The Play's The Thing

As you all know (you do keep up with my life religously, don't you?!)
I've been doing some community theatre lately. I'm really quite
pleased to have gotten back into it. I am...big but coming in 5 4 3 2

But! Being on stage, even a community theatre stage, makes it
extraordinarily hard for me to care about my job. I know. I know!
Everybody has to get the bills paid & I'm lucky to have a job where I
get to help people. Hell! I'm lucky to have a job! I get that. I do.
And, as long as I had absolutely nothing to do with the theatre in any
way, shape or form, I was content with that. Now? I'm a malcontent. I
don't want to be but, sadly, I am.

There's only one thing I ever wanted to do (OK, fine, when I was 3 I
wanted to be a paleontologist. So, sue me!). But, due to a long
boring, daft story, I, for lack of a better term, crapped out & let it
go. But here's the thing - I'm over all that boring daft idiot crap.
The past, as somebody once said, is prologue. I'm concentrating on the
next act. The kid is trying to get back on track...I don't know how
yet but I'm inching my way forward, feeling my way along in the
dark...and other cliched phrases as well!

So, let's make a deal! If you catch me back sliding give me a kick in
the ass (it's quite close to the ground so this shouldn't be
strenuous) and, in return, I'll try to give a crap about my day job.
Because, if this isn't love it'll have to do until the real thing
comes along. Sound fair? Keen.

Yours In Christ,
Dark Furt

Three (3) Random Things

I’m trying to blog more frequently. I hope you appreciate this sacrifice on my part. You probably don’t though…you selfish bastards….

1 (one). Do Not Revisit The Past

On Friday night/Saturday morning I went to see an old (to me) movie. It was Evil Dead II: Dead By Dawn. Wow. I remember seeing it when I was a kid. My friend Julie and I would watch it all the time and laugh like drains. Needless to say it was not as we remembered it. Now, possibly, it had something to do with being drunk as a lord (that night not as children). But, generally, I think it just isn’t the same when you’re allowed to be watching a horror film, you’re not jacked up on all the sugar you can find and, oh, yeah! You aren’t ten anymore. Ah, well. It was still good to hang out with Julie and, bless her, she fell asleep so that I could make the let’s get the hell out of here call.

2 (two). Most Random Conversation Ever.

Yesterday I went to Burlington Coat Factory (Fancy!) to get some presents for my friend Elisa’s baby shower. While I stood in the longest line ever (always an issue at that place) I heard a voice behind me say “Excuse me.” I turned around and there was a rather lovely British gentleman standing there. He held up a mask and asked me “Would you say this is African or Asian?” I looked at the mask. “Asian.” I turned away. He then tapped me on the shoulder. “Well, are you sure? It was with all the African masks but it looks a bit Asian to me.” I looked at the mask. . . Again. “I believe it’s Asian. I may be wrong.” As I was turning I saw the made in sticker on the mask. “Especially since it was made in China.” I turned away. “Actually,” he said, “I believe that says Ghana.” I turned and looked at the made in sticker. Sure enough it was made in Ghana. “Oh, sorry. No glasses!” I turned away…yet again. “No worries,” he said, “where is Ghana?” I turned back to the Englishman, “Africa, I believe.” “So, the mask is African.” “Apparently.” I turned around. “So, excuse me,” he said. “Yes?” “What about these?” He held up the other two masks. “Would you say these were African as well?” I looked at the masks. They looked exactly the same as the first one. “I’d say they all come from the same place. Why? Is there a theme?” “Yes, there is a theme.” “Well, I don’t think anyone will notice if it’s wrong unless you’ve invited a lot of art historians and then, of course, there may be a problem.” I laughed. He laughed. “I don’t think I know any art historians.” “Then you’ll be fine.” “Do you think so?” Then it was my turn to check out. I completed my transaction and turned back to the Brit. “Yes, I do.” Then I walked away.

3 (three). Speaking Of Bad Movies….

I’m currently watching “Journey To The Center Of The Earth.” It’s crap. Absolute twaddle. But, the worst part? Brendan Fraser is going bald…quickly. And they’ve put him in the worst rug ever. It’s horrible. I can’t look away! It’s hypnotized me. I’m startled and confused by this piece of foolery. Brendan Fraser is, I think we can all agree, an attractive man. He will always be an attractive man. That is if he stops acting the fool and rips that rug off. Why can’t he/his agents/directors just accept the facts? The man is going bald. Big whoop. Did that hurt Bruce Willis? No. No, it didn’t. What hurt Bruce Willis? The bad hair plugs. There is a lesson there. Learn it.

Tipping, It Ain't Optional

Short But To The Point

Folks, tipping is not optional (unless, of course, you receive crap service). And tipping doesn’t mean two percent. Or three. Or even five. For restaurant service you tip 15 - 20%. I don’t care what Rachel Ray does. She’s friggin’ wrong. . . as usual. For personal services (hair, massage, mani/pedi) you better tip 20 - 30%. Why? Because those people have to physically touch you. Also, you should tip them well because, who knows? Maybe next time they might just leave that peroxide solution on a few minutes too long. Perhaps your spine just won’t align properly. Possibly they may forget to clean that nail file. And, honestly, what‘s less expensive? Tipping properly the first time or buying wigs, chiropractic appointments and fungal cream? Do the math. Shocking, I know but, hey! This is America. You get what you pay for.

Also, gents, never cheap out on the tip in front of a woman. It’s a bad idea. It’s like trash talking your mom. Big red flag! Just a tip from me to you.

So, Long Time No Blog...'Sup?

I apologize in advance. I promise to blog more tomorrow so that you can have a fun & frothy blog. However, in the mean time, I had some photos taken and I am not photogenic. This is not Earth shattering. This doesn’t effect my life in any major way. However, it does mean that every time I see a picture of myself I want to vomit up my lungs. Seriously. Because then I wouldn’t need to look at the picture anymore as I’d be in surgery (at minimum). Also, hopefully, the picture would be ruined by the lung goo. Sorry. That’s gross. But I think you got my point.

I think maybe I don’t know what my face looks like. Although, it should be said that in a few rare photos I do look like me. At least I look like I think I look…if that makes sense? Probably not. But, mostly, I look at a picture and think, wow. Is that my nose? Are my eyes that small? Are my lips that big? Good Lord! That’s not a forehead that’s an EIGHTHEAD!

So, why is that? Why do I recognize myself in some photos (even bad photos) but in most I could walk right past them & not know it was me unless I was told. I’d know they were related, obviously, but me? Nah. That ain’t me! That’s my aunt. That’s my cousin. That’s my ma. That ain’t me. Hu. Maybe it’s because we all look alike? And, from different angles, I look like different people?

Hu. It takes a village to raise a Fury. Perhaps it also takes a village to make a face. In that light it’s not so bad. In that light I can accept it. I still don’t like it but I accept it.

It's My Birthday (Almost). It's My Birthday (Almost). We're Gonna' Party Like It's (Almost) My Birthday.

Dear Friends,

Tomorrow, the aniversary of my birth, I ask you all to party like it's your birthday. If you could also drink Bacardi like it's your birthday, I'd appreciate it. Ya' know? I don't give a fuck it's not your birthday. And neither should you!

So, on what may prove to be your un-birthday, jump around. Jump around. Jump up. Jump up & get down.


Yours In Christ,

Dark Fury

I'm Not Sayin'...I'm Just Sayin'....

Um...awkward! But, hey, ya' don't ask ya' don't get!

If anybody is wondering what to get a certain special Fury on their shopping list (May1 is right around the corner, people...don't judge me.) might I suggest tickets to the DC Improv to see Brian Posehn?

Again, I'm not sayin'...I'm just sayin'....

Bad Jew, No Mitzvos For You!

I forgot Purim. This is not shocking. I am not, let us face facts, what anyone would call observant. Hell, I don’t even believe in organized religion. I mean, obviously, I believe it exists. I just don’t think it has anything to do with me. I don’t happen to think that G-d, omniscient and omnipresent deity that He is, needs you to be in a specific place at a set time to know you believe in Him. Call me wacky, if you will! I’m not a big proponent of prayer. Again, He’s omniscient (look it up) so He should know, well, everything. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not putting the knock on it. If you feel better after attending services or praying then go for it. I do, however, knock those who complain that G-d didn’t answer their prayers. Maybe He has bigger fish to fry (war, famine, plague…ya’ know, the big three). Maybe the answer was simply “No.” Who’s to say? I do know that I, personally, have been waiting on the right lotto numbers for years. So, get in line.

All that being said, Purim has always sounded like a fun holiday. I’ve never celebrated it. . . Except for hamantaschen. You have to love a religion that’s based on a system of fast and feast. We should be endorsed by Bulimia. But, that’s as may be. I never dressed up as Queen Esther. I never read the Megillah. Well, not for Purim. I have read it but just for fun. I know. I’m weird. I read Mishnah for fun. Don’t judge me, or I will turn this blog around & start quoting The Lubevitcher Rebbe! But, I digress. . . .

I like the story of how one woman, with the help of a few good meals, saved her people. It’s good stuff. She was a brave broad that Hadassah. Xerxes was not a man to annoy…just ask the Spartans. I, contrary to my mothers misguided opinion, would have lain low. That’s just me. In honor of my (probable) cowardice I close with the following atrocious poem (bit of a doddle, really).

When someone calls you a kike
then that is the time to strike.
When legions call you a Yid
go run and get yourself hid.
For it might be hurtful but it’s still true
that you’re just as dead when you’re martyred. Nu?

A (belated) Freilichen Purim, everybody.