My foot has a do-rag.

In my last post I said I wouldn't delve into the minute details of my most recent medical episode. But perhaps I will reveal small clues about it through drips and drabs.

Protective clothing given out in hospitals can result in some anarchic fashion statements. Among these garments are socks that are open at both ends. I don't know if it actually qualifies as a sock at that point. I think the term "a tube of cloth" or "a forearm cover of some kind" would be nearer the description. However, this one most definitely went over my foot, its primary purpose to cover up some bandages, and add an extra layer between the atmosphere and my incision. The nurse tied this one off herself while I was on the exam table, and I was impressed with how easily she did it. The closure at the toe end attracted little attention to itself. Several hours later I found I had to retie it, and that my approach to closing off one end of a double-open-ended sock was akin to a podiatric version of a head-based fashion popular in some urban communities.

I'll keep working on it. But I don't see why this can't become a thing too, especially at rooftop parties. In fact I think I saw a few Parsons students already doing it, which means it's just a few steps away from being a thing on sale at J. Crew.

More drabs to come. 

Home Sweet Home.

I’m back in the loving arms of infirmity, my dear friends. I don’t feel inclined to delve into all the medical details, as I am wont to do, since, well, my digits are my problem, and I don’t want to approach getting stale by dragging you through that metatarsal rut all over again.

And yet, for background’s sake it’s worth mentioning that since undergoing surgery ten days ago, I have been relegated to the confines of my bachelor pad.  The walls of this one-room apartment have been closing in at a steady pace. Of course I’ve surrounded myself with every entertainment, every self-imposed task designed to rescue me from isolation, obscurity and penury, and a great number of generous visitors, family and friends, who have helped me not just pass the long hours but also reach things on high shelves. And yet I still cannot escape the cruel mistress of contemplation, and the turning of thoughts inward, to that nagging uneasiness inescapable during times of trial. To borrow a term from “Withnail and I,” I cannot escape “the fear,” that rabbit hole of self-doubt requiring no narcotics to bring on.

And yet there is much reason to celebrate, besides the incredible miles I'm logging under my new duvet cover...

... for if I’ve learned anything, it’s that bad news for my mobility is good news for the grossly underused bandwidth on this handsome blog. (I like to think that the Kermit green is more than just a generic template I was too lazy to change. I like to think it says something about dreamers.)

I’m still puzzled by the fact that every time I write on this thing, my tone is that of a repressed 19th-century cleric. Surely I can make more of an effort to sound like my real self… which I think is akin to a mid-20^th century informational placard at a relics gallery. “Note the grip marks on the scabbard, indicating that this particular fencer was probably left-handed. Please turn to page 4.”

That’s the stuff.

And now to turn my attention away from the self and toward what other people do. Today it will be President Obama. Warning: there will be nitpicking.

I watched a televised speech given by the President while he was visiting the Jersey shore last week. He went there to speak about the progress on the Sandy recovery effort. And in the middle of talking about what the White House is doing to help rebuild the area, and how exciting it is that the decimated beachfront businesses are beginning to reopen, he paused to let out a particularly wistful sigh before opining: “I’ve got to say, if they ever let me have any fun, I’d have some fun here." (cheers) "I was telling my staff on the ride over, I could see being a little younger and having some fun on the Jersey shore." (cheers) "I can’t do that anymore. Maybe after I leave office.”

This was followed by a few awkward giggles. Too far?

He seemed genuinely upset about his job-imposed inability to kick back under the boardwalk. “If they ever let me have any fun” seemed like a genuine plea for sympathy. Did he really come to one of the worst-hit sites of super-storm Sandy to vent a little bit about being President? Hey, why not? I would have liked to have been one of his aforementioned staff, listening to him make this complaint on the way over from Point Pleasant. “Yeah that’s good. That’s human. You don’t get to build sand castles on the beach for another four whole years. I have an idea. Why don’t you talk about that in front of a bunch of people who’ve been living in a high school gym since October? Go off script a little bit to complain about your lack of unstructured playtime, and I’m sure you can win the sympathies of the family of four who’ve been surviving for six months on un-popped popcorn.”

“I think a friend of mine from here once put it pretty well,” Obama went on to say. “‘Down the shore everything’s all right.’” (huge cheer from the crowd) He’s the only guy a President still has to call The Boss. Besides the First Lady.”

Woo hoo!! That is so true.

(Wait a minute, thinks one listener. You’re in little to no danger of ever getting sunburned or stung by a jellyfish AND you can call Bruce Springsteen your friend? Please don’t list any more horrors of holding public office. My kid’s going to have nightmares!)

Thank goodness politicians have Bruce Springsteen. Otherwise New Jersey would be a scary place to give speeches. Campaigning in New Jersey would probably feel like wading through swampland to address the Viet Cong on the value of capitalism. But as it stands, Springsteen is gold for non-natives hoping to buy time. You can mention Springsteen as much as you want when you’re in New Jersey. There’s no limit! ‘Cause every New Jerseyan likes the Boss right?

I have absolutely nothing against the man, but I can’t help feeling for the poor bastards who live in New Jersey and are not Springsteen fans.

Here’s an important scene from American history that I would like to see played out in the middle of a Boss-centered stump speech.

“I think a friend of mine from here once put it pretty well: ‘Down the shore everything’s all right.’ He’s the only guy a President still has to call The Boss.”

“Excuse me, but not all of us are fans of his work!” shouts one native listener.

Silence.

You could cut the tension with a knife. Will this man be harmed, cheered, dismissed as a crackpot? Or will Barack be humbled enough to say, “You know what? That’s fair. You’re right. Sometimes my pandering just gets away from me, and I’m sorry. You’re all individuals. Not everyone should like the Boss’s music. His detractors deserve their voice too.”

A polite wave of applause traverses the crowd. The world breathes a sigh of relief. A trusted aide rushes up to the President and whispers in his ear. Mr. Obama leans once again into the mic. “And I’ve just been informed that Bruce Springsteen did NOT write the song Jersey Girl. It was actually Tom Waits. That’s weird, to say the least, but let that be a reminder to all of us, that Mr. Springsteen is not god, nor is his name to be invoked excessively simply because one happens to be in New Jersey.”

And the world Wikipedias Tom Waits.

I've noticed there's a tendency to proclaim many different states and cities as homes to a unique brand of resilience. Obama said, “Everybody knows that New Jerseyans are strong, New Jerseyans help each other out, and they don’t back down in the face of hard times.” I’ve heard the same words used to describe New Yorkers, Oklahomans, Bostonians and residents of Southern California, usually after a misfortune or natural disaster. Come inauguration time, it’s often used to describe all Americans. That is a lot of people singled out for being strong, generous and courageous. I wonder which locales feel left out by all this. Do the residents of the U.S. Protectorate of Guam think, “We’re terrified that one day someone will campaign here… because we’re known for our weakness, our love of spitting on each other, and for having nervous breakdowns the minute we hear about a train delay. And we really don’t want to be called out on it.”

Onward, my friends. We will all walk again.

It's Back.

I went on vacation. That should be obvious from the picture of the 17th-century royal crest I found in the subterranean crypt of an Irish Protestant church. I know it screams "kickin' back."

It had been three years since my last escape from New York, when I went to the North of England and discovered the Withnail house. Those of you who know what I'm talking about, know how huge that was.

2009. In front of the abandoned house used to shoot Crow Crag.

I ran the gamut of tribulations during my last three years in New York, to a point where I would not feel totally wrong using the word "Dickensian" to describe them. (Prolonged infirmity, dislocation, and creepy houses overrun with vermin make me feel okay about using such a term. Luckily I avoided any workhouses, orphanages or guillotines.) However, one of the high points of this year was my getting to go on as Stanley Stubbers in "One Man, Two Guvnors" on one glorious August afternoon. It pretty much made my life. Observe life-made face:

Me in "One Man, Two Guvnors" on Broadway with James Corden

I had a great time on my most recent trip and cannot feel guilty about it. I'm hoping that's a new me talking. I went to England and Ireland. Yes, I know -- not a very original choice for Eli, but since singlehood still requires me taking vacations on my own, I like to go where my friends are. England has always been that place. And in addition to visiting territories previously unexplored in wet Old Blighty, I also branched out and made my first visit to its even rainier ex-colony to the west: Old McRainy O'Dampenland;

In London, I was able to catch up with lots of great Brits with whom I shared the stage this summer in "One Man, Two Guvnors" on Broadway. I also saw some old friends, and made some new. In Cornwall I got to lounge around in St. Ives, hike over to Land's End, travel down to the Minack Theatre, which is built into the side of a dramatic cliff face in Porthcurno, and I got to have my first "cream tea."

A cream tea in a town called St. Just

A West Country specialty, a cream tea consists of a homemade biscuit, Cornwall clotted cream, strawberry jam, and hot tea. However, we'll have to technically call the one pictured above a "cream hot chocolate" because I have an unfortunate block with tea. I refuse to drink it willingly. It is tragic, really, because it's one of two food-based character flaws that will prevent me from transitioning fully into the "English Man" I still dream of becoming. The others are the fact that I can't stand Marmite, and I like my chips vinegar-free. Guys, I'm working on it.

I also took a day to go to Brighton, where "One Man, Two Guvnors" is set. Actor Martyn Ellis and I discovered the real pub which inspired the action of the play, The Cricketers Arms.

In the town of St. Ives, my friend Lucy and I visited the Barbara Hepworth Garden.

It's where sculptor Dame Barbara Hepworth worked and lived for much of her life. I'd never heard of her before I went to Cornwall, nor did I know much about modern sculpture. - but I enjoyed the exhibit enough to steal one of her sculptures for what I'm dubbing my "artist photo."

I then went to Ireland...

Knocknarea, Co Sligo, Ireland

... where, as you can see, an Ulster Bank cash machine ate my debit card. I can't give enough thanks to my most generous hostess in Sligo for lending me many Euros to see me through the rest of my stay. Muireann, I promise I will get your money back to you, even though it looks like I've scarpered and have the perfect excuse for being a deadbeat about it!

And oh yes, I saw some things in Sligo besides a belligerent bank machine eating my life. Here are a couple of them:

A large neolithic tomb at Carrowmore. Approx 6,000 years old!

 

The view of the seaside at beautiful windswept Strandhill, facing the Atlantic Ocean.

A typical street in the city of Sligo.

 

Sligo, in a rare moment of sunshine.

I also went to Dublin, on the other side of the country...

Christchurch Cathedral, Dublin

St. Stephen's Green, Dublin

...where I did all the banal tourist stuff and loved it. Trinity College, The Book of Kells, the Long Room Library (possibly my favorite part), Christchurch Cathedral, the Brazen Head pub (Ireland's oldest) and at the end of my first night went to the Gaiety Theatre, where I saw an excellent stage adaptation of James Joyce's Dubliners, performed by the Corn Exchange theater company. If you have a chance to see this production, please do. I am jaded about most plays, especially adaptations of things. This was absolutely out of sight. I was on the edge of my seat the entire time, and not just because I was seated way over on the side and had to keep leaning in in order to see. This was an immense piece of drama, and the experience of seeing this story of the people of Dublin, staged and set in a town I'd just spent all day exploring - well, it renewed my faith in the power of theater. I hadn't read Dubliners in almost 15 years, but the stories came flooding back into my memory one by one.

Christchurch Cathedral, exterior and interior.

I did a tour on my second day in Dublin called The 1916 Rebellion Walking Tour. I highly recommend this tour to anyone visiting the city. Guide Lorcan Collins takes you to all of the places relevant to the historic armed uprising carried out in 1916 in Dublin. Bullet holes in the sides of Georgian columns tell a chilling tale of what went down that Easter Week, in a city that was once a stronghold of English power. The Irish Republican Brotherhood lit the match on a powder keg that Easter Monday, when they took over the General Post Office as their battle-station. The insurrection was quickly put down, and its leaders all executed, but the event would lead to the larger, more successful rebellion that would separate most of Ireland from England in 1922. (Obviously, this did not represent the end of violent turmoil between the two countries ... but it was a start.) I knew very little about the 1916 Rebellion going in, and Lorcan spoke with such authority on the topic that I feel confident believing every word he said - to the point of wanting to read a book on the event to make sure. Lorcan was funny, passionate, and extremely literate on all facets of Irish history.

Here are some meaningless snaps from the tour:

Short on aesthetics, but long on significance, the Liberty Hall stands at 16 stories, commemorating the 1916 Easter Rising. It houses the Services, Industrial, Professional, and Technical Union.

   
Just outside the General Post Office (one of the sites taken siege by the armed rebels in 1916) stands a statue of Jim Larkin, labor organizer and co-founder of the Irish Citizen Army, formed in response to violent strike-breaking during a labor lockout in 1913.

Plaque referring to the violence perpetrated during the Dublin Lock-Out of 1913.

City Hall - another battle site of the 1916 Rebellion.

A plaque commemorating members of the Irish Citizens Army who died at City Hall.

And perhaps the most incredible part of all: THEY STILL HAVE TOWER RECORDS IN DUBLIN!

The Oldest Pub in Ireland. I went in here for lunch, and all I heard were American accents all around me. Bloody typical!

Statue of Charles II of England, with his nose mysteriously lopped off.
Still - it's a better fate than befell his dad.

The interior of the lovely Trocadero restaurant in Dublin. Popular with theater types, it's essentially the Sardi's of Dulin. Faces line the walls, and I swear I heard one or two "deals" go down.

I'm in this play:

I'm currently in this play, which just started previews on Broadway: One Man, Two Guvnors.

It just came over from London, where it played to sold out crowds at The National Theater and where it is now running in the West End. It will open on Broadway on April 18th with most of the original cast, plus me. God knows how I wormed my way into it. But I'm in it. I'd advise you not to blink too hard if you actually wish to see me in it - but I'm in it. Innit?

It's a comedy. A real one. Thank God. The last play I was in was the opposite of comedy. Yes, the opposite of comedy, that's an apposite description of it. In fact, calling the play a tragedy would be less apposite than calling it comedy's opposite. And perhaps you've guessed this, but I've recently discovered the difference between opposite and apposite using an online dictionary, and am eager to use them both. I hope I did so appositely.

It's a truly wonderful cast, directed by Sir Nicholas Hytner. And I'm living out a lifelong fantasy of being in a British farce set in the 1960's. Perhaps the candid backstage photo below will demonstrate just how British, how farcical and how 60's the whole thing is.


That's me. It's a photo David Letterman's research team will undoubtedly unearth when my ship comes in. It also represents the closest I'll come to living out my fantasy of being Michael Palin.


I would like to find this outfit one day, so I can complete the project:

All the Bits.

Okay, since I've now overused the opener, "Sorry it's been so long since I've updated this thing!" or another equally mundane apology, I'm going to try something different. Something to mask my insecurity and feelings of guilt:

I'm super-freaking glad it's been so long since I've updated this thing. It must mean I had a life!

Whether that's true or not, here are the things I did since the last post:

- I acted in this play at The Mint Theater:




(I was in this play for so long that I started to think I was Irish. I even started drinking Guinness - and, horror of all horrors, I began hating the British. Thank goodness that phase is over.)

- I staged a nonviolent coup against my landlord, and searched all of Brooklyn for a new apartment, so far with no success. (Um... help? Anyone?)

- I resumed my improv studies at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater. I am enjoying this very much. (Wait, was that funny? I think I could have justified it better...)

- I resumed my previously pursued schedule of standup comedy open mics, a schedule that had been interrupted by making people cry nightly in Temporal Powers. Trying to get back to making people laugh, and looking to book another show.

- And, seriously folks, what would this blog be without a medical update? I got a positive review on my last MRI. This is the biggest news of all, so I've saved it for last.



Apparently, my beleaguered and battered big toe joint has withstood the test of time and the punishing life of a biped in New York City. My doctor says the joint is well on its way to a full-ish recovery. I don't know if it will ever be totally "full," but according to the scan I had two weeks ago there is enough fibrocartilage (the cartilage equivalent of cheap plywood) in there to do most of the work of a regular joint for quite some time. This is truly the best news I've had in a long time. It makes everything else seem insignificant.

Without my prompting him, my doctor said to me, "You should feel free to go ahead and play tennis or squash." And I came really close to saying, "SHUT your mouth!" Such was my utter disbelief. I've gone a year and nine months without even attempting to run, and I've avoided walking as much as possible. The idea of playing squash again seemed a very long way away. Too bad I canceled my gym membership, and that all of my medical expenses have made reopening it seem impossible. Still -- I've got my racquet and a couple of balls.

So why does my toe still hurt, damn it? Though the joint appears structurally sound, there is still some inflammation. It could be left over from the surgery, or a result of use. The doctor recommended a steroid shot to break through the inflammation and get it to go away. I had the ultrasound-guided shot (a cocktail of kenalog, lidocaine, and some other stuff) almost two weeks ago... I'm still waiting for it to feel better. But the welcome news that I will NOT need another surgery on my foot is reason enough to celebrate, and to believe that the suffering of the last year-and-nine-months is behind me.

Now to shift my focus to my many existential dilemmas, such as, "Huh. Why should I think anyone out there needs to read about what's happened to me in the last two months?"