Thursday, August 19, 2010

T-Gar n' Me!

August 15, 2010

Dear Diary:
SO bored with my life. Not a lot going on this summer. What's an actor to do?
I know!
I'll write in my blog!
That outta kill some time!
Til Soon,

August 16th
Dear Diary:
Just wrote a sassy post in my blog about the professional distance between actors and critics, and you won't BELIEVE this, but an ACTUAL critic actually responded to it! His name is Thomas, and I have to admit, our exchange was a little odd.
He was all like: "I'm a critic, and I talk to actors ALL the time! I have six or seven bitches - I mean actors - in my posse. But you know, we're on the down low."

And I was all like: "Whoa"

And then he got all cranky and was like: "You're slimy" (which was REALLY awkward!)

And then I got all cowed and conciliatory-like.

And he was like: "That's beneath you. But you know what? I'm just going to ignore it."

And I was all like: "OK. Me too."

Whew! That sure was a close call!

August 18th

Dear Diary:
So, I just found out that THOMAS has a blog! I thought that was MY idea!

And even though he said he was going to totally ignore me, I JUST discovered that he's actually been tweet-trashing me ALL day! Oh my god: SO unfair!

He said I was "petty" and "conniving", which is kind of like Bjork calling you weird.

He also accused me of using my blog posts to "angle for an acting job" and to "seek revenge on my former co-stars" which was REALLY out of left field! I'm not sure, actually, if those are accusations or just old plot lines from "Models, Inc.".

Anyway: SO pissed off!

But you know what, Diary? I am NOT a quitter! So I just called Thomas up and said : "Listen. I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let's meet for coffee and totally hug this out."

Thomas agreed and we met later that day at the Starbucks in the CambridgeSide Galleria.

We said our hellos and made some initial small talk and then I just HAD to ask him the most obvious question: DID he play Cousin Oliver on "The Brady Bunch"?

"People ask me that ALL the time." He said, in his adorable squeaky voice "And the answer, of course, is "Yes". That's why I'm such a good critic: I was an actor once myself. I KNOW what it's like."

We purchased our lattes and started wandering around the crowded mall.

"I HATE Cambridge" Thomas intoned, "Filthy liberal hippies, everywhere."

It was a little strange being with Thomas, as he kept yelling unsolicited comments at random strangers:

"You're ugly!"
"You're worthless!"
"You call that a facial scar?"
"Nice wheelchair, stupid!"

Some people got upset, but when Thomas explained he was a theatre critic they totally shut down. Some even asked for his autograph!

In the food court, Thomas fearlessly approached this hugely pregnant woman.

"Listen" He said to her, between mouthfuls of Panda Express "I know you might THINK you want this baby, but I'm a theatre critic, and I can tell you right now that you will make a TERRIBLE mother. I would abort immediately. You just look fat and silly."

Her eyes grew wide. "Do you really think so?" she asked.

"Take my word for it." He answered "I have a BLOG."

August 20th.

Dear Diary:
My friendship with Thomas is really deepening.
Hanging out with him is like being a Super Heroes' sidekick.
Captain Truth Teller!
and Actor Boy!

Na na na Nuh na na na Nuh na na na Nuh na na na na na na na Nuh Nuh!
(that would be our theme song!)

Being around Thomas is so exciting! He can make up a review for just about anything!
We went into CVS today and he actually reviewed the shampoo I was going to buy.

"Pretentious. Over-priced. Vapid. The A.R.T. of hair-rinses."

"But Thomas," I said, "I like this shampoo."

He suddenly, savagely grabbed my arm.

"Don't EVER question ME." He stammered.

His grip tightened.

"Thomas..." I gasped, "you're. hurting. me."

And just as suddenly he let me go.

"I'm sorry, baby" He said, stroking my face "I didn't mean that. But you just don't LISTEN. Do you think I WANT to hurt you? I don't want to hurt you. But you just have to learn when to shut up."

He's right. That has ALWAYS been such a problem with me!

"Thomas" I said, with a lump in my throat "I'm so sorry."

"That's OK, baby" He whispered, still stroking my face. "And hey, you don't have to keep calling me 'Thomas'. We're friends now, ain't we? Call me by my street name. Call me T-Gar."

Sept 1st
Dear Diary:
I don't know WHY I never had a critic as a best friend before! They are the best!

Started rehearsing a play today.

I had Thomas -Oops! I mean T-Gar - on speaker phone the whole time.

Whenever the director told us to try something, T-Gar would just pipe up: "Wrong! That's WRONG! Who HIRED you? You couldn't direct TRAFFIC! You are pissing on Shakespeare! Believe me, I KNOW Shakespeare. And I mean that literally: I actually KNEW Shakespeare! Personally! He even begged me to review his first performance of "Coriolanus", but I turned him down, because I was just TOO busy! Believe me: he is spinning in his GRAVE right now!"

It was a bit distracting to work like that, but I think it was for the best.

I LOVE the collaborative process!

T-Gar made me quit the show after that first rehearsal.

"You don't need those dilettante losers, baby." He said, smiling "You have me now. I'll gladly tell you why you suck."

Then he took my face in his hands.

"Just remember" he said, gazing into my eyes "I am your ONLY hope of ever being understood. By anyone. Ever."

God, I'm SO lucky!

Sept 14th

Dear Diary
Went over to T-Gar's apartment today.
He's never invited me before, and I have to say, I was intrigued.
It was very dark and musky inside.
Milk crates. Manacles. A large empty, newspaper-lined cage on the floor.

An effigy of Ryan Landry hung from a rope in the corner. T-Gar went over to it as soon as he opened the door and started punching it viciously. "Call ME fat, will you? Well, take THAT! And THAT!", he panted.
He kept striking at it until he was out of breath and collapsed on a milk crate, which seemed to be the only furniture he had.

After a while, he pointed to the cage on the floor.

"Wanna get in?" he breathed "It's really cool. I sleep in it."

"Why don't we eat something first, T-Gar?" I said.

Suddenly a strange groaning sound emanated from behind a closed door at the end of his hallway.

"What's that noise?" I asked "It sounds like Carolyn Clay with a ball gag in her mouth."

"Uh, yeah" T-Gar stammered, "Listen, why don't you make yourself at home? I just have to take care of something first."

He grabbed a box of garbage bags and a handsaw from under the sink, went into the room down the hall and closed the door. There were some faint sounds of struggle. Then silence. The groaning stopped.

I opened T-Gar's fridge. There was no food, just an old milk carton with "Human Bile" written across it with a black Sharpie. And some pickles.

In the freezer was a big round object wrapped in plastic labeled "Terry Byrne".

A half hour later T-Gar emerged from the back room in a bathrobe. He had apparently just taken a shower.

"Who wants Creme Brulee!?" he yelled.

"Me Me Me!!!" I clapped. I curled up on the floor of the cage while he busied himself in the kitchen.

About six hours later, T-Gar shook me awake: I had apparently dozed off. That cage IS comfy!

"Hey Sleepyhead." He murmered "You ready for dessert?"

We sat on the milk crates and I dove into T-Gar's take on French Cuisine.

"Well?" He said, "What do you think?"

"It's...well, it's..." I really didn't know what to say.

He stopped chewing.
"What?" he said. There was an ever-so-slight edge in his voice.

"Well, it's just not a very...traditional creme brulee." I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Weeeelllllll" I said slowly, "It's not very sweet. It's actually kind of sour. And green. It looks, in all honesty, like you just chopped up some pickles and served them in a ramekin."

T-Gar dropped his dessert spoon. A dark, vengeful cloud suddenly formed over his head. His eyes began to twitch, and his face became very puffy and red.

"" he whispered, and then a low, dark hum rumbled in his throat which quickly, frighteningly grew to an awful, ear-splitting wail.

He threw his dilled creme brulee at the wall and hurled his milk crate at me. I ducked and scampered behind the kitchen counter while he threw himself into a violent rage: clawing the walls, rattling his cage, ripping the chains and shackles from their fastenings.


He beat his chest and ripped, Hulk-like, at his clothes; flailing about the room wildly like a featherless, rabid owl.

And then finally broke down in a heap on the floor, weeping.
I came to him, held him in my arms while he sobbed.

"You don't understand what it's like to be this smart." He whimpered "You might think it's a blessing. But it's actually a curse. No one likes me. No one UNDERSTANDS me."

I held him and dried his eyes.

"T-Gar", I said "I understand you. I really do. You're beautiful. I used to think you were just a mean-spirited, pompous, dogmatic, arrogant bully with a blog. But I was WRONG. So wrong. You are special. You have feelings. Deep, complicated feelings. And I'm glad you're my friend."

We lay in the cage together, until T-Gar fell asleep.

(Note: any resemblance in this piece of fiction to persons living or dead is PURELY coincidental.)


  1. Thanks! I actually didn't know what L.M.F.A.O. meant, so I had to look it up!


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