Once on the El a girl I’d never seen before told me I looked like a young Orson Welles. As you can imagine, I was quite flattered. I mean, Orson Welles was cool as shit. Of course, I also heard a story that Welles was strapped into a girdle for all of the young-and-dashing scenes in Citizen Kane, and he gradually loosened it as the character aged, so that the immense, bloated figure who whispers “Rosebud” with his dying breath is Orson Welles closer to his natural girth. It would make sense. Remember when he did those wine commercials in the ’70s? That dude was immense. So, when this girl told me on the train that I looked like Orson Welles, that may have been a very backhanded complement, especially since I have long since surpassed my ideal fighting weight.
(Just a warning: If you plan on reading this blog regularly, there is a good chance you are going to catch me whining about my weight a lot. I apologize in advance for my annoying Bridget Jones-like behavior.)
I am not a small man. I am about six feet tall, and weigh around two hundred ninety pounds. I have been told that I wear it well, whatever that means. Oddly enough, it hasn’t hurt me finding acting jobs lately, but it does prevent me from getting the specific roles I’d like to play. I know, I have nobody to blame but myself. Hey, I tried Atkins, and got a kidney stone for my troubles. I’m open to suggestions provided they are low-budget, and don’t require me to actually, you know, do anything. I hate, hate the gym. And I haven’t run farther than a block since high school. I do ride a bike to work, which I enjoy immensely, but that’s only good for about a third of the year, and it only takes me twenty minutes to get to work anyway, so I barely even break a sweat.
I did manage to break a sweat today, however, because I spent a couple of hours helping my friends Jen and Fraser move. Honestly, I don’t know what came over me. They didn’t ask me to come help. For some reason I just thought I ought to. I don’t think I’m as smart as my parents keep telling me I am. After the fourth of fifth trip down one set of stairs and back up another, my lungs started to question my sanity.
“Dude,” they said in unison, “you gotta warn us when you’re gonna pull shit like this. Seriously, you haven’t done any strenuous physical activity since October. Do you have any idea how sore you are gonna be in about four hours?” And boy, were they right. Jen dropped me off back at my place at about one o’clock this afternoon. It’s pushing four now, and my shoulders and calves have turned into bricks. My neck pops every time I move my head.
I know what you are thinking: Chris, what exactly is the point of this blog entry? The answer is, none. It just amuses me that I can dump whatever I’m thinking onto my keyboard, and with a few clicks subject it to any poor bastard who stumbles across this site.
I have a show tonight (I’ll probably tell you more about my illustrious theater career later), but I don’t have to leave for another hour. So, I’m gonna kick back, toss on the new Dropkick Murphys album, and hope those boys from Boston can drown out the screams coming from my own arms and legs.