Fickle, Thy Name is Me

Last year, I wrote this post about a fanboy crush I had developed on a singer/dancer/TV host from Australia named Marc Savoia. As ever, I continue my fascination and lust for men who're so far out of my league that I might as well be playing another sport.

Oddly, really early this morning, I got a comment on that post (¾ of a year later? someone's been Googling Marc Savoia, clearly), and this commentator wanted me to know that Marc would be back for a second season of Round Trip Ticket on MTV/Logo, and that said commentator had also found Marc Savoia's website.

Never one to pass up eye candy, I took a gander at Mr. Savoia's site, and I've come to the conclusion that my obsession was misplaced.

Well, that's not entirely true. He's obviously wicked hot. But I remember finding his goofy, crazy, exuberant energy attractive. Something of that is missing on his website. Most of the gallery photos have him being all modelly, which — though he's obviously hot — makes him seem as though he might be taking himself a little too seriously. Maybe that's the photographer's fault.

Or it just might be proof of my long-held belief that the harder you try to be sexy, the less sexy you are.

Or maybe I'm just full of shit.

'Cuz you know Marc Savoia is just plowing his way through life thinking, "I wonder what Joe Schulz thinks? Does he approve? I'll be crushed without his approval."

In any case, Fozzie's got nothing to worry about wherein ol' Marc Savoia's concerned.

Sometimes...

... you just feel like listening to love songs.

Pride+Rain=Fun?

Well, I did it.

I went to my first Gay Pride event. Ever.

Several people have remarked that it was a little lackluster, this year. The participants not as exuberant, the weather too nasty, the fun not as fun.

I say them nay. I had a great time. Granted, it was my first, so I don't have parties of years past to which to compare it, but what the hey. A fellow inmate at The Velvet Prison™ told me the story of the Delta Airlines delegation, whose inflated, blimp-like airplane float was nixed by the cops at the last minute for safety concerns. Apparently they were afraid that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it, and despite the Delta folks having all the requisite permits and permissions, just arbitrarily shot it down. So to speak.

Still, despite its apparent flaws, I had a really good time. I met up with Topher at his place around 2 p.m. I was under the mistaken impression

that the parade went down 6th Avenue, so I was a little taken aback when I exited the subway at 6th & 16th to discover no crowds at all.

My bad.

So we trundled over to 5th Avenue, and I was swallowed by the experience that is Gay Pride. It was quite something. At first, I was a little put off by just how loud it was. We happened upon the parade as a contingent of prideful Bronx residents went by on their sound system-laden float. Their loud sound system-laden float. Like, ear-bleeding loud.

Of course, as a short guy, being at the back of the crowd didn't make it so easty to see. My first impression of the parade wasn't so great.

But, like all good things, patience and tenacity were required.

We wended our way down to the Village, where we met up with a friend of Topher's who hooked us up with rooftop access along West 8th, right along the parade route. Killer, baby.

It was here where we saw this truck leading a group of flag-twirling homosexuals. They were pretty good, and I think they deserve extra props for coming up with their group name. Just inventing that name is reason enough to start a flag troupe, I think. I'm just saying.

This guy spent most of the afternoon giving me a heart attack. He was pretty liquored up (or at least seemed that way) and danced and gyrated on the edge of the abyss all day.

I was convinced he was going to plunge to his death. His antics, however, greatly pleased Topher's friend, who grew increasingly anxious to make his acquaintance as the afternoon rolled on.

There were a surprising – to me – number of corporate sponsors with floats in the parade. L'Oréal had – if not the greatest float – the most enthusiastic and energetic participants. And, on balance, the cutest. The L'Oréal crew was so chock full of cute men that I wondered if there were any straight people at the company at all. Not that I'd be complaining if there weren't. Who better to take care of your skin that looks-obsessed homos and lesbians? I'm just saying. Anyway, the young men who were the vanguard of L'Oréal's float were just cute as buttons, and the folks dancing on the float had enough energy to light up a small midwestern city. Yay them, say I.

Speaking of enthusiasm, there was this guy. This guy was your average – you'll pardon the pun – Joe. Not some 0% body fat Chelsea Clone. That just had to hurt his wrists. Or maybe I'm just old.

Oh, and remember the guy who was hanging from the fire escape on the building across the way? He eventually climbed down to the street level and joined the parade. Here we see him dancing with the guys from Congregation Beth Simchat Torah. The gay Jews.

This is part of what I loved about Pride. I got a surprising feeling of community from the experience. Not my usual "beautiful people making me feel invisible" experience of large gatherings of The Gays. I felt like I was a part of something larger; a group with which I could identify myself. It was really cool.

Okay, so here's the crazy part. After the parade, but before I went off to meet Fozzie (to whom I'd promised a reunion evening after his weekend away), we wandered west to a party given by some other friends of Topher's.

It was filled with a very interesting array of people, from a dermatologist with the most beautiful tanned skin I've ever seen on a man who looked like a Chelsea Clone, to a big, bearish composer dude whose signature introduction was, "XXXXX is my name." Every time he was introduced. I Xed it out for privacy's sake, but I'll tell you what: No one at that party forgot his name. Which I'm sure was the point.

Most interestingly, there was a guy there (accompnanied by a pixie-ish little fellow with glitter for eye-liner) who introduced himself thusly: "I'm So-and-So. I run a rent boy concern, and this is my latest acquisition, So-and-So" at which point he indicated Sr. Twink.

You could have knocked me over with a feather.

I work in the theater, baby. And I've seen porn films. There's not much that The Gays can do that surprises me. But this was the first time I'd ever actually met a gay pimp and his ho.

New York City is a wonderland, my friends.

Not that I regret the evening with Fozzie (who, poor dear, had a sore throat and needed some luvin'. Not that kind, you freak), but I'm told that after I left, the place became a veritable cornucopia of shirtless muscle queens. Oh, to have been a fly on that wall.

So that's my pride experience. It was pretty cool. I'll do it again next year, as long as I have access to a roof top from which to watch it.

And another invitation to a party full of weird, interesting, prideful (and hopefully inclusive) folk.

On the Town. I Think.

Okay, this is the surest sign that I'm getting old.

I have these two pictures of Fozzie that I took while we were out and about. But I have absolutely no recollection of what we were doing or when we were doing it. Clearly, we were waiting for the train back to his apartment, but what night? And what were we out doing that we were in the city?

I'm clueless. Totally and completely clueless.

I just remembered. It was Thursday last. Fozzie was leaving the next morning for a weekend away at a friend's wedding. We were having a sleepover. He gave me a bloody nose.

See? I'm not so old.

[He didn't really give me a bloody nose. But our... activities did open up a shaving wound that refuses to heal and keeps bleeding profusely. Hateful.]

Everyone Can Suck

Even me:

Just Because²

Once again, I'm nattering on with nothing really important to say.

Have you noticed that I'm most silent when the most important things in my life are happening? In times of turmoil, or pressure, or thought, or great life change, I tend to take a page from the playbook of a dear friend and just shut my trap. Often to the point that everyone around me wonders if something is wrong. Which, of course, there usually is.

I don't think that's the case right now (unless there's something going on that I so don't want to deal with, I'm keeping even from myself. But there is something that's been happening a lot lately, and that's that I find myself out, wandering the city or interacting with friends, and snapping photos everywhere I go.

Hence, another entry with lotsa recent photos, and precious little in the way of substantive thought.

You'll forgive me, right?

First off: You remember when I told you about my birthday, and how Kenny had supplied a ready-made evil dictator helmet, complete with official symbol? Well, there's the symbol of my terrifying reign, my friends. The Bat is coming to get you. Sure, it's been done before, but not quite with this sense of menace, I think. Back off, naysayers. When I'm King of Everything™, you won't be snickering.

Just needed to get that outta the way.

So: You know how much I love to take what I hope are harmless, voyeuristic photos of complete strangers, right? This is the ultimate caught-in-the-wild shot. I was right over this guy's shoulder as he was in the Philadelphia train station waiting to board the train to New York. This would, I guess, have been taken on June 11, the day I finished The Stinky Cheese Man. He looks like he's even more anxious to get to New York than I was.

You'll also recall that a while back Ken invited me to see Dagmar, an alt-rock opera band the lead vocals of which were sung by an acquaintance, Meghan McGeary. I think they'd done a show together at some point in the past. Anyway, I took a lot of bad, poorly-lit photos that night, but this one is probably my favorite. It's of Meghan having fun in her alt-rock opera character, She. The band really does kinda rock, even though the idea of a group styling itself as an alt-rock opera band seems, well, pretentious. You should check 'em out.

Who's the coolest, hippest, smartest, funniest Bengali homo around? Mohip, that's who! This is a wickedly-close close-up of my friend Mo, of whom I don't get to see enough. We got together the week before last to see X-Men: The Last Stand [Capsule review: Feh]. While we were killing time before our matinee of the movie, we wandered the Village, and I forced him to let me take photographs in Washington Square. Mo's every bit as critical of himself as I am of myself, so, needless to say, he hates this picture. I don't care, I think he's adorable.

I definitely don't think that the new Hearst Building is adorable. They've gutted the base of the former Hearst Building and now a glass tower rises out of the old base, and the juxtaposition of old and new is kinda lost on me. I like both elements seperately, but not so much together. I'm definitely out of step with most people who see the building. It's been called the best thing to hit New York's skyline in twenty years. Just goes to show you: I don't have much taste.

Or maybe I do and no one else does. Hmmm. I think "That way madness lies."

Before the rains came again, I was spending a lot of time wandering the city after work; taking walks, checking out people on the subways, that kinda thing. Very often I'll just continue to shoot stuff that looks interesting to me without ever really reviewing what I've got until I sit down to download the collected photos to my computer. Thus, I discovered only at the end of about a week's worth of shooting that, somewhere along the way, I'd set the camera to black and white, and got the series of images below:

The image of those pylons sticking up out of the water — something I've photographed before — suddenly took on a whole new meaning for me. I didn't know that those pylons marked the site of the original Chelsea Piers, which were famous in the 1970s as a place of gays to hang out, sunbathe and, more specifically, cruise for sex. I recently saw the documentary Gay Sex in the 70s, and it detailed — with a lot of photos and interviews — exactly what the piers, which were decaying and falling into the Hudson River even then, were like. It was a pretty seedy atmosphere, but a joyously seedy one, I think. I wonder what it would have been like to live as a gay man then, before the cloud of the pandemic hovered over your every decision. It's interesting to think about, and also a little sad; to think of all the people we've lost because of HIV and AIDS. And it's enough to make you wanna shake your fist at the kids today who think they're indestructible again. But that's another entry.

Fill 'Er Up & Check the Oil

Apparently monkeys, like the classic Volkswagon Beetle, have their motors in the rear compartment, as you can see. I think this guy is checking his friend's oil level.

At the very least, he's checking under the hood or, as our Brit friends might say, "the boot."

Sorry, Fozzie...

... don't be hurt. I wouldn't trade you for the world, but Alistair Appleton is just plain mouth-dryingly, brain-numbingly hot:

What's Wrong With This Picture?

So, what, one wonders, would the Suits at the home office have to say about the spelling on this sign outside the Coldstone Creamery in Astoria, NY?

Not much that's good, likely.

The Unbearable Lightness of Apple

So, you know that I have a checkered past with money, and as a result I live without credit cards.

Maybe you didn't know that, but I do.

It's not by choice. The credit card companies don't trust me with their money yet. And I don't blame them. Someday, after I've crawled to Rome on my knees and cleaned up my mess, they will, but for now, not so much.

It makes life difficult when you want to rent a car, but otherwise, I'm kinda happy that I don't have much debt. And what debt I have is disappearing. Which is good.

But there are times when my impulse-buy personality can get me into trouble. Champagne tastes on a beer income, as it were.

I had just such an experience the other day when I wandered into the new Apple Store on 5th Avenue. I was bound and determined to get a new pair of earbuds (budget: $39+tax) for my iPod Shuffle (which, I'll remind you, I didn't actually purchase for myself, but was given as a gift last year by a rather kick-ass boss).

It was like walking into the lion's den, my friends.

It was all I could do -- wandering pie-eyed among the gleaming, beautiful electronics -- to resist the call of the new iPod. A little devil on my shoulder kept whispering, "You know, you've got $450 dollars in your bank account. And then some. If you spend it on a new iPod, you'll make up the missing money by the time rent's due again!"

Which may or may not be true, but isn't, really, the point. I've got other things to be spending that money on, in addition to rent. Like bills, for instance. Or, if there's extra maybe, say, getting my computer fixed. Or, first in line, paying back a generous recent loan by a family member.

But see, my brain doesn't work that way, dear friends. I'm an instant-gratification sorta guy. When presented with something I want -- particularly a shiny piece of electronic gadgetry -- my eyes tend to gloss over and the part of my brain that deals with long-range planning and consequences just kinda goes away.

It's true. The major monetary disasters I've experienced in my life have been entirely because of the inbred brand of consumerism run amok that television advertising teaches us. I just do it like I'm on speed with the fiscal shut-off gene not installed on my DNA helix. I don't blame anyone but me, by the way, but there it is.

Thankfully, this time I escaped unscathed. I was tempted -- like Jesus at Gethsemene, only without the god complex -- and came out the other side. I felt a little like Kate Blanchett as Galadriel in The Return of the King, after Frodo offers her the One Ring. Only without the whole blue face thingy.

On and On

Here's another one of those entries where I have nothing in particular to say, and distract you from the fact that I'm not being particularly entertaining by showing you some of my favorite recent pictures.

Clever, no?

On Memorial Day I came back from Philadelphia to spend my days off in the city, and Topher and I hung out with the delightful Christine. I forced both of them to pose for me on the Christopher Street Pier (otherwise known as "The Gay Beach"). Hence the shot to the left and the voyeuristic shot to the right. I couldn't let that one pass by.

We had, by the way, a delightful dinner at a former speak-easy called Chumley's. Highly recommended if you're in New York for a visit and want to check out a cool place. Or if you're actually living in New York and want a place to take visitors. Good luck finding it, though.

I took a lot of photographs in Philadelphia, considering that I didn't have a lot of spare time there. Most of my down time was spent coming back to New York to get in some hours at The Velvet Prison™, so that working in the theater for a couple weeks wouldn't completely bankrupt me.

I found myself staring up at the sky a lot in Philly. When it wasn't raining, that is. Hence the series of photos of skylines. I find myself, lately, really being drawn by images with really strong perspectives in them. An indication, perhaps, that I'm seeking a straight and easy path to my goals?

Or maybe it just means that I like perspective shots. One never knows.

In any case, I especially like this one I caught of the alley behind the theater during the tremendous downpour we had on June 2nd. Cuh-razy. I got soaked through, even though I was wearing my rain slicker. Thankfully, my messenger bag from Timbuk2 repelled the evil rain. For a while, I seriously feared for my camera, which was packed away in there. Yeesh.

Anyway. Philly wasn't all work and no play. I did get to go to the theater shop crew's party the night of the thunderstorm. It was at the party that I was introduced to this beauty, Molly. She consented to letting me take her picture, even though I'm told she doesn't generally suffer the paparazzi to come near her.

Robert Frost Knew My Mind

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud
And goes down burning into the gulf below,
No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud
At what has happened. Birds, at least must know
It is the change to darkness in the sky.
Murmuring something quiet in her breast,
One bird begins to close a faded eye;
Or overtaken too far from his nest,
Hurrying low above the grove, some waif
Swoops just in time to his remembered tree.
At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe!
Now let the night be dark for all of me.
Let the night be too dark for me to see
Into the future. Let what will be, be.'

- Acceptance

Only in New York

I got this e-mail from Kenny late Tuesday night. Oddly, he tried to get me to go on this audition with him, but I resolutely refused, having promised the evening to Fozzie:

I feel I should relate the following to everyone I told I'd be auditioning for a documentary film for TV:

I had another "only in New York" experience today. I got a lead on what I thought was an audition for a new reality show on cable TV called SHOW ME NEW YORK where they wanted people to show their favorite parts of the city. I phoned an inquiry this morning and they set up a time to meet me in the afternoon. I had to get a buddy to audition with so I called my friend Virginia. I met with one of the producers and apparently impressed them enough with my ideas that they said they'd be filming my segment this evening at 5:15!

So, at the appointed hour I get to the meeting place, and the Children's Zoo at Central Park was chosen as the place we would go to film my segment. The contact person said that a car would be coming to pick us up and transport us. We waited. Finally she said that the car was held up in traffic that we'd have to take a cab up. She asked me to hail down a cab, I do and get one immediately. Virginia get into the cab- it's one of those giant ones. The driver is American! I comment on the unusual nature of having a cabbie who can speak intelligible English...or any English for that matter. I look around the cab- it's rather nicely appointed with postcards posted on the dividers for us to look at- suddenly, the ceiling of the cab bursts into multi-colored flashing lights!, music with a heavy back beat blasts from the sound system! and the cabbie turns around to us and says: Welcome to CASH CAB!!!!

Apparently, we had fallen into a game show.

The driver explained the rules of the game to us. We listened in a glazed over haze of disbelieve. One of the rules said that if we missed three questions we'd lose any money we'd won up to that point and the driver would dump us out of the cab. Virginia agreed for us that that sounded reasonable except for the dumping us out short of our destination clause. We explained that we had to shoot a segment of a documentary at the Zoo and couldn't be late. It was then further explained to us...in retrospect, I think we were still in shock...that the documentary was a hoax to get us on the game show. Then I noticed the camera...which was cleverly hidden in a silver dollar sized hole cut out of the postcard not 10 inches from my face. And I also spied the camera hidden in plain sight right next to it. (No need to comment on my finely honed actor's skills of keen observation.)

So, the game was to answer a series of trivia questions which progressed in difficulty and winning power as we honed in on our destination. We had 15 seconds to discuss answers between ourselves- in an animated and fun but totally natural and relaxed way, and then as I happened to be sitting in the seat with the best vantage for the camera, I was to give our final answer. If we had any trouble with coming up with an answer we could either phone up a friend for help, or make an appeal to a pedestrian on the sidewalk. We breezed through the $10.00 not even pausing to think. The $50.00 questions were indeed a little harder, but we did ok without outside help. We fell down on one or so of the $100.00 questions. We opted to phone a friend for help on a question concerning economic history. (They weren't kidding when they said the $100.00 questions were hard!) We forgot that in these modern times, no one answers their cell phone when they don't recognize the caller! (Thank you Christopher. Thank you Mary. Could have been on TV...) Finally we got Virginia's boss on the phone, and she gave us the correct answer! All praise and honor due to you, oh Peggy. At any rate, we managed to reach our destination before we had missed the requisite 3 questions which would have gotten us pitched penniless on the pavement. We were ready to exit the cab with our $500.00 winnings gratefully pocketed when the cabbie turned to us and asked if we wouldn't care to double our winnings by answering one more question...

We debated for a fraught two minutes. Our decision was that since we had come into the day with no money, that it wouldn't hurt to leave it that way- we'd at least have a good story to tell. So we risked our winnings. This next part hurts. We were asked to give the names of the three lunar modules on the most recent mission to Mars. Hurts just hearing about it, doesn't it? Well, in case you're wondering it's Serenity, Spirit, and...oh...something else. I forget.

Like I said, I now have a good story. And I am pleased to say that I did not behave like a typical game show jackass and jump up and down to excess and squeal maniacally with each correct answer I gave. I was a dignified, cordial, and happy contestant. And a graceful loser.

Afterwards, Virginia and I took a little stroll in the park to wind down from our whirlwind experience. I couldn't afford to go into the zoo because...well, I didn't win anything and I had about $5.00 on me which I spent on an ice cream for Virginia and I. A bird pooped on my head. Twice. This happened within the space of five minutes, which leads me to believe that the little sucker was being deliberate. And that's just mean. That was a mean spirited little bird. A sparrow, I think. Normally, I quite like sparrows, They're so fat and poofy and seemingly sweet natured; but I have to admit to really resenting this particular bird. I suppose I ought to be thankful it wasn't a pigeon. Feeling unclean and outcast, I decided to forgo the gym for the night and go home. But not before I shared my little adventure with all my friends.

Oh, and in the subway, I saw Damon Wyans! Two out of three- not bad for one evening after work.

I'm going home to take a shower now.

Oh, and by the way, the segment will air on the Discovery Channel some time in July. If I find out exactly when, I'll let you know, so you can witness my folly.

Like I said: Only in New York.

Nap Where You Can

Not long ago, my compatriots at The Velvet Prison™ and I were sitting around dutifully tapping away at our computer keyboards when I received a summons. Mother Nature was calling, and she wasn't offering the option of not taking the call.

So I popped out of my faux Aeron chair, and made my way to the men's restroom.

Since I'm a lowly plebian on the Food Chain of Corporate America, my wee cube is far from the glamorous exterior spaces of the building; near the core, far from the windowed offices where the golden light of New York City falls across gently across the upturned, perfectly-tanned faces of The Media Elite as they toil at their teak and oak workstations.

In short, the men's room is right across from my cube, so it was a short walk.

I need to digress for just a moment here to point out that, earlier this year there was a reshuffling of people, and a large contingent of The Socially Awkward were relocated to the side of our floor opposite us, but we all share a common set of restrooms. In the interest of fairness I need to point out that the men's restroom on our floor was never a beacon of sanitized sterility, but these new arrivals... well, let's just say that if our bathroom was a neighborhood, property values would decrease, and Rudy Giuiliani would be cracking down on quality of life crimes.

Anyway, I walked across the aisle and into the restroom. I don't want to linger on specifics, so suffice it to say that, rather than the urinal, I was in need of a toilet stall.

So there I was, transacting my business, indulging in a little catch-up reading with the latest copy of Entertainment Weekly, when suddenly a sound insinuated it's way into my quiet little meditative world.

Someone was snoring.

In the stall on the other side of the stall next to mine.

And not just snoring. Snoring. With an uppercase "S."

Most public restrooms, as you know, are tiled to within an inch of their lives. Floors. Walls. Ceilings. Backsplashes. Hell, sometimes even countertops. Makes 'em easier to clean, I suspect. But it also ups the noise amplification factor by I don't know how much. And whoever this guy was, his snoring was loud. Loud enough that -- I shite you not -- the metal walls of the toilet stall were vibrating. I have no idea how he didn't rattle himself awake.

The snoring went on for as long as I was... transacting my business, and even after I got up, washed my hands, and returned to my desk. I shushed my compatriots after returning, and we all leaned in to try and hear the siren call of the snore from within the sad little echo chamber of poo.

And we could.

We were snore amazed.

There's some sort of moral here. I'm not sure what it is. Perhaps I'll just leave you to decide that for yourself.

But by all means, if you catch me snoring somewhere inappropriate, bang on something ferchrissakes.

My Masters Degree

After each show of The Stinky Cheese Man at The Arden, we would have a little informal talk-back with the audience, to give the kids a chance to ask questions about how things were done, or why things were a certain way, or how things worked. Often, they would ask how we all became actors; where we studied, if we went to school for it. That sort of thing.

My co-workers would invariably name the programs in which they studied, and I would invariably point out that my parents convinced me to go to business school, but as far as acting went, I studied under the great master:

Fare Thee Well, Man of Stinky Cheese

So, yeah. I'm dashing off a quick entry as I'm recouping between our last two shows for The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales. Kudos to my amazing castmates, by the way. They've done seventy performances of this sucker, an it's hard.

I was never one to believe that doing children's theater was easy. It's how I got my start, 'lo those many years ago (thanks, by the way, to my cousin Lynne Franks -- not to be confused with Lynne Franks, whoever she is -- and Sunny Disney Fitchett for getting me into it... I'll have my revenge someday!).

Jeebus... that was, like, 1982, or 1983.

Anyway, so it's not that I think children's theater is supposed to be easy, or anything, but this thing kicked my ass. I'm not quite so young as I used to be, you know.

Truth be told, though, I think I've slimmed down, and been forced to take better care of myself, so consequently look better and more rested than I have in a while. I'm feeling pretty well.

Go figure.

I'm sure Fozzie will be happy to benefit from the fruits of that labor once I return.

Speaking of, his show is going to be opening Monday night, and I'm a little bummed that I won't be able to be there for him. Alas, I promised, literally, months ago to do a reading of Amy's play The Chicken Snake, which is going to be at Manhattan Theatre Club on the same night.

So we're making plans to get together Tuesday, and I'm hoping I can lure him out on Friday to see Spring Awakening with Kenny & me, but that's looking iffy, since he might have to attend his own show and schmooze the press that might be coming. Ah, the life of a high-falutin' producer.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm sleeping with a producer. It hasn't launched my career yet, and, frankly, his couch isn't that comfy for making out on. I'm just sayin'.

The whole sleeping your way to the top thing isn't as sure-fire as you'd like to think.

Of course, he's an off- off-Broadway producer, so I may have miscalculated a bit. And I fell for his charms before I found out he was going to try his hand at producing, so all in all, it was a bit of a clusterfuck as far as Deceptive Master Plans go. Again, just sayin'.

I need to be better about being a devious, maniuplative, gold-digger.

Comece Elevado

I want to go to Brazil and get high.

Okay, that's not entirely accurate, but it's not entirely wrong, either.

Allistair Appleton -- the BBC presenter and hottie who I find more fascinating the more I learn about him -- has had a lot of interesting things to say recently about his experiences with ayahuasca, a psychotropic plant medicine used by Amzonian shamans for hundreds of years as a way of communicating with the "Bigger Aspects of the Universe." He produced a documentary last year about his trip to Brazil to partake of the drug.

And I've been thinking a lot about the fact that I'm 42 years old and haven't done anything, ever, like that. Haven't done a lot of the things in life that I'd like to try. Touring Italy. Visiting Thailand. Puking my guts out on a psychotropic drug somewhere in the Brazilian jungle.

Okay, I'm kidding about the last part -- I think -- but the idea of taking some psychotropic plant and puking my guts out in a jungle, while a bit daunting, is also rather intriguing; especially when you're sharing the the experience in a supervised setting. I was never one to try controlled substances -- well, aside from some candy-ass speed during my college days and, more recently, some marijuana. I'm not a big fan of losing control. But doing it while experiencing an awakening to the wider world and in the company of fellow travelers... that interests me.

Alas, it costs $2,400 for an introductory seminar, and that doesn't include travel. So it seems that this experience, at least, is for the more-gainfully employed than I. Still, I suppose it's good to have a goal, no?

I Thought It'd Be Higher Than This...

You Are 40% Evil

A bit of evil lurks in your heart, but you hide it well. In some ways, you are the most dangerous kind of evil.

How Evil Are You?

6-6-6

Heard early this morning on WINS (New York's AM All-Talk station), from their newscaster: "If the Apocalypse does come today, we'll have complete team coverage as well as traffic and weather on the 1s."

Whew...

Whew. I'm coming to the end of my first week of The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales. I'd forgotten how much fun and how little fun children's theater could be.

As you know, I had my put-in rehearsal a week ago, and then had a couple days off. I stumbled through my first couple of shows -- we had a 10 a.m. Wednesday show, and two on Thursday & Friday. Yesterday -- Saturday -- we had three, count 'em, three shows.

When I woke up this morning, I was feeling every one of my 42 years. The forty-second year is right in the middle of my back.

So now I'm between shows (that's right, we've got a noon and a 4 p.m. show today), and afterwards, I'm going to be jumping the Chinatown Bus back to New York, since I'll be back working at The Velvet Prison™ tomorrow through Wednesday.

As my dear, sainted mother likes to say: "No rest for the wicked."

Just Call Me "Your Great & Terrible Highness."

Kenjiman and Topher took me out to celebrate my birthday before I left for Philadelphia. We went to this pan-Asian restaurant that I enjoy on 8th Avenue -- the name of which I can never remember. Spring Joy? Joy Spring? Joy Grill? Spring Grill? I dunno. It's something like that.

Afterward, we went to see The Da Vinci Code. It was, as it turned out, pretty bad, but not as bad as it was made out to be.

But still, pretty bad.

It could have lost a half an hour if old Ron Howard had had a little faith in his audience and trusted that they might actually not mind that two people on screen just talked to each other, rather than indulging in all those silly flashbacks. I'll give him this, though: The way he transitioned in and out of the flashback sequences was kinda cool. Yay technology.

Before we'd gone off to dinner, we congregated at Topher's place, and Ken loaded me down with my Natal Anniversary gifts. The theme was the best, baby: It is my year of World Domination.

With that in mind, he supplied me with a little plastic centurion helmet that I could wear while plotting world domination. It was even emblazoned with a suggested symbol of my reign: A nice rubber bat stuck to the front. You'd think that was a little too Batman-esque, but not so much. Next, he gave me a slightly less-gaudily decorated helmet for my second-in-command to wear while we squash the little people of he world in our climb to power. Sagely, he noted that I should be very careful about my choice of second-in-command, as those guys will often turn on you at the first sign of any trouble. So when it comes to choosing my left-hand man, I'll vet those characters very carefully. Finally, he gave me a couple of helmets -- in the Elmer Fudd Viking style -- for my low level minions to wear during the execution of their low level minion duties.

Then he gave me my real presents: A set of DVDs of old Hollywood sci-fi serials from the 30s & 40s (way cool!), and Jared Diamond's Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed. I'm really looking forward to digging into both of them when I get back from Philadelphia.