The East Village Disaster Part 1

By the time I met James, I had lived in Brooklyn for 6 months, and had recently discovered the joys of NYC couch surfing. This was because my roommate had apparently not paid the rent to the landlord during my entire stay, causing us both to be evicted with 3 days notice.

During this exciting time I was sleeping on various couches and trying to avoid leaving my toothbrush in someone else’s bathroom where it could be contaminated. I also experienced the joy of waking up one morning to discover that a concrete block had been thrown through my car window in the middle of the night because it was parked in Harlem and loaded down with all my worldly possessions.

For some reason, I had not realized just how bad an idea it really was to leave a car packed full to the windows, parked in a cramped urban area known throughout the world for crime. Who knew that cable boxes were such a hot commodity?

After paying to get my window replaced, I quickly found another place to hunker down and avoid temporary homelessness. Thank you Craig’s list. It was my intention while at this new location to either find some work or a stable place to live without a roommate who would scream at his mother on the phone at 6 in the morning about how she didn’t pick him up on time in second grade.

The next place was located in beautiful Carol Gardens (Brooklyn), in the sitting room of an old Jewish man who smoked Winston Salem cigarettes and had a bathroom loaded with travel size toiletries. I just can’t get enough of pocket sized mouthwash.

He was a helpful chap, quickly accepting my payment for what I could have sworn was 8 days in the ad, and then giving me 5. Also, he let me keep my mattress, which had been strapped to the top of my car just waiting for some homeless bum to sleep on it, in his basement, where it couldn’t be harmed except by dust that may have been there since the Civil War.

The only real problem with this arrangement, as I quickly discovered, was the lack of an internet connection for my computer which rendered me unable to use the location for my secondary purpose of finding a job and a more permanent place to sleep. Not to be deterred, I ventured out every day to the exciting world of my local public library where I was able to get 45 minutes of internet access a day for free. This turned out to be just enough time to not quite get anything done, and stress out about the person waiting to use the computer after me.

At the end of the five days I was taking all my things from the apartment out to my car at 7 in the morning with no one else in sight when I made the common NYC error of leaving something unprotected for longer than five seconds. I put a suitcase containing all my pants (fancy and otherwise) right next to my car on the sidewalk, and then went back inside to grab the last bag. This took me all of about 25 seconds, which was just long enough for a garbage truck to come by with men picking up the garbage who must have thrown my suitcase away. No duh, obviously a nice suitcase on a sidewalk is worthy of the trash heap. That’s just what I was thinking. When questioned about my missing suitcase, the trash men naturally had no recollection of it.

It was right around this time that James made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse.


Just before my eviction, I met James at a Christian-based artists’ group. We quickly became fast friends due in no small part to our shared love of using large words when small ones will do, as well as overreacting to minor inconveniences.

I started going to church services with him at a little place on Avenue A in the East Village. They specialized in reaching out to the urban community in the neighborhood, which can essentially be translated as “people who don’t work a lot”. The pastor had published a book about his experiences with the church, and the pictures on the inside as well as the back cover basically said, “I’m a white guy trying to be cool with the homies.”

After church we would often go out to eat at a local Greek Diner in the neighborhood that was usually full of older people. I’ve always been a fan of places where older people eat, based on the theory that they’ve been eating longer than we have and know what good food is. While we were there, we would have conversations over hamburgers and fries that at times was a little too stimulating for only having known the guy a short while. Questions posed to me during this time sometimes came out like this one, “So how is your relationship with your father?”

But I was grateful to have a friend at the time – okay any friend – and I wasn’t going to let the fact that he seemed a little weird stop me from clinging to any form of a social life.

I spent the day with him after one of those lunches and went to Queens to see his apartment. He shared it with a girl, whom he had confessed to me in one of those awkward conversations between bites of hamburger; that he was having feelings of lust over. Right after we got there, and I met the lust object in question, he wasted no time in bringing me into his shoe box size room, picking up his guitar and asking if he could play a song for me that he had just written. “I was trying to decide if my life was a tragedy or a comedy”, he said, “but I decided that thanks to Jesus, my life is a comedy!”

As I sat on his increasingly small seeming bed, I politely refused his offer of a serenade and wondered if my new friend was gay. I remembered a talk I had, before I moved to New York, with my southern born and bred father, where he expressed his fear of me falling into homosexuality. I told him that I hadn’t exactly fallen into heterosexuality yet either, but I don’t think he quite understood the joke, and it was never brought up again.

James was quite upset by my rejection of his singing in close quarters, and I gotta say that it darn near ruined his day. It didn’t do wonders for mine either since I had to hear about it over and over again, making me wonder if I could continue to be friends with a guy that I had to treat like a girl.

It wasn’t long after this that I was invited to a Bible study that he was hosting at his friend’s apartment in the East Village, located just a few blocks from the church and the restaurant. It was a very small one bedroom with just enough room in the den for 5 people to sit around and be comfortable as long as you didn’t move too much. There was also a small room to the side that was loaded down with Grateful Dead memorabilia and CDs of questionable taste. I never could trust people that really liked INXS.

These things would usually begin with James reading a passage of scripture and then the five or six of us that were there would talk about it as a group. The arrangement was going quite well until we were interrupted by Scott, the lease holder of the apartment, who would loudly announce his objection to Scripture because of some internal debate he was having over Old Testament commandments to the Jews, such as slavery or eating most meats. Then, he would go outside to smoke a cigarette then not come back up until we were done. By the time he poked his head back in the door, it was all over except for the prayin’.

It was near the end of my Carroll Gardens tenure that James approached me with the idea of moving in together.

“Josh” he told me. “You’ve been evicted, and I just got kicked out of my place too because I got involved with the girl (which is how he referred to his roommate at the time), and it didn’t go well and I don’t really wanna talk about it right now.”

“But” he continued, “Scott is moving back to Oklahoma. We’re going to take over the payments on his lease. He’s rented a moving van, and Jonathan and I are going to ride out there and see him home and help him get settled.”

Jonathan was another poor soul who had also been ensnared by James in this soon to be debacle. I never found out what his situation was but it must have been pretty bad to want to get in on this deal.

“It’s a great location” he said going in for the hard sell. “I know it will be a little crowded but I really think that we can make this work.”

At this point my quality control sensors for where would be a good place to settle were pretty low by having bunked down in 3 places in 2 weeks with everything I own parked in a car outside. This left me with the nagging feeling that I would wake up one morning and find that my car was simply not there. In other words I was desperate to find somewhere to park my stuff that wasn’t outside, naked to the world. But his offer seemed a little too good to be true. Why would someone willingly give up an apartment in the heart of Manhattan within walking distance of nearly everything you could want? As it turned out, one of the reasons that someone would willingly give it all up would be that he was a coke fiend and he had likely run out of money. I guess it is hard to hold down a job when you’re all stuffed up with nose candy.

The next day I came over to the apartment to help pack, and found the whole place nearly empty except for a huge amount of cardboard boxes which were being sealed up with masking tape. There was a bustle of activity as people were coming in and out of the door carrying things, and James was giving directions constantly: “Jonathan grab this”, or “Scott pick that up.” Apparently, everyone was eager to get started on this whole illegal lease jumping business.

In about an hour we had the rental truck full, and with the onset of evening, had a chance to sit down on the front steps outside and enjoy the area that we were soon going to be living in. All different types of people with colorful scarves, spiked collars, and band shirts going to and from clubs and bars and movies and poetry readings would walk right past us as we just sat there soaking it all in. It was pretty cool.

Everything seemed to be happening there at once. The East Village is a very eclectic artist’s hangout filled with hipsters with tattoos and overpriced sushi bars. It’s exactly the kind of place you’d want to live, if you enjoy art and the making of it and bad hangovers. Unfortunately the whole area has been priced out now and seems to be the near exclusive domain of trust fund babies going to film school.

And that was where I was going to be living, and it was just starting to sink in.
For the first time in a while, I let myself breathe a sigh of relief. It actually seemed like things were working out. Out on the steps, Me, James, and Jonathan ate sandwiches from Quiznos, and talked and laughed and shared our optimism for the future until it started to get dark. Then we realized that it was time for them to begin the really long drive to Oklahoma.

James handed me a set of keys and said I would have the apartment to myself for a couple of days till they got back. He also reminded me that our water wasn’t working so I would have to go to the empty apartment directly above ours to use the shower and sink facilities. It seemed like a strange setup, but after what I had been through it was so not inconvenient seeming at all. I mean what’s the big deal; you just go upstairs every time you want to wash the dishes, or take a shower, or brush your teeth. In other words, it was totally normal.

You Know What I don't think?

I don't think this is all too much to ask for. A lot of other people have travelled this same road before with varying degrees of resistance. Maybe they were better looking or luckier or smarter than me or knew the right places to go.

But they did it. I'm sure it was hard for them. I know Harrison Ford spent 13 years as a carpenter before he got anywhere. I haven't even been here 2. Of course I did spend one summer as a carpenter. Man I was terrible at that.

So. I say my prayers. I take my vitamins. I eat my Wheaties. And every day I just duck my head under and plow straight on into the maoelstrem that is living in New York City on a wing and a prayer.

Cuz it's hard. It's damn hard. I need all the help and support and love I can get. Boy this thing sure isn't getting any easier. I feel like I'm pushing a boulder uphill.
But God told us to speak to that mountain and tell it to move out of the way. Maybe my voice is a little timid right now when talking to the boulder. I guess I've been a little polite to it. Perhaps I'm giving it more respect than it deserves.

You know when I look at those famous people on tv and the ones that aren't quite so famous, I come to realize that they're just people like you and me. People that got up and tried hard every day and didn't give up. They didn't give up.

They didn't give up.

I bet that mountain wasn't scared of them either.

God's got the whole world in his hands folks. We're all just a little piece of it in there. We've got to hold fast to what we believe in. What we hope for. What we dream.

We've got to believe in something. Belief in nothing is the quickest way to defeat to letting that boulder just roll over top of you and kill you deader than anything you can imagine.

But we're not the ones pushing it. God is. And he's got big hands.

So I'm asking everybody to pray for me. Not every day. I know that's too much to ask. I forget sometimes myself. But just you know, when you think about me.

I don't want to end up like this:

Rocket

hurtling….

soaring….

way off in space

leaving it all behind,

but just for a while,

emptiness abounds

leaving behind the human race

useless fragments of cargo entow

as it drops - released

to the earth far below

All normal thoughts and worries,

gone for a while.

A solitary passenger

A solitary smile.

DESTINATION - UNKNOWN

Then reality returns…

And all that remains,

is a burnt-out old man

in the blackened and charred husk

of a rocket that once was…

his dream.

copyright: Joshua Dudley 1997

Currently watching: The Astronaut Farmer

Is There Life on Mars?

So I just finished watching the Life Aquatic tonight.



It's one of my favorite movies. It's about a tremendous failure who sets off on a mission of revenge to kill a jaguar shark who may or may not exist and to gain the love of Ned who may be his son. Also he's a bit of a pompous ass and he may have no idea what he's doing.

It's the kind of movie that makes me sit back and reflect on my time here in New York. You know like: what does it all mean? Does it mean anything? Does any of this matter? Was this all just a cosmic mistake? Did I get my wires crossed? I mean am I really getting anywhere around here? Sometimes I just don't know.

I just set off on one adventure after the other chasing down the impossible dream and trying to lasso it in and ride to the shore. Maybe bring along a girl with me, but I always scare them off. I tend to stare I think. Probably because I'm scared. Except in the movies whatever character does that finds some sort of soul mate that understands him.

I sort of get it when Bill Murray says, "I just want to be remembered" He's lost confused, he's off his bearings. He lost his son and his best friend. Is it all worth it?

But what have I lost? I don't know. Nothing much really. I never really had much of anything. Just my charm and impeccable sense of humor which usually tends to rub people the wrong way. I don't even want to tell you how I scared this girl in Starbucks today trying to make her laugh. It didn't go over well.

In the end I guess. I just want things to turn out all right like some kind of fairy tale or happy movie and have me driving off into the sunset laughing with some upbeat music like the Rolling Stones playing in the background.

Maybe that'll never happen. Maybe that doesn't happen for anybody.

Maybe we just get glimpses of it. Come to think of it I have ridden off into the sunset laughing a lot of times with Pearl Jam playing so maybe that counts for something. I hope I finish this book. I hope people get my humour. I know I think its the greatest. My old stuff still makes me laugh after all these years.

I had her once and I lost her. I was too young and stupid to realize what I had. Maybe it wouldn't have worked out. At least that's what everyone says to make me feel better. I know everyone hates this "feelings" dribble that I write about sometimes.

But hey.

This is an adventure.

What It's All About

Continuing my long series of stories and essays that were formerly part of other works of mine that were unfinished, here is what used to be the first chapter of a book I was working on called "What It's All About". Hopefully you can see how this could easily be the intro to my new book.

What It's All About

This book is about words. Lots of them. There's no getting around it. There are quite simply a lot of words in a book. That is what separates a book from a pamphlet. Okay, a pamphlet usually has a coupon on the back to tell you how to join a fantastic mailing list for only five dollars a month, but you get the idea. Why did I write this book you ask? Well, if you looked closely at the title then you may have gathered that I am about to tell you what it's all about. Many people have made clever attempts at this over the years by telling you what they think it's all about or what it is or how to get there. But this book simply cuts to the chase by giving you the inside information that I have compiled over the years by simply observing people, writing what I see down, then losing the paper I wrote those things on, and hazily trying to remember them. By utilizing these techniques, you too can figure out what it's all about, but since you have already started to read this book, maybe you should just go ahead and finish it instead of trying to figure it all out for yourself. At least that's what I'd recommend.

In actual fact there really is no one unifying "it" that it's all about. For different people, and different animals it is about many different things. The popular theory is that it's all about happiness. This of course is a very vague theory and doesn't really mean much except to lump people into the same category as animals. Of course everyone wants to be happy but that's not what it's about. Here are a few examples to show you what I mean.

For a murderer to be happy he has to kill people. This makes him happy, well at least for a while until the whole "killing and wearing he skin of his victims as a mask" high has worn off. For an accountant to be happy, he simply has to finish out his horrible drudge of a day, type up a few more numbers and go home. Blockbuster Video advertises that if they have the movie that you want to rent on their shelves that you'll "go home happy". For a raccoon to be happy he's got to knock over your garbage can and start munching on a week old banana peel. You see how these things can't all work together at once? If the murderer kills the prospective video renter, then there would only be one person happy out of the two. If the accountant goes home from crunching numbers and finds his garbage can knocked over again that just might ruin the short amount of happiness he found in his five-minute drive home while blasting Kool and the Gang. Even people who revel in not being happy are, perversely enough, happy in not being happy. That's a pretty scary thought isn't it? It's almost as scary as the thought that Titanic 3 might be all checked out at Blockbuster Video.

- Author's note - The author has accounted for sequels and future humor long after the initial publication date with that last joke. hint - it was the one about Titanic.

If you haven't figured out exactly what it's all about yet, then keep reading, as the odds of more typed up words appearing on the lines after this one are incredibly good. But here it is, the defining statement of the opening monologue that you have no doubt been breathlessly waiting to read - what it's all about means many different things for many different people, so this book won't attempt to define one specific thing. Instead, the book will most likely be composed of many random thoughts and ideas, which in some bizarre fashion may account for what's all about at any given time. Did that make sense to you? It may not have. But, later you may find that it may in fact just be what it's all about.

Josh on Banking

This is an old story that I'm putting in my new collection of stories for my new book called "Why I Hate you and Other Stories" yes that is mean to be taken with a wink and a nod. Anyway I love this essay and I hope you all do too.

I try to be honest with my readers, and usually I succeed. Unfortunately, I have no idea what I just said, and therefore, no easy way to string together a well thought out and funny sentence that would lead in easily from the first one. So, with that in mind, let’s talk about banking.

Most of you readers out there work and have a job, and that whole thing. So you’ve probably discovered that you tend to have more money than you can spend at one time, and the government doesn’t make it any easier by making it hard to get any bills over a twenty. So, unless you want to have your wallet stuffed with 20-dollar bills, or cram your mattress full of money and hope you never have a fire, you’ll have noticed that you need to put your money in a place where you can store it safely. Fortunately for you, such a place has already been invented and is waiting to store your money and charge you for it. It is called a bank.

For those of you who don’t know, let me explain the concept of banks – basically they take your money and pool it together with all the other people’s money that they have collected who’ve the same idea as you and then they lend it out to people who didn’t have the same idea as you when they were working. So basically these people are broke, and so instead of needing somewhere to put their money, they need somewhere to borrow money from, the idea being that theoretically sometime in the future they can invest this money that they are borrowing, and with a good rate of interest be able to pay off the acruity that they have earned through annual annuity interest payments to the bank at a rate of 17.234_ percent (thereabouts) and one day be able to pay slightly less money to the bank for actually holding money for them that they own. Oh yeah, and banks usually have lollipops for you suckers to eat. In addition banks often charge you money for holding your money through a process called “charging fees through the nose for every little tidbit and iota”. This is a highly technical term and I don’t recommend that you ask your local branch manager about it, especially about that nose part.

I know what you’re saying, “Josh you say, if the banks charge me money for holding my money then why don’t I just take my money out and put my money somewhere else that cares about my money, like a money station, or some sort of money depository?” Unfortunately I have to tell you gentle readers about a truth so deadly that I have to highlight it in all caps: WHATEVER YOU DO DON’T EVER LEAVE YOUR BANK EVER UPON PENALTY OF DEATH, OR HIGH INTEREST RATES WILL BEFALL YOU!

Honestly, if you notice that you are paying like 20 bucks a month at your bank for God knows what reason, and the bank next door offers you no fees and 50 dollars just for the privilege of holding onto your money for 3 months, what do you think you would do? Exactly, and so that’s what I tried to do, and unfortunately I calmly explained all this to my branch manager. This was my big mistake, and in fact I’ll quote the beginning of our conversation.

Me: I’m thinking about leaving your bank because of the fees you’ve been charging me, to go to the bank next door where they will charge me no fees and give me 50 dollars.

Branch Manager: I think you’re making a big mistake.

After that he tried to con me into staying at his bank for about fifteen minutes, all the while patiently explaining to me that the employees and the owners of the bank next door were all scum and would offer me poor service compared to his high quality bank, and how they would end up charging me before long. After that I politely pointed out that his bank was already charging me, and he explained to me that it was my fault for not getting it “straightened out” earlier. Then he told me that he was going to be “very flat footed with me” and went on to explain to me how even if he didn’t work at the bank that he was working at, there was no way that he would do his banking anywhere else except for (coincidentally) in the very bank that we were sitting in.

Later, I looked up the word flat-footed on dictionary.com and discovered that it meant

1. Of or afflicted with flatfoot.
1. Steady on the feet.
2. Informal. Without reservation; forthright: a flat-footed refusal.

Not knowing a great deal about this bank manager, I am unsure whether or not he has flatfeet (but he was definitely starting to feel like a heel), and not having challenged him to a leaning contest, I am unsure if he is steady on his feet or not, so I can only assume that he meant he was going to be informal with me. Honestly, I’m very glad he told me, because I don’t think I would have been prepared for it otherwise.

It was at this point that I began to feel like a very evil man. I told him this and he just laughed and said, “a lot of people feel that way, but don’t worry, I’ll check into getting rid of those fees for you.”

The conversation was obviously going nowhere at a particularly blinding rate of speed until he did something that bank managers just don’t like to do – he made an effort to help by looking up banking plans on the internet. For a minute he almost fooled me into thinking he could get me free checking with a student plan, but it turned out that I was too old to fit their corporate definition of a student. After a long moments pause, while giving me a sad face akin to a fat kid staring at an empty vending machine, he collected himself and said, “I’ll begin closing out your account for you.” Then he proceeded to do just what I had tried to avoid doing when I entered the bank - he told the bank tellers up front that I was leaving their wonderful bank and their free lollipops behind. Naturally they all turned and gave me a look like they just found out that I shot their daughter’s cat. Not having a bag to hide under, I twiddled my thumbs and looked at the bank manager’s desk to see if I could find out any secret bank secrets. Unfortunately I did not, but I made out with a really cool pencil.

Eventually the manager returned from his dreadful ordeal up front and returned with some forms for me to sign. As he told me where to sign, all color was lost from his voice – this man no longer acted like he wanted to be friends with me, or that he was remotely interested in anything else I had to say. He looked crushed. He looked like I had just personally ended the Jerry’s Kids foundation. He looked like I had told the March of Dimes to “cut out all that racket”, and take their marching somewhere else.

I was feeling very low indeed when he handed me a slip and told me to take it up front and get the money from my account. As I walked up to the front of the bank, I thought for a minute about how much I was going to miss seeing those bank tellers every week. No longer would they be able to ask me about how things were going. No longer would I be able to tell them that things were fine and that they should visit my website. No longer would they graciously accept my card and conveniently forget to visit my site. No, from now on it was strictly business; the thrill was truly gone.

Me: I’d like to get my money please

All Three Bank Tellers in Unison: I think you’re making a big mistake.

Bank Teller #1: Those people next door, they’re bad news.

Bank Teller #2: Why are you leaving us Josh?

Bank Teller #3: What did we ever do to you?

Bank Teller #1: Seriously I mean.

After signing for my money, I immediately looked around for the nearest paper bag to hide my head in shame in, and then in a blatant show of defiance I took one last lollipop from the jar.

Me: I think I’ll have the butterscotch today ladies.

Their icy cold stares could have melted butter.

Later that month, I had to drive there to drop off a car payment, and I wore sunglasses at the drive-in to disguise myself, but the checkout girl still said with a sigh, “Here’s your receipt JOSHUA.” It felt like that Seinfeld episode where Jerry leaves his old barber he’s been going to for twenty years, then comes back a few weeks later. “So you wanna get your hair cut now do ya?”

Dang, that feels like the ending of this episode and I hate to end on a quote from Seinfeld. So, in conclusion, now I do my banking through the ATM machine at my new bank, and I would kill for a lollipop right about now.

Why I Hate You and Other Stories or I May have a nearly finished book on my hands.

I think I'm a lot closer to having a completed book than I thought.

I've been going back to a writers group lately, in some small part because of a girl there I have a crush on and am hoping to impress, and in doing so rediscovered how some of my earlier writing fits into the larger theme that i've been working on for years.

The new book that I've been slowly writing stories for I've intended to be titled "Why I Hate You and Other Stories" I had originally intended it all to be written in the style of a letter that described great annoyance to another person or thing but couldn't be expressed verbally.

I realize that this forced attempt at style was really just a copy of the popular literary zine McSweeneys. There are many writers on there that write stories in a similar fashion to that.

Okay. let me get to my point. I guess I got a little carried away.

So last week at my writers group I read one of my older pieces from my very old website joshdudley.tripod.com which houses all of my older works still in existence, circa 1997 or so till about 2003.

The piece was intended to be a travelogue about my trip to New Orleans but ended up being about how much I hate airports.

When I read this piece to the group, I had them on the edge of their seats. Literally nearly every person in the room laughed at almost every single paragraph. They were enthralled and I think just about everyone came up to me afterwards expressing admiration for it and the way I read it in my deadpan voice which some of you may be familiar with.

I was so delighted with the reaction to this older story that I realized that it actually did fit in stylistically with the new works I was writing, and that the overall theme of my modern writing since high school has been mostly about my deep and abysmall hatred and annoyance with nearly everything.

Basically since 1997 or so I have tried to write several different books, but stopped on each one after getting like 30 or so pages in because I lost the inspiration for it, ie didn't have a girl, or an audience to read it to.

Now that I do. I realized that a lot of my old writing is still fresh and really good. I went back and read some it tonight and found myself just enjoying it.

With the 3 uncompleted books I had previously attempted to write, plus material from my old website thats like almost 100 pages of material plus the stories for the book that I have already been working on.

A lot of it needs some editing due to my earlier fascination with long run-on sentences which forced the reader to adapt to my point of view (or so I thought at the time). But I really think I can make it all work and wow. if it does work that puts me up to like almost 150 pages of material.

Seriously is this going to work? I just think it might and after I dust some of them off, I will probably periodically be putting them on here as well.

I Just Wanna Be With You

I just wrote this a little bit ago. It's sorta sad and sweet. It'd be a nice song if I had some accompaniment. Oh well. I hope you like it if you're reading it. whoever you are. It's kind of how I feel sometimes about looking for love and never really knowing where it is or how to find it. I guess I just feel lost a lot of the time.

I Just Wanna Be With You

Don't mind me ill just lay here on the ground

Don't mind me I just wanna be around

I wanna know what you're doing

And I wanna do it too

I kinda think I like you

And I hope you like me too

I'll pretend to be important

I'll imagine I'm so great

I'll wait for you forever

Even if I have to stay up late

I just wanna be with you

Maybe I'll hideaway in a great big bungalow

Maybe one day I'll find out what it is they do below

I'll be under the ocean

I'll be near the sea

I'll be someplace far away

Where they'll never think of me

But I just can't run hard enough

To get away from you

I just wanna be with you

I'll take a job at the candy store

Scooping ice cream pops

I'll make the greatest magic show

And I'll pull out all the stops

I'll be the hardest worker

I'll go until I drop

How can I ever forget about you

Because you never stop

I just wanna be with you

When you talk to me it tickles

Your smile ties me in knots

Even though you're not here right now

I miss you lots and lots

I'd buy lots of things for you

Everything you want

Just please don't run away

Don't go away from me

Everything I have and more

I offer you my heart

I just wanna be with you

Adam Sandler, Can I Please Be in Your Movie?

just wrapped up the first night of my play "Saturday with the Georges" on Saturday night where I starred as George Bush. We brought the house down. We had a lot of laughs, and so many people told me afterwards how much they enjoyed it.
Unfortunately, none of those people were people that I know. So I ask you. What is wrong with you people?

It was part of a competition at the Strawberry Festival for one acts, and we got to the semi-finals which means we'll be doing it again on Tuesday and Wednesday.

therianttheatre.com 20 tickets 314 w 54th street manhattan. our first video can be viewed on their website (at least its supposed to be up now. it should be up tonight or tommorrow hopefully)

Also I had a meeting the other week with a real agent in New York who wants to use me because someone in her office saw my last play and she said I was good. Wow.

I have to get new headshots though. And I'm so broke that I'll be putting it on credit. ick. Oh well I'm thinking of it as an investment in my career which I hope isn't short lived. Thanks for all the prayers everyone.

Also I'm determined to write a new story every single week in order to finish a book. So here is my new story, it's called Can You Please Put Me in Your Movies?

Dear Adam Sandler:

I have just watched your film "I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry." It was awful. I have also seen "Click", "50 First Dates", "Big Daddy", "Little Nicky", "Happy Gilmore", "Mr. Deeds", "Billy Madison", "Happy Gilmore", and of course "The Waterboy".

They were of course also awful as well. However, each of these films are basically big dumb goofy fun with greatly varying amounts of dumbness, goofiness, or fun in each one, fart jokes notwithstanding.

In every single one you have a ridiculous plot device that you have to work through, like raising money to save your grandmother's house through winning golfing events, getting on the college football team that you are a water boy for, even you are severely mentally handicapped, making a woman with short term amnesia fall in love with you even though she can't remember you each day.

You have also managed to surround yourself with hot chicks and rocking 80's music in each one also, which is a testament to your prolonging your adolescence into your early 40's while making astronomical sums of money for movies which are so benign and repetitive that in an episode of South Park, Cartman disguises himself as a robot which on command spits out Adam Sandler plots which the movie executives declare will be huge successes.

I didn't initially feel the need to mention that in all of the aforementioned movies nearly all the characters are idiotic stereotypes that demean whatever people group they are intended to represent. But for your benefit, I thought I would point it out anyway in case you hadn't realized it as such.

Yes, I know you do a smattering of "serious" films and a few comedies which aren't entirely awful like "The Wedding Singer" and "Anger Management". In the first one you were saved by the presence of an actual script drove the story forward, and in the second by the enigmatic presence of Jack Nicholson himself. P.S. I do have "Reign over Me" in my Netflix queue.

But there is one thing more than anything that these films have in common – they all have the same "actors" in them. Every time I watch one of your movies and I see a character, I say to myself, "wasn't that the fat guy from Little Nicky?" or "I can't believe Adam Sandler has managed to keep Rob Schneider's career afloat all by himself."

In fact, sometimes it appears that the only reason that you do these movies other than to maintain enough of a public profile to do the next one is to hang out with your buddies all of whom don't seem to have any other acting jobs or careers other than to sit at home eating cheese doodles and waiting for the phone to ring to do your next picture.

I sort of picture them all as symbolized by Norm McDonald's character in Billy Madison where he just hung out by the pool, got drunk and high all day, and when you were at school trying to pass 1^st grade through 12^th grade he didn't even realize you were gone till he made a joke in your general direction and you didn't respond, causing him to turn around and utter the immortal words, "Hey where's Billy?"

I just want to state for the record that I have absolutely no problem with any of that. I would have no problem at all being just another nameless cadre in your pack of giggling buffoons who probably cannot maintain a straight face when you make another joke about queers or flatulence. It is one of my fondest wishes to be paid to goof off all day.

And I mean that. Real work is too much like work. Heck, even writing these coherent sentences is more of a chore than I would be doing if I was in your employ. Picking up the beer would probably be the most complicated task that would be required of me, and believe me; I have experience in that already so you're covered.

I would even let you beat me in poker. I mean why not – we'd be playing with your money away.

I would also order whoopee cushions on occasion and bandy about dumb remarks about any random person that I think might be entertaining.

Some people might complain that your films already have too many nameless buffoons taking up space in them, but I'm sure you have room for one more. So please Mr. Sandler, I beg of you.

Can you please put me in your movies? I'll bring the bag of flaming poop