Murder Bar

They say where you drink is a reflection of you.... If this is the case then man am I in trouble.

You see I don't like the bar where I regularly drink. It's dark and dingy and has a terrible selection of beers, however I find myself there at least twice a week.

The Watering Hole is less than a block away from work, this means that after a stressful shift where you reek of Barbeque sauce there is really only one place to go. I've tried to champion other bars, in fact Crocodile lounge with its free pizza with every beer threatened to topple the hellhole that is our local, it just couldn't bring in the numbers and fell by the wayside.

Perhaps the worst thing about The Hole is the karaoke, dear sweet lord the karaoke. I have had some interesting experiences revolving around that microphone. Hell I've sung when I've had a few to many and I can just about get away with it, but the problem is when pissed up girls belt out 'It's Raining Men' it makes me want to cry. The most interesting aspect of karaoke is when the Mafia come to drink in the bar. You see the Mafia get what they want and when they say it's their turn to sing, it's their turn to sing. There is a catch to this, you see they sing the same fucking song every... single... time. Even more messed up is when you try to sing the song that they always do. Halfway through your rendition you will feel a thick Italian hand hand on your shoulder followed by the pasta breath of someone quietly explaining that you can't sing that song because it is reserved for a friend. It is at this point you drop the microphone and leave the bar.
Perhaps the most surreal moment was watching actor William Hurt singing the song with the Mafia before hitting on every young black girl in the bar.
No matter how drunk or sober I am, no matter what day of the week it is I always seem to end up at The Hole. Even on my birthday at 4:30am I suddenly realized that I was standing in a room with a familiar dank smell. At the point I stumbled home.

But by far and away the most frustrating thing about the Hole is the fact there is no reception there. It's like it is a vortex and once inside you can never escape, at no point can you call a mate to see where they are because that involves walking outside into the cold New York air.
Nothing good comes of a night in The Hole, you either leave to drunk and are annoyed you got wasted for no reason, or you leave sober and are annoyed you bothered to buy a couple of drinks.

So Ladies and Gentlemen the reason you haven't heard from me for a few weeks is because I have been trapped. Trapped inside a bar full of shitty sports memorabilia, bad singers, weird smells, terrible beer and a lingering sense of guilt. The Watering Hole. I tell you, if drinks weren't $4 for regulars I'd never go.

Squeak

Last night was incredibly distressing for me. I came home, drunk and was faced with a huge moral dilemma.... let me explain.

Regular readers will know of my New York nemesis, that's right, The Mouse, or to give him his real name (as christened by Anna Marshall) 'Rodrigo.' Rodrigo has been the bane of my existence for 9 months. He wakes me up in the middle of night rustling in my bedroom. He pokes his head out when we have guests over. He scares off women, he taunts me by strutting around the apartment like he owns it and worst of all he outsmarts me and moves the traps I set for him. I have given up on beating him.

Last night whilst at work the exterminator came over to our house, unbeknownst to me, and laid some traps. Good luck mate, I thought, Rodrigo is one tough cookie, you wont catch him.
As usual I had too much to drink after work and returned home at 3 am. As I walked in I noticed the traps the exterminator had set, they were more advanced than the store bought ones, impressive I thought..... then I saw it..... Lying on a sticky mat was Rodrigo... caught. He was struggling to break free, horrified that he had been captured. I took a moment to compose myself and weighed up my options. Should I unstick him and let him go free? Should I walk 10 blocks and then let him go free? Should I leave him overnight to starve? Should I squash him? One thing was for sure..... I had to kill him.
I searched online for advice and I found it.... boy did I find it. I looked down at Rodrigo, he was suffering bad, he had wriggled so much that he was bleeding and was obviously hurt. He looked so harmless and cute. I welled up thinking about what I had to do... It was my very own Sophie's Choice.
What happened from then on is something I'm not proud of, but remember I was drunk and Rodrigo had terrorized me for months.
I boiled the kettle.
One the water inside was at the desired temperature I poured in some washing up liquid and poured the contents into a bowel.
I looked down at Rodrigo, he just stared up at me.. helpless.
I couldn't bear to do it.... the water was cooling down. I made a snap decision. I placed the bowel outside the apartment in the hallway. As I walked back inside I reminisced about all the times me and Rodrigo had had together. The first time he ran into the girls bedroom and I didn't tell them. The way me and him used to team up to scare Anna. The times we would both just sit there and watch TV.
I looked down at him, no longer an adversary... but a friend. He looked back at me with those big beady eyes as if to say 'Rob... it's me Rodrigo.... don't do it.' But it was time.
I lifted up the sticky mat and carried it out to the hall. I look at Rodrigo one last time, said goodbye, then flipped the map upside down and placed it in the boiling soapy water.

Rodrigo Mouse passed away in the early hours of the morning on November 18th. He is survived by three housemates in Apartment 3.

My Kinda Town

So after last weekend in London this weekend it was off to Chicago with Dylan to meet Sammy and Dean.

Now there are many places I could start with the review of the weekend. The crap shower in the hostel, the hot receptionist in the hostel with the icy icy heart and come to bed eyes, but instead I'm going to start with Brunch.

On the flight to The Windy City Viner and I were mapping out exactly what we wanted to do once we landed and both of us agreed that the way forward was a pot of Brunch. So once we checked into our ghetto hostel the first thing we asked was where was good for Brunch, a few options were gathered and then we met Dean and Sammy and headed out for some well deserved food.

The restaurant we went to was called Orange, indeed it was life changing.

Perhaps it was the excitement of the four of us being together, perhaps it was dizziness from having not eaten, but needless to say we were in a stupid mood. Our waitress slinked over to the table and the first thing I noticed was her T-shirt. At first it appeared to be a plain pink shirt, however on closer inspection it bore the image of a Liger. Now for those of you that don't know a Liger is the result of when a Lion and Tiger have a baby.

Somewhat blown away by our waitress' bold support of such a bizarre creature I launched into a conversation with her about Liger's Even when she looked at me like I was crazy I carried on, spouting Liger facts left right and centre. The boys thought I was nuts.

After our Liger chat we ordered our breakfast, I had a steak.

The next day at about 11 we had hunger pangs. The unanimous decision was made to revisit Orange and the Liger. However we were to be disappointed, the Liger was not wearing her colors today, her dedication to the Liger cause wasn't as strong as we thought.

On our last morning Dean, Dylan and Sammy begged me to go somewhere else, but I stood firm, the combination of cucumber water, Eggs Benedict and Liger enthusiasts meant we were only going to one place.

If I could buy shares in that restaurant I would.

When in Chicago you have to do something Chicagoey, so we decided to ascend the Hancock tower in order for a nighttime view of the city.

The que to get into the lift was ridiculous, however it did spawn an interesting question 'If you had to be one tall building what would you be?' The game descended into anarchy however when used it as an opportunity to take the piss out of Sammy.

Finally we made it into the lift and after a quick ride we were at the top. There was but one problem, we had ridden the elevator the restaurant and bar as oppose to the viewing deck. No worries though we would stay and grab a drink. The wait to get to the bar was half an hour. Fuck that!

The viewing deck was just 2 floors below, but in order to get to it we had to go all the way back to the bottom and then all the way up again.

More waiting in line. Finally we reached the ticket stand where the unfunniest man in the world cracked a couple of very unfunny jokes.

We were all set and ready to go when we looked back to see Dylan milling around. He was trying to get a free ticket with his media card. Unsurprisingly he didn't.

As we waited in another line to get to yet another lift we were told we had to have a photo taken. Even if we didn't want to the 4 of us had to stand in a line and have our photo taken infront of a superimposed background of the Chicago skyline. We did. We didn't smile.

In the lift on the way up we were feeling particularly stupid and cracked jokes in the crowded lift about having bad stomachs and generally acting like 5 year olds. We got out the lift 45 minutes after we had been two floors higher to have a look at the view. It was nice, was it $20 nice? Probably not.

After twenty minutes we had to wait in another que to get the lift back down the tower. By now we were wondering if we would ever get out of the bloody Hancock building. After a quick photo session where infront of another superimposed background where we pretended to be jumping off the building we were back in the lift going down. Finally our immaturity reached new levels when the voice over the PA shrilled 'Now you've been to the top and know the Hancock tower a bit better you can call it by it's nickanme.... Big John.' We started uncontrollably giggling as the 10 year old boy next to us rolled his eyes.

I won't bore you with more details, I'll leave that to Dean and Sammy, whose blog you can follow here http://deanandsammy.blogspot.com/

It was a great weekend spent with 3 guys I have been friends with since I was 7 years old. The photos will surface in a few days, the others took just a few.

Gilbert's Know How To Party

So this weekend I was back in London for brief celebratory visit. It was time for my little cousin Andrew to have his barmitzvah and become a man.

Our tale begins on Thursday morning at 6am as my father came bounding into my room to wake me up. We were off to synagogue... hurrah. Bear in mind I haven't been there for 2 years, I'm a bad Jew. You see on Thursday morning Andrew had his first call up and read from the torah for the first time, thus making him a man. After he had sung so beautifully my Uncle Michael asked me to help dress the Torah. To be more precise, I had to lift it. This is no easy task, that thing weighs a ton. I joked around and said 'what's the worst that can happen!?' Well the worst that can happen is I drop it and everyone who sees would have to fast for 7 weeks. The pressure was on. I walked onto the bimah and shakily hoisted the torah skywards. Wobbled a bit and then sat down. Phew. I turned to look at the Ladies Gallery where my Mum was sitting. I called out to her 'Are you proud Mum!?' She wasn't.

Thursday morning was amazing and I achieved something I have never achieved before. I ate 3 breakfasts. Yes.... 3. Before Setting off to listen to Andrew I wolfed down a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes in order to give me the desired energy for that time of morning. After Synagogue there was a brief but sugary selection of treats in the lobby. I made my excuses and managed to eat 4 to 5 of those. Fantastic, it wasn't even 8am and I had managed to eat two breakfasts. Then, like music to my ears I heard we were going back to Aunty Shelly and Uncle Michael's for breakfast as everyone was hungry. Now I wasn't hungry but two breakfasts wasn't going to be enough. A plethora of bagels and smoked salmon back at 17 Pine Grove meant that by 9:30 I had achieved the seemingly impossible, I had eaten breakfast 3 times.

The Friday night dinner at our house was a lovely affair. All the family together (that's nearly 50 people btw.... we're a big family), speeches made, jokes cracked, but more importantly... Duck Rolls eaten. Quite simply the Duck Rolls being handed out at my house on Friday Night were the greatest thing I have ever put in my mouth. Vegetarians can go fuck themselves, this stuff was golden. I must have eaten a good 10 of them. In fact they were so good I had them the next day for dinner cold.

The Saturday was fantastic. I'm not going to go into the details of Andrew's performance, but put it this way, I was bloody proud. That kid made me shed a tear! After his barmitzvah we decamped back to the Gilbert's for Shabbat Lunch.

As I walked in I almost got an erection. A waitress wandered up to me, stuck a platter in my face and said 'Duck Roll?' That was the second time I cried tears of happiness that day.

It was then onto the Sunday. Party time. Despite the histrionics of my to sisters with regards to being ready in time we were at the venue with minutes to spare. Photos done and it was time to begin the party.

I won't do the party justice by describing it here for you. Instead I will focus on one facet of the party... the Vodka. And by the Vodka I mean the means by which it was distributed. After all the speeches were said and done we headed to the dance floor where we were met by a vision. Three girls dressed in outfits the Rabbi would not have approved of, despite it being his birthday, with Vodka bottles strapped to their waists. It was on. Immediately I sought out Andrew Myers and Broando, they were two steps ahead of me, they each held an empty shot glass in their hand and had already decided their favorite Vodka giver. It was at this point I reminded them they were married with kids. After a few more shots we had built up a rapport with the girls, one of them was a model who had done a few glamor shoots. We nodded inquisitively as she told us this, as though she was a learned professor at a Museum telling us about how the Dinosaurs lived millions of years ago. Actually if professors looked like that I would have done much better at University. We had a mission, find out her name. With all the stealth of James Bond (drunkenly asking her what her name was) I unlocked the secret and two words came rolling out of that oerfectly formed mouth of hers..... Sammi Pennington. Like a flash I was off to report my findings to Andrew and Broando. Three minutes later they came bounding up to me like a couple of twelve year old boys who had found pornography... except they were men in their thirties who had discovered pornography. A quick google on Andrew's phone had revealed the gold mine, Sammi Pennington's nude photo shoot. As the party wrapped up with everyone singing 'We Are The Champions' a little part of me felt like a Champion.

In reality though there was only one boy we were singing to. Andrew Benjamin Gilbert, that was a great weekend!

And So I Face The Final Curtain

And so the curtain comes down on my New York stage debut. Needless to say I am fucking knackered!

The show went really well and I'm very pleased with everything, but of course this wouldn't be an update if I didn't highlight some of the stranger aspects of my life for the last few weeks.
I'll start with the venue we performed in. The Medicine Room theatre was a very nice space to act however it was interesting to say the least.
The owners of the space were probably the most eccentric people I have ever met. One was a old woman who is currently rehearsing a musical version of a ll of Shakespeare's tragedies. Before every rehearsal she would sit around the piano with a group of friends and warble away about the 'Black ram tupping the white ewe.' Her voice was perhaps not broadway ready shall we say. She was also as mad as batshit. One night she came to see the play and the next day spent time questioning me about the explicit stage directions of the last scene (more on that later.) Eventually she demanded to see my script to see if I was telling her the truth!
There was also a dog who owned the theatre. The dog was just a giant ball of fluff and often mid-rehearsal you would hear him wheezing as he slothed around the lobby. The dog was also the only living thing I knew who took the lift instead of climbing two flights of stairs to get to the theatre.
Of course the dog didn't run the theatre, his owner did. His owner was also a little nuts and would always wear one pink Converse and one Green one.
Perhaps the strangest aspect of the theatre was the man who lived in our dressing room.
Now at first I thought our dressing room was just littered with props; tables, chairs, old costumes, a bed. But then last Sunday I came in for a performance early and heard a stirring. I looked into the dressing room and the long haired ghost who floated around the place was rising from a night sleep. Suddenly I realized that the bed was his, the clothes were his, the empty whisky bottle was his and from then on I was permanently creeped out that I was de-robing in another mans bedroom.

Now for those of you that don't know about the last scene of the play it's time to come clear. I get my arse out onstage. I don't flaunt it but it's there, and if you are sitting in a particular seat you get a very very good view of it.
The arse scene was never problematic however it did run into a few problems. At the end of the scene Ollie has to blow out a candle and the lights would cut to black. More often than not the candle would not blow out and the stage would be plunged into darkness except a dull flickering candle light illuminating my bum. It wasn't attractive.
Now I had no problems getting the ol' butt cheeks out, my bum is one of my better body parts. On some nights, however, the people sitting in the prime butt spotting location proved to be a problem.
On the opening night a couple of girls were laughing every time we said the word 'cum' or even 'come' so Ollie and I twigged pretty quickly that the last scene was going to be hell. Thankfully it provided just a few intakes of breath. I like to assume that's because of glorious peach like nature of my rear.
The worst was this Thursday when I had a lot of friends come see me. I had specifically told Dylan to not sit in the front row, stupidly I didn't give him a reason. Just before the lights went down I looked at the audience from the wings and saw Dylan and Dan sitting in the prime rear viewing area, front row. Bastards. They now look at me in a different light.

And so the maddest, craziest most exhausting 6 weeks of my life come to a close. I'm now a New York stage actor as well as still being a waiter extraordinaire at New York's best BBQ restaurant! I fly home on tuesday night for the mother of all celebrations.... my little cousins barmitzvah. Fuck me life is fun!

Shaving Off Some Time

So it's starting to get to crunch time for the play. Costumes are being donned, lines are no longer being stumbled over and shifts at work are becoming less frequent.

The first story begins a week ago however after yet another long rehearsal. The trek back from Brooklyn is long and painful at the best of times, when you realize you don't have enough money for the train on you it makes it even worse. After a combination of begging Ollie for quarters and jumping the barrier proved to be a success we heard the unmistakeable rattle of a train passing overhead. Fuck. We were going to miss it. A mad dash followed, I did that thing that kids do when they run upstairs two steps at a time, and I made it in just as the doors were closing. Phew! a close call.
Ollie and I sat there complaining about how tired we were and how much rehearsing over in Park Slope sucks. Pretty soon we both found ourselves nodding off just a bit. Then the train came hurtling out of the tunnel and over a bridge. It pulled into Ditmas Avenue. Delighted that I had reception I whipped my phone out and started waving it around hoping I was popular enough to receive a text. I wasn't. Then Ollie grabbed my arm with a look of error in her eyes. 'We're heading in the wrong direction.' I laughed off her idiocy and checked the map to make sure...... we were indeed heading in the wrong direction. So we jumped off at the next stop only to see a train heading in the right direction pulling out of the station. We trudged across the platform and waited, in the cold. It was 11 at night, in deepest, darkest Brooklyn and I wanted to cry. The word 'fuck' emanated from my mouth a fair few times. Eventually a train came and we were back where we started an hour after we had left.
Before I went home I stopped off for a comfort burger at my favorite Burger place in New York.... they got my order wrong and I waited half an hour for a cheeseburger. It was a bad night.

So in this play I am playing the part of a 15 year old boy. In order to create this illusion I have had a haircut into a nice side parting, similar to the one I sported in my Goodwyn's days and am very clean shaven. However there is one problem. In the play I take my shirt off. Now the three women who have sen me topless (Mum and both grandma's) can testify that I have a slight smattering of chest hair.... the director told me that this would have to go.
So the other day in the shower I thought I would give this a trial run. I sought the advice of many women about the pro's and con's of shaving versus waxing. Essentially though it is free to shave so that's the way I went.
I started with the chest, no problem there, came right off. I had now reached the point of no return, it would have looked weird to have stopped so it was all or nothing. I then encountered the tricky area of the nipple, the most sensitive place I would be shaving. Thanks to some dexterous hand movements and the fingers of a sculptor, I was able to remove the hair without a problem. Then it was time for my belly. This was where the hair was at its thickest and most stubborn. Eventually after half an hour I was done and looking as smooth as baby's bottom.
The next day though I started to itch..... and when I say itch I mean burn..... and when I say burn I mean want to tear the skin from my bones. Work was hell. Every 5 minutes I was rushing to the toilet for a heavenly scratch.
Even worse just two days later the hair had started to grow back so now my body just looked like a fat girls vagina which had been poorly gardened.
So yesterday was phase two of the shaving. This time however I lathered the fuck up before and baby powdered the shit outta myself afterwards.

If you would like to see my hairless body then make sure you get a ticket to the play!

http://www.smarttix.com/show.aspx?showcode=TRE7

A sorry schedule

Sorry for the irregularity of my updates... The last few weeks have been as dull as the inevitability of QPR eventually ending their 6 game unbeaten run.
My days have become regimented and tiresome, the only time they change is the weekend but let's start with the week.

9:15 - My alarm goes off. It's that annoying blackberry chime that haunts anyone who uses their phone as an alarm. It puts me in a bad mood but I refuse to change it. I am grossly hungover.

9:45 - Leave the house. Check the line at Strabucks. If short then buy a coffee. If long then buy a coffee and get to work late.

10:05 - Clock in 5 minutes late.

10:15 - Have argument with other waiters about listening to something other than country music whilst we set up the restaurant. I usually win and put on Muse. Girls complain.

11:00 Sit through pre-shift praying they don't ask me to describe some obscure item on the menu... they do. They want to know what seeds are in the duck rolls. The answer is caraway.... apparently.

12:00 - Hangover really kicks. Fold 50 napkins to ease the pain.

12:30 - Switch on auto-pilot as I serve guests.

2:00 - Get cut. Start doing sidework.

2:45 - Have sidework checked. Inevitabley I have forgotten something, usually the lemonade. Get lemonade from fridge. Fear for my life that fridge door will lock and I will be stuck in there and die.

3:15 - Leave work. Go home. Shower. Shit. Shave. Sleep

6:00 - Wake up and head off to rehearsal in Brooklyn.

6:30 - The R train stops in between stations underground for 10 minutes. I learn lines.

7:00 - Arrive at rehearsal and discover the schedule changed and we are doing a different scene.

7:15 - Embarrassingly call 'line' every 5 seconds of rehearsal.

9:00 - Make a pact with Ollie (girl from the play) that we won't get drunk again tonight.

10:00 - Rehearsal finishes and go for a beer with Ollie.

12:00 - 2 rounds later still out.

2:00 - Stumble home

Repeat until Friday when everything changes!!

11:00 - Wake up hungover. No work until 4:30. Decide to be productive.

3:00 - Still in pyjamas playing Football manager.

4:30 - Head to work.

5:00 - Text Ollie telling her I am no way going out tonight.

9:00 - Start serving beer at work. Have urge for a beer.

10:00 - Receive text from Ollie that she gave up and went out.

12:00 - Leave work and head to the crappy bar with white trash bartenders with Fred and Nicole from work. $4 beers for me because I'm a regular. Not a good sign.

3:30 - Leave bar.

Saturday.

8:00 - Wake up and head to Brooklyn.

9:00 - Hate Brooklyn.

10:00 - Realize that performing when hungover adds gravitas to scenes of a depressing nature.

10:15 - Scenes of a humorous nature aren't performed well.

12:00 - Check QPR score. Recently we have been winning. On saturday we lost.

2:00 - Go home and make a pact with Ollie that neither of us will go out.

2:30 - Shower. Shit. Shave. Sleep.

4:30 - Get to work and feel disgusting. There are 5 new servers so I have a small section meaning I make no money.

8:00 - Hear Americans talk about sporting rivalries 'decades old.' Place my head in my hands.

9:30 - Stare lovingly at the object of my desires at work. Get caught. Lie and say I was looking at a guest.

10:15 - Text from Ollie, she's out.

12:30 - Leave work

4:00 - Leave bar

Repeat on Sunday.

I am fucking knackered to say the least. However if you want cheap drinks at a crap bar after some BBQ food then I'm your man.

A more conventional update next week!