Despite however much I've curbed my drinking habits, it's difficult to convince people who've witnessed my heavier days (is this a tampon commercial?) that I'm not a bumbling idiot. And even without alcohol, I'm seemingly incapable of grace and tact, so it is no surprise that Saturday night's lovely karaoke party in honor of Kath's 30th birthday saw yours truly make an utter ass out of himself on exactly three occasions. The first, having somehow magically channeled Rob Halford, was when I took the microphone and did my version of Judas Priest's "Breakin' the Law," which, admittedly, went over pretty well. However, my "Bill Cosby sings Superfreak" was ill received as it was evident that I wasn't so much entertaining as I was a sad, silly little man. It was then brought to someone's attention that I do a raptor impersonation. I hadn't done the raptor in some time, as was made abundantly clear when I assumed the raptor position and chased a small gaggle of Japanese girls down the street who (impossibly!) turned abruptly, causing me to reel back, lose my balance, and fall to the concrete. As I fell to the unforgiving platform of cold, cold shame, I couldn't help but think, "I deserve this" and "this is my life" before my shoulder collided rather clumsily with destiny. I stared up into the heavens, a shooting star flitting by as if to mock me, when my field of vision was consumed by a massive, hulk of a figure. Apparently, a giant Samoan man had taken an interest in my plight and was now aggressively offering his assistance.
"Yo, man, you ok?"
(waving my arm) "Just leave me here..."
"Yo, get up, muthafucka."
So now, Samoan Joe wanted to beat me up because I didn't want his help. Only in New York will you find someone who WILL slap you silly if you won't succumb to their generosity. It's like violently raping an old woman because "the bitch wouldn't let me help her cross the street, nigga!" I believe it was new roommate Rachel's poignant comment that "he wanted to kick you BECAUSE you were down." Too true. Too true.
I have been informed that I shall be honored tonight, along with other performers and contributors, by my friend Jonathan's production company, who are celebrating ten years of service to the film & theatre community. Now, I'm not entirely certain what there is to honor, unless they're giving out awards celebrating "Angriest Performance by a Whining Douchebag." If that's the case, then I'm a shoo-in. Or a Shaolin. Or a racist.