Party Vikings-Tommy's True Tales

Pancakes With The Girls

2009-06-29T16:45:00.000-04:00

There was that last nerve I heard wind so tight that it went form a low C to a high A in just a few minutes. The commuters, the traffic and the lack of an actual client base that made a 12 hour day worth getting out of bed hung on the back of my head like an anvil. I hate summer. I find myself, “Busy doing nothing” to the degree that I don’t get anything productive done. The old Huey Lewis line, “all I want is a couple days off” springs wryly to mind as I wake up to another 4:55AM start.

A day off is something that I didn’t see coming anytime soon. That’s what you get for having a dream that takes it’s sweet time to materialize; day job, writing time, acting job, painting time. A full chaotic life with time left only to worry that it’s all for nothing. I stared at the calendar looking for the most convenient time to stage my own death so I can catch a break. I was then reminded with a blast of heralding trumpets that the Goils, Tracy and Katie, The Brain and The Rockette respectively, The Entourage collectively were spending the weekend in new Orleans for a bachelorette party. I would be really and totally ALONE. I almost fainted from the sheer weight of the bliss I felt at that moment. They would be up to their necks in plastic novelty penis necklaces and penis straws and other tasteful theme-correct garb while I would be doing…absolutely nothing. I would rejoice in the splendor of silence and nowhere to be, nothing to do, no hanging out till all hours, no late night or early mornings. No nothing but me, my computer and silence. And my usual work schedule which I could handle because I knew I was going to be totally pro active and productive…

I unloaded The Goils early Friday morning and planned my day; a long run, breakfast at the diner then three hours of writing followed by an hour of painting and reading some instructional materials then a nap. Repeat again over dinner and get to bed early so I can voluntarily wake up early for a run. That was the plan for each day of my weekend alone, compensating for work hours and standing on my corner for Accomplice.

There was the sound of seconds ticking by so fast that the fabric of spacetime buckled and twisted with a sucking sound and a vacuum-like pull on my nethers.

Before I knew it, I was on my way to Laguardia to return the entourage to its rightful place getting tangled under my feet wondering what happened to the last 72 hours. I know I went to work and to the Accomplice acting job. I know I checked my email a few times and watched a crappy movie on TV. I looked at my note book and found a doodle of a butterfly and a sandwich on a bun, pickle on the side. I looked at my computer files and found I typed approximately 50 words. 50 random unassociated words like Convoluted and Magic. And I did the dishes several times. No 7000 words, no paintings, no meditative rest or instructional reading. No runs or healthy eating as evidenced by a pile of take out Chinese cartons on the counter. No productivity to report other than a great deal of practice working on my Zombie acting skills for my as-of-yet-un-penned epic, Zombies From Brooklyn.

Now I was circling the airport mimicking the motions of the planes over head with a puzzled look on my face waiting for two wired and hungry women who couldn’t wait to shatter my peace with a weekend’s worth of Tales From the Bayou. In the distance there was an object hanging in the sky with an eerie self-generated illumination. It looked haunting and creepy set against the hazy foggy black/gray sky. I took a breath of relief at the thought that we could possibly be undergoing an alien invasion which would solve all my problems. My heart sank as I realized the alien space craft ready to turn all our brains to a pulpy mush was in actuality, the Met Life blimp set out to do roughly the same thing only slower.

They got in the car alight with story. The talking and the pictures and the retelling didn’t stop until midway into the next day. They got together and made a thousand pancakes in the morning speaking as if they didn’t need to draw breath. Meals had passed, errands had been run and time ticked slowly by as I heard both versions of the same tales over and over again. While they were droning on and on about oysters, humidity and a sweat so thick you could ladle it like soup I once again looked at my calendar for the most convenient time to stage my own death.

All I want is a couple days off….

Accomplice: New York

2009-04-20T21:22:00.003-04:00

This past weekend I started the new acting gig. I can best describe the project as part street theatre and part game/scavenger hunt. My job is to spend the day at a particular location waiting for groups to come through looking for their “contact”. I have to fool them, ignore them and mess with them a little and exchange information to send them on to their next destination. It’s like I get to do a bit of my old routines, try new material and play a character I have a free hand in experimenting with as long as I keep tight to the format.

I see about eight groups a day on Saturdays and Sundays. What this amounts to is that I do about 16 fifteen minute acts a week. This is more than I’ve ever done on stage as a stand up and the kick is that I’m actually getting paid to do it. At the end, the cast regroups at the final destination, a bar in SoHo, where we can meet the groups that stuck around to get loaded.

I happen to favor film as a career choice but at this point, I'll take any role I think I can do, especially if they’re willing to toss me some green paper. So I stand on my corner watching the locals watch me and wonder what the hell I’m doing there and why I carry on every 45 minutes or so with a bunch of strangers. I was told by the actor I’m replacing that I’d get to know the locals and the patterns of life on the corner. People have already started to notice the new guy and I’m noticing the regulars, too. There are a bunch of old timer’s who hang around all day, the psychic who sits on her front stoop and the handsome couple who thought I was tossing rats into the street one time. Don’t ask. I got to watch the NYPD tow a car away and later, I got to watch the couple from New Jersey stand impotently in the space wondering what happened. I let them hang a moment before telling them that they were too close to the hydrant so they got pinched. The guy started to argue that he left plenty of room until I reminded him that I was not a guy with a tow truck. As I stood there waiting for the next group, I was bumped into by Moby who looks like a little hipster douchebag up close.

The show is actually a bit of fun when the groups want to be entertained and it’s a real drag when they don’t. I can’t imagine shelling out good money for something and being intent on not enjoying it but there’s always one in every bunch that stands there with a face like it’s a big inconvenience. So I ignore those guys and focus on the audience that wants to be there.

If anything, I hope to have a lot of material based on the kinds of people who pass through. There were two Canadians I singled out for the purpose of telling them that the only things most Americans know about Canada are Rush and hockey. They laughed when I told them I thought Canada was a satellite of the old Soviet Republic somewhere south of Spain. Then there were the two German girls, one from Frankfurt, to whom I thanked for her town’s major contribution: The Frankfurter. The other was from Hamburg. So I said to the group, “You know what I’m gonna say here, right?” The group uttered something about hamburgers and I said, “No!, That’s where the Beatles got their big start, you amateurs!”

And so begins the new chapter On The Road To Hollywood, Vikings. Here comes that wind gust!

www.accomplicetheshow.com

Tommy

All I Wanted Was An Olive...

2009-04-12T13:52:00.002-04:00

After spending my umpteenth Friday night on the couch feeling sorry for my stagnant acting career I decided to hit the street, looking for action. Actually, I was invited to this swanky Korean place in Mid-Town by some friends and since my gun molls were invited first, I really couldn’t say no.

We ended up in one of those places that you see on TV that epitomize a scene you need to be part of and make you feel bad because all you’ve got in your town is an Applebee’s. Think trendy-bar- lounge nouveau- ethereal music-colored-swirly-lights-and seating-as-art vs. comfort. I knew I was about to pay too much to walk out hungry.

NOTE: You know me by now, I like my food like I like my women; cheap and in abundance. I don’t like places that serve items in tiny melon-baller sized portions on plates that double as hub caps for tractor trailers. I like my meals in heaping succulent portions that spill over the edges of the bowl like Scarlett Johansson’s breasts spill out over her bra while she’s on her period. And that side salad better be big enough to feed a gaggle of hungry rabbits. Maybe I like lettuce a little more than the next guy, you got a problem with that?

We sat on stools that were too high for a table that was too low and too far away. Cozy. The cute Asian waitress, one of several came by with the leather bound menus and passed them out as if she was handing out special tickets on the inaugural flight of tourists to the moon. One gander at the selections and I felt a spike in my pressure, however I was among people who were not aware of my subtle intricacies and my penchant for colorful complaint so I sat and played it cool. The drink selection, like buffet night in a dance club in Chelsea was packed with enough fruit to send a diabetic over the edge and the dinner menu looked as if the selections were created by an avant-garde designer instead of stuff made by a cook. I could get an appetizer for $15, an entrée for $10 (you figure that one out) and a drink for $15. As I opened my mouth to offer my opinion of the whole thing, I was intercepted by Angry Tray and Special K, the Belching Rockette who gently and knowingly reminded me that there was a special running, a sort of dinner Happy Hour; an entrée and a drink for ten bucks. My pressure resumed it’s normal high and I sat back in my stool.

A different cute Asian waitress, the one I decided I’d be sleeping with later came and took our drink orders. I bristled at what I was hearing; apple pear this and cranberry pomegranate that, Bill From Ohio Who Loves The City ordered a red wine to go with his suit. He had just finished his shift at that swanky hotel that doesn’t have vibrating beds. When it came to my turn I ordered something that was not on the drink menu, a simple dirty Martini. I apologized in advance for ordering a drink that clashed with the color scheme and waited for her to tell me they didn’t serve a relic of a drink like that, and come to think of it, they didn’t see fit to serve a relic like me at all.

A short time later, I was forced to watch grown men sip pink cocktails from trendy glasses and grown women coo at how wonderful everything tasted. My drink arrived looking like me, a little muddy and rough around the edges and came served with an apology from my future sleeping companion, “Um, I’m sorry but we have no olives…” I sunk in my trendy stool. “No olives? You’re a bar and you have no olives?” She looked a little sad and said, “Um, no we, um, ran out and have to get some from, um…” “The deli on the corner?” I offered. “No, um, downstairs.” “Ah,” I said, “In the olive cellar, a wise place to keep them. Retards spoilage.” I emphasized the word retard. She assured me it would be a few moments, no longer. I notified her that I would not take a sip until my olives arrived.

Drinks drained, plates came, my companions got drunk and my drink sat there untouched. My pressure rose incrementally as I was the only one at the party not having any fun. I stopped the cute waitress and said in more of a statement, “I’m not getting my olives am I, darling?” She looked at me as if she was surprised I didn’t buy her line about looking for olives in the cellar. “Oh, um, I’ll go check on that” and off she went to the next twelve tables without stopping at the bar. I watched staff come and go through the back door, return with food and on one instance a very large wad of cash for the deposit. Note to self: they’re careless with money, I can take these little skinny Asian guys. Still, no olives.

NOTE: Time has a funny way of moving in certain situations. When you’re dreading that IRS audit it sneaks up on you faster than the scope during your colonoscopy but when you’re waiting to tie one on with an inadequate aperitif staring you in the face you can hear the seconds tick by in cinematic echoing slow motion.
I sat and waited I composed a short list in my mind of travesties similar to olive-less martinis: a porn star without breast implants, a Ferrari without a stick shift, a politician without a dishonest thought, me without a fit of unmitigated hostility at having to compose such a list, etc…

ITEM: The following may or may not have happened; I need to confer with my lawyers before divulging sensitive information…

I stood with my naked drink and approached the bar with a smile. The bartender, a little Asian guy who looked annoyed that I was about to interrupt him looked at me. I placed the drink on the bar and asked him what he saw. “uh…” “I’ll save you the strain, friend. What you see here is a trendy glass built to hold fruity drinks aimed at assuring fruity people that, like their favorite Sex and the City character, they are making the scene so they can laugh at how many of them are a Carrie when they really wanted to be a Samantha and I’m speaking of the men. What you see is an old kind of drink made for guys like James Bond; cool and sophisticated, and guys like me; not cool, not sophisticated and easily angered when the small things that are supposed to make me happy suddenly become monumental problems with no conceivable solution. You don’t stock olives, I get that because an olive isn’t trendy. It doesn’t come in colors, it’s not made by a designer, it isn’t good looking, it isn’t followed by paparazzi and isn’t friends with The Donald, The Paris or any other douche who feels the need to precede their name with “The” as if it were a title conferring genuine individuality….it is a simple and humble little fruit grown on a tree but it makes me very happy, makes this little old drink taste so much better and I really really want one. Now. I don’t want a replacement. I don’t want a drink that is pink, light blue or light green. I don’t want a drink that comes in a work of art, I don’t want a drink with a clever name, was featured on TV or Time Out magazine or one that you made for a celebrity. Right now, I’m the celebrity, I’m a very impatient and tempestuous little brat of a movie star and Daddy wants his olives so I don’t care if you have to go to the store on the corner, get them from the olive cellar or go the bar across the street to pluck them out of somebody’s drink and plop them in mine, I want a freaking olive.” By this time I was sweating and a mere few centimeters from his nose. He stared, eyes wide and said in one word, “I’llseewhatIcando…” and slid away.

I rejoined my group who asked what had transpired, “Nothing, I asked how much for the waitress”. Everybody ate and rounded out the corners with their drinks when I was greeted by the cute waitress who placed a tumbler on the table containing three very large olives on a tooth pick. I was grateful. She smiled. I installed them in my drink with minimal effort and began imbibing. It was a strong tight and salty concoction, one that I was craving and enjoying very much. I raised my glass to the bartender who nervously smiled back. I passed the drink around and found no surprise in the disapproval of all including Bill From Ohio Who Loves This City who coughed, “Who drinks that?” “Guys like James Bond and guys like me, just ask the bartender…” I replied with that slightly fuzzy smile. The gun molls both agreed it was a strong but good drink and Special K, feeling her first fruity concoction ordered a Mojito and offered to buy Yours Truly another. I took her up on it and was happy to see it arrive with olives already installed.

The evening passed without further incident. Your Humble Servant began enjoying the atmosphere, the conversation and thoughts of the little waitress holding a jar of olives and nothing else. Ah, the little things….

Scene...

2009-02-17T09:49:00.001-05:00

Somewhere in a better land there is a perfect scene playing out. There is music playing the outro to the whole movie. I see it clearly but that still doesn’t make it real. I can’t really tell but I hope it’s real…somewhere. I see a bunch of people on a beach because the beach is the end of the world to me, the place where we all yearn to be, by the ocean where all seems limitless and infinitely possible. It is where all the sunny beautiful things happen.

We all make it there alive, all of us, no one left behind, no one lost on the battlefield. Everybody gets the girl, eats the sammich, and scores the winning touchdown in the last seconds. It is a warm human night. The old cars pull up, rumbling muscle thunder under flat black painted hoods, the girls in bikinis dance, the muscle heads flex, the troubadours sing and bop.

Even the bad guys join us because it is so much groovier to sing and dance and eat and drink and smile. Everything is perfect after the long struggle. I see friends long gone, pain long abated. I see my father in his jean jacket next to his Mustang. He gives me a wave and a smile and he sings to the outro song off key. There’s a band playing. It could be any year, anywhere and all is finally well – for a little while. There’s a melody and a harmony and song. There is no more fight, no more struggle, no more long days. The moment is light and blissful.

As the outro song fades, the camera pulls up and back to show the beach alive with people, the water reflecting the orange setting sun, the sky all firey purple and the sun setting so slowly over it all. The cars rumble on the dunes with their lights on, the kids lying on the hoods staring dreamily at the oncoming night sky. All is really and truly well.

The scene plays over and over in my head and lifts me a little because I am somewhere in the crowd with a drink thrust in my hand and my beat up shoes in the other.

As the image fades we all dance and sing together. You win, you get the girl….you get the idea. Use any song you like for your outro to close your movie, it doesn’t make sense to tell you mine, that’s just for me.

Roll credits…

A Little Bit of Happiness

2008-12-24T16:21:00.001-05:00

This season has been particularly uncheerful for me. There are a variety of reasons, glum, adding up to me silently wishing it would all be over. There were parties we were invited to, didn't go. There's a stack of cards unattended to and shopping that never got done. I missed most of the specials on TV and even the annual barrage of yuletide tunes that I usually find so festive seemed more of an annoyance. I just don't care.

Now today, Christmas Eve has blasted through the door like a big fat entitled uninvited guest and I'm trying to hide in the closet. I certainly didn't think I'd find a hope of Christmas Eve salvation. I dropped Trace off at the fish store for dinner stuff and stood outside in the cold and the rain. The line was out the door. We were in Bensonhurst, where I am from. I only live a short distance away but I rarely get back here. None of my friends are still here, my father is gone and most of the places I spent my life in were long gone too. As I stood on the corner I remembered my Bensonhurst, a place so close to my heart that it beats with a Brooklyn accent. I love this place for it made me what I am mostly. As I looked up the avenue I saw the music store where I spent many many weekend days learning to play drums and guitar and worshipping the older kids who got to go to clubs and concerts. We'd sit in the store all day and I'd listen to the owner's son play guitar and tell tales of being in bands and going to shows. I learned so much of my humor, my love of music and my want to play anything that makes sound from those precious days. All the metal heads would stop by and some touring celebrities would come in for strings and things when they came through. I have many cherished memories dating back 27 years to that tiny building in that old Italian neighborhood.

I smiled to myself, hungry for something I couldn't find anywhere else and began walking toward the store. I stepped through the door and there were the owner, Big Mike and his son, Little Mike still stringing guitars, still arguing, still telling jokes and throwing things. The store hadn't changed much; there were guitars and drums and things all over the place. The employees were usually friends of the family in a constantly rotating cast. There was a six foot hero in plastic wrap on a row of amplifiers and a hungry looking group hovering. Mike looked up and recognized me with a huge smile. We hugged and laughed and told a few quick one liners and I felt tension melt, I felt home. There was always a stool by the counter for anyone to sit and hang out. I sat and made myself at comfy. Soon we were telling stories of old mobsters, actors, musicians and friends long dead. There was the ongoing argument started in 1984 about what an over rated guitarist jimmy page was. Stairway to Heaven was on and when the guitar solo came on, Fat Sal came sliding into the room and frantically picked up a guitar off the rack and played note for note in tune. He disappeared just as fast after the song ended. I looked around and felt so full of life and so full of memories that I just sat teary and for the first time in weeks I laughed hard.

Mike looked over and said, "Hey, Tommy, you remind me so much of your father, may he rest in peace. He was a good man." I asked, "Really?" "Oh yeah, you sound just like him, look just like him and that's good because you'll always keep him with you."

I really miss my father.

I went and saw The Old Man behind his desk, we smiles and shook hands warmly and spoke Italian, what little I still can. I really need to relearn.

For a brief time, I was home, in my old neighborhood. It was like the old days, my father would come bursting in the room any minute. We'd drink wine and tell more stories and laugh and cry and fight until it was time to go home.

You remember this song:

There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more

Soon it was my time to head back out in the rain and the gloom but I was warmed now by tender reminiscence. Before I left, Mike bellowed to me from across the room, "Hey, Tommy, you can't leave without taking a piece of sandwich!" We unwrapped the giant hero and he tossed me a couple of pieces. Turkey, ham, roast beef, American cheese and a bit of antipasto spread for those wondering. "You should come by more" he growled in his thick Bensonhurst accent. I missed that, too. We hugged our Merry Christmases and I walked down the avenue eating my sammich. For the first time all season, I was happy.

So, to those I know and love both near and far, a Happy Christmas to you and those you keep close. May the season's warm embrace keep you comfy.

New York City: $103.50, Tom: $0.00

2008-12-07T14:15:00.001-05:00

You know those days when you are so hungry that you find yourself doubled over in a kind of nauseating pain. It's the kind of pain that defies logic because you feel like you want to vomit but your stomach is quite empty. That's what I was walking around with all morning yesterday. It made me irritable, impatient and prone to fits of uncomfortable singing…

I had a job downtown that would permit me just enough time to grab a roll-o-sushi at one of those Asian Everything markets near Union Square and eat it on the train back up to work. I was so hungry that this little rolled up bit of rice, avocado and imitation crabmeat looked like a Porterhouse steak. I couldn't wait to get this hot little number alone.

NOTE: As a cheap date, I am equal to none.

I happily skipped up Broadway toward Union Square like a ten year old who just got kissed by the cute girl who started growing breasts. As I passed Forbidden Planet, a popular comic store, my eye caught a few goodies in the window. This being the season, I figured I'd start on my list.

Q: Do I look like a thief to you? Do I look like the kind of guy who would pilfer Geek Porn? I was stopped by the hipster slacker security force-of-one who insisted I check my bag at the door. I like to be cooperative but when it comes to strangers handling my food, I get a bit touchy. I gave in because I wanted to see if they had that new Kirk action figure rumored to be in residence but I did so under protest. I made my list and proceeded to reclaim my lunch, hang on baby, papa's comin'.

Here's where it gets good. I should have grabbed the bag by the handles but in my haste I just palmed it from the bottom like I was holding a stack of books secretly greased with butter. As I made for the door the phone rang. With my free hand I answer and press my shoulder to the door - which doesn't move.

SLOW MOTION HOLLYWOOD EFFECT: The door doesn't move, I slam and collapse into it like a crumpling piece of paper, the phone snaps shut in my face and my precious lunch goes momentarily airborne and slams into the grimy wood floor.

MY GOD, THEY LOOK LIKE ANTS IN SNOW CAMMO FROM UP HERE! Um, no, that's lots of rice on the floor, Captain. And little bits of imitation crab. I glared at the slouchy bag check guy who turned so fast you'd think a parade of naked Rockettes kicked on by.

I was now furious. Blood-in-my-eye-want-a-human-sacrifice-they-cancelled-Star-Trek-again furious. Now, I can take a lot of things, suffer many indignities, deal with many a personal injustice but I can not take someone messing with my food. I drew my umbrella, ready for blood but since there were children around composed myself. I had no choice but to leave. So I did. And I left the mess for them. I continued up Broadway with my stomach in a knot. I was hungry and out $3.50. I hate that. Two things I hate most; wasting food and wasting money. And reality TV. The phone rings again, it's Trace. I'm straining to hear her through the stuttering signal. All I hear is bits of digital flotsam; "I'm….bip…leep…bop…hayep…you." I think she's at the subway – or ordering a subway, or ran into Hemmingway. I try to tell her lunch is waiting for her in Forbidden Planet's new cafeteria but she can't hear me either. In the middle of New York City in the United States of America in the year 2008, I am on a piece of crappy technology that can't keep it up long enough for me to get directions. I was so intensely concentrating on listening that I failed to notice that I was standing in the middle of 14^th street – against the light. I looked up to see the front end of a bus growing larger in my field of vision. Just as I was about to scream into the phone for help I heard the distinct chime that says, "Call dropped" . "Beedlyeoop."

THE SCENE: Me, hunched and wide eyed in the middle of the street clutching a dead phone, bus bearing down on me, furious, confused and hungry…..

Knowing I was about to die under the wheels of the MTA's finest, knowing ATT would have the last word in my private little war with cellular technology, I decided on one final act of rebellion; I grabbed the little black flip phone by both ends and just as I was about to rip and tear, I heard that voice once again over my shoulder, "You know if you do that you will have to replace it and you'll be out a cool hundred for this one and who knows how much for the next. Just be patient. And get out of the street." Yes, cooler heads. I loosened my grip on the phone I heard that other voice out of nowhere, dark and ominous: "DO IT, DO IT NOW!!!!" and I tore the little phone in half and screamed, "LOOK AT YOU NOW, BITCH!!!!! YOU LIKE THAT?? HUH? HUH? HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!" And I dodged victoriously out of the way of traffic and to the station.

As my elevated pressure returned to more suitable atmospheric conditions I stopped laughing long enough to realize just how much 6 little pieces of rice and crab cost me…..

And what are you having for lunch?

Tommy.

The Night of It All Happened Before 9AM

2008-11-23T22:16:00.001-05:00

The alarm snapped to attention happy to be useful. The cheery sounds of the morning jock on the classical station mellifluously filled the silence with announcements I was too comatose to decipher. I reached for the off button and rolled out of bed onto the floor in a tangle of blankets and previously sleeping, currently alarmed feline. It was the usual beginning to another work day. 4:59, awake and standing at the window wondering where I had gone wrong on my quest for a job that didn't require waking up at any particular time.

In the shower there's nothing more exhilarating than water the temperature of November mornings at 5AM to give the testicles a little wake up jolt. Forgot to put the coffee up, forgot to eat and forgot to leave on time. Traffic, never seeming to be anything less than an orgy of metal and plastic, piled in front of us and made short work of being early. We decided to take the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel because it's quicker than sticking to the roads and proceeded to make yet another mistake. We raced into the tube and promptly came to a halt.

THOUGHT: You know that feeling you get when you swallow too much food and when you finally take a drink to wash it down it feels like a clenched fist shoving it's way though your esophagus?

We didn't find out until the other end of the tunnel that there were two closed lanes because of construction. Predictably, we arrived late to the first appointment. I got to Big Mike's ten minutes late to find he didn't get my text that I'd be ten minutes late. He's outside, warmed up and ready. He'd like to work out outside today.

TEMP: 30 degrees. Me: Jeans, t-shirt, forgot gloves, hat, scarf and armor plated underwear with special crotch-mounted heating unit.

We ran and pranced and lifted and grunted and sweated as much as two straight guys can in a courtyard in November at 7:30AM. We finished up at 8:15 which left me 15 minutes to get to my next charge who lives at least 25 minutes away in morning traffic. Looking forward to feeling my fingers and toes again I ran to the car, turned the key and heard that straining choking sound that reminds me of getting stuck somewhere in the cold with a dead battery. That's because I was stuck out in the cold with a dead battery. I reached in the glove box for my trusty AAA card to discover that we no longer employed the services of AAA because we leased a new car last year. What could happen?

TIP: Never let your AAA lapse because even though you leased a new car you still have the same old brain that occasionally does things like forgets to turn the headlights off when you disappear for an hour.

Cold, late and stranded, I did the only thing I could do: I stood in the street with one end of the jumper cables attached to the battery and the other end slung over my shoulder with my foot on the bumper, arms akimbo; the Universal Sign for Motorist In Distress. Fifteen minutes later not a single soul stopped to help. In the middle of Manhattan, not a single person bothered. So I asked a few people. Collected responses here for you review: Too busy, My boss just called me, I'm late, My battery is on the other side of the car, You look like a stalker, How do I know those are real jumper cables?

TONE SHIFT IN 3…2…1…

It was at this point, all became surreal. As I was standing there in the Universal Motorist In Distress position, I noticed a large crowd of gaping shocked onlookers looking upon me. Puzzled, I thought to check on my fly. As I began to slowly gander down to check I noticed they weren't looking at me but slightly over my left shoulder. I turned to look and found that a bald man wearing shredded jeans, a torn leather coat and a t shirt was staring at me a mere foot or two from my face. Did I mention he was covered in blood? I could see no open wounds like slash marks but he was definitely in some kind of scuffle. There was blood coming from cuts on his cheeks and nose. There was blood on his shirt and jacket. There was blood on his bald head. There was blood on his hands and wallet, which he was holding and riffling through as if he were looking for a condom. People approached and suggested he wait for the police or go to the hospital a block away. He was dazed but responsive as he shook his head "no" and staggered off down the street. Trace, in a bit of a shock said to me, "Holy Mazzola, did you see that guy?" "The guy a foot from my face covered in blood and tattered clothing? No, hadn't noticed." I replied. The crowd followed the unfortunate soul down the street leaving me to my frozen nuts and rigid cables.

Finally, to my great relief, one of the building staff where I was came out and said, "Hey, what happened?" I said that I must have left the lights on and the battery was dead. "No," he said, "I mean with that guy?" I blinked. "What guy?"

We were connecting the cables to his car when the block erupted into a cheesy 70's cop show. No less than three squad cars, sirens-a-blarin' came up the street the wrong way and fishtailed to a stop. The cops hit the street, ready for action. I told them the guy they were looking for was about three blocks away by now. The twitchy officer holding his holster was looking around for a suspect that was no longer. I yelled over, "The guy you're looking for is about three blocks away, you can't miss him." "What did he look like?" "Bald, white, leather jacket, denim jeans. Oh and he's probably the only guy walking down the street covered in blood." Just as quickly, they tore back up the street in reverse, fishtailed forward and sped off, late-coming ambulance right behind.

After a quick charge, the car started and we were almost on our way. The door man came out and asked, "Hey, man, what happened"? "Oh, I must have left the lights on and the battery died." "No, I mean with that guy?" I blinked. "What guy?"

The rest of the morning was full of traffic, missed appointments, double parking and a gas gauge teetering just below "E". On the FDR Drive, southbound toward Brooklyn and home, the car coughed and sputtered. We looked at each other, brows a-raised…

All this before the hour of 9AM……

The Night of the Rainy Afternoon

2008-11-19T15:34:00.001-05:00

The rain was falling cool and crisp and the people were running and fleeing it's baptismal embrace. I was loving the solitary communion with the City of my birth. I was standing in a doorway taking a drag on one of Johnny's older clove cigarettes letting the rain paste my balding scalp with cool drops like little kisses from the sky. I watched the urban socialites with the pulled back plastic faces twisted into permanent smile grimaces running for cabs all flustered and upset. I watched the suits darting between cars and cabs trying to shove their expanding bellies between the raindrops and I watched the delivery guys and construction workers just shrug it all off as another day in the trench. I loved this day and sent a thank you heaven-ward for such a blessing.

It was then that the entertainment got much better.

People shuffled by with their umbrellas like they were in their own personal cones of silence. They looked down trying to avoid contact with each other, trying not to get wet and looking like wet rodents, miserable and cold and lonely. It is the rare sight of a smiling face peering from under the silk and nylon and plastic to the street ahead or to the sky above. Rarer still is the happy soul found splishing though the puddles in a carefree fashion. Usually, they just drone on in miserable silence counting the seconds until they get to their destination so they can complain about the rain. Silly stuff is man made of.

As random luck would have it, I was present on this day when one person passed another person and the tops of the umbrellas collided. The water cascaded down onto the people underneath breaking the zombie drone and snapping them back to life with a snarl instead of being grateful for contact with another living being . It was a, "Hey you got your chocolate in my peanut butter" moment but without the joy that comes with discovering a new and tasty confection. They saw it as an infringement on their personal space. Action was demanded, retribution was at hand. Suddenly the two squared off, umbrellas were drawn tight like rapiers and they engaged, attacked, dodged, feinted, parried and all that other swashbuckler sword fighting stuff.. They chased each other around the street, swiping at one another and shouting things like, "Take that, you fool," and "So you theenk you can defeat me? Well taste my steel!"

As if by chaotic osmosis, others got caught up in the fray and soon the sound of umbrellas snapping shut was all around me. Wet pedestrians spilled out onto the street dueling like pirates in an Errol Flynn movie. In the stores, people were fighting with their umbrellas in the shortened position like little black nylon daggers. I saw the traditional table jump/swipe/cut the candles Hollywood-style in the little diner who's doorway I was occupying. Only the candles were rows of cakes and pies on the counter plus the occasional coffee cup that didn't slice neatly at the touch of an umbrella but rather, clattered across the counter into the lap of a priest who jumped up and shouted, "DAMN YOU!!! DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL!!!" and joined in with not one but two umbrella daggers. Back in the street people were jumping onto the hoods of taxis, kicking over those metal pretzel carts, using old ladies as shields and hurling grapes and apples from the fruit stands. It was a pirate paradise, a swashbuckler's symphony, an umbrella maker's wet dream. Right in front of me two combatants were pounding their rather expensive looking designer umbrellas until they were nothing but tattered fabric and ugly bent metal. People were shouting, umbrellas were clanging together and people were rolling in the wet street. All the while I stood in my doorway puffing the clove and praying that the rain would never stop.

The Night Of The Day We Got Thrown Out Of Church

2008-11-03T22:03:00.001-05:00

PROLOGUE:

Are you one of those people who wishes they had a camera built into their head so you never miss those one-in-a-zillion shots? I happen to be one of those. I learned after missing sunsets, cloudbursts and one instance of two girls making out in Times Square to always have my camera handy. Now I am always ready for what Fate throws at me, photographically speaking. I mean, if Fate decided to send those two amorous girls my way I'd have to be well stocked of chocolate pudding and condoms but I have only so many pockets.

We were walking up Broadway in the Village the other day passing Grace Church, a beautiful turn-o-the-century gothic number that I would love to move into as a primary residence. The only problem with that is it's still a church. It's spooky, awesome, inspiring and grand all in one breath. As always, I snap a few shots so that when I'm rich and famous I can show the architect what kind of house I want built. Take a look for yourselves here http://www.gracechurchnyc.org/toura.htm As I was snapping away Trace noticed a sign that read:

BACH AT NOON

(which I initially took to mean they were at a late breakfast)

Daily Organ Meditations

Tuesday through Friday from 12:30 to 12:45 o'clock

Tuesday September 9 2008

through

Friday May 22 2009

featuring

The Organ Works of Johann Sebastian Bach

Grace Church is open for meditation beginning at

noon on the days of these offerings. The organ

programs are offered informally as part of this

opportunity for reflection at the middle of the day.

CURRENT TIME: 12:17. Groovy. After making sure there was no cover charge we stepped into the massive old structure and strode slowly down the center aisle. As you can see by the pictures, it is a huge space and it had that church smell to it which always reminds me of silence and meditation, and getting smacked by the nuns in Catholic school. We sat ourselves off to the left and begin to notice other people seated around us, all silent and contemplative. Some were even praying. Here were locals deep in communion as a well as a few tourists respectfully looking around.

Suddenly the massive room was filled with the thunder of pipes as Bach began to play. I mean, it wasn't actually Bach, I think he's dead. It seemed to be prerecorded and coming from everywhere. We were struck with how beautiful everything was; the sound, the smell, the stained glass windows and the vaults and arches and buttresses. Totally stunning. I need to get a few pictures because this is just too cool.

OBSTACLE: My little camera has a setting where you can assign sounds to the various functions. For instance, the snapping of the shutter can be made to sound like, well, the snapping of the shutter. There are also other sounds that I happen to favor that are a little unexpected. Because I like a little whimsy in my life, I have set every function to a sound; the power on, focus, shutter, download, setting adjustments, everything. My camera does not go "click, zzzzzt" like your camera, it goes, in particular order, "SPROING, SPLOOP, FIZZOOO, BLIP, BOIIIIIIIIOOOOIIIOOIIONG, POP, AHUGAHHHH, SPLIP, A SPACESHIP TAKING OFF SOUND, RIBBET-RIBBET, and MOOOO". All at high volume.

Trace saw that I produced the camera and she pointed to a few things, "Get that and that and that", said she. I'm snapping away while Bach is shaking the mortar to powder. I shot the stained glass and the organ pipes and even a few of Trace looking sufficiently humbled. I was crazily snapping shot after shot of the ancient structure and the music only fueled my frenzy. I was The Phantom of the Casio 8.1 Megapixel. People were looking but were unsure of what I was doing because I am a Stealth Machine. I shot under my arm, over my shoulder, from down low in my lap. I got the ceiling, the vaults, the cracked plaster and the wood work. I got the old corner stones that were dated from 1912 and the giant wooden pulpit. I turn for a moment and see Tray wide eyed and pinpoint pupiled and suddenly I'm pulled back to reality; the organ music had stopped some time ago and the only sound filling the massive silent space was, "SPROING, SPLOOP, FIZZOOO, BLIP, BOIIIIIIIIOOOOIIIOOIIONG, POP, AHUGAHHHH, SPLIP, A SPACESHIP TAKING OFF SOUND, RIBBET-RIBBET, and MOOOO". All at high volume.

It was then that I noticed the worshippers and tourists looking at us like a pack of brain-hungry Zombies alerted to our presence. It was silent. Dead silent. We looked at them. They looked at us. There was no motion, no sound, only the occasional groan of old settling building. My hand tensed, RIBBET-RIBBET. I turned to Trace who seethed between clenched teeth, "We. Must. Get. Out. Of here." and we slowly stood and made for the aisle and the massive front doors that led to freedom and safety. I attempted to shut the camera by blindly hitting any button until I found the off switch. "SPROING, SPLOOP, FIZZOOO, BLIP, BOIIIIIIIIOOOOIIIOOIIONG, POP, AHUGAHHHH, SPLIP, A SPACESHIP TAKING OFF SOUND, RIBBET-RIBBET, and MOOOO". All at high volume.

We barely escaped with our lives…

I Am A Sexy Chocolate

2008-10-26T16:08:00.001-04:00

We needed a new box of tea for the house so we went to a fancy specialty shop spelled shoppe that sells exotic tea and also happens to be an equally fancy chocolatier which is apparently French for place you get snooty versions of that candy bar you used to get at a corner candy store. Now, I see myself as a regular old school Brooklyn guy. I like my coffee in a paper cup for .75 cents from the diner and if I get an itch for chocolate, I reach for a Hershey's Kiss. I'm not a connoisseur of anything except Star Trek merchandise and excuses as to why I have no acting career so the whole multilevel appreciation of foods and wines is lost on me. I'll drink vinegar and love it if you tell me it's supposed to taste that way but there was something seductive about this place so we ventured in with the caveat that we would not be taken by hoity toity candies.

As soon as we crossed the threshold (which is French for ordinary-doorways-are-for-cheap-corner-candy-stores ) into chocolate heaven we were hit with the scent of chocolate tinged with exotic spice. It was intoxicating. There were literally miles of shelves and displays offering chocolate from different parts of the world from South America to the South Bronx. There were different flavors and tones and hues; chocolate with fruit, chocolate with spices, chocolate with nuts and chocolate with all kinds of combinations of all of these. I never knew you could do so much with a simple candy. Ah, and therein lies the rub, Rube, chocolate, as it turns out, is not so simple a thing. A lot goes into making a quality confection. So much so that it gets pricey. Ever think you'd see a chocolate bar go for $15 American dollars? Me neither but they had several varieties.

Off to one side there was a special counter like you see at the deli but instead of acres of processed meats that serve as the basis for many a great sammich there were chocolates in every configuration. There were drops and cubes and chunks and blobs and bloobs and circles and stars. There were different colors and decorations on each for the different flavors. I was amazed and slowly being lured in by the siren song of cocoa. Along the walls and on the shelves the bars and blocks and drops and powders were all packaged in designer wrappers. Some were stark art-house black and others were colored according to ingredients or country of origin. It was all so…….sexy. I was becoming a chocoholic right here in front of the Raspberry Almond Indian coco blend. I wanted to feel this sexy.

I was slack jawed, drooling and sticking to the front of the glass counter when head popped up from behind it. Attached to the head was a curvy exotic chubby girl whose nametag read Dorothea who asked if I would like a sample. Now, normally, I would turn that into some kind of innuendo thing by responding with something clever like, "Hey baby, as long as it ain't a sperm sample" but I was too busy trying to unstuck myself from the glass so my response sounded more like, "Eth pleath, I'd ike a thample, Dodothea."

The lights suddenly dimmed and time slowed and I could have sworn I heard hypnotic music from somewhere. Seven minutes later I was in the midst of a chocolate orgy and on one of everything. My chocolate goddess lustily handed morsel after morsel over the counter to my waiting mouth and I hungrily and greedily accepted it all with no pressure to buy. I was soon lying on the counter in a cold sweat with my waist expanding obscenely. I wondered how much I could take before I'd be vomiting exotic confections all over the designer counter. No matter, my mouth was hanging open and Dorothea was stuffing me like a Thanksgiving turkey, a sexy chocolate Thanksgiving turkey. I could taste the paprika and pepper on her finger tips and it made me swoon. She took one of the white peppercorn cayenne squares in her teeth, unbuttoned her blouse to the top of her breasts and leaned over to feed me just as a customer walked by aghast and covering the eyes of her impressionable child.

I was beginning to feel sexy.

I was close now, I could feel it. If she moved too quickly I'd blow my cookies right there. Through her subtle sexy accent she whispered, "Hold it right there, baby, hold it there for me and take it, yes…" and she slid me a square of cherry hazelnut from Morocco. That was all I could take, I pulsed and quivered and jumped off the counter to keep from actually throwing up all the chocolate that my little confection stuffed me with. I hit the ground doubled over wondering I'd be able to make it to the door when suddenly Trace appeared equally doubled over. It seems that on the other side of the store there was another counter and another sexy sample person named Xavier. He also had an accent and offered no pressure to buy. She too was seduced by the dark side of milk chocolate. She too wanted to be sexy.

We composed ourselves and emptied our pockets to pool our cash. We walked out with a bar of Belgian milk chocolate with grilled almonds and I came away with a bar of cherries and almonds in dark chocolate. We needed the credit card.

God, I am so….sexy.

I'm Wearing Yesterday's Underwear...

2008-10-23T09:58:00.003-04:00

I'm taking spin classes now at the gym where I excuse myself from being a totally broke performer. I figure as middle age approaches it will be harder to keep from looking like the middle of Jack Nicholson. As such, I sweat through everything I'm wearing as if I were a teenager who just ran into his favorite Playboy Playmate. Now typically, I grab a shower if no one is using it, and if there happens to be one of the girls in the stall and she's under 80, we usually work something out because I'm so incredibly irresistable.

I wasn't out of the shower stall for three seconds when I was immediately called into action like the battle-hardened soldier who was just given weekend passes and an open invite to a Roman orgy. Suddenly I was everybody's urgent Mr. Fixit. I had to deal with everything from computer problems to Johnny needing me "for a few minutes" on a job nearby so I just toweled off and put my clothes on and hit the street. Five hours of construction work later I headed back to the gym to put in three more hours. Spent, I went home, ate and fell fast asleep.

I woke up to a thousand messages on my phone, reminders of the day's errands, and got right to it. I trolled through the audition listings, sent headshot mailings, worked on the screenplay and the live act, made phone calls and realized I had to get to the doc to renew my blood pressure meds and do an oil change on the sensible Honda.

It was then, just as the doctor called me back to the exam room, where I usually end up pantsed for one reason or another, I realized with sickening horror, like the soon-to-be victim of the disfigured slasher in the horror flick you'll be watching this Hallows's Eve who just stepped in the puddle of blood and ooze that used to be his lover's head, that I was wearing yesterdays underwear. Yesterday's spin soaked biohazard that I mistakenly slipped back on in the frenzy of activity.

You know, you learn a lot about yourself when you find yourself standing in a well used pair of underpantaloons getting ready to expose them to your doctor, a total stranger. You discover all the desperate things you'll think of the excuse yourself from the situation. Some things sound smart, some shocking and then there's what I came up with: Sorry, doc, I just "donated sperm" if you know what I mean, so they may be a little sticky....

Outstanding.

My Moment With Tiki Barber

2008-09-17T17:22:00.004-04:00

I decided to bring my ever widening self down to the gym’s spin studio to say I took some action in the War Against Fat. At my age it seems to find me and pile on like bed bugs. Since I am a gym employee I get to spin myself in to the ground as a perk. If you haven’t tried it, I strongly recommend it. There’s nothing like expending a tremendous amount of energy pedaling to get nowhere which is, in the end, a good thing because when you finally collapse you are exactly where you started, near the first aid kit and not six miles away in an non-English speaking neighborhood.

There are 45 bikes in the mirrored room arranged in neat Obsessive/Compulsive rows facing a stage that has a bike and a PA system on it for the instructor. There are monstrous speakers in the back of the room facing in to give the ride a bit of musical encouragement. The music is pumped at an earsplitting THUMP-THUMP-THUMP volume I that suspect is less for groove and more to inspire the class to pedal away from the big noise that makes ears bleed. I like to sit in the back, number 42 so I can hide from the regulars, a bunch of Type A overachievers and entitled Upper East Siders who’s job description is To Expect Service. On occasion, the class is attended by many a local celeb. Today it was NFL pro, Tiki Barber. He’s been in before. An amiable chap with a charming room-warming smile and charismatic presence that naturally draws people to him. Now I’m not much of a sports guy so this is a wasted celeb sighting for me in particular but, like Lucy, I get all googy when in the presence of those in a more famous position than myself.

I’m convinced that in those moments you suddenly find yourself in the presence of a celeb, could be Brad Pitt in the stall next to you or the guy who does the used car commercials in the deli in front of you, you always feel compelled to say something to them in hopes that some of their light will shine upon you and warm you. Or maybe that’s just my hope that some of their Famous will rub off on me and I’ll get that Hollywood rash as well. Today was no different; as I was sweating and pedaling and panting and hallucinating I thought I, of all people, should go up and say hello to Mr. Barber because, you know, it’ll be all cool and we’ll make friends and go for coffee and hang out and get pizza, right?

NOTE: At this point in the retelling Johnny Style said, “Yeah and since you just took class together you can take a shower and suds up together so yous can be all fresh for coffee.” Very funny, Mr. Style. Very funny indeed.

I left the class early to go throw up from the exertion and exhaustion and realized I forgot my water and towel. As I went back, class was letting out and one by sweaty one, the Type A Gotta Sweat Exercise Hamptons Crowd emerged high fiving and ass slapping. I see Tiki’s hulking mass behind them, the only one not grunting and slapping. Here’s my chance to rub elbows and my chance to make a great impression and apparently yet another chance to make a complete fool of myself. As I approached we made unavoidable eye contact because we were both going through the narrow doorway at the same time. I raised an eyebrow to look as charming as possible and begin to say something like, “Hey, Big T., how’s it going?” and extend my hand to shake.

Did I mention they were doing renovations in the studio and that the floor was uneven in places?
It was at that precise moment , the moment I got as far as, “Hey, Big T. –“ that I discovered one of the uneven points, caught it and staggered in horror magnifying slow motion, arms splayed, face contorted into that awful mask of sudden disappointment into the former NFL star who had to catch me inches before it turned into Prom Night Make Out Session. We danced and tussled in the tiny doorway as his skills kicked in and he held me up and steadied me so I wouldn’t break my neck. This was made all the more difficult by the fact that we were both slick with sweat. I think he said, “Hey, how you doin’?” but it could easily have been, “Hey man, get your tongue off my face…!”

All this occurred, by the way, as Mrs. Tiki Barber was standing between he and I in the doorway making for a very strange and sweaty sandwich.

There is a metaphor in here somewhere representing my relationship to Hollywood you know….

41 - and counting...

2008-08-31T23:25:00.002-04:00

Yesterday was my birthday - again. My 41st. I am officially at mid-life, officially in crisis. Where is my great acting career? Where is my big house with the big pool and the hot red Ferrari in the big phallic driveway serving as a metaphor for my inadequacy issues? Where is my 19 year old aerobic teacher named Tammy with the red corvette and the big boobs that seem to hum because they’re so tight?

It seems nobody sent me the memo that reads; It ain't all promised to you. (NOTE: This is where this could degenerate into one of those positivity/productivity blogs where some dope presents an article on how you too can achieve your dreams. I'll save you the long read: Get a dream, get a plan, go. Nobody told me this when I was 18. I was told the following; Get a dream, have your parents shoot it onto the ground, forget about it until it haunts your dreams and gives you ulcers and a bit of impotence. Not that that last part ever happened to me. Just saying.)

I got up early and sat looking at the water. I got all ponderous and did what anyone else in my position would do. I craved cake.

THOUGHT: I used to love birthdays. It was the one day I could take stock of my progress and add a few more details to my dreams. I could get away with anything like grabbing girls by the boobs and pushing small children into the middle of the street. Well, okay, maybe not the middle of the street...After 30th things changed, dreams weren't getting realized and life wasn't getting any easier like I had hoped. Instead it got harder, a lot harder. Then I began dreading birthdays because they reminded me of all that I wasn't getting done. They are like the ass end of your New Year's Resolutions, the day you find out you were totally full of crap when you said on January 1st that you were totally starting a band.

As I prepared to spend the day in a corner in the fetal position the phone rang; Johnny Style was on the other end and he was in bad shape, far worse than I. He was down, morose, glum and teary. There was no cheer in his voice as he weepily wished me a Happy Birthday. I wondered why he was so down and it suddenly struck me; just two days before, our Johnny, King of Fashion, Man With His Pulse On All That is Happening, Mister Up-To-The-Minute had turned...40. And reached obsolescence.

The Conversation:

Dude...40.

Yes, I know. I did it last year and I'm still scraping it off my forehead.

40.

Yep, I know.

Where did the time go. I was just 18. I was just wearing spandex pants and bandanas around my wrist and following Bon Jovi all over the country.

I personally wouldn't lament the loss of spandex or bandanas and you still follow Bon Jovi all over the country only now you've got your 5 year old son into it. I wouldnt' necessarily have looked to make that item a family tradition but, hey, I'm only 41, what do I know?

What are we gonna do, dude? We're old. We're out. We're done. We don't matter anymore. We're not the Pepsi Generation, Miami Vice is now considered a joke. I can't believe this.

Wait wait wait- last year when I crossed this threshold of doom and I had my head in the toilet and I was repeated flushing trying to drown myself you were on the phone telling me, "Aw, Dude, lighten up, it's only a number" and now that it's happened to you it is now okay to fall apart? And by the way, Miami Vice was always a joke, we just didn't get that part. Who the hell said it was cool to go to our high School graduation in a t-shirt and blazer with rolled up sleeves?

It's different for you, you weren't the cool one. You were the nerd who thought you were cool because you told everyone you bought your own condoms when really it was your mother.
(NOTE: That was NOT the case. I bought my own condoms and proudly told everyone because I was doing my part to promote safe sex.) I was always the guy who knew the new bands and styles and trends. Now I'm just out. I need a drink.

I think it sounds like you need a glass of milk and a twinkie....

And so it went for the next hour; me sitting watching the calm waters silently outlining my plans for this year's attempt at Hollywood stardom because I'm just too dumb to give up and take the day job and Johnny Optimism sitting in the dark staring at the demon that crossed my path just 367 days ago. I told him to bone up on his trends because I had no patience for it and fI were to go out on stage again I couldn't afford to look like a fool. I told him 40 was painless, that it wears off and that it helps to have younger friends call you when it happens to them. I asked him if he wanted to go for a coffee but he declined, there was a Bon Jovi sighting somewhere in New Jersey and he was going with his son.

Before I jumped into the shower I thought about how age is so much more than a number, that it's more than a state of mind or a bench mark - and how it really can be nothing at all....

Running for the fence, because my knees still work,
Tommy

Howzis for Irony?

2008-08-27T21:56:00.002-04:00

Shoulda seen that coming

As a budding writer the lesson I take from this is: Do Not Make Lists and broadcast them to the general public for profit.

OR; Do them all and then tell everybody about it.

Exposed

2008-07-29T10:08:00.002-04:00

The assignments from writing class are deceptively complex. I thought they'd be autobiographical fluff pieces designed to get the students to get comfortable with structure but instead they get down deep into stuff I don't necessarily want to talk about because it's not what I choose to let anybody know about me. It makes me feel uneasy having to discuss openly in a class full of strangers what I don't like about my name, etc.

Maybe that's by design. Maybe that's what enables a writer/performer to grow fearless. Maybe that's my problem; I am not fearless and that's what has kept me from certain projects like getting back on a stage. So maybe I now have to see who that guy is in the mirror and what he may be capable of. Maybe this is the best $400 I've spent thus far on this career.

Maybe there's more to this than I give it credit for...

Filling the day

2008-07-24T16:26:00.003-04:00

Arnold, back when he was simply an ambitious bodybuilder, made it a point of filling his day with things that would advance him toward his goals. He and fellow immigrant bodybuilder Franco Columbu joined forces and did in one day what most of us do in a week. A sample: They'd get up and workout at 5am then go to school to learn English then work at the bricklaying company they put together then do homework and finally, finish their workout for the day. The goals were simple; assimilate into American culture, learn how to run a business and get to the top of their sport (which for Arnold also meant making it to the movies).

I often think of this as I lie there glassy eyed wondering where the time went. Blank pages fill notebooks, this page goes without update, canvases remain white and unpainted, etc. I also think of it when I find myself complaining about my day and my life. My freelance work keeps me on an erratic schedule and the gigs don't come as often as I'd like so my week is either full of holes or packed tight with busy bill-paying work.

Today I took my first real writing class for the purpose of tightening my stuff up and giving me a bit of direction. Three hours once a week for ten weeks of writing on the spot, reading aloud and receiving criticism from my peers. I wrote my nuts off in there and drained myself of any creative mojo I had. Gotta tell ya I got a little sweaty. I haven't done anything like this in at least two years. I thought I'd lose my nut but I felt that old familiar rush of performing for a laugh. I also happened to notice the two huge pit stains under my arms. Nerves.

As far as my screenplay effort goes; I have been in touch with a writer pal who is chasing the Dream in California and he has helped shape my story into something much more watchable. Still writing as we speak.

I wish I had something funny to make you laugh but I really need a nap. I wonder if Arnold and Franco figured in naptimes...

In the Strangest Places...

2008-06-30T09:59:00.002-04:00

This quote is credited to Gary Busey, the actor everyone dismisses as crazy:

“When you get lost in your imaginatory vagueness your foresight will become a nimble vagrant.”

Does anyone else see the brilliance of this statement?

Sleeping on the Beach

2008-06-25T21:03:00.000-04:00

That simple phrase conjures so many romantic notions, doesn’t it? Ah, the beach; the open space, the salty air and the crash of the waves, sand castles and ice creams. There are seashells and pretty girls in bikinis.

What could be more relaxing than a nap on the cool evening sand? Especially after a bonfire and a little wine and a snogging snuggle next to someone. Yes indeed, the stuff of great modern literature.

*cough*

I hate the beach. I hate the hot sand under my feet. I hate it when sand gets in your shorts and tries to grind your package down by sandblasting it with every step you take. I hate stepping on sharp clam shells when you try to cool your dogs off in the water. I hate everything about it. But every once in a while it beats sitting on a bench in a park in a filthy city.

There too, is the lure of a relaxing nap snoring to the sound of the crashing surf. Ah, the crashing surf.

TIP: Romantic notions are for idiots. Bonfires and wine and soft curvy girls falling asleep naked next to you in the sand happen only in the movies and cheesy pulp novels. Reality is much more like a cheese grater to the nards. Falling asleep on the beach in the mid afternoon sun leads to nothing but blisters, pain, young children pointing at you shrieking as their parents cover their eyes in horror, that sizzling sound reminiscent of grilling meats and the smell of burning flesh. Stick to your freaking park bench and don’t listen to your old lady’s suggestions.

Don’t ask me how I know.

Screenplay Progress Week 3

2008-06-19T15:39:00.003-04:00

When I was a boy I made a tape of all the songs that made me see something in my mind. They weren't favorite songs or sentimental ones but pieces of music that conjured images, emotions or vivid ideas. I thought if I could string them all together I'd have a soundtrack for a film I'd one day make myself. This was before even the Walkman so I could only play the tape in my room through headphones. I'd sit with a notebook and joyously jot down what I saw passing before my mind’s eye. A few years later I got a brand new Sony Walkman as a gift and that opened an entirely new door in my mind. I could take my music to the actual locations I was writing about and even better, go to new places and have the music paint a new story for me. I made dozens of tapes like this and I took them everywhere I went. These were my work tapes. I had so many ideas that came so fast that I stopped writing them down. They kept coming nonetheless.
After that awful inevitability of growing up took place and robbed me of any sense of youthful exuberance, the Walkman and the tapes and the mental tapestries all disappeared and in their place came the trappings of adulthood; bills, debt, jobs, worrying about the future etc. I forgot what it was like to dream with the transmission in neutral.

I was toiling over the script these past few weeks trying to translate the images in my mind to the page. It was almost painful the block in front of me. The TV was distracting me, the noise outside was distracting me, hell, everything was distracting me. I put my iPod on just to drown everything else out and I nearly fell over. The song was The Big Money by Rush which has an evocative intro and outro. From those two passages images started flowing quite freely and I was soon furiously writing. Suddenly it all came back to me and I dug deep into the closets for some clue to the past. I knew the tapes were long gone save one or two and I certainly didn’t have a tape player of any kind on hand. I did find an old notebook with a few scribbled notes. They were song titles all listed out like a menu to my old films. I immediately compiled a list of songs that seemed to fit my mood, loaded them into the Pod and I was off and running.

I have beginnings, several endings and lots of random passages in the middle that have yet to tie themselves together. I wake up at night with a tune in my head and suddenly, there’s an image passing before me. Out comes the notebook. My work tapes, I guess you’d now call them playlists, are loaded and ready to assist. Let’s see what comes up today…

Lesson Pending...

2008-06-17T16:42:00.002-04:00

Johnny Style called on me to help him move or more importantly, lift a very heavy wall unit for his new apartment. Apparently, his wife wasn’t man enough to help despite looking otherwise. We met the guy from Craigslist and humped the multi-shelved monster from his apartment into Johnny’s truck. Luckily, unlike other Johnny Style Moving Adventures, I did not leave my testicles bouncing at the scene. We used straps and wheels to painlessly get it from apartment building to street to truck. I thought the unit looked a little too big to get through the doors of his new place and into his living room but he insisted it wasn’t a problem. I still had my doubts.

We sat in his truck in front of his place for about a half hour pondering why the unit looked a lot smaller in the picture and if he could remove the doors and frames without making noise. We decided to hump it around the back past trees and over a thick lawn, so no more straps and wheels, and through the ground floor utility room which has access to his apartment. We were very careful not to drop it because he didn’t want to gouge deep trenches in his new landlord’s new lawn. We did however knock over an expensive looking lawn statue. Six of those little tubes of crazy glue later and the damage was barely noticeable. Unless of course, you were within five feet or so.

Johnny made a quick assessment of the door in the back and the pass through the utility room which was littered with exposed plumbing and duct work. He decided the bulky solid unit would slide rather nicely past all the obstacles right in to his new place and come to rest peacefully opposite the couch.

TIP: When moving furniture it is wise to take into account that even though your unit may just get though various doors and past the ancient hot water system, it will undoubtedly not bend around tight hairpin curves and if, by some chance you do get it around the corner and into the door frame, the saddle may take up just enough space to firmly wedge the unit between the ceiling and the floor making it a permanent testament to the folly of man.

We got the unit around the tight corner without violating any laws of physics, into the doorway and promptly got it good and stuck in the frame. Johnny, undeterred said he get on the inside and see if he could jostle it a bit. Now he could have gone around the house, up the stairs, into his place, down the stairs and into the utility room but that was simply too much work. I was about to suggest just going round when he decided to stuff himself through the tiny opening in the corner of the door frame and hop over the rickety banister that was precariously in the way on the other side. Before I could say “swollen testes” he had already disappeared behind the behemoth. I heard him proclaim victoriously, “I’m in!” followed by a kind of “allyoop” sound as he made fast to hurdle the banister. It was then that I heard the sound of dry wood splintering, plaster board shattering like breaking glass, a body rolling onto then off of the stairs and into a wall full of tools which all jingle jangled in chorus. Then I actually saw the banister coming up and arcing over the wall unit and getting stuck between the door frame and the ceiling. The dragon had been slain, St. George oblivious and rubbing his posterior was facing the new challenge of standing upright somewhere in the dragon’s lair.

“Would this be a good time to remind you that it would be easier to go round the front of the house?” I asked gently. After several hours of manipulating very heavy wood and inevitably leaving my testicles somewhere in his yard, we got the thing into his living room. As I sat there with an ice pack on my ice cubes Johnny came in with the banister remnants and tucked them neatly into his closet. He responded to my quizzical look with “I’ll get to it eventually”. “But won’t your new landlord wonder what happened to his basement railing?” I offered. “I’ll just tell him my wife did it while doing the laundry. She won’t mind.”

And that is how Johnny Style missed the following simple lessons:

1. Just because it fit in your place in the picture doesn’t mean it will in reality,

2. Don’t break your new apartment before writing first rent check,

3. Crazy Glue isn’t as strong as you think it is and,

4. Don’t blame your lack of finesse on your wife who has pent up rage issues.

Class dismissed.

The Day I Discovered Fire

2008-06-04T10:30:00.001-04:00

Last week the Uncle brought over a spiffy new cast iron griddle for my stove. It goes over a front and a rear jet giving you either a smooth cooking surface for eggs and pancakes or a ribbed (for her pleasure) side for meats and veggies (also for her pleasure). This was because we didn't have a barbecue for the usual Memorial Day tradition of grilling anything that stood still long enough; chicken, shrimp, that old tire out back.

NUGGET: Urban apartment dwellers are verboten to have grills of any kind on balconies or roof tops. Something about a fire hazard which baffles me since my balcony is all stone and no wood. Go figure.

I decided to take it slow as the extremely heavy piece of metal came with instructions. There would be no pig roast this afternoon. There were notes on how to prep the surface, how to clean it and how to store it so it won't rust and simply become a piece of exercise equipment or a weapon. I fired up the stove and made a bunch of scrambled eggs just like the guys in the metal carts on the corners in Manhattan; two eggs, cheese, potatoes on a roll and coffee. Yum. They came out great so I decided next to try chicken. And fish. And vegetables. At the same time.

This is where my memory gets a little foggy because of the fire suppression devices.

I prepped the griddle and the food and pulled the battery out of the smoke detector. As soon as the fish and the chicken hit the gill they made that appetizing sizzle sound just as my uncle Know-It-All asked me if I used any kind of no-stick cooking spray.

Non-stick cooking spray? Why, no.

The meat and the fish sizzled and smoked and fizzled and spattered. The Uncle and the Brain were oohing and ahhing at my culinary prowess. MY brow was sweaty and my muscles were rippling as I deftly handled the spatula. Meanwhile, the veggies just kind of sat there limply jealous of the action occurring on either side of them. That was until I had the bright idea to splash oil all over them.

OBSERVATION: The range over my stove has no outside ventilation. As a result, the little fan and little filter that make that weak strained whine are about as useful as a dash-mounted play station in your SUV (yes, they have them).

The food on the grill began to smoke beyond the capability of the range to absorb the plume. Soon, a cloud of white smoke was billowing from under the range hood. I was furiously flipping the meat over and turning the veggies but bits and pieces were sticking to the non no-stick grill surface. Soon there was actual fire on the surface as the food began to char into the iron surface. It was a carnal extravaganza set alight. I pulled the food off the grill but the stuck pieces continued to cook then burn then smoke. I frantically shut the flames off the stove as the metal continued to superheat in hopes that would quell the blaze.

TIP: Even though there is no flame under it, a superheated cast iron slab retains heat to an almost nuclear level vaporizing anything on the surface. In fact, I'd go so far to say it still grew hotter.

I stood there with my plate full of perfectly grilled foods while the remainder on the stove smoked and burned. The apartment was so thick with smoke that I couldn't see anybody in front of me. The smoke detector, had it been plugged in would have made direct contact with the fire department by now. I put the plate down, donned a pair of oven mitts and made for the griddle. The heat coming off the metal was so strong that I needed to hose myself down to prevent myself from igniting. I grabbed the iron, kicked open the balcony door and threw it on the terrace. It hit the concrete floor with a resonant THOING and proceeded to set the plants on fire. I ran inside knocking over my aging uncle and got a pot of water.

TIP: I was later told that to stop an iron plate from summoning forth Armageddon it is best to douse it in either salt or baking soda, not water. Who knew?

I ran back outside knocking my uncle over once again and splattered the griddle, the deck and the plants with water. The cloud of steam and the loud SIZZLE sound were enough apparently to attract the attention of the neighbors, the super, every tenant on the floors above mine and quite possibly the Coast Guard and/or Google Earth.

When it was over I was standing there with my clothes perfectly wrinkle free, my hair matted to my head and my balcony looking like the inside of an oven. The grill had lost its metal sheen and was now an ashy black with little bits of once living matter forever fused to its surface. It would take weeks to clean it all off. Maybe I should just stick to making salads.

First Snag

2008-05-31T19:37:00.002-04:00

I've been working on the screenplay quite a bit this week. I'm trying to get the images from my mind to the page. Screenplays are written in a specific format, which means that's another skill I have to learn. No prob. For example, if I were to tell you what was happening in my living room right now in screenplay format it would go like this…

INT. DAY

TOM is sitting in front of his computer while several beautiful women are undressing in his living room. ESMERELDA enters from the bathroom in nothing but a towel.

WOMAN #1

Do you have any chocolate pudding mix to add to the bath water?

WOMAN #2

Or perhaps can you bring in a sandwich when you care to join us?

TOM looks up from his computer long enough to realize the woman are now all naked and smearing MARSHMALLOW FLUFF on each other.

Well, you get the idea.

So my question is…how do you write a screenplay for a film that has no dialogue?

Lots of bolded abbreviations I suppose. Natch.

Here and Now...?

2008-05-26T17:14:00.003-04:00

It is said that if an actor's phone isn't ringing then that actor isn't working. To offset that problem the actor has to figure out how to keep working until the phone does ring. They should start a production company or put on a play or even shoot a film of their own. That last choice has been a favorite undone thing on my to do list for some time. But there needs to be a story to tell and not just a Johnny Style story. I had bits and pieces on scraps of paper but nothing coherent. Then, rather suddenly, it all fell into place...

I had this story come to me I'm dying to tell, compelled to tell actually. The events are real, true and accurate. At least in my imagination they are. The emotions connected are 100% on the money. I sat and watched each piece of the story slip along side the other as it unfolded in my mind. But then I thought perhaps it was all a little too good. I started to sour on the subject because the negative side of it emerged from the shadows and dampened my new found passion. Then something happened to me in the street that made me realize the story does need to come out, that I need to tell it and I need someone to hear it and even identify with it. It presents as a complete story on film.

It has no dialogue. It has no fancy locations or expensive sets. It is sparse because I didn't want you to see it as much as feel it. There are only two actors, a garage, a car and a man's memory. I have the man, the memory and the garage. I lack the car, the money, the equipment, the experience, the skill and the crew. All solvable as I also have the passion that is so very necessary to tell any story effectively. I could learn the skills I need, raise money, rent equipment, assemble a crew and find a car.

All this to get something off my chest, to prove a point, to begin a career and jump start a dream, to get ahead, to get noticed and to reconcile in my mind, my father in death whereas I couldn't do it in life. In short, I need this. I need to make this real, to tell a story that's been knocking around my life since before I was born. I need to tell it and I need you to know it because maybe you feel it too, maybe for your father or mother. All my dreams ride on doing this one thing.

It will be at least 8 months before a single frame of film is shot. I have no idea what I'm doing or how I'll do it but its out there now and it will only be mine for
short time before it fades away.

Why don't you sit on the stoop with me, I'll put up some coffee and I'll tell you about it...

2008-05-07T17:53:00.001-04:00

I was at a party the other night. Not a cool club party or an industry networking op but a family birthday party. I’m not cut out for such social gatherings. In fact I think
I’m too old for such things. I usually find myself sitting alone with a warm cup of diet soda because everyone there is in recovery. Not a drop of anything that takes an edge off. My wife is usually chatting it up with the other birds which leaves me sitting alone in a corner with a pristine view to watch events unfold.

It was a typical meeting of family and friends catching up and carrying on. I decided that since it was a 60th birthday that I should make an attempt at dressing up. I wore the only suit I own sans tie. I look good in a suit; I just hate wearing one, which might be why I look so good in it. I found I was the only one in attendance among the khaki and pull over crowd. I was complimented by literally every family member on how good I look. It was not the kind of, “Hey man, that suit is you…you’ll get some leg tonight for sure” compliment but the, “Holy crap, you actually can dress like an employed person” comment. Huge amount of bonus points if you got the lyrical reference.

Suddenly there was music. Loud music. Loud awful music programmed into someone’s iTunes. Suddenly the lights were dimmed and this little gathering turned into a disco partaaaay.

Why does it always have to be Donna Summer? Why does it always have to be Funkytown and Celebrate? Why are they always followed by We Are Family and The Bee Gees? Do people not know there were several danceable tunes written after 1979? Why does every family party have to be like a wedding? I was waiting for Last Dance and MacArthur Park.

As I sat there sipping warm diet coke I wondered how long it would take before the next layer of Dante came into being. Would there be singing? A conga line? A relative drunk on the aspartame in diet ginger ale trying to pull me onto the dance floor? I didn’t have to take but two more sips before I got my answer. Suddenly as if out of nowhere there was a gaggle of middle aged women on the makeshift dance floor shaking various booties, bellies and boobies.

NUGGET: There is something about a gathering like this that compels middle aged women to get together and dance in the most frightening of ways. Dance is supposed to be elegant, graceful and/or at least pretty to look at. This was not. This was more like a group of people collectively trying to shake themselves out of their undergarments without using their hands. They all did the same dance, moving in the same manner; body slightly pitched forward so the buttocks is sticking way out, hands equidistant in relaxed fists pushing downward as if to will the undies down around their ankles. Or there was the raise the roof variant. There were women dancing on the fringes of the room as if to purposely block me in so I couldn’t go to the bathroom, refresh my drink or sneak out the side door. They were awkwardly shaking it by the bathroom, by the kitchen, by the exit signs, around tables and by the buffet line. They were stiffly swaying on chairs and by the desert table. They were everywhere hypnotically moving as if they were a group of those little armed big bottomed dinosaurs, the T-Rex. Imagine if you will a herd of these pear shaped carnivores shaking their little arms and stiffly shimmying their big round bottoms to the pulsing beat of nostalgic soundtracks to their lives. The kind of happy movement that makes them all remember the good old days of high school, back seats and jelly donuts. There was one, count’em one man in the whole pack – and he had actual rhythm! This large round older chap was moving with the grace of an aging Denny Terrio (look him up) all sliding and gyrating and swaying. He looked as if he could score any or all of these women in the same night. I raised my plastic cup of warm diet caffeine-free cherry coke in salute of the only white man with rhythm within 25 miles. It’s a shame he was the same guy I ran into in the bathroom earlier who didn’t wash his hands…

A Moment of Clarity

2008-04-07T17:27:00.004-04:00

I was confronted last week by my small entourage consisting of Tracy Brains, Johnny Style and Special K, The Dirty Secretary. That's the girl who couldn't figure out why she slept topless in front of her mother.

While we ate All-U-Can eat sushi (what I call Pearl Harbor's Revenge)my little posse reminded me that I was wasting my life acting like a gym teacher instead of acting like an actor an a writer. These people believe in me as do many others. One of my customers, a 72 year old woman said at our last training session that she'd really love for me to write the book while she's still alive to read it. I have a friend in San Francisco whom I've never met face to face who has all the confidence in the world in me. They tell me often that if anyone here can do it, it should be me. I happen to agree. The problem is I don't have a drug problem nor am I an alcoholic. I'm just a dope from Brooklyn who can't believe in himself or muster the energy long enough to get out of his own way. So I really don't have an excuse - unless you count stupidity.

That was last week when I was content to live all my dreams within the confines of my head.

I saw an ad for a new book of humorous essays from a new author. Intrigued since I do that type of writing I looked into this. I didn't find it funny at all. Subjective, I know but I'm entitled. I got angry and started huffing. First I was mad at the author for publishing an ode to mediocrity then later, as I calmed down, I got angry at myself for continuously thinking "One Day..." It's every person's right to put their dreams into action and if there are enough people who see it, they may become successful at it. However, having pages and pages of stories sitting in a notebook or on a blog that seven people read makes for a very frustrated and self-flagellating author.

The point is, if they can do it, I can do it. So I looked through my blogs and files and notebooks and found close to 300 chapters, short stories and essays that I can toy with for possible publication.

So I've made a public declaration. Let's see if I can stick to it..........