Alright.

In all seriousness, I am very drunk. Last several posts have been as such. But THIS post, I shall not end with an all-caps declaration of sloppitude. I got that out of the way early. Drunk. Soooo what hath Andres wrought? I'll tell you. An ab. It's true. Danther has worked some magic, and I found an ab yester-eve. It was completely by accident. I was watching television, one of those shows in which three critique a dozen one-by-one at some skill set. Not sure which. It might have been sewing. No matter. I was squanched up in my gazelle-skinned sectional when I noticed that I'd placed my bottle of Saranac Black Forest on...a coaster??? Yes. A coaster. Not my stomach. My stomach, you see, has been the natural resting spot for my bottles of recreational (and occupational) beer for decades. Instinctively it was always the spot where I would rest my beers you see. But last night I put the beer down on a coaster. As if I knew something about my stomach. As if I knew that it could no longer accommodate a beverage vessel. So I lifted my shirt and gazed at what appeared to be the same troubling mound of formless sludge that has always comprised my torso. There, barely noticeable amidst the roiling fat. Was an ab. It's gone now, but I swear I saw it. Soon it shall be joined by five more, and they shall form a pack of sorts. I say!

It's grand. I've been hired to play the part of this military man, yet no one, seriously, no one, really trusts that I'll mold this ancient fartbag into shape in time. FUCK THEM ALL WITH A SPORK.

I shall and will and tally ho. Drunk.

I pormise NO TIME TO SPELL CHECK that my next post will be more coherent, and also, make more sense.

More Apologies

Sorry about that last post, as well as the previous one. I'm going through a transitionarFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKMEEEEEEEEEEEEEESOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODRUUUN

Apologies

I must apologize for my last post, which I began in earnest but completed in scotch. It's just that, even with my now bi-daily sweatscursions, a man such as me DRRRUUUUUUNNNKKKKKK AAAAAAAS FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

Private Danther

As I embark on this odyssey of sweat, heat rash and despair, I think it's only appropriate that I do a quick profile of the man who is going to help me hammer this man-dough into the glistening steal of muscle. My personal trainer, my musclesmith if you will, Nkruma "Danther" Bjorklund. Born to a Ghanese mother and Swedish father in DRUUUUUUUUUUUUNK

FOUR CRUNCHES!!!

That's it. My first workout consisted of four crunches. And then I vomited up a perfectly good spinach, goat cheese, onion straws, portabello and shawarma omelet. Urgh. Danther still has it! Though my teeth still ache with afterpuke, I think I'll reward myself with a Snickers smoothie. ONE STEP AT A TIME!

Invigoraticized!

This searing waist-band pain cannot dampen my spirits. I am facing a full-length mirror in my armoiretum, so named because it contains several dozen armoires, each stuffed with costumes from my film and television career. I am looking at what appears to be a monstrous banana muffin in army pants*, but it's just me. Shirtless, in army pants. My manboobs and gut form a flesh cascade, a frozen waterfall of fat breaking over this corrugated, burning welt that rings my waist. If I don't unbutton these pants soon my head will pop off with a blood gush and roll into the corner, spinning to rest with a fucking SMILE on its face! Yes, despite these pants nearly bisecting me, I am beaming. My manager dropped off the contract today. My first serious part in a long while. Is it possible that this is the long awaited turning of the page to the next chapter of my

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhfuck. Whew.

life?

(I unbuttoned my pants)

I hope so. By the way, what determines the next chapter? The events that happen to you or your own decision to simply start writing the next chapter? Maybe both. At any rate, I'm ready. Time to call my personal trainer, Danther. I haven't spoken to him in nearly 18 years. I hope he's still a personal trainer.

*Do you remember 'Twelve Guns A Lady'? My last military role.

I am seriously considering a role.

There is a role that I am seriously considering. I should clarify: I have been OFFERED a role, and I am seriously considering said offer. It could be the role that re-catapults me back to sea level. Back to zero. And I define zero as "not a shadow of his former self who only makes appearances as good-natured barbs at his former stature status whatever four scotches you know". Four. Different. Brands. Of. Scotch. To get me here to this point...typing. Ugh. I started with an 18-year single malt. Then a 12-year. Then a blend. Then a bottle with a dragon clutching a nude lady. To get to the typgin. Typing. But LISTEN! I am seriously considering a role. And it's a meaty role. Opposite quality talent. And directed by A NAME. This is no shabby production, it's Oscar bait. And they want me. I'm tearing up.

I've got the script in front of me. It's resting on my glass coffee table, and I've read most of it. What I HAVE read is superb. Real balls. Were I to take this part, I can already see in which direction I would push myself. Let's say, hypothetically, that I fucking grab this role. That I just MAKE IT MINE. Hypothetically. Here's what I'm thinking:

I lose 92 pounds. Boom. 92. You read that right. That would bring me down to a sturdy 230. I'd look like a whippet!

Buzz cut. Trust me, it would be necessary, SIR! Ha I just gave something away!

Two fake tattoos. One of a heart ringed by barbed wire, and one of...oh I don't know...a dragon clutching a nude lady.

Contacts, not glasses.

A slight limp. Left leg.

A southern accent. Mississippi.

TANGENT! Have you ever fucking stared at the word Mississippi before? Holy shit. Who thought of that one? Oh my.

Yes, it's all coming together now. The limping swagger, the slurring vehemence. I could knock it out of the park. The crowd goes wild. Home fucking run.

du Bouchet makes his big comeback. No longer a joke. No longer a has-been. Like Travolta in Pulp Fiction, or Downey Jr. in Iron Man. This could be my Iron Man. OH EVEN BETTER LIKE HOPKINS IN SILENCE OF THE LAMBS.

Oooh.

TANGENT! When's the last time you saw 'Silence Of The Lambs', eh? Rent it. Buy it, whatever. You will not see a better example of LESS IS FUCKING MORE than Sir Anthony's performance in that film. He's like an icicle strung across two straining moments. Like a paralyzed dog eyeing food. Ah, the Brits. You know what they can do? They can own a moment on screen and still go home with their brains intact. Lovely, professional, sane folk. And terrific drinking partners. I'm like a British person minus all of that stuff but the drinking part.

I will do this role. I will accept this offer. I'm dialing now.

It's a voicemail message. I am waiting...and...

(all of these words in parentheses represent me leaving the voicemail on my agent's voicemail accepting the role aaaaaaaah euphoria!)

Well then. It appears I'm going to be in a rather lovely film.

From here on my couch I can see my seldom-used treadmill. I can sense its doubt. No matter. 92 pounds. And tomorrow down to Melrose for the fake tattoos and haircut.

You may call me Seargent. Oh yes.

You know, I'm a realistic person. I know this could be nothing more than the beginning of nothing. However, were I to try and I will, and were I to get lucky which I often do, this could be huge as in HUGE. And for that merest of possibilities I am more than willing to strain. And. We're. Off.

Time to pour all of this scotch into the hot tub.

FORTH!