Women of New York: Kindly Knock It Off.

There are those in my profession that keep a very close eye on trends. It's advisable, given a field so influenced by socio-political movements and "what the people want." Plus, one is expected to be as attractive (or, as a possible trade-off, intense) as one can. Actors are meant to be seen, and being easy on or fascinating to the eye is a definite plus. Some would even say it is a necessity. Certainly in New York, one has a great variety of beautiful people, a lot of whom aren't even performers (at least in the occupational sense). With the advent of the metrosexual (or as I like to call them, the image-conscious frat boys who have been relieved of the terror of occasionally being branded gay) even the straight men are in on the details of a beautiful appearance and the latest fashions.

I can't be bothered to follow trends from moment to moment, and have no particular instinct for it that would allow me to pick them up without effort. It has been this way since I was a wee one. In high school I was well known for wearing literally nothing but black, every day. A good deal of making that choice had to do with not having to choose much in the way of an outfit each day. (I love the sequences in

Pee-Wee's Big Adventure

and

The Royal Tenenbaums

in which characters go to their closets to select from identical suits [and I'm pretty certain that's a bit borrowed from one of the great silent actors' repertoires][not to mention Einstein's habit of it].) I have grown past this technique, but I still am caught unawares by styles and trends, particularly those having to do with clothing.

A clothing trend for women that has walked up to me and smacked me in the face a few thousand times, now that warmer weather has sloughed its way into the Baked Apple, is the T-shirt dress. The

very short

T-shirt dress

. Like, pretty much just a T-shirt, maybe men's size. I should have seen this one coming. What with the encroaching influence of

American Apparel

and our recent fascination with shifting in and out of the 80s pop culture, this was bound to come up. I guess I should just be thanking my lucky stars (

you

could be my lucky star, but I'm

the luckiest by far

) that the side ponytail has remained in remission, and that said T-shirt dresses come in a variety of styles apart from the typical

Flashdance

variety. Instead, all I can say is this:

Kindly knock it the hell off, Women of New York.

Oh, ha-ha. He's having a comical rant, along the lines of Dennis Leary, Dennis Miller or

Patrick Lacey

. Oh this should be good, full of sardonic wit and wry commentary on his society, all the whilst keeping himself in check with merciless self-deprecation. Ha-ha.

Seriously. Knock it. Off. Knock it off.

I don't think you fully appreciate the effect you're having on the average heterosexual male (or homosexual female, I presume), Women of New York. Each and every time I see one of you wearing one such "dress," I am instantly and involuntarily transported into a fantasy that you are in my bedroom and I am making you a delicious breakfast of an omelet, whole wheat toast, a glass of cranberry juice and a french-pressed mug of coffee. Because, you see

THAT'S THE CONTEXT IN WHICH I'M ACCUSTOMED TO SEEING A WOMAN WEARING ONLY A T-SHIRT.

It's Pavlovian, or something. I mean, it's documented fact ("It's

science

.") that it doesn't take much to make men think about sex. I'm not holding you responsible for that, WoNY. I am merely pleading with you, please, to consider that it's a far worse thing to invite the idea that I've already had sex with you, and may get to again, if it's a Sunday and neither of us have anywhere in particular to be. This misconception doesn't put you in danger, of course, unless you consider having an omelet and surprisingly intimate conversation with a strange man dangerous, but I beg you to consider the effect it may have on the public at large. If legislation can be proposed banning iPods for

endangering pedestrian traffic

, should we not lend the same consideration to those afflicted by the T-shirt dress distraction factor?

And no, no: It doesn't help if you wear a broach, or if the T-shirt is artfully pleated or even if you've added a

stylish belt

to the ensemble. I still see the so-called dress and think, "Oh. My Lake Braddock Intermediate School production T from

The Miracle Worker

. Good choice. That one's

soft

." Maybe you think that wearing tights and boots with it helps to establish--in spite of its cotton magically patented to absently cling to absolutely everything underneath--a more developed sense of outfit. Sorry: No. It doesn't. I just momentarily think we've come in to the lodge from a long, hard day of skiing, and what we really need more than anything else is a dip in the jacuzzi.

And no: It isn't my fault. It simply isn't. I may have fessed up before to

compulsive sexual thoughts

in the past, but this goes beyond the pale. It's not that I'm stifled by some kind of Victorian repression that makes me scandalized over

a glimpse of ankle

. It's that you're wearing absurdly casual lingerie, in public. This is your responsibility, WoNY. Take a lesson from Spider-Man. It is indeed a great power, and you're wielding it like your uncle wasn't killed as an indirect result of your inaction. You should always behave as though your uncle was killed as an indirect result of your inaction! Especially when the issue is relative nudity.

Gentlemen (and lesbians), I do feel we have recourse, desperate though it may be. We have to fight fire with fire. Sort of. I suggest we all take to wearing boxers in public. But not just boxers, my finely-tempered fashion fighting force. Boxers with black socks. Pulled up straight. Preferably with

calf garters

and dress shoes.

We can not lose! They will bow before our mighty retaliation, cowering in the sight of the most unsightly and awkward antiquated fashion trend the world has yet to know! You think you've got us with your bedroom outfit from the 1980s? How about some 1880s boudoir!

You have been warned, Women of New York. Get out of my T-shirt. Get into some pants.

Panic Panic Panic Panic Panic ... wait. Yes: Panic.

So today was the first day, since

starting

this Aviary of Odin's, that I came into work with plenty of free time, and didn't feel remotely like doing an entry.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Perhaps you think I'm overreacting. Perhaps I am. I've been sitting here, between assignments, trying to conceive of what innocuous reason might be attributed to this change. I've considered: having finished my apartment hunt, coming up on a birthday, not having worked in a while ("a while" in this context being two weeks) and my recent forays into "interior massage," as my physical therapist(s) refer(s) to it. None of these offers me decent enough explanation, so I begin to fear the worst.

Odin's Aviary may be going the way of every previous attempt at journaling I've ever ventured, and losing relevance in my grand scheme of things.

I don't want to jump the gun on this. I mean, one day of waning enthusiasm in a five-month run is hardly a death knell. Still, it worries me. Prefer my day job over my 'blog? What's next? Preferring collating over memorizing lines? Choosing to compile uncontested divorce papers over practicing my handstand? That was part of the idea in starting this thing in this way. If there's one thing in my life I'm unlikely to lose enthusiasm for--not to mention one thing I

need to be aware of

losing enthusiasm for--it's my pursuit of fulfilling work, and a fulfilling life thereby. So the panic seemed a bit more justified in that context. This isn't just some private diary for recording my thoughts on who I'd like to sleep with (Rachael Leigh Cook,

I'm looking in your direction...

), but a gauge for and exploration of my choice of T

he Third Life

(all rights reserved).

So what do I do in my office-ensnared panic? I turn to the interwebzizines for comfort. Fortunately, I didn't resort to YouTube or some such nonsense, but turned instead to one of the great gifts of these worldwidenettingz:

xkcd

. Wherein I found

this

.

And I was struck by how funny I found it. It's so CRUEL. So cruel. But it's a delicate thing, too, up for interpretation. If there was a punchline, even one preceded by an ellipse (suggesting a pause) it would lose its charm. Instead, the punchline is the silence. I love that. I love how funny a silence, even (or perhaps: particularly) an awkward or painful one, can be. The lack of information is a significant part of the humor. Similar to Buster Keaton's

stoneface

, a stick figure can reveal nothing about the slighted character's reaction, and we are instantly compelled to identify with it, to interpret the blank according to our own experiences and needs.

AND THEN

Friend Todd

, amidst a flurry of emails confirming travel plans (apparently I am to be the Sherpa of Todd's toiletries; no sacrifice too small for our art), recommends to the kernel group of

Zuppa del Giorno

this article

. For those of you unfamiliar with Bill Irwin, for shame. Plus: You're probably more familiar than you think (he was in the music video for "

Be Happy

" and made an appearance on

The Cosby Show

. . . so everyone knows his face, if not his name). A lot of his self-generated, clown-style work is silent, though now he is clearly transitioning into more conventional theatre. He's an amazing physical performer.

All of which serves to reorient my mind toward work, and thereby away from panic. Now I'm thinking about how my noseless clown (dubbed Lloyd Schlemiel in some circles) came to life the last time I was in Italy, and how little I've done with him since, and how the few times I have revisited him it's been surprisingly fulfilling. I'm thinking about the pure joy of the first time I stilted in the New York Halloween parade, silently communicating with hundreds of revelers from the middle of the Avenue of the Americas. I'm thinking about how easily I can post my work online now, and the possibilities of that.

I'd be panicking, but I'm too excited.

That Is The Subject To Which I Am Referring!

It's a joke. It doesn't translate very well when typed. Friend Adam used to be quite fond of celebrating a victory--his or someone else's--by jumping up and shouting, "

That's

what I'm talking about!" (That's what he used to say. Now it's usually, "What!

What!

" As in, "What do you think of me now?") I got to sharing/mocking Adam's enthusiasm by chiming in with overly formal versions of this phrase, said with the same enthusiasm. Ergo: That is the subject to which I am referring! Other faves include:

  • That is the topic of my conversation!
  • That is what I am expositing upon!
  • That is the approximate meaning of the words I am speaking!

Silliness, but it taps into a very personal aspect of my humor; specifically, the self-deprecating aspect of it. More specifically, mocking my formality, relative intellectualism and very sincere desire to join in the fun of rowdier, more relaxed personalities. It's interesting to me to think that, to some of my friends, I am that type. I do crazy things, like go to Italy and forego income for a month, or stilt walking, or standing on a platform in front of hundreds of people and crying. I have a job at a desk, and yet I insist on risking my health (usually sans health insurance) in order to elicit a few gasps or chuckles from people who probably haven't even paid for the privilege to see me do so. But most people I know, other performers, see me mostly as the conservative type.

This is on my mind today owing mostly to the apartment hunt. (ALL HAIL THE APARTMENT HUNT! ALL SERVE THE APARTMENT HUNT!) It's hard for me to phone strangers, to visit their apartments and stroll through neighborhoods that are A) unfamiliar, and B) usually not terribly similar to where I come from. I have lots of actors friends who

rule

at this sort of thing. Absolutely rule. They walk in a room smiling, shake your hand and make you feel like you're the one they've been looking for all day, yet not in a way that's overwhelming or artificial. Somehow they do it in a way that just makes you want more of their attention.

It seems like a natural extension of their craft. If you think about it, it means every part of their day is in some sense acted. We always talk about wanting to act more, we actors, and complain of not having enough opportunities. These may not be the exact circumstances we crave, these moments of conversational dexterity, but it incorporates a lot of the same skills, and it feeds so nicely into creating more opportunities for the real thing. Practice, praise, good vibes and more work, what's not to love about it?

This, however, is not me. I have my moments, true, when I captivate attention, but never in a sense that puts people at ease. Gets them excited or, at best, laughing suddenly, sure, but never relaxing or enticing them. In fact, my best bet for charming the socks off people is to trip when I come in the room and just keep up that clownish energy throughout. I used to perform in shows this way, always going, always with a forcefully klutzy energy. Hopefully I've learned enough to back off of that now and again on stage. In life, it has become balanced with a slightly more limited resource of energy and an almost complete intolerance for bullshit. Which is to say: I don't have time for this, people. Let's just say what we mean and mean what we say, and if you don't care, you don't care, and that's fine. I frequently don't care.

You've had a hard day, and want to share the details with me? Yeah, I don't care. I just want me coffee, thanks. You feel insulted to be the one who has to proctor the auditions when the show doesn't actually even need replacements right now, and want to at least feel like the actors coming in to audition find you attractive? Yeah, I don't care. I just want a job, or at least to feel like I'm fulfilling my obligation for useless auditions. You really, really enjoy walking around your apartment naked except for combat boots, and what's so wrong with that, and if that isn't cool with your roommate she should just get married already? Yeah, I DON'T CARE. I just want to find an apartment, get to the rehearsals for

As Far As We Know

already and get the hell off this subway car.

Sometimes it seems as though to be a high-functioning member of contemporary society is to be capable of dealing with a lot of bullshit. I am not functioning highly. I am done with this. But can I really be done with this? If it's going to make me unlikable and, worse, threaten my ability to get cast? I'm not talking about being a genuine person here. I want to be that regardless of my attitude toward bullshit. It's like the difference between having a great performance in which you didn't really feel in it, and the great performance in which you felt somehow like you were transcending all the pretense and sleight-of-hand to really embody the story. I want the latter. It's not enough to do good, but to do good right.

That

is the matter under discussion in my 'blog entry!

Hand Out some Beat Downs

There was a campaign not too long ago comprised of various people in major cities spending a day outside offering free hugs. They came with signs, they shouted it from the rooftops, they made

videos

of their days and posted them to YouTube and Google Video. It was interesting, the responses they got to their efforts. Sometimes I watched and thought, "What is wrong with America, that we should be so resistant to no-strings physical intimacy?" Other times I thought, "What is wrong with these people? Why must they trumpet their offer and be so missionary about it? What are they trying to prove?" I was reminded, too, of the few times I've been enlisted to help out at a

kissing booth

. I always avoid it, and I don't know which is a worse hypothetical scenario in my mind: having to kiss

someone I find unattractive

, or finding

someone who doesn't want their dollar to go toward getting to kiss yours truly

.

Actors are a touchy-feely (touchie-feelie?) bunch, mostly. Those who aren't are usually pointedly so, and one gets the sense it's a bit reactionary to the whole phenomenon. I think I fall somewhere toward the middle, but it's hard to say (people always think they're moderate, just like they all think they have good taste). I avoid spontaneous backrubs, but I like to hug hello and goodbye. When I'm required to do a stage kiss, I usually approach it tentatively in the first rehearsals to make sure nobody's getting swept away or grossed out, and when we do a "trust exercise" I'm all about being there totally and allowing myself to be dropped if that's how it's going to play out. So you can judge for yourself where I fall on the scale of touchafeelarockability for yourself.

What's a real sign of physical intimacy, though, is the relationship within which you can feel comfortable resorting to physical violence.

I'm sorry. I seem to be writing about violence

quite a lot lately

. The reasons, it seems to me, are multitudinous. I miss my circus activities (amongst other physical distractions), which are just not possible now, bringing me to explanation deuce: I am at present constantly moving, never getting anywhere. That is what it is to apartment hunt and work nearly full time at an office job. This too shall pass, I know, but in the meantime I would really enjoy some stage combat gone awry, or even a very little

Fight Club

action. Kick my ass. Somebody. Please?

All right, all right. Put your damn hands down,

all of you

.

Oddly enough, Friend Davey (who really should have a 'blog of his own for me to link to at this point [Constantine...I'm looking in your direction...so to speak...]) addressed a similar desire via email to our little Burke gaming cabal today. And I quote:

"Someone knocks you down or splashes you with liquid at a party, or a myriad of other things, what are we to do? If you get all huffy you are typically seen as irrational and possibly immature. If you stand and take it you are less of a man. If we fight we are arrested for fighting. There is no more 'satisfaction' to be demanded. Now I'm not trying to sound like a 'things were better when...' guy, b/c I hate that party almost as much as the 'things will be better if...' folks on the other side of the isle; but seriously: some part, if a little or a lot, of the decades-old trend of public shootings, violent abusive children, arrogant talking-head political-wonk crap has got to be laid at the feet of the fact that we can not hit somebody if they are being a jerk. Rush Limbaugh and too many others to name would be much better people if someone had just popped him one years ago so that he knew where the line was. Students would not abuse their teachers in school if they were put in their place with a spanking at a young age."

Davey goes on to confess he's a bit off-kilter at the time of writing, but today I'm with him.

Friend Patrick

expressed a

similar sentiment

not long ago, and Davey's tirade was in part inspired by his reading Friend Nat's

latest entry

. Ergo, it is not an isolated phenomenon, this lust for physical "satisfaction" amongst we men. (At least, not isolated to just me. Perhaps I befriend the violent type.)

I half-jokingly propose this: in addition to "trust exercises," we incorporate, as a regular part of the rehearsal process, "pwn3d xrc1z3s" (that's "powned [read: abused or humiliated in a head-to-head challenge] exercises" to the uninitiated). These exercises would never involve falling backwards into someone's arms, or closing your eyes, ever. They would function more along the lines of paintball, or bloodsport. The point would be a different kind of trust. The saying, "There are no atheists in the trenches"? That. That would be our point.

Insane, I know. Just wait until we're teaching it in the corporate training workshops.

One Hun Dread

This is my 100th post, which means I'm averaging about 20 per month, which would probably make Odin's Aviary the most successful journal I've ever kept ever, even if I stopped right now, never to write another word here again.

But I won't.

Special thanks, too, to my fellow nerds of Camp Nerdly for their interest in my first Nerdly post (see

5/7/07

), for they did--in one day--double my readership. That's right! I had almost

twenty-five

new readers that day! What what!

StatCounter.org

almost 'asploded!

Owing to this momentous occasion, it seems fitting either to:

  • Look back on the Aviary's droppings from the past, a la Three's Company's annual episode comprised entirely of weakly incorporated clips from previous seasons;

or,

Accordingly, I shall do neither. Instead, I shall write a bit more on this concept of The Third Life(patent pending). (Thanks to Jason Morningstar for unintentionally motivating me to revisit this theme. I owe you the user manual to The Turtle Amulet.) When I began this 'blog, way back in the halcyon days of my youth--December 2006--I began it without purpose, and my first entry simply declaimed that fact in an effort to change it. Shortly thereafter, I found a subject both general enough and compelling enough to make daily writings addressing it a realistic possibility. Not satisfied with having purpose, however, I felt compelled to give it a name that I culled from myriad personal cultural references, thereby assuring that no one would have any concept of just what in the hell I was referring to when I used said name. I dubbed this subject The Third Life.

The Third Life refers to the examined life, the one intentional, with something significant in addition to working and family/friends. I tend to see the third option as something artistic in spirit, but that is a personal bias and anything can be done artfully, so I would modify that condition to exclude only "hobbies." If it's a "hobby," it ain't your "Third." Conversely, simply aiming to make something creative in nature into one's career does not qualify. Take my goal of becoming full-time in my professional acting, for example. If I achieve this aim, it does not necessarily mean that I am living The Third Life. It's not about material success. It's more about working in the spirit of truth.

Kinda dippy sounding, I know. Nevertheless, I mean it. In acting it can be pretty easy to accidentally fly through a show on automatic pilot, or act for audience response more than the truth of the moment on stage, and I see this in life as well. Have you ever felt like you were suddenly woken from a kind of zombie-like routine you were barely aware of? Have you ever driven yourself (and those patiently tolerating you) crazy with trying to please everyone, or in other cases only yourself? These are things I feel happen to me when I slip in life, when I wander off this incredibly difficult path I've chosen for myself. Some people do just fine living a "normal" life artfully, or not worrying the art to living. Me, I need to have a pursuit, an exploration, akin to religion. Not that I'm looking for answers, necessarily. Maybe meaning. Maybe something else entirely that will surprise me.

There may come a day when I stop acting. Well, maybe not "stop acting." I don't think I could ever do that completely at this point; it will live through whatever I do from here on out. But there could come a day when I cease the struggle to be an actor in the no-holds-barred sense of the role. Indeed, in the progress of building this here weblog I have more than once wondered, "Have I started this thing only to have it record the cessation of the career I began it to support?" (Yes, I use this kind of vocabulary and syntax when I'm thinking to myself. That should clear a lot up for you vis-a-vis my writing style and considerable pauses in conversation.) I frequently try to imagine myself as a teacher, or even a writer (a career that vies for that esteemed category of "Most Impossible to Make a Living At"), and fantasize that life would be so much simpler down those paths. I don't know if that's necessarily true, but at times it's hard to imagine anything being more difficult than what I'm doing now.

Inevitably, I stop for a moment in these thoughts, and look around me, and realize that there's nothing I'd rather be doing. Teaching might offer me more security in life. Writing may encourage an all-around more peaceful existence. Being a paralegal . . . well, that would still just all-around suck. The point is, I am still doing what makes me happy, no matter how miserable it may sometimes be. Maybe someday what makes me happy will change. If it does, I hope I'm up to the challenge of recognizing that.

A couple of nights ago I had dinner with a friend, a fellow actor who had just returned from a week-long gig out of town that involved some friends and a teacher he hadn't worked with in a long time. He came back energized to take his craft by the bootstraps and heave it back onto its feet, and it was inspiring. I thought about how some of the best people I have ever known, people who just impress the hell out of me in one way or another, lead these kinds of "unconventional" lives. They pursue family (blood or otherwise), career . . . and something else. However I can find it, that's the life for me.

And now I've got sea shanties stuck in my head.