Eli James, a Simple Man of Simple Tastes

All the Bits.

2011-11-05T10:38:00.016-05:00

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?"

I Can. Stand Up. While Falliiiing Down

2011-08-09T13:47:00.003-05:00

Jeez, so sorry, all you watchful followers of this blog, for falling off the face of the Earth for several weeks! There is much to discuss.

The main reason I've been slacking is I'm in a play. Yes, you read that right. The Eli James you've come to know as "that morbid f--ker with the messed up foot, who complains about walking all the time," is actually using his two feet to act in this play:

Temporal Powers by Teresa Deevy at The Mint Theater. The play is currently in previews, and opens on Monday August 29th. I play an Irish boy named Moses. Go figure.

And... for the past four months I've been trying my hand at standup comedy - a pursuit I swore I would never touch. "That's not for me. That's for people with freakishly large testicles." Well, I decided to do it anyway, hitting scores of open mics over the last several months and writing new material nearly every day. Why I'm throwing myself into yet another highly competitive, extremely difficult non-paying creative pursuit is something that might only be answered by psychiatrists who study the sick sick brains of performers. I cannot say myself.

I've hidden this new pursuit from my friends and neighbors for quite a while. I wanted to get good before inviting anyone. I still don't know if I'm good - but here an invitation to my next performance:

SOCE'S First-Timer Standup Show.
At BEDLAM. 8PM
40 Avenue C, between 3rd and 4th Sts.
NYC
No cover, 1 drink minimum.

I'll be doing a five-minute set in front of a real audience. Please come if laughing is something you do indiscriminately.

Poster Child, Part Four

2011-07-15T22:35:00.001-05:00

Welcome back, folks. This is Part Four of my piece "Poster Child," based on my fairly pathetic dealings with the police during my time in a New York band.

Part One.

Part Two.

Part Three.

POSTER CHILD
Part Four
by Eli James

Tommy arrived half-an-hour after I did. He also wore a suit. Our choice of attire probably showed how new we both were to being summoned. Most of the guys awaiting trial were in heavy plaid shirts, the kind you wear to a building site and top off with a day-glow vest. Tommy gave me a wave and shook his bright red locks before finding a seat on the other side of the room.

After fourteen or so fines were passed down for drunken micturating, the seventy-year-old Adjudicator whispered my name. A female bailiff then bellowed it. I shot up from the bench, nudging past the big knees, buttoning my suit jacket. Before I could get to the witness spot—there was no stand—the public defender had already called out my infraction code and the embittered old arbiter was issuing instructions. If I had felt juvenile when the cops caught me posting, that was nothing to the feeling I got from the man handing down the verdict, who was so much like a principal I worried he would call my parents. “You are not to post signs on public property again. Do you understand?” And he waited for an answer. There are few things worse than being asked to respond to this question. “Do you understand?” is by nature rhetorical and used exclusively as a weapon of authority. And nothing angered me more than direct displays of authority, most likely because it was slipping further and further from my grasp with every passing month. However, now that my “permanent record” was on the line, I squelched my Wild One impersonation and played the model citizen. “Yes,” I murmured, serious and low. I couldn’t decide if I was at that moment Tommy’s hero, or someone both he and his parents would now sever all association with. I’m not sure why this was important to me as I made my answer to the judge, but there was something about this teenager’s image of me that reflected heavily on that of myself.

“A.C.D. six months,” he said. Apparently this was my sentence. I turned to the defender, looking confused. “Your case will be dismissed in six months,” he said in the tone of an avuncular guidance counselor. “Meanwhile, you are free to go, no fine.”

My entire trial had taken twelve seconds, and I had incurred no cash penalties. While I was relieved that my worst nightmare had not come true, I was oddly disappointed that there was no brouhaha. No courtroom drama, no objections, no media circus, no gavel. I was, and always will be, incurably greedy.

“Step aside,” the female bailiff roared, filling the role of what we public school kids called the N.T.A., Non-Teaching Assistant, the grumpy middle-aged woman whose job it was to survey the cafeterias for food-fights and smack anyone walking the halls between classes. I picked up my things and left the room. I collected myself in the hall, wondering if I should wait for Tommy to come out, when a blonde woman in a black skirt came up behind me.

“Eli?”

I turned around. I had seen her in the courtroom, sitting to the side near the bench, shifting papers in a briefcase.

“Hi,” she said, and smiled ear to ear. “It’s Marie. Kevin’s friend? We came to your show last month?”

“Oh, yes. Hi.” I remembered her now. Kevin was an actor in my sketch group. He had brought Marie and several other friends to a concert the band had played at The Luna Lounge. I think she had actually bought one of my CD’s. “Wow. So you uh... Do you…?”

“I’m a defender. I thought that was you, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Yeah, it’s me.” I filled the ensuing pause with a short laugh. “God, how embarrassing.” I had always been a believer in saying exactly how I was feeling in awkward situations, taking the chance that stating my anxiety outright would cut down on the weight of it and allow both parties to somehow survive.

“Were you posting signs for your show? That’s not embarrassing. Peeing in public is.” She emphasized this point with a flip of her hair and a hard look in the eyes, smiling. She spoke with the reassurance of someone who sat in on these kinds of things everyday and knew what embarrassing was. “So you got ‘Case Dismissed?’”

“Yeah. A.C.D. six months. What is that?”

“It just means don’t get in trouble for six months and you’ll be fine.”

“Oh, okay. Great. Well, good, I can’t see that being a problem.” I was smiling now. The last time I’d seen Marie she was getting drunk at a corner table at the Luna Lounge with her arm around Kevin. “Well … this has been interesting,” I said, nodding my head heavily as was my way of saying, I am here and this is happening. “Sorry I couldn’t have you as my defender.”

“Yeah, that would have been fun.”

“Yeah. Actually, no. I think I would have had a stroke.”

She bit her lip, suppressing a grin. The policeman by the exit was eyeing me, probably wondering why a sentenced lawbreaker was sloppily flirting with a defender. Actually, he probably had no idea who I was. It was possible that if I had been wearing a wider tie I could have passed for a lawyer myself, and had there not been holes in the sleeve of my suit jacket. It was a costume I had worn in a play five years before.

“Right. Well…” I was sure she’d be telling Kevin about our meeting. I didn’t want to say anything too stupid. “You know we’re playing next week.”

Genius.

“Really? When?”

I pulled a small flyer out of my bag. It showed a picture of me sitting at a table with my chin in my hands. She took and held it in the air. She gave it the “this is you?” look everyone gave my promotional photos.

“Careful,” I said. “Don’t leave it around anywhere.”

A policeman ushered me out into the rainy scaffold-covered sidewalk, past a line of dark men being stripped for metal on their way in to see the principal.

I waited for Tommy in a dingy deli across the street from the courthouse. I left him a message on his phone, telling him where I was. I was sure he’d want to wrap up on the event, as all bandmates must after a memorable performance. After all, this was one for the books. This was one of those events essential to the early cohesion of a group. Forty-five minutes went by, and when I called him again, he said he was already back at school. Case dismissed. “Gotta run,” he said. “My history teacher’s glaring at me.”

---------------------------------------

I woke from a rare peaceful slumber a month later, recalling the words written next to my name on New York’s law books. “A.C.D. six months.” All I had to do was lay low for half a year and, as Marie had instructed, not get in trouble. I’d gone my whole life not getting in trouble, and with the exception of a minor car accident and a mugging, this summons had been my first interaction with the police.

So what could have possibly prompted me, thirty days into a six-month probation, to go back on the streets with a bag of posters and Scotch tape stuck in my mittened paw? To this day, I still don’t know. It was either overachiever’s guilt about not working as hard as I believed I needed to, or else a subconscious longing to see the inside of a police car.

I bowled along the snowy sidewalk without an ounce of fear weighing me down, having worked it out mathematically. The odds of my being nabbed that first time were incredibly small, as close to negligible as one could get. I was one of the unlucky lambs whose duty it was to get slaughtered so that a thousand other vandals could continue freely. Good. Now I was over the hump. Getting caught a second time, in the same neighborhood, that was just out of the equation. So I made my way down Second Avenue once again, not about to let a lack of proper graffiti undermine our upcoming show at Don Hill’s, the band’s first good Saturday night slot at a halfway decent joint.

This time I had scissors and a system. I had precut some strips of tape and had laid the posters in the bag so that the top-right corners spread out in a fan pattern. I could grab them without having to drop everything on the ground. I wondered if I could even pull the whole thing off one-handed. That would be amazing. That – that would be a man who gets things done.

While I looked for spots I was more mindful of the mounds of ice collecting at the crosswalks than I was of any witnesses. The seasons had changed so quickly since the last time I’d been out doing this. Only two months since the summer had ended and we had already had an ice storm. I had bought a new jacket too—a 70’s tan suede overcoat from one of the consignment shops on St. Mark’s—and had only that morning found six-dollar gloves to match it. I crossed over to Avenue A, past several of the coffee houses and record stores. I got to about 6th Street when I spotted a wall next to the Sidewalk Café full of posters. It was a good spot – there were lots of other signs, and the Sidewalk was a place I had played a couple of times. A song popped in my head I would try to write later.

I did have to put the bag and the scissors down and take off my gloves. Only a superman could have done otherwise – but I was still disappointed at having to employ both hands. I smoothed the glossed paper from the center out, and quickly stuck clear tape onto the edges. I stepped back, picking up my bag, and saw that I was right in the middle of the wall, me and my blurry record player, my black glasses and serious expression, the letters of my name carefully enclosed in bold black circles in the top right corner, where the eyes of New York were sure to go. I no longer expected any poster of mine to grab newcomers off the sidewalks and into my shows, but I knew that having my image, my name, the idea that I was in a band and playing planted into the city’s visual current was part of laying essential groundwork, poising the world for a moment not far off when someone would read “Eli and the Indoor Boys” in a review in Time Out and think, “Oh yeah. I’ve heard of them. They play all the time.”

“Hey!” A shout came from behind me. It was close, maybe from the street. Was that at me? I think it was. I turned and saw a beat-up red car, a Chevy, with two bulky black guys in it. They had on puffy jackets and sunglasses, and the guy on the passenger side was looking right at me. At least, it seemed like he was.

“Come here!” he shouted. He was definitely looking at me. He was waving me over.

Come there? Go over to two strangers in a Chevy? Was he serious? To accomplish what? To be beaten into the trunk and taken to the rape spot? I turned down the street, walking the other way, toward the Sidewalk Café, calmly, dragging my feet to create the impression I wasn’t scared.

“Hey!” It was more urgent now. And it confirmed once again that this stranger in the Chevy was calling for me, my movement having triggered more anger. I kept on down Avenue A, in the direction of the bar, quicker, sliding a bit on the ice.

The sound of a car door opening and slamming changed everything. The fight or flight dilemma began, and I always went with the latter. I was fibrillating. My neck was sweating. I was never in this situation, so I had no idea what to do. I decided I needed to be around people. I opened the door to the Sidewalk Café on my left. In, into the bar, heart pounding, still trying to walk as if nothing was wrong, wondering if I was pulling it off, wondering if they were right behind me. I didn’t want to look. I knew they were after me. My flight was bound to end soon, and in a way I wouldn’t like. Wham. There it was. A claw on my arm. A pair of sunglasses in my face.

“You got I.D.?” His face was mean, his voice rough. And there, swinging nonchalantly from his neck, an officer’s badge on a chain.

“I- I- Yeah...” I fumbled for my wallet, shaking like a school kid. Okay, he’s a cop. He’s a cop, not a rapist, not a killer. I could calm down now.

No, wait. I couldn’t. Absolutely out of the question. That badge didn’t look a hundred percent real to me. I gave him my I.D. He gripped it like a club bouncer and stared it down.

“You live in New York?”

“Yes.”

“You never seen a cop car before?”

The rational me, perhaps the wittier me, the voice in me that would later narrate this story would have then said, “You’re weren’t in a cop car.” But the me soiling his pants at that moment said nothing.

“Come outside.” I was shivering. I was also wishing this had happened somewhere else, not in this bar. I’d played here before on the stage in the back. Would I be able to show my face here again? Would this disturbance during business hours mean a ban? The waitresses here were very attractive, there was that one buxom one, who was kind of mean to customers but always sweet to me. The fries were good. The barmaid serving lunchtime beers must have thought I was an idiot, a stupid kid a little too old to be a kid.

His partner, the one who’d been driving, was at the door. Another undercover something. Honestly, I was still only half convinced these guys were cops. Yes, I had seen a badge, but I was still scared to leave the bar. You could pick those things up in costume shops. What if they told me to get into the car? What would I do then? I considered whether I would risk getting shot in the street for resisting arrest rather than get into the back of anything.

Plus, these guys had loved every minute of it. There was no mistaking. They’d relished in every stage of fear they knew I was going through. They’d waited for me to bolt, had probably hoped for it. Not only did it allow them to act like a pair of Shafts on an otherwise crummy shift, but it gave them the freedom to scare the shit out of a white hipster. I didn’t know I was running from the police. I’m not the kind of person who would. If I were, I would have run away faster, and not into a bar.

They took my I.D. inside the Chevy. I was finally convinced of their cop-hood when I saw the laptop and police radio. I stopped being frightened and commenced being pissed. These assholes had terrorized me. And now they were bound to find out I was on the record with an A.C.D., making me an official second-time offender. Now anything could happen. I’d signed away my future. I had hoped to at least get famous before appearing in any court, and then hopefully for a paternity suit. My terror had subsided long enough to be mixed with outrage at the wantonly disrespectful, possibly unlawful treatment I had received from these policemen, who’d be hard pressed to justify their use of undercover resources on someone who wasn’t dealing drugs, pimping, whoring, breaking and entering, or playing those bucket drums in the subway, which is a way worse crime in my estimation.

I poked my head at the open window of the car. “Sorry, Officer, but you scared the heck out of me.” This was intended to express my outrage. Note use of “heck.”

“That’s alright,” said the one in the driver’s seat. “We know how it is.”

What did that mean? How what is? Was that statement meant to make me feel guilty about something? Some racially biased assumption? Wow, if these guys only knew how much trouble they were headed for.

“Here, take this,” said the other one, the one who’d laid his gloved palms on me in the bar. Now his gloved palm contained a familiar sight. A pink summons. He explained, pointing to the slip, “You gotta show up at this address. The date’s here in the top corner.”

Let me guess. The Municipal Courthouse in TriBeCa, 325 Broadway? Indeed. I laughed out loud when I saw the date.

“Oh good,” I said to the officer. “My birthday.”

He made no comment. He looked at the bag I had somehow managed to keep holding on to. “Let me see those signs you’re putting up.”

I handed him the whole stack. He looked at the top one, removed it from the pile, and placed it beside him in the car. He handed the rest back to me.

“Take care,” he said, and they rolled off. Why was he keeping one of my posters? Fantastic, now there was an Exhibit A. Either that or else this guy didn’t want to forget where my show was that night. I saw myself stepping off the stage at Don Hill’s, and there in the back of the bar the only black guy over thirty stopping me on my way to the bathroom, his girlfriend on his arm.

“Hey... nice set, my friend. Linda, this is Eli. I chased him into a bar today.”

“Hi. We enjoyed your music.”

“Hey Eli, tell her. How scared were you when we ran you down? Did you shit your pants or what?” He would then let out a sharp burst of laughter, bending over a little and putting his hand on my shoulder.

I resumed my trail down Avenue A, very small steps, my heart still beating irregularly from what had just happened. I drifted aimlessly, in the opposite direction of my apartment. I decided the first person who needed to know what had happened was Tommy. I called him on his cell.

“Guess what just happened to me.”

“What?”

“I got another summons.”

“What?”

“For posting signs.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“You … you realize it hasn’t been six months.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Fuck, man. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s going to happen at the trial?”

“I don’t know, dude. I have no idea. But listen to this…” And I told him what had just gone down on one of the Lower East Side’s hottest stakeouts. Tommy was more shocked that I took my A.C.D. in my own hands than at my treatment by the NYPD. He was insulted that I’d put his band’s lead singer in jeopardy. I was actually pleased that he took it that seriously, worried as I always was that he was secretly grooming himself on the side for a better band. So far he was still loyal. Maybe he would volunteer the name of his father’s lawyer who would work pro bono to save me from incarceration or, worse, a compounded fine based on my current and retroactive misdemeanors.

That night at Don Hill’s, I told the cop story again, this time to the audience. I started by saying, “So I had my second arrest today,” and the crowd burst into cheers. I knew full well I hadn’t been arrested, and that I hadn’t been arrested the first time either. It just sounded so good, especially through a microphone. It was probably the most exciting moment of that night’s show, during which I broke two strings two songs in, leaving Tommy to blather into the mic while I sat on the stage floor unwrapping coils of wire. The cop didn’t show. Either he’d lost the poster or was at a show from another bust.

----------------

Coming soon .... "Poster Child, Part Five - the Untapening"

Pictures of Willy (William and the Tradesmen)

2011-06-28T15:58:00.009-05:00

Hi folks - I know it's been a bit "doom and decline" lately. Sorry. There will always be time for doom, decline, and knackered joints, so let's take a break and look at some very cool photos! These are production shots taken during the last staging of my play William and the Tradesmen, at The Drilling Company Theater in New York City, May 2011.

These were shot with film, and taken by my good friend Curran Bell.

Look for new "William and the Tradesmen" dates coming this fall!

Photos by Curran.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/eyenowrite/

Photos by Curran Bell.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/eyenowrite/

2011-06-15T21:13:00.003-05:00

Um... I'd love to explain this recently taken picture. But I feel it speaks for itself. If it's not obvious that I'm competing for the Least Cool Guy on the Beach Award, then I'm really losing my touch.

Wrist and Relaxation

2011-06-15T11:18:00.020-05:00

I'm attempting to type this with one hand. For a man who likes to type fast and frequently, this is a practice equal to torture. OK, sorry, I know that's an exaggeration. Only torture is equal to torture, but, well, typing with one hand is annoying to say the least. It's almost as bad as walking with one foot, which is a practice I've come to be familiar with as well.

The typos are already piling up. The left hand was never meant to type apostrophes or set foot in the backspace zone. Every finger feels lost in a foreign land.

"What's the deal, Eli? Something happen to your hand? Or are you abusing yourself while blogging again?"

Good question(s). No, it's not the latter. I've stopped finding my writing that stimulating. (Or I at least find it dull enough to wait 'til after.) The answer is: I've acquired yet another injury. I'd like my award now, please.

Something happened to my right wrist. And no, it wasn't that. I'm a lefty. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what caused my right wrist to be wracked with pain and requiring a stabilizing brace and two weeks of little to no use. Here are the guesses: a) I was on crutches for four months and 13 days, requiring an amount of weight-bearing on the wrists few humans are meant to endure. b) I'm just a man who can't help picking up injuries, like a horizontal surface can't help collecting dust. c) I did a few bench-presses at my physical therapist's a few weeks ago, and my wrist decided to censure me for trying some real exercise for the first time in ages.

Whatever happened, I'm now down to one good hand and one good foot. I'm sure there's a good reason for it and it isn't just the indifference of the universe to the human desire for comfort or happiness. I'm sure I'm learning some valuable lessons, pass the beer.

I'm learning a lot about the human body, that's for sure. (It's a patented new method I recommend for everyone: hurting yourself). You've all heard me bang on about my new understanding of 1st metatarsophalangeal joints, platelet-rich plasma, and that sneaky customer, fibrocartilage. NOW you get to share in something even cooler and at least seven letters longer than than any of those terms. Ladies and Gentlemen, meet the Triangular Fibrocartilage Complex. (or TFCC).

All hail.

I was lucky enough to get my foot doctor to perform a hand X-ray last Monday during a scheduled foot visit. It was a fortunate cross-pollination of joint expertise. 'Cause you never know these days if a foot specialist is going to tell you, "Sure, let's X-Ray your hand here," or, "I'll refer you to a hand specialist who, like me, doesn't participate in any insurance networks. You should be able to get an appointment next month."

Nothing fractured, and no evidence of anything being torn. The TFCC is, hopefully, just strained. A limited amount of blood flow to the area means that a strain can take a long time to heal. I was told it's an injury common to athletes who fall on open hands. Soccer players get it, and football players. Golfers also, though without falling. My physical therapist called it "Boxer's Wrist." Interestingly, I was told some time ago that the cartilage damage in my big toe is a trauma often experienced by professional soccer players. It's good to know I'm in such manly and proactive company. How I wish I could say my injuries were all acquired doing the things that they do. It would at least lend some testosterone to my prolonged state of gimpyness.

Short report on the toe, following Monday's MRI:

good: fibrocartilage grows over the holes.
not as good: a marrow edema (a collection of fluid in bone marrow) is evident on either side of the joint. It indicates some over-activity in this maddeningly sensitive area. I'll withhold speculation as to whether or not it had anything to do with a certain bike ride. I'm forced back into rest again until it dies down. Back to cabs, boots, and captivity. I'm also required to purchase something called a "bone stimulator." (Come on, guys, no jokes. Okay, a few jokes. Please.)

Unchecked, the edema could lead to a fracture. And while I'm on a nice roll with injuries, and so pleased to be able to share my knowledge with you all, I think I'll forgo this particular one, and suffer through whatever ignorance that might mean.

Thanks always, my friends, for reading.

It's been a while...

2011-05-23T14:54:00.021-05:00

...since I've given a good, old-fashioned Foot Update. What's a Foot Update, you ask? It's a special kind of Eli James creation, a missive of little to no artistic value, which provides crucial medical information to Eli James's "Foot Buddies."

Not to be confused with a gay porn site for foot fetishists (just discovered this), Eli James's Foot Buddies are that rare breed of person who are interested in the details of the long and inconclusive recovery period involving Eli James's effed up metatarsophalangeal joint. (...interested enough, anyway, to read the blog entries involving the joint's many adventures over the past four months.)

Here's the scoop.

My metatarsophalangeal joint is still a mess of insecurities. (Partially inherited from daddy, no doubt.) I still have to use crutches to get down the sidewalk on most days; my armpits are a nice solid black and blue. However, and here's the kicker, there is a modicum of hope on the horizon. It seems the idea of a future that includes walking has shifted from outside chance to remote possibility. I was recently given a reluctant thumbs-up by my surgeon, who was amazed at how the far the toe was able to bend upon last examination. His amazement was, as usual, countered by a few choice words of pessimism: "I really didn't think you'd be doing this well."

Yes, well, thanks doc. From you I shall take this as high praise. This is the man who when I first walked into his office looking for answers declared, "It's ominous."

When I asked, "What are my options?" he replied, "You play the hand you're dealt."

It's been a fun 12 months of medical exploration.

But, okay, my big toe is proving more resilient than expected - so that's reason to rejoice. Its newly bendy qualities are largely due to the work I have been doing under the tutelage of my physical therapist, a Kiwi ex-rugby player and boxer so tough he's basically intimidated my big toe into doing whatever he says.

My toe's resilience was put to the test last weekend, when I fell off my new bicycle. That's right, I recently shelled out some hard earned cash on a machine pretty much designed to destroy me.

I had a great first half-day with the bike, a Schwinn Le Tour IV from the 80's, purchased with some difficulty at Brooklyn Vintage Bicycles in Sheepshead Bay.

Why did I get a bike? Good question. I'll rephrase it in a way that's probably closer to what you'd actually say: "Why in God's name would you buy a freaking bicycle, you jackass? Do you have damaged cartilage in your brain too?"

No, not that I know of. But I understand your question. I got a bicycle for three reasons: 1) it would allow me to exercise using my legs. Since my former pastime, running, is still out of the question, this seemed the next best thing. The big toe doesn't have to factor in while pedaling. 2) a bicycle would allow me to be outside and enjoy the open air. Please remember that I did not leave my apartment for almost two months following the surgery, as per doctor's orders. 3) All my doctors and my physical therapist said it'd be a good idea to get a bike, and in fact encouraged it. The only warning from each of them was: don't fall off. And each time, it was said with a laugh.

So that's why. I was given no reason to believe it was too soon, or too stupid. I was given every reason to go ahead and do it.

Thank God for friends with cars. It's the only way I could have gotten the bike. I've been collecting them carefully (friends with cars, not bikes) since the operation took place, and have proved myself willing to do anything to keep them around. I'm not above lowering a great many principles to have access to free motorized transportation. For someone who never had a friend with a car in New York City before, I can now pinpoint a car-owner at 30 yards, and can have my lips pursed and ready for ass-kissing in a matter of seconds.

So a very nice car-owner, fooled by my state of infirmity, drove me down to this remote area of Brooklyn named after a sheep's head, where a guy with a hundred bikes in various states of disrepair took about four hours to unearth a vintage two-wheeler and gouge me for 240 bucks.

That night I came to an emergency stop behind a livery cab on Franklin Avenue, a cab which was unloading a bunch of hipster girls in Rubik's cube shaped jewelry. As one does, I put my foot down to stop myself falling over. You guessed it - that foot was the right foot, also known as the wrong foot.

I screamed. I nearly cried. I hadn't bent my toe back that far in over a year, and certainly not since the surgery. I somehow managed to limp out of the street and onto the sidewalk, clutching my bicycle and a nearby mailbox for support. My head was in my hands. The toe was throbbing. My eyes were closed and my entire face was clenched. The extreme physical pain was made worse by the psychological stress: "Dear God, what have I done? In an instant, I've ripped through all of the paper-thin patchwork covering the hole in my cartilage.”

Perhaps the most distressing thing was that nobody stopped to ask me if I was okay. I was on my own. No one stopped to say, "Hey, you okay?" certainly not any of the Rubik's Cube girls who had to have seen it all happen. One good thing that shall certainly come of this whole experience is an increase in my own outward compassion.

It was three days of hell. The joint was on fire around the clock. I even went to my improv class the day after the incident, in an effort not to continue to let my foot make me miss things. I taped up my foot before leaving the house. I tried to copy the way my physical therapist had taped it up several weeks before. I must have done it wrong, because the pain got worse.

I stayed in class anyway. All for art.

It took a steady, unbroken day-and-a-half of immobilization, elevation, and basic cryotherapy to get the foot back to stasis. It took two more sleepless nights. Somewhere around mid-Monday, the joint went back to its non-emergency level of stiffness and soreness. The fire had gone away.

A visit to my doctor two days later confirmed that I hadn't broken anything. But whether or not any kind of monkey business took place with the cartilage remains to be seen.

In two weeks I will have the long-awaited MRI that will map how well or not well enough the fibrocartilage is covering over the damage. T2 mapping, it's called. Hopefully then I'll get the official, and not the partial, thumbs up. Maybe even the crutches I've been lugging down the street will begin to disappear. What we're hoping not to see is evidence that another surgery is required.

Needless to say, my bike has been sitting in my apartment untouched since the day I brought it home. I'm sure I could get on it and try to be more careful. But I'm also sure there's no fighting gravity, and that New York is a hotbed of unexpected turns and complete general chaos. The last thing I need is another foot foul.

And yet I yearn. I see him each day leaning dormant against my wall and say, one day, Mr. Schwinn Le Tour IV, if indeed that is your real name - you will get rode hard.

I say a somewhat similar thing to the squash racquet I have hanging inside my linen closet.

Thanks for reading, Eli James's Foot Buddies (and not the other kind of foot buddies... I mean, I don't know, you could be both, but I just don't want to invite confusion on this.) You have my heartfelt gratitude.

Nice one.

2011-05-10T11:11:00.001-05:00

Photo by Isaiah Singer

"William and the Tradesmen" just enjoyed an incredible run at The Drilling Company with Project: Theater. Like a flame, the run burned hot and all too brief.

PICTURES and MOVIES to come! Please stay tuned.

As ever, no show is ever brought to life by one person. William and all the Tradesmen would like to thank the following people for making this show a reality: Director Craig Wroe, Producer Joe Jung, Lighting Designer Alex Goldberg, Stage Manager Carmen Torres, as well as Project: Theater co-founder Jessi Blue Gormezano, whose solo show, "Mark My Words," ran in rep with "William and the Tradesmen," and lent our show not just its stage and many props, but also some much-needed inspiration!!

Special thanks also to Ted Cahn and Curran Bell, whose documentation will surely win prizes and bring more people to know who William and the Tradesmen really are.

Thank you all.

Eli James.

Poster Child - Part Done.

2011-05-08T09:15:00.011-05:00

Right, you super-fans. Get ready for the grand finale (aka gross disappointment)! Poster Child ends here. I realize I could have broken up Parts One, Two, Three, and Four to make this ending part not seem so abrupt. But, you know, when you're hacking up a personal essay - you just hack with abandon. Thank you all for reading and for your kind praise!

------

POSTER CHILD
(finale)
by Eli James

On the morning of my birthday, I went down to the very same chambers that saw my first sentencing. I was working a temp job at an investment bank, and had told my boss I’d be in late because I had to “go to a court thing.” I could have told her anything else to explain my absence, but I was a very unimaginative liar. To my surprise, it didn’t seem to worry her. Perhaps she figured, whatever it was, I was innocent.

I was panicked thinking I would get the same Adjudicator as before. It seemed a likely possibility – it was the same court, roughly the same time of day. It was probably his shift. He was sure to recognize me and then let loose with the full weight of the law. I prayed he had called in sick, and then realized I would also have to pray that whoever filled in for him would be missing my file. I never felt so doomed. I wished I knew what type of fine I was looking at. Was it thousands? If so, I would have to call my parents who didn’t have thousands, but had closer to it than I did. If it was in the hundreds – I would still have to call them, and risk them telling me to go to hell.

It was an even older judge than the one before, perhaps in his early eighties, and he kindly informed me it was illegal to post signs on public property. I nodded. Gavel. “Case dismissed.” I didn’t hear a time limit.

I walked out of the courtroom, needing no direction this time toward the exit. I went back to the bank office, and all of the secretaries commented on what a nice suit I had on.

Poster Child, Part Four

2011-05-07T11:27:00.013-05:00

Welcome back, folks. This is Part Four of my piece "Poster Child," based on my fairly pathetic dealings with the police during my time in a New York band.

Part One.

Part Two.

Part Three.

POSTER CHILD
Part Four
by Eli James

“Eli?”

I turned around. I had seen her in the courtroom, sitting to the side near the bench, shifting papers in a briefcase.

“Hi,” she said, and smiled ear to ear. “It’s Marie. Kevin’s friend? We came to your show last month?”

“I’m a defender. I thought that was you, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Yeah. A.C.D. six months. What is that?”

“It just means don’t get in trouble for six months and you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, that would have been fun.”

“Yeah. Actually, no. I think I would have had a stroke.”

“Right. Well…” I was sure she’d be telling Kevin about our meeting. I didn’t want to say anything too stupid. “You know we’re playing next week.”

Genius.

“Really? When?”

“Careful,” I said. “Don’t leave it around anywhere.”

A policeman ushered me out into the rainy scaffold-covered sidewalk, past a line of dark men being stripped for metal on their way in to see the principal.

---------------------------------------

“Come here!” he shouted. He was definitely looking at me. He was waving me over.

“You got I.D.?” His face was mean, his voice rough. And there, swinging nonchalantly from his neck, an officer’s badge on a chain.

“I- I- Yeah...” I fumbled for my wallet, shaking like a school kid. Okay, he’s a cop. He’s a cop, not a rapist, not a killer. I could calm down now.

No, wait. I couldn’t. Absolutely out of the question. That badge didn’t look a hundred percent real to me. I gave him my I.D. He gripped it like a club bouncer and stared it down.

“You live in New York?”

“Yes.”

“You never seen a cop car before?”

I poked my head at the open window of the car. “Sorry, Officer, but you scared the heck out of me.” This was intended to express my outrage. Note use of “heck.”

“That’s alright,” said the one in the driver’s seat. “We know how it is.”

What did that mean? How what is? Was that statement meant to make me feel guilty about something? Some racially biased assumption? Wow, if these guys only knew how much trouble they were headed for.

Let me guess. The Municipal Courthouse in TriBeCa, 325 Broadway? Indeed. I laughed out loud when I saw the date.

“Oh good,” I said to the officer. “My birthday.”

He made no comment. He looked at the bag I had somehow managed to keep holding on to. “Let me see those signs you’re putting up.”

I handed him the whole stack. He looked at the top one, removed it from the pile, and placed it beside him in the car. He handed the rest back to me.

“Hey... nice set, my friend. Linda, this is Eli. I chased him into a bar today.”

“Hi. We enjoyed your music.”

“Guess what just happened to me.”

“What?”

“I got another summons.”

“What?”

“For posting signs.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“You … you realize it hasn’t been six months.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Fuck, man. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s going to happen at the trial?”

----------------

Coming soon .... "Poster Child, Part Five: This is the longest f--king essay ever written."

Nice one.

2011-05-02T18:15:00.004-05:00

Photo by Isaiah Singer

WILLIAM and the TRADESMEN returns APRIL 28th!

2011-04-01T20:27:00.007-05:00

WILLIAM and the TRADESMEN returns to New York, April 28th - May 1st at the Drilling Company Theater, 78th and Broadway!

It will be presented for four performances by Project: Theater, and will be directed by Craig Wroe.

FROM THE PRESS RELEASE:

"British punk and post-punk-o-philes get the night they’ve been dreaming of when rock icons Morrissey, Paul Weller, and Joe Strummer grace the stage in William and the Tradesmen, a one-man rock musical written by and starring Eli James.

Author and Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson alum James brings the biggest cult heroes of British rock to life through the eyes of Will Bray, a New York songwriter determined to save his simpering music career from oblivion. With a crucial deadline approaching, he convinces the lead singers from The Smiths, The Clash and The Jam to cram twenty years of rock star experience into four weeks of total panic. James performs all the characters as well as the show's many original songs. Running time is approximately 65 minutes."

Grab your tickets here!

Review in nytheatre.com

VIDEO:

William and the Tradesmen

2011-03-20T01:36:00.012-05:00

Right. So, here's the deal. This is my one-man show, "William and the Tradesmen." Some of you already know about it, because I bang on about it periodically. I did it last year at La Mama, and the previous year at Ars Nova and the Robert Moss Theater in New York. It's been a labor of love.

Now I've been offered an opportunity to do it again, very soon: April 28th through May 1st at the Drilling Company Theater, 78th and Broadway. It will be produced by Project: Theater, a local company run by my friend and colleague Joe Jung. And I've got a great new director, fantastically talented artist and friend, Craig Wroe.

I could tell you all about "William and the Tradesmen." I could give you the score on it. I could tell you that I'm thrilled to be given the chance to do it again, not just because it will get me out of the house and doing what I love, but because every time the show gets done, it gets done better and better. I could tell you it's not like too many one-person shows that I've ever seen. I could tell you I hope that's a good thing.

I could tell you that I'm terrified it's too soon to do it, what with the foot not even in the physical therapy stages of this prolonged recovery. (All those who don't know yet about my foot, scroll down just an inch or two.) I could tell you that I'm worried I'll start out all gung-ho, and then end up crying because my foot wasn't quite ready to embark on the rigors of rehearsals and self-production.

Instead I won't be telling you any of that. I am just going to say, watch this, my friends, and put your hands together and pray:

Review in nytheatre.com

There were three needles, not two.

2011-03-20T00:36:00.005-05:00

One for the blood-taking, one for the numbing, and one for the injection of my own platelet-rich plasma into my toe.

I'll let you guess which one was the most painful.

If you guessed the needle used to numb - you are correct. That was the longest, most brutal insertion of metal and matter I've ever had perpetrated against my body. Straight into a joint that had just been operated on.

And on the way out of the hospital, there were no cabs. Such is New York when you're injured and it's raining.

Don't hurt yourselves, kids. Be healthy, always. That's my advice.

Give Me the Guitar.

2011-03-14T15:35:00.002-05:00

give me the guitar from North Seven Productions on Vimeo.

I'm in this sketch with creator and good friend Mark Alhadeff. It was shot in my old apartment on the Lower East Side, during spring or summer of 2010. Those are the bookshelves I desperately need to hang again in my new place, but am lacking the foot power or power drill skills.

Hope you enjoy.

"Try not to turn on to..."

2011-03-09T22:25:00.013-05:00

I'm reaching the point in the recovery and treatment of my foot when stuff I used to be scared of, such as a random burglar breaking down my door and shooting me in the head with a shotgun, is of little horror to me now. Dramatic, I realize. It might just be because today I'm facing not one but two needles - one of which will be inserted directly into my already swollen purple toe - with no assurance that any of the needles, scalpels, drills, pokes, prods, or screws I've been treated or threatened with will fix my foot and allow me to walk again. Surely the fact that I've been dealing with a hole in the center of my first metatarsophalangeal joint for almost a year contributes to the rising drama of my thought patterns.

There are other former horrors: Pack of wolves. Gas poisoning. Crushed by blue whale. Whatever makes the papers is now cool by me.

Antidotes to this syndrome: it's entirely possible that the worst bit is nearly over. This could be the last phase of my torture. Today they're going to take my blood (traditional arm-hole fashion), draw out the platelets and the plasma, (throwing away the red and white blood cells - I wonder what becomes of them), and shoot said platelet-rich plasma into the affected area of my toe, hoping it will eventually spackle over the hole. Then another week of swelling and bedrest, and crutches to get to the bathroom.

Then, if all goes as planned, I will finally begin my rehabilitation. My toe, unmoved these five weeks since surgery, will finally touch treadmill. This will be followed by other kinds of physical therapy that might very well see me bending my big toe, like I used to do in days of yore. I might be allowed to get rid of the medical velcro sandal I've been enslaved in and go back to the orthotically engineered sneakers I had made last summer.

Slowly, slowly, I might just work up enough strength to start to wearing regular shoes and walk again without crutch, cane or swearing.

Two months from now I will have a special MRI called "T2 Mapping," which will determine whether or not there is any cartilage-like substance growing in my joint as a result of this marvelous and not at all scary injection. If the mapping gives a thumbs up - then I will get the toe-ahead. Rehab will continue, and maybe, just maybe I'll be alright forever. Maybe I'll be alright for ten years and have serious problems again. Maybe I'll be alright for three years, then have serious problems again. Maybe I won't be alright at all.

At which point I have two choices - 1) let them open me up again in two places - taking cartilage from my knee and plugging it into my toe. 2) let them open me up in one place again - the toe - and screw the joint shut permanently, so that it never moves again. Apparently people who've had this done have gone on to run marathons. They just can't ever dance ballet or put on cowboy boots. But the fusion is known as a "salvage procedure," to be employed only when there is nothing else that can be done to save the joint. It also requires another two- to three-month recovery period.

Oops, I've descended into bleakness again. But at least now all the facts are out there, in print. Here's hoping that both Mr. and Mrs. Needle are wearing big bright smiley faces and that they bring my big toe a big root-beer lollipop, all the while singing "Everything's alright, yes, everything's fine..." a la Jesus Christ Superstar.

Wait. Maybe not that song. Things didn't exactly turn out too healthy for the guy in that story.

Okay, how about the needles sing any song besides "Put on a Happy Face."

As long as the doctor stays absolutely quiet.

I can't move again. I can't.

2011-03-05T11:07:00.016-05:00

I've moved eighteen times in the past twelve years. I've moved four times in the seven years I've been in New York. I resolved when I reached the six-month mark in my new apartment, shortly after my foot operation, that I would NOT be moving again. Even if this place was far from perfect, I was not about to bankrupt myself once more, looking for and moving to another inadequate New York apartment, while putting undue wear and tear on a toe that's already on the verge of being decommissioned for the rest of its life. I must deal with the imperfections. This place has most of what I want. An elevator. Decent space. Low rent. Lots of light.

Then, last night, I saw a fly. A big one. And I considered moving again.

Bear with me. I know this doesn't sound like a big deal. But when I first moved to this place last August, I was besieged by flies. I dreaded coming home.

It's not like I'd never seen flies before. My dad used to chase them around our house with his swatter when I was a kid. But I'd never had flies in a New York apartment before, and I'd never seen so many in one small place. I'd had roaches, sure, and the occasional millipede. Mice, certainly. More than I care to mention. None of those were pleasant, all of them were disgusting - but, still, none of them were flies: those annoying, buzzing, disease-ridden animals, impossible to kill, that swoop back and forth across your ears when you're sleeping, making you think that space aliens are trying to eat your head. And no one's ever made a horror movie called "The Mouse."

"Why the hell do I have flies?" I thought, when the problem first presented itself. (Actually, knowing me, I'm sure I said it out loud.) I'd spent the previous two years learning to be clean. I hauled garbage out regularly. I didn't have dusty vents, as far as I could tell. Eventually I noticed that one of my windows had a screen that was sticking out of the frame. It had been shoved in there with one corner hanging off, leaving a big gap through which anyone or anything could enter. I couldn't fix it myself because the remnants of a sawed off window-guard were blocking the grooves. I followed the natural urban progression from asking to harassing to begging my super to get this fixed. To this day, he has not.

So I learned to keep the windows shut for most of the summer and fall, until my apartment resembled a catacomb. It was stifling, depressing, hot. But I guess I preferred the pall of death over the sight of flies ... in the bathroom, kitchen, you name it.

I still wanted to know - why were there all these flies right outside my window? Was there something about my apartment that attracted them?

I learned from the exterminator who eventually came that everybody in the building had them. He had a couple of theories. One: that it could be the dumpster, often overflowing with trash, sitting on the street four floors below me. "Or, you know, it could be from the dog poop on the sidewalk," he said. At first I laughed. But then I realized this theory was probably closest to the truth. I'd never lived in a neighborhood so vandalized by dog feces in my life - not since leaving South Philadelphia. Navigating the minefield of turds that cover the block between Franklin and Bedford Avenues is the kind of brutalizing experience that makes one doubt the basic goodness of humankind. It also makes one whisper a whole string of cynical, psychologically debilitating phrases with every step, like: "What the fuck?" "Oh come on!" "You fucking retards!" "You idiots should NOT own animals!" "God, what's WRONG with you retards?" and "I need a vacation. Oh GOD, I need a vacation. I need a va- Oh Jesus - really?? diarrhea??" And to utter such phrases repeatedly to yourself every time you make your way to and from your home is a disquieting and surely unhealthy way to spend so much of your time.

It reinforces the sinking feeling I've come to know that New York City is mired in the Dark Ages, like no other city in the developed world. It is 2011 and yet people either don't know or don't care that animal waste attracts disease. It's a medieval city in which the rich have their fiefdoms on which the poor and the ignorant sweat – either becasue they know no other life, or because they’ve convinced themselves, like I have, that New York is “where it’s at.” Even the medieval serfs weren’t so naïve. None of them believed where they were was where it was at. They just couldn't figure a way to get off of it.

There is, perhaps, more upward mobility now than there was nine hundred years ago. But because I'm too stubborn or stupid or unskilled to get a real job, I consign myself to living among the villeins and the plowmen, folks who leave their oxen, dog and human droppings everywhere just to show the king what they think of their shitty jobs. It’s also, I gather, a message to the local police force, stationed permanently at Franklin and President, out there every night with their lights flashing.

Winter was much easier to take on the feudal moor. The flies went away and so did the kids who like to party in the street, blasting Jamaican hip-hop from their cars. Winter lasted a long time, as it always does in New York. But now that an enormous, possibly pregnant fly has presaged an end to my peace, my mind turns not just toward questions like "When will I be able to walk and work again," but also,"Do I have it in me to move house again?"

It also turns to other unpleasant questions like, "How much do noise-reducing windows cost?" and "Why is honking one's car horn still the preferred method of picking up someone for a night on the town? Is it still the 70's? And how many people are picking someone up on my block at the same time?”

But I can’t move again. It’s a physical impossibility. It would also be one more step toward financial disaster, and I’ve already taken so many steps in that direction. Instead of spending all this time bemoaning the conditions that promote infestation and ill feeling in my home, perhaps I should spend it learning a skill that might allow me to save up enough money to move when the time is right. I saw three infomercials this afternoon offering time-tested programs on how to “earn money from home! Up to 200,000 dollars a month.” The TV I recently bought must already be paying for itself – because I’m actually starting to take these offers seriously. Let's face it, they sound better than all the other money-making ideas I’ve been making lists of lately, including: “Write an episode of The Simpsons,” and “Become a German tutor.”

Yes.

In the face of this absurd catalog of ideas, it would seem that battling flies and avoiding dog leavings are the least of this author’s problems, and that canceling my cable should probably be the first action in a new bid for self-preservation.

Poster Child, Part Three

2011-03-03T23:49:00.017-05:00

-------

Hello children.

I'm not sure if anyone in the world has read Part One or Part Two of this "story" (or this “essay/memoir/creative nonfiction” - I never know what to call it), but here is the piece of scribbled genius that's been bating the breath of many an imaginary friend for two whole weeks: PART THREE of "Poster Child," the continuing saga of a naive and hopelessly angst-ridden singer-songwriter who lands his band in front a New York City judge twice for the same stupid crime.

I do hope there is still pleasure in the retelling of this tale of idiocy, first composed in 2005, when the world and I were young but not too young. I remember scribbling it into a spiral notebook because I didn't have money for a laptop. I did so while sitting in a coffee shop, waiting to go on at the Sidewalk Cafe's epic open mic. I was number 46 that evening, assuring me a 3 am performance time. I am in some ways glad that my currently impaired health situation eliminates any temptation to go into the city to attend that open mic again.

PS. It has now been four weeks since my foot surgery and my near-total confinement. For those of you who await my medical updates with even more eagerness than you await the succeeding installments of my creative masturbation, the latest diagnosis from my doctor is: "we're on the horns of a dilemma." Horns. I didn't know dilemmas had horns. But then again, I'm not a doctor.

POSTER CHILD

Part Three

by Eli James

-----

The marriage of my name with a lesser man’s fate was still being consummated when the situation took an unexpected turn into the realm of the surreal, into a cavern of my subconscious I’d hoped to avoid trawling that day.

“Tommy!”

We turned to see a sprightly young man around Tommy’s age, towering over me and everyone else by about a head. He was accompanied by two adults wearing Tag Heuer watches.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

Tommy shifted his weight and moved the hands around his stomach. “Nothing, just getting a summons.”

They laughed and so did Tommy. The sprite was clear-skinned, clean-cut, and had immaculate diction. I assumed it was one of Tommy’s prep school buddies on his way to an interview at Columbia med school six years early. Turned out he was an ex-classmate who had dropped conventional schooling to pursue a full-time acting career.

“A summons for what?” his mom asked.

“Putting up band posters for my band,” Tommy said, and showed them one. They gleamed with genuine admiration.

“Eli and the Indoor Boys,” the young man read. “Who’s Eli?”

“Him.” Tommy pointed in my direction. Yeah, that’s me. The guy who could be both of your uncles.

“What are you up to?” Tommy asked the kid as if it were just another day at the office.

“Just coming from The Public,” he replied. “I got cast in As You Like It.”

“Really?” This was the first thing I added to the conversation.

“Yes.” Of course – he probably never said “yeah.” He turned from me and continued to Tommy. “Should be great. The season on ‘World’ wraps right as rehearsals begin.”

“What’s ‘World?’” I asked, without softness, my usually refined conversational skills having wilted in the heat.

“As The World Turns.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

There was a pause as everyone silently acknowledged the greatness of this fact with nodding heads and a shuffling of feet that could have passed for a celebratory dance.

“How’d you get that?”

“Through my agent,” he said, as if it was a no-brainer. In fact, to anyone who was an actor, it was.

“Who are you with?” I asked.

“Don Buchwald. You know them?”

“Buchwald. Yeah.”

I hadn’t been on a stage in five years. While living in L.A. trying to “hit it” as a film actor, I had made the decision to stop taking monotonous scene study classes and put my money into recording my first song demo. Obviously it was a decision that was paying off in spades. The kid, whose name I never got, was with Don Buchwald, a major agent in New York. His parents were smiling at me, patiently awaiting an explanation as to why I was grilling their son.

Tommy stepped in to assist. “Eli’s an actor.”

I hadn’t planned on revealing this, not in the light of what was going on. The news met with a chorus of “Ohhhh”s.

“Okay, boys.” The cop hadn’t gone anywhere. I’d managed to block him out during the preceding interaction. He’d finally finished what must have been a grueling load of paperwork. “Take these with you when you go.” He handed each of us a pink slip of paper. “Like I said, the judge might let you off, you never know.”

We both said, “Thanks.” A moment later he was gone. The words “Eli’s an actor” were still lurking in the air like exhaust from the departed cop car.

“So you’re an actor too,” said the mom, “That’s great!”

No one had introduced themselves, yet my name and station in life had somehow been wrenched from me and placed on the table of judgment. The questions were bound to come now, as they always did.

“Who are you with?” she asked. Asking an actor which agency he was with was like asking a funeral director, “Who’s your florist?” If the answer was “I don’t have a florist,” you probably weren’t much of a funeral director.

“No one right now. I’m just...” I turned back to the boy. “How did you get with Buchwald?” I couldn’t be shaken from my interrogation. I was always keen to know how actors in this town found their agents, as if I might follow their path and light upon the same fortune.

“I go to C.S.A.,” the kid said. “We do a showcase every semester.”

I registered blankness, darkness, and ignorance.

“Children’s School for the Arts.”

Well, it couldn’t hurt to find out what the cut-off age was.

“He’s been on a soap for the past six months,” said his mother, gripping her son’s hand.

“And now you’re in a show at The Public?” I asked.

“Looks like it,” he said. “It’s pretty cool.”

“Uh huh.” I squinted at him, sweat running down my sideburns, the black Greek fisherman’s cap I wore during the summer months to keep my Jew-fro from killing someone now feeling three sizes too small.

Tommy volunteered a further tidbit about my life in an attempt to dilute the air, or maybe because he was feeling outdone by the other parents. “Eli’s in a comedy group.”

“You are?” asked the kid, the dad, and the mom at the same time.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Yeah, yeah…” Both Tommy and I could probably take the rest of the day to list the myriad activities I was then engaged in for no money and little exposure. “Um…it’s good. You know.”

The dad grinned, looking around him. “And in a band! Renaissance man!”

“Do you have a headshot? I’ll give it to my agent.”

This came from the kid. I should have taken the opportunity to hit him; an elbow to the jaw could have done much to upset his standing with Days of Our Lives, where he was probably up for a guest spot. Why would a working actor half my age, who doesn’t know me, offer to give my headshot to his four-star agent? I didn’t ask and I didn’t raise my elbow. Instead I folded up my pink summons slip and opened my shoulder bag. “I have one on me,” I said as I dug an 8x10 glossy photo of myself out of a crumpled folder. I would take any chance I could get for forward action in my career, even if I had to humble myself before someone I wanted to maim. I handed over the headshot, which I always carried with me, and the family gathered around.

“Woah!” said the young man. “This does not look like you at all!”

“You look much older in this,” said the mom.

I craned my neck to look at the picture from their angle. “You think so?”

The kid: “Oh yeah. You look forty in this.”

I grasped at the postered lamplight to steady myself. “Forty?”

“Not forty,” he said, “but you look much older than you are. Like twenty-five.”

Tommy gave me a look.

“I am twenty-five,” I said.

I was twenty-seven.

The kid squinted at me. “Really?”

The dad: “Really?”

“No way,” said the kid. “You could easily be eighteen, nineteen.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I thought of myself as one of the oldest people in the group assembled, parents included. “Really?”

“Seriously, you need a new headshot.” The kid spoke as if he himself was an agent and had been in the business for twenty years. He spoke loudly and quickly, like he was waiting for an important call. I felt like I was at one of those seminars where you pay an industry insider to help you rethink you career. I had just received a summons for petty vandalism, confessed to the sin of not having an agent, and apparently had a headshot that looked nothing like me. A brutal lamp was being held up to my pale bald life on a Manhattan street corner awash in fire hazards.

The dad attempted to ease the blow. “You should use Doug Hampton. He’s the guy we went to for his shots.”

Had that bit of advice been followed up by a thousand-dollar loan, it might have been a fruitful exchange. As it stood, when Tommy’s friend took his leave and went off to have his roots touched up, I began convulsing, a helpless victim in the advanced stages of New York Disease. Even being told I looked younger than I was had brought me little comfort.

Silence fell on Stanton Street as Tommy and I stood glued to our spots, possibly waiting for permission from a policeman to go home. After a while Tommy spoke up, sensing my predicament. “If it makes you feel any better, he’s a real dick.”

“Is he?”

“Total pretentious douche-bag.” Coming from Tommy, this was a monstrous attack. And it did make me feel better. Yeah. That kid was a pretentious dick. There was never any reason to feel inferior when you were comparing your career to someone who wasn’t nice. He was a dick, and I was a nice guy, right? And that had to be more important.

Tommy had just demonstrated an uncharacteristic sensitivity, something I hadn’t thought him capable of. I felt shameful about my latent harshness toward him, fueled by my many jealousies. I wanted a hug. I wrapped one arm around him, effecting the shoulder-knock American males use to ease the shock of an unexpected embrace.

“Thanks, man.” I said. And as I unstuck my dampened forearm from his neck, I gave him a friendly shake. “I’ll see you in court.”

---------------------------------------

On a rainy Tuesday morning I entered a municipal courthouse in the belly of Tribeca, a belly rotted with ulcers and fast-food waste. After removing my belt, shoes, and semblance of composure I went into the courtroom and sat among the accused, most of whom had been cited for peeing outdoors. I wore a black suit, white shirt and tie, and was one of the only people crammed into the moldy hall that spoke English. I was handed a pamphlet when I checked in, informing me that my case would be heard by a New York State Adjudicator. I didn’t know what an Adjudicator was, but assumed from the lack of robe that it was someone who had just missed his chance at being a Judge. This might have explained the disdain for the job that emanated from the bench, and the swiftness with which each sentence was dispensed. There were over fifty people waiting to answer for their hysterical incontinence. Had I been an Adjudicator, I would have wanted to get it over with too.

-- To be continued...

Poster Child, Part One.
Poster Child, Part Two.

Platelet Rich Plasma Talkin' Blues

2011-02-25T10:40:00.059-05:00

"Went out walking through the wood the other day

And the world was a carpet laid before me

The buds were bursting and the air smelled sweet and strange

Seemed about a hundred years ago."

These were the lyrics playing in my ears as I stepped out onto the pavement two days ago. I was on a mission to deposit my trash in the shabby wooden dumpster outside my apartment building, a place I had not left in over 48 hours. With a crutch held firmly in one hand, another crutch in the other, two weighty garbage bags held by the index finger on each, I was well aware this was hardly a "walk through the wood," but at least it got me out of the house. I was also adorned with a pair of headphones transmitting four-four rhythms from my iPod to my brain. On this particularly brief and garbage-themed outing, these rhythms belonged to The Rolling Stones and the first half of the album Goats Head Soup. The second song on the album, which I think should have been the first, is called "100 Years Ago," and it began to play immediately after I dumped my rubbish and picked up my crutches once more to reenter the lair in which I spend twenty-three hours and fifty-five minutes a day.

There's really not much to see or delight in on the block in front of my place, a block made up of a thousand working class African Americans and one white boy on crutches. Yet I was so pleased to be breathing ... air -- (was about to write "fresh air," but couldn't in good conscience describe the air enclosing my dog-feces laden strip of Crown Heights as "fresh") -- that I stopped before my front door to breathe some more and let the wind play across my face. I leaned on my crutches as Mick Jagger's 1973 lyrics played along. "The buds were bursting and the air smelled sweet and strange. It seemed about a hundred years ago," he sings, describing the time that had passed since the world seemed fresh and full of possibilities, and life devoid of worry. Youth is always too easily associated with innocence, promise and possibility, but this time I couldn't help but share in Mick's sentiment, and quietly thank him and my iPod for timing the song just right.

It seemed about a hundred years ago when I was able to walk out my door and not worry about crushing a nerve; a hundred years since I exited my apartment wearing my running shorts, or letting my mind wander to a concern other than surviving the five-minute walk to the subway. In reality it's only been eleven months since an accident left a crater in my metatarsophalangeal joint. But eleven months of foot disorder in New York City... well a hundred years might actually be lowballing it.

I urged myself not to delight too long in this self pity made up of seductive breezes and 70's rock. "We are going to get out of this," I thought, using the team-oriented plurals I often employed when talking to myself. "We are not going to accept a fate in which a dent in the cartilage will have us longing wistfully for the rest of our life. We will run again. We will act again. We WILL plug up that hole now filling precariously with scar tissue."

There are options, after all. Opinions. Some very expensive foot and ankle surgeons have posited the following very expensive ideas.

1. a PRP, or platelet-rich plasma injection. This recently developed procedure involves taking blood from the arm, putting it through a centrifuge, extracting the chunk that contains mostly platelets, and then plunging a syringe full of it directly into the toe joint.

The idea here is that the platelets, which contain "alpha granules," which in turn contain dozens of "growth factors," will stimulate healthy cell generation at the source of the damage. It's been used quite a lot in sports medicine over the past fifteen years, especially in the elbow and knee. The feet and toes, not so much. Since fifteen years is not enough time to convince the medical world that the PRP really works, the $2000 dollar procedure is generally left untouched by insurance companies.

Articular cartilage cannot be regenerated, but the doctor is hoping this procedure will prevent the need for another surgery by producing a cartilage-like patch over the hole. It being my own blood, it involves little risk.

The only risk I'm worried about is that it won't work - especially after all those needles and psychological trauma and after yet another week or two added to my bed-rest sentence.

We won't know until about two months after it's done. At that point a test called T2 mapping will tell us whether or not the healthy cells are taking hold. If they are, we'll carry on with physical therapy and keep fingers crossed that it holds. If they are not, we go on to option 2:

2. an osteochondral autograft. This is an operation in which articular cartilage is removed from the side of the knee and plugged into the toe. By replacing articular cartilage with articular cartilage, we hope to give ourselves a much better chance of the joint going back to normal.

Of course, "going back to normal" is a phrase my doctors still refuse to utter. I thought I'd throw it in there for good luck.

This is of course a more complicated procedure, and will put me off my feet for a further six weeks. Having just gone through foot surgery three weeks ago, I am loath to go through it again - especially one that jacks up my knee on top of it. And, as the best doctors money can't buy good news from said, "with surgery, there is always a risk of complication."

And so we are desperately hoping that option 1 is the one. If for some reason it isn't, and neither is option 2, there is at the very least... option #3:

3. Give up most of my original hopes and dreams and go back to school to study medieval agrarian history. Get a series of degrees in equally boring topics which will put me in a position to teach at Oxford when I'm 57. Settle down in the English countryside with a dog and a few framed maps. Take my wheelchair into the woods every other weekend, where I will cry while listening to "100 Years Ago" on whatever technology Apple has developed by then. Perhaps by then medical scientists will have devised a way to replace articular cartilage, but knowing me I'll probably have spent the money needed for such a procedure on the ample-ass-friendly wheelchair and all the Apple stuff.

The audition. I had a dream.

2011-02-21T22:32:00.005-05:00

While the main point of my venturing into Manhattan was to attend a literal acting audition, the whole journey was an audition for my body. Could I stand up to it? Could I step to it?

Yes, James, we all know you hurt your toe. Please ditch the foot puns from here on out.

No problem.

Before your heads start spinning, no, it was not an audition for "A Chorus Line" or anything like it. It was a voice over audition for a radio commercial, just about the only thing I can audition for for the foreseeable future. However, while standing in front of a microphone and talking is pretty easy, getting to that microphone is something entirely different.

Here is proof that I actually made it to the city from Brooklyn.

Of course I now realize this picture proves nothing - not without a newspaper dateline in the shot. You'll just have to trust me, or look closely at the air quality in the picture to know that it was taken on February 16th.

Here are some things I learned on this trip:

1) Contrary to my ambitions and relative feeling of verve that morning, I was in NO WAY ready to get myself to any subway station, let alone navigate the subway stairs, subway cars, and subway people.

2) Cold weather is not the crippled man's friend. A medically required velcro sandal and a sock are not conducive to making the most of the outdoors in 20-degree weather. I also learned that you don't miss shoes until they are gone.

3) My voice has suffered no atrophy as a result of my injury/surgery/apartment-imprisonment. I can still audition with it. However, the jury is still out on whether showing up with a velcro sandal and a cane earns my voice a pity booking.

4) Professional drivers often don't know how to get from Brooklyn to Manhattan. (This was more of a review than a new lesson.)

5) Inner Brooklyn needs more yellow cabs. Car services are total rip-offs. (Ditto parenthetical.)

6) The time it takes a post-op Eli James to walk from 45th to 46th Street is now a record five minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

7) You have to mail a Priority Mail package on the same day you buy the label for it at the Post Office. Otherwise you can't use it.

I'd left my crutches at home, figuring they'd be more of a burden than a help on the streets of Manhattan. I opted for my cane, something I'd bought several months before. While sleeker than the crutches and easier to carry around, it did not give nearly enough support. To say I moved at a snail's pace - well, it could probably be proven wrong by clocking a snail. He's got lubricant for advantage.

Since it didn't feel right to just do the radio audition and then hail another cab back to my lair, I attempted to run a couple of errands. I was excited to be outside, even in my state, and even in Midtown.

I went to Staples and bought a small three-ring binder in which to put a script I'd written and which I'd been waiting to submit to a theater for some time. I attempted to get myself a new memo pad for recording thoughts, but didn't see anything I deemed inspirational-looking enough.

I then struggled to the post-office, again clomping along at a painstaking pace, and went to the automated postage machine to buy a stamp for my script. I wound up getting the Priority Mail sticker, not realizing that you had to be prepared to mail your package at that moment. I was not. The script hadn't been hole-punched yet. I learned later that the stamp became useless the next day and that my trip to the post office had been a complete waste of foot power, money and Advil.

Having come this far, I thought I might be able to hike it from 43rd and 5th Avenue to Grand Central Station, in order to save on cabs and take the 4 home. A pipe dream. My back, my foot, my knee, my arm – all were taking a beating. I endured the walk to the corner of 5th Avenue and hailed a cab.

Costly audition, I thought. By the time I get home I'll have spent over fifty bucks. Was it worth it? I had a one in fifty chance, probably, of booking the job. But I knew it wasn't about booking the job. It was just about doing the audition; doing something that had to do with my work.

When I got in the cab, the older gentleman behind the wheel was white and had the accent of a native New Yorker. (Noted just because it's rare.) I gave him my cross-streets and asked him if he knew how to get there. He said he didn't. I then gave him the basic directions - Manhattan Bridge, Flatbush, Grand Army, Eastern Parkway, etc. He then plugged me with questions like, "And how many lights is it from Eastern Parkway to Franklin?" "Um... I think three." "And how many blocks is it from Franklin to Carroll?" "It's three blocks." To which he replied, "You are useless now, you can go to sleep.”

"Sorry, what?"

"You’re useless now – you’ve given me all the directions, so now you can relax and go to sleep."

I was so disconcerted. It now seemed he was trying to be friendly, but his use of "you're useless now," had undermined the effort. "I'm... happy to help," I said.

First impressions can easily suck. That's another thing I learned. But sometimes they can be completely replaced by second impressions.

While I busied myself with the in-cab entertainment system, desperate to find something distracting but not nauseating, the driver took a CD out of a wallet in his sun visor and put it in the stereo. When it began playing, I immediately recognized the overture from "Gypsy." I hadn't heard that overture in about twenty years, but knew it well. When the opening number kicked in, I could hear that it wasn't the Gypsy recording I knew. The voices were different. It must be the Patti LuPone version, I thought. As a child I had only heard the Ethel Merman version.

“Is that Patti Lupone?”

"Huh?"

“Is that the Patti LuPone version?”

“Of course,” he said. “That is Evita herself. Though not in her best voice."

"No?"

"No. You know, people want to hear certain people out of nostalgia, but she’s nothing like she was twenty years ago. Sometimes a voice lasts, but most of the time it doesn’t.”

I made sure at this point to turn off the in-cab entertainment screen.

He skipped through the CD to his favorite songs. After "Some People," he went to “Funny,” then skipped ahead to “You’ll Never Get Away from Me.”

I couldn’t stop wishing that it was the original Ethel Merman cast recording from 1959, not because the new one was bad, but because I hadn't listened to the original in almost twenty years, and it made me feel young just to think of it. As we drove over the Manhattan Bridge I looked out of the window and saw a clear blue sky with the perfect shape of cloud… it reminded me of being a musical theater obsessed little kid and listening to WPEN in Philadelphia while in the car with my parents. Every Sunday the station would play the cast recording of a complete Broadway musical, and the show’s host would narrate the plot points in between the songs. It was AM radio and always sounded a bit more muffled than the FM I was used to, but I wouldn’t have traded it. Looking out the window of that taxicab on this day, 33 years old and with a busted foot, feeling alone, in pain, and ashamed of most of the choices I’ve made – I suddenly felt that I could go back to that time. A time before I knew my acting career might be stymied entirely by slamming my toe into a door. A time when songs from shows were all I cared about. A time when I thougth I'd grow up to sing those songs on stage, and maybe even write some songs of my own. Wait - no, it was never really about that. The ambition was such a small part of it. Mostly I just loved the world. I loved to picture the people on stage, singing to me. I always imagined these cast albums were recorded during a performance of a show, in a theater. I didn’t realize or accept until years later that these albums were of course made in a recording studio. To me, they were always happening in a theater somewhere in the big blue sky, behind a cloud.

Oh Jesus. How silly.

I had memorized all the lines to the antique Broadway cast recordings my mother kept in the credenza in our basement. Long rows of frayed LP covers emblazoned with the bold White Way graphics of the fifties and sixties contained the things I loved best – not just those gleeful songs of mid-century Broadway, but that feeling of burning stage lights, the ecstatic urgency of a twenty-piece string section, those ancient black and white snapshots of glowing eyes and milk-fed cheekbones lit up from the bottom. Having dubbed the LP’s from a Technics turntable to a Panasonic tape deck, I used my Walkman Portable Cassette player to listen daily to the teachings of Professor Henry Higgins and Nathan Detroit and The Man of La Mancha.

Dear God - this is making me sound not just old but unbelievably gay.

My cab driver couldn't have had any clue that this outpouring of memory was going on in his backseat. Once we got into Brooklyn, he proceeded to talk about other musicals he loved. He put on a 1980’s recording of LuPone in a revival of “Anything Goes,” which he believed showed her at her best. He also said the cast of this revival included Cole Porter himself. "The writer, composer and lyricist of that show, Mr. Cole Porter." I loved this guy's reverence. The way he framed these people's names. I had no idea Porter was still alive in the 80's. It's possible I misheard him.

He said the first show he ever saw on Broadway was in 1958 – “Camelot.” I was surprised. I could have sworn Camelot hadn’t debuted until 1960. “Really?" I said. "Camelot? I thought that was later.” “No,” he said, “1958. Starring Robert Goulet as Lancelot, Julie Andrews as Guinevere. Richard Burton as King Arthur. Roddy McDowell as….” And I jumped in, “Mordred.” “That's right. And Robert Coot,” he said. "So how's that for a cast?"

This guy was incredible. He was me as a child, grown up, if I had never switched my allegiance to rock and roll. Wow, Robert Coot. I hadn't heard that name in a long time (and neither, I'm sure, had anybody else.) I believe Coot was Camelot's original Merlin, and that he'd played Pickering in My Fair Lady t00. I was still certain that “Camelot” had opened in 1960, but I let him talk. I wanted him to. He had earned the right to reminisce about Broadway musicals any way he wanted. He’d seen "Gypsy" twelve times and “Hello Dolly” six times. In "Dolly" he'd seen Carol Channing, Pearl Bailey and Phyllis Diller. I'd recently gathered a new appreciation for Phyllis Diller while watching a documentary about American comedians.

“I try to go to matinees," he said, "but my wife hates matinees." (I wondered why. Was it because the audiences tended to be full of old people? I didn't want to interrupt.) "Anyway, we saw Phyllis Diller play Dolly at a matinee, and she did an hour and a half of her comedy routine after the show was over.”

Really? Wow. An hour and a half, after doing a whole show? My first thought was not "how freaking awesome!" but "how in the world did the unions let that happen?" All I'd heard about while working on "Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson" was that the stagehand unions disallowed everything on Broadway. I couldn't imagine they would have kept the stage lights going for an extra hour and a half after a matinee, especially with a night show coming.

"And let me tell you," he said, "she was no spring chicken."

We talked briefly about my injury as we neared my building. He asked me if I needed any help getting out. I didn't. I had only needed... what had just happened. Ultimately, there was more than one reason I was glad I'd gone on my audition that day, and despite the cost, was grateful I had not taken the subway.

Almost the Truth

2011-02-19T12:21:00.008-05:00

On the day before she left New York, having looked after me and my precariously damaged toe for a week, I made my mom watch the first three episodes of the documentary “Monty Python: Almost the Truth, Lawyers’ Cut.” I had watched the first two of these three episodes just the night before with a friend. At first I doubted whether I had the stamina to re-watch so soon, but it’s amazing what sitting with someone new does for you. You see it through their eyes. More accurately, you see it through your eyes imagining their eyes, imagining their whole life coming to bear on the things you're seeing, and somehow that set of filters opens up a whole new experience.

Monty Python – Jesus – such a nerd I was and am and always shall be. I became obsessed with it at the age of 12 when a math teacher showed it to a bunch of us hopelessly geeky math nerds one day during our extracurricular after-school completely voluntary math session. (And I didn't even like math. I was just desperate to combine with other academic nerds who cared about grades and wore their book-bags over both shoulders, so it was close enough). It was at this moment that my obsession with Britain kicked into ultra high gear. Now I wasn’t just obsessed with the accents and the history and the grand list of accomplishments. I actually found this new (old) thing to be actively mind-opening.

The Undertaker Sketch

Throughout the documentary, some of the coolest people you can think of demonstrate their obsessions with Monty Python in the nerdiest of ways. Steve Coogan, Russell Brand, Simon Pegg, Stephen Merchant, Jimmy Fallon, Seth Green, TIM ROTH – all speaking of Monty Python’s sketches and films in a state of near apoplectic excitement. They may as well have been in my math class. Watching them freak out over Python is a grand vindication after twenty years of doing the same myself, alone in many rooms.

Steve Coogan nerding out on Python.

This tells me it was all okay. All the time wasted was not. I may think I'm the only one, but everyone everywhere is just a little boy obsessing – just a little boy obsessed with something most people don’t get, or see the need to get. It’s beautiful.

Friends of Mine - The Zombies

2011-02-18T12:38:00.012-05:00

Next to "Waterloo Sunset" by The Kinks, "Friends of Mine" by The Zombies is a prime example of how the British use pop to convey pathos like no other race can. The sweetness of sadness, desperation and despair - sexed up by wit, satire and major seventh chords.

Check out these lyrics, and tell me if you don't see what I see. I see the single guy among lots and lots of coupled-up friends.

"It feels so good to know two people so in love, so in love." There's no way this statement can mean just one thing.

The Zombies, "Friends of Mine" - from album Odessey and Oracle (1968)

When we're all in a crowd

And you catch her eye

And then you both smile

I feel so good inside

And when I'm with her

She talks about you

The things that you say

The things that you do

It feels so good to know two people

So in love...

They are friends of mine

(Joyce and Terry)

They are friends of mine

(Paul and Molly)

And they've got something

(Liz and Brian)

It's so hard to find

(Joy and David)

They are friends of mine

(Kim and Maggie)

They are friends of mine

(June and Daffy)

And they've got something

(Jean and Jim)

You don't often find

(And Jim and Christine)

She takes your hand

When the world stays outside

That's something to see

That's nothing to hide

And when I feel bad

When people disappoint me

That's when I need you two

To help me believe

It feels so good to know two people

So in love...

They are friends of mine

(Joyce and Terry

They are friends of mine

(Paul and Molly)

And they've got something

(Liz and Brian)

It's so hard to find

(Joy and David)

They are friends of mine

(Kim and Maggie)

They are friends of mine

(June and Daffy)

And they've got something

(Jean and Jim)

You don't often find

(And Jim and Christine)

Poster Child, Part Two

2011-02-17T15:46:00.011-05:00

(photo taken at London's Marquee, September 2005)

It's now been eighteen days since my foot surgery, and it's nice to take a break from writing about feet. Not only do they smell and run into things, but they can be a great source of frustration when they stop working.

Here is part two of "Poster Child," as promised - the award-winning (pending) story I wrote about the emergence (and soon-to-follow evaporation) of my first New York rock band, my friendship with a bass player ten years younger than I, and the experiences that led me to appear in court twice for doing something pretty stupid, and which I should have just made the kid do.

Hope you enjoy.

You can catch up on Part One here: http://www.eli-james.com/2011/02/poster-child.html

--------

POSTER CHILD, Part Two.

by Eli James

This imagined friendship between Tommy and me never came to be. It couldn’t be, and not just because we were born a whole generation apart. Thing is, I couldn’t help being bitter toward him—even for all of his devotion to the band. Tommy was the first rich kid I’d ever known, and my resentment was based largely on the fact that, should the band fall on its face, his life would probably turn out all right. Mine, I feared, would not—such was the weight I had attached to the band, an organization that represented my third career change so far. Tommy could be in fourteen more bands and a chamber orchestra before deciding he wanted to be a marine biologist, then a film director, then a chairman of something. There was no need for him to assume the bassist position in my band for any reason other than a summer thrill, while I, a man inching steadily closer to that unspoken self-destruct date known to every young musician, was treating “Eli and the Indoor Boys” as a matter of life and death.

There were other reasons our would-be brotherhood was strained. I’d never met anyone who thought it a good idea to use the word “antediluvian” in conversation. “My uncle has an antediluvian Gibson amp I can use, but he says it works flawlessly.” He was also a big fan of “absurdly,” “laughable,” and “existentialist.” I had a natural sympathy with scholastic nerds, having been one myself and having been bullied consistently for it. However, Tommy’s use of language made me want to, for the first time in my life, take someone smaller, weaker, and eight grades below me, and kick the crap out of them.

Because I had a habit of breaking guitar strings early on into our sets, he was afforded far too many opportunities to share his awkward grandpa-like humor with the audience. “We’d like to thank Mercury Lounge for their really big stage. It’s lots of room for us to do nothing on. (pause.) Cue laugh track please.” “This next song’s about a girl named Lauren who Eli used to have sex with. (Pause. To me.) What? It is!” And the crowned prince: “Hey thanks for singing along, Eli’s ex-neighbor-slash-girl-he-dated…”

It was all I could do to keep from pushing him off the stage with the broad end of my guitar. Instead I learned to play noisy song intros every time he opened his mouth. I knew he meant no harm, even though the things he said made us seem like a guest act from of the first season of Hee Haw and sent what little crowd there was careening toward the rear of the dance hall. Like any younger person, Tommy just wanted to be one of the guys, and to him that meant commenting on everything he saw, heard, smelled, sensed, or thought about. He once tried to engage me in what he deemed an important debate over ribbed or unribbed condoms. I refused to answer. I learned early on that as much as I wanted to be his big brother—offer man-to-man advice, buy him his first martini, beat him at basketball—it was a role I could not play. There was nothing I could advise him on or help him with and I sucked at sports. He had been to scores of places I’d only read about. I was penniless, while he somehow had a Gold card. He knew people. I only knew him. If anyone was going to bail someone out of a jam, it would be Tommy, not me. He was my big brother. And while I still harbored brotherly affection for him, I was too busy thinking about nipple-twisting him into oblivion to acknowledge it. He was always on the top bunk, and I believed I deserved it more.

When the inspiration to blanket the town in posters took hold of me, I drafted Tommy’s help with the grunt work, something he’d been remiss in doing since joining the band, what with spring finals falling right in the middle of sweet sixteen season. To this point I’d handed out all the flyers, made all the ads, hunted down all the drummers. When I finally enlisted his aide in a canvassing tour of the Lower East Side, I took an undue elation in bossing him around. It was the last time someone like me would. Tommy was now beginning to tour the Ivy Leagues, running up and down the East Coast scouting the perfect place to get his degree in “Linguistics and French.” Before he broke away, I would detain him, forcibly if need be, to sweat under the summer sun for the good of my band. Before you ponce off to Harvard to begin analyzing irregular verb endings, my boy, you are going to attach hand-written posters to telephone poles with Scotch tape. The band will be able to say it hit its marketing quota, and you will be able to say you mucked in with the underprivileged to promote your scrappy punk group. This in turn will gain you street cred, something your Riverdale School comrades will envy more than your Audi A4.

It was I, of course, who was about to receive the sternest lesson in humility.

We sat in my bedroom scribbling names, dates, and times on a stack of posters. I still had three hundred posters in a crate, which I’d dragged up from Philadelphia in a U-haul. I had designed them very carefully, making sure to include enough negative space to scribble in the changing club dates. In Philadelphia, I’d made only a few attempts at poster-hanging, and it had always seemed a dangerous business. The areas of concentrated cultural activity in my hometown were few, and the in-between miles were populated by tumbleweeds made of garbage and drugs. My efforts were usually thwarted by oncoming sirens echoing down the empty streets. I gave up after the first or second hanging, stuffing my flyers in a bag and legging it home.

When I moved to New York I was far less skittish about promotional vandalism. Everyone was doing it. There was a flurry of activity on every block, a level of street PR impossible to regulate. Every publicly and privately owned surface in the East Village had been covered with announcements—not just for bands, but for dog walkers, housekeepers, language tutors, computer doctors, and for people who would put your posters up for you. The eyes ached, the heart raced. Within seconds of becoming a New Yorker, I’d been struck by New York Disease, a widespread illness characterized by a persistent feeling of being behind in everything.

And so I dragged Tommy McBride and a plastic bag out one September twilight, forcing them both into the long haul down Second Avenue. The work might be tedious, I thought, but damn it we were going to paper this neighborhood until it looked like we were the only act in town. May the long tentacles of consumer advertising put our name on the lips of many drowsing New Yorkers at bedtime.

The poster image was a blow-up of a black and white photograph showing me and a friend dressed in suits and large glasses, holding up a record player, looking very serious, as if we’d just invented it. It was a bit blurry, the result of a Photoshop accident I didn’t know how to fix, and which had the effect of making the picture look much older than it was, like an archival photo from the U of Penn science lab. This was good – it fell right into the “vintage” range of fake old, and anything vintage had value in New York. The term in this case refers to anything manufactured between 1960 and 1985. Anything earlier ran the risk of evoking Rat Pack conservatism, and anything post-eighties was not kitschy enough – and therefore could have little relevance to the crowd choking Ludlow Street in their oversized sunglasses and untamed beards. With my out-of-focus black and white posters in hand, I was a credible member of the vintage nation and I was ready to fly the flag.

I hadn’t seen the need to come up with a system. Nothing along the lines of, “Okay, Tommy, you hold the poster and I’ll apply the tape which I’ve divided into precut strips. Total time allotted for each posting: eight seconds.” In practice, it was a three-minute-long process, most of which was spent disentangling my fingers from a roll of packing adhesive that was missing a cutting blade. And I’d forgotten to bring scissors.

Our campaign to beautify Manhattan was moving steadily if slowly forward—we’d hit two telephone poles and a mailbox—when we stopped at a lamplight across the street from Arlene’s Grocery. While I searched the heavily trafficked lamppost for ad space, Tommy said, “Uh, Eli. Hey, buddy… There’s a cop here.” The cruiser had apparently pulled right up to the curb while I was stamping our presence onto the public consciousness. I turned around, red-handed, with only a dunce cap missing from my array of accouterments.

“You guys posting signs?”

I thought about lying. “No, officer, just removing some of this filthy artwork. This poor neighborhood is besieged by vandals.” But then I saw my arrest flash before my eyes, and based on TV I figured that lying to a police officer was worse than getting caught.

I would fudge the truth though. I’d own up to hanging the posters, but I’d plead ignorance on the whole illegal thing. I would base my plea on the fact that there’d obviously been a precedent set, and that a hundred other bands posting on Stanton Street had made it seem okay.

“What are the signs for?” The officer was thirty-four-ish, Italian, and with a grin that gave away his embarrassment at what was probably the first collar of his shift.

“We’ve got a band show coming up.” His embarrassment could not have matched mine. The words coming out of my mouth were those of a fourteen-year-old, complete with the end-of-sentence high note.

At that moment any contention that had previously existed between Tommy and me was replaced by guilt and fear—guilt that I was a schmuck nearly twice his age involving him in a petty crime designed only to promote my music. The fear came from the idea that Tommy would get some kind of life-crippling citation that would keep him out of Yale, resulting in his parents suing me. In court I would be sentenced to replace every dollar lost from Tommy’s lost career as a U.N. interpreter.

“Let me see your ID’s, guys?”

I had obtained a New York State Driver’s License only a few weeks before. My Pennsylvania one had prevented me from claiming unemployment. Now I was wishing I’d made no such leap. Having an out-of-state license might have granted me some leeway. “Sorry, I’m from out of town” had worked the time I got pulled over for blocking an intersection on the Upper East Side three years before. But I was locked in now. My I.D. showed that I was not only a New York resident, but that I lived in the very neighborhood in which I was offending.

They scanned Tommy’s, then my I.D. For a moment, I worried that Tommy, by force of habit, had handed over his often-used fake, which meant we were really done for. But Tommy kept his head better than I did. In fact he appeared totally unfazed by the experience, even on the border of having fun. He stood in his rock star pose, legs apart, hips cocked, hands on belly, not a bead of sweat. Had we been dragged in, this would have been his mug shot.

While the cop filled out his paperwork, I wondered over the consequences. Were we about to get a three-hundred-dollar ticket? No. It was unlikely that we’d be getting anything. I’d be getting. The minor would probably not be held accountable. I was equally panicked about how this run-in with the law would harm the turnout at our gig. We’d only gotten three posters up before the whole operation came crumbling down.

My brain was still working to come up with excuses—nothing that would necessarily lighten my sentence, but things I could say to make me feel less to blame. There was nothing. It would have been different, and slightly more heroic, had I been breaking the law in the name of justice (“Anti-Bush Concert in the Park”) or awareness (“Fight Premature Birth Defects”), or in the employ of some larger entity. (“They told me to do it.”) But it was all me, and there was nothing noble in my cause. I was the President and CEO of Loser-Band, Ltd. Tommy was my assistant, who’d probably be handing in his notice.

“Sorry guys,” the officer said as he handed back our I.D.’s and unfolded his citation pad. “It’s a quality of life issue down here. They get too many signs, the neighborhood doesn’t like it. Plus it’s a fire hazard.” How I wished the poster I was currently looking at for “The Elfin Magic Band” would burst into flames. Quality of life. If we were going to get philosophical, I could posit my thesis on how music is actually essential, Officer, to the quality of life…

“This is a standard summons. You’re gonna have to report down to the courthouse on this date.” He pointed to the corner of his pad. “The judge might let you off, you never know.”

Okay, and if he doesn’t? What’s the jail time? Do I have the right to a lawyer? None of these questions made it out of my mouth, probably because I didn’t want to know. I watched the officer etch the letters of my last name into the individual squares on the ticket. There was no mistaking it. The squares don’t lie. That was me.

-----------

..... To Be Continued....

The Wall of Love, or How my Pubescence Went Awfully Awry

2011-02-17T15:36:00.010-05:00

I’ve got a problem. Well, you could say I’ve got several, if you’ve been reading any of the recent entries on this blog. But I’ve got a problem I know must be in my power to fix – and it’s got less to do with having a mutilated foot and being housebound, and more to do with the awful way I've let myself love.

I’ve always been attracted to girls who withhold. And not just in the way you think. I’m talking about girls whose hearts are so closed up behind fortified walls that if we even tried for a moment to partner up, our organs would get caught and ripped up by barbed wire. Yet they always seem to go out holding the upper hand – their hearts surrounded by so many armed guards, while my heart just loses a man each year, and I end up sniveling on the ground, useless.

Among these women are the following varieties, beautiful girls who: a) are incredibly religious b) don’t really speak English c) just don’t do certain things or d) (RARE) are married.

It’s not to say I haven’t gone out with plenty of other women. It’s just that these are the only varieties I’ve ever come close to the brink of insanity over, time and again. It may account for much of the reason I am still alone.

It started in high school. I was obsessed with a girl named Alice Beekman. She was the school’s lone Mormon. She was also the school’s lone Depeche Mode and Smiths fan. She made me a Morrissey mix tape Sophomore year and I didn’t even GET it. That’s how far ahead she was. We passed notes all day long in the hall. Occasionally she would cut my hair in her basement. I worshipped her.

I loved her because she couldn’t possibly love me; certainly not the way I wanted. We could never kiss. I wasn’t even allowed to hold her hand, though I did sneak in a hand-squeeze whenever possible. Swearing was out too. She could never understand my agnosticism or my love of The Rolling Stones, and I couldn’t understand why she’d want to go on a mission around the world trying to make people convert to her religion. (I also couldn’t understand what was wrong with swearing or kissing, but kept holding out hope that my agnostic charm would wear her down.) I dreaded the ends of all our phone conversations, because she’d always press down the receiver as quickly as she could, with a “bye” that was so cold and so disinterested she may as well have been talking to her orthodontist. Maybe her parents or one of her siblings was in the room and she didn’t want to be affectionate in front of them. Maybe she just wasn’t that into me – though God knows we kept our “thing” going for quite a while. I thought I had hope of getting through – that I’d be the one to win her over to the dark side of good old secular fun. (And believe me, I too was a virgin, so it’s not like I knew what I was missing, or was any expert in the ways of fun.)

When I found out she kissed Mike Marshall, on the lips, I screamed in the street. I flopped down on my front lawn and screamed my lungs out. At one point I smashed up my room like a complete mental patient, incurring punishment after punishment from my parents.

Not something that brought out the best in me, to be sure. And for some reason this set the stage for so many of my early relationships. I kept having run-ins with religious girls who couldn’t possibly take me seriously. Catholics, Muslims, Protestants. And invariably I’d fly into a rage or descend into a deep depression when that rejection came to pass. It happened only two years ago with Samantha from Indiana, a beautiful and devout Christian who looked about seventeen. (she was 26.) This made me uncomfortable from the start. But she was gorgeous and sweet - and I must have some unconscious overwhelming desire to be accepted by the other side. I tried it out for a month or two, knew it wasn’t working and finally sought to take the initiative and beat her to the breakup. Afterward, I thought, Good. Dodged that bullet. Yes, I hurt her feelings – but it was for the good of all.

Six months later I stood facing her on the street in the dead of night, begging her to take me back - telling her I loved her. She declined.

It was the night of the 2008 presidential election. I biked to a Brooklyn bar afterward, where everyone was completely ecstatic over Obama and I felt completely destroyed over Samantha, a girl I knew I wasn't in love with. What a fool for acceptance. Acceptance from the good, the righteous, the holy, from those I don’t get or even like – from those who keep it in rather than let it out - that must be what I want.

Even the nonreligious girls I've upended my life for have had some gate around them, some gate I was determined to open. One summer I followed a married lady around like a tail. Couldn’t stop thinking about her, knowing she could never be mine. I spoke her name every night as I lay in bed. We never even touched.

I’d need four hands to count the girls who hated affection or intimacy, who were impervious to ardor, reluctant to passion - and yet who gave no thought to showing affection and ardor to other men directly in front of me.

Looking back, the amount of interruptus my life has endured is truly staggering. Don’t get me wrong, there’s been lots of uninterrputus as well – but perhaps I’m not happy unless I’m turned down.

Seems a shame because I genuinely don’t like being turned down. Plus these dramas, these battles of the heart, have taken up an unbelievable amount of time in my life. Perhaps it explains why I haven’t made inroads in the world of international celebrity or in literary circles.

I’ll be the first to admit that most things are my fault, including this unending pattern. But even I don’t like to acknowledge that I’m this self-effacing, this at war with my happiness. I was pretty sure I’d broken out of this pattern by now; sure I’d unearthed whatever psychological debris was making me want to stay on this side of the Wall of Love. But even today, I battle on – no matter how much I see it coming a mile away. I let run-of-the-mill withholding turn into outright rejection until all my organs fall apart.

I wrote a song several years ago called “The Start of My Career.” I’m thinking of it now. You can hear it here: http://www.myspace.com/elijamessongs

Tomorrow I shall think of a much better ending for this entry.

Okay that was scary...

2011-02-15T16:16:00.010-05:00

I just left the apartment on my own for the first time, unguarded, unescorted, no cab. I went out to get Band Aids and throw out the garbage. I accomplished both of these tasks using a combination of double-crutching and single-crutching, sometimes with both crutches under one arm and my sandaled foot landing flat on the ground, sometimes plugging down the pavement in the traditional "hop-along" style.

It was harrowing. I regard myself as someone with a reasonably able upper body. Getting to the corner, and then down another block and back again -- it was truly punishing. Besides the back and arm and armpit beating I received, I came to realize that toes, whether they're injured or not, stick out from the rest of the body, and bump into things constantly. There's no psychological terror like the one that comes from a slight bang against a recently operated-on toe. It's a new psychological terror that must top the list of all the previous ones I've indulged. (And there have been many. I'm a Jewish male.)

Before I left my doctor's office yesterday (escorted by a most generous companion with a car), he said I should feel free to walk outside and do what I need to do, as long as it isn't too rigorous. And so I came home and wrote an email to my managers, telling them it's way too soon to consider auditioning for on-camera work or plays, but that I should have no problem getting myself to the city and back for a voice-over.

Wouldn't you know it, they called me today with a voice-over audition for tomorrow.

If the short, baby-sized journey I took to get band-aids and remove refuse just now wasn't rigorous, then I don't know what is. (See look of defeat and pain now stamped permanently on the subject's eyes in above picture.) Now I'm faced with a torrent of anxiety regarding tomorrow and the audition I said I was well enough to go to. Do I suck up the financial hit and order a pair of cabs to get me to the midtown location and back, paying well over fifty dollars just to attend an audition? Or do I try my hand at climbing up Franklin Avenue, which exists on a wicked 60-degree incline, and braving the subway, crutches in hand?

Huh. Looking back over that paragraph, it seems I've answered my own question.

Here's another picture of the man I've become:

And another:

Oh yeah, did I mention I sliced my thumb with a bagel knife a few days ago? (see raised thumb, just up from mutilated toe).

Did I also mention my middle name is "schmuck-tard?" (Seriously. That's from the Bible. It was quite a consecration at the old synagogue.)

Pink - Behind the Music

2011-02-15T14:33:00.009-05:00

I'm dying to get outside and see Prospect Park and somehow get Band-Aids. But the idea of getting all the way over there with my crutches keeps me sitting on my bed, slowly, slowly buttoning my shirt to prolong taking those first steps. And this is when I discover new things with my new TV, like VH1 and "Pink - Behind the Music."

I love how they rally together all of these "industry insiders" to talk about the glorious rise of a singer named Pink - a tough white girl who rocked her punk style to make in-yo-face dance music and inspire a generation of little girls to get tattoos.

I always thought that to have a "Behind the Music," there had to be something behind your music. Is it possible there's anything lurking behind the album "misundastood" or lyrics like "I'm coming out so you better get this party started?" The commentator actually uses words like "cathartic" and "heartache" throughout the documentary.

It's glorious, and I mean that. God bless you, TV, for padding this charade out to an hour, and allowing snobs like me to continually feel haughty. The satisfaction almost makes up for being poor.

The bare medical facts.

2011-02-15T13:05:00.025-05:00

Since I know lots of people around the world must be waiting for an in-depth medical update on the state of my toe, I shall herein provide. (sans gory pictures, and adding a couple of gratuitous rants about cabs.)

Where my foot's at now (and other ungrammatical updates):

It's been fifteen days since I had the operation that discovered a substantial pothole on the head of my first MTP joint on the right foot. (see diagram above). The existence of this crater was not known until the operation itself, when Dr. Carter opened me up and said, "Hey, that's a crater on the head of the first MTP joint!" (O.R. dialogue interpolated by author.)

As detailed in a previous post, the doctor has given me 50/50 odds on recovering from this operation and returning to normal foot life. Even-handed and egalitarian as they may be, these are not the odds a patient waking from surgery wants to hear; they have stuck in me hard, bringing worse pain than the sliced-open foot. 50/50 - I would have liked to have received better odds than that, after all the hell I've been through with this toe thing for last eleven months.

Sorry, on to the rest of the bald medical facts. Whingeing to come.

Articular cartilage is the cartilage that covers the top layer of the areas that make up a joint and is the area where the pothole was found. He drilled three thin holes in the pothole, hoping that scar tissue will fill it in. There is a 50% chance that I’ll do well with it and recover. There is just as much chance that I'll recover for now, but in 4 or 5 years I’ll develop arthritis and have the same amount of pain as before. However, there is just as much chance that the operation won’t have worked at all, and I'll be right back where I started, even after all this trauma. I don't like to think about this part of it.

This shows a diagram of the left foot, but you get the idea.

I feel particularly accomplished at having looked at the photo my surgeon took of the joint during the operation. (He had taken it with his iPhone.) I do not have a copy of this photo, thankfully for all of you. Usually I'm a little girl when it comes to seeing gory pictures of people's insides, it's hands-over-eyes time. But it's amazing what you can stand to see when your livelihood is on the line.

There it was. That crater was plain as day, right near the opening of the joint. Dear God, I thought, I have that inside me? THAT’s on my bone? How the FUCK are we going to get rid of that?? How is scar tissue going to close that up??

It was harrowing, shocking and troubling – yet at the same time I felt a certain comfort looking at this picture. Okay – it’s not a monster, it’s not the boogie man, it’s not a tumor – it’s a dent. That’s what we’re working with. A dent. Those get repaired all the time. Cars, appliances, walls. Yes, alright, those things don't feel pain and are not made of human cells, but I mean... cuts heal, don't they? Those are kinds of dents, aren't they? Surely a dent in the cartilage can be clotted up, can't it?

We won't know for another five weeks. When I last saw Dr. Carter on Monday, he said he was pleased with the way the incision was healing. Okay, well at least there's that. I was worried my bloated discolored toe and generally yellowy foot were symptoms of an infection or some other awful complication. Thankfully no. He even commented on the looks of my toe as being quite encouraging. "Alright! Look at that bleeding!" he said while taking off my bandages. Apparently the purplish and plump state of my big toe was an indication that internal bleeding had taken place. This was what might lead to that hole filling up with scar tissue.

Still, he wants me to go see a Dr. Kennedy, a colleague of his at the Hospital for Special Surgery. This is a facility on the Upper East Side known for being top notch in joint issues, and which is also known for charging consultation fees affordable only to movie stars and heads of western states. Apparently Dr. Kennedy is an expert at transplanting articular cartilage from the knee to the foot, what's called an osteochondral autograft. Well, he may not be an expert, my doctor said, but he has done it four or five time with some success. Lovely.

Dr. K. has already seen the iPhone photo of my pothole and told Dr. C. that we should wait about five weeks to determine whether or not the drilling worked. And if it hasn't, Dr. Kennedy thinks I'd be a good candidate for the autograft. I am hoping and praying that it doesn't come to that. And I'm not entirely clear on how they will determine if the first operation has worked. The MRI's and X-rays I'd had prior to the surgery hadn't showed my pothole at all. They'd completely missed it. Alright technology - now's your time to prove yourself - 'cause I'm NOT having another operation to find out if my operation worked!

Meanwhile, I've been fitted with a blue Velcro sandal that has a hard sole. Dr. Carter wants me to walk on that as much as I can stand in the coming week, using crutches for support. If it hurts, don’t do it, but if it’s okay, keep doing it. The sandal will keep the toe stable while walking, though really it just serves to make me look, feel, and sound like Frankenstein, clomping slowly step by step, rocking back and forth. All attempts to go outside have proved so overwhelming and painful, that confinement to my small apartment still seems the better plan.

In addition to drilling in the pothole, Dr. Carter told me he reset the great toe slightly to be pointing a little straighter, away from the second toe, and slightly up. Said it should help in the recovery. Then he wiggled the toe back and forth. I didn’t feel any pain, though I was terrified I would. He asked me to try to press forward and back on his finger with my toe. I did, just slightly. He was happy with it.

Gratuitous complaint about cabs (as promised):

For my first post-op visit, I'd spent an hour and a half in the car service just getting from my apartment in Crown Heights to my mom's hotel in Sunset Park to the doctor's office near Columbus Circle. A pilgrim going Mecca would have given up and said, "Fuck it. Not worth it," if he'd had such a journey, and had had to spend over an hour just in the dregs of Brooklyn, under the shadow of the rotten Gowanus canal bridge.

I’m convinced it was a combination of nightmarish midday traffic and the Arecibo drivers not knowing what they were doing. All the while my foot was being shaken this way and that by the constant stops and endless potholes. (Potholes - my arch-nemesis.) The driver kept taking different detours, dissatisfied with the amount of traffic at each intersection on the way to the Battery tunnel. I'd even agreed to pay the toll for the tunnel because he said it would be faster than taking the bridge. We were half an hour late. On the way home, the driver insisted on taking the 59th Street Bridge into Queens, and proceeded to take the streets all the way from Long Island City to Williamsburg to Crown Heights. (This description will probably be irritating to any non-New Yorkers out there, but that's one thing about us Gothamites. We love to name neighborhoods.) There was no respite for the foot in this icy pothole-filled ride. I tried holding it up from the car floor in a thousand different ways, none of them helpful, my mother having to put up with my swearing all along the way.

Day 13 - Poster Child

2011-02-15T12:14:00.006-05:00

Yes, folks, it's that point in the foot surgery recovery period when I'm purportedly "okay to go outside," but still so intimidated by the idea of placing my swollen gashed-up foot on the black-iced Brooklyn pavement that I'm using any excuse I can to remain inside. It's true - I'm a prisoner of my mind. There are also very few socks that will fit comfortably over my stitches. Which is too bad 'cause I really need band-aids.

The excuse today is - "I have to write!" But since I'm not sure that what I really want to write is printable, I will satisfy my urge to share by digging back into my creative nonfiction catalog. Please bear with me.

"Poster Child" was composed in 2006 or so, which makes it and me incredibly old. I'll only put a chunk of it up here since it's long, and if I'm feeling brave, will publish the rest in subsequent chunks. Many times I've tried to get it published by someone else. Now that I'm publishing it myself, I'll look for a fat paycheck in the post signed by Eli James.

It's about a teenager and me and my two court appearances.

Poster Child (part one)

by Eli James

I moved to New York to restart the rock band I had started in Philadelphia before I got sick of living there. I didn’t bring any musicians with me up the Jersey Turnpike, so I had to begin recruiting from scratch. It wasn’t until two years later that I comprehended the basic facts apparent to the more seasoned New York band starters: that good rock drummers charged $200 per gig and $100 per rehearsal, and that the free ones were flakes or alcoholics or homeless, or worse, not super at keeping time. But because I hadn’t learned this yet, I thought the world was picking on me, blighting me with delinquent drummers, stunting the growth of my newest most awesome artistic project since I wrote that play senior year about Lewis and Clark. This was really going to blow the world away, and it was going way too slowly.

After my first three drummers quit or disappeared or were fired for chomping too much lithium, I found a nice young man who looked like he might stick around for a while. Jason was only mildly alcoholic – meaning that at worst his pre-show tequilas made him drum faster, not slower. Three months later he would quit, telling me he wanted to start training for a marathon. This was a whole new take on drummer-flaking that I still applaud to this day for its originality. However, when I first got my hooks in him, I immediately put the feelers out for a gig – hoping to land a show before another wave of drummer misfortunes could darken my door. I stuck my CD in a black plastic folder, slammed a sticker on the front of it, and managed to intercept one of the myriad Tuesday-at-ten slots the city’s web of midlevel booking agents were hungry to fill. It was at The Continental on Third Avenue. I think that’s where every band in New York plays for the first time. Like the great CBGB’s, The Continental no longer exists. Also like CBGB’s, its reputation for being great had faded away at least twenty years before.

It was my first show in New York as a New York resident. I had to figure out how to get New York people to attend. I knew nothing about the city’s street-team culture, the ins and outs of sticking posters on walls, but I reasoned it couldn’t be as complicated as the drummer-finding process that had nearly killed me. Little did I know that the politics of grassroots band promotion were fraught with dangers that would make assembling a rock group seem like a meditation.

I’d previously lived and played in Philadelphia and Los Angeles. I wondered if it was possible that New York was the same, in that the only people who showed up to gigs were those who knew somebody in the band, or if the big city was different, if people here were so overflowing with energy that they spilled into clubs at all hours to hear bands they’d never heard of – forced off their paths by the narrowness of the sidewalks, moved by a need to be ahead of the buzz, higher on coke and other drugs than you could be anywhere else.

The first thing that stood out to me about my new hometown, the East Village, which I later learned distinguished it most from the Upper West Side, was that there were posters everywhere. Not just in the doors and windows of clubs, but on walls, telephone poles, traffic lights, and sometimes plastered to the sidewalk beneath my feet. Rarely did a night go by that I didn’t drift off to sleep muttering “Washer-Eye” or “The Rickshaw Thieves,” or “Ref-Sleeper,” words that stuck in my head in those solitary hours like the melodies from commercial jingles. They weren’t really good names. In fact, they were irritating. The only reason I remembered them against my will was that they belonged to those bands that had as many posters as there were bus stops on Second Avenue. Proof that, even on this low-budget level, advertising worked.

The story of my advertising campaign, a product launch that ultimately put me twice before a New York judge, requires a glimpse into the relationship between me and Tommy McBride. Tommy, my bass player and a junior in high school, had responded to an ad I’d placed on Craigslist when he was seventeen and I was twenty-seven. This was what stuck in people’s minds most whenever we played, the fact that I had a very young bassist, who looked closer to twelve than seventeen. He had white freckled skin and a baby-fat belly. He wore Diesel jeans and T-shirts with the names of bands I hadn’t heard of, probably because I was too old. His standout feature was his hair—an orange out of a crayon box, a blinding copper that would be a liability to most, but for Tommy was just another instrument for him to play. He whipped it around to the stops and starts of our songs, twirling it like a whammy bar, refracting and tearing the beams of the lights until a blood-red sheen covered the stage. He remained in the band through all eight drummers.

He came from loads of money, went to a fancy prep school, and spoke five languages—one of them was French, and three were either dead or extremely marginalized. At the time of our first rehearsal he was studying for his ancient Greek final. At lunch he spoke a whole sentence in Welsh. When he stood idle, he put one hand on his belly and one arm over his head. I called it his rock star pose.

Money and growing up in New York City had made him mature beyond his years. His parents let him stay out all night, take trips with his girlfriend to Venezuela, and chip in the same amount of money I did to keep the band going. They were both doctors who ran a hospital on the Upper West Side, Tommy’s dad the anesthesiologist who had overseen Bill Clinton’s heart surgery. The McBrides sent their boy to Riverdale Country School, an elite prep academy in the upper Bronx, what I thought of as New York’s Eton. “I’m one of three non-Jews in the whole school,” he would often say—usually in an effort to bridge some of the gaps in our cultures. He wanted me to know that virtually all of his friends were Jewish. I believed him, and wished in great despair that the Jewish stereotype of wealth and educational pedigree had graced my family as it had Tommy and his entire Semitic circle. Tommy’s pals and girlfriends were all privileged Jews and occasional Asian Americans. His closest friend’s father owned the distribution company that handled Sean John. Until recently they had played in a punk band together called Naked Osprey. My parents had refused to pay for more than two college applications, and the idea of spending ninety-five dollars on the paperwork for Yale was just crazy talk, so I never did it. My dad drove me to pick up my date for the Homecoming Dance in his Dodge Lancer. Tommy would never have allowed such a thing.

No phone interaction between Tommy and me ever lasted longer than thirty seconds. He would end each transmission with, “I gotta run, my history teacher’s taking me out for coffee,” or “I gotta run, I’m picking up my brother from the Sleater-Kinney show in D.C.” (His older brother.) I was bruised by his brush-offs, but always impressed at the amount of stuff he had going on. He was on the debate team. He was in the jazz band at school and had been recognized as the best upright bass player in the state (high school division.) He tutored the underprivileged in his spare time. That was exactly how he phrased it. “I’ve gotta run. I’m tutoring the underprivileged.”

For long stretches, when drummers disappeared and we had to endure endless rounds of replacement auditions, it was Tommy and I against the world – two unlikely partners working their fingers to bloody stubs, playing chunky riffs for days on end and talking about girls. We shared a complicated relationship, a unique camaraderie based on our love for the early Who, The Wedding Present, and The Jam, as well as the fact that he was seventeen and I wanted to be seventeen. When he first slinked into the audition room hefting an instrument almost twice his size, complaining that “traffic was a bitch on the West Side Highway,” I instantly wanted him to like me. His youth was glaring and garish, and in many ways unbearable, but it was contagious. I wanted to go out with Tommy, get drunk with him, meet his friends, be his study partner for the PSAT’s. I wanted to be immature and silly; give him noogies and friendly jabs in the arm. My teen years had been extremely guarded, while his seemed open to a wealth of possibilities.

To be continued....

How? and Oh Yoko!

2011-02-13T17:16:00.037-05:00

This is Day Twelve of being confined to my Brooklyn apartment following foot surgery, having not left except once to see my doctor, and once to retrieve my mail from the downstairs lobby. Both occasions were so traumatic for my recently sliced-open and stitched-shut foot that I decided self-imposed imprisonment to be the best course of action, until I'm required to see my doctor again.

I have been, as one might guess, wigging out.

But I'll skip through the usual tales of wigging out and crutch acrobatics found in previous posts, and skip to discussing the last two tracks on John Lennon's album "Imagine."

This may or may not be the start to a series of musings on various recorded sounds and images that make up most of my company while here in Brooklyn, bed-bound.

Or this could just be a way to drown out the voice in my head that's begging me to consider hiring a prostitute for Valentine's Day.

Now I'm not one of those purists who listens to records (mainly because I don't have any speakers for my record player) but I am one of those nerds who divides all of his iTunes albums into Side A and Side B, if those albums were originally released on vinyl. I look up the track listing on the internet and then divide up the mp3's accordingly. Does anyone else do this? I know this puts me into a very special category of music obsessive, but honestly I find it is the only way I can understand these albums. Digitally halving my mp3's is the only way I have of connecting to the eras I missed, and which I wished I'd been around to enjoy. The sixties, the seventies, and to a lesser extent the eighties.

In that light, I've recently found myself humbled by the precision with which John Lennon devised the ending to "Imagine," his second solo album, released in 1971. He placed a track called "How?" next to a track called "Oh Yoko!" before concluding in silence. I'm sure my being flat on my back with a foot injury (one that's been given a 50% shot at recovery) is indirectly responsible for my finding new meaning in the order and content of these two songs.

First of all, these are two tracks on which Lennon uses his kid voice to its utmost effect. It's the voice that makes him sound like a five-year-old singing to himself in the sandbox. Lennon was an incredibly sophisticated if not "great" rock singer. He was never a star vocalist of the Robert Plant or Roger Daltrey or even Paul McCartney variety. But he knew a thing or two about singing, and honed his ability to downshift into a childlike whispering voice without ever sounding false or cloying. People are still learning from it today.

"How?" is written as a series of questions pointing to a man in so much pain he can barely move. (a feeling I've come to know literally)

How can I go forward when I don't know which way I'm facing?

How can I have feelings when my feelings have always been denied?

How can I give love when I just don't know how to give?

How can I give love when I don't know what it is I'm giving?

Lennon is at once admitting being scarred and being selfish. He rails against those who squelched his feelings as a child, while decrying the way he's held on to his own survivalist instincts at the expense of all others around him. "How can I give love when I just don't know how to give?" - it's a line you don't hear expressed in too many other pop songs of the time. And there is no doubting the sincerity in Lennon's voice. Even for the insular kingdom of two he formed with Yoko Ono - a love forged in the public eye, and out of necessity publicized by Ono and Lennon as the love to end all loves - he freely expresses his petulance, his despair, and his doubts about the very existence of love.

This is also a subject lately on my mind, having seen another year go by and still having no idea if I could love someone, and if someone could love me, and if that love could sustain itself for more than a few seconds. It seems a matter of impossible mathematics, made all the more intimidating by this overused word - a word everyone seems to have remarkably easy access to.

Lennon sings "How?" just as I would imagine a very grownup five-year-old sitting in his sandbox might, hopelessly brushing sand into the same reforming hole. The only conclusions he comes to are that "Life can be long, and you've got to be so strong. The world is so tough. Sometimes I feel I've had enough." There is no affirmation contained in these statements. There is no "chin up" implied, merely the resignation we all feel when it seems as though life is nothing but a series of trials, heaped on top of each other in quick succession. This feels especially true when you can't imagine walking from the bedroom to the kitchen without pain, when once you used to run, jump, occasionally have sex standing up, and play squash. You look back over the last two years and see nothing but illness, death, bereavement, loneliness and financial distress. It seems the bad has far outweighed the good, and carrying on seems just an absurd act of self-destruction when you don't even know which way you're facing.

At which point the song ends with a string section rising in a five-note progression. It's just slightly overproduced and too sweet. The violins resolve to a high note more akin to the end of a Doris Day ballad than a John Lennon number, and with this Lennon indulges his deepest desire to escape into fantasy, running toward an impossible image of love known only to Hollywood endings.

With two hard snare hits Lennon takes us out of this world of head-in-the-sand nihilism and into "Oh Yoko!"- a jangly masterpiece of adoration. "In the middle of the night, in the middle of a bath, in the middle of a shave, in the middle of a dream... I call your name. Oh, Yoko! My love will turn you on." The song bounces beautifully along. It encapsulates the feeling of uncontrollable pleasure at the thought of someone's name. The fact that Lennon uses his real wife's name makes it all the more powerful. "Whoa, wait a minute. This rock star's singing about his wife? AND using her real name??" This had rarely been done, and to my knowledge is still rarely done. "Seriously, the lady he actually lives with? He calls her name while shaving?" It shouldn't be thrilling, but it is. Especially when you know that the woman whose name he's calling is in the next room, or at best down in the basement or something. What's so great about a love song in which the guy has already got the girl?

And yet there is a yearning for something gone missing, and the plea contained in the song is electrifying: "My love ... will ... turn ... you on!" I honestly don't know what this means, but I like it. "Turning on" in the late sixties/early seventies had all kinds of connotations - from drug use, to sexual arousal, to general excitement, to the opening of the mind. And, honestly, I'm only basing that on myriad context clues - I can't claim those definitions to be 100% correct. I'm sure there are one or two other meanings I'd have to go to a first-generation hippie to get the real deal on.

But to my mind "my love will turn you on," the way Lennon sings it, is as innocent as a kid at a pinball machine. My excitement for your very name will make you really really really happy, my ability to shout your real name on record to the rest of the world will get you to come back up from the basement and quit being mad at me. Your name overtakes me at the least expected moments, and the passion I'm giving to you is nothing to the awakening you brought to me back in '68 when I decided I had to divorce my first wife, drop all this Beatle bullshit, and start afresh. I couldn't have done that for anyone else with any other name! (I'm sure one could fill in plenty of other backstories to make the song more relatable, but to me this is the beauty of Lennon. His life was an open book.)

And it's the placement of these two tracks that reminds me why Lennon was Lennon. He puts "How?" and "Oh Yoko!" back to back. At one moment saying, "Life is one long horrible suckfest and you're completely on your own and love is just an illusion," and the next saying, "Love is real and it's freaking awesome!!! I love my woman so much and I want you to remember her name!!" We are infinitely erratic. We are one person one moment and another person the next. We despair one minute and rejoice the minute after. We lose our shit, and we get it back. We are children 'til we die, knowing just as much about the universe at our last breath as we do when we are born. Despair is infinitely powerful, and will come up again and again - but adolescent silly love is the note to go out on.

Oh, to have that to joy to give to someone.... and not worry that it won't be rejected or mocked. It does leave me wondering, do you need a Yoko to sing your "Oh Yoko!"?

It's just so hard to do on your own. I'm slowly creeping toward early middle age and I still haven't found a Yoko who makes me sing. But the recordings left behind by John Lennon make love feel abundantly possible, no matter how long you've been missing it.

And that's what makes him the greatest track orderer who ever lived.

Better rest up. Seeing my doctor tomorrow.

Day 9 - my loathsome invalid's lair

2011-02-11T15:12:00.015-05:00

You can see from this picture we've got all the key ingredients for arousing disgust in the viewer and inferring insanity from the subject. Undecorated white walls. Lamp with burn-holes in the bulb covers. Cords and cables running thither and yon. A rickety TV table substituting for a nightstand, containing all manner of lewdness. Crutches angled against the wall. Dressing around injured foot looking as loose and untended as a matron's midsection. And the look of desperation, self-loathing and scorn. It’s practically an illustration out of Dickens.

Alone now, nine days since the operation, everything is so tiring. Can't tell if that's because I haven't left the house in nine days and therefore my threshold for activity is at an all time low, or if it's because I'm using great strength to do simple tasks. I feel a great sense of accomplishment, followed by a long bout of weariness, just making my breakfast and getting it over to my eating tray; or picking up the scattered pile of used paper towels lying around my bed, or getting my medicine all in one place. If after all these herculean labors I add on picking my dirty clothes up from the floor and putting them into my laundry bag, well, I will undoubtedly be so exhausted that I’ll need to lie in bed and watch TV for at least three hours. Such is being on your own with a severely wounded foot and no helper monkey.

It’s also, I’ve learned, one of the vile side effects of being the new owner of a TV.

I watched three more hours of Monty Python footage today, from that addictive and amazing documentary, "Monty Python: Almost The Truth, Lawyers' Cut." It’s all too interesting and I am too boring. That’s the trouble. No one’s asking me to write a script or finish a song or star in a film or write an article – or help them anything – and so I’m at the will of far more interesting people than I, with whom I am in contact only through recorded media, and who don’t know I’m alive at all. Gosh, can you imagine if Michael Palin knew I was alive? Knew of my existence? In fact he is the only Python I’ve ever met and even while I was meeting him, he still didn’t acknowledge my existence. But what a jolt of feeling I just got thinking that perhaps at some point in time Michael Palin would think to himself, “I wonder how Eli James is doing?”

Youth and Partnership are the ingredients you need to be able to succeed as an artist. I’m convinced of this. You need one or the other. Enough youth to disregard your mistakes and shake off the thousand rejections and to maintain with enough ego that you are a genius and fuck the rest of ‘em. Bob Dylan had this. Lots of painters. Partnership is another element that can keep you going through the tough times. Bands. Comedy groups. Writing teams. At the very least, partnership gives you an outlet for your work, and thereby makes you work. Me, I’m wondering yet again what I ought to be doing with the talents I have, at this seemingly late and still solitary stage of my career.

Right now I need to wash my hands, and I need to obtain my ice pack from the freezer and tie it around my foot in the hopes that this damned gash will stop throbbing. But I can’t bear the thought of getting up again from this bed, and crushing my surgical gash against that medical sandal, and so I lie and watch more TV. I can’t bear the thought of feeling my big toe hang suspended, numb, out of line with the others, so I just lie here trying to imagine it isn't there. I can’t bear the thought of feeling those paper strips tighten over my wound, causing a pain unthinkable. Why aren’t they loosening, like the doctor said they would? He sounded surprised yesterday when I told him the foot still hurt, when I told him it was very painful to walk in the sandal. He said to raise and lower the foot from a dangling to an elevated position every twenty minutes and he’ll check me out again on Monday. Dear God, what if something went wrong? What if I'm a casualty?

It can be really quiet here. I used to live in a place where my next door neighbor’s noise felt like it was coming from my apartment. Where I could hear him opening mail. Here, there are parties on the street in summer, but since September this has become the quietest place I’ve ever lived in New York. Nearly silent. How can it be this quiet? I’m left to deal with this on my own. And sometimes, very briefly, I like that. Sometimes I relish the thought of this whole drama making me tougher; this physical trial making me more grizzled. Harder than the old Eli. But I can’t bear the thought of waking up to another day alone in this place. Somebody please fast-forward me to three months from now so I know how I turn out. Somebody please skip to the next scene, and let it involve healthy feet and other people needing me. Then you can rewind me right back to this spot and I’ll suffer through the pain. Please let me value all the people I might ever meet from this point forward with the same reverence as I now value the people I’ve met. And let me walk, run and act again.

I don’t know who it is I’m meant to be talking to there. My ambivalent thoughts on God will have to come another time.

A few posts ago, I expressed reluctance at revealing personal information, feelings and fears on this blog. I feel less reluctant about that now, but I still find it extremely distasteful and embarrassing to be doing so. I’m imagining what it would be like to stumble on this blog and read it, not knowing me. And it’s worse when I imagine I’m someone I know, a friend even, who reads these outpourings and decides he has no choice but to cut all ties. Urgh, I’d think, must this prick be so obvious in his hunt for attention? We’ve all got problems, you know. What makes him think everybody wants to read about his?

Well, yes. Yes, but fuck that guy. Any guy I pretend to be who’s worried about what people will think of the guy I really am – he’s been on my ass for decades, and he needs to be beaten down with a trash can lid. I can’t help it that I’m scared, and that it somehow comforts me to tell the blog-o-sphere.

I’m scared because I can’t feel part of my big toe. I can’t feel it along the side at all. And it’s shaped like a pot-bellied pig. Swollen. It’s black and blue all over. And when I set my foot down on the floor inside the sandal the doctor gave me, it feels dangerously out of position. He said he’d reset it to take some of the weight off. Was that necessary? I’m still in great pain and now perhaps I’m mutilated.

People tell me to be positive – I don’t know how that’s done in this situation. In the past when I’ve made mistakes, or got into trouble, I found there was some series of steps out of it. Or else I just started over. I tried to forget about the screw-up (and all those attached to it), or tried to make amends. Usually some grace came out of it, even if years later, mellowing the taste of my disgrace. This, if it doesn’t go well, I can’t start over. It’s irreversible.

Pictures I’m taking of myself look like those of a drug addict who’s done untold damage to his veins, brain, lungs and heart. It would be too late to quit for this guy. He’s ravaged. He is permanently disgraced. He looks like one of the grandly wasted.

Plus I'm not sure if the beard's working. It itches like hell, and I'm ready to get rid of it. Thing is, my curiosity is holding back the razor. What would I look like with a beard? Maybe when I emerge from this cavern I'll be taken in by the Hasids of Crown Heights (provided I'm strong enough to walk to the Jewish side of Eastern Parkway) and I'll feel like I belong somewhere.

Wow. I just read that sentence back. I really must be losing it. It's hard for me to imagine a world in which the Ultra-Orthodox could make my - or anyone's - life better.

Day 8 at home - with bum foot and beard

2011-02-10T17:32:00.003-05:00

The main thing about having crutches is, you can’t use your hands for anything. I guess this should have been obvious.

A couple of times I devised a way to carry the odd bowl full of cereal and modestly filled coffee cup from my kitchen (where there is no seating) to the bedroom (where everything else I need is) by clutching the left crutch with my armpit, coffee cup with left hand, and using the right crutch as I normally would. This involves a very slow process of taking a regular crutch step with the right, stopping, and swinging the left crutch forward using only my armpit, being careful not to spill the coffee. The two sides are never parallel at any one time. This process takes approximately 27 minutes.

Not being able to stand for more than 30 seconds at a time makes certain other tasks such as shaving difficult. I am finding myself growing a beard for the first time since high school. And back then it was a pretty bad beard, modeled on Dave Gahan's from circa 1993.

We all make mistakes.

There are myriad other impossibilities and challenges, as well as things I figured out how to do that I never thought I could. Like the amount of time I've discovered I can balance on my left leg while brushing teeth, peeing, etc. It's kind of astounding. The other day I was feeling my legs in bed and noticing what a dearth of muscle there was in the right leg, while the left leg was growing in size. Come and get it ladies.

One of the scariest feelings during the first week was – “Oh Jesus, I feel too much blood rushing to my foot. I shouldn't be upright this long. I need to get back to bed! Oh shit – the foot is pulsing –that can’t be good. Oh God, how do I rip open this bag of Cheerios, quickly? Errg. Aaagh! There we go – now pour, damn it.” Pouring means shaking the Cheerios box at the bowl from almost a foot away. That’s as far as your crutch will let you reach. You do everything in a panic because you think that any minute you’re done for. Gangrene or something has halfway set in, and this bowl of cereal has cost you your life.

Poking Larry David - The Foot Goes On.

2011-02-10T12:15:00.004-05:00

Got in past the vast ice rink covering the walkway to the hospital – me with just enough balance to get my wonky foot and the bags through. Jesus, what were we going to do after the operation – in this evil weather, and with Brooklyn sure to be its usual wild west show of chaos, garbage, and mounds of filthy ice?

We got into the elevator and a woman getting out asked us where we were going. I told her 4F, the ambulatory check-in. And she grilled us some more about what we were doing. Since I assumed it was none of her business, I said, “We’re going to 4F,” and I was kind of snippy about it. I was already cheesed off from the cab ride and the Walkway of Death for the Disabled. I didn’t want to have to explain our every move to everyone. The woman got back into the elevator with us. It turned out that she was the person who’d have to check me in. I felt bad that I was snippy. “See you’re early, we don’t open ‘til 7:30,” she said. She actually said it twice by the time we got up to the fourth floor. It was literally 7:25.

We followed her down two long stretches of hallway to the waiting room. (Dear God, is there no respite for the lame?) She got to her desk, removed her coat and in her chatty secretary Latina way, “Yeah, I wasn’t ready for you, you see. Because we don’t open ‘til 7:30.” This was at least the fourth time she said this since the elevator ride. It made me feel as though we were completely ruining her day, when I was the one about to have his foot sliced open. “Yes, you’re not open yet, we understand.”

After which I added, “Sorry I’m a little stressed.” But it was okay. She didn’t seem to be affected by anything I said. She carried on in a cheery way, and proceeded to hand me my paperwork. She must deal with all kinds of people, and all kinds of people must deal with her. It reminded me of what my mom and dad had to go through when my father was sick. That was the first time I’d witnessed how hard it was to be a patient – because most of the people you deal with will just want to tell you about their problems and not help you deal with yours. It also reminded me that I can be a super-snippy asshole, and that’s kind of what got me into this mess in the first place. Breathe, brother.

I filled in the paperwork. Then the nurse came out and asked me to come back into the prep room. Bring your clothes but leave your bag, she said, which was confusing, because I had clothes in the bag. I had the sweat pants they'd told me to bring; shirts, underwear and contact lens stuff. I asked her to clarify and she repeated herself, and so I brought back everything. Once I sat down she asked, “How are you doing?” I said, “Anxious.” She replied, “Yes, I can see that – because I asked you to bring back your clothes back and not your bag. We don’t have room for it!” Really? Seriously? You’re going to quibble with me over bags at a time like this? This is the moment in every stressful scenario when I become Larry David. I cannot let questionable behavior just go by. If it defies my logic, I have to argue. I have to make my feelings known. Again, this might have something to do with the fact that I have a disrupted limb and a questionable future.

I explained that I had clothes in the bag, and we found a place for them, finally coming to an amicable discourse. The questioning began. Heart disease, lung problems, any chance you could be pregnant, ha ha?

Got seated in the prep chair, and met Doctor Carter’s fellow, whom I hadn’t met before, and who asked me more questions, including. “So, what are we doing today?” Guess it’s not his job to know. Comforting. Wonder if he asks the patient where he should make the incision too. I was explaining the state of my metatarsal-phalangeal joint when Dr. Carter came in, dressed in his scrubs, friendly and smiley as usual, shouting, “Okay, here we go! Which foot is it?” Amazing. It was not a joke. I lifted up the right, at which point he whipped off my surgical sock and made a marking with a pen on my right ankle. A couple of vertical lines and some other squiggle. I guessed that marked where the nerve block was to go. (And perhaps to remind him that it’s the right foot that needs operating on, not the left?) He then consulted with his fellow and talked about what he was going to do, and said that he would probably be doing a Moberg procedure in addition to the joint cleanout. “I’m a big Mobergist,” he said, again in his particularly avuncular way, as if talking about his favorite TV show. “That gives the best results. Unless there’s not enough dorsiflexion,” he said, and demonstrated by pulling my big toe down toward the floor, “but if there is, the Moberg helps almost every time.” And then he bent the toe in the other direction, towards me, and I grunted in pain, which he duly ignored. “And we’re looking for a cyst, right?” I said, and he said, “Yeah,” but not convincingly. Maybe he was affronted by my telling him what to do; maybe he wasn’t sure there was a cyst at all, so didn’t want to give a definitive yes.

He left for the operating room. I asked the fellow if the doctor would definitely doing the Moberg procedure, which, to my understanding, is where they reset the toe at a slightly higher angle, so that not so much weight goes on it in the future. Yes, the fellow said, reassuring me that this procedure often helps tremendously. “Okay,” said, remembering from the doctor’s info packet that the Moberg procedure would cost me about $3500 extra. Amazing how the Jewish mind works. Or is it the actor’s mind? Not sure which of my personalities is the one more concerned with money.

The anesthesiologists – both of them – looked all of about twenty-five years old. Women. And I must have had that look on my face, the one they probably see all the time. That “YOU’RE my doctor?” face. That “can I get someone older?” face. One of them was African American, the other, Persian perhaps. Dr. Al-Alawi. See had a less than awesome bedside manner – even the way she said “Hello, how are you?” was so cold and detached, I wanted to scream at her. She said it in the sing-songy tone that drives always me crazy when anyone uses it to say ‘hello, how are you?’ It’s the melody of I-don’t-care. Plus, she didn’t look at me. This was a perfect demonstration of how eye contact can really do wonders to set your fellow human beings at ease. Whether it’s on a date, or an interview, or being prepped by your anesthesiologist. The exclusion of eye contact feels like an exclusion from society. You are a number more than a name. Just a little can go such a long way.

She said, “I’m going to ask you some questions while Dr. Too Young to Be a Doctor gets your IV started.” I turned to look at the IV getting started, and Dr. Al-Alawi said, “It’s really best not to look. I’m going to distract you with some questions.”

The IV was the worst bit. A pinch and a burn, they always say right before it goes in. I’d had pinches and burns before . This was a big one. I felt my voice raise to a little girl’s pitch while trying to answer one of Al-Alawi’s questions. “Do you have any history with heart irregularities or shortness of breath.” “Nnnn oooo….!”

The IV girl said, “All done,” followed immediately by “Oop!” I looked over to see blood all over my forearm. “What, what is it?” I asked, trying to stay calm, but clearly failing. “It’s okay, you’re just a good bleeder,” she said, “It’s totally normal.” And I begged, half smiling, “Um… please don’t say ‘oop!’ if you’re trying to keep me calm.” I’m just a complete freak with blood and needles. And, as is evident, an unintentional Larry David. I really don’t know why that transformation occurs. It’s an instinct. A plea for help more than anything else.

She cleaned me up and it still looked disgusting. A small pool of blood surrounding the entry point, visible through the transparent band-aid she’d put over it. Dear God, that thing is going INTO my arm. Wait a minute – it looks like some blood is coming out into the IV tube. Is that right? That can’t be right. Excuse me, is this right?

Dr. Al-Alawi made me sign a transfusion agreement (standard procedure) and told me not to worry – I was probably in more danger getting into the cab this morning than with anything about to happen in the operating room. That was a good line. It did put me at ease, and on this day was probably pretty accurate. I wonder if it’s a standard-issue line she gives to all overly anxious patients. It’s pretty good.

The first RN came over and asked me if I wanted my mom to come in to say hi, or just to open the door and give me a wave. I said, “No, just tell her I’m ok.” Which I regarded as a pretty mature male thing to do – ‘cause inside I was feeling much less than ok. It was my first instance of feeling brave for my mom – I knew she would freak out to see me lying in a gown with an IV. I also know that part of the reason I didn’t want her coming through and waving at me was that I didn’t want to be reminded that I had only my mom to look after me at my age. It was still pretty embarrassing to me.

Word came in that they were ready for me in the operating room. I walked in with the first anesthesiologist holding my hand. I’d told her I still have trouble walking. Dr. Carter said, “There he is!” and I suddenly felt like a Bar Mitzvah boy again. Ugh – hate that feeling. On parade, and in some kind of awful ceremonial outfit like a tallis or a hospital gown. I was truly amazed when Dr. C. said, “Put your fanny right in the middle there, in that curve,” pointing to the indented spot on the operating table. Fanny? Really? I knew he was folksy and Texan but – fanny? This was a new level of folksiness that didn’t do a lot for my confidence.

I parked my fanny in the crevice, the anesthesiologist removed my glasses, and that really is the last thing I remember. I have a vague memory of futzing with a mask, but I don’t remember anyone putting a mask on me.

When I came to, the nurse asked me if I wanted coffee or juice, and my mom was there, or came over, I don’t remember which. They’d removed my glasses in the O.R., and I couldn’t see anything.

That’s when the surgeon came over.

“Well, Mr. James, we had a couple of surprises in there. We found a big ol’ pothole on the joint…” And at this point I still couldn’t see a thing, and wanting to give him and this moment my full attention, I asked, “Where are my glasses?” A nurse found them and handed them to me – at which point Dr. H. said “Are you listening?” And I said yes, I just couldn’t see. That was the first time he’d ever been impatient with me. That immediately made me worried. He said, “We’re looking at a much longer recovery time, I think. I found a big pothole at the head of the joint, and so I drilled three holes around it” (at least this is what I think he said – I was still groggy. I’m not sure if this is accurate) – “and cleared out the dead cartilage. Now we just have to wait and see. But we’re looking at about a 50/50 success rate with this.” At which point my mom let out an “oy vey” and interjected – “What about a cyst? Did you find the cyst?” “No, there wasn’t a cyst. Come back and see me on Monday and we’ll get you into the boot and see how it goes. It’s a good thing we got this taken care of.” Mom interjected again, “What about physical therapy?” “No, not for a couple of months. I don’t want anyone touching it for another 2, 3 months.”

I remained unbelievably calm considering that this was not the post-op report I was looking for. Even thinking about it now, I still get totally creeped out. He repeated, “it’s about a 50/50 shot we’re looking at.” And he looked very serious. But I just said, “ok.” It must have been the drugs. Or maybe it was my mom being there that made me want to be behave more rationally and maturely, so that she didn’t freak out. Perhaps it was the idea in my mind that ending up on the negative-50 side was not possible. There was no way this thing could go that wrong. No way – I’m a healthy young(ish) man. I’m an actor. I’m smart, creative, and nice to look at. Being crippled for life is not something that could happen to me. It just didn’t make sense.

What the hell was going on with him and his bleak outlook. What happened to folksy? What happened to the smile? Come on, doc, say something about my fanny, or my noggin, or this little piggy. Give me a god-damn lollipop, will you?

He then asked for my phone number so he could check on me, and that made it feel even more dire. I gave it to him, concentrating very hard to make sure I got the numbers right. Maybe this was purely a test – to see if I was cognizant enough to remember my number. I’m pretty sure I gave him the right one. (He never called me.)

Even through all of this, as one of the nurses helped me on with my sweatpants and guided me into the wheelchair I was thinking, “Well, I mean, this isn’t SO bad.” Meaning the process of getting operated on. But I know that’s because I couldn’t feel my leg at all. Somehow my foot being completely numb made me believe the operation was a success. For the first time in almost a year, my foot did not hurt at all. And it was wrapped up in a splint under countless layers of bandages, which somehow gave me the sensation of it being was wrapped up in lovely crocheted blankets made by someone’s grandma. This feeling continued even during the epic bumpy cab ride home, me sitting in the back seat, my back against the door and my foot up on the seat. Hmmm… nice, this feels nice. Ok, great, let’s go home. Larry David had gone. I guess this proves I must have been high.

The Foot Goes On. Part 2.

2011-02-05T12:47:00.013-05:00

“Well, Mr. James, we had a couple of surprises in there. We found a big ol’ pothole on the joint…” And at this point I still couldn’t see a thing. Few people know that without corrective lenses, I see only blobs and blurs. Even a foot away my doctor looked like a talking sandstorm. Wanting to give him and this defining moment my full attention, I asked, “Where are my glasses?” A nurse found them and handed them to me – at which point Dr. Carter said “Are you listening?” And I said yes, I just couldn’t see. That was the first time he’d ever been impatient with me. That immediately made me worried. He said, “We’re looking at a much longer recovery time, I think. I found a big pothole at the head of the joint, and so I drilled three holes around it” (at least this is what I think he said – I was still groggy. I’m not sure if this is accurate) – “and cleared out the dead cartilage. Now we just have to wait and see. But we’re looking at about a 50/50 success rate with this.” At which point my mom let out an “oy vey” and interjected – “What about a cyst? Did you find the cyst?” “No, there wasn’t a cyst. Come back and see me on Monday and we’ll get you into the boot and see how it goes. It’s a good thing we got this taken care of.” Mom interjected again, “What about physical therapy?” “No, not for a couple of months. I don’t want anyone touching it for another 2, 3 months.”

-----

I will never complain about anything else as long as I live, once I fix this foot problem. This I vow. Read it again, Eli. I will never complain about anything else. I actually can’t wait for the moment when I START to complain about something emotional, financial, or career-based – and then catch myself, and go back and re-read this published vow, and then proceed to shut the hell up.

I recently finished reading a book called "The Conquest of Happiness" by Bertrand Russell, the renowned mathematician and social thinker of the early twentieth century. It was given to me by a friend in a state of drunken urgency. Yes, well, there is little doubt among anyone I know that the conquest of my happiness is an urgent matter, drunk or sober. It's a surprisingly practical book detailing what Russell believed to be the causes of chronic dissatisfaction and self-loathing in civilized society, and outlining a series of practices for rooting out these causes and learning to feel joy. The first edition was published in 1930, which puts it way ahead of the self-help book craze. I imagine it must have been a risky sell in its day, before it was polite to publish a book telling people how to be better.

However, there was one big warning Russell put in at the top of the first chapter. A huge disclaimer for those about to read: “I shall confine my attention to those who are not subject to any extreme cause of outward misery. I shall assume a sufficient income to secure food and shelter, sufficient health to make ordinary bodily activities possible.” Snap. Well – that’s half the book gone.

Though there is so much about my needy personality that could benefit from Russell’s teachings, I understand now why he put that disclaimer in there. I’ve learned that it is impossible to think about anything else when one’s health is severely affected. This is why I’ve driven so many of my closest friends crazy. This is why nobody wants to be around me – because all I do is think about the fact that I can’t move, walk, dance, earn money or make any plans while my foot is so extremely busted. I was about to re-read “The Conquest of Happiness” the week before my surgery, when I decided it would be futile to do so. The disclaimer in the first chapter was clear as day: this drug may not be for everyone; I didn’t need to consult my physician to know it was not for me.

My surgery was two days ago. I’m now lying on my back in my apartment with the heavily bandaged foot resting on a wedged pillow. “Toes above the nose” is the mantra for the first 48 hours. A hell of a way to sleep, I’ll tell you that much. Especially when your foot weighs about five pounds.

The night before the surgery was spent in a Holiday Inn on the Upper West Side - as expected, tossing and turning. I figured I might have had the insomnia beat this time, by virtue of the fact that I was feeling much more confident about getting the surgery. I was actually looking forward to it. At the last meeting I had with my doctor, he found on my MRI what appeared to be a cyst in the joint, putting pressure exactly where the pain was, and he said it would have to come out. Until this meeting, there had been no clear solution. Now he was saying, “Ok I feel a lot better about this.” And I knew now that the surgery was the absolute right thing to do – no matter how arduous the recovery.

Yet I was still a shit-show of anxiety the night before, lying there in the sweltering Holiday Inn room, the heat up full blast while the ice storm raged outside. And I had no idea that the result of the surgery was going to resemble nothing like a simple cyst-removal, and would resemble practically nothing this surgeon had seen before.

I awoke tired and weary and scared. I pushed myself into the shower. I debated whether or not to put product in my hair before heading out. May as well look okay. I think I wound up doing it, then wondered if hair product was some kind of no-no in the operating room, like drinking or eating.

I got my stuff together and was in the lobby around 7:05. I waited for mom to emerge from the breakfast room. I waited in dread, my head aching, my throat parched. We were due at the hospital at 7:30.

I waved down a cab in front of the hotel. It had already started to rain. Maybe freezing rain. I could see the streets were pretty slick. I told the driver exactly where to go, and as usual he tried to let us off nowhere near there. “Here, here’s Roosevelt Hospital – you want to get out here, you can walk?” trying to save himself time. But it was not the right building – it was nowhere near the right building. And his question made me want to smack him. I reminded him that the building was on 59^th Street, not 10^th Avenue, and could he please take us there. He then had to drive several blocks out of our way to get back on track. “Oh! Look, E. Juilliard!” my mom said, “I didn’t know Juilliard was here.” I said nothing, my stomach was getting increasingly knotted. Damn it, I wish I’d gone Juilliard – I probably wouldn’t be in this mess.

Getting to the front entrance of Roosevelt’s Brodsky building was a nightmare. The entire front walkway was a solid sheet of ice, and there was no drop-off area for a cab. I was worried my mom was going to end up on her backside. She has a history of falls. Jesus, why couldn’t I have a wife or a girlfriend by now? My poor old mom is still forced to take care of me. She was carrying a heavy overnight bag, and I took it from her, while carrying my own, and made her take my hand while she held on to a side railing and I limped on the ice. I was terrified one of us was going to go down, esp. her, and that we were going to have to deal with that disaster. Finally, a guy who worked inside the hospital came out and took my mom’s arm, and said, “Okay, miss, let’s go skating.” Thank God. That’s the kind of guy you want in that situation. Smiling, salt of the earth, Latino type. The guy with the joke and a smile and who lives to please moms. Someone else’s son – definitely more helpful than the son.

PART 3 To Come....

My bit in "Lights Out" - 14 mins, 29 secs

2011-01-30T11:19:00.005-05:00

Lights Out Pilot on Hulu

Scene: Bingo Game

Character: "Wall Street Type" (according to script)

Impact: Unforgettable

Foot Talk and The Spanish Inquisition

2011-01-29T01:18:00.019-05:00

There's not a star in the sky over Brooklyn. Not a single one. And there are mountains of dirty white slush piled up on every corner. And outside my window people have finally stopped honking their horns at each other.

The skidding and cursing continue.

New York is medieval. If The Spanish Inquisition were a place you could live in, it would be New York - a constant test of courage, strength, and pain threshold. It never lets up. To learn of a plague visiting this town would not surprise me. I've begun shopping online for locust nets and gas masks. Bubo-Away Sore Spray for when the black death comes. The pall of doom, catastrophe, chaos, and fear that runs over this broken-down town, gives one the feeling The Joker is in charge, with a mayor, city council, and an entire sanitation department tied up unconscious in a basement.

And if the beginning of this entry seems a bit phobic, apocalyptic, paranoid and defeatist – it’s only because I’ve been hobbling around in a medieval city for ten months with a toe injury. I've been keeping that to myself and away from this blog. However, my agony has prompted me to break the silence.

In late March of 2010 I whacked my right foot on a door, and did damage to the first metatarsal-phalangeal joint. That's the joint at the base of the big toe. (I've since learned that doctors like to call it "the great toe.") The first M-P joint is something I'd never heard of before. I didn't even know you could do something to it. But you can - and it is one of the hardest joints in all the body to repair. That's according to the host of medical professionals with whom I have consulted on the topic.

Through the collision of bones, an edema formed in the joint, and now a soap-bubble-sized cyst sits in the middle of it. There might also be other untold damage the MRI and X-rays cannot see. All I know is my right big toe throbs in pain all day every day. Performing in two plays back-to-back prevented me from getting the surgery. Well, that and the fact that I did not wish to believe that surgery was the only answer. In the past ten months, I’ve tried bed rest, a black boot with straps, specially molded orthotic shoes, massage, anti-inflammatories and painkillers, physical therapy and acupuncture.

I’m having surgery this Wednesday.

I can say I’ve tried to keep this blog humorous over heavy most of the time; observational over confessional. I can say I never wanted it to be too intimate, because I cringe at people whining about their personal problems on the internet, and because I worry about too many people knowing my business. I CAN say all this, but it’d be bull-crap. It doesn't take much of a look-back to see that this blog has been a river of embarrassing confessions - sometimes carefully worded, sometimes playfully coded, sometimes as sloppy as a ninth-grader's poem, often as whiny as a Smiths song.

Does that mean I should just say “eff it,” and continue in this fashion, now that I’ve come this far? Not necessarily. But I've definitely been holding back communicating about my injury, for fear of judgment or of some risk to my career; for fear of being thought a sympathy-seeking crybaby boo-hooing on the internet like the rest of America. And lately I've been wondering if there might not be some greater good in talking about it. Perhaps it could prove instructive to others stuck dealing with long-term mechanical problems in an unforgiving metropolis. And on my usual selfish level, perhaps it will begin to alleviate some of the anxieties I have about my pain, my upcoming surgery, and the silly idea some doctors have planted in my brain that I might never walk normally again.

I’ll do it in parts.

Part One: Nobody Gets It.

Through no fault of their own, my friends do not get that I’m injured. They don’t really understand that it takes a lot out of me just to walk from my apartment to the subway station, or from 45^th Street to 46^th Street, or from our table to the bathroom. They understand that I’ve hurt myself, because I’ve explained it to them, and they understand that it’s stressful, and that I see doctors every week, and that I might have to have surgery. However, they don’t understand that walking causes me pain. This is partly because I have forced myself to make journeys on a regular basis. It is almost impossible not to walk in New York, when job, subsistence, and clean laundry are on the line. However, when it comes time to engage in social intercourse – eating out, seeing a show, going to the movies, getting a drink, or going to a party – I have to consider each move very carefully. How many buses can I take between where I am now and 16^th and 1^st ? There are no buses? Well, how many steps are there between the subway station and the place where we need to buy beer for the party? Would it be alright if I show up empty-handed to the party, seeing as how the liquor store is all the way over on 4^th Avenue? Would you guys mind coming over to my place?

Yeah, thought so.

Some of my friends will even guilt me into feeling bad about not coming to their neck of the woods - if I complain that I'm not up to it - or if I try to cancel at the last minute because of the pain. They don't understand the double-standard - especially if they hear that I went somewhere else that day; or that I turned up on a JDate wearing my black cam-walker boot. (which I did).

And so then one has to consider whether to be a party-pooper and a disappointing friend, or to struggle out and maybe have some kind of social interaction that might take the sting out of sitting at home with an obstinately injured foot. If you go ahead and choose the latter, you might very well have a cheering social experience – but will be crying in agony by the time you get home, and there you are lying in bed with a pulsing digit. (Um… yeah, sorry folks. Sticking with that one.)

I know this doesn't seem like a big ethical dilemma, or a choice at all. Pain should trump everything. But it doesn't - because for the longest part of that ten months, my friends did not understand the extent of my handicap; and to be honest, neither did I.

-- Coming up.... Part Two: When to Share and When to Hide - Dealing with your Employers.

LIGHTS OUT

2011-01-13T19:47:00.007-05:00

My first bit of telly aired on Jan 11th.

No, I don't play a boxer.

But as soon as there is a clip available, I'll post the exact minute and second that you can see me play Irate Bingo Winner in Hugo Boss Suit in FX's new series, "Lights Out."

"Bullshit! You said 'B15' - we all heard it."

Yeah, that's the kind of no-shit attitude my character brings to this hard-hitting drama.

Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson is closing Jan 2nd.

2010-12-05T20:46:00.001-05:00

So, if you want to see an innovative punk-rock musical about Andrew Jackson starring a group of very talented as-yet unknown actors (a rarity on Broadway - worth the price of admission alone) - then get yourself to the Jacobs Theater on 45th Street and grab a ticket. It is truly something to behold.

http://www.bloodybloodyandrewjackson.com/

Please see "Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson" (because I need a job)

2010-11-01T10:35:00.004-05:00

"Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson" by Alex Timbers and Michael Friedman is a Broadway musical that is completely original in its brash, absurdist, completely subversive retelling of the life story of America's 7th President. It's packed wall to wall with an outstanding cast, foot stomping rock tunes, humor both high and low, and no shortage of timely political commentary.

It is also my current employer. I am a member of the swing cast. So see the f--ker this holiday season. Daddy needs to keep his health insurance!

http://www.bloodybloodyandrewjackson.com/

The reasons I read books are not completely genuine.

2010-10-31T23:13:00.008-05:00

And I'm finally owning up to it. I enjoy reading, but I think it's time for me to admit (or realize) that I AM one of those people who reads books to some extent for the following reasons:

to say he read something;
because he thinks it's "good for him";
JUST to make subway rides go faster;
because he's lonely and can't figure out what else to do before bed.

And much of the time I'm absorbing the contents of the book, especially with nonfiction, I'm thinking one of the following:

"Yeah, I'm learning stuff!"
"Yeah, I'm developing a certain part of my brain that will help me stave off senility decades from now."
"Yeah, I'm working up intelligent-sounding dinner conversation for some dinner party I'm bound to be invited to someday."

But give me an invitation to a dinner party, and I'll probably never finish the book. I'll be too busy wondering how much to spend on the wine.

Makes me think I should join a book club, so that the social, interactive elements of reading can be put to much more direct unashamed use. Seriously, why else spend so much time alone putting the details of Teddy Roosevelt's presidency inside my brain? Unless I'm really into Teddy Roosevelt, it's ridiculous to think I'm improving myself by reading about what Teddy Roosevelt had for breakfast on the morning he brokered a peace treaty between Japan and Russia. I didn't know anything about the man. And now that I've learned this outstanding fact about his life, I still haven't shared it with anyone, because I'm still pretty sure I don't care.

It's my fault. I do pick up certain things because I think I should. I often worry I know too much about The Beatles or The Smiths or Monty Python. Knowing that Teddy Roosevelt brokered that peace treaty between Japan and Russia in 1905 is, so I hope, expanding my world view, and in some way giving The Beatles a greater context.

Perhaps if I just admit to myself that any book I'm reading that's not about The Beatles will only hold HALF my attention, then I am bound to feel less guilty about my reading choices.

PUT IT IN A SONG!

2010-10-08T13:53:00.027-05:00

Guys - I totally figured out what you should all do with your sincere soul-bearing Facebook status updates! Put them into a song.

Seriously. That way you won't come off completely self-indulgent and desperate for attention when you ask the entire internet to pray for your parent, when you reveal that your boss just yelled at you, when you describe your last date, or relate the severity of your premenstrual symptoms.

You can get away with a lot if you put all those things into a song. You don't even have to change the wording. Seriously, you can write about anything in any way you want as long as there's a beat going underneath.

And, believe me, I understand the urge to post about every hour of your day. It's the age we live in. We are lonely lonely creatures. All human beings are, deep down, good and lonely, even when surrounded by loved ones. And when we describe our deepest, sincerest anxieties, we know someone on the internet will read it - and maybe even comment on it. And we won't be left alone, unheeded and misunderstood, for any stretch of time.

But truth is - most of what we think elicits sympathy from our Facebook friends is actually just earning grimaces, cringes, and utter disbelief that we actually had the balls to write "RIP Mom 1948-2010" for our Facebook status.

I must include myself in that race of offenders. I put my most personal self-indulgent thoughts in a god-damned BLOG! So, from now on - mournful self-obsessed brooding shall only be written in song form. Songs you may or may not hear. Songs that might be written on a rubber band.

Congratulations, my friends. The way forward is clear. I'm so excited about this. Music is COOL!

William and the Tradesmen 2010 was bigger than Phantom

2010-09-18T13:11:00.008-05:00

Bigger in the sense of emotional depth - and when I say Phantom, I'm sure you know I'm talking about "Phantom Menace."

So much I'd like to say about it. I don't know where to start. I feel like I had the experience we as artists are bound to have in producing our own work - that experience of nearly dying from heart failure, influenza, acute panic attack, hallux rigidus and advanced hair loss while producing it.

Luckily the New York International Fringe staff were able to come to my rescue by performing a complete "cashectomy," removing the strain of carrying any excess weight around in my wallet.

I'd love to thank all those who gave of their valuable time and sleep to help bring this show to life in the midst of my own failing health and the Fringe's commitment to chaos.

Director Francesco Campari, Asst Director Patricio Witis, Light and Sound Designer Bill Stonehouse, Assistant Producer Marco Garbuglia, and our ACR Estrela Straus. A crack team who really pushed this thing through. Thank you!

And I'd love to also thank all those who came to see it, and who let us know that a weird-ass show about a guy who talks to Morrissey, Joe Strummer and Paul Weller in his effed-up fantasy world was able to strike a chord with their own lives. We were all really glad to hear that!

TICKETS on SALE NOW

2010-07-31T20:42:00.006-05:00

Postcard designed by Bill Stonehouse

Click here for tickets to William and the Tradesmen in the New York International Fringe Festival!

Here are the dates:

WILLIAM and the TRADESMEN comes to the New York International Fringe Festival, August 2010

2010-06-14T21:51:00.004-05:00

See the new trailer! It's the bomb!

William and the Tradesmen Official Site

Let us never speak of it again... (except to say this...)

2010-05-26T14:07:00.009-05:00

So now that the UK General Election has finally been settled, now that the coalition government has been formed, Gordon Brown's left Number 10, and The Queen's given her speech to the House of Lords - let me finally shift my hard focus from British politics back to the good old stuff that made this blog what it is: semi-psychotic ramblings about how the world is against me, and other American topics.

However, before I treat the blogosphere to that literary pleasure, one last thing about the election across the sea....

Did anybody else get a bit teary when Gordon said goodbye to Downing Street? I suddenly felt awful about the way everybody in the media picked on his prickly exterior and sour face. And I was one of them. It didn't really hit me until his resignation speech was over, and he reemerged from Number 10 with his two little boys and his wife. It was the kids that did it to me. He'd thanked them in his speech, John and Fraser. But I had no idea they'd be so small. They were actually kids. I was expecting a couple of Prince Williams or something. Instead their tininess made me think - "Oh no! This is so unfair! You can't let this guy resign! He's got two little blond-haired Scottish lads to look after! AND he can only see out of one eye! You heartless bastards... look what you've done to him!"

Goes to show what TV does to you. My how easily I'm swayed.

And then that whole humiliation afterward, having to motor over to Buckingham Palace to tender his resignation to Her Majesty, only to be tailed by David Cameron, his car idling in the drive, waiting to do exactly the opposite.

Perhaps the question I should be asking is, "Did anybody else out there stay glued to BBC.com's live streaming coverage of post-election events for the amount of time I did?" I have a sad feeling I know the answer. If unlike the author of this blog you've got a full-time job, a life, or a reason to be out of doors during daylight hours, the answer is hopefully, "no." Followed by, "There was an election at sea? What?"

What can I say? I can no longer fight who I am. I stay up late watching episodes of "Yes Minister" on Netflix. One day the events of my home country will spark enough interest for a blog entry. Until then, I battle the misshapen brain of the most extreme breed of American Anglophile -- someone whose fervor for English culture might have won him some degree of respect in the late nineteenth century, but whom Oscar Wilde would have still lampooned in one of his plays.

Why does Gordon Brown suddenly make me feel really dumb?

2010-05-07T19:08:00.018-05:00

So, this is where I feel like a stupid American. (And I know I'm only just a little slow.) For all my claiming to understand the differences between the UK and America, and all the effort I seem to have put into that study - I have to say I really don't get the British parliamentary system. Especially after the freaking shambles that occurred after Thursday's UK general election. Not a hanging chad in sight, and yet the country still has no elected leader, no cabinet, nobody sitting in the House of Commons - and backdoor deals are going on to figure out where the country's going to get all these things. Silly American me: I thought the party with the most votes wins.

Apparently not. The Conservative Party won the majority of seats. However, they didn't win an "ABSOLUTE MAJORITY," and that makes all the difference. They're not permitted to take the reigns of power. They can only do so if their total number of seats outnumbers the total number of seats won by all the other parties put together. Now all three major parties (Labour, Conservative and Lib Dems) must make some kind of coalition deal, some sort of power-sharing agreement that will give one faction a quasi-absolute majority. Until then The House of Commons remains empty and Parliament remains "hung." (No jokes please, they're British.) Nick Clegg, the Lib Dems' leader, seems to be holding all the cards here. The two bigger parties need to gain his alliance before a Cabinet and government can be formed.

I know this sounds silly and American, but why can't the Brits just vote for whoever they want to be Prime Minister? Why has this system been allowed to survive? It's prompted Gordon Brown to resign office - following pressure not just from the British political factions, but from the IMF, European Commission and the heads of the EU. Until Britain has a government, the whole of Europe, and the already sickly Euro, are feeling a little queasy.

Plus all the other weird stuff I learned about through this election. Like, the fact that the Prime Minister has to dissolve Parliament in the run-up to every election, and he gets to set the election date. What the --? Dudes, you're making it way too hard on yourselves. Can't you just use November? Can't you just have hanging chad issues and widespread election fraud like we do?

Come on, politicians everywhere. Check the freaking mic!!!

2010-04-28T09:02:00.005-05:00

Looks like Gordon Brown is dead and buried in this UK general election following a simple microphone gaffe in Rochdale. He called an old lady a bigot.

I ask it every time a politician gets caught saying something he shouldn't on a microphone. Before getting in the car - why not look down and automatically check your freaking shirt?

You'd think it would be the first thing they teach you in your campaign training. After TV interview, press conference, photo op - Check the mic, check the mic, check the mic!

Oh Boy - Here Comes Number Two!!!

2010-04-22T09:53:00.023-05:00

Ohhh boy! Second one was last night in Bristol! Which means the YouTube-able version of the entire thing will be probably be available in America... mmm... guessing sometime tonight. Oh my. This single Anglophile political junkie finally knows what he's doing with his Friday evening! Score!

I know I was a little sarcastic in my last election blog, but I have to say I'm genuinely excited by this - not just by the second Prime Ministerial debate but the whole furor leading up to the most important and unpredictable election happening in Europe right now.

The Labour Party has been in power for thirteen years under Tony Blair and Gordon Brown. Ironically, it looks like this middle-left party, essentially the equivalent to America's Democrats, has become the public opinion equivalent of the Republicans under G. W. Bush. Some pundits have predicted that the Conservative Party will have no trouble toppling Labour, owing to continued anger over the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as over the explosion of bad press regarding Labour MP's expense accounts. (Many were found guilty of writing off everything from the construction of duck ponds on their property to porn website subscriptions. Not exaggerating.) Conservatives are further helped by the fact that their leader, David Cameron, looks like he has had a shit sometime in the past five years...

whereas Gordon Brown, frankly, not so much.

And yet, despite concerns of a Conservative landslide, it really does look now like the race is up for grabs, thanks to the efforts of Britain's third biggest party. This is the party until recently known as "The Who-Are-They-Kidding They-Haven't-a-Chance Liberal Democrats." Now they're simply known as the Lib Dems, or The Holy Shit Didn't See This Coming Party.

But you surely see them now. This is Nick Clegg, the Lib Dem leader. When he was interviewed on Newsnight eleven days ago, interviewer Jeremy Paxman began by saying, "Nick Clegg, let's first of all establish what planet we're on. You're not going to sit there, are you, and claim that you could be the next Prime Minister."

"I'd like to be the next Prime Minister," replied Clegg.

Paxman: "But you won't be as a result of this election."

Now, following the debate, he is being called the next Winston Churchill, and even the UK's Obama. Of course, some papers have managed to call him a Nazi as well.

I know my tone in the last blog about the first British televised Prime Ministerial debate was tinged with a bit of American snark. I think I was just trying to fit in as a blogger.

However, after having watched the maiden debate in its entirety, I'm genuinely gassed about this election, and a bit astounded at how much that puts me over the top on the dork-o-meter.

I thought the debate-virginal UK candidates really held their own... apart from 'Gas Bubbles' Brown, of course, who never once stopped looking like someone had just tread on his corns.

Yes, I know I tend to find ANYTHING British to be fascinating...

... but it's just so lovely to me to see this weirdly different nation of English-speaking people get so beautifully fired up over the state of their country.

Meanwhile, vegetable spread company Marmite, among the worst of British institutions, right behind Big Brother and the Munich Agreement, is getting ready to sue far-right British National Party over their using a picture of Marmite in one of its campaign ads.

THIS is what it's all about people! If this doesn't get the youth of America interested in international politics, I don't know what will!