The Laconic Digest

Cee Lo Green - FUCK YOU

2010-08-26T19:18:00.000-04:00

Yankee fans will go to any lengths...

2010-04-13T04:20:00.002-04:00

It was the home opener for the World Champion Yankees today, and in true pin-stripe fashion, at least one person in New York decided he would bring in the new season early... with a bang.

Outside Le Parker Meridian in Midtown, where the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim were staying, a few visiting players were standing outside signing autographs and such, when they were treated to one of the lesser tourist attractions of the Big Apple - people constantly jumping off our very tall buildings (mmm...Skyscrapers even!).

The man, apparently a former employee described as being in his 30's, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt, was apparently clever enough to fool a very inept lifeguard working at the hotel's gorgeous luxury fucking rooftop-pool (I've been there, but that's a story for another time [never]) - that he was "waiting for his room to be readied" (warning sign, anybody?). Maybe he was up there, I don't know, to take a quick dip in his jeans at 9AM before his complimentary continental breakfast? Needless to say, the window of opportunity to try and stop this guy was closing pretty quick, for at the other end of the glass enclosure, another window was quickly being opened. Just a hop, skip and a jump later, the desperate man was over the fence and on his way towards the great beyond. And yes, I've always liked to call W56 St. "The Great Beyond". Doesn't seem quite so silly now, huh?

Granted, suicide is awful almost all the time, sometimes a little funny, but I hate the Yankees. They really do ruin lives, even if only indirectly. This dirty ploy to attain another win for the galactic empire of the MLB actually worked: The Yankees went on to win 7-5, despite a spectacular grand slam from former Yank Bobby Abreu. He joins former Yankee left fielder Hideki Matsui as yet another pinstripe cast-off in Los Angeles, a city where old Yankees are put out to pasture. LA is kind of like the Yankees' "Florida", if you know what I mean. There ain't no coming back.

Lookee here for a more responsible look at the tragedy:

http://www.nydailynews.com/ny_local/2010/04/13/2010-04-13_man_dies_in_apparent_suicide_at_le_parker_meridien_hotel_hosting_angels_for_yank.html

J! - E! - T! - S! ... JETS JETS JETS! [Playoff Bound]

2010-01-06T00:55:00.004-05:00

My favorite football team, the New York Jets, have made things a little bit exciting just in time for the beginning of this year's post-season. On Sunday, with their backs against the wall 'Gang Green' thoroughly trounced the Cincinnati Bengals to the tune of a 37-0 score, in an all or nothing "win-and-they're-in" showdown to make it into the playoffs.

As a hardcore Jets fan, I'm well aware of the team's prerogative to make your pants a little tight every few years. After a night of drinking they lead you up to their room and you think to yourself "Maybe this year?" or stupidly, "Is this gonna actually happen?". Next thing you know, your super-bowl boner inevitably subsides as you come to your senses and realize "Of course not, they're the fucking Jets!".

And so the stage was set yet again this year...

T'was the final week of the 2009 NFL season and all through the house, the late start time Sunday night (8PM), made this (nationally broadcast) game actually the last game of the whole season. Did I mention it also happened to be the last game ever in Giants Stadium? Pretty exciting stuff, huh? Many people found it difficult to believe that all of a sudden, a team that had a paltry record of just 4-6 a few weeks back could even have the chance to fight for a playoff spot. Yet in another way, it wasn't that crazy. This is a team who just broke up the longest regular season win streak in NFL history (23 games) by ruining the perfect 14-0 season of the Indianapolis Colts (headed by the Giants quarterback's more famous older brother, Peyton Manning). As I eagerly watched that game at home, with my large poster board sign emblazoned in magic marker with the numbers "14-1", I honestly didn't believe we would win this game, never mind make the postseason.

On the other hand, maybe this could be a last second burst of excitement for a starving, self-doubting team (and fan-base) who have lived for so long in the shadow of the great "Big Blue". Big Blue, of course is the nickname given to the NY Giants, a team who just the previous week, in their much hyped "Last Giants game in Giants Stadium" treated their fans to a hometown travesty, Mets style.

Let me quickly explain:
It seems like only yesterday the New York Metropolitans played their final game at Shea Stadium (ironically a stadium shared with the Jets for a while). Way back when long ago, [2008] they had a chance to stay relevant in a wild card race with the Milwaukee Brewers. It seemed the recipe for victorious redemption of a team so long forsaken was simple, or so us self-hating Mets fans thought. You see, all they had to do was win the final game at Shea, not so great of a stadium, against a not-so-great team, in front of a very emotional hometown crowd who had gathered to bid farewell to a house filled with so many memories.

You can probably guess what happens next: Of course the Mets proceed to lose in humiliating, nearly insulting, yet entertainingly superstar fashion. Not only that, but by the end of the game just about every disgusted fan in attendance left their seat and were in exodus to their cars, so they can beat the rush on an unbelievably long parking fiasco caused by the construction of the newly built adjacent Citi Field stadium. Either way, most people ended up missing the awkward painful travesty that was the after-game ceremonies. A poorly executed tribute to the team's history which I watched (while cringing) on TV. A ceremony where the Mets paraded all the old guys they can find (who are not dead or in jail) around the field in a celebration of those glory days from yesteryear, (namely the championship years of 1969 and '86 - and only a scant 25 less World Series trophies than our baseball crosstown rivals).

Those in attendance who stuck around for this almost fitting end to Shea, all seemed to share the same facial expression. The best way I can describe this uniquely Queens visage was that of a look of surprise, layered with anger, then topped off with a very large dose of actual, well...un-surprise. You know, just like your seventh birthday party when your crazy aunt who "forgot her meds" leaps over the rented clown to punch you in the face just as you're about to blow out the candles (Ok, maybe that was only my 7th birthday).

Watching this as Mets fans, we weren't very surprised, so we kind of saw it coming. At least the Giants organization had the wherewithal to have their old guy parade before the game. The New York Giants lost bad in their last game at Giants stadium (the NFL's most used venue to date, btw), 41-9 against the Carolina Panthers and missing the playoffs for the first time since 2004. As Jets fans, we finally had legitimate reason to walk through the streets of our quaint home city, this glorious new village of York, with some sliver of hope. As a side note, it is hard for me to accept that these teams ingrained into my New York soul actually play their home games in New Jersey, but then again my hatred for Joisey is another story.

Unfortunately, this peculiar and uneasy air of excitement in New York among fans of that "other team" hadn't gone unnoticed by the big-wigs at the Jets organization, for they immediately banned the sale of alcohol on game night. As if it's not bad enough that the weather forecast called for a fucking temperature of 20 degrees at kick-off (with a windchill below 0), inside the wind-tunnel of hell Giants stadium becomes at night, but on top of that you can't have the pleasure of being drunk and loud, especially even after the Giants already being eliminated from contention. Come on, give us something please. A break, even.

As usual Jets fans hoped for the best, but expected the worst. And so it has been, here among fans of the 'team in green', that we've become accustomed to the "Same old Jets" mantra (or the acronym SOJ amongst the internet boards). Lemme tell ya', it's tough, man. First off, we have to contend with crazed fans of the Giants in this city. A team who feels the Jets are unwelcome tenants in their home within a stadium where the Jets, (the only NFL team without their own stadium) actually have to share the same locker room and where more often than not, the games the Jets play against the Giants count on their record as road games! Yes, the NY Giants won the Super Bowl in 2007, an event I was admittedly pretty excited for, but we all know it would've been a different story if not for the most exciting moment of that fateful championship game, when David Tyree caught a ball with his helmet [not common, by the way].

The stage was set, and the drama was a buildin', if you know what I mean. There was even a "war of tweets", and those of you who know me are well aware that nothing gets me more excited than trash talking only limited to 140 characters-or-less, over a social networking system that clearly must be a sign of the apocalypse. It seemed that Darrelle Revis, our superstar corner, and someone who should be named defensive player of the year (see his amazing highlights here), was being targeted by one flashy Cincinnati Bengal, none other than the nefarious wide receiver Chad "Ocho-Cinco". Yes, this retard was born with a Christian name, Chad Johnson. He's very talented, but one day he looked at his NFL jersey number (85) and had a 9th grade Spanish-level type of epiphany that inspired him to legally change his surname to the literal Spanish to English translation, "Eight-Five". This was also motivated by the fact he wanted to avoid further fines from the NFL commisioner, such as those he incurred when he tried to wear a novelty jersey during a game with his nickname, "Ochocinco" across the back in the previous football season.

In the days leading up to the game, he started mouthing off during a conference call with the NY media:

"Darrelle Revis couldn't cover me in a brown paper bag on a corner of a Manhattan street inside a phone booth," ... "It's impossible."

Here in Jets town, we crown our own mascots. There's another fan favorite for Jets nation. It's a guy I remember during all the Jets games I went to back in junior high/high school. A retired firefighter who leads the crowd at every home game with what I think is the best football team chant ever. It's simple, yet drives you crazy with euphoric sports rage. It goes something like "J! - E!- T!-S!, JETS! JETS! JETS!". Even our beloved "Fireman Ed" wasn't safe from Ochocinco's barbs. Predicting what he would do during a (hypothetical) touchdown celebration against the Jets:

"I have one that is going to be so good. Everybody listening? You know the guy in the stands with the fireman hat (Fireman Ed) that quiets the stadium? OK, I have my own fireman hat made, but it doesn't say Jets. It's a Bengals fireman hat. When I score, I'm going to sit on top of the goal post and then I'm going to quiet the stadium like he does and I want everybody in the stadium to say, well there not going to say the Bengals, but everybody will get the point of what I'm trying to do."

Always the showman, Chad Ochocinco is known for his crazy on-field antics. Earlier this season he gained notoriety for his famed "Poncho-Cinco" incident, where after a touchdown against Detroit he ran to the sideline to don a poncho and sombrero. A couple of games later, during a coach's challenge, he jokingly attempted to bribe a referee with a dollar bill in return for a favorable decision. You never know what to expect from this guy, and this game would be no different. Keep in mind the Bengals at this point have already wrapped up the AFC North title. They weren't fighting for their playoff lives, they were already in. They just wanted to play spoiler and ruin the hopes of all Jets fans.

We're all gluttons for punishment, us Queens folk. The "ETS" part of both of my favorite team's names (Jets, Mets) could very well stand for "End The Season" at any given time of the year. All you have to do is either apply an "M" to the beginning of the word during baseball season ("Must"), or a "J" during those cold wintry football months ("Just"). Mets and Jets baby, that's how we roll.

In the end, it was in the cards for the Jets Sunday night. They decided they weren't going to must-just end the season, at least not this season. Unfortunately (or fortunately- who knows?), since the Jets gained the next-to-last AFC seeding in this tournament for the championship (5th), that means in the first round of the playoffs (beginning on Saturday) they are forced into a rematch with the Bengals again, just days later, but this time in their house.
Maybe this will be the ultimate other shoe that Jets fans are always waiting for to drop. Maybe the Bengals saw all our trick plays, blitz packages, and insane coverage routes and are more than prepared to counteract them. They are a good team after all, division leaders in the North, even. Maybe they've seen everything in our bag of tricks and were playing possum, just so they can watch video and revamp their offense so they can kick our ass in front of their home fans.

On the other hand, maybe...

J! - E! - T! - S! JETS! JETS! JETS!

Thank You, Minnesota

2009-10-07T16:20:00.005-04:00

I never thought I would say something like that, being you are a state harboring a criminal, horrid excuse for an NFL quarterback. However, as I was flipping through the channels last night, the performance by your Minnesota Twins pulled me in and never let go, leading to what (for me, at least) was perhaps the most memorable single baseball game in recent history.

In a season that saw the Yankees, after being shut out of the playoffs for the first time in 14 years last year, run away with a major-league best 103 wins, one thing was for sure: Not all American League divisions in 2009 were created equal. Baseball is unique among professional sports in this country for it's excruciatingly long 162 game season. It seems ages ago that the Yankees secured their AL East division victory. They've had plenty of time to arrange their pitching rotation, rest their Kate Hudson impregnating superstars, and prepare for a postseason that, as always, they expect to see through to an inevitable World Series win, much to the pleasure of their senile, evil Scrooge/Mr. Burns hybrid team owner. They chose to sit in their gold-plated chaise lounges for the last week plus and sip their expensive champagne, a rare Yankees-only special bubbly made with the tears of babies.

Meanwhile, in the AL Central, the grunt work wasn't quite done. For two teams (you know, the disadvantaged kind of teams who don't play in 1.5 Billion-dollar stadiums), The Detroit Tigers and the Minnesota Twins, circumstances, (or fate) would lead them to the battleground that is that rare, elusive 163rd game. A one game playoff was at hand. The loser goes home, and the winner (as Jimmy Fallon put it in his late night show monologue) gets to go on to play the Yankees...and then go home.

How did we arrive at such a do-or-die situation? Well, as recently as Sep. 6, the Tigers held a 7 game lead in the division. It would seem that fate was on their side. Alas, history has shown us that sometimes, when "fate" is on your side, it makes it that much easier for "fate" to fist-fuck you into submission. The Twins, on the other hand, didn't let the standings shake their resolve. They pulled themselves up by their boot straps and went on a torrid streak, winning 16 of their last 20 games to pull into a one game showdown at home in the Metrodome.

The night started in typical fashion. The Tigers, with help from a 2-run homer in the third inning by wife-beater Miguel Cabrera, held on to a 3-1 lead until the seventh inning, when the Twins took the lead on a home run by shortstop Orlando Cabrera (not a wife beater). It seemed the Twins were in. Time to pack their bags for New York? Not so fast, because Tigers right fielder Magglio Ordonez contributed a bomb of his own in the eighth inning to tie the game at 4-4.

And so it remained into the ninth inning. The excitement of this game quickly materialized, and anyone with a heartbeat had it racing as the scored stayed the same until the end of the inning. It seemed that these two teams, who were tied after 162 games, would remain tied after another 9 innings of baseball. This was to be the first AL tiebreaker to go into extra innings. History was afoot.

Once again, it seemed the Cinderella story of the Twins season would end shoeless and pumpkin filled, as Brandon Inge's double in the 10th inning scored a run, leading to a 5-4 Tigers lead. However, those who didn't yet change the channel were rewarded in the home half of the inning, as Matt Tolbert singled to center, scoring Michael Cuddyer. Still with me? The score is tied now, 5-5.

On to the top of the 12th. The TIgers load the bases, and it seems pretty much over for the Twins (again). TBS play by play announcer Chip Caray begins to remark something along the lines of "If the Twins can get out of this...". Since you're really supposed to be unbiased, the second half of his sentence, which one can imagine being something like "Then they deserve to win", was interrupted by the wise, (and one of my favorites, Mets announcer Ron Darling), who said "Then it would seem destiny is on their side, right?".

They say baseball is a game of inches, and this point was illustrated as Brandon Inge stepped up to the plate with the bases loaded. First, let me preface this by mentioning the fact that Major League Baseball umpires are instructed to award a base to a batter who is hit by a pitch (HBP in your scorecards). This is a rule that has been around since the game's inception, but as the modern era of the sport has arrived, many of these players, with their hip-hop culture, gold chains, crazy hair, rock n' roll music, etc., have chosen to wear very ill-fitting uniforms. They claim it helps "mobility", but that's all bullshit. Pull up your pants!, I say. "Tuck in your fucking shirt, asshole!", I also say, but not quite as often. This becomes a distraction for me in cases like this.

Minnesota pitcher Bobby Keppel threw a pitch that came up and in on Inge. Being that Inge's jersey was so fucking baggy that it hung well into the (already disputed) strike zone, it seems that it may have grazed the jersey. I firmly believe the rule should be clarified to say that yes, you will be granted a base, but only if the ball hits YOU, not your Extra-Large sized shirt. If I was an ump, if I don't hear the ball hit your person, or ribs breaking, you are not going anywhere. The ump in this instance did not see it as a hit batsman, and I completely agree. Inge didn't agree and threw a hissy fit. I mean, come on, during a game with so much back and forth action and excitement, is he supposed to allow a run to be forced home (mind you, the bases are loaded) because you didn't make enough effort to get out of the way? This is just another case of the city of Detroit expecting a bailout, but refusing to improve the product and move with the times.

This turned out to be critical, because in the bottom of the same inning (12), former Met (and one of my favorites) Carlos Gomez singled to left. The bricks were being laid for a dramatic end. Michael Cuddyer then grounded out to third, moving Gomez to second base. Delmon Young is intentionally walked. Up to the plate saunters one Alexi Casilla, a true Minnesota hero (fuck you, Favre). His single to right field was just out of reach for the Tigers shortstop, and set the house on fire as thousands of nail-biting fans erupted while the speedy Gomez dived into home plate to score the dramatic winning run, the rest of his teammates, seemingly running out of the dugout with him, already there to mob him.

After a long, hard fought, four hour and 37 minute battle, unfortunately the Twins barely had time to celebrate. They had to board a plane to New York to face the Yankees, and didn't arrive to their hotel until after 4:00 in the morning.

"This is the most unbelievable game I've ever played or seen," - Twins shortstop Orlando Cabrera

Tell me about it. Good luck Minnesota. Choke on a fat one, Yankees.

Card Carrying

2009-09-16T04:20:00.005-04:00

My deepest apologies, please excuse the very long delay in updating this epic piece of American literature, this living testament to all that is unholy and marred. What can I say, things have been hectic lately. Fear not though, for I am working with an incredible backlog of awesome stories for my throngs of loyal fans.

When we last left off, our hero was on the precipice. Contemplating his place in the great beyond, he decides to embark on a grand, life changing mission. He's a man who just wants to make the earth a better place, all the while hopefully earning a more favorable shake in the next life (who knows, maybe even a seat at the right side of our all-knowing and magical creator?- you know how me likey salvation).

Alas, his efforts to do good were dashed. All those attempts to leave a lasting mark in a world full of endless possibilities were in vain. Sunrise, sunset.

However, as this tale progresses, our hero finally comes to his senses. One dark stormy night he has an epiphany, and realizes that these ideals he strived to uphold are all bullshit. Blinded by the light of reality, where no shadow exists to hide in, it suddenly hits him. Our hero starts to think that perhaps, just maybe...he needs a new weed guy.

There's a nail biting, Nick-noir moment as our hero pulls up the collar on his storybook-like jacket and opens the door to face the harsh desolate terrain awaiting him outside. For a terrifying split second, a sliver of doubt creeps into his psyche: Would he, (could he, even) be able to survive in such a cruel and unforgiving world? Well gather 'round kids, because that's what we're here to find out.

After a long and exhaustive research process, I am proud to announce that my crackpot team of journalists have finally recovered most documented evidence of what happened to our central character. All the hard work, sweat and tears my staff and I put in to this laconic digest, the long hours furiously striking keys on our old-timey typewriters is for you, the reader [actual newsroom photo, right]. At the end of the day it's all worth it, for let us never forget the legendary Joseph Pulitzer, who once said:

"Put it before them briefly so they will read it, clearly so they will appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it, and above all, accurately so they will be guided by its light."

Now for the disclaimer. Due to various logistical issues (run of the mill errors in judgement and of course the classic "circumstances outside of my control" routine), not to mention at least one or two legally pending confidentiality agreements, unfortunately some of the things you'll read in the coming weeks and months may be out of order, not told in a linear fashion, and frankly a bit scattered. But like any great story, or like making love when you have an incredibly large member, from time to time some of the "good stuff" has to be left out for the sake of continuity. You know what I mean, otherwise who's gonna watch?

Through the magic of what I will call "Postdating... from the future" [shout out to Tom in marketing for that gem], our team of scientist/writers will attempt to make this as comprehensible as possible. Eventually we will catch up to our current date, as we always do, because the adventure of this awesome life is an unchanging constant. The journey is never ending, yet still, like water. Be like water, my friend, is basically what I'm saying (I think).

I now present to you the first of our award-winning 10 part series on what happens when a being of pure light, love and emotion becomes sullied and corrupted one dark, starry night while sitting on a passenger train. Proceed with caution, because you too can find yourself on such a train. It's a train you barely missed and upon boarding you notice an empty seat beside a quiet old man sitting alone in the back of the car. He's reading a book and smoking tobacco from a hand carved pipe. You approach cautiously, and note the rich smoke slowly seeping into your nostrils is somehow familiar. There's a hint of black cherries, and it reminds you of those summers you spent as a youth on the beach. Aunt Tilda would take you there from time to time for picnics. As you sat under the umbrella, wearing your suspenders, bathing trunks and newspaper-boy-hat, eagerly awaiting your grilled chicken panini, your mind couldn't help but wander. You became entranced by her sweeping blonde hair flowing in the wind. It was almost as if she was some kind of "beach angel".

Shaken from your daydream, your attention returns to the all encompassing quiet hum in the train car. Suddenly you feel very tired and weary, as if surrounded by a bubble. As you finally settle into your seat, on this speeding express through the snow covered Alps of our eternity, the old man closes his book and begins to tell you a story. A story that hits you right at the core...a story that shakes the very foundation of your reality.

For the sake of creating some atmosphere (ha!), our journey begins a little over a year ago.

And away we go....

The date was June 2008, around the time of my birthday. The place: None other than the hard concrete streets of New York City. This is a time of year that always inspires terror in my heart. The few days preceding my birthday always bring a renewed sense of fear, a time when I feel the cold grip of confirmation that I've been relegated to live in the muck of a lonely and depressing existence forever. I needed a distraction for myself. Something that came with a sense of purpose, of belonging. Always the defeatist underachiever, It suddenly struck me that my life-long dream of becoming a professional extra hadn't quite come to fruition yet (I dream big, mind you). That moment was the perfect time to get on the ball. As a birthday present to myself I gathered up all my hard earned waivers I gained as a "background artist" and took the next glorious step in my career. As previously noted on this journal, waivers are those special upgrades that occurred at those times in my life when someone on a set saw that "spark" in my eye and pushed me to the front of a crowd of faceless blurs. Those days when the shooting schedule was held up due to there not being enough established actors to portray "busboys", "day laborers", or the classic "delivery guy" on set. Those days where non-descript passerbys on the street didn't quite look "Queens" or "Blue Collar/Downscale" enough. Any seasoned veteran would know that these seemingly minute details are crucial to the success of any production.

You need at least three of these golden tickets before you're let into that exclusive club known as the Screen Actors Guild. Or just one principal role, but that would be easy. The way I see it, without doing any legitimate acting work, auditioning or even speaking on camera, you can say I gained this privilege fairly quickly, as there are many aspiring actors who actually relocate from lands yonder to New York, where they split their time between occupying loft apartments in once devastated Brooklyn neighborhoods and becoming the douchiest hipster scum they can be (and the lord said: "Scatter! Ye people of Williamsburgh, for thou haveth [um.. broken-eth?] - your covenant with God". "Fear me, for all your lands will be scorched by the flames of gentrification!" "You are to wander the deserts of Brooklyn, never to return until you have made amends").

I know what you're thinking. Is he so bold as to liken the gentrification of certain low-income urban communities within that borough named after the beautiful Dutch town Breukelen, to the progression of Israeli settlements within the West Bank? Of course I'm not! But in a way, I am.

Enough about me already, let's get back in the time machine so we can talk about me a year ago. With three "golden tickets" in hand, it was time to make my appointment at the local magic chocolate factory. A good friend of mine accompanied me, someone who was in the trenches with me fighting the rough war of extra work. From that shit Eddie Murphy movie at the Statue of Liberty all the way to that fateful Korean finance commercial that was overshadowed by an ominous fire, he stuck it out with me the whole time. We had already called the office separately the previous week and were lucky enough to get appointments on the same day. They also personally assessed the cost of the membership initiation for each of us. It's not quite a flat rate, it all depends on what your personal work record shows. While my cost was slightly lower than my friend's initiation fee (another discount for being so 'awesome' I figured), it still amounted to a lofty $2,400+. Needless to say it's not often I have this kind of scratch at one time, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity and was very excited at the new adventure about to begin. (For those of you playing along at home, make sure to turn your failure-sand-filled hourglasses over...now).

It was a hot, sweltering summer day as we approached the Madison Ave. office. Now we're a bit late, due to the fact it's one of those places where they technically give you the wrong address because the name of the cross street is more pleasing to the eyes and ears of us stupid folk. Sure, Madison Avenue sounds fancy, but if the only entrance I can use is the one "on the side", which to put it another way means "not on the street or address we told you", then hows about you do me a favor and look up above the door you used to get in the building today and give me that fucking address, huh? How does that sound?

Most of the time this morning was spent trying my hardest to avoid getting behind schedule. Alas, I am now sweaty, nervous and quite late (jeez, if I had a nickel...). My friend and I finally find the right entrance and approach the desk. We hand over various forms of ID and proof of our appointment to security. We were told we had to do this in advance because (this is the cool part) then I'm handed a special pass card, a large plastic electronic thing you need to get onto the SAG office's floor. Of course I'm not aware of this aspect of it's functionality as I proceed into the elevator, just holding it in my tight, hopeful and innocent grip. I'm standing there like an idiot, frantically pressing the very correct floor button on the elevator panel, fretting that the number doesn't light up, all while feeling the ever increasing glare in the back of my head like eyeball drills from the two impatient execs desperate to get back to their desks elsewhere in the building. One of them looks at me, rolls his eyes, and says "SAG, huh?". Looking back now, little did I know I would be greeted with those two small words quite often in the future, especially whenever someone thought I was a moron.

I had to think quick. "Ah, yes my good sir, what's all the bother about with this lift?", I reply in the best British chimney-sweep accent I could muster (lest he think I'm a local retard). His eyes move down to my hand holding the pass card and he says "Press it against the panel". I feel like an idiot as I notice, almost as if for the first time, the large electronic scanner in the middle of the floor-number panel. "Oh, of course", I mumble in shame as I put it on the wall and the elevator immediately moves.

"This is so fucking cool" I think to myself". " It's like a hidden floor!". I was imagining some spy movie-esque setting upstairs, like a super modern secret government agency (picture it-nothing says top secret like glass walls). As you walk down the hall, a smoking hot receptionist wearing a skirt way too inappropriate for government work pulls down her glasses and says "Ah yes, we've been expecting you" (the fantasies in my head always look like they were shot with a steadicam held by someone walking a little too fast for some reason).
It was a very sleek looking floor nonetheless, like it must have just been vacuumed or something. I was impressed. Upon leaving the elevator, one immediately notices the framed still pictures of many popular New York movies and actors. Instantly, I knew this was the big leagues. I'm not 100% sure, but as I looked over at the framed photo from "Taxi Driver", I could've sworn De Niro's eyes were following me down the hall. It was as if he was speaking to me through the image. I think he was saying something encouraging, like a mystical pat on the shoulder from beyond the grave (he's still alive, right?). It sounded something like... "get out of here kid, you suck".

Luckily for me, "Did you hear De Niro's picture talk to you on the way in?" is not a question you are required to answer before joining, so I'm directed towards a nice seating area where I had plenty of gut wrenching time to reconsider this whole thing. Maybe it was my last chance to run away and pursue that other dream I've always had, my dream of becoming New York's first real celebrity artisanal bread baker. I'm sure there are a few popular ones in this city already, but I'll be the first to you know, be kind of a douche. The kind of guy who's up way too late when he should be baking but gets more tail than a toilet seat because I developed some kind of low-carb crusty peasant-type bread that drives the women absolutely crazy. Next thing you know, I'm rubbing elbows with the most elite of coke whores at A-list celebrity parties all while wearing my chef's jacket the whole time, kind of as a 'fuck you' constant reminder that I'm "The Bread Guy". A guy can dream, right?

Anyway, too late to turn back and it's finally my turn to sit at the DMV-like partitioned window (real classy guys -by the way, I'm the one giving you all my money, I'm not opening a bank account but the least you can do is offer me a fucking croissant!). Bank check in hand, I approach the kindly (at first glance) older, African American gentlemen on the other side of the bulletproof plexiglass. His eyes told a story. I wonder to myself if he is, or ever had been an actor himself. Perhaps at some point in his career he felt drawn to work in the SAG office; you know, to help out the youngsters like myself as they made the transition into this brethren of artists. Alas, when we made eye contact, I knew I was dead wrong. His deep, wise eyes told a completely different story. The story was a short one, one of a man just dying to go on his lunch break before I showed up. Through the two-inch scratch proof pane of glass, he gave me a look that said he didn't care much for my reckless sense of abandonment. I could tell he was convinced that the new generation didn't "care enough" about the craft. Well I was here, in person, making a stand to say... to say that yeah he's probably right, I can't lie. Who am I kidding? I'm not aiming for "Shakespeare in the Park" right at this moment, so let's just gets with the forms-fillings if you don't mind.

First, time for some minor formalities, like the part where I slide what is perhaps the biggest check of my own money I've ever had to produce (at that time) under a plastic window. I kind of held on to it so long he had to basically yank it from my cold dead grip. That went on for about 30 seconds. Next, I'm asked every question possible, anxiously awaiting the grand daddy of them all. The gentleman slides a very official looking document underneath the window and finally asks: "So, what's your name gonna be?"

You see, to the layman this question may seem fairly innocuous, but for myself (and especially those actors out there with actual drive and skill), this time honored inquiry is perhaps the most important question one can be asked. After all, this is what you're going to be known as forever, or until your untimely young Hollywood demise, whichever comes first. It can make or break you, it can be the difference between becoming a household name or being doomed to a moniker that leaves you indistinguishable from the rest of the "normies" . Take one Winona Laura Horowitz, for example. Who the fuck is that you ask? Trust me, her shoplifting escapades wouldn't be half as sexy if she wasn't recognized by police as the one they call "Ryder". Ok maybe not the greatest example I can come up with, but personally I think s he's incredibly hot in the most perfectly weird way.

My whole point is this is important, the whole name thing. For instance, I think Nicolas Cage is awesome for two reasons. First off, he spells his name like I do, "Nicolas". Without the "H". Personally I think it adds a lot to the allure, the allure of my Latin sex-mysteriousness...ess. Second reason? Kiss of Death. He makes asthma inhalers in this movie look like the coolest thing on earth, along with running a strip club on Queens Blvd, and beating Michael Rappaport to death to a House of Pain soundtrack. Cinema history baby, look it up.

Back to the name. Don't kid yourself. Nicolas without the "H" is awesome. It's like Japanese cool. It's kind of like the Tokyo apartment of my name is minimally decorated. You enter, you sit on the floor, you eat at a low table. Go on, picture it. The space in which it dwells provides tranquility and peace to it's visitors, through sliding doors where once an oppressive "H" stood.

I'm handed a sheet with 3 additional options in case your natural name is already taken. My Dad was a little miffed that I didn't use my middle (and his first) name on my potential future billings. He's pissed off because someone on "The Closer " actually has his name, and it's reserved forever (or until he falls out of favor with the union). Birth certificates, legal names and aliases mean nothing in this cutthroat world of entertaining the masses. By the way, I wonder if Kevin Bacon still hits that sweet Sedgwick-ness, cuz I totally would. Watch this, she'll tell you herself why she's awesome.

My friend who accompanied me made the decision not to use his natural full name. He went with the classic "First and Middle" routine that so many stars choose to go with. Do you think someone named Thomas Cruise Mapother IV could have ever become a successful mouthpiece for a crazy space-alien religion? The name issue was a point of contention between my friend and I because I felt he was denying his heritage in some way. He comes from a certain country where even the peasant girls are extremely hot. I got into a long, drawn out argument over how favorable those odds are when compared to the average "night out on the town" in our "great land". Just think about it: Yes, even your multiple-syllable last name ending in a "U" can inspire greatness. Personally I think it's awesome. Put it this way: If only one, just one nubile, college bound co-ed in the village your grandma might have grown up in has a tingle in her nether-regions upon hearing the mention of your name, just one tingle, that means you've truly left a mark on this world. And no one can ever take that away from you. Worse comes to worst and things don't work out here in Hollywood, your backup plan would consist of maybe being the third or fourth biggest star in your homeland. I told him emphatically that if I were him I would rock out with my crazy-last-name cock out, on the off chance that this obscure, almost eastern european country would rise to the top of our pop culture consciousness at some point in the future. After all, Ms. Kosovo made it into the top three in the most recent Miss Universe pageant, so anything is possible. Oh lordy, she was so hot. The look on her face was all like "Remember my country, America?".

To wrap things up, it was an incredible experience. That day made my insignificant life a little more bearable, for the time being. A beacon of hope still exists, or at least I thought so at the time. Nothing feels better than giving someone 2,400 dollars and walking out with a folder full of hastily xeroxed rules and regulations, along with offers and discounts for health clubs, spa treatments, cosmetic dentistry, headshot reproduction, car rentals, first time home owner loans, etc. Pretty cool huh? The best part is that about 99% of these incentives cater to and apply only to the SAG members in LA. You know, a scant 3,000 miles away where that Hollywood place, and in turn, the majority of all SAG members actually reside? On the bright side, my fellow New York members and I do get a very minor AFL-CIO discount on our cell phone bill, so in the end I win. Last time I checked that makes the score: me-1, rest of the world-0.

By the way, this whole story tells of my impeccable timing. Did I mention that I did all this happened (joining the union and such) just days before the contract expired? I was the genius who thought since it's my birthday, the universe would align itself to please me (The Secret type of shit). But alas, logic always bites even the noble of heart in the ass, as in this case logic would dictate that any man about to take the step into the real professional world, on the verge of joining a union, would in his right mind not do so if he was aware of an almost imminent strike by said union. This all came to a head with my logic, which from the drafting of it's manifesto states crazy shit like: "Hey, if I join now, maybe they won't strike, maybe they'll bang out a new contract quickly and I'll be lucky because the rules (namely; increase of initiation fee) for joining may change once a contract is settled...because of me". I was lucky, as now the fee is substantially higher, and the pay increase for us performers...well, not so much.

The card came in the mail a few weeks later, along with a welcome booklet covered in a collage of familiar faces in entertainment holding up their SAG cards and smiling widely. My friend and I were going to shoot special parody photos with our cards, but never got around to doing it. Come awards season, I was told of magical stories from fellow members, tales of how going to their mailbox was like Christmas every day, full of advance-screening invitations, and screener DVD's of movies not close to home release. Again, due to my impeccable timing, I happened to join in a year that was economically devastating for almost every large industry in our capitalist paradise. So, just a copy of the Dark Knight for me (not even Blu-Ray) and a request (in the form of a nice glossy ad for "Doubt" that unfolds into a cross) to see it, at my own expense. Rubbish. Oh well, the responsibility of paying dues still makes my dick hard.

Before I leave you, my friends, I'd like to leave you with one more quote. Something that I think sums it all up, the crazy purpose of writing such things and all.

Our friend Mr. Pulitzer also said.

"A cynical, mercenary, demagogic press will in time produce a people as base as itself."

I couldn't have said it better myself. This quote is particularly inspirational to me. To my loyal audience, to those who have followed my antics throughout those long, magical and formative years, I mean this from the bottom of my heart.... please know these words describe exactly what I'm aiming for.
It's like I always say: We are all on a train speeding to hell, so you're either a hapless passenger, or you're the guy with the white gloves on the platform shoving the passengers in the car before the door closes.

Stay tuned to find out what happens later. I've been able to shake off enough of the muck and mire that has enveloped me of late to write again. I feel as if I've been able (if only temporarily) to reach out again. An awakening has occurred. Truth is, as with any great adventure, things eventually go bad, as they always do...

In honor of such a glorious occasion,

Today's Musical Selection is "4 Degrees" by TOOL. It's an oldie, but a goodie. From way back in '95. An excellent song, and one of my favorites. I once met a girl who had the lyrics written across her bedroom, along the molding. This particular performance happens to be very unique.

Enjoy, it's a classic. Lyrics here.

Eric, Man-jobless

2008-12-29T18:49:00.013-05:00

It's one day after the end of the NFL's regular season, and after a not so surprising collapse at the Meadowlands, the New York Jets wasted no time in dropping the hammer on head coach Eric Mangini.

Following a disappointing 4-12 season, the arrival of Hall-of-Fame quarterback Brett Favre to a disheveled Jets organization at the start of this year seemed like a godsend. But I should have known better. You see, I am a New Yorker, and perhaps unfortunately, also a huge Mets fan. The laws of nature state that there is an undeniable neurotic link between fans of these two NY - "ets" teams, fans who are usually one and the same. These two teams even used to share a stadium back in their early days. As Mets fans all know, abundant spending in the off-season inevitably leads to only the most artfully executed, heart-crushing late season collapses.

I know what you're thinking at this point: "Hey, I'm an avid reader of your fascinating, riveting work". "I mean, your writing is like a periodical delivered on the doorstep of my heart and soul, and this doesn't seem to match your initial enthusiasm about Eric Mangini". Well first off, thank you, anonymous fan. Yes I hear your heartfelt protest, but to be honest, I was different back then. Young, impressionable, and maybe just a bit too free-spirited for my own good. I've grown since that time. People change. It's the way of life, and we're all just spinning around on this big crazy blue ball of water looking for an answer.

Mangini, 37 (was) the youngest coach in the NFL. As a matter of fact, he was the youngest coach in any of the four major professional sports leagues in North America. Actually, he always reminded me of Kevin James, from the King of Queens. Imagine it, two funny fat guy honest-to-goodness Jet fans you just want to hang out with, have a couple of beers, and shoot the shit. My point might best be illustrated by the following panorama portrait (your welcome).

He went 23-25 in his three-year tenure as head coach of the Jets. Little did we know that when the somewhat painful decision to let go of former fan-fave QB Chad Pennington to bring in Favre came to be, a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions was in the works. Afterward, no one thought it a big deal when Pennington was almost immediately picked up by the Miami Dolphins, a division rival. Let it be noted that it's a not the biggest show of respect to your athletic ability when you're allowed to move to a team within your division without so much as the batting of an eye. The Jets must have thought "Hey, he's going to a team that was 1-15 last year, the worst in the league" "He can't possibly be a threat to us". Ah, me thinks Chad saw this as a slap in the face, and so Act 2 of our sad story began to play itself out...

At first, it seemed the stars were aligned in Gang Green's favor. Drama was high from the beginning, as the season opener was on the road against none other than the Miami Dolphins, of course with former Jets quarterback Chad Pennington at the helm. In the sweltering Florida heat, the Jets got off to a good start, winning their first game with a score of 20-14. Jets fans were further elated upon learning that at the same time over in Foxborough, MA, the hated Jets rivals New England Patriots had lost their golden boy superstar quarterback Tom Brady to a season-ending injury, when he fell to the field clutching his knee with 7:27 minutes left in the first quarter. "Oh my", we exclaimed in unison. "We've never had much luck against the Patriots, maybe this is finally our year".

We were set to face them next, in week 2 of the season. "They've won all those Superbowls with Brady, he's the face of that team". "This has to be a gutting loss for them, and their backup QB can't possibly be sufficiently prepared" we thought. C'mon, it's like being backup to Superman, or Jesus. The other guy is so good, you're never really going to see any play time, right? So basically you're dozing off during the practice meetings and wondering what's for dinner.

But since this is a tragedy, it can only play out this way. It seemed that 2nd string Matt Cassel, (in most likely his first start since high school) was paying attention, as he led his team to a 19-10 victory over the Jets. Our confidence was shaken. This is now 11 out of the last 12 games against the Jets that the Patriots have won. It's literally been years since we've had the upper hand. If we can't even beat them without Brady, Favre or no Favre, just how good are we?
Update: By the way, it seems Tom Brady dealt with the agonizing outcome of his season in the most inspirational heartfelt way. With great pain, he has apparently acknowledged his fate (the way any of us would) by proposing to Gisele Bündchen on Christmas Eve aboard a private jet. Our prayers are with him, things must be so darn tough for that guy right now.

Just a bump in the road... or is it? In week 2, the Jets go on to lose again (record now 1-2). As the weeks go by, eventually the Jets pull it together, getting off to a 8-3 start, including a five-game win streak that saw them finally defeating those pesky Patriots, and riding that wave of confidence into Tennessee, where they beat an (at that point) undefeated Titans in week 12. The NY Jets now find themselves in first place. All of a sudden, New York media is abuzz with the possibility of a magical season. Could the possibility of a never before imagined "Subway Superbowl" between the Giants and Jets be on the horizon? Of course not. I should have known better. The Jets have been losing for 40 years.

To close out the season, the Jets go on to lose 4 out of their last 5 games, eventually missing the playoffs they seemed so destined for. Throughout the long painful final stretch, the camera shots and images of coach Mangini, during the game and afterwards, were not very encouraging. He was never one to show much emotion in the first place. The somewhat confused look we used to think of as "cute" or just part of his "stoic" nature quickly degraded into the appearance of a man defeated, his nonchalant expression week after torturous week began to inspire nothing less than blood boiling rage within my tender heart.

Now for our final act. What's a classic tragedy without the murder/suicide climax? The last game was upon us. At home, it seemed only fitting that we would close the season against the same team we started against. While in the shower a few days ago, I heard a haunting song on the local AM sports station WFAN through the bathroom radio. The song was set to the tune of a well known holiday classic....

"We're gonna find out if New York's got regrets,
For putting Brett Favre in charge of the Jets,
Cause Pennington is coming to town,

It's Christmas for Chad cause he gets to face,
The quarterback by which he was replaced,
Yeah Pennington is coming to town,

He knows about Mangini,
He's protected by big Jake,
They wondered if Chad's bad or good,
Well he's good for goodness sake,

We're gonna find out if New York's got regrets,
For putting Brett Favre in charge of their Jets,
Yeah Pennington is coming to town,

The Jets signed Brett and sent Chad away,
Now thanks to the Fins he's proved he can play,
Pennington is coming to town"

I should have known. It seemed only fitting that the close of the season would have Mr. Pennington coming back to his old stomping grounds for redemption. To face the team that cast him aside. To face the quarterback on the other side, who would perhaps be playing his last game of a legendary NFL career. It was only fitting that he would beat the Jets, 24-17 in front of a crowd that left way before the clock ticked down, for the writing was on the wall. I always knew my guy Chad Pennington would win the AFC East division in a game at the Meadowlands, just had no idea it would happen this way.

In the end, two amazing things happened: Brett Favre did set a season high NFL record. His 22 interceptions led the league this year, with no less than three in this last game, as a final "fuck you". It's not his personal best though, he did throw 29 picks in 2005. Something else amazing happened that fateful day. Chad Pennington did something incredible while helping his team complete an amazing turn-around from last season: He literally moved a fucking hyphen. Those 1-15 Dolphins of a year ago now became the 11-5 Dolphins of today, and with it AFC East Division Champs.

Jets General Manager Mike Tannenbaum said of Mangini:

"No one's worked harder than Eric". "No one's been more loyal. Obviously I have a close, personal relationship with him....But at the end of the day, we had to make the decision that we felt was the right one, not the easy one."

Statement from Eric Mangini:

"I appreciate the opportunity that Woody and Mike gave me for the past three years as the head coach of the New York Jets. The organization has terrific people and I wish the Jets nothing but success. The time and effort invested by the coaches and players was tremendous and I value that beyond words. We worked hard to achieve two winning seasons out of the past three. I regret that we could not reach our goals for this year. I will always appreciate the passion and support of the fans as our focus was trying to build them a championship-caliber foundation and team."

The Jets are already searching for Mangini's replacement. On the short list so far is Bill Cowher, former Steelers coach who's pretty much a celebrity mustache and who hates his life working on television for the last year. Steve Spagnuolo, current defensive coordinator for the defending Super Bowl champs New York Giants (hothead, with feisty wife so he gets my vote), and Marty Schottenheimer (old guy with the most wins without ever coaching a team in the Super Bowl).

There you have it, folks. I'm not a clever songwriter myself, but I thought it only appropriate that I put my own hat in the ring for rhyming football compositions. A poem, if you like.

My "Ode" to the Jets..

Jets guilt must weigh a ton, to look at AFC East Champ, Pennington
Choose power rather than meek, It's Bill Cowher the Jets shall seek

For Jet nation not to starve, the team must keep Brett Favre (I mean hell, it won't be a crime to try one more time?)

But if next season should end in a frown, the next one fired should be Mike Tanennbaum

"The Fierce Urgency of Now"

2008-11-03T17:24:00.004-05:00

Well, here we are folks. After a very long campaign, an endless barrage of news coverage, sound bites and rhetoric from both sides of the so called "aisle", we all sit together as Americans tonight on the eve of what can perhaps be a historic moment.

There's nothing I can say here that you haven't already heard: The two candidates have laid out their plans for the future of our country, and frankly, if you're still undecided after all this time, if you possibly are part of that mind-boggling percentage of voters that haven't made up their mind and plan on waiting until getting into the booth to make a decision, you truly are a retard.

The choice, is perhaps the most important one you will make in your voting lifetime. But the possibility still exists that this election can be stolen. Get out and vote, or else we may wake up one day in January to President McOldpants. The only silver lining to that cloud being that if God forbid he croaks just days into his term, (like that pope who they say "forgot" to bring his heart medication with him to the Vatican), we will certainly have the Milf-iest president ever. A man can dream.

Anyway, get off your pockmarked ass and vote in an election you will always remember. One you can say "Hey, I took the day off from work to vote on that pivotal day in 2008". Then get sloshed, maybe catch a movie, and go home to fuck your girlfriend. Don't worry about getting behind the wheel after your alcohol fueled voting adventure, because Starbucks is giving away a free cup of coffee to everyone who says they voted, even though it may violate federal election laws. Oh well.

Sadly, Sen. Barack Obama's grandmother passed away this morning. Not to sound insensitive, but those of us in "the showbiz" can't help but look to the possibilities of this story. And what a story it is, passing away just one day before possibly seeing her little grandson grow up to be elected to the highest office in the land? Back in Hawaii (which is pretty much still fresh in terms of being part of "the land" in the first place), she passes quietly in her sleep the day before her grandson is maybe elected as leader of the known free world? In this very serious moment for Obama, I can't help but think that somewhere, Oliver Stone is licking his chops and Denzel is keeping his schedule clear. Maybe Helen Mirren as Madelyn Dunham? Hey, you never know.

It may sound stupid, but the most agonizing part of my decision was due to the fact that both candidates share one important trait with me, they're left-handed. Long have I waited for the day when a southpaw was guaranteed to be commander-in-chief. Some of us have even organized during this election. What a grand life the next four years will be with a lefty in charge, who also happens to be a little left-of-center too. Don't get me wrong here, as soon as I start making some serious coin, I'm changing parties right quick. Once I'm reasonably wealthy, no one's spreading it. Until then, I'm wide-eyed with wonder over the greatness we can achieve in this country, hand in hand, together, as one. Sounds kind of socialisty, huh? So awesome.

See ya on the flip side!

She & Him [ "Him" being me, of course ]

2008-08-14T04:20:00.014-04:00

Our story this evening is truly wondrous indeed. It's a yarn spun right in the heart of New York City, the Big Apple. I'm at home seriously flexing my culinary muscle, tending to a nice big batch of my famous "Ciopinno", when I get a call from some casting service or other offering me the chance to gain that elusive last waiver, the final hurdle before glorious union status.

You see, when I'm nervous (which is often), I have the tendency to completely fuck up any kind of phone call. If I'm getting good news in any form over the telephone, I'll somehow think of a list of reasons why I'm no good and then try to convince you that you made a mistake in choosing me. Self sabotage. I consider it a fine art. If you're consistent it'll almost always work. "It's easy," the woman on the phone says. "Small production, small set, it'll be a quick day". I think to myself: "So, I'll be sitting in a smaller non-descript crowd than usual?" .

She tells me "No, actually you'll be very featured". "You're going to be a delivery boy". My heart sank. I know what that means. In the simplest of terms, it seems that once again, I'm getting a waiver for basically playing as a Mexican. Not that there's anything wrong with Mexico, or the people birthed of the beautiful Peninsula called Yucatan. It's just that upon seeing my pictures, or perhaps reading my name in print, I'm immediately bunched in with all "Hispanic" or "Latin" folk. It doesn't end there, because although I'm approached on a regular basis by elderly Spanish-speaking women on the street who ask me for directions or just think I'm their grandson, I don't know how to speak Spanish and never get jobs for people who look "Puerto Rican." New headshots are very much in order, ones that maybe won't belie my long-ago European ancestry. I'll admit though, sometimes I can pull off "Member of marauding gypsy clan from Spain" (love those Gypsy Kings I do), unfortunately casting calls for that type of thing are few and far between. Most importantly, I just want to stop getting calls for "Angry (but smart, moral and romantic) tormented Egyptian college student caught between tradition and the influence of western culture while at the same time extremely dissatisfied with current world state of events and seriously thinking about doing something radical." I get that a lot.

Nature of the beast I guess. The routine with these glamorous background gigs goes as so: You usually have to call a hotline or someone involved with the production. You might have a check-in number to listen for in a recorded message. Depending on the size of the project, etc., your number can be anything up to somewhere in the hundreds (especially when doing non-union work). Nothing to get too excited over, you're just given an idea of how many extras to expect when you get there (I don't work well with large crowds). Today my number was 3. That number is pretty fucking low. I check in, and find out the call time is 11:30am, which is kind of late as far as these things go. I've grown accustomed to lugging around a garment bag on the subway at 4AM, so this can't be too bad, right?

The set is somewhere in Midtown, W30-something St. Getting off the train, I realize I'm walking by my former nacho-making place of employment, The Katwalk. I wanted to stop in, say hi, see if the barmaids were still raging cokewhores, the usual chit-chat. I decided against it in favor of enjoying the bleak, dark, no-sunshine, cloudy, gun-in-the-mouth type of day it was, just like the ones I used to love so much in my youth. The breeze was nice, and very cool. In the shadow of the Empire State Building, I duck into a plain looking doorway and zip up on the elevator towards my fate. The doors open onto a narrow corridor. The place is called Gary's Loft. It's used often as a film/photo studio, and it's also a very popular wedding venue. I'm definitely going to throw a party there sometime. That's the view (above) of the Empire State Building from inside the penthouse. Very swank. Down to the end of the hall, turn the corner and there it is: One of the most compact (read: can't possibly hide from the camera) sets I've ever seen. It's apparent a large "crowd" scene is out of the question. Usually at this point in time someone is there to greet you and point you towards the "holding" area for us lowly extras. There doesn't seem to be sufficient room for that, only crew members are running around busy today and nobody has any idea who I am. When I finally get a Production Assistant's attention, he says "Oh, you must be Octavio". "What's this?" I'm thinking. I tell him "No, my name is Nic actually," (I'm an ass)) "I'm supposed to be an extra today?" (I've learned that one way to deal with anxiety is to nervously make everything you say sound like a question, so you don't get the full brunt of people's impatience and/or rejection).

The PA looks at me like I have three heads. "Whatever, go down to wardrobe" he says. "Where is it exactly?" I ask. I can tell this guys not too amused with me. "Outside" he says. Again, not too helpful. If my memory from walking into this building serves me correctly, there were no less than 8-10 trailers lining the block. More often than not they're conveniently labeled with signs on the door. No such luck this time, as I'm facing a whole city block of trailers with unmarked doors. At the first one, I'm greeted with a sour-faced woman who not only in her best deadpan responds that no, this isn't the wardrobe trailer, but doesn't help at all in guiding me towards the correct one. Knocking on all the doors now, I finally find the proper trailer. It is there I'm greeted by a very nice wardrobe lady. This wardrobe/stylist gal was very warm, inviting and came complete with her own bubbly, cute-as-a-button apprentice. "What's your name?" she asks, and so the saga continues. As we all know by now the correct spelling of my name is a huge point of contention for me at almost all times. (One of my previous waivers was actually "lost" due to the misspelling of my name by some inept administrative folk.)

I tell her: "My name is Nicolas....and that's without the H", with a slight chuckle. Most of the time, I'm usually greeted by a look of "Who gives a shit" or "What's wrong with this guy?". Not this time. She completely understood. She says "I know what you mean, what's your nationality?" I proceed to rattle of the various origins of my proud Latin ancestry, and she replies "My husband is from Chile, his name is Nicolas also, and he goes nuts over the spelling of his name too!". I'm put at ease temporarily (a rare moment).

"Let's get you dressed, Octavio" she says. I'm confused again, but a stunning realization is now starting to wash over me (I can be a bit dense at times). She says "You know you're name is Octavio in the movie, right?" I'm stricken with nervous fear immediately and I want to grab her by the collar and say "Hey, what are you talking about lady, extras don't have names in movies!" but I keep it to myself. An apron and a pair of construction boots are provided to me by her assistant. This, along with a bubble vest and baggy jeans that I borrowed from a friend, and I was magically transformed into the best possible delivery boy ever ...ever.

Now back up on set, someone asks me "Hey, by the way, did you get any sides yet?" (portion of a script) Again, I think "I'm just an extra, why would I need that?" He says"Someone really should have given you a copy". Another guy walks by and slaps the sides into my now sweaty and shaking hand. I'm suddenly introspective. Inside the vast expanse of my mind, one image begins to arise. It's a neon light, something like a beer sign. I can hear that buzzing now, like when you first fire it up. Wait, I think it says something....there's a couple of blinks, and finally full illumination. I can see the letters clearly in my mind's eye now. The sign looks something like this:

I don't know how to read these things, they're not straightforward at all. Hell, I'm not even a real, trained actor (yet). No high school drama club for me, buddy. At the time I was much too preoccupied with the enigma that is vagina to worry script reading. I'm flipping through the pages, searching frantically for any reference to this "Octavio" character. "What part is being filmed right now?" I'm thinking to myself. Half of the pages have black lines drawn through them, what's going on here?!! Calm down, girlypants. Take it back a little further. Remember who was lauded for their performance in the Thanksgiving grammar school play? Was it that douche Squanto? No baby, it was one awesome 8 year old, you.

It's method time. Who exactly is this man Octavio? How does he feel when he's delivering things? Oh yeah, I'm in the zone now, and then.... someone is telling me I'm expected on set shortly. He gets a communication in his ear. Through my uncanny powers of observation, I can sense whoever is on the other end of the line asking about what I look like. The guy looks at me and says into his walkie "He looks uh, ...neat?" Shit, maybe I don't look right for the "Mexican delivery boy". I'm reminded of the time when I was called to be in the police lineup of thugs who may have killed Jodie Foster's fiance in "The Brave One". Casting had already seen my pic, but when I show up, the rest of the lineup "Hispanics"that were called in were so Mexican gangster looking (shaved head, tats, wife beater), that there was no chance they were going to use me. I remember standing there feeling like such an ass, but at least I still received a waiver for my precious wasted time.

So I'm led through this apartment and up a flight of stairs where a very nice kitchen and living room awaits. Another nice PA, who I remember from an episode of Law and Order in Prospect Park (I was a power walker that day), brings me to be introduced to the director. He says "Hey, I'm Matt, don't be nervous." If "don't be nervous" is the first thing someone says to you, then obviously your uber-cool outer facade isn't working. Matt says "Ok, this is what I want from you". "You're sitting down with the actors, then someone will walk in (a main character), you get up, gather your stuff and leave, Ok?" He quickly points to the part of the script we were about to shoot. I say "Sure", not absorbing a word of what he just said. At that moment another young lady walks over and puts makeup on me. This is real now.

" Nic, we'll have you sit down at the table " the director tells me. He points to a huge wooden rustic kitchen table in the kitchen (actual kitchen and table on bottom shown left) I sit down and immediately spread my arms across the table for some reason, as if somehow this is normal behavior. I was trying to become familiar with the space, to "own it" so to speak. Then a young girl and guy enter the room. The girl is petite, dark hair, nice blue eyes. The guy is tall, a bit stocky. They sit across from me at the table. They seem to know each other and proceed to talk about previous days working on this project. I get shy at inappropriate times, so instead of striking up convo, I just think to myself "Finally, these must be the extras, the actual actors haven't gotten here, and this is going to be fine". I finally commence chatter between us at the last second so I don't look like a dick, and it becomes clear that these are probably not the guys who I'll be in the scene with. I also didn't research this project or ask anyone, so I have no idea who's in this movie or even what it is really.

"Second team out!" shouts the Assistant Director. At that moment my two new friends get up, say "Nice meeting ya Nic, good luck" and leave. Finally it all becomes clear. If you recall, my check-in number was 3, a suspiciously low number which I interpreted as a benefit; my time to shine in a limited pool of extras. Turns out my newly met acquaintances were in fact numbers 1 and 2 on that list. That means they were the stand-ins. Holy shitcakes, there are no other "extras"!

"First team in!" someone shouts from across the room. As background, I'm usually long gone off the set by now. I'm first team, for the first time. Stage directions on the script say I have to be equipped with props. Red insulated delivery bag, six pack of beer(?) and a bike helmet. I shuffle through my sides. It reads: (I shouldn't write the exact wording) "Happy is seated at the table". "Octavio, a 19 year-old Mexican delivery boy is across from her, with a six-pack of beer he brought with him". As I'm reading this and it begins to sink in, a different set assistant attempts to push the bike helmet down on my huge head. "Uh, I don't think it'll fit" I say, trying to be funny while attempting to block out memories of high school humiliation over the size of my cranium. I take it off, and then the actors arrive. Showtime.

I hear a girl laughing off stage. It's a lively, hearty laugh. I look off to the left and there she is, in all her glory. The one and only Zooey Deschanel. One of those girls I've dreamt about working with, because she seems so awesome and non-jerk like. Raven haired, slightly aloof in the best possible way, fair skinned with huge beautiful eyes. I've met blockbuster actresses before and never got nervous because they usually seem so inaccessible. This is a different situation, that's not how she is so I am a little taken aback. I had no idea she was going to be here. Her stand-in suddenly makes sense. This time my imaginary inner neon sign reads: "Don't stare." If you're not familiar with her, she's been described by Rolling Stone as the "Current indie boys movie-star crush of choice". I'm usually not a huge fan of ridiculous propaganda bullshit concerning "Indie music" or people, the type of shit that appeals to complete tools (you know who you are), but the music in this case speaks for itself. It's good stuff.

I've been a fan of Zooey's for a while, and once I finally heard her sing, there was never a doubt in my head that Ms. Deschanel had the voice of an angel (her performance of "Baby it's Cold Outside" with Will Ferrel in ELF, hello?). She sings quite well, and is the more lovely half of the musical duo "She and Him" (M.Ward, Z.Deschanel). The album is great, buy it. Her sister Emily (below) is different, but also very awesome, starring in the FOX series "Bones" with David Boreanaz (It's forensic fun for all). I probably should have introduced myself to Zooey or moved in any way. She seemed busy, so I figured, why bother her?

I know what you're asking yourself. "Hey you, writer of so many overly long yet gripping and inspiring blog posts... Didn't you mention that there were two stand ins?" Yes there was, thanks for asking. Now I was about to get the "left hook" in a one-two punch of celebrity intimidation. I hear footsteps coming down the hall and try to imagine who the other guy earlier could be standing in for. I'm looking down at the table when I hear a booming voice say "Hello, Octavio". I think a little poop came out at that moment (can't be sure) as I look up and into the face of John Goodman.

Being left-handed, by brain processes things in a very image-heavy, abstract sort of way. Trying to keep cool, my mind flashes back to my childhood: I'm in the living room, feeling generally neglected, while old episodes of "Roseanne" flicker across a crickety TV set in the distance..... Ok, I finally snap out of it. The director introduces the three of us. "Hi, I'm Nic", I say to Zooey, kind of with a chuckle like I'm apologizing for something already. I'm trying my best to be calm, cool and collected. I stopped getting star struck a long time ago. I'm thinking "Yeah, I know who you are, you have large eyes that I'm trying not to stare into, but we're both professionals here, right?" She responds with "Hi, I'm Zooey". My heart is a flutter. Turning to shake Mr. Goodman's hand, I'm seized with another flash, this time playing in full volume and IMAX sized scope inside my brain. While he's crushing my hand in his, I'm taken back to a scene from The Big Lebowski where Goodman, in his legendary role as Walter Sobchak pulls that guy out of the wheelchair and throws him to the ground while screaming "This guy fucking walks! I've never been more certain of anything in my life! Walk you fucking phony!". I think I told him my name through all this madness going on in my head, but I can't be sure.

Here's the scene: Goodman plays Zooey's Dad. It opens as I'm sitting with her, we're both drinking beer. We're cool, so damn young and beautiful, living in a crazy world without enough time. That part lasts for about 4 seconds. Then John Goodman walks in, and immediately scares the crap out of me by catching me with his daughter. I quickly finish my beer, gather my things, and get up. Upon him asking who I am, I bow shyly at Goodman, grab my delivery bag, and attempt to cram that very small bike helmet on my head. Exit, stage right. That's only the beginning of the scene, because after I leave the room the dialogue between them continues for a couple of pages (talking about my character). Simple enough, huh? Let's just say it took more takes than were probably necessary, most notably the very first one, where my timing was non-existent and I kind of slammed the beer too hard on the table, grabbed my stuff and literally ran out of the room just as John Goodman was entering. If you know me personally, you wouldn't find this part surprising at all. The director sat me down and told me basically that was a little too early. When he called out "Ok, everyone back to your ones (starting point)", I was so embarrassed that I didn't want to go back on the set. I wanted to say "You know what? I'm good. I think I've had enough". Failure was not an option, at least for me. Second take. Zooey grins at me, she saw what just happened and my incompetence is humorous to her, almost cute. "Action" - This take, my timing is better, I look more Mexican and clueless than ever (which is what the scene calls for) and I think things are going quite well. Now between takes, Zooey is playing with the beer caps on the table and I'm growing quite distracted. It works though, because now we're developing a little "rapport" and eventually I'm comfortable enough to nail the shot. The scene is wrapped. It's the end of my day, so I head into the elevator. As the doors are closing, Ms. Deschanel tells me to hold the elevator and rushes in. It's her break time. There we are, just her and I (it's a tiny elevator, mind you). We're on the 15th floor, and it's a long way to the street level. Other people filter in and out of the elevator. I don't think they recognize her. I'm in one of those tortuously long, awkward-silence with a well known actress elevator rides (geez, if I had a nickel...) What do I say, if anything? I'm frantically trying to think of things she's been in that maybe I should compliment her on. That's what you do in this type of situation. Hey, maybe I'll say "Tin Man was awesome!" (sci-fi miniseries) "Did your parents ever read the original Wizard of Oz to you and Emily at night before bedtime?". God that sounds creepy, can't say that. Maybe I should mention a gig I worked on for Target once. It was in a mansion upstate and I met her best friend, fashion designer Erin Fetherston, who was approving everyone's wardrobe. They work together all the time, (watch the short film "Dreamy Wander" here) but the fact that I knew that might have sounded too weird. She might think I have an overzealous interest in the internet, and that may also seem quite creepy to her.

Too late now anyway, elevator's pulling into the lobby. All I could muster in the end was "Well, good luck with the rest of the movie". Real smooth. Before we leave the elevator, she looks at me and says "Thanks, by the way you did a great job". It's pouring rain outside now. Perhaps she was just being nice, but as I and walked out onto these soaked Manhattan streets, I was dancing between rain drops. Elated. When I called one of my best friends later that day, he was happy for me and summed it all up perfectly. Even though I didn't really have lines or anything in the movie, he said "Wow, that's great! John Goodman acted at you!"

The movie is titled "Gigantic", so please check it out, even if my brief appearance is completely cut out later. Paul Dano (Little Miss Sunshine, There Will Be Blood), also stars in this film and serves as Executive Producer. Hell, even Ed Asner is in it, so how can you possibly say no?

..:: Jury Duty ::..

2008-06-23T04:20:00.002-04:00

It's time once again to serve the public, to join the ranks of those special people who call themselves "useful parts of society". Jury Duty. That was my calling years ago, when I registered to vote, then signed that magic donor card, bringing me out of the darkness and into the world of legally judging the fate of one of "my peers". Peeking through the veil of a young man misunderstood, with my razor-sharp cunning and wit in tow I managed to make it out of there in a total of 15 minutes, excused for the next four years. Did I win? Did I manage to pull one over on the system?

Not quite. Today's act of civic responsibility finds me at Chelsea Piers once again. I'm going to that familiar set of the longest running prime time drama in television history: Law & Order. I happen to be (along with my Mom and plenty of old people) a huge fan of the show. While the rest of my contemporaries are preoccupied by keeping up with the Kardashians (Kourtney is actually my favorite) and things like the fate of the latest American Idol, I'm interested in more substantial fare. By that I mean PBS in HD. Frontline, Great Performances at the Met, shit like that. And of course, my good old L&O on the always reliable National Broadcasting Company.

After watching this show for many years (the finale of their 18th season recently aired), I've become a big fan of the gripping court room scenes that come along in the second "Order" half of any episode. I always sympathized with the jury. Intently watching testimony with stern faces and deep in thought, I didn't envy the difficult decision they would have to make. I mean, this is serious business after all. The fate of a fake TV character is in their hands.

I always wanted to be a part of that. The heavens heard must have heard my plea because one day not too long ago, while at the DMV clearing up a small violation following a minor "hit and run" incident, I get a phone call. It was literally straight out of Central Casting. It was good news, and just like Jesus 40 days after that crucifixion thing, it was finally my day to ascend. My services were needed for the next episode, the woman on the phone says. I was to be in the jury. My friend and I decide to celebrate by taking a trip (he's driving of course) to Wendy's so we can tear through their dollar menu like nobody's business. I felt so free, without a care in the world. I thought the stars had finally aligned and nothing could have possibly stopped me now. My jubilation had just begun to erupt (you know what I mean ladies), and that's when the phone rang again. It was a lovely young lady from Central calling me back, only to inform me she had made an unfortunate mistake, and that I was not to be in the jury, only the gallery. "No need to bring the suit now", she says. Damn you GALLERY!!, I thought to myself. "Ok, I'll do it" I say, and hang up to cry into my frosty. Little does she know I'm still bringing the suit (unfortunately I have a limited wardrobe, so you get what I bring, NBC).

I have plenty of experience working on the storied franchise. My last, maybe brightest spot was an episode of Criminal Intent ("Senseless") where I actually got a waiver upgrade for portraying a Mexican immigrant living in a basement somewhere with 5 or 6 other day laborers. Ah, the fun I had that day. The SWAT team breaks the door down to raid the house and Chris Noth yells in my direction "Where's your Green Card?". That Mr. Big is a dream to work with, I'll tell ya. Pleasure to be around on the set (he's a loud dick). At least his partner Falacci was a vision of beauty (who made the one Mexican with lines quite nervous). I didn't know I was going to have to take my shoes off (construction boots), so I think my Argyle socks added an air of sophistication to the scene as I was lying face down in a mattress. None of us were actually Mexican, come to think of it. It was a few Dominicans and Puerto Ricans with maybe a random South American thrown in. Actually, now that I think of it all my background upgrades were because whatever I was working on needed a Mexican! Sacrifice, it's the name of the game I guess.

Anyway........
Back to the story at hand. T'was a long fucking day, a morning on which I struggled to overcome the pitfalls of the night before. I got a little too wasted at the local shithole bar and gave myself only a few hours to sleep. Today's call time was very motherfucking early, as important things like this usually are. I walked into the familiar holding area, unzipped my garment bag for wardrobe inspection ("people in the gallery don't dress as well as jurors, blah blah, blah") and assumed my usual spot in the corner, far far away from the rest of the herd. Hours pass, like they always do before they use you. Ray-Ray, the portly and amusing PA finally enters the room and asks us to go into the hallway and line up. He walks up and down the line, carefully looking over all of our faces. At that moment, I felt like the Golden Retriever at the Westminster Dog Show. You know what I mean, so goddamn beautiful that the judge passes you over sometimes just to be fair to the other breeds once in a while. He's pointing at random people on the line. "You....you...and you" he says, "Step out of the line". My mind begins to race at a frantic speed. "Do I want to be someone who gets pointed at in this kind of situation?"- I think to myself. "Or is it one of those trick selections, where everyone who's not picked actually wins?". Maybe they're picking a new jury at the last second? The only way to know for sure is if he stops counting at 12. Of course if I'm not picked by then, that would obviously be too late. Aye, so many questions, such a short menial life.

Lucky for me (and as it turns out, your eyeballs), I was pointed at. Given the proverbial finger so to speak. I was lucky number 7 to boot, so maybe things were turning around for me! I had never been asked, invited, or considered for sitting in the jury, as this is a spot usually reserved for those of the SAG variety (more on that in my next exciting post, it's a real nail biter). So take that, flaky casting lady! Now I do get to wear the suit, because the story will take place over two days and a wardrobe change is required. Turns out that celebratory junior cheeseburger and chili were not eaten in vain after all. I wasn't aware at the time (because it was the court half of the show), but this episode, entitled "Bogeyman" was the first show of the season co-starring Anthony Anderson as the new detective partner to Jeremy Sisto. Sadly, Jesse L. Martin had already left the series after nine years in what turned out to be a pretty weak way to get written off. We'll miss him, and funny man Anthony Anderson seems like an odd replacement. I mean, did you see Kangaroo Jack? What's up with dat? Anyway, maybe it was time to move on and Jesse Martin, also a talented Broadway performer is slated to star in an upcoming biopic about Marvin Gaye (spoiler alert: I think his dad shoots him in the end).

Again, like Jesus (the parallels are truly amazing), I was tested at that final moment before showtime. If the first person in the jury box was chosen to be number 1, she would obviously be sitting in the first row, first seat (left to right). Being juror number seven, that puts me all the way on the left, second row. Closest to the testifying witness, that puts me in prime camera real estate. We're then told to walk into the jury box the proper way, numbers six and twelve entering their respective rows first and so on, allowing everyone to get into their seats quickly and efficiently. Juror number 8 is a curly wild haired redhead seated next to me. She's attractive, appears smart in a way. She has that look, and sadly, I've seen it before. Her eyes ask that eternal question: "Where does he get that weirdo, oddly silent vibe he voodoos so well?". Alas, yet another deal broken before it was brokered. Cameras are about to roll, and now I think it's appropriate that I mention I'm suddenly afflicted by severe sinus, eyeball and face redness allergies. Not quite snot, but a fast unstoppable stream of saline liquid begins to pore from both duct, nostril, and pore. It happens at, as we say in the business, "The absolute worst Fucking time". I'm using the last balled up combo of tissue and toilet paper I was able to salvage to wipe my now irritated and red nose and.... "ACTION!". The show is on, and there is no more time to wipe away the dignity now dripping out of my cavernous nostrils. Ok, first take done. One of a seeming 6,000 chances to embarrass myself. After a while, I begin to notice something I've never experienced before. That lovely young lady sitting next to me, juror number 8, was apparently giving me the "peripheral" stink eye. Her technique was amazing, I'll tell ya. She had mastered the art of expressing dissatisfaction without an ounce of direct eye contact. "Hey..." was my first nervous word uttered after 3 hours of ignoring her, "I must be having some kind of reaction to the dust in the air or something". Needless to say, she's not impressed. I was probably better off not having said anything at all, considering I would have to sit next to her for the next 8-10 hours. Better to let someone think you're weird or foreign and don't speak English than to embarrass yourself, I say.

Lunch break over, I'm having a horrible time. My face is permanently semi-red. The nasal drip has not stopped. Take after take, I'm in disbelief as to how bad this is going to look in it's final presentation. I'm convinced I'll never be pointed at in a lineup again (at least not for a good reason). The episode revolves around some kind of cult group murder type of thing, called ‘Systemotics’ (read:Scientology). The episode is chock full of jury intimidation and near mistrials. We're basically watching two people testify for the scenes. One of them is a hot, puffy-eyed petite blond (Nicki Aycox). The other one is this guy who is the author of some book, developer of the system (read:L.RonHubbard), or something like that. The actor portraying this guy's real name is Bill Irwin. Thanks to another wild curly-haired redhead vixen I know personally, she told me he's actually a well known clown performer whom she's been very well aware of due to her own history in showbiz and clown acts. Small world, huh?

The magic of television is awesome, I'll tell ya. Although I've been in this particular courtroom set before, during the premiere of last year's season (as a reporter), I've never noticed up close how everything in the front the room (judge area, witness stand, jury box, etc..) is on wheels. I learned this the hard way, when I came back to the set too early to sit in the box. Upon stepping onto the platform with the chairs, I managed to do some kind of Tony Hawk skateboard-type slide that almost ended up with me breaking my ass on the floor. "Oh, that's not ready yet, sorry" says Mr. Union set-building carpenter guy having a bad day and who I know is laughing inside. Cool thing is, the wall behind the jury is completely portable too, and later on in the day they removed it to shoot the closing arguments with that classic "behind the jury's head" panning shot we've all come to love. As if I didn't feel awkward enough yet, the court officer / bailiff chick on my right at some point tapped me on the shoulder and said (what I thought was) "What up?". I figured she's speaking in the slang the kids are crazy about these days. "Not much, just chillin" I say. "What up?!" she says again. Looking at me like I'm retarded. "NOT MUCH" I say again (geez louise, what's going on with this girl? ) ...Turns out she's asking me for "Water", which I now notice is on the floor of the jury box behind my seat. I want to die now. "Oh yeah, of course" I say, and I reach back to hand her one of the cool "movie star" size Poland Spring 6 oz bottles. They're handy because you can bring them on a set with you and just stick them in your pocket without getting yelled at.

At least the scenery was nice during this mind numbing stretch of hours sitting in one spot. We're right next to the prosecutor's table, where the alluring Alana de la Garza is sitting silently (she has no lines in this scene). Her giant gorgeous eyeballs dare you to stare at her for just a second too long (you may turn to stone). Surprisingly, Linus Roache (who plays A.D.A. Michael Cutter) is an English guy. I have this uncanny knack of figuring out people who are putting on American accents in TV and film, so I always suspected him as a Brit. No doubt, overall they do a much better job at it than American actors taking awful stabs at English accents (re:Bridget Jones' Diary). After the camera stopped rolling between takes, he went into his normal dialect. It's funny, because he seems to have kind of a posh accent, like he grew up in a nice home in a fancy part of England. Not like the typical chimney-sweep drawl we're accustomed to in the US.

Through horribly amateurish video editing, I managed to make a little clip of the excitement that after hearing me describe, I know you are all now dying to see for yourself. To make the length of this video longer than the four to five seconds you might actually be able to pick me out, I've included the opening credits (Mike Post is a GOD!) and another clip I happened to find of a previous episode from the same season, something I referenced earlier in the perhaps prematurely titled post "Checking the Gate-A Retrospective". It's at Brooklyn College (Hudson University for the purposes of the show). Check me out walking by quickly with my backpack and hoodie - just like a real life college student!

The song is a classic tune from the great PJ Harvey, "Sheela-Na-Gig"

American Wedding (The Gogol Bordello Experience)

2008-04-14T04:20:00.005-04:00

Have you ever been to American Wedding?

The question may seem silly at first. Obviously, there are many of us who have attended a wedding in this country at one time or another. These seven words are actually an inquest into the deepest regions of our souls. The question asks us to look way down deep in the cockles of our hearts, where things like math and logic go to die and only feelings exist.

It also happens to be the question posed by Gogol Bordello's charismatic frontman Eugene Hutz in the opening moments of their hit song "American Wedding". If you're not familiar with them, Gogol Bordello hails from our very own Lower East Side and formed during an era just long enough ago when you might have still remembered what "cool" tasted like. Their own brand of alcohol-fueled sex magic ice cream comes only in Gypsy Punk flavor, and they offer no apologies for that. They speak in a traditional voice, but with a new feel. Freedom for all, love thy neighbor, be inclusive, don't hurt the ones you love (but wail when they hurt you), don't keep a permanent mailing address for too long, that type of stuff. Influences of folk music, a dash of Klezmer, some excellent fiddle playing, lots of accordion, all that good stuff are apparent.

When released on their latest album, "Super Taranta", "American Wedding" may not have been the ultimate fan favorite outside of the humorous context of it's lyrics. Luckily for all of us, when it came time to start thinking about this song the band as a whole came to the same realization as we all do when we're going steady long enough with a girl we really like: "It's time to make a video!" Here's the scene- We're in CoolTown, USA (per usual). The time and date: February 26 or 7ish, 7:45 AM . The mood: Sleepless and as always, afraid of diabetes. The location: I'm in the basement of the Holy Ghost Ukrainian Church in Brooklyn. Yes, It's one of those "cool" parts of Brooklyn (You know, where everyone walks around saying things like "Yeah, me too").

I hit the pavement on one of those very crisp mornings in the county of Kings. The kind that really gets the nips hard (if you know what I'm sayin'). I think mine are unusually tiny and...... Anyway, I had no idea I was on my way to what would turn out to be such a memorable experience. I arrived on set late and hung over, but hey this was a big deal. It's fucking Gogol Bordello for crying out loud. It seemed only appropriate I should not be in possession of all my faculties when working with them .

First, time for seating arrangements. After wardrobe approval and looking at the seating chart, there are a couple of weird looks as I approach. I instantly knew the casting director who told me about this was really looking out for me. Keep in mind the call was for "Polish/Ukrainian 50-65 years old" and "Children, 9-13", blah blah blah. I'm a huge fan, and obviously fitting into neither of these categories I had to temper my social status as an "extra", with the carefree enthusiasm of a kid who just likes that old time rock n' roll. I'm placed at a table where there's a kind older lady who runs a Ukrainian amateur theatre and a couple of other nice young ladies who are big fans of the band and from whom I also feared some random lightning round trivia question regarding the band coming on.

The day starts off slowly, as usual. From any previous descriptions of my not so glorious times being an extra, I've already told you these things can go on forever. I'm at my table no less than 20 minutes before a member of production comes to move me because apparently, a Puerto Rican at a table of Slavs won't bode too well for the cinematic 'feel' of this particular video. At my new table, just far enough away from the one Asian girl in attendance (as to not ruin the visual scape), and they begin preliminary shots. I must have been giving off some kind of bored or tired vibe, maybe like I wish I was somewhere else, because before I know it they're setting up the camera directly across from me, pointed right at my phiz. And as we all know by now (those of us with eyes at least) "it's a neatly chiseled, well groomed, drop dead handsome face!". I might not have the glorious accolades that come along with a traditional higher learning education, but I'm damn proud of being a graduate of the Handsome Boy Modeling School.

I sigh deeply, chin resting on hand. Shuffle a bit, struggling to keep my eyes open.... "Keep doing that, it's perfect!", the assistant director with that air of 'I just got out of film school' enthusiastically responds. "Swirl that wine glass" (cranberry juice) he tells me. "Not like that", "Too jerky" he tells me. The concept of the video, like the song, is the idea that weddings in this country are boring. We've thrown aside our personal cultural identities during these things in favor of a stifled, ordinary and routine ceremony. Disguised as catering wait staff, it's Gogol Bordello's job to ruffle some feathers, inject some excitement and otherwise just "shake things up". Later in the day I volunteer to be the one who Elizabeth Sun (one of two foxy young ladies in the band), slams a wine bottle down in front of as Eugene, Pam and herself storm through the reception area. I soon paid the price when a high-spirited Elizabeth slammed the bottle down during one take, relieving it of it's cork and introducing my fancy suit to droplets of the "dirty" side of this business. She was very sweet about it though. Ah, the state of mind us artists get into when we're really "feeling" it and firing on all sexy cylinders, you get the idea......

Day Two:
Yesterday was a long day, at least 12 hours. Today promised to be longer, but even more exciting. I could hardly sleep the night before in anticipation of today, when we would be treated to the rest of the band and an all out party after conclusion of the video's major shots. Yesterday only Eugene Hutz, Elizabeth Sun and Pam Racine were in attendance. Today the rest of the band would make their appearance in the video, along with their instruments and a spirit that promised to give the second day a more communal and 'musical' vibe.

Throughout this post, please enjoy some exclusive, behind-the-scenes footage, taken up close and personal by my own skilled hand.....

My table was off in the corner, so we were pleased to be in the midst of Thomas (bass), Oren (guitar), Pedro(percussion), and Yuri (accordion extraordinaire), along with frequent visits by Eugene Hutz (the people around me apparently knew him personally). The atmosphere was electric today. As soon as the equipment arrived and was unpacked, they went straight to it, breaking into song, jamming, singing, laughing, all the good stuff. This basically went on the entire day, and during lunch we were treated to Eugene, Yuri and Sergey (violin) really getting into an impromptu chanting music explosion which inspired much rhythmic clapping from the enthused crowd. We all wore a unified grin and glowed from moment we were sharing (and I hate to smile, so it had to be good).

Today my talents were called upon to sit at a different table, and throw my chair back like 10 feet during a scene where Pam and Elizabeth run towards my table and flip it over, revealing a large percussion drum strapped underneath, which they immediately fight over, tugging at both ends (they are very cute). Later, back at my original table, one girl (who looked like a cross between Winona Ryder and a pixie woodland creature), suddenly shouted in my general direction "Look, Frodo's standing behind you!" I didn't pay much attention at first, then a few seconds later I turn around and wouldn't you know it, there stands Elijah Wood in all his glory . What seemed to be a very strange walk-in at first was actually quite logical, because the lucky dog is going out with one of the two head scarfed lovelies in the band (Pam). The connection between Mr. Wood and the band was further cleared up when someone informed me that Eugene Hutz was Elijah's co-star in the film "Everything is Illuminated", a movie which I remember seeing and enjoying, but stupidly not realizing at the time that the breakout performance of the Ukrainian translator in the movie was none other than Eugene Hutz (sans facial hair and crazy mustache). I swear, he looked completely different. Many critics say he even "stole the show" in that film, and he received much acclaim for it. On a side note, Eugene stars in Madonna's upcoming directorial debut, "Filth and Wisdom".

Filming the final party scene was an amazing finishing note. Everyone dropped their proper wedding attire for more relaxed crazy-fun Gypsy regalia (though only a few seconds of it actually made into the video). After 2 days of filming for a 3 1/2 minute song, tons and tons of footage is obviously going to be left out.

All in all, the whole thing was awesome, I met a lot of cool people, including a very nice girl who was 'bag of kittens'-level cute (that's a good thing BTW) and who of course I never followed through with - stupid!
I'll never forget the great time I had. I even managed to finagle my way into a spontaneous smoking session with Yuri before I left! I was giddy over the experience, but sadly, when relaying the tale of my adventure it ultimately inspired jealousy among certain contemporaries. This is nothing new to me, but it's like I always say, "Envious are those incapable of rocking". You can write that one down if you want, it's a gem.

An entire take for your enjoyment. This is how the magic is made, baby.....

So, If you've stuck around enough to read this far, I commend you. I've waited way too long to publish this post for one glorious reason. This ranting would have sounded like pure madness unless I presented the final product. So without further ado, here it folks. "American Wedding", (possibly a rough cut) by the one and only, Gogol Bordello (If you're preggers, this is the part where you put speaker to tummy). Enjoy, and keep an eye out for me in the very beginning!

Finally, check out this song. Very nice.
Troubled Friends (Live)

[Sinn]s Of The Father

2008-02-09T04:20:00.000-05:00

The man who acted as Sinn Fein leader Gerry Adams' personal driver has been exposed as a spy working for the British government.

Roy McShane, 58, worked within the political organization for more than 20 years. During this time, he drove Adams and other senior party officials to and from secret meetings with the IRA at Castle Buildings. These intense negotiations eventually led to the signing of the Good Friday Agreement 10 years ago, and subsequent disarming of the IRA in 2005.

McShane was reporting to handlers in England's MI5 during this period, the domestic British spy agency which is nowhere as cool or sexy as James Bond would have you believe. As of Friday, the spineless coward had said goodbye to his family before leaving his west Belfast home and being taken into protective custody, presumably by the police.

This must be irritating for Gerry Adams, as this now makes two double-agents that have infiltrated the (mostly Catholic)103 year-old Republican political party. Two years ago, 56 year-old Denis Donaldson, a close administrative aide to Adams was also exposed as secretly working for MI5. In April 2006, he was found shot dead inside his vacation home in Donegal. Asked about the possibility of McShane meeting a similar fate, Alex Maskey, of Sinn Fein replied: "Let’s face it, the war is over. I see him under no threat at all from republicans.” When asked the same question, Adams said that Mr McShane "certainly is under no threat from republicans, whether he is under any threat from the people who have him is a question for them". Lets hope McShane finds the safety that was most likely promised him by the oh-so-trustworthy British crown. They have a long history of rewarding their friends, and of course by "rewarding" I mean padding their wallets with scones and clotted cream and then totally killing them.

Let's face it folks, you can't shit the toilet maker. It's obvious this guy has poured his last Guinness. Whether it comes at the hands of the men he betrayed is yet to be determined. Even if his new friends at the spy agency of the most notorious, murderous evil empire in history (no, not us, they've been doing it much longer)- who now have no need for him or his family are the ones who do him in, they'll certainly make it look like it was an "act of terror" by an Irish resistance group. All I know is that at this moment, somewhere in the world, a muddy ditch is being dug at this moment with a pillow inside for this guy to take a nap in. Point is, the struggle that has been fairly calm the last few years is being edged, slowly but surely, back into action. They just couldn't leave it alone, the Brits. They obviously weren't aware the 'war' was over. They had to employ new spies in an effort to continue a dominance over a people, land and culture.

I won't let any personal bias I may have affect my reporting though. I'm obviously not Irish, but I do have an odd affinity for the Emerald Isle and it's people (mostly the ladies). It is the duty of any responsible journalist to remain impartial, but I'm not up for a Pulitzer (at least not this year), so fuck off.
There is another (yet maybe not with as much historical significance) - outrage being played out in the land of the leprechaun. Of course I'm referring to the recent proposal making it's way through the upper chamber Senate of the Irish government. It suggests that Ireland stop driving on the left side of the road in an effort to reduce car accidents involving foreign drivers. I'm left-handed, and the last time I was in Ireland, one of the big selling points (other than the drinking thing), was the comfort I felt when driving on what felt like the more "natural" side of the road for me. My dominant (left) hand had more comfortable access to the gear shift, ashtray, and any unsuspecting passenger's right boob. I call out to all politicians of Hibernia, "Strike down this bill!".

Checking the Gate : A Retrospective on the Life of a Background Performer

2007-10-01T04:20:00.002-04:00

Whether I'm portraying an office worker, as in the Flight of the Conchords scene above (at approx. 0:31 seconds), a Wall Street executive (as detailed in my previous post), or as a space filler in a dense crowd of tourists at the Statue of Liberty, the whirlwind life of this struggling actor is not an easy one.

Yeah, it's all champagne-soaked weekends in the Hamptons, late-night Manhattan rooftop parties and bevies of sexy birds now, but things weren't always so carefree and easy for this budding young superstar from Queens. The beginning was quite an uphill battle.

I guess I first found my true calling as an unrecognizable blur in film and television with last year's smash Bollywood hit, Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna. Look for my reaction shot to a soccer ball being thrown (far right, 1:11). After the accolades died down, I'll have to admit a bit of a lull ensued for a while. I wasn't feeling confident and my art, and in turn my career were suffering in the process. A pilot for a show called "Traveler" came soon after (click here, walking left to right, far background, at 1:41) This show sat in the can for a long time before being changed to a mini-series and ABC finally airing it as a mid-season replacement a few months ago. In my role as "club-goer #4", I emerged on the scene with a new image as a suave, "doesn't play by the rules" kind of actor.

Also around this time came another pilot, "The Wedding Album". It was shot in Cipriani's downtown. By the way, Cipriani's is in hot water now and will probably lose their liquor licenses as a result of some the good old not-so discreet taxy-evasiony, agreeing to pay fines to the tune of $10 million.

Anyway, I was a banquet waiter in an opulent wedding scene shot their gorgeous ballroom and I got to meet one of my heroes, Jerry Adler (Hesh from The Sopranos).
I'm not sure why exactly he's a hero of mine, but he certainly is one of those really nice old guys you don't come across too often these days. Connie Stevens was on that show too, but I had to defer to my mom to find out who the hell she was. As it turns out, the Wedding Album had to be rewritten and recast for FOX.

Japanese television came calling next. A staged singles party for dog owners at a spa first, then another live segment singing Christmas carols at the South Street Seaport later that year. My third Japanese gig was the charm and turned out to be the most fun and interesting for me. It was when I had the opportunity to mingle with Morimoto and a Crocs wearing Mario Batali during a magical culinary adventure like none other seen on international TV. When Morimoto yelled at me not to "shake the tray" I was holding during rehearsal outside in 30-degree weather, I knew I wanted to do this for a living. Something just 'felt right'. At this very moment, my people are making sure my publicity tour in Tokyo goes off without a hitch. My Japanese fan base is always hungry for more, and it's about time I showed them my appreciation. After all, I couldn't have got to where I am without them.

Then came S.A.G. upgrades, thanks to two upcoming movies. The first one, titled "Paraiso Travel", is the story of two young lovers from Medellin who move to New York. Half of this film was shot in Colombia, the other half made in Queens, and it's unusual to find myself traveling within my home borough to a set. It filmed sometime in March, so the weather was biting cold, to say the least. They had a little trouble shutting down the street from pedestrians too. One contributing factor being the scene was supposed to be set in the middle of summer, so people with heavy winter coats in the background would be a little bit of a problem for the shot . Thing is, the powers that be in charge of this movie didn't tell any of us lowly extras in advance that would be the situation. They matched me up with a super-hot Colombian girl, to walk as a couple in front of a Colombian restaurant, Mi Tierra Colombia (which I've since had the chance to go to later, thanks to the suggestion of a very beautiful former co-worker at the Katwalk). Walking down the street, I was approached by someone with a name tag around his neck. He asked me to step over to the side of the street with him. Instantly, I thought I had done something wrong. He introduced himself as a S.A.G. union rep, and asked me if production told me in advance that we would be filming summer shots in the winter, complete with an assistant director telling us to take off our jackets before the cameras rolled, shouting the command "Jackets Off!".
"No", I replied, "of course not". "
"Well, we might have a problem here" he replies, and walks off. In the holding area for extras later in the afternoon, I see him literally pulling a member of production into another room to chew him out. Almost an hour later, everyone who wasn't already in S.A.G. was granted a waiver and paid at their rate because of the inconvenience. I got dirty looks from the guys in charge for the remainder of the day, as it looked liked I somehow ratted them out on their unfair labor practices. It's always fishy when they offer you cash for these things too. They were trying to get around some rule here.

This film, directed by Simon Brand, stars (among others) John Leguizamo and Ana de la Reguera. Ana de la Reguera, if you aren't familiar with her, is extremely beautiful. She is also a very well known Mexican actress. Her resume lists two Spanish language TV series', "Luciana y Nicolás" and "Cara o cruz". Between those two shows, their titles have encompassed just about my entire legal name, with correct spelling of course.
(I make a huge deal out of Nicolas being spelled without the dreaded "H", and with the proper accent included). I had already been aware of who she was, somewhat from my struggle to learn the Spanish language by watching novelas, but mostly from her Hollywood debut as Sister Encarnación in the movie Nacho Libre, which was coincidentally released on my birthday (match made in heaven?).

A nerve racking moment occurred when Ana de La Reguera, acting as a CD vendor on the street, stops me to talk as I walk by during the shot. Very unprepared for this moment, I waste no time in promptly ruining the passing camera shot by completely freezing in my spot and muttering some inaudible response, all the while staring into her big beautiful brown eyes and watching her giggle at my awkwardness. Later, I was luckily paired with another Colombian beauty, this time inside the restaurant (whenever they have the makeup girl come up to you, you know you'll have camera time.) In this business, I've come to master the art of pantomiming. I had to pretend to eat food as she continually tried to feed me something disgusting and cold from her fork during the shot, which I had to nicely refuse each time.

Second waiver came in an interesting way as well. Keep in mind, there are many actors out there who spend years trying to get these waivers through background work.
It's a total catch 22: You need to get three of these waivers where you are getting paid the SAG rate for the day to just be eligible to join the union. You can also get hired as a "5 and under" - where you are given five lines or less and fulfill the same requirement. This is harder to do, so most hope for the ever-elusive waiver to fall upon them by chance while being an extra.

How do you get them, you ask? Most major film and television sets follow the guideline of hiring 30 or so background actors automatically, standard. Everyone after that (usually) is non-union. You either have to 'become' one of those 30 by replacing someone who doesn't show up, is late or irresponsible, or if you're lucky, is fired or dies unexpectedly (rare). Or you can inspire someone to grant you an waiver outside of those numbers because you've displayed some extraordinary talent or look that is needed right at that moment (you're featured, etc..) Strangely enough, this way of getting a waiver is most commonly achieved by hot girls dressed as whore-like as possible, and nothing else. 'Dems the breaks, kid.

As I was saying, second waiver came the way of the new Jodie Foster movie "The Brave One". It's funny because all these movie titles always sound retarded to me a year in advance before their release while they're shooting. By the way, is there a movie Terrence Howard is NOT in lately? Answer: NO, because I'll be working on yet ANOTHER one next week (to be released 2008). Overexposure much?
Anyway, I'm called to be featured in a police lineup in the movie. "Are you available to work on a Jodie Foster movie" the casting agent on the phone asks. "Hmmm, Jodie Foster?" I reply, as I shuffle a bunch of papers over the phone pretending I actually might have a life or something to do. She told me she's calling 9 people, and they'll only use 7, so there's no guarantee I'll get in. She's a professional, right? They asked for a young Hispanic male of a certain age, she has already seen my picture on the database, so no room for confusion, correct? I get to the set, outfitted to look like a police station somewhere around the diamond district, 46st or 47th St and some Avenue or another. Without immediately realizing it, I was close to an office of an old girlfriend of mine (and by old, I mean fat too). I awkwardly had to not look like a nut job in front of one of her co-workers I knew while walking past the building (accidentally) during my lunch break. It didn't help that I was forced to walk down the same block (with fellow extras) later that day on the way home to get to the train. It REALLY didn't help that now it's pouring, fucking raining cats and dogs, and I run into a different co-worker of hers this time. Kinda makes you look super-crazy.

Back to meat of this sandwich: (the point, if you will). Upon arriving to set, I immediately realize I've wasted my time. Of the nine people called for this scene, one other guy looks a lot like me. The other seven are straight out of Training Day (or your favorite book of racist stereotypes). I'm talking totally shaved head, wife-beater wearing Mexican gangsters. It's then I look over at my doppelganger in the world of extras (you know the type. "I was a stand in for Wilmer Valderrama, blah blah blah") - and I figure I might as well make friends with this guy due to the fact we'll be spending the whole day doing nothing, cause we both ain't going to be in a movie today. Even though they wasted my time, they had to give me a waiver for making me go there. Thing is, I just couldn't go home, I had to stay as long as the people they used. So I spent the bulk of my 8 hours sleeping in some auditorium.

Now I'm just one waiver (and the over $2,000 initial fee + dues) away from SAG membership, union protection, and inevitable glory.

All of this talk brings me to last month . I'm on set, early call time. I thought ahead this time and managed to get a little sleep the night before. I'm mulling about, just having eaten my standard craft services bacon and egg, coffee, and of course, a corn muffin (I Love me my corn muffins!). I've taken my position now, in the process of what we call in the biz "getting in the zone". I'm standing in front of Ingersoll Hall, at Brooklyn College. No less than 15 feet from me, I'm looking straight at Jesse L. Martin. Luckily, I've been called to do an early episode of the 18th season of Law & Order. Yeah, I was a court reporter in last season's premiere, but it was the 'Order' half of the episode. This is different. I love Law and Order. This show is so totally New York that it ain't even funny. One of the longest running prime time dramas in television history, it has provided an excellent body of work for many actors, local to NY and otherwise, for a long time now. Not to mention the steady work for crew and production the show has made available. [As of 9/21, I've worked on what is going to be probably the second, fourth and fifth episodes, which will start airing in January, Sunday nights, NBC.]

A week later, and my talents are required once more, this time for a Smirnoff Ice industrial. I look among the faces on the 11:07 Metro North train to So.Norwalk and wonder where these people are headed to at this time of the day in Connecticut. I had all the great free barbecue food and all the shitty Smirnoff Ice malt-beverages you can drink. Green tea flavored, Iced tea flavored, watermelon, and the classic original.
Smirnoff Ice was something I enthusiastically drank in my youth; because for the first time, my two favorite things in the world had been brought together: Lemonade and Alcohol. I had so much fun, I suggested to a company rep that they change the name of the product to "Smirn-On!". Once again, I was the only one laughing. Good thing I was too drunk to notice.

In closing, please watch "Extras", the show by original "Office" creator Ricky Gervais. It's hilarious because it's true, take it from me.

Deutsche Bank Fire : Burning Money and Lives on Wall Street

2007-08-20T15:09:00.000-04:00

Saturday, August 18-
This past Saturday afternoon found me standing around for hours in lower Manhattan, working a long day after a sleepless night. Very exhausted and approaching the long awaited check-out time, myself and others around me began to notice a peculiar smell of fire, then billows of smoke drifting high across the surrounding buildings. Soon it became apparent that the Deutsche Bank building was on fire.

The 40-story building, located at 130 Liberty Street (A.K.A. World Trade Center Tower 5) was devastated during the attacks on the World Trade Center. It has earned the moniker of the "Widow", due to the black net that has shrouded the structure since September 11, 2001. It has since served (other than the huge, 6-year undeveloped chasm in the ground of course) - as one of the last haunting reminders of 9/11. In March 2007, contractors Bovis Lend Lease began dismantling the skyscraper floor by floor. This method was in response to public concerns over toxic air quality and the fact that controlled implosions aren't permitted within New York City. The contractors job was to first clear the areas of asbestos and other potentially hazardous materials before dismantling the current level of the building, at approximately a rate of a floor a week. As of the afternoon of August 18, 2007, 14 of the 40 floors had already been cleared and taken apart. Work was halted this Saturday when a seven-alarm fire broke out on the 17th floor.

Sadly, and quite unnecessarily, two firefighters unfortunately lost their lives. Joseph Graffagnino, 33, of Brooklyn, and Robert Beddia, 53, of Staten Island were found on the 14th floor, where upon being taken to the hospital they both succumbed to smoke inhalation. The eight and 23-year FDNY veterans respectively, were caught inside what the FDNY characterized as "maze-like conditions" as a result of polyurethane sheets enclosing asbestos and other hazardous materials inside the building. This, along with panels of plywood sealing off rooms and hallways apparently created tunnels which made an easy path for the fire to travel between floors and made this inferno a nightmare situation for anyone inside.

What the fuck was I doing there in the first place? First off, I want you to know that my intention isn't to take anything away from the tragedy of this day, but in the vein of documenting my life on this blog I have to stick to my current format.

I had been booked on a commercial as an extra a few days prior, or as I would like to call it "Wall Street Executive no. 8". This was to be an all day shoot, with a call time of 6:30 AM. A good friend of mine, and fellow struggling actor (he's moving to L.A. soon, so hopefully the struggle will soon end for him) had been at my house late the previous night. I love to drink beer when I'm nervous, so the obligatory correcting of the drunk guy's double Windsor knot was in order prior to departure. That trip across the Williamsburg Bridge to these things always inspires my nervous crazy neurotic tick every time.

The commercial was for a Korean insurance company, financial institution or fund of some sort. We were supposed to be young professional Wall Street executive types doing whatever they do. My days trading the British pound verses (ironically) the German Deutsche Mark at the 40 Wall address were well behind me, providing absolutely no research value or inspiration for the intense role I was about to take on. Now I smell smoke. We had been using large sprinkler systems for this shot, so that it seemed like it was raining. A water filled truck drove down the block periodically to soak down asphalt and sidewalk. The smoke now begins to be an issue for my delicate lungs. I wonder aloud if the water we're using in excess (some of it through fire hydrants) would affect the current fire fighting (water pressure or whatever). The day is done now. Cast and crew move on to DUMBO for remainder of shoot.

I run to the car to grab my camera. I had that little bit of adrenaline going as I walked around taking pictures. I'm pretty familiar, and almost in love with this area of Manhattan. This is one of the sections I've always preferred over others because of it's simplicity, it's aesthetics, and it's long history. Narrow streets, little to no services, and it's difficult to give directions to people you aren't that crazy to see in the first place. There's foot traffic that dies down dramatically after 5pm, and you're a hop, skip and a jump away from the South Street Seaport. Combine that with a cramped street grid that is unfriendly to both English invaders and young couples with children, and you've got yourself my ultimate residential nirvana. I always wanted to live in that area of the city.

I assumed that if a fucking firecracker went off accidentally or if a plane was flying uncomfortably low, especially in this neighborhood people would freak out and the streets would erupt in mayhem. I was wrong this day. I took a few pics, then dragged my ride home to take photos of other angles of the building. This friend you see, can be a little of a loud mouth. A real character. We learned a new trick to get through dense crowds quicker. When you're wearing a dapper looking suit, just hold on to your right hip or talk into your sleeve and firmly say "Excuse Me!" People think you're federal agents and promptly move out of your way. On Carlisle Street, photographers and news cameras are gathered about. It is here that I witness something that disgusts me, although I didn't realize just how much at the moment. I'm taking pictures from a third view of the building now. There is the ominous and loud strange sound of glass breaking, plywood being axed through, and the sound of building materials and debris tumbling down long distances. Like surround sound for things you're not supposed to hear during the course of a regular day. About 12 feet from us I hear a couple, obviously from some other vile state in the union, ask a nearby lady to take a picture of her and her boyfriend as she put it, "in front of the burning building". The strange, sick smirk that came across their corn-fed evil lips was remarkable by itself. Now is the part I must have missed something. My friend suddenly says out loud "Yeah, use that for your Christmas card, you douchebags!". Impressed by his New York pride and boldness, I did what any good friend would do, and that is briskly walk backwards away from them to avoid further conflict. My friend is about 6'2", and the male half of said asshole couple was closer to his height and size so I figured why let a good thing (my physical well being) go to waste? On the way home, I came to learn the reason why he said that was because that's what this couple (with their dog too, mind you) had said to the woman taking their picture. "We're going to use this as our Christmas card".

It's my opinion, but in conclusion this is a fucking insurance job, this whole fire. I find it unbelievable that the lingering results from 9/11 have now killed two more New Yorkers, two more firefighters, and it's six years later! It'll be quickly brushed away, under the carpet of bullshit, along with the ridiculous notion that they ever cared about the fate of these two firefighters. The Daily News obtained the radio transmissions from the FDNY detailing the desperate fate they faced. The sprinkler systems were inoperable, and for some fucking reason or another the standpipe outside didn't work. Firefighters had to drag hoses up into a building that's supposed to be empty anyway. A high ranking official is heard yelling about he doesn't give a shit about the building anymore, let's just get those guys out. Looking on the fire in person, [I remarked] to a fucking stranger: "It's gotta be ridiculous to send anyone too high into that building, it looks like a trap". I thought the possibility was out of the question, and just letting it burn wasn't an option. Some say workers may have been smoking where the fire started. Debris had littered the hallways for weeks. Earlier this year in May, a 22 foot section of metal piping fell off the building, crashing through the roof of the local firehouse across the street. Over 700 human bone fragments have been found in or around the site, 300 small pieces discovered just last year. The building is considered an eyesore by some, a curse on the city by others. The kicker is that the contractor responsible for the dismantling of the building would get a six-million dollar bonus if the project was completed by December 31. They would've had five months to finish twice as much of the building as they've already done in seven months. No worries, thankfully JP Morgan Chase has won the bid to develop on the site. They'll open their new building in 2012. It'll be so pretty and shiny with an extra large trading floor for the really big money. Maybe they'll have a plaque in their new ultra-modern plaza. Before you know it, the financial district will be dotted with memorials. A reflecting pool here, a tiny little tree signifying 'hope' over there. Some huge multi-million dollar shard of glass designed by some Japanese guy jutting out of the ground, really capturing that air of 'defiance'. You'll be so impressed at how fast you get home to Jersey via the new super train terminal, you couldn't possibly bring yourself to think about anything else other than kittens and sunshine.

Just sleep, and forget.

..:: DESERTFUCKER : An Epic Saga ::..

2007-08-12T04:20:00.001-04:00

Sometimes as a man the moment comes when you just have to suck it up and face the adversity in your life. You have to stalk that dragon of fear all the way back to his demon lair, disembowel the motherfucker and use it's own intestines to strangle it. Only then will the man truly become whole, with the entire world laying open like unholy oyster at his feet.

Sorry, just wanted to say that because I thought it sounded deep. I also might be a little drunk right now (sue me). Anyway, I just got home from VEGAS. I'm back in town now (ladies, please take note) after my awesome adventure in the sweltering hot wasteland that is our country's southwest region and I'm feeling like it might not all be over for me just yet. My shit life I mean.

Yes, I did go see my best-est friend in the whole wide world. Yes, I became overly emotional at several instances and may have embarrassed myself at times. And yes, after all is said and done, I still might have a lot to learn in this crazy ocean with some land to stand on that we call Earth. We lived, we loved, we learned. At some point I made my famous Stuffed Shells with Arrabbiata Sauce. All were delighted. Now prepare to be also delighted by my words and my photos.

I arrived in sunny beautiful Las Vegas on the anniversary of our war machine's founding. What I meant to say was I arrived on the date the common folk would refer to as the "Holiday celebrating our great nation's independence". I think it was perhaps the worst travel day ever to decide to land in the middle of a desert. I can't remember the last time I traveled on an airline other than Jet Blue, with their communist seating layout which I'm a big fan of. Low and behold, through the magic of Travelocity I was able to find last minute tickets at a more reasonable price. With US Airways I was actually able to choose, (more like "request") my own seat on the plane! I figured window seat on the way there, aisle seat on the way back (overnight flight and an overactive bladder being major factors for the return trip ). On both flights I chose a seat towards the front of the plane, placing me quite close to the curtain separating me from the more posh seating in first class. Excuse me, but I WILL use your bathroom motherfucker(s)!!

My plan going in was to buy a pair of sunglasses for the first sighting in a long time of this guy I've known since I was 12 years old. Yes, it sounds silly, but in the moments leading up to my arrival I had the details of this reunion laid out in my head like a scene from a movie. One of those really deep cool, coming of age indie features the kids are crazy about these days. I would wear the glasses, my friend would be right at the gate as soon as I got off the plane and at first I would pretend not to notice him, then wait a second then give him a loud, rude, Italian kind of "Ohhhh, look at this guy!" shout, making gestures with my arms and overly hugging him.
Aye, but reality's a wee bugger and I should have realized that with today's state of airport security, most people aren't allowed anywhere near an arrival gate anymore. That plus I couldn't see shit with the glasses on, had to walk a mile and a half to my fucking luggage, and my friend isn't really ever into wearing sunglasses in the first place. It dawned on me that emotionally I'm a young girl, and subconsciously I probably only wanted the glasses in the first place to cover up the inevitable flood of tears welling up in me upon seeing my good friend after oh so long. The meeting was sort of anti-climactic actually. After all the anticipation it ended up being more like "Hey, how you doin'?" - "Alright I guess,... you?". We had already established we weren't going to overdo it on the phone prior to my arrival, out of fear we would run out of stuff to say when I got there, only to be subjected to a long five-day awkward silence. We gathered my travel case and went out to the car. The parade of hot girls circulating through good ol' McCarran International was ridiculous. The throngs of smoking hot blondes with great tans and short shorts was simply a sight to behold. There was such an overwhelming abundance of luscious cans I thought I might had been at a food drive. We mosied on over to the vending machines outside for a cool refreshment. It was a most shocking vision: The Coca-Cola machine was stocked to the brim. No, over fucking-stocked actually, but the water machine ($3) which I had my eye on was almost bare, with a line way too long and one of those dollar mechanisms that keeps sliding your money back out to you over and over. A nightmare, I say.

My good friend went on to tell me how proud he is of his hard-nosed blue collar career as he led me to his according to Hoyle white pickup truck complete with wheelbarrow in the bed. By this time, my cardiopulmonary systems are beginning to plummet like the stock market crash of 1929 and I just couldn't wait to jump into a 120 degree pickup cab. You know, like when you're in a new place and those airport doors slide open and you recognize the difference in the air, and you're like "HOLY FUCKING SHIT IT'S HOT". Like that. So, suitcase in pickup bed (which I was afraid would instantly open, leading to some poor old lady getting into a horrible highway accident because my Old Navy boxers with the flamingos all over them landed on her windshield) - and we were on our way to the lovely Sunset Canyon apartments. Being early in the afternoon though, it became obvious to us that a drink was in order first.

Maryland Parkway sports a wide variety of watering holes. We stopped off at Cheers, a local hangout right across from UNLV and apparently now a national chain. Sadly, it wasn't a place where everyone knew my name, but upon being introduced to the nice barmaid as just arriving from New York, I was immediately called out to some old guy at the other end of the bar. He's a staple there, and the woman running the bar shouted out "Hey Tommy look here, this guy's from Queens!". Instantly embarrassed and blushing (hard to tell through my sexy Latin olive complexion of course), I cleverly replied "Yeah, that's uh, accurate" (sharp, ain't I?). I learned soon enough that Tommy must verify you're actually from New York or else you're instantly 86'd. So in my infinite wisdom I manage to finagle a way to mention Citi Field, the new home for the Mets currently under construction next to Shea Stadium. I don't even know whether he was a Mets fan or not, nor did I care (Yankee fans are inherently inferior to me and don't even register on my radar, only my asshole-meter). This isn't including the fact that Brooklyn Dodgers fans are irrelevant, elderly and almost all dead by now. This guy seemed pretty old so I whipped out a gem, and that is how much the new Mets stadium will resemble Ebbets Field. Not waiting for a response, I went on to my drinkin' table in the corner of the bar. I was exhausted, but not about to admit it, I was just so overwhelmed over being in Vegas drinking at 1:00 in the afternoon with someone I've known since junior high. Not to mention I already had a slight lingering drunkenness from the 2 airline bottles of red wine I had on the plane, thanks to the very nice (and very gay) flight attendant who refused my money. My friend and I sat through a few moments of awkward "I just got here" conversation before we decided we should go get a bite to eat. On the way to the grub fest I spied out of the corner of my eye two shirtless douche bags riding in a convertible, which is totally illegal in New York, (both being a douche bag and driving a car shirtless) to our left. My familiar twinge of the desire to commit violence arose in me at that moment. If that red light had lasted 5 seconds longer, I would have jumped out of the truck and clubbed them to death. By "club" I mean using the infamous auto theft deterrent on the floor of the car. But alas, I am on vacation, barely in this city an hour yet and I just needed to relax and eat something. Roberto's Tacos was a nice fast food joint with pretty authentic Mexican cuisine on the way home. We had chimichangas and tacos. We laughed, we cried, I went a little crazy on the hot sauce.

Now I gotta tell you, I've noticed something on my multiple trips to Sin City. Every time I've been there, to this fastest growing town in the US, I've noticed the city limits going further and further into the desert each time. This point wasn't more clearly illustrated then when we drove towards my friend's new digs. On the approach it seemed as if we were driving straight towards a mountain, like almost into it. At the last moment we turned off into the gated community where he lives. If you kept going straight though, in about 100 yards the street just literally ends. I said to my friend "Hey, isn't that kind of close to a mountain to have development?" He laughed and told me hey that's nothing, give it a few months and they'll blow the motherfucker up to build more shit in no time. Ah, Capitalism.

The first couple of days unfortunately, my friend (who I'll refer to as Agent "M" from now on to protect the innocent) had to go to work, for which he apologized profusely (he said crazy nut job things like "Sorry, I have to support my family and pay the rent and be a man and responsible, I'm a working class hero and shit, blah, blah, blah...."). Since the concept of the regular 9 to 5 still escapes me at my old age, I of course didn't mind at all and told him that I didn't care because I just love being away from New York and his company is more than enough to fill my cup. Therefore, the first two days were filled with his wife (who's cuter than a bag of kittens), and his gorgeous young child bewildered as I avoided eye contact at all costs and generally kept myself locked in the guest room, only to come out occasionally to ask if I could use the bathroom (did you know I technically had my own bathroom? Ha- I win!). I was mystified by their garbage disposal too, I guess I need to get out more. I'm horrible in the social department, but you wouldn't be surprised by that at all if you knew me or have ever read this thing before.

Together we spent the majority of our time chilling out on his patio. I use the term "chilling" loosely, as it was hotter than hell in the middle of August most of the time. It's a nice patio on the ground level with a cute little herb garden his wife made, and that his young son regularly destroys with a garden claw, but in such a cute way that you can't possibly be mad at him. I finally got to see this little comfort zone of his, the place he always told me on the phone he was calling me from. It provides a great view of the surrounding mountainous desert landscape and it's also a great listening post for all the horribly loud, too many kids screaming three-ring white trash circus going on next door. Agent M and his wife thanked me for coming, not just for the visit, but apparently my trip also heralded the long-awaited moving out of their horrid neighbors. We watched and chuckled to ourselves as five 8 year-old kids carried out a big screen TV and several couches.

There happened to be a heat wave warning issued while I was there. It was only a paltry 115-118 degrees during the first few days, which is child's play for a man (me) so ruggedly built and adaptable to all of nature's harsh forces. It pained me to finally realize that I'm not quite that man yet. That's at least two, maybe three weeks away (thank you Victor Conte). It's interesting because for the climate in Las Vegas to warrant a "warning", means the shit is really coming down the pike - and hard. The warning basically said that "Those who are tourists or otherwise not acclimated to the weather should not go outdoors- or if they absolutely have to, try to schedule everything between 9pm and 9am". In a moment of glorious inspiration, I likened the terror blossoming in my heart over the coming daylight to the scene in the "Chronicles of Riddick", when the sunrise was so feared because it incinerates everything on the surface of the planet. The Vegas-ites thought that was pretty funny.

I did have the opportunity to meet a few of agent M's friends, a couple of them who I recognized from my previous trips to the Silver State. To natives of Las Vegas, the sight of a Puerto Rican is as expected as Jesus pulling up to a no-limit poker table at the Bellagio. One guy he's known for a while is really cool, Altman. He's one of those people I remember from my friend's wedding oh so many years ago. He's a former 82nd Airborne infantry member who charismatically details stories from his past like no one else. Like the time someone in his unit or division or whatever (I'm not up with the military terms the kids are using these days) - couldn't handle the stress of serving our country and decided to kill himself (I know, initially not very funny). This genius thought the best way to go was to wrap the power cord from a large floor buffer around his neck, then to throw said buffer out the window, only to realize that when it hit the ground that he wasn't dead because the power cord was at least a foot too long. Waiting for him outside was a bill for the buffer and a prompt dishonorable discharge . Good times.

Alas, there are new friends agent M has made while living there. We went to visit one of these friends, the "couple you hang out with" when you're a married couple yourself. This guy's wife seemed very cool. It was the Fourth of July so she was very hospitable, offering me food and snacks and such. She rated very high on my "couth" meter. Then there's the guy who didn't remove his stem before entering the cherry pie of my vacation. The one that sticks in your teeth and you don't quite want to spit out in front of people because hey, you're in Vegas, and you're best friend is looking right at you, directly fucking at you waiting for your reaction to see if you like the slice with one of his new friends in it (aren't my analogies great?).

This guy had a cool name like Kilometers (actually it was probably Miles or something), and he always said cool things like "Yeah, me too". The inevitable "So, what do you do Nick" question comes up and my response of "Getting into acting, currently a movie extra", or "background actor" or whatever the fuck I said apparently didn't fall into his "acceptable" column. He found it hard to believe my Playstation 3 and LCD High-Def wall mounted sex box of a TV were possible on such meager proceeds from such a dishonorable excuse for a job. He was also utterly defeated in the "Who has a more disgusting back surgery scar" nationwide contest I've been running for about 6 or 7 years now. The premise is I tour the country putting people with "disc problems" to shame. Live, via satellite, in front of a studio audience. That's how I rock, 'nuff said.

A thousand sharp "extra" and/or "background actor" pointed comments/jokes later something else became strikingly apparent: While reclining on his evening chair inside his beautiful but "Dad totally bought this for me so who am I to talk" condo, I realized (and to be diplomatic I waited until it happened at least 57 times to be sure)- I realized that this guy makes this horrid clicking noise sporadically during his dialogue. You know, like when you click your tongue off the top of your mouth. This apparently denoted either: a) He was somehow under the impression the next thing he would say was something important and or funny, b) It's a time filler that means "Hey, I can't remember what I was going to say next and I'd like to keep you trembling with anticipation so I'll make a clicking noise while you wait because somebody, somewhere thinks this is cool", or c) His primary language is whatever they speak in Somalia, so he can't help but let a few remaining clicks slip out as he gets a grasp on his newly adopted English language. To be honest though, it was a beautiful condo. Big screen TV, hardwood floors, nice open kitchen, and multiple cats which I am very allergic to. I can never really be mad at real estate though.

I luckily had the chance to spend some time with Agent M's young son. Prior to my visit I had only seen one picture of him, taken pretty much as soon as he was born. I didn't know what to expect honestly. I mean, kids tend to look different after they're newborn. Who knows? This kid could have grown into a troll since that picture 2+ years ago. I was hoping it wouldn't turn out like that Seinfeld episode, you know the one I mean. No worries, because the kid turned out to be absolutely beautiful, cute as a button, smart, sharp, and extremely amusing. I felt that although my budget would be very limited, and they were putting me up for the 4 or 5 days, that I had to at least bring some form of a gift. I decided to pass over my friend and his wife and just go for something the baby might like. So I went on to my old workhorse to get gifts for people who I have no idea what to get and who I have no interest in what they like, the reliable Mets.com. Agent M doesn't like baseball, nor does his wife and in turn probably not his young son. Completely ignoring that, I ordered the little tike a David Wright toddler T-shirt. I would have got him a Carlos Beltran shirt, but since I'm the only Puerto Rican in the equation I figured I'll get him the shirt from the young white superstar on the team so as not to offend the doting parents. I wasn't aware of this, but baby sizes are weird to shop for. Apparently sizes are determined according to age, which is completely asinine in my opinion. I ordered it smartly right before I left, so it would arrive while I was there and I would act all surprised when the doorbell rang. I had it gift wrapped with a card included that said something like "You probably can't read yet so this is pointless. WEAR THE SHIRT". It took him half an hour to unwrap it, then the inevitable 'not thrilled at all' look came across his face when he realized what it was. Then comes the 'Say thanks to Nic' from mom, to which the also inevitable "NO!" response comes as he runs away. He doesn't respond well to strangers, as he probably shouldn't. He did come around to me eventually. I was shocked at the moment two or three days later during dinner (I was making stuffed shells for the fam) when he suddenly got out of his high chair, found the shirt and unfolded it, demanding that someone help him put it on. Shirt on, he runs over to my chair, defiantly pointing to his chest and exclaiming "My Mets shirt", "My, my Mets shirt". I almost fucking cried, and I'm tearing up right now writing it. I told Agent M that if this kid suddenly gets it in his head that he wants to be a third baseman for some reason, not to dare contribute to stifling his dream because of his own anti-baseball mentality. He just doesn't understand the trials and tribulations of being a New York Mets fan. He told me his son usually hates clothing gifts, but as of my most recent phone call with them, the kid has taken a real liking to this shirt (he wouldn't take it off for the first couple of days) and he asks about me while wearing it since, which according to them is very rare.

My friend (Agent M) and I (Agent N) used every opportunity to catch up on our long and sordid past, all the while hugging often. There's a particular highlight that sticks out for me, one that will remain with me for the rest of my days (which I didn't agree with at the time). This was when he whipped out the box of all the letters he recieved from everyone he ever knew since he moved away. I kind of knew this was coming, and immediately regretted not bringing my own collection of letters recieved from him, but in not so nice a box (more like a trapper-keeper actually). Those letters would of course have counteracted how crazy I sounded writing to him and would have bailed me out.

During the process of selective randomness, he thought it would be funny to read aloud every correspondence that mentioned me, ranging from letters from an old ex-girlfriend (who is someone who I hope gets cancer right behind the eyes), to letters from her best friend who my friend dated briefly (only the letters where she not so eloquently states her hatred for me of course), to just random fucking letters from regular assholes who always thought I was a weirdo. Oh and some of them even included pictures of myself, ones where I looked so horrible to the point where I began to wonder why these people were ever hanging out with me in the first place. Yeah, closure is fun.

Agent M's wife is expecting another baby. She's extremely brave and good looking and she has that nice "glow" look to her in these last stages of pregnancy. I love how my buddy reflects on all the girls he misses in New York, who he thought he really loved, and who have or who are on their way to aging horribly. You ain't missing much baby! They're hideous, horrible people well on their way to aging quite badly. Anyway, he's much better off in Vegas, and tears well up in my eyes like a girl whenever I think of how fulfilled his life is right now.

The whole time I was there, I was surprised at Agent M's reluctance and almost outright refusal to do the whole trip to the Vegas strip thing. Finally, a couple of days before my scheduled departure, we spent a weekend evening taking in the sights. I didn't realize just how long the strip was as we began our walk. We parked at the New York, New York Hotel/Casino, on Tropicana Avenue and Las Vegas Blvd, and started out from there. First I had to get a picture of myself on a bridge I can easily sell you sometime. It's kind of retarded to take pictures in front of replica landmarks from my hometown city (read about my joy over recent time spent at the Statue of Liberty), but who cares. From Trop, it was about a mile down to Flamingo Rd. Agent M suggested I check out the forum shops in Ceasar's Palace, with it's overpriced goods, boutique shops and creepy painted Roman soldier mimes. So we walk into a nice columned marble laden casino and when we couldn't find the shops, asked a nice man at the information desk for directions. He was a genuine chocolate face; (no make-up!). He reminded me of the hotel security guy from "Very Bad Things" (one of my favorite movies). Coincidentally his name was also Agent M, and he quickly informed us that the Forum Shops were at Ceasar's Palace. No shit, we're thinking, that's why we're here. He then states the obvious, telling us that we're presently standing in the Monte Carlo. My bad. At this point we were already getting loaded and probably lost our sense of direction a bit. Two contributing factors being the beers in those casinos are such large plastic cups, and also that you're allowed to walk around on the street drinking alcohol. Bad combo when Nicky's in town, let me tell ya. From Flamingo to Spring Mountain Road (another mile) and on to the Mirage now for a hops and barley reload. On the casino floors we noticed a disturbing trend developing, and that is of course hot chicks paired up with douchebags. It's a goddamn nationwide epidemic if you ask me. We decided against waiting for the super-gay pirate show in front of Treasure Island, opting instead to watch the volcano erupt in front of the Mirage. It was while strolling along this stretch of the strip that we walked across one of those pedestrian bridges over a major intersection. It was nice, glass lined and brand new. It also turned out to be a big source of pride for Agent M, who within his line of work personally inspected all the building materials used in the erection of this structure (huh, I just said "erection").

Oh, Agent M loved geology. I imagine it appealed to his meticulous nature. An Ice Age here, a million years of mountain building there.... Geology is the study of pressure and time, that's all it takes really, pressure and time. That and a big goddamn poster.

If it wasn't for his hard work and painstaking attention to detail, who knows how many tumbling into the street asshole-tourist deaths have been avoided? Tons, I would guess.

Spring Mountain Rd. to Sahara now. We thought it might be a good idea to skip the Nascar Hotel (Gee, who would want to miss that?). Instead, It's now approaching midnight and we thought we might head to the world's largest gift shop. It's a far walk, and I instantly imagined the moment we would get there, and the gate closing. I must be psychic because my earlier vision turned out to be accurate. They were totally closing as we got there. No worries, we've only walked about 4 miles already, how about a little more? Down the block we go to Dino's, which is the oldest (and last) family-owned bar on Las Vegas Blvd. Karaoke is my forte (when I'm sloshed), so look out early 90's Red Hot Chili Pepper hits! Foot-long frozen margaritas in hand, and it was time to walk back to New York, New York.

After our long giftshop-less, but ultimately very enjoyable walk it was undeniable that visible breasts were necessary to make the night and my trip complete. My friend had been insisting we go to a strip club for a while, he said he would really like to see a set of tits other than his wife's, but I was a nervous little girl without much strip club experience (both times I've been to one, I just sat very very still and didn't move). I caved in, and we went to Little Darlings, part of the mega-empire nationwide Deja Vu network. There we witnessed some graphic exotic dancing. One girl kept violently slamming her crotch on the stage in a split, and another had the most perfect tear shaped breasts with puffy nipples that I have ever seen. Being a completely nude club, there was no alcohol served. The glorious snail trails lining the stage, pole and floor as we sipped on our Cokes were more than enough to make up for that. One highlight was being able to bask in the glory of a stripper that (to me) looked just like Hayden Panettiere, but to my friend looked like a "Hispanic Elizabeth Taylor and she would be perfect for you", but he doesn't watch Heroes, so who can blame him. Her set featured some excellent music, and let me tell you, I have a completely new found admiration for the works of Peaches. No, not the name chosen by the flapjack chested black girl strutting her stuff on the main stage at the same time, what I'm referring to is the Jewish-Canadian musical genius who's hits "Fuck the Pain Away" and "Rock Show" were blasting on the loudspeaker, while this gorgeous Liz Taylor (when she was hot) was shaking it like a polaroid picture.

Next day, and it's time for me to leave. I had just adapted to the climate, and was really enjoying myself, but it's time to say goodbye. First I needed souveniers of some sort. Since the gift shop thing was a disaster, we went to more humble sources, namely Sav-On. I got my T-shirts, fridge magnets, and postcards which were too late to actually send to anyone.
Off to the airport. We were there completely on time, checked in, I had my suitcase checked in too mind you, and I got my boarding pass. We had a good 35-45 minutes left, so we head over to the bar (within sight of the gate) and have a couple of large pilsners, along with two shots of Makers Mark for good luck. A tearful goodbye ensues, no it was PERFECT actually. I roll over to the gate, waving to my friend as I go through my intense security check, run over to the gate (I can see the plane through the window), and whatya know? I missed my flight (surprised much?). I tell the nice lady behind the desk that no, I didn't miss the flight because there's 20 minutes left and I'm looking at the fucking thing through the window. I'm getting very upset now, and I totally see a situation developing where she'll call security or something. Instead of admitting that she most likely gave my seat away (flight was overbooked), she just told me to go to the office. What about my checked bag, my fair lady? "Don't worry, it'll be in New York when you get there". I run to the office, get a flight for the next morning, and make that shameful call to my friend who I hope hasn't hightailed it out of the airport yet. He had just got into his car when I called. "Knowing you, I figured this would happen" he says. "Thanks, I think. Can you come pick me up?" He has to work his first assignment for work early in the morning, and his wife and boss wouldn't be too pleased if he took extra time because of his New York friend. He does pick me up, takes me back to his place, and guess what? His wife isn't too pleased. I shy away on the couch, apologize profusely and explain to her that I'll be gone first thing in the morning. Now the kid starts screaming bloody hell, he won't go to sleep and now both his parents are extra pleased that I'm still there. The child insists that he see me before he goes to sleep. I can't blame him, I mean, we totally fucked with this kid's perception of time, space and travel by telling him that guy went bye-bye on an airplane. He was literally pointing to planes in the sky asking his mom if that was the one I was on. All of a sudden here I come waltzing back into the house, leaning over his bed with my dark swarthy complexion, beer and bourbon on my breath, telling him everything will be ok and it's time to go to sleep. That went over great. Agent M's boss completely chewed him out the next day for missing his appointment, but my friend tried to get someone who did owe him a favor to cover him, but to no avail. So fuck that guy.

Time for me to leave the Ciudad del Sin now, for real this time. I got to the airport bright and early this time, (still a little drunk though). Luckily I didn't have to pack this time, because obviously my luggage is already in New York. I had no guarantee that some schmendrick wasn't going to just steal my bag (with the majority of my regular wardrobe packed inside) off the conveyor belt at JFK. It's Monday morning now, and since I didn't have access to HBO during my stay in Vegas, everyone there (including myself) missed my appearance in the hilarious new TV hit "Flight of the Conchords". My episode (#4-Chemistry) had aired the night before, Sunday. Sitting in the airport during the 2 hours before my flight, I fielded a lot of phone calls and text messages congratulating me on how handsome I looked (those messages were from my mom, and um, a lot of hot chicks too, I swear). Everything turned out ok, at least I got my suitcase without a problem.

I truly can't put into proper words what this trip meant to me. Ok, I'll try one: cathartic. On one hand, it was a much needed vacation and time off from the hectic big apple. On the other hand it wasn't a vacation at all. It was something that had to be done. While for agent M I'm sure it was a nice diversion from a stress laden routine, for me it was a deep emotional journey into the consequences of foundations we built years ago during adolescence.

Get busy living, or get busy dying. That's goddamn right....I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend, and shake his hand. I hope the Mojave is as sepia as it has been in my dreams....I hope.

Forgive the (slightly altered to fit the story) lines from the Shawshank Redemption. They just seemed appropriate.

Now enjoy the following slideshows with my expert photography.

..:: It's Business Time - [This Sunday 10:30pm HBO] ::..

2007-07-03T05:38:00.001-04:00

Picture this if you will. It's March 2007. I haven't had any acting or background work in a while and you might say that I'm well, slightly discouraged. I know what you're thinking. "Discouraged? that's not possible Nic, you're a rock. Optimistic and ambitious with an iron will... and quite sexy too".

I know, I was just as surprised as you. Anyway, my phone finally rings. I was starting to think it was broken or I didn't pay the bill or something. You see, I have no friends, and hence no phone calls which leads to more rollover minutes than you can shake a stick at. I pick up the phone and it's a casting agency calling to ask if I was available the next day and if I had any idea who the Flight of the Conchords were. This woman, (we'll call her my "agent" for the purpose of this conversation, because it makes me sound important) seems genuinely surprised when I respond "Yes, of course I know who they are!". This is mostly because I'm a nerd with no life and I'm always watching Conan O'Brien. She tells me they need an office worker for the background of the third or fourth episode. She tells me to dress like an idiot, call time is early, and to show up tomorrow at Steiner Studios.

Pretty awesome, I'm thinking to myself. Then it hits me. Why the fuck did I ever start doing this? I'm a completely nervous wreck who has trouble even walking down the street because it's so "public" with the noise and the people and the walking and talking (note:read previous line in Jerry Lewis accent). Now I'm volunteering to stand in front of a camera for an HBO show? I must have done lost my mind. There's the initial crippling fear that overwhelms me when I first get a gig, which either goes away slowly, or gets immediately amplified once I arrive on the set. Usually it's the latter.

Business Time - Flight of the Conchords

Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros - Flight of the Conchords

So I get to Steiner at the Brooklyn Navy yards, which is the largest studio complex outside of Hollywood, and then the waiting begins. This was an AFTRA sanctioned job, which means now I'm in "must-join" status, and can't take another AFTRA job until I register with them for $2,000. So obviously I won't be taking AFTRA work for a while. I sit around and finally get brought onto the set, because they haven't been using me yet. These two guys are hilarious, and it was very difficult not to burst out laughing while they were doing the office scene. They were doing a lot of improvising during the takes, and it was ridiculously funny. The shot had something to do with a sandwich or something.

For those of you not familiar with the Flight of the Conchords, their show premiered last month on HBO. They are billed as "New Zealand's fourth most popular guitar-based digi-bongo acapella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo." They found a way to work their existing songs into the show here and there. Anyway, I'll be in an office scene. Look for my reaction as one half of the duo, Bret McKenzie storms out after an argument with the band's manager. Overall, it was a great experience, the two guys are nice, and easy to talk to, and I did try to chat up the episode's guest star (unsuccessfully) - this cutie pie Broadway actress who plays a character named "Coco". It's a play on Ms. Ono, and the name of the episode is "YOKO".

So don't forget to tune in to HBO and HBO HD THIS SUNDAY NIGHT (July 8, 2007) at 10:30 pm. Sadly, I won't be able to host my own viewing party at home, because I'll be in Vegas that night, living the life.

Keep an eye out for me, and enjoy. Remember I did this for you, my adoring public.

"Light a Roman Candle, and Hold it in Your Hand"

2007-07-03T04:21:00.001-04:00

I've been reflecting lately. Reflecting on the important things, those events that shape your outlook, your attitude. I've been recounting tales in my head that now seem tall. Tales of inspiration, sad tales of love lost and those times of freewheeling overwhelming joy. Things came to a point a couple of weeks ago, when I finally got off my ass and decided to do something about it, well at least a part of it.

I'm filled with much nervous anticipation today, as I prepare to make one of those "soul-searching" little voyages you only have a chance to make once in a long while during your shit life.

One of my best friends in the whole wide world has been living across the country for years now. The last time I remember seeing him was in person was at his wedding. He's one of Woodhaven's own (here he is pictured on the right with his brother before they moved).

Well he calls me a couple of weeks ago to check up with me, not realizing it was my birthday (so I've been crying all day). He bravely stated the obvious; that our friendship hasn't been as nourished as it should lately. That over the 10 years since his relocation there's only so much you can talk about before you run out of stuff to say. The letters we once eagerly jotted down and sent to each other frequently stopped years ago. Yes, things have changed. He has a son now, with another baby on the way. Basically he said: Nic, I have a serious life here and I'm unable to take any vacations right now. If you don't get out here sometime soon for at least a visit, this one might be in the books.

So I heeded the call. My bags are packed and I'll be on a plane tomorrow to beautiful sunny Las Vegas. Now I'm thinking, in light of recent events that maybe the Fourth of July isn't the best travel departure date. Haven't been there in a while, so I'm looking forward to some fun. I'm definitely going to gamble excessively on July 7, because the date will be 7/7/07. I have no idea how to play poker or most table games, so I gamble like a woman. Put a quarter in and pull the lever is as much effort as I'm willing to exert.

As far as what to expect while I'm there? For one, I hope this isn't my last visit to see my friend, and that I'm unknowingly going through the motions of tying loose ends and putting the final nail in the coffin. Overall though, I'm thinking it'll be mostly drinking and trying to find a reason to take my shirt off. Cause I've been doing my 7 minute ab routine from Exercise TV On Demand, and I am looking hot baby! I'm not full of myself, I'm just stating the obvious. (I've been in a drought lately, sorry) I just hope not absolutely everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, because god knows I could sure use some more action over here in New York too.

So wish me luck, and Bon Voyage suckers!!

VEGAS baby!!

Today's Musical Selection: If you haven't caught the reference in the title of the post, It's of course the classic Fourth of July by Soundgarden.

Now Im in
control
Now Im in the fall
out
Once asleep but now I
stand
And I still
remember
Your sweet
everything
Light a roman
candle
And hold it in your
hand

Cause I heard it in the
wind
And I saw it in the
sky
And I thought it was the
end
And I thought it was the 4th of
july

Starship Dave

2007-07-02T04:20:00.000-04:00

So I gets a call on the phonesy a while back, looking to see if I'm available to work six days on the new Eddie Murphy film, Starship Dave.

I don't have anything to do (on account I'm a ruined man with no life) so I eagerly express interest. Thing is, I have to come in and register with Central Casting pretty much the day before I start working, and anticipate a trip into Hoboken for the following six days (at my own expense) to meet up with a bus to the Liberty Island ferry. "Sounds good", I say to myself. No time like the present.

When I go to register with the casting company, I finally get to lay eyes on the sultry young casting agent I spoke to on the phone. I was late for the open call for background they hold on a weekly basis and immediately the receptionist gave me a "you're too late, go away" hand gesture. I ask "well, then can I speak to the sultry young casting agent (name withheld) I spoke to last week?". All of a sudden, I get the star treatment. That is, until said casting lady comes out and gives me that "I'll never ever touch you" look.

Okay, we're doing good. I've been to a few of these open registrations, and there's always the same mix: "Girl from midwestern state" Moved here in hopes of stardom. More power to you babe. There's "Overly talkative guy", who chats up employee of the agency who's trying to tell us the policy of the company and desperately needs a kick in the mouth. Then there's "old guy" who you see very often, and have seen before. He's "Always on Law and Order". He's nice, doesn't want trouble, and has perhaps led a different career in the past and is trying new options. Good for him.

Anyway , I'm led to the masses by said casting person. She informs her fellow employee in charge of directing the group that I am "someone we're working with tomorrow", which immediately sends chills through the spines of the whole of the applicant group. "I thought you weren't allowed in late".

This of course lead to dirty looks by several "midwesties", a few "overly talkatives" (who by the way somehow got the impression they were so good looking in their "Kansas" or whatever fucking piece of shit state they're from until they saw me). "Yeah, you should get into acting", their prom queen girlfriends told them. Fuck that guy.

I'm not happy with the way my teeth look. They're not "movie star" quality as of yet, and it's always been a problem with me. And by that I mean they're horrible and if I had taken care of that earlier with whatever crumbs I've earned in the working world my life, they would be so very awesome and I wouldn't have to deal with this. Note that I've gotten by with decent headshots (so far) that somehow miraculously didn't require me smiling. The point of this rant?

Eventually, in these open calls comes the time where the "Hey, we'd like to take a quick digital photo to see what you look like right now cause it'll help you get more jobs, Is that OK?" - question arises. And of course, everyone ahead of you is smiling like the fucking earth was about to explode and Satan himself told them if they smile he won't completely torture them before hellfire. Smiles that look like they hurt.

Lets move on. I let literally 99% of the room go before me, even though I was strategically placed in front of the line, just so the rest of the people in this room wouldn't have to see me give the camera my patented look that says "I'm angry, but I have a wide range, I swear!... I just never smile or expose my teeth otherwise that would ruin everything". The guy taking the picture said something like "Hey, that was good", but I'm already worried about the train ride home to listen to his lies and now I'm ushered into another room where myself and another girl who've been picked for this thing tomorrow are briefed on the next days activities (wardrobe, etc.). Luckily, I'm informed quickly that the need for the PATH train "Eleven Trip QuickCard" I was five minutes away from purchasing is unnecessary, as transportation will now be provided in the form of a bus (from Canal Street). Relieved, I'm then told about the 5:30AM call time. The name of the game, is what I think to myself. Now keep in mind that I took all of these pictures myself (except the one of myself of course). Now bask in my photographic genius. Don't forget to check out the my kung-fu slide show at the bottom of the post.

Day One:

Nervous, and not very alert. Not feeling that I'm looking my best. Of course I would have no idea yet that I wouldn't be near a camera anytime soon. Sounds fucked up and shallow, but isn't that what it's all about, this whole thing? I try to make the trip on the train as easy as possible, so there is a looong walk from the Canal st. stop I get off at. The day goes well. I mean, when was the last time I've been to the Statue of Liberty? The first ferry to the island was just for us, cast, background and crew. There's lots of waiting until they need you, no sign of any major actors in the film. At least you eat well from craft services and catering on these things. Typical first day, but it was cool for me because I haven't been on a feature film set in a while. The movie starts out with Eddie Murphy as a space captain. He and his crew are only 3 inches tall, and they crash land to earth (at the Statue of Liberty) in a starship that is - Eddie Murphy's full size body.

Day Two:

Same routine as the day before. Awkward eye contact ensues today, as it sinks in to all of us extras that we'll have to see each other for the next few days and we might have to actually talk to each other. Lunch time is fun the second day around, because the High School-esque "what table you gonna sit at?" dance begins. Since I'm portraying a tourist, I have brought my own camera (pretty snazzy one), so at least I get some decent pics. I find it mind boggling how some of the other extras, New York and New Jersey natives, had never been to the Statue of Liberty before. Not with their family, not on a school class trip, never. How is that possible? When I was a kid, people ended up there by accident, you couldn't miss it.

Day Three:

Okay, now the cloudy weather that has plagued the island with scattered showers and bleak dark skies has apparently done a complete turn-around. Now you see, I am a Puerto Rican by genetics, and that usually allows for some awesome tanning of my beautifully toned Latin skin. No need for sunblock! was my motto. "That's only for small kids and pasty white girls". So slowly throughout the day I notice the weather getting warmer, and very very sunny. Then I start to get the "ouch" look from several passersby. Not more weird or scared looks than I get from strangers on a normal day, so I don't give it much thought. That is, until I go to the bathroom to splash water on my face and the "Home Alone" scream comes out. I have a horrible sunburn, especially on my nose. I figure we'll have the weekend off, so it's no biggie and I'll have a chance to heal. The next day is my birthday, and it's time to have some fun.

Day Four:

We all return from a much needed break over the weekend. My birthday sucked (huge fucking surprise), and guess what? My sunburn didn't heal. Basically my nose is starting to peel off completely. There was a former FDNY firefighter on the set who suggested I get some aloe, not the gel mind you, he meant the fucking plant like it's growing next to the tree outside my house or something. So I spent most of the day with my head down trying not show my face until a very nice girl there (not bad looking either) helps me out with some powder foundation makeup thing she had.

Day Five:

Okay, I'm patriotic and all, but now I'm sick of this place. Spending 14 hours a day at the Statue of Liberty with all the real tourists infesting the place as well is a test of your sanity. I love when some of them look lost, it's hilarious. Did you already see the statue? Then what the fuck else can you possibly be looking for? In my opinion the place desperately needs a roller coaster. Today was cool because there was action in the form of helicopters and coast guard boats with machine guns on them. I never knew cute little coast guard boats had machine guns on them this whole time. Wow, you learn something new everyday.

Finally, after so many days of being so far away from any real action or anything resembling a camera, I'm finally picked out of a crowd to do a little reaction shot. I'm matched up with someone who remarkably looks like she could be my mother. It's a scene where we walk off the ferry and Elizabeth Banks (hot) and some guy from Buffy or Angel has to push through us to run onto the island. So now that the camera was on me it might be worth watching this movie when it's released after all (May 2008).

I find out later in the day I'm cut from the last day of work. I'm not the least bit disappointed.

I've paid my dues, and I've come to the realization that I probably never have to go see the Statue of Liberty again for the rest of my life. And after all is said and done, I'm not afraid to admit I might prefer Charlie Murphy to his brother at the moment. You gotta admit though, these pictures are awesome. Top notch, award winning photography.

Orange Slices and Fetal Spooning

2007-06-22T04:20:00.001-04:00

Wow, it's been quite a long time now. Where to begin? I've decided to give updating this blog thing regularly another shot. Demand has been incredible, and I finally had to heed the call of the outraged public and come back to slap you in the face with my five fingers of knowledge again.

Quick update in terms of what 's been going on lately: A couple of months ago, I had been the cook at an after-work type of establishment, the Katwalk bar and lounge in Midtown. It's a strange coincidence, as I used to frequent this place years ago for happy hour Margaritas like nobodies business. My creativity as a chef was of course stifled there. Basically my specialties were limited mostly to chicken fingers and nachos. I was a crowd pleaser though, I was responsible for cooking for large parties which the customers loved, and overall everyone's life had become a little brighter from being around me, so looking back I can't complain.

Unfortunately, (for them), my tenure as cuisine master extraordinaire has ended due to a few medical mishaps, (of the not being able to breathe variety) - in their sub-standard, not fucking ventilated closet they use as a kitchen. This all culminating in one craaazy trip to the local emergency room. By the way, the folks down at the NYU medical center have all my thanks and praise. According to my map of Manhattan island dotted with tacks and red string, I've been in nearly every hospital emergency room in NYC for one reason or another. Sadly, my culinary career had ended before it even began. Besides, there's only so many "Sex and the City Wednesdays" a guy can take without putting his head in an oven. Like my grandma used to say (god bless her soul) "If you're ordering a Cosmopolitan in this day and age, you're a fucking loser and deserve to die".

While employed at this retreat for wayward cokewhores who can mix drinks, I briefly had a weird crush on one very beautiful co-worker, a waitress whose equally hot sister also worked there. It was nothing really of mention and was probably doomed from the beginning. She was some kind of super Christian, but she was foreign (which is always hot), fairly aloof and adorable, (which drives me absolutely crazy) and lived nearby in my neighborhood, so at least I had a subway buddy. One good aspect of my time there was being able to work with another very good friend of mine who I had known for years, which was cool. Overall it was a shit job, but at least I was able to afford my big ass LCD High Definition TV and a shiny new Playstation 3 with the proceeds.

But that's all gone in the past. The spirits have guided me elsewhere of late. I feel that within the last year I've been growing into this different person. While the calendar has been scattered with a few highlights, it seems like I've been handling the important things more comfortably. Especially of late, the "amazing" events in my life have come very naturally, and I'm experiencing something of a "new confidence". Of course it feels weird, because I've wasted so much time in the past being nervous, overly emotional, and generally not handling stress well. I've come to the realization that in fact, I shouldn't give a shit what everyone thinks about me and there's no reason to be so afraid to live. I know now that the only way to get awesome life changing things from the needle of good fortune into your system is to tie on the tourniquet and start squeezing your fist. I just wish I had come to this conclusion earlier in my development. Ahh, what I must have missed..... I'm probably just thinking about this in light of my birthday this past weekend (the 103rd Bloomsday). You know, it's the one where you realize things aren't as fun any more and that you might, just might, be getting older. You start thinking about things like "by the way, where the fuck is that girl you're supposed to marry?" You know, things like that.

I have to be making headway, because never before have I seen such a drastic change in behavior among people who were my friends, particularly when it comes to them going out of their way to be assholes, or getting all passive aggressive with me. It's like I always say, imitation is the highest form of flattery. I always thought someone had to very awesome to have to deal with emotions like jealousy around them, but I was wrong. I must be doing something right. It seems I'm finally taking a step in the right direction.

Well now you've been prepped. If you're ready to delve deeper into the dark recesses of my mind where I'll share my cosmic know-how and love, then check back regularly. The coming barrage of posts will deal with important issues like my burgeoning career as a movie star, why the Silversun Pickups should be shot in the face, my impression of the Mets season from a first hand perspective once again, and finally we'll answer that eternal question:

"Did you ever think there's more to life than
being really, really, really ridiculously good looking?"

Answer: probably not, but more on that later. Now I'm off to the Mets game tonight, where Glavine will shoot for his 296th win as he creeps towards 300. We'll try to snap out of this horrible losing streak against the A's and most likely not see our hometown hero Mike Piazza.

Till then, keep it real bitches. Stay tuned for the really good stuff, coming soon. You might even want to subscribe to this motherfucker. It's not one of those crappy blogs constantly being updated with horse shit. I can't be bound by the date or time. Testaments of a deeper, intellectual nature take longer to write. Everyone knows that.

Breathe In Union(dale) - TOOL @ Nassau Coliseum Sat.7.Oct

2006-10-15T00:33:00.001-04:00

Those who know me well are aware of my preoccupation with music. It's something I need, a life force that flows seamlessly through my veins.

Then there's the story of those who love me. Those, while great in numbers all over this planet (look it up), know that I love almost all music. I'm worldly, open to any and all groups of organized sounds that stir the soul. Everything from the hardest face melting metal to the softest, most intricate life-affirming tones of Schubert and Bach. Those people (I like to refer to them as Nick-sciples) realize there is one particular musical energy running through this misery prison I call a body. Something that has helped inspire me in the past, that's been there during all the rough moments of my short life. That force is known on this earth only as "Tool".

Tool is an experience in terms of music. In high school I wasn't the coolest guy, (although according to the very hot girls randomly sending me that "7 years later myspace message"), apparently I was. Anyway, it was during these formative years that I was introduced to what is sometimes referred to as the "thinking man's metal". From then on, I've seen them live whenever possible, and eagerly awaited their album releases.

They record albums rarely, tour even less than that. It's an experience that is well worth the wait, and I had been looking forward to this concert for a long time now. Unfortunately, their only performances in the NY metropolitan area were in Camden NJ (good luck there), East Rutherford, and Nassau. I chose to make a shot for the Nassau show, as it seemed the easiest to get to. Of course I was alone, because I'm my own best friend, and I don't have a car or anything, so the trip via subway, LIRR, and bus was not appealing to say the least.

After a somewhat inconvenient transit, I finally get there, listening to tunes on my mp3 player on my way to the front gate. I don't go to concerts anywhere near as often as I used to, and since this was my favorite band, I stuck to my two cardinal rules of concert going. First, I do not listen to the music of the band on the day of the show. My second rule is quite simple yet very important. Do you remember the 1994 movie PCU? Jeremy Piven gives us all words to live by in that movie:

"What's this? You're
wearing the shirt of the band you're going to see? Don't be that
guy".

There were tons of those people there. So anyway, I get up to the gate, and the guy is like "What are those headphones attached to?". Ignoring my first impulse to blurt out "your mother's cunt!", I said "my mp3 player". Tool has a very strict no camera no recording devices of any kind policy. He then tells me to leave it in the car, to which I reply (with that "I'm about to cry" face), that I don't have a car and I came a long way to get here. After cordoning me off to the side while he went on to pat down the next 3,000 ticket holders, he finally relented, maybe after seeing that I was alone and looking increasingly pathetic as the minutes ticked by.

The show was the greatest. ISIS opened up for them, some band I never heard of, and didn't quite care to. I always thought Tool was very picky when it came to who supports them on the tour, but a similar sounding guitar distortion is apparently all that's sufficient now. I came in towards the end of their set, and Justin (bassist from Tool), was playing with them, so that was kind of cool. I think.

Tool opened with Stinkfist, a song containing a refreshing and loud opening riff when you haven't seen them in a while. At this point I was on a long beer line though, and missed it. This line was ridiculous, and I realized I'm now that guy going to an arena show by himself and buying beer. I hated that guy when I was 17, and thought he looked creepy. Anyway, while edging closer to strangers to create the illusion I came with a large groups of buds, I came across an old friend of mine from my Whitestone days. He's this kid I haven't seen in years and I was relieved to see someone decent I knew there. He's always on tour and doing amazing rock star things now, but it was just like old times. He graciously gave me a ride back to the ol' neighborhood afterwards where I ended up seeing a bunch of other people I haven't seen in a very long time. Scanning the crowd, we remarked to each other on the huge amount of hot girls there. Tool being an intellectual band, I posed the deep question: "Since we are at a Tool show, could these hot girls be of some kind of higher caliber, smarts-wise or spiritually?" No sooner had I uttered those words than some chick totally slipped on her own beer puddle in front of me. The answer? No, they're just girls from Long Island who happened to be there.

The stage during this tour is interesting, and I loved it. The band had a row of 7 or 8 foot screens lining the back of the stage. On these backgrounds, various videos and effects were displayed. This is par for the course with Tool, as video is usually a big part of the show. These screens however, weren't overly distracting this time, which to me showed a conscious change in direction for their live show. During their last tour to promote "Lateralus", while it was good, it had lead singer Maynard going away from his signature writhe-dancing and physical displays to only stand on a light box no more than a few feet square. Thankfully the intensity has returned, and he was back to his old ways, moving across the stage, very animated, shirtless and wearing a cowboy hat. Just like it used to be.

I was eagerly awaiting my favorite song on the new album, Jambi. This song literally makes tears develop in my eyes. It's beautiful, with a powerful opening (just like some of the girls there, oh!). A song rarely, if ever has done this to me. I went completely apeshit, smiling and rocking to and fro uncontrollably. Quite a sexy song, with an incredible chorus if you ask me. It was one of the songs I was most excited to see actually, because there's no chance of me hearing songs like "Prison Sex" or "Pushit" played live anymore. There was also this amazing laser show during the concert that went along with it. There was a moment where the combination of laser formation and the smoke machine, along with video in the back created this totally visually stunning cloud effect. It helped give you that flying feeling during some of the dreamier, soft interludes.

Whole point is, Tool rocks. And you probably don't rock very much. It was the best fucking concert I can say I've almost ever seen. Ever.

Set List
Stinkfist
The Pot
Forty Six & 2
Jambi
Schism
Lost Keys
Rosetta Stoned
Wings For Marie
10,000 Days
Lateralus
Vicarious
Ænema

Todays Musical Selection: Tool - 'Jambi'

.

Yankees Pitcher Cory Lidle Dies in NYC Plane Crash

2006-10-11T10:13:00.001-04:00

Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle has been killed in a plane crash today at or around 2:42pm EST, when his small fixed-wing aircraft flew into a building at 542 E 72st.

At first, understandably, panic rode through the city, as flashes of 9/11 played through every New Yorker's mind (sorry, but fuck the rest of the country). Mayor Bloomberg told us in a press conference his people have determined there was absolutely no connection to terrorism. Reports of a huge fireball and debris raining down on the streets began flooding the 911 call centers shortly after the crash. Then, not too long ago, a report on ESPN News told everyone that the FAA told them the plane had been registered to "a member of the Yankees organization". Later a NYC police source confirmed the person in question was 34 year-old pitcher Cory Lidle. Apparently, him and his flight instructor were the only people on board. Reports say his passport and luggage were found on the street by passerbys.

Lidle came over to the Yankees July 30 in the Bobby Abreu trade with the Phillies. He played for 7 different teams (including coming up through the Mets system) in his 10 year career, and had just gotten his pilot's license in this past off-season.

- I was preparing to go to game one of the NLCS when I heard of this report. Normally a small plane crash is no big deal, and wouldn't disrupt my travel time within Queens. At that moment, the weather was my biggest and only concern. I was wondering if they would cancel this game, and if they did, when the hell would they tell us. In the previous ALDS series last week at Yankee Stadium there was a rain delay and they didn't tell everyone in the stadium until 10pm! Now according to sports shows and various news sources, we're waiting to see if commissioner Bud Selig would consider cancelling this game just because it's in New York, and we've lost a MLB player in this city.

I hate the Yankees, don't get me wrong. I would usually rejoice and hope one of them would die. But it's different when it actually happens, and I think everyone's condolences and prayers should be with the family and friends of Cory Lidle and his instructor.

**Update - NLCS Game 1 has been postponed. Tickets for Game One are good for Friday. Game 2 ticket holders still go tomorrow**

Cory Lidle

1972-2006

(Top 2 photos: Reuters)

Shea La Vie [ Part 2 of 2 ] Redemption

2006-10-04T04:20:00.001-04:00

As promised, here is my recap of the second half of the spectacular 2006 Mets season. Actually, only the games in my six pack, which were a huge benefit to the team and the other fans, as they had the privilege of one extra very sexy Mets enthusiast in their midst on those dates. Along with cutting edge sports-writing, you will also benefit from prize winning photography by me, and the official box scores for those games when you click on the dates. You can thank me later.

23.Aug.2006 This game was pretty cool. It was against the Cardinals, probably the second best team in all the National League. And trust me, this team isn't screwing around either, as tinges of nervousness over the impending arrival of the unbelievable Albert Pujols seemed evident. " Yeah, the Mets are doing great", the critics would say. "But it's just a fluke, because their division and most of the rest of the NL are in tatters". "They can't keep this up against a team like the Cardinals!". Little did they know the time had come to silence the non-believers.

At this point of the season the excitement was really building. As a long time Mets fan, I've learned not to get too excited when they're doing well because something usually goes wrong. It was the 5th of the original six tickets I had, and I was getting the feeling like this whole thing is "wrapping up". I looked at our cozy seating section, so perfectly spaced exactly within a few feet of both the Men's bathroom and the nearest beer stand, and for that moment I wished it could last forever.

We kept Albert Pujols from destroying us, even though he did get a couple of RBI's. Jose Reyes crushed a home run, his 15th, off Mark Mulder (no Mets shortstop has hit more than 10 in a season). Chants of "Jose.... Jose, Jose Jose" (to the tune of the British soccer chant "Ole") - throughout the packed crowd could not be quelled. I got drunk. We all did the wave.

24.Aug.2006 Aside from the previous month's game and the Yankee game, I had started to get accustomed to telling people "If I can only come back tomorrow, I just know they'll win", due to the seemingly bad luck the team had while I was in attendance. So far the Mets had only won 2 of the 5 when I've been there, and I had almost lost confidence in my "life-light", the powerful aura emerging from my body which, when I'm at public venues usually makes whatever I want to happen well... happen.

This time I was lucky enough to be invited to the next day's game by a friend of mine who works at Lincoln Center. It was funny because a few months ago I attended a restaurant showcase fundraising event at Lincoln Center where a few Mets were supposed to be in attendance (including Tom Glavine, who I love and who's doppelganger lives right next door to me). None of the big star pitchers showed up, but one relatively new Met pitcher did attend, 25 year old rookie John Maine. He wasn't very intent on making a shining first impression with the people of New York it seemed. This guy I knew was working the entrance gate. I got there late and it had been a long day for him. It was an expensive event to attend, and the comped people needed wristbands for admission. John Maine shows up and unexpectedly demands more wristbands for what I assume to be his friends or entourage, or whatever. Stressed, the guy at the door checks his list and asks the this guy who he is. "John Maine, New York Mets" he says, like he's fucking James Bond or something. So that's been an ongoing joke with the group for a while, and since then I've actually come around to kind of liking this pitcher, as he helped the team out a lot since then.

Moving on, the seats we had this time were in a different place, and although they were further back, they did provide a great view of home plate (as you'll note from my expert photography). I actually didn't expect to see two consecutive games in person where the Mets came out on top, much less the sweep. The score was 6-2 in favor of our Metropolitans. Reyes stole a base, Delgado homered for the fourth time in four games. I got drunk. The people rejoiced. The brooms came out.

21.Sep.2006 The last game of my six-pack went by pretty much uneventfully. The mood among the people at the stadium was calm, not as crazy as usual, being that we had already clinched the NL East the previous week. It was kind of like the last day of school. Everyone had their cameras, taking those "field in the foreground" pictures. Friends met up, wished each other luck and vowed to see them again someday. "Until next year" they called out to each other. Lots of smiles, though a somber atmosphere. (Note the difference in this picture of the new NL East Champs paint job on the backstop behind home plate).

I was excited because out of these games I've been to so far, I haven't been able to see the legendary Pedro Martinez pitch. This was to be his last start before the post season, and of course he screwed up, his injury becoming more and more glaringly obvious. We got there a little late, as a recently discovered issue with my father's health kind of took the wind out of us and we pretty much didn't feel like going to the game at all. We found our seats during the fourth inning, just in time to see Pedro removed from the game. Upon getting home and seeing the recap on the various sports channels, I later found out Martinez's performance was "spectacular" until, as they said "about the fourth inning". This is typical of my luck with just about everything in life.

So that's all for now, my babies. Change is in the air. It's been a crazy roller coaster ride this year for the reincarnation of our lost Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants. I've withstood plenty of abuse from my peers ( and the general public) for my controversial, sometimes unconventional and even radical views on the Metropolitans of Queens. How can you, as an opposing team, even compete when shit like this is happening?

I've been more into and emotional during these games than ever before. I certainly don't consider myself your typical sports fan, I mean I don't know any stats or stupid facts of any other baseball team outside the Mets. We're unstoppable. It's redemption on all counts, motherfucker. And as of Tues, Sep 19, I'm now the proud holder of 4 tickets to the National League Championship Series. I only had the choice of one game from either the Divisional Series or the NLCS, so I took a gamble and I'm hoping they go as far as to be NL champs. We're going all the way this time, sugar!

For those of you who aren't fans of this wonderful country's pastime (commies), here are a few little snippets to get you acquainted on the good parts of this year's Metropolitans.

These are a couple of exciting game-enders during the regular season - Mets walkoff highlights 2006

This aired on August 21- David Letterman's Tribute to the 1986 World Champion New York Mets

And this is a virtual preview tour of the new Mets Ballpark narrated by Mets broadcaster Gary Cohen, and to be completed by Opening Day, 2009

Today's Musical Selection: Gackt - Redemption

(A rousing example of J-pop used as the theme song for the Final Fantasy VII spin off "Dirge of Cerberus"). A game which I bought and was very happy to complete, because I usually suck at video games and haven't bought a new one in a few years. Final Fantasy dorksters hate it for the same reasons I love it. It's not in-depth at all, requires virtually no strategy, it's easy (big plus for me), has a huge amount of cut scenes (hey, if I'm watching an in game movie, that's more time that I'm not being constantly killed!) and it's a first person view shooter/adventure game, not the long drawn out RPG the series is known for.

LET'S GO METS!!

Shea La Vie: Part 1 of 2 [ THE METS CLINCH!! ]

2006-09-24T16:20:00.002-04:00

Hey kids, it's been a while since I've updated this thing (so please, stop with the constant phone calls, emails, desperate pleas for "more truth", etc..) I thought now would be as good a time as any to deliver my dissertation on these glorious Mets of 2006, who as of the night of September 18, became NL East Champions for the first time in 18 years. We needed only one win to wrap it all up since the beginning of the previous Pirates series, but we were swept to bring it back to Queens. The crowd at Shea last Monday was reminiscent of the '86 Mets, being that it was full of loud crazy people. I screamed my lungs out while watching at home, it's something I was starting to think I'd never see.

That aside, everyone has been wondering where I've been lately. They want to know where their source for seriously biased and occasionally misinformed Mets news went. Never mind that, where else would they get the hilarious, entertaining, sometimes heartwarming details of the odyssey that is my life? Well the explanation for this is simple. Sometimes you just get busy when you're constantly doing awesome things, and I've learned it's very important not to lose your focus. You know, your drive. Every good ink slinger knows that when your life is going crappily you'll have nothing pleasant to write about. So that's why I've been off on assignment. That's right folks, I've taken a plane with a one way ticket that departed from Squaresville International (SQR) a long time ago and landed in Cooltopia. Oh it's great here. Don't worry though, I still haven't forgotten about the little people (you). So without further ado, here it is, my synopsis on the 2006 Mets (at least the season thus far). The events that have led up to Monday night's celebration. In addition, a review of the most important and pivotal moments home at Shea Stadium this year. Of course by that I mean those moments when I was in attendance. This is just the first in a new series of works (epics actually) that will inform you, enlighten you, fill you in that special way and most importantly, inspire you. Prepare to suck on the teat of innovation. Here's sports.

I was lucky enough to share a Mets ticket six-pack this year with my dad. It ain't bad for the price ($160/seat), the particular one we bought gives you the same exact seats for every game, while the others, (pedro pack, all star pack, 86 pack) push you back into a further seat for the Mets/Yankees game (all the packs include a subway series game at Shea). Basically you go to a game a month. I swore to myself this year I would go to games regularly and have fun, enjoy it like I used to a few years back when I would go to as many games as possible (mostly free). In preparation for the new season I ordered a customizable jersey and picked number 21 as an homage to the late great Roberto Clemente, as did Carlos Delgado when he came to the team this season. You know what? they're going to retire that number in the near future, in every single major league ballpark, just like Jackie Robinson (#42). At that point, no one coming into baseball will be permitted to choose that number, regardless of the team. I mean, I couldn't imagine in this day and age going out on the field night after night with number 42 on my back, a blasphemic move that is a slap in the face to all that is holy and decent, only because of my need to appease the blood oath made between myself, the rest of the team, and Satan. Who would dare to tread such murky waters? (Mariano Rivera).

I chose the second road alternate jersey, because the Mets are fashion-forward among other things. They have what I believe is probably the most active playing jerseys of any other team (4). I even bought an official "under the jersey" mock turtleneck to go along with it. It's awesome, it has the Mets and MLB logos on the collar and it's made out of this superhero material that sticks to your skin and makes you look like you're muscular, or possibly capable of being muscular.

18.April.2006 First game on the docket was against the Braves, the notorious 14 season-reigning rulers of the National league East (so much for that, bitches). My father and I were nervously trying to rekindle that father/son at the ballpark routine we nearly thought we'd forgotten. We even went to the Sports Authority to pick up last second Carlos Beltran T-shirts right before the game. I was kind of excited for my dad, who at that point had not been to a baseball game in years. Once we arrived at our seats, were relieved to see we were under the canopy provided by the upper deck of the stadium. The seats after all, could have been worse. They are pretty close to the foul pole on the left field side in the mezzanine section. Anyway, the game ended in a deflating 7-1 loss. Chipper Jones wasn't playing -(the bastard named his kid "Shea", the balls on that guy), so chants of "Larry" had to be kept in the reserves. It turned out there was another Jones we should have been hating on, as we had a good view from our left field accommodations of Andruw smoking two home runs in the game that soared right by us. That aside, we were excited nonetheless about being reacquainted with the ball park and the energy of the crowd, which by the way is at an unbelievably high volume, even more than last year.

19.May.2006 The second game, interestingly, started out with more Mets lament. It was cap trade day, so that was cool, even though I never wear baseball hats because of my enormous head.
In terms of starting pitching, there's no control really with who you're going to see in these six-pack games, with schedule changes, injuries, and etc. concerning the rotation. I have to admit I wasn't too psyched about the first game as soon as I found out Victor Zambrano was pitching. I almost knew it was a guaranteed loss. We were a little late to the game this time, and you could tell from the noise that the game had already been into the top half of the first inning. My father noted that from the level of the crowd something exciting must have happened. I pointed out that since we had to pitch to the opposing team first, so this was most likely the other team scoring. The team we were seeing in this second game was of course, the Yankees. The first game of the Subway Series of 2006. Everyone there knew there was something different about this Mets team of '06. The struggling Yanks stumbled into Shea with hopes of getting it over with and just steamrolling the Mets.
Fate had something else in store. I didn't realize it until a few days later, but I was about to see one of the best Mets games ever.

It's 4-0 in favor of the Bombers by the time we reach our seats. Earlier that day, I learned that new Mets pitcher Jeremi Gonzalez was going to start. I was disappointed because I wanted to see one of our star pitchers (Pedro, Glavine). That, plus I think he already screwed up his first start. New aluminum bottled Budweisers in hand, we settled in for what seemed to be another heart breaker, and with so many Yankee assholes in the stadium and on the train, it seemed like it wasn't going to be a pleasant night. Soon enough though, the ear-piercing shrills of the spaghetti-eating spray on tan rolled up Yankee baby T-shirt wearing girl brigade became inaudible as we slowly clawed our way back into the game. Then the class lines were drawn deep when Yankee fans sporadically began to get into their favorite "drunken stadium ejection" mode. Every asshole with a Jeter jersey had that "Holy Shit" look on their stupid faces. It was fucking awesome. "Enter Sandman" blasted through the house speakers, serenading the run across the field out of the bullpen by the hard-throwing lefty (we will inherit the earth) Billy Wagner. You know, that Metallica song that rightfully belongs to our closer, not the other guy Mariano. We came back in the bottom of the ninth and won, via David Wright. It was beautiful. I got to see the Home Run Apple rise in all it's dented, needs to be repainted glory. There were fireworks. It was a bonding experience. I'm trying to avoid getting all "Tim Russert" on your ass right now, constantly talking about how much I love my dad. It gets weird after a while.

19.Jun.2006 The third of these six games was a disappointing 4-2 loss vs. the Reds. It was only three days after my birthday (the silver one, bitches!) and I really hoped the Mets would win. As soon as I saw that Ken Griffey, Jr. was up at the plate, I made the prediction that we were about to witness the 548th home run of his career. And we did. My dad was out of the country at the moment, so this time I went with my uncle and a friend of mine, a talented enigmatic writer and poet known only as "J. Smith" . And let me tell you, God bless the Mets. This is an organization that has heeded the call of the fans and finally started making sexy-like girl apparel in the form of hot pink sleeveless David Wright baby tees and various other hot items being worn in droves by even hotter girls in the stadium. Not being satisfied with only a customized jersey this year, I gave in to one of my biggest weaknesses when it comes to team merchandise, and now I also own an "ethnic" Mets ensemble (birthday gift actually).

25.Jul.2006 Game 4 of the six-pack had the Cubs, those Wranglers from Wrigley, coming into New York. Things started out ok, as Beltran and Endy
Chavez both homered in the first to make the game 4-2 in favor of the Mets. By the end of the night things took a turn for the worse, as the crew in orange-n-blue lost again, this time 8-6.

Alas, the day didn't come without it's share of drama (or as I'd like to refer to it, comic relief). During the usual routine from the car to our entrance (I wouldn't be caught dead on that dreadful 7 train), we come across the press gate where, of all the people in the world, my ex-girlfriend is standing. It wasn't shocking that she was there, after all the large Queens gindaloon population routinely found at Mets games was probably too much for her to resist. The shocking part is where she was exactly, at the press gate. I was surprised to learn that working at an ethnic targeted weekly "newspaper" without a legitimate sports section could warrant a press pass.

From across the crowd, I immediately recognized her. Instantly, all those lost memories came flooding back. Lying in a naked embrace after making sweet love, those declarations of our seemingly undying affection for each other. The guilt that comes with realizing I let my one true love slip through my hands because I was too weak to hold on to her. Seeing her completed the "trifecta" of misery for me. You see, about a month earlier I was an extra in a movie filming literally two blocks away from her office. Then, about a week or two before the game I saw her best friend from high school (you know what the "best friend" is like), while walking through the city one night. Those two random events lead me to believe it was only a matter of time before I ran into the lady Queen bee herself.

I know what you're thinking, "Jeez, haven't you gotten completely over her yet?".
I felt like Steve Irwin, if years later he had the opportunity to approach the beast that had stung him fatally through the heart. As I got closer, I thought to myself "Are you sure it's her?" "Maybe you're going crazy". I know, I know, maybe the obvious signs weren't there. For one thing, she wasn't blowing a married civil servant after picking him up in a bar, so understandably it could have been very difficult to recognize her upon first glance. Throughout these past years I always wondered what she must look like now. Cutting my dead weight must have propelled her towards a newfound beautifully fit body, mind and soul, like she told me she would. She'll have a glow because she's finally found that happiness she could never have attained from my meager resources, right?

Personally, I mean as far as I was concerned I immediately went on a new health and exercise regimen after she broke my heart. Over the passing couple of years, shy, sheltered doormat-heart pussy Nic took a long dirt nap. Now chiseled looks witty, warm, smart, sensitive and handsome Nic is here and he's matured. He can even still be a gentleman even in the face of adversity.

As I got closer, I was relieved, no over-fucking-joyed over what I saw. It was her after all! and what a sight. She looked, oh she looked, well .... the same (score so far, Nic-1 Godless Tart-0) . I called out her name, waved, and smiled. Our gaze locked and for a second, I felt something. Then came her reaction, typical of a debutante like herself. She proceeded to roll her eyes and gasp, as if I would take the precious time and oxygen to speak to her any further. Absolutely no class. I was just trying to say hi. She probably missed the memo, because nowadays few ladies are allowed the privilege to gaze into these windows, baby. And when I lay these big ol' brown eyes on you, there's no turning back, you're practically trapped in an inescapable dimension of love. My dad just put his hand on my shoulder reassuringly (or in a laughing at me on the inside kind of way, I couldn't tell) and said only two words - "Sorry kid". We bonded. Later, every foxy bitch in the house was grilling me like a fourth of July barbecue. The Mets lost, but most importantly, I won.

Don't forget to check out the second and concluding installment of this report detailing the other half of my odyssey through Flushing, coming up next time.

Today's musical selection : "Rise up with Fists!" - Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins (although I think "3 Hot Chicks" may be a more appropriate name for the band)

The Actor Takes His Stage......

2006-09-22T04:18:00.001-04:00

Quick reminder folks,

Tonight at 10PM (EST) is the premier of the 17th season of Law & Order (the original, of course). It is the longest running crime series, and the second longest-running drama series in the history of television.

I was lucky enough to get a gig as an extra on this particular episode, entitled "Fame" about a couple of months ago.

The show may look different now, due to the absence of one Dennis Farina. More strikingly though, it's another year without Elisabeth Rohm. In industry terms, that means the shows headed towards the shitter and may not make it much longer. On the set, a crew member told me that about half the regular staff has been fired, and when production wants a new direction, that usually means the countdown has started.

This episode is classically "ripped from the headlines". The two story lines at play are the botched robbery / cop killing committed by the kid from "A Bronx Tale" (read my groundbreaking journalistic review here), but this time the perpetrator is the no-good husband of a huge pop star who's had doubts cast upon her regarding her abilities as a responsible parent due to recent paparazzi photos. In other words, a Kevin Federline look-alike. Coincidentally, the character's name in the show is "J-Train Smolka". This is funny because the train I live near (the J/Z), is the inspiration for the infamous rapper Jay-Z's name. Better than that, the cop murdered in the opening scene's name is Nick.

I don't know how far into the episode- (most likely in the "Order" half), look for the words "Part 46" on the screen, after that infamous "Law and Order sound". During this very quick scene, the judge will take the defendant's plea,("Absolutely Not Guilty!") - I remember clearly because the guy playing him looked like he needed a slap in the face. I'm standing in the back of the courtroom, behind the last row of seats, portraying a member of the press and scribbling in a notepad (after so many takes, I ended up writing very dirty things in said pad). Right after that, a flash bulb will go off, and the judge will angrily order everyone in the courtroom to leave except the defendant and council. Depending on what take they used, or if the shot even made it in the goddamn show in the first place, I may or may not be the first guy to open the door and leave ( I don't handle confrontation well, so I thought it best to leave immediately, as to not piss the judge off further).

Anyway, it was fun, I was pretty excited, and I'll go into it further in a later post.

Remember, Tonight at 10 PM on NBC!!!

Today's musical selection: "My Love" - Justin Timberlake feat. T.I.

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Land of the Rising TV Star

2006-03-28T18:40:00.001-05:00

It seems like just yesterday, it was a cool night a few weeks ago, the first day of March. On this night two beautiful people left their mark on New York and national television, not to mention the food world.

First up was gorgeous TV chef Giada DeLaurentiis, who made her long awaited (for me at least) appearance on the Late Show with David Letterman. Her food demonstration during the show was superb (like I can remember what the hell she made), and the sultry culinary craftess held up well with the witty antics of host Dave, plus treated us to some cute side banter with Sarah Jessica Parker.

If you still don't know who she is, you may remember her from my wildly popular profile on sexy TV chefs in August of 2004. Since then, she's now hosting a new show "Behind the Bash", and her "Chefography-Giada" premiered a couple of weeks ago.
I've been a huge fan of hers from the beginning, and now it seems other people are jumping on the bandwagon. One site, for instance has enacted nothing less than a "Giada Watch". She's getting a lot of shit for her big head, but hey, that's how I spent high school. I don't think she has a big head anyway. Girls snicker as they tell me I've "grown into" mine. I have to admit though, "It's a Giada Disaster" has to be the one of the funniest things I've ever seen.

Next up, but only an hour earlier, was yet another of my appearances on "Mezamahi TV", Japan's version of the "Today Show", with an estimated viewing audience of approximately 20 million people every morning. Each week they broadcast a live segment from NYC entitled "Oh My NY". Actually it's live over there, and like 5pm here (time zones, whattya gonna do?).
This particular week's segment centered on a food battle between Iron Chefs Mario Batali and Masaharu Morimoto. The scene where this epic battle would take place was not in Kitchen Stadium, but on the street in the newest and coolest Restaurant Row, at the intersection of 16st and 10th avenue, near the meatpacking district.

In this intersection, two power-house restaurants face each other from across the street. One is the new attempt at four-stardom for Molto Mario, Del Posto. Of course, Batali should be happy with the three granted him by Frank Bruni, which is the most you can hope for in an Italian restaurant in the city (c'mon, what was Mario thinking?). The (in some places) weird and all around ridiculously over-priced menu should have been a red flag, but all that aside, it's just something about senor orange clogs that pisses me off.

If you haven't guessed already, I'm a huge fan of Masaharu Morimoto. I loved the original Iron Chef program on Japanese TV (the American version blows). Morimoto was the last great Iron Chef on that show. Anyway, across the street from the live piano player and hotel lobby feel of Del Posto lies the cleverly named Morimoto, the new venture by the aforementioned Japanese great. The clean lines inside just scream "Sleek", "Sex" and "Japan". This is point is clearly illustrated in this exclusive-never before seen picture of the bathroom.

I was playing the role of one of his waiters, something I didn't realize until I went inside the restaurant and saw that all his staff was wearing the same all black getup that I was. I also imagined the staff wondering why they weren't asked to do this and giving me looks.

Morimoto rocks, and he kind of reprimanded me during a rehearsal for shaking the tray I was holding a little. It was freezing outside and I really couldn't control it. In the end product, my hands did get quite a few seconds of air time I must say.

The whole thing was fun, and I've come out of my shell at least in the way of doing this 'extra' thing lately. The hours are long and pay is shit for now of course, so I need to get into SAG soon. I'm actually getting work on a fairly regular basis now. I was even background in a pilot that shot this past St. Patrick's Day for Warner Bros.! [I was upscale hip club-goer]. You get to meet a lot of people (read-beautiful girls) on these sets and sometimes the chatter that erupts between shots (lots of waiting), is hilarious, actually a bit like the tv show "Extras". That show is awesome by the way (original 'office' guy, hello?). But it's pretty cool to see how these things are produced.

Today's Musical Selection: Red Hot Chili Peppers - "Soul to Squeeze"

Kissing the Lipless

2006-03-24T04:20:00.001-05:00

I've been flooded (and by 'flooded' I mean nobody) - with e-mails of late asking a couple of common questions. One of them is: "Can I touch you down there?" and the other, of course is "What the hell have you been up to lately?"

Well thanks for asking. And yes, you may touch.
First and foremost, I'm recovering pretty well from that horribly painful, invasive, life-shitting spine operation a few months ago (def: that which affects your life in a shit aspect; from the Latin 'Vita Feces', or shit life). I've become more acquainted with my new friends, "The Rods". Oh, they're a kooky bunch they are. Of course there's three of them now, so I thought it was time I got around to naming them all. Their names are Stan, Leonard, and who can forget our original broken old friend, Gugots.

Crazy antics ensue as this trio of lifelong friends struggle to balance careers, relationships and family all while cramped into a tiny apartment in the lower east side of my back (I smell a sitcom!). But that's not all folks! Wait a second... What's that (painful) knocking on the door? Why it's their goofy ol' landlord, Mr. McSpine! Together, these four will learn that no matter how challenging life in the big city can be, at the end of the day you always have your friends to lean on for support - for support, get it?? It's genius! (and copyrighted, so don't even try it).

Unfortunately, everything in this crazy mixed up world-oyster isn't always a bed of roses. The effects of this painful second operation (though I prefer the cooler sounding term "becoming a cyborg") - had repercussions that resonated deeper than I ever could have imagined. I'm speaking of a vital function here: and that's lovemaking (or biscuit-farming as I like to call it). Take for instance a recent Quinnipiac poll (Feb'06-look it up), where a team of scientists had come to the conclusion that I've suffered a total net 'thrusting' loss of approximately 22% immediately after this ordeal. Un-friggin believable. It's disappointing because those kind of numbers would obviously prevent me from practicing what I like to call my "rolling wave" technique the ladies love so much. Go on, close your eyes and picture it. I know you are. See what I mean?

By the way, read a chapter of this book I happened to stumble across. It's titled 'Sex, Scars, and a Superheroine with Scoliosis'. This girl Kremena wrote it, and I found it just today, only after years of writing and writing and bitching to everyone about my spine and how cool I am. Turns out she beat me to the punch, so I can't possibly plead plagiarism. Very interesting, and eerily coincidental, even parallel to my own story. Except she ended up marrying her first, true love whom she met at the age of 15. As for that one and only true love that I met when I was fifteen, well, that's why there's an archive of previous posts on the right side of this page.

On other fronts, I've been wearing glasses for a few months now after years of only wearing contacts and I must say, I'm prettier than ever. I think it gives me that extra distinguished sense of class that my chiseled facce (pronounced fahtch) doesn't already provide. Contrary to the popular saying though, it turns out girls do not make passes at guys who wear glasses.

"Hey, but what have you doing with yourself lately?"

My surgeon's office is in Bay Ridge. This is the view from outside, and I've slowly become obsessed with moving to Brooklyn. I just want to find a nice Italian girl to settle down with. After one of my post-operative visits, the people there, patients and staff members alike were (at least on this morning) almost all speaking Italian. Something about this seemed very fascinating to me. At one point, after seeing this cute old woman (who must have been somebody's mother/grandmother) pass me in the hall, I swore I was now more than a second away from someone asking me 'if I've eaten yet'.

I'm enamored with the seemingly old-time neighborhood. Seeing the Verrazzano bridge looming overhead and the nice promenade they have reminds me of when I lived in Beechurst, in Queens. The looming bridge there being the Throgs Neck. Bay Ridge seems slightly expensive, but it's someplace you can "stay for a while" if you know what I mean. Robert E. Lee lived there, and I enjoyed seeing Fort Hamilton, with one of the few cannons left in the city. After all, it's where Paulie Walnuts lives, so it can't be that bad. I've met a few people lately at parties in the famous borough and it seems like a very cool close-knit place to live. (I used to be very anti-Brooklyn).
As for my physical therapy, it is now a thing of the past. It's tedious and basically just makes me very angry, which inevitably leads to the physical therapist suggesting I seek some additional therapy, this time of the emotional variety (it's a vicious cycle). If you ask me, this is just another example of the big business mentality of health care in this country.

Now I'm left alone to sift through the remains of a shattered spirit, trying to gain some kind of assured focus. In other words, that sense of confidence that up until now has eluded me. Trying to escape the trappings of the heavy duty physical toll that comes with restaurant work, one word began to repeat itself in my head. Follow me here, the word is: Sommelier. I've begun a real-life wine education of sorts, allowing me to learn about something where I can still take in the atmosphere of food and wine in a nice restaurant (which I like), but without the constant physical exertion and lifting which comes with waiting tables and running food. Bonus points are granted to me because essentially, I would tell you what to drink, get to wear a suit (I clean up) and I'll be the guy making eyes at your lady friend. Those reasons alone are attractive perks, and I've done a lot of thinking. I've even gathered the references for an application to culinary school, but unfortunately culinary school doesn't seem to be a realistic option in the long run anymore because of the physical lifting, etc., but more so because of a seemingly worsening food allergy I have to sesame seeds/oil, and just about every nut out there. Twice in recent months I wasn't paying close enough attention to what I was eating and immediately had a reaction (hives, etc). It's strange for me because I'm usually extremely paranoid and careful about this when ever I eat anything (reading labels, etc.). It's almost impossible to avoid it in school, unless I have my own personal taster or something. Get it straight though, I can still cook like a motherfucker.

So in the meantime I still need to make money, and my only full time work option/possibility at the moment is a shaky one at best, as a copy boy at the Daily News. I'm embarrassed by the holes in my resume of just plain old steady full time work. You tend to feel weak when you have to end up explaining your back problem to everybody eventually. There have been a couple of interesting developments lately though, which I'll get into in my next posts.

Yeah I know I've been in the grip of a depressed fuck-shit self imposed prison, but that's my 'joie de vivre', I guess. I'll leave y'all with some words of wisdom. Something I totally just made up off the top of my head. It goes as follows:

I don't have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It's a depression... Punks are running wild in the street, and there's nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do, and there's no end to it. We know the air is unfit to breathe, and our food is unfit to eat...We know things are bad - worse than bad. They're crazy. It's like everything everywhere is going crazy so we don't go out anymore. We sit in a house as slowly the world we're living in is getting smaller and all we say is "Let me have my toaster, and TV and my steel belted radials and I won't say anything". Well I'm not going to leave you alone. I want you to get mad. I don't want you to protest. I don't want you to riot... All I know is that first you've got to get mad.

You've got to say, 'I'm a human being, Goddamnit! My life has value!' So I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you all to go downstairs in a paranoid delusional rage wearing your bathrobe. Look at your nephew, and yell....

GOTSADA MALANGA!!

Today's musical selection: Afghan Whigs - Crazy

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Allez Cuisine!! - Nic Takes Japanese Television by Storm!

2006-02-28T21:13:00.001-05:00

Tune in tomorrow Wednesday, March 1, 2006 to WMBC/Channel 63 (Time Warner Cable NY),
during 10:00 to 11:00PM and catch yet another one of my very special appearances on Japanese TV.

Mezamashi TV is Japan's version of Good Morning America, or the Today Show. With an estimated viewership of 20 million viewers in Japan, the show produces a weekly segment that is broadcast live via satellite from New York City.

This week's segment will focus on a food battle between Iron Chefs Mario Batali and Masaharu Morimoto.

I'm a huge fan of Morimoto, so of course I was the obvious choice to be (portray) the "waiter" for Morimoto's side in the live shot (Take that, orange clogs!).

First Batali's waiter ("I act and model"-you know, one of those types) will present Mario's entry, which everyone was shocked to learn had spaghetti in it. Then look for me on the left side of the screen, wearing all black and presenting Mormioto's dish, (totally destroys Molto's) to the show's host. I even get some extra airtime for my forearms as Morimoto bestows last second treatments to his masterpiece from a bamboo tray I'm holding. It's like I always say. You don't have a chance winning a food battle against a guy who shaves a truffle in high wind, 12-degree weather onto a plate. On Japanese TV no less.

So once again, it's sometime between 10:00 and 11:00PM on Time Warner Ch.63/WMBC, during their FCI Productions slot. So put grandma to sleep and throw the popcorn in yer fancy "microwave". The whole segment can't be longer than seven minutes.

Tune in, and bask in the glory that is my ever increasingly more chiseled and handsome facen'body (Take that, ex-girlfriend!)

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Tutti a Mangini !!

2006-01-17T19:37:00.001-05:00

(Charles Krupa / AP)

The New York Jets unveiled their new head coach at a press conference today, hiring Patriots defensive coordinator Eric Mangini and filling the fourth out of the eight head vacant coaching slots left open since the end of the season.

"I thank you guys for having the vision to make me your head coach,"

In Mangini they now have the youngest head coach in the NFL, who turns 35 on Thursday. He will be replacing Herm Edwards, the notorious ship-jumper who had the balls to ask for an extension after a sparkling 4-12 record this year. Edwards, stifling rumors of his departure the best way possible (by being photographed at the airport luggage in hand getting on a flight to Kansas City), was hired as the Chiefs head coach last week.

Mangini has been Patriots coach Bill Belichick's underling for 10 of his 11 seasons in the NFL, spending five years as New England's defensive-backs coach before being made defensive coordinator last year. He's widely regarded as one of the sharpest football minds in the game.

The Jets also interviewed former Minnesota Vikings head coach Mike Tice (the guy who scalped game tickets because he didn't make enough money), but he obviously didn't impress team brass much. Rumor has it Mangini was the frontrunner all along.

This is a bit of a reunion though, considering Eric Mangini has already served as an assistant with Gang Green from 1997-99.

J - E - T - S

Jets

JeTs

JETS!!

Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot, and Never Brought to Mind?

2006-01-03T01:00:00.000-05:00

Hey, I know it's already January 17, (hey, I've been busy!), but this is what I did New Year's Eve.

New Year's Eve was spent at the home of a good friend of mine. I've been going to this friend's house for the last few years now on December 31, and it's shameful when you can't update everyone there on how great your life is. I got drunk a little too early, I usually try to cartographically map out my drinking plan for the night. This night, however, let's just say I found where "X" marks the spot a little too early.

After hours of annoying someone to give me a ride, I finally arrived there, 12 pack of Becks in hand. It was a dark and snowy late afternoon-early evening. Ok, so I got there a little too early. I eventually had to ask an unsuspecting couple where the address of the house I was looking for was. Lucky for me, they were going there too. Whew! I mean C'mon, I'm in College Point for crying out loud. This is a neighborhood that during high school I was always wary about, mainly out of fear of it's narrow streets and the always present possibility of being white-trashed to death. Luckily for me though, this couple was from out of state and gladly pointed me in the right direction.

Of course I don't know anyone upon entering, except of course for that one guy who's already there, who's a friend of the host because he works with him, so that's where the conversation ends. We all know one, you know what I'm talking about.

My friend also has this beautiful cat, a Burmese, which also cost like a thousand dollars or something. He's full grown and is pretty much the perfect size. This cat actually reaches out and desires your contact, which is very strange as far as cats go. He jumped up on the back of a chair and extended a paw towards me while meowing, so I can pick him. Unbelievable. He's so beautiful that someone tried to leave with it in their jacket the night before!

So I drink my beer way too quick, end up drinking everything else I can get my hands on, and shamelessly try to get everyone's phone number on my brand new cell phone, (which is an awesome phone by the way), while taking inappropriate photos with the camera in the phone.

Basically that's about it, I got wasted, saw old friends, and had a great Cuban sandwich at 5 in the morning. I laughed, I cried, I got into a fight, and made out with all the girls come midnight.

I passed out in a guest room, then I woke up the next morning and began the year off the right way. With Ketel One screwdrivers, extra strong. The only people left at this point are pretty much me, and of course legendary rap-duo Vomit and Barfunkel. The only thing better than drinking in the morning is a long session of that electronic "Catch Phrase" game. The keyword for me at some point was "First Aid Kit", but I went into this long complicated description involving a snake bite, and lost.

In closing, here's a couple of things you shouldn't do at a friend's new year's party:

1 - First, don't inhale the 12 pack you brought within the first hour and a half. Mostly because it's now only around 5:00 in the evening. Secondly, Beck's isn't that fancy, so you should've just brought the 18 pack of Bud you drink every day anyway and saved a little money!

2 - Don't accost the girl you've had some kind of crush on for like 3 years. It doesn't work. She's just not that into you, and she thinks it's very creepy if you remember what she said a whole year ago verbatim.

3 - Don't wear exactly what your wearing in your Myspace profile. Someone will notice it (on the other hand, it means at least several people saw it at some point, so I win, Ha!)

4 - Don't sit in the kitchen watching the football game the whole night. You already know you're a Jets fan and you couldn't possibly care less who's in the playoffs, even if it's (was) the Giants.

5 - Don't get into conversations about the cat, and how your dog was almost killed and you love animals and all that. You won't exactly come off as a "people" person.

6 - Don't show everyone the scar that runs the length of your back. Yes, it's good for shock value at first, but then it becomes obvious the girls who considered doing with you up until that point in the night aren't impressed.

Today's New Year's Musical Selection : Down : "Losing All"

Time To Make The Funeral Arrangements!

2005-12-27T23:04:00.000-05:00

Brooklyn-born veteran actor Michael Vale, most famous for his line "Time to make the donuts" in all those Dunkin' Donuts commercials, has died Christmas Eve in New York City, his family says, at the age of 83.

He played the popular character "Fred the Baker" for 15 years, from 1982 until he hung up the apron in 1997, and appeared in over 1,300 commercials, and also played "Sam Breakstone" in the Breakstone commercials.

He studied acting at the Dramatic Workshop in New York. His classmates included Tony Curtis, Ben Gazzara and Rod Steiger.

His family said he also suffered from diabetes. Vale is survived by his wife Nancy, son Tracy, daughter Ivy, and granddaughter Violet.

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All Aboard! (Blink)

2005-12-22T21:02:00.000-05:00

AP Photo/ Shahrzad Elghanayan

Transit workers scramble this evening to re-apply the scent of urine to all 468 subway stations after the three day strike ended today around 3:00.

They are also inspecting the 660 miles of track to make sure all the service disruptions, garbage fires, and rats will be restored by tomorrow's rush hour.

Word is that Roger Toussaint is now planning for his career change from head of the TWU to his new position as president of the "Master Evader-of Jail" club, when he so graciously caved in after the Transit Union's executive board voted overwhelmingly to end the strike, just minutes before he was due in Brooklyn Supreme Court to face Judge Theodore Jones, along with Local 100's recording secretary Darlyne Lawson and secretary treasurer Ed Watt, on charges of contempt of court.

Declaring victory, (and by victory of course I mean complete failure) - Toussaint proudly and defiantly announced his answer to growing pressure that he order his workers back on the job immediately - WITHOUT a contract:

"They'll go back right away," he
said

Ah yes, the future of labor unions and general worker's protection in this glorious country certainly looks bright, doesn't it?

Merry Christmas fuckheads.

Today's Musical Selection: Afghan Whigs - "What Jail is Like"

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Frustrated NYC Commuters Green with Envy

2005-12-21T22:22:00.000-05:00

In the wake of this horrible (and to me quite funny) transit strike, I can't help but laugh at all the shitheads that moved out of my section of Queens to places like Williamsburg and Park Slope, never mind the feeble attempt made by many to "trendicize" my original home neighborhood, a now vapid Astoria.

Of course it's cool to live in a cool neighborhood. Everyone knows that, and I won't contest that fact. Having a view of the city's skyline is a nice benefit, but it only goes so far.

You know how I've been getting around these past 2 days?
One benefit of where I live is the fact that the private company Green Bus Lines is still in operation during this strike, including (and this is the best part), no less than five express routes traveling from Queens to midtown Manhattan.

I actually saw an ex-girlfriend on the local news this morning, as she froze her ass off waiting at the LIRR Jamaica Station. I chuckled to myself as I bundled up, debilitated back and all, and went outside to catch my express bus which stops just down the block. No folks, none of that walking across the Brooklyn Bridge bullshit for me or traveling all the way from my fancy apartment with a city view to Jamaica, which is actually in the opposite direction of Manhattan, just to come back to the city anyway. It's all the Midtown Tunnel, cute Wall Street girls, ipods and potato chips for me.

Yeah, the Long Island Rail Road is offering temporary shuttle train prices of $4.00 each way, but I'm fine paying the usual $3.00 for a half-hour ride to 34th St and 3rd Ave. I'm fine staying warm on a bus instead of waiting outdoors to buy a "ticket". I'm especially fine relaxing in an actual (gasp) seat. Imagine that!

If you live along Queens Blvd in the neighborhoods of Sunnyside, Woodside or Long Island City, you can also catch another bus, the Q60. It's not express, but goes to Manhattan anyway, ending up on 60st and 2nd Ave. With off peak prices of $1.00, you can't go wrong.

Why this isn't being covered more extensively in the media, especially on local stations like NY1, is a mystery to me.
While two other private bus lines in Queens were the first TWU members to strike back on Monday, the Green Bus Line has still been running, virtually unaffected.

As of last Thursday, union president John Longo had this to say:

"We're not going to be on strike"

The reason for this is because employees of this company belong to a completely different union, the Amalgamated Transit Union, Local 1179(ATU). The only other private line who's workers are represented by the ATU is the Brooklyn based Command Bus line. They were absorbed by the MTA earlier in December. The Green Bus Line will eventually also be absorbed into the MTA, with ownership planned to change over in January.

Today's musical selection: The Decemberists : "The Mariner's Revenge Song"

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Dead Commuter Walking! Get Down with the Contingency Sound!

2005-12-20T06:20:00.001-05:00

As of about three hours ago, Transit Worker Union Local 100 President Robert Toussaint has made official that the union has in fact voted, 28-10, to strike, but not at the originally proposed time of 12:01.

The union board has overwhelmingly voted to "extend strike actions to all MTA properties immediately", and are ordered to garage their vehicles upon completion of route and report to their assigned picket line locations.

In his press conference around 10 minutes after 3:00am, Toussaint defiantly stated that the "TWU does not stand alone". While asking for understanding and support from the public, he told reporters that "our fight is their fight", and that "We now ask that you stand with us". He estimates the projected MTA surplus of $1 billion dollars to be at least $100 million dollars understated.

Mayor Michael Bloomberg made a brief statement in response a few minutes later. Commenting to reporters, he said of the union: "for their own cowardly reasons, they believe their demands are more important than the law, the city and the people it serves", adding that the whole affair is nothing more than "a cowardly attempt by Robert Toussaint and Local TWU to bring the city to it's knees". Bloomberg then said-

"I will join New Yorkers by walking across the
Brooklyn Bridge"

Peter Kalikow, MTA chairman later said

"Make no mistake, every effect that the law
allows will be brought to bear on all striking members".

He warned that every union member would face a loss of "two days pay for each day of the illegal strike". He made it clear he would start contempt proceedings with Judge Theodore Jones against the union as soon as possible, as they are of course violating the city's Taylor law, which makes it illegal for any public employee to strike, and said the union's actions are nothing but

"bullying tactics".

The mayor estimates total economic losses for every day of the strike at 400 million dollars.

By the way, I'm totally union on this one folks, c'mon, billion dollar surplus? When it comes to things like pension, forget about the big piece of chicken. You tellin' me that when daddy gets home he ain't even gonna get no crumbs?

For help in your morning commute, click here

Good morning, and good luck.

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It's Not Easy Being Green

2005-12-19T19:28:00.001-05:00

I've been strongly advised against listening to very depressing music for a while now. Considering the already fragile state of my emotional being, I probably shouldn't be playing songs that I would consider classics in the "I want to end it all" hall of fame, such as Elliot Smith's "Twilight" and Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt", while rocking back and forth in the corner of a candlelit room. At least it's not a good idea to listen to them in their original forms, that is.

That's why I've turned to someone who's always been there for me, before the girls, before the shallow, self-centered paper thin glass sphere of my existence began to crack. Things haven't been easy for this guy either, I mean we basically grew up together, developed into intellectuals together, grooming the attributes needed to rub elbows with society's elite side by side as a team. But alas, in this game of life the little wheel in the middle of the board doesn't always spin in your favor. This guy knows exactly what that's like.

My friend's name, of course, is Kermit the Frog. His new website reveals the darker side and shows what's really underneath the cake of fame once everyone has licked off all the frosting. Enter at your own risk.

The site states:

Kermit the Frog is perhaps one
of the most well-known muppets in the history of the world. His sudden rise to
stardom propelled him into a life full of action, romance, addiction, and pain.
Kermit's decent to the bottom was quick, but somehow he had managed to keep this
dark secret from the prying eyes of the media. The songs on this page were
obtained through an inside source, signing his emails with only the letter 'G'.
These songs document Kermit's relentless and utter depression during these
years.

Become Kermit's friend at Myspace by clicking here

Today's musical selection: Elliot Smith - "Fond Farewell"

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A Bronx Tale: Calogero's a Cop Killer!

2005-12-10T19:22:00.001-05:00

Daniel Enchautegui, 28, was returning after a long late night shift to his Bronx home in the early morning hours Saturday when he heard the sound of breaking glass at the house next door. The three-year veteran of the police department quickly grabbed his gun and went to see what happened. Minutes later, he would collapse in his own driveway, dying of a gunshot wound to the chest.

Approaching the house on Arnow Place and Westchester Ave, he saw two burglars trying to get into a the window of a ground floor apartment. The officer's landlord told police he heard his tenant scream "Police! Don't Move!" before gunshots pierced the cold morning air. One of the robbers, identified as Steven Armento of Yonkers, fired his weapon at the officer, hitting him in the chest. In a sign of courage, the mortally wounded Enchautegui still managed to shoot Armento four times and the other suspect twice.

Who's this "other suspect", you ask? Details emerged earlier today identifying the man as none other than Lillo Brancato, Jr., the actor whose breakthrough role was his portrayal of Robert DeNiro's son, Calogero, in the hit mafia movie "A Bronx Tale". His most recent work was a stint on the HBO series "The Sopranos", where he played stockbroker and wannabe gangster Matt Bevilacqua, before he was executed in true Jersey mafia style.

Brancato is a native of Bogota, Colombia. He was adopted at four months of age, and raised in Yonkers, New York. DeNiro sent a talent scout to look for "noprofessionalal" Robert DeNiro look-alike talent to fill the role of 17 year old Calogero. The scout came across Brancato swimming at Jones beach, and immediately cast him after being wowed by the youngster's "Taxi Driver" and Joe Pesci impressions. Of his ethnicity, he once said:

"I consider myself Italian
... I was raised to eat pasta."

After roles in more than a dozen movies, things seemed not to be going very well for Brancato, Jr. This past June, he was arrested after a routine stop, when police found four glassine bags of heroin on him.

All three were taken to Jacobi Hospital, where officer Enchautegui was pronounced dead. Stephen Armento, the alleged gunman, also of Yonkers, was shot four times and was listed as being in serious condition.

Brancato, who police say was unarmed, was shot twice and is in critical condition.

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Cheney Concurs: Pennsylvania Rep. Jack a Bad Ass Murtha-Fucker

2005-11-21T16:20:00.001-05:00

Speaking in front of the American Enterprise Institute earlier today, Dick Cheney attempted to stop the stench of blood and evil from setting into his suit using what I like to call the Tide Stainbrush technique, (now only $9.99!) by praising U.S. Rep. John Murtha, despite the congressman's recent criticism of the war and suggestion of troop withdrawal.

Amidst the recent flurry of criticism over the validity of intelligence leading up to the war, Cheney, speaking in front of the conservative think tank's audience came out swinging, referring to accusations that the Neo-Con death cult (thanks Marc Maron) manipulated pre-war intelligence, as "one of the most dishonest and reprehensible charges ever aired in this city."

He went on to say:

"A few politicians are suggesting these brave Americans were sent into battle
for a deliberate falsehood. This is revisionism of the most corrupt and
shameless variety. It has no place anywhere in American politics, much less in
the United States Senate,"

After taking a deep breath and silently praying to his lord Satan, he then made a turn-around, joining the President in softening the White House's response to Murtha's remarks when he referred to the Representative as "my friend and former colleague". Of the war veteran and 17-term Pennsylvania Democrat, he had this to say:

"He's a good man, a Marine, a patriot and he's taking a clear stand in an
entirely legitimate discussion,"

This is a far cry from the bashing Murtha received from Congressional Republicans and shifty sidekick tool Scott McClellan, who last week gave us this gem of a mature rational statement, when he accused Murtha of:

"endorsing the policies of Michael Moore and the extreme
liberal wing of the Democratic Party."

U.S. Military Death Toll (as of 20/11/05) : 2094

Dinner I made tonight : Baked Ziti (so good it makes the ladies wet)

Today's Musical Selection : Talking Heads - "Psycho Killer"

Location of my pants right now : Narnia

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Trouble in Paradise

2005-11-15T23:24:00.001-05:00

When you're happily married couple Saijida Mubarak Atrous al-Rishawi and Ali Hussein Ali al-Shamari, the trouble comes when only one of you successfully gets to that 'paradise' (they say those first 2 years of marriage are critical for long term success).

Al-Rishawi's chilling confession Sunday on Jordanian television shows her remorseless, emotionless face recounting the tale of how her and her husband came to Jordan from their home in Dirkadirkastan, rented an apartment in a middle-class neighborhood, and began to plan what turned out to be a massive suicide bombing at three U.S.-chain hotels, killing 58 people, and injuring over 100. It was in this apartment that her husband made and taught her how to detonate the bomb. She's also wearing said belt on television that was given to her by her husband, and which malfunctioned that day.

Here is the exclusive (take that CNN!) transcript obtained by Laconic News Weekly, in it's original form and entirety:

"Dirka-dirka, Muhammad,
Muhammad Ali,"
"Muhammad jihad,"
"Muhammad, jihad, allah,
Dirka-dirka, burka-burka,""Allah dirka dirka dirka
jihad"
"dirka dirka Mohammed jihad
dirka dirka."
[sic] "..........dirka dirka
jihad".

You get the idea. Speaking of ideas, hows about dis one?
How about we grab this bitch, (and the new Sony DVcam), and make us a little video of our own? Get the sharpest knife from the kitchen, and slowly and methodically cut this cunt's head off, sawing it off while some good ol' American rock and roll plays in the background. You know, like the videos the terrorists like to make, but this one in both PAL and NTSC format so worldwide DVD distribution wouldn't be such a hassle (take that, Region Coding!). The screams are in 5.1 Dolby Surround for those audiophiles out there.

Then WE drive someone's flame torched corpse chained to the back of a late-model pickup through a parade of dead-body shoe slapping frenzied maniacs. But we're still decent human beings, so she'll need to be buried of course, (a courtesy not provided to our beheaded, burned, executed soldiers and independent contractors). Yes, she will be buried. Face down, with her (now separate) head inserted firmly up her arse, and her entire body placed in the completely opposite direction of "Mecca" (not the apparel company).

But as Frank Lloyd Wright once said; "An idea is salvation by imagination"

Today's Musical Selection: Peaches - "The Teaches of Peaches"

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The Two Hottest Girls to Become Unemployed This Week

2005-11-09T02:43:00.001-05:00

As everyone in the world has probably heard already, the two Carolina Panthers cheerleaders arrested early Sunday in Tampa Bay have been fired from the squad, for violating the team's conduct policy.

According to witnesses, Renee Thomas, 20, and Angela Keathley, 26, were having sex in the stall of a ladies room inside Banana Joe's in downtown Tampa, which began to irritate the other women waiting in line because they were taking too long to "finish up". This is when Renee Thomas emerged and allegedly punched one of the patrons, giving her a black eye (dramatic re-enactment somebody, please).

"She was screaming I am a
Panther cheerleader. I'm not going to get arrested for this. And, I was like,
that's good for you but you are going to jail," the alleged victim Melissa
Holden said.

Once the authorities were called in, Ms. Thomas (the blonde), being only 20 years old and therefore under the legal drinking age, then gave police the driver's license of a third 'TopCat' cheerleader, Kristen Owen, who is also very hot (see below) Police didn't figure this out until the arrested cheerleader had already been released on $500 bail. Providing a false name is considered a misdemeanor. Kristen Owen has since been suspended and is trying to clear her name.

Meanwhile, Angela Keathley, who out of the two spicy pom-pom shaking lesbian fireballs, was the one who didn't punch anyone or use a fake I.D., was charged with disorderly contact and resisting arrest. She was released on $750 bail (I don't get why she had to pay more).

The pair has already been approached by Penthouse magazine. Those Forum letters don't sound so ridiculous anymore.

Today's Music Selection: Incubus - "Have You Ever"

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