McDonald's Man

He is bearded and thin with black skin and droopy eyes. I think he’s homeless.

He has been sitting in the rear of a Union Square McDonald’s for over an hour. That’s only because I’ve been here for over an hour. I’m sure he’s been here much longer. It’s 9 degrees outdside.

A Persian-looking woman walked into the restaurant five minutes ago and said hello to the man, then made eye contact with me and said, “Thank you.” I did not understand.

She left the restaurant just a minute ago. Before leaving, she stopped by the homeless man’s table and dropped off a cup of soup for him and what looked like a large bill. His reactions seem a bit lethargic - he took in the gift, widened his face, then turned towards the departing woman. He slurred out a hearty “God bless you, maam. God bless you.” She turned an smiled before re-entering the icy weather.

I’ve been sitting here, feeling miserable and alone and ineffective and fat, but that little touch of humanity got me to start writing. Charity is infectious. Like art. It reminds us of the hope that lies beyond the reality of the moment.

The man’s face looks enlivened. He’s slurping and chewing the soup with relish. Now each person that passes him on their way out the door is receiving a “God bless you.” He’s not asking for change or charity. He’s only giving his blessing.

Rapid Temperature Drops

I think our current, erratic weather should be explained within the framework of a global climate system. This is mostly assumption - so sift it with a grain of sand - but I think we're experiencing a new pattern of volitile weather spasms, sparking up throughout the globe.

The world has heated up from a rolling simmer to a rapid-fire boil, with each new molecule asserting its right to exist.
It's a crowded field of independantly evolving systems.

This must be due to an arising field of climate conditions, which rapidly mingle to produce climatic boiling points.

I mean to say: all the details of weather (the heat, dryness, chill, moisture, wind, humidity, pressure) are swirling together into a series of perfect storms.

Today, in five hours, the temperature dropped 25 degrees. On January 6, 2007, the mercury hit 72 degrees. Those are surges of heat, pushing into and out of the northeast at wanton speed.

Between Auditions

I was walking across town on 42nd Street, from east to west. I'm sure some people must know this route.

So I walked past Bryant Park, crossed Sixth Avenue and ran into Queen Logorrhea. It's this women who tucks herself in between a Verizon store and a subway entrance and coos and coos about how we're all sinners. She speaks into a microphone, has a folding table piled with damning pamphlets, and uses horrific photos to illustrate her points. Her most consistent visual aid is a blow-up photo of an aborted fetus. But it's more than that. It's a friggin' DECAPITATED aborted fetus. And it is there every day.

People pour of their offices for lunch, mill around, look for a tasty sandwich and chips and then - Oh, it's a dead baby with no head! Better get a smoothie.

Yesterday's diatribe went like this: "These days people curse all the time. You hear them, every other word is a curse word. They could be high school dropouts or college graduates. It doesn't matter. They can't control their mouths. And why? Because they have dirty minds."

I glanced down at her photo and walked on.

Cantaloupe Autocracy

Today I walked into a Banana Republic. I shop for clothing once a year. Usually, it's the two months following Christmas - a holiday packed with gift certificates.

Anyway, I used a gift card today - one of my two annual shopping days - for some shirts and a sweater. Figured I'd get some stiching that'll keep me warm. Gotta stay warm.

I brought my items to the register.

A man at another register was raising his voice in complaint. I don't know what it was about. He looked upset. Kept saying, "Well I've been here for a HALF HOUR already!" A HALF HOUR!" He knew his fractions.

So I brought my items to the friendly cashier. She was filled with surprises. First, she folded my new clothes at a manic speed. Second, she informed me that I'd been randomly selected to earn 10% off my next Banana Republic purchase. (I asked her how random. She said, "like one out of twenty-five or something." Wow. That's just luck.) Third, she handed me my receipt with a breezy, "Have a great day! Enjoy your shirts!"

Enjoy your shirts? I was only planning to wear them.

(But it made me laugh. Ain't that worth it?)
(Aww shucks! I shucked it up again!)

"The Author of Liberty"

Who is the "author of liberty"? Could it be God? Is it the Statue of Liberty? If so, I didn't know she could write. That's pretty great for a statue.

At another point in Bush's "Please, Please Fight With Me" speech, he mentioned that American is a nation of "freedom and moderation." What's moderate in the US? Okay, there are Goo Goo Dolls, but they hardly tour these days. Obviously, Bush's writer opened up his Roget's Antitheses book and found "moderation" under "extremism." Cause, yeah, this country ain't made of Mennonites, if you know what I mean. (You don't. You might. Well, even if you do, it's not worth the joke). We've got Wal-Marts!

By the way, anybody hear that in Southeastern Pennsylvania, a local Wal-Mart was put out of business by Super Wal-Mart? Yeah, it's a shame. The town's just lost all it's character.

Scraps From A Bush Basket

"I feel that the pigeons of New York City should be armed with tiny missles. This is an age of insidious, covert terror and we should apply all cheap, natural resources to ensure a secure world for our future."

"The Israelis have inherited the right to fight. The Jews are a noble, fighting race."

"We are set to deploy a new army of sentient cyborgs for peackeeping procedures in Iraq."

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!"