around the empty seats next to him and legs open in a kind of ballerina split. He seems the model of relaxation. "How we all doin' today, eh?" The other actors nod silently. I glare at him.

"I know you," he says to a Jersey-ish blonde next to me. "Tell me I'm right! You know I'm right!" She concedes that, yes, they may have met years ago at some non-equity casting call for Grease! "Aw yeah, knew that. Knew that right away." Tony is still speaking very loudly. But he's cunning, since he spotted the perfect candidate for his routine: a polite young lady with questionable self-esteem.

"Lemme see those sides?" She hands him her script. "Aw yeah, I think we gotta scene together at the end o'the episode. Sweet Action!" She giggles. "Ya see, my character's deal is he's mixed up in a crowd that's getting outta control, you know?" She nods and smiles when he nods and smiles. "Nah, but you'll do great in there, I can tell these things." She actually blushes and thanks him. Feeling fluffed by her gratification, he gets up to leave. "Aw steer clear everybody. Mister Lanky Legs comin' through!" He goes to chat up the office staff. Though he's still loud enough to be heard, his absence calms me. I hold up my pretentious book with an ever deeper sense of pride.

But then Tony's back. And, of course, he's on his cellphone. "Nah, that price was always gonna dip. I told you." His broker? "Nah, nah, nah, I gotta buddy at JP and he tells me this is the way it's gotta go." So he's into money, huh. He claps his phone shut and moves back to his seat. He eyes the blonde again and says, " Listen, we know a lot of the same people. I should give you my number." I guess this is Tony's gentlemanly way of saying that when he date rapes her, it'll be because she made the first move. That's class.

Welcome Back, Sucker

You can all rest easy. My baggage was delivered two days ago, safe and sound. I can't tell you what a comfort it was to receive all the useless bullshit I've accumulated over the years. Even better was that it freed me from my Bronx exile. As soon as I scrubbed my pits with some Radox body wash, I jumped on the 1 train and headed into Manhattan - the borough where most of the movie Big was shot.

I met with my people. Not "people" in the folksy, traditional sense of nation or race, but "people" as in "individuals who want to take 10% of my income." I've got two groups of agents: one who submits me for videotaped grinning exercises and another who scours for productions that call for a very pissed-off, ethnic-tinged white guy. How do I resolve this existential dichotomy, you ask? Hmmm, never thought about too much, but I suppose my Daily Defamations help. That's when I stare into my bathroom mirror and repeat things like, "You're a vessel for writers" and "Think of a happy place, and imagine it shrouded in pain. That's you!"

I'm a Rocket Person

(PICTURED: An impromptu drug store at Heathrow security.)

Ironic that after two months spent looking for myself in Europe - and finding a fair portion of an actual person - I arrive to confinement. The cast got to London's Heathrow airport yesterday, prepared to board a KLM flight to JFK, including a three-hour layover in Amsterdam. We gave ourselves a couple of hours to check all our baggage - the physical kind, since most of us will surely lug an emotional suitcase throughout our lives. Between personal luggage and that of the set and costumes, we checked 14 bags. Checking in as a group put us on the "Fast Track" security line, so after discarding our water bottles filled with liquid nitrogen, we strolled to the gate and waited to board. Foreshadow...

After about a half-hour, an announcement came over the PA system. It said that the flight to Amsterdam was on the fritz and a new craft would be ready in 5 hours. Not the best possible news. But soon came another announcement, summoning Andy Boroson(musician, Civilian, partridge connoisseur) to the help desk, where he was assured that we'd all be placed on a direct British Airways flight to JFK ASAP. This news made us happy. Even more comforting was that all of the Heathrow staff operated this transition with such patient, friendly competence. Foreshadow, foreshadow...

The flight itself was long, packed, and warm. And despite having individual screens on the back of each seat, the entertainment was poorly thought out. Rather than sitting in a digital library, itching to be selected - a la Jet Blue or HBO OnDemand - the film and TV options they presented ran in a dimly lit loop. Though I must say that the stream of free food & wine and lax attention to seatbelts gave the international flight a clubby feel.

We landed bumpily at JFK at around 8pm. The plane crawled along the tarmac for another half-hour before we finally de-planed. We trudged into the terminal and through Customs - each pretty quick trips - and headed to baggage claim. The shadow is now upon us...

I stood right against the carousel, hoping to yank off the company's luggage as soon as it came around. The belt rolled along, teasing me with abundant bags at every turn, including the most suspicious looking package ever - a cardboard box tearing at its edges with an ominous bulge, reigned in with dozens of bungee cords and a magic marker scrawl of Mohammad Rahman on its front. I saw it pass me four times before the PA system called Andy Boroson to British Airways Baggage Services.

Each of the 14 bags didn't make it to New York.

So now, due to a sublet snafu, I'm stuck waiting for this luggage delivery at my folks' place in the Bronx. My company is 2 deeply stupid dogs, 1 pair of boxers, and 3 cartons of ice cream. Dad says the ice cream helps him get to sleep.

King's Breath? It's called oxygen, you peasant.

As this final week in London follows the Thames out to sea, I should give an account of a minor crisis I'm having. From the theater I've seen on this entire trip - nearly a show a day in Edinburgh and a few expensive matinees in London - I can't help but feel more and more irrelevant. Like a pawn caught in a king's prideful battle or an electric light bulb enslaved into a series circuit, my calling from Thespis has begun to feel like a tangent. A writer scribes a play. In it, people are assigned to perform physical, emotional, verbal tasks alongside/against others. A look of the production is intimated on the page and a director carries out that vision as he harnesses the particular qualities of the people onstage. The public pays to see this artificial universe and sometimes it rings a bell long dormant in their hearts. This concludes the earnest portion of my entry because I'm about to puke into my hand.

More to the point, I've had two very different takes on theatre (the "re" is a nod to the limeys) in the UK. In Scotland, there was an exciting roughness to it all. The plays and comedy were all self-produced efforts with committed, at times desperate, performances. The theatre I've seen in London has been of the pristine variety. A couple of days ago I saw the much-fluffed production of Brecht's "Life of Galileo" at the Royal National Theatre, starring Simon Russell Beale, the UK's short and puffy theatrical deity. The show must have cost a fortune: a cast of thirty, a rotating set, incredible projections, and a live, unseen orchestra scoring the play. This was a complete vision, no doubt. Yet most of the actors seemed more interested in the cheese & pickle sandwich backstage than in breathing life into a very obvious, redundant narrative. More disconcerting was how emboldened I felt by their lazy work. Their incompetence inspired me and that made me pretty sad.

For the traveler...

I've been in London for the last couple of weeks, on the second leg of the Civilians' UK tour. Culturally, it's a grand old city with beautiful houses, cups of tea, bridges and other stuff that piques the interest of Americans. From a sociological standpoint, the people either speak like uppity garden gnomes or Winston Churchill. Now as a favor from one traveler to another, I thought I'd write up a list of some useful terms. These twenty "translations" may help when you're faced with blinding indifference from the weary citizens of the old empire. You can print this up, fold it four times, and stuff it into your wallet (in front of the photos of your illegitimate children)...


WE SAY........................THEY SAY

Bathroom.....................Loo
Subway........................Tube
Yes..............................Bangerdoodle!!!
No...............................Swishybutt!!!
Cash Register...............Till
Baby............................Jiggybit
Dollar...........................Pound
Comedy........................Fart Session
Happy...........................Snickywishing
Sad...............................Doobywishing
Dog...............................Bonnyrat
Tired.............................Skinned
Nose.............................Prince Hal's Hose
Bad...............................Brilliant
Good.............................Brilliant
Great............................Brilliant
Food.............................Drinks
Take a walk...................Smash the clubs
"Care for a smoke?"......"Can I fag you up?"
"Nice to meet you."......."Tis a pleasure we've acquainted our pale palms."
"Good Night!"................"Bubble up the tinkersnout!"

If I keep my ears open, more handy terms should follow. Have a great tinkersnout!

'ave ya got an 'anky?

'Ere and there when I'm feelin' down in me 'ed and me 'art, Oi think about a big man - a big 'unky man oo can take me off inah country. We'd 'ave a picnic onah cliffs ah Dover anah bright globe o'tha sun would shine o'me! The man, ee'd tell me, "Ya see that there? At's inah palm of me 'and." An Oi'd look back at'im and see his big white beard and eyes awl aglow and ee be wearin' white robes too! Oi'd ask 'im, "Are you a gawd or somethin?" And eed tell me, "Honey deah, I'm nojust a gawd, I the big gawd. Wouldja care for a steak an' kidney pie? Oi made the cow meeself."

The Peephole

I was at a premiere for the new documentary, "Blowing Up Fat in America." The film ostensibly followed one man's struggle to go on after losing his wife and children to voracious overeating. Once the film began, though, I soon realized that it's central event was completely at odds with what the posters and press had described. In actuality, the family died because of an overnight gas leak from the fast-food restaurant next door.

After the film ended, I decided to go the premiere party. At the open bar, I fell into a conversation with the bereft man, himself. He had a repulsive, fleshy mouth with two teeth, sraw-like black hair, a scaly face riddled with blisters, and hands with gnarled and stubby fingers. I didn’t speak to him, really. He did all the talking, trying to convince me to come over to his house for a late-night support group meeting. He told me that with eyes as dead as mine, communal support could "enliven" my "stinking heart." Once another mingling pack of people approached, I shimmied out of the conversation and left the party.

I arrived at my girlfriend's apartment and told her about my night. She listened, then described an incident that befell her that same evening. She was in the parking lot of her housing complex, walking from her car to the building. Two visibly drunk men in suits approached her with a stack of Polaroids. They asked my girlfriend if she had seen the lady in the photos. They held one up for her eyes to scan. The picture was of a bare-chested woman who had been singed all over her body. The men said that the burning was due to her being unknowingly drugged by her husband before she stepped into her private tanning bed. She had woken nine hours later. Her home had been fleeced of all it's furniture, apparel and windows. She was left naked in a shell at the top of a hill.

My girlfriend had never seen the woman, but the photo reminded her of some of the graphic, gruesome photos in a book of dermatology her parents had stored in her bedroom when she was a little girl.

There was a knock on her front door. We looked at one another before she inched toward the door’s peephole. Through it, she viewed the two men in suits. Each held a polaroid of the singed woman at their chests. My girlfriend backpedalled quickly as possible, nearly tripping over her own feet and ignored the following knocks. They continued for another few minutes, each one quieter than the last. We both let our breaths go once the knocking had stopped. We decided to just get to bed and were under the sheets within a few minutes.

Before we turned out the final lamp, I went to look through the peephole to be sure the men in suits had left for good. I looked through the fisheye lens and there he was. The bereft father smiled wide and knowingly into my eye.

Comedy! Anger! Live!

Saw a bizarre display of late-night, drunken comedy at the festival "Best of the Fest" last night. The line-up was filled with funny-accented English speakers (Irish, Scotch, Aussie, blah) until Rich Hall, the headliner and final performer of the night, came on at nearly one a.m. I've seen him a couple of times already at the Fringe, but he was in particularly belligerent form on this night, declaiming things like, "Man, what the hell am I talking about?" and "I guess you could say that I'm pretty damn drunk, ladies and gentlemen!" As he knotted up his twelve minutes, he began goading the audience. After harassing some attractive first-row women, his attentions soon settled on an Aussie girl in the fifth row. Through his pestering, he found out that the girl had been dating her boyfriend for four years. He asked, "Well, is your boyfriend here tonight?" He was. He was right next to her. Rich Hall then interrogated the boyfriend, demanding an answer to why he had only been "dating" this beautiful woman for four years. "Take the plunge!" he yelled, "You're not going to find anyone more beautiful than her... I mean, look at you and look at her. Go for it!" The crowd began cheering on. Mr. Hall moved closer to the couple and continued his pestering, "What the fuck are you waiting for?" A few seconds later, the comedian jumped off the stage and entered the audience, taking a seat next to the couple. With mic in hand, he pressed and pressed. "Time to go for it, okay!" But he soon realized the futility of this pestering. He gave up, sort of, and went back onto to the stage. He began giving a little drunken, comic sendoff to the standoff, when the couple began heckling him from the audience, shouting "Enough!" and "Just shut up!" Mr. Hall was obviously a bit fazed by this lash back, but went on to close his set, the air thick with awkwardness.

Then, Adam Hills, the night's MC came on to end the show. In the process, he attempted to make nice with the couple, assuring them that Mr. Hall had placed the boyfriend in a no-win situation. Before he could say goodnight, though, Rich Hall bounded back onto the stage, grabbed the mic back from Adam Hills and walked right back up to the couple, saying, "Okay now. We're going to raise the stakes here." Immediately, the girlfriend got out of her seat, walked onto the stage and took the mic from Rich Hall - now completely dumbfounded. She said something like, "Now I'm gonna raise the stakes here!" At this point, I turned my head to look at Daoud (castmate and swell audience partner) and saw open-mouthed shock at the proceedings. I must have resembled it. The girlfriend (quite sotted herself) then blabbed something like, "That man over there has been my boyfriend for four incredible years and I love him more than anything." The audience was rapt. "I've got an idea for you, Rich. I want you to get down on your knees and propose to Adam right now." To this, Rich asked, "My one question is this: do I get to be the mommy or the daddy?" She said, "the mommy." Mr. Hall then told Adam Hills to, "Get close and suck mommy's dick!"

Highland Haiku

Scots love ice cream time.
It must sooth their wasted throats
After they go puke.

Hallowed Hollow Halls

Right now, I'm seated in the back of some panel discussion about the various fringe festivals throughout the world. The moderator is a short British man with a bright voice and he's seated between several organizers of the festivals. One Russian audience member keeps interrupting the discussion to ask how much it costs to produce a show. Seriously, he piped up just after the introductions were made and the polite applause subsided. "HOW MUCH TO DO SHOW?" "DO I MAKE MONEY FAST?" He's obviously got a golden script.

Oh my god, this is a torturous talk - one of those discussions that seems perfectly engaging to the folks onstage, but reminds the audience of being trapped in the musty bedroom of a strange relative's apartment. I'm assuming that the audience is comprised mainly of hopeful producers, hoping that a few smiles and an ass washing will get them a good venue. Of the panelists, one guy runs the Prague fringe and one woman runs the Brighton fringe. If they mated, they might spawn a proper festival. I should be happy, though, since this is not a commercial audition. These idealists before me at least have the decency to produce predominantly terrible theater in bleak cities throughout Europe. I mean, wouldn't you want to see the world premiere of "Wrinkles in Time (Granny Gets A Man)"? Yes, you would. I know you and you've been waiting for this exact event. (PICTURED: Artistic Director of the Prague Fringe)

The Horror

Saw my first display of violent Scottish hooliganism last night and I might not be the same again. A few of us were wandering the town before we headed into a pub for a beer. So there we are, drinking at a table in the "snug room" (the Scots are very into their pubs having semi-private "rooms" while getting blind drunk), when we hear female screams coming from outside. We all looked out the window to find the noise and saw four guys in the acts of both putting up and swinging their dukes. The narrative of the fray soon chrystalized as three of the men soon stood over one. They began a physical assault so horrific that William Wallace might have wet his pants. After a few moderately punishing blows to the victims face, the assumed hero of this torture emerged. This white-shirted lunatic decided that all the fist-to-helpless-jaw contact was bothering his hand, so he used the next best extremity. I had never know the resilience of the human skull until this night.

Stomp to the face. Stomp to the face. The bar had called the police by now. Stomp to the face. Blood began casting a glossy layer of red over the victim's face. Stomp to the face. The victim's head was rendered totally motionless by this point - it's only movement being the natural kickback of muscle once the neck had been twisted by a stomp.

Convinced that the pummelee had been nearly killed, the white-shirted thug moved off to finish his Guinness or something. Miraculously, the victim rose to his feet with the help of a friend. And just as abruptly, my faith in the general goodness of man sunk. (PICTURED: a prospective street murderer)

Let Me Eat Cake

I've seen a ton of stand-up comedy since arriving here in Edinburgh. Half of it has been by UK men. These guys make jokes about poop and this crazy phenomenon of the apparent scaling back of sexual activity once one is married. Revelatory. The other half has been by Americans. And according to my highly unscientific, bigoted survey, the Americans are funnier. The funniest has been Maria Bamford and her one-woman show, "Plan B", which details her family and friends' reception to her move back to her hometown in Minnesota. To borrow the style of Scottish critics, "What follows are robust yet astute characterizations, which plunge Miss Bamford into an amusing vortex of the uncanny - she is back home, yet utterly not at home. Altogether, a most welcome romp of untold hilarity." The woman is flippin' funny, with the kind of talent and intelligence that makes you want to inhale the vapors of her personal space.

On an ego bathing note, The Civilians received a Fringe First Award from the local paper of record, The Scotsman. So this morning, at 10:15am, a little ceremony was held for us and the other honored productions. With this distinction came a plaque, a quasi-guarantee of sell-out houses, and free coffee and croissants. I don't know about you, but to me, "free" translates to "open to abuse". By the time we all march up to receive the thing, I had drank so much espresso that my jaw had developed it's own personality and began counting all the patient heads in the audience. Of course, I didn't have to say a word (that job was left to our director), but my effect must have been menacing.

Panicky in the UK

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been nearly one month since my last pig-headed diatribe. Tell the truth, I wish I had something petty to ridicule, but I'm starved for ideas. Oh, got it! First, the facts: I'm in Edinburgh, Scotland for the Fringe Festival. I'm performing with The Civilians (a theater company that cares) in "(I Am) Nobody's Lunch". We're playing the Assembly Room, right in the bleeding heart of this ye olde city - this city of birds who make horrific sounds outside my bedroom window, this city of "Oh Shit! There's a castle behind that bus!," this city of cheap beer and expensive nuts. Since we're playing this particular venue, we get free passes to most of the cooler shows. So, after our 15:15 performance (military time, since UKers like to pretend they're always at war), the cast hiked up a long road to the Pleasance venue. We wanted to catch the controversial and orgasmically praised production of "My Name is Rachel Corrie." We did catch it. Willy from the Simpsons might have called it a boring piece of shite. I will call it the definitive reason why no one should ever publish a diary. (Being that I'm blogging right now, you might think that I'm a hypocrite to say that. You would be right.)

Wait... I think... no, I'm sure that we're now on a terror alert. We are. The UK airports are in a panic of sorts, since the authorities have foiled a terror plot to explode nearly a dozen US-UK flights over the Atlantic. Fun. I'll write once my fear is assuaged back to a healthy orange.

Love Me?

Today, I was called in for a "Home Goods" audition. I'm assuming it's a new home furnishings mega-store, loooking to capitalize off the ficticious success of Bill Paxton's "Home Plus" chain in HBO's Big Love. This itself was a television rival to the ubiquitous Home Depot we all know and suffer. The levels of meta-nonsense are making my brain hurt, so I'll have to move on.
So. I arrived a bit early for the call, so I decided to take my lunch break when they took theirs. We're all artists, after all. I went to Shine Deli - this refers to the faces of the men replacing the buffet trays - and bought a pretty delicious egg salad sandwich. What was not yummy, however, was the way I ate it. After half of the eggy mayo goodness fell out of the sandwich proper and onto the wax paper, I was left with lettuce, tomato and bread. I said, "Fuck that!", and went on to just eat the eggy mayo goodness with my fingers. Since I had invented that I was in a rush, I ate the salad right quick, yo, and almost choked. A suitable punishment for eating like a three-year old.

Anyway, I got back to the audition studio, signed in and waited my turn. We went into the room in groups of four. We were the first group after lunch and you KNOW how the kids behave right after lunch! Since the ad was for a home furnishing store, the casting director naturally asked each of us what we had for dinner last night. Get some personality out of us. Right. The first guy, who looked like that obnoxious new 7-UP spokesman said that he ate, "Sushi rice, cucumber, carrot, ginger, and seaweed paper." Jesus. Was he asking us to puzzle together his meal? Because it sounded to me like he ate the key ingredients to a FUCKING SUSHI ROLL! The next auditionee, a lovely reed of a blonde, said she ate Vietnamese food. Awesome. The next guy said he ate McDonald's. Delicious. Then came me, Mr. Angry Face. I told them, "Well, I got caught in that downpour last night and ducked into a bar. It was happy hour, so I got two beers at once and some horrible chili with cheese & onions, which I'm still processing as we speak." The blonde giggled with pity. I went on, "But it's all good, since I stayed most of the night and got drunk by myself." The room laughed uncomfortably, handed in their cards and left.

Vacation in the Abyss

It's been some time since I've last written. Well, that's because I haven't been out pounding the pavement and spreading my slime lately. I got close to the Nike thing, but the cigar must have gone to one of the thousand actors out there who looks like Beck and who likes to take my parts. You've seen them: little whispers of men, with moppy hair and farm-boy faces, who populate the Lower East Side and Taco Bell Commercials. Now, I'm of two minds when it comes to this new urban twenty-something prototype. First, I do kind of wish I was one of them. I'll admit it. But the thing is, my other personality wants to eliminate this race of bird boys. I'm comfortable with this dichotomy, though. Don't we all hate the things we wish to be? Yeah, there's that 70's French philosopher, Jacques Maria-Langley, who postulated that in order to find balance and flow in our lives, we must slay the beast of our dreams. He was married seven times, though, I think... which could have contributed to his stance. Maybe. (PICTURED: An image of my cold heart)

I Feel Petty

There is a Hell on Earth and it is a Nike call-back. Yup, that commercial I auditioned for almost two weeks ago. Apparently, over the course of eleven days, the monkeys at Nike have finally reviewed the audition tapes, thrown some feces at the wall, and narrowed down their choices of potential singing doormen... to ten. Ten!? That's not a call-back, that's a passing of society's delinquents through a sieve.

Regardless, I figured the audition at least reinforced my Warm-Up Technique of Death. It's where I imagine my fellow auditionees in their final moments, when God tells them that they've led a meaningless life filled with extra looks in the mirror and an unnatural attention to the sound of their voice. As with every audition, this fantasy had plenty of inspiration. Again, the waiting room had "I Feel Pretty" playing out of a boombox on repeat. I assume this droning ambiance was to make sure we hadn't forgotten the melody after the first 58 times. Brainiac that I am, I felt insulted by this pandering... until I realized that this was a room filled with actors, so I ceded this point. The true suffering came from the guy across from me. He resembled a handsome android and was singing his heart out on every turn of the song, furrowed brow and all. Of course I said nothing nor looked his way, since I'm actually a scared little boy with a spine of jello. But who was this guy to remind me of that?

Stand on the Line

I had a "print" audition today. These are the ads you see when you're thumbing through a magazine, looking for something interesting to read. Or, in the case of Cosmo readers, this is why you read the magazine. Print auditions are known in the biz as "Go-Sees," as in, "Go See all the tall people with delicate noses!" Now, other than that, all it takes to enter the inner circle of Grandmaster print models is an ability to stand on two feet and open your eyes. The rest is magic... fun magic! They stick a number on your shirt like a branded cow and put you in front of a photographer. She'll usually tell you have a relaxed smile and to pretend that you're at a poolside party with hot friends and cold cocktails. She's obviously never been to my round-the-clock crackfests at the flophouse. I could cook her up a mean brew. She'd maybe puke after the first two hits, but after that it'd be a slow, sweet descent to the floor.

H is for Humility

My favorite thing about auditions: pets. It's rare that you'll find one in the actual, glamorous audition room (those usually just contain a shiny camera and a few wasted souls), but lately, I haven't been to a casting studio without a tiny cat or dog tinkling it's ass around. The positive spin would be that the casting directors just want to keep things warm and casual in an arena fraught with tension and insecurity. My take (and, ahem, the cynical one) is that the dream slayers who run these studios still find portions of their life to cheap out on. Ms. Casting Wench might ponder, "You know, I don't want to keep Spanky cooped up in my Co-Op all day, but that dog-walker is so pricey and would never give Spanky the attention he deserves. And those Doggie Day Cares are total shit pits. I know! I'll keep him with the actors!"

What's worse is that all around me are people encouraging this dog/actor balance. All this cooing and baby talk and belly rubbing. Just stop it. Get in the room, show your teeth and go home. I know, dear actors, the world is bleak and furry things make life worth living, but save it for the bedroom. (ABOVE: Your next audition monitor.)

We Feel Pretty

Had an audition today for Nike's new campaign, which is essentially a pep rally for Maria Sharapova (she's a professional tennis ball swatter). Me and thirty other guys of various ages, shades and sizes were auditioning for the role of Doorman. And there was a cursed stereo playing the commercial's theme song, "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story, on repeat. Over and over and over again until it seemed like most of the men were totally pleased to let their out their inner musical theater star. One serious brute of a fella was smiling as he rehearsed the lyric. I wish I could have turned that grin upside down, then shove a corroded septic pipe into it. Sure enough though, my quiet, brooding act came to a close once I got into the room and had to sing on camera. That's when I let out my true self - a newly castrated choir boy asked to sing for his sister's sweet sixteen. I left the room, grabbed my stupid messenger bag, and puked on the elevator.

I hope I book it.

Crack is Back

I was in a pizzeria the other day, ducking out from the punishing storm outside. It's this packed little place on 22nd street called Maffei's Pizzeria and they've got some good cheeses mingling on their slice. Yum, melted dairy. Anyway, this Hispanic customer was leaning over the counter much in the style of a drunkerd slouching at the bar, hoping for an open ear. So, as this guy's waiting for his slice, he starts telling the pizza man that his lady left him but he's going to be just fine:

HISPANIC GUY: Yeah, man she just left me.
PIZZA MAN: You're wife left you?
HISPANIC GUY: She's not really my wife, but she left me.
PIZZA MAN: What the hell happened?
HISPANIC GUY: She's a crackhead, man.
PIZZA MAN: What!?
HISPANIC GUY: She left me for a crackhead.
PIZZA MAN: Why don't you just start doing crack with her? She'll come back.

Nobody can break it down for you like a dough stacker.

Actors, aka Woodwinds

Had two auditions today at the same time and same office! After filling out useless information on the sign-in card (hat size? hips?) and getting my polaroid taken by a casting assistant, I sat in a corner, took out a big history book and read none of it. They called my name for the first audition and I went into a room with two other "actors." We were faced with a semicircular table, three cups of water and a stack of polaroids. Before I could figure out the riddle, the casting guy had us slate our name and get down to commercial business. We improvised a scene of three buds hangin' at a cafe, checking out pics and drinking tea (Lipton!). My co-stars were a tall & lovely Japanese girl with four exhausted brain cells and a guy who wished he was in a retarded Strokes cover band. Needless to say, I swept everybody in the room off their feet with my breezy wit and dynamic line inflections. Then I felt like hanging myself. But I had another audition! Just down the hall! So, I put off plans for a sweet goodnight as I was called in for the next casting.

This time, we went in in twos: me and lovely Japanese girl. We played a very likely couple out for a drive (in a Ford!). The sweet thing could hardly make out the cue cards. Though I must say, that the copy twice made the error of spelling "schmooze" as "smooz". Honest mistake for little lady Tokyo, plus she must be new to this dazzling country. On camera, our dialogue must have sounded like hiccups. She's got her pronouncing and reading issues and then there's me, hamming it up like a kid in special ed. I totally booked that shit.