Get Out Of My Dreams (And Into My Car)

Yesterday I got hit by a car while trying to enter an occupied taxi.

Yes, you read that correctly. Please, please, stop worrying about me. I'm fine. Really, I'll be alright. But let me tell you the story...

'Twas a dark and stormy night, and I had left work late on my way to a rehearsal. So I'm already angry because yet again, working has gotten in the way of living. Awesome. Additionally, no one informed that it was dark and stormy outside, nor that there was a chance it was going to be dark and stormy. So I walk out into the dark and stormy umbrella(ella, ella)less. (I'm done using the phrase "dark and stormy", so you can wake up again.)

I am so late for my rehearsal that I need to catch a cab, which also means that I need to take money out of my empty bank account. And that realization, mixed with the rain, began my descent into rage-induced madness. I make it to the bank, already looking like a drowned grease trap, complete my transaction, turn toward the street and see a cab in front of the bank with it's light on. (Those of you unfamiliar with NYC cabs, if the light is lit on the top of the cab it means it is unoccupied. Those of you unfamiliar with NYC cabs at rush hour in the rain, seeing a cab with its light on at 6 PM on a weekday in a rain storm would be like finding a full box of Wheat Thins in my apartment. Good luck.) So I make a mad dash in the driving rain, head down, toward the cab to catch it before the light changes and it drives off into the dark and stormy (I lied), never to be heard from again.

I make it to the cab, open the door, and begin to enter. It is at this point that I look up, finally, at what I'm entering. I raise my head to find a woman in the back seat staring back at me incredulously, a gaze which I am intently returning. Then my sense of sound begins to kick in and I realize that the cab driver is yelling at me in what sounds suspiciously like gibberish (and no that's not racist, that's just what words sound like to me when I'm confused, aka most of my days). I apologize confusedly, still standing in the rain holding on to an open cab door waiting at a green light, and finally slam the door shut. I am so dumbfounded at this point that I have no idea what had just happened, and still concerned about whether or not I will make it to my rehearsal on time.

Thankfully I was quickly brought back to the reality that I was standing in the middle of a Manhattan street in the rain during rush hour when a van slams into the side of my body.

And by slams in to the side of my body, I actually mean its retractable mirror grazes the side of my arm. So same-same.

The mirror slams back against the side of the van, while I spin around on my heels, still thoroughly confused about how someone got into my cab before I did and why I'm spinning in the middle of the street. The van screeches to a halt as I pause my pirouettes long enough to stumble to the sidewalk. The passenger in the van rolls down his window and, with much concern and urgency in her voice, asks if I am alright. My response was also quite proper. For a Neanderthal raised in orphanage in a Ukrainian fishing village: "Yes! Fine! Damn it, I'm trying to get a cab! Leave me alone!" Pleasant.

So there I stood on the corner of 40th Street and Park Avenue, soaking wet, thoroughly confused, slightly battered, in a rage blackout, and still sans cab. Finally a cab pulls up, I leap into my chariot, and am shuttled off to rehearsal, only to find that I am still 15 minutes early because everyone else decided to postpone rehearsal by 30 minutes without telling me. Show business, huh?

Read More......

Coming out of the dark

Dear friends,

Many of you have wondered where I've been. Sorry I've been so bad at keeping in touch! Time flies when you're...

Ok. I have no excuse. Well I have one. A while back I watched this video and it blew my mind, and I've been recovering ever since.



More to come soon. I'm almost over it.

TTYL. LYLAS.

Read More......

A Night At The Museum

Dear World,

In case it was not yet abundantly clear, I am just here for show. Not literally "showing" per se, but just to prove the fact that there is nothing hermaphroditic about this body.

I would elaborate further, but I have to go make irrational decisions.

Happy Valentime's Day.

Hugs only,
Andy's Man Parts

Read More......

Andy! You Goonie!

Well my friends, today is a big day. Not only did I successfully deprive myself of a Taco Bell CrunchWrap for yet another day (Day: 63; Terror Watch: Orange), but I also received my first unprompted piece of fan mail!

I will spare you the wonderfully gushing and gory details of the full text, but I have pulled a few snippets for your enjoyment.



Well I do declare! "BTW" I must say that I completely agree. You, the most sparkling Blue Bell of my life, flatter me with your... flattery. I am at a loss for words. I mean, I've always known that my life's calling has been to rant about people and things which anger me in a forum where no one will ever actually notice, but it is nice that someone finally agrees. And apparently LOVES it.



But then this:



OK, first the truth, in the spirit of full disclosure. Not a LOVE letter from a complete stranger, but it was completely unprovoked, nonetheless. Moving on.



Really? That is how you show your appreciation for my carefully penned words? I get it. I made mention of it in a previous entry. This is my time down here, my time. I get to say those things, not you. Don't be selling your haterade all up in this joint.

Once I recovered from my rage blackout I had time to fully analyze this email. (Yes, I realize "analyze" has "anal" in it. I'm so gay.) I was also fat in high school. And I was on student council. And my choir teacher made me take speech therapy lessons to help me lessen my lisp. Your hate-mongering fingers were too tired to bring that up? Or did you need to be reminded of those things?

But, hon, thanks again for the email. It made my day. Thank you for taking a break from your jam-packed schedule of watching "Deal or No Deal" reruns in between shopping excursions to Kohls to drop me a line.

Read More......

Beyond ThunderDOME

Several of my highly dedicated readers have been wondering lately where I've been and what I've been up to.

First: Really, it is none of your business. If I don't want to post for two months, there's not really all that much you can do to make me. It's my favorite part about the interwebs -- you're not the boss of me.

Second: I can't believe you were still coming back to read this. I know that work days can get boring, but really. Find a charity. Count freckles. Go green. And THEN come back and see what I've done. Don't ever stop doing that.

Anyway, in response to the requests for where I've been, I have been working on a couple other projects. Because I am just that good at multi-tasking. One just recently launched. It's an sketch comedy web series called The Fourth Floor. Check it out -- onthefourthfloor.com. If you've had a recent aneurysm, it's likely you'll find some of it funny.

Additionally, I've been doing this:



a.k.a. looking like a bobble head. But watch and laugh. Amy/Eliza -- they're both geniuses.

Read More......

I'm Carrie Bradshaw, Bitch.

I know. I agree. I'm tired of the "Dear [insert worthless ballsack here]" posts. But they work. And my fans love 'em.

This is also a place to share stories of the joke that is my life. And to prove to you that my joke-life is still better than yours. Grab a cocoa while I share. This is a brief vision into to my prowess with single, available women.

Don't get me wrong. I get a lot of action. Just by looking at me you can tell it. And yes, it is with women, thank you for asking, everyone I went to middle school with. But this is the story of one very amazing week, told in reverse order.

During a recent film shoot, a scene partner left a bra of hers in my posession. Not because I removed it, but because she had just bought it and left it behind. After weeks of missed connections and bras forgotten at home (because it might have been put on display like an 12-point buck over the fireplace), we were finally able to meet. Do you know how awkward it is to return a bra to an attractive single woman on a New York street corner, both of you fully knowing that it is the last time you'll get that close to her unmentionables again? And then deciding to prolong the pain over coffee, and having nothing to discuss other than the merits of a Pumpkin Loaf? Try it. You'll check to see if your man parts are still attached as you walk away, too.

Several days before that, I had my first actual date in a long, long time. Like, if I bought a dog on the day of my last date, I would be raising its grandpuppy by the time this date showed up. I'm just more of a love-em-and-leave-em guy, I guess. (Is anyone buying this anymore? Don't care. I don't think its dead yet.)

So I clean the whole apartment. I clean my whole body. I clean all the clothes I'm gonna wear, but nothing more because that would waste water and I'm reducing my carbon footprint. I did it all for the Nooky. Fast forward to us walking into the restaurant. As we sit down at the table, she tells me about all the times that she has eaten there. Great pick; way to be inventive, d-bag. Then came the moment that would set the tone for the rest of night: the moment when drinks were ordered. I ordered the standard (Skinny White Bitch, aka Vodka Soda). Safe and masculine, like my arms. She orders a Diet Coke. For future reference, if you order an adult drink and your date doesn't, pay the bill then and there and never look back. It does not turn out well for you. Dinner proceeds fine; we share food, we share laughs, we share stories of exes (mine was just some figment girl that I made up to sound cool). The only real mishap was when she informed me that I had food on my chin. That should be embarrassing enough, until I realized that she was actually discussing the homage that my chin decided to pay to Mt. Vesuvius. After pretending to wipe it off, I remembered that you can't wipe away shame or zits, and we both sauntered off into stage two of the night.

After wandering our way along the street, attempting to find our way to the theatre where the show we were going to see was being performed, we finally found ourselves in the basement of a restaurant where a makeshift stage has been erected in front of some tables. We also discovered that in addition to the drinks that needed to be purchased, there was a two drink minimum. Meaning that, like the days your mother was pregnant with you, I am drinking for two.

Let's just say that the show was ... better than watching people read Braille? My friend performing was quite good, as usual, and I found his performance compelling. Especially his performance in the scene I now refer to as "The Moment I Knew I Was Going Home Alone". After coming on stage wearing nothing but an adult diaper and a smile, he fell on the stage, in order to purposely explode the pudding packets locked inside, thus covering himself, the stage, and all the other actors in "poo". After receiving the look of "this does not end well for you" from the date, I shotgunned Vodka Soda #4, and left shortly thereafter. While trying to catch a cab in a city void of them, it was decided that she was simply going to take the subway home. Fine. I'm a gentleman. No need to prolong the awkwardness of the night by going back to my place. While en route to the subway, though, words were said that can never be taken back. This beautiful woman thanked me for a very enjoyable evening, a memorable night of theatre, and then informed me that "new friends are always so fun". Hey hon, not in this for new friends.

After glaring at her with my lazy eye, me and my hunchback staggered off into the alleys, wishing her safe travels, a future free of more trolls, and that I had to leave because somewhere there were church bells that had to be rung. And that, dear friends, is how dates go when you get the number after drunkenly singing George Michael at karaoke. Some father figure he was.

And if you're still with me, there was actually a humdinger of run-in that started off the week, and should've been a harbinger of what was to come. This was not a date, by any stretch of the imagination. As has already been established in this and previous blog entries, I am a gentleman, and was helping out a beautiful friend in need. (You will notice that all of these women are beautiful. Word of warning: If you're an uggo, I will never go out of my way for you, and there's nothing you can do to affect my self esteem. I have to focus all my energy on being emasculated by the attractive ones, and there's just not enough of me to go around. Keep walking to the cat supply store.)

This friend was singing at her father's rapidly approaching wedding, and was having a problem finding music to sing. Having sung at more weddings than most people even attend, I offered my music selecting for her perusal. She arrived at my apartment late on a Sunday night; she wearing a ragged hoodie, me wearing a similar ragged hoodie and sweatpants, you could just smell the passion in the air. If passion smells like heavy knit cotton.

We selected a song that worked very well for her voice, and should sound quite beautiful at the wedding. It is now even later on a Sunday night, both of us have to work the next morning, and we're still wearing sweats. As a show of gratitude for helping her out, she asked if I wanted to go get a coffee or something. "Or we could go get a drink" she said, after I stared at her for a good minute with a look of "Seriously? Coffee at 11 on a school night? I don't even drink coffee and I'm exhausted". Yes, I really am that smooth. Although after she said the magic "drink" work, I begrudgingly succumbed to the peer pressure and agreed to go put on pants. While in my room, I hear someone approach my closed bedroom door and awkwardly stand there for a minute. "Oh. Um. Yeah. I didn't mean now."

"Oh. Interesting. Because I thought you did. So I put on pants for you. But now I'm reeling with embarrassment so I'm going to put the sweats on because this is super awkward because I really thought you meant you wanted to go right now but now that you're screaming at me through my door while I'm in my underwear I am really uncomfortable so you know what maybe you should just leave you think? Yeah, you know where the door is right? I think you should just leave and I'm going to take off all my clothes and crawl into bed and die an uncomfortable death."

And I opened the door, pointed to the front door and waved until she left.

Also, you can now find me on eHarmony filed under "Hermit with Ken Doll Parts". See you there.

Read More......

You Wish You Were a Mustang

Dear Wixom,






(Loosely translated from WEBDINGS: "Fonts don't matter")

Get over yourselves.

Love,
AW

PS -- It's your fault I had to write two "Dear So and So" posts in a row, and now you've made me even more angry.

Read More......

It's OK. My Dad's an Accountant.

Dear Borderline Homeless Kid who just bummed a cigarette from me,

My pleasure. Seriously. That's one less that I'll smoke.

But "Hey man, thanks a thousand"?

Really? Only a thousand? I'm pretty sure that you don't have much to offer other than thanks. And you only offer me a thousand? I've honestly never heard that phrase used with anything less than a million.

My pleasure zero.

Love,
AW

Read More......

Are you there God? It's me, Margaret.

It's true. I really do think so highly of myself that I feel the need to start my own blog. I think that everyone across the internets needs to hear what I have to say because I am just that unique and interesting. You're here, aren't you? Point, AW.

Here you will find a collection of everything related to me. Things I like. For example, things I like about me, and occasionally things I like about you. There will also be a lot of things I don't like. It will be heavy on the annoyances, focusing mostly things I don't like about you, never things I don't like about me, because there are none. Really, don't be surprised to find yourself on here at one point. Because I don't like you. Let me clarify: to your face, we're best friends. But this blog is not directed at anyone's face. I know you better than you know yourself, so I can safely assume that you won't recognize yourself in an article. This blog is all behind your back; what my mom called "kitchen table talk" because that's where it was supposed to stay, around the kitchen table. In fact, you can blame a lot of this on my mother. She taught me to be everyone's friend, and for that I will be forever grateful. She also taught me that janitors own the building, but that doesn't really have anything to do with this blog. Yet.

What you won't find here, contrary to the title, are articles about food. This is not a collection of good meals I've eaten, or recipes I enjoy. I don't pay attention as I eat. I have been starving myself for quite a while now, and am therefore constantly hungry. The constant visions of burritos and crab rangoon have officially affected my brain and mood. Hence the need to start a blog.

Ride it, my pony.

Read More......