I’m Telly. I’m a monster. Full name, Telly Monster.

“The Man Behind Telly” is actually Martin P. Robinson (mentioned in previous post). I know how to be a monster. Marty knows how to help a monster be accessible. And he’s better schooled on what children’s TV is all about. All the monsters on the show, and all of the monsters in the industry to my knowledge, have a Marty. Marty is the Marty for more than one of us on Sesame Street. And we all think he’s a pretty good Marty.

When I started on the show, some of you may remember that I was pretty different. TV-obsessed. Sporting antennae. Marty came on and saw something different. He recognized something in me, the real Telly, that he thought would make a really suitable character. I took off with it, and it really worked. And it happened at a time that could not have been better for me, in terms of personal therapy. I wasn’t terribly happy doing what I was doing before, and probably owe the bulk of what has turned out to be a long career on the show to Marty. He knows his work well and we have a great working relationship. I like to make fun of his hair, he picks on me for gaining a few. It’s all good.

Take 9-11. I was a complete wreck. I mean we’re right there, New York City. On some level, I’m still in recovery. And it really made me resent the character I play. I mean, when the world is literally crumbling down around you, how are you supposed to go to work and pretend that it’s within reason to be totally neurotic about matching shapes or whatever? It’s not reasonable. It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing.

I’m not embarrassed about my job. I love my job, I love the people and monsters I work with, and it makes me happy to have fans, and to do something good for kids. I think we all have lots of reasons to be proud of what we do. Still, over the years I’ve had a number of episodes where the “what the hell am I doing” bug bites me just a little too hard, and that self-feeding beast decides to sit down for a feast. Buffet style. This is what happened yesterday.

I was doing a music bit with a couple of the kids and Bob. I had a triangle (why don’t I get to rock the brass and woodwinds as much anymore?) and two takes in a row I accidentally clanked it against the side of the picnic table, kinda loud, while Bob was trying to deliver lines. The first time I apologized and he just ran it again from a good edit point, but the second time he lost it. He walked away mumbling to himself and grabbed his coat. When the director, Ken, asked him where he was going and told him we had to bang this out to get the show to editing on time, Bob got right up in his face, pointed at me, and said, “Then you can tell HIM to get control of himself. Until then, you can just run a ‘BEST OF MISTER NOODLE’ or something. I’m out of here.”

Everybody just wrapped, there was nowhere to go from there. But I was frozen. I started to get all clammy, which causes my fur to matt, and I just start to look like hell really fast. Marty could see me freaking out and walked me off set to sit down. He got me some water and I told him I was OK, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t believe I had just been bawled out for making a noise with a dang triangle. Then I started thinking, making a noise with a triangle *did* screw up my job at that particular moment. And if I can screw up my job by making a noise with a triangle, WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING? It was all downhill from there, I mean, I wish it ended with worrying about my career. Next thing you know I’m recalling every worry my mother ever had about fulfilling her hopes and dreams, wondering if I’ll ever connect with the right girl, have kids, have grandkids - oh, and while I’m thinking about EVERY LITTLE THING that REALLY STRESSES ME OUT… Do I have cancer?

I don’t even remember a lot of the episode, that’s what they’re like. It eventually becomes a blackout, whether I remain conscious or not. Marty told me that I never passed out, but my breathing was way out of control so he grabbed me a couple of Xanax from my bag (I tell all the staff what to do if this happens - it used to be considerably more often). He took me for a walk, and somewhere in the middle of that is where I sorta ‘came to’.

Yesterday evening Bob called me and apologized. I’m not sure if Marty talked to him or what. He didn’t mention the panic attack so maybe he didn’t know. But Bob totally owned it, he said it was a really stupid thing to freak out about and he’s just stressed about the direction the show is going, and yada yada. I told him we’re all stressed, we all have to vent, etc. He’s taking me out to lunch Monday.

These things are embarrassing though. I mean it’s one thing to get yelled at on set. It happens to everybody. But making everyone wonder if you need an ambulance - that’s not cool.

A Muppet mockumentary has been “in the works” for nearly 30 years. It was really actually born around the time the Muppet Movie was in production. There were bits in there that dipped into “behind the scenes” territory, like scripting in stuff that was made to seem off-script. Meta-movie stuff, you know? People on the crew were really into that, and it definitely worked. To lots of folks, it was the next logical step - something akin to what those VH1 “Behind the Music” stories ended up doing so well, but about the production of the Muppet Movie. Well, things dragged, the Muppet Movie took off and kept peoples’ attention for a little longer than expected, and next thing you know, This is Spinal Tap thoroughly destroys any sense of novelty such a project would have brought with it. One could easily argue that Muppets, as a concept, are novel enough to carry it, but when you think about it, Guest, McKean, and Shearer were themselves really Muppets. They were better at it than we were.

The idea wasn’t dead then, and still isn’t. It just keeps getting trumped and put on the back burner. “The Office” came out. Later on, “30 Rock”. And a bunch of cheap knock-offs. The truth of the matter is, nobody needs the money badly enough to burn Muppet enthusiasm out with a pathetic lump produced and released at the wrong time. Ill-conceived mistakes have been made before, and the powers that be seem to understand now that it is possible to cheapen the Muppet name.

But nobody denies it’s a killer idea. It just needs its time. They’ve dropped hints here and there to feel out public interest from time to time, and the folks over at Muppet Central appear to be keeping it alive (from what I can tell, anyway - I’m new there). Also I should note that as an actor I really don’t have much to do with this stuff. It’s all grapevine knowledge to me. Besides, if there were such a show, I probably wouldn’t be in it, except maybe as a cross-production attraction, kind of like when a “Cheers” character would show up on “Frasier” (see Figure 1, the item that is to my knowledge the boldest attempt at getting my image out there: a friggin’ Beanie Baby). So, at the end of the day, this thing could be happening under my nose. I’m not what you’d call an authority on the topic. But the fans should know that when they talk, people hear them.

Anyone else even remember these guys? Like I said over there, I was lucky enough to catch them live in 1975 (yeah I’m that old, ok?) in Denmark. Dutch guys who were weird, but just unbelievably tight. At the time, I didn’t know what I was seeing. I knew it blew my mind, that much was clear. But it was one of those formative moments, you know? Like, I might not be collecting records today if lightning didn’t strike that day in Denmark.

After work yesterday I went over to Fifth Avenue Records. No offense to the proprietors, who have always been very kind to me (I pay them well enough, after all) but this place is … difficult. They know it. Everyone knows it. It’s something you learn to accept. It’s not the kind of place you go to looking for a Focus record, it’s the kind of place you fall ass-backward into a stack of Focus records. But go there looking for one I did. And I didn’t fall into a stack of them, no sir. But I was told in no uncertain terms that there was definitely a copy of Focus 3 in the building. It had come in as part of a big used stack earlier that week, and was sure to be found unsorted somewhere… oh, let’s see… somewhere over… there (imagine the completely non-specific hand wave you wouldn’t want to see accompanying a sentence like that).

It was an adventure. My dust allergies took hold and didn’t let go until well into the evening. But 90 minutes, one claritin, and two annoying concentration-busting conversations with unusually rude “fans” later, I, three Chinese take-out boxes, and seven new platters of vinyl made our way back to my apartment - among us, an absolutely pristine copy of Focus 3. Delicious. I popped it onto the Kuzma (don’t get me started, that’s another post) and was taken waaaay back for the rest of the evening.

Truth be told, it’s rare that I’d really get off on a record like this. When the mood hits right, you can’t beat it. But those moods are blue moons, you know? Still, it’s one of those collection-makers, the kind of record that is worth its price in the images it conjures alone. That describes a lot of your proggier rock, I guess.

So apparently Aunt Georgie caught Dave drinking, a no-no under the new conditions of their marriage, and straight up kicked him out. Next thing you know he’s on some kind of completely insane bachelor spending spree. He bought this huge-ass gun, I don’t know anything about guns but remember Tackleberry from Police Academy? That giant piece he carried? It’s like that.

So he rides his totally smokin’ new BMW bike to the hills to try out the gun and pops the very first round through the 2nd toe on his right foot. Of course he was drunk. Bled like a bastard, but managed to get to the highway for help. Word now is that Georgie is letting him hang in the house until he mends enough to do something else, but get this: she hired a nurse to take care of him. And she won’t even go near his room. So it sounds like it’s probably a matter of time until papers are filed.

Ok, so Uncle Dave: shot himself in the toe. No kidding. The good news is he’s been allowed to heal in the comfort of his own home, but… I’ll tell the story next time.

Snuffy cut a deal with the bookie. He got it knocked down to $200, and he’s going to cover half of that himself, which is real kind considering the bath he just took on the Super Bowl. I made out quite nicely myself, thank you very much - and the noble way, I may add: by betting on my boys to win. I got to meet Eli last year, he seemed like a good guy. Hooked me up with tickets. Biggest plus of being a monster: they never forget meeting you.

Got to write more often… Been feeling good lately, maybe it’s working.

Work’s been reasonably mellow. The first part of the year is always a little sluggish while everybody tries to find the groove again. We don’t get many real breaks, so when we do, they take their toll.

Zoe got engaged on Christmas day to her boyfriend Mark. Congratulations, kiddo - you two make a sweet pair. Mark is a lineman for Con Ed. Don’t know him too well, but he’s a nice guy. He brings donuts sometimes from this place he likes, because the stuff we get from crafts service is freakin’ GARBAGE. How do you screw up a donut? Ask these guys. Their coffee is crap too. Anyhow. The happy couple hasn’t set a date yet but I’ve already received an informal invitation. Looking forward to it! I don’t go to many events like this. I’ve put on a few (dozen, maybe) since the last time I wore a suit.

I may or may not owe $600 to a bookie in Jersey. It’s complicated. There was some confusion with a bet I made on the Seahawks-Packers game, a bet that Snuffy placed for me, as he frequently does. I was into GB to cover the spread, and somehow that got miscommunicated (or misunderstood) as just the opposite. I’m trying not to blame it on Snuffy, but I told him one thing and the slip of paper he’s holding says another, so at the very least he wasn’t paying the best of attention. He goes way back with this guy and so he’s trying to just get it scratched. We’ll see. He seems pretty hopeful, as I’ve made good on a number of bad bets through him already, and it really just isn’t clear where the breakdown happened. Snuffy and I were going to hit the Aqueduct together this Thursday - it’d be nice for this to blow over by then so we don’t have it hanging over our heads.

That’s all for now. I stay up too late… But I just can’t get enough of this “Girls Behaving Badly” program.

First, the gifts for work pals, as promised:

Bert: Dinner at the E&C on me, a couple days after Christmas. Bert has a thing for their grilled cheese, but he surprised me and went with some kind of chick pea arugula special. I had the elephantburger. We each had an Anchor and a Bass, and some quality conversation.

Count: Now, CVC is one of the few folks (including myself to some extent, I suppose) who really are kinda like you’d expect them to be. I mean, “the Count” is a character, to be sure, but the way he carries himself and the way he talks, that’s all him. He enjoys the finer things, and takes real care with his dough to make sure he can maintain that lifestyle. Really great guy, but keeps to himself, so he’s tough to shop for if you really want to get something he’d actually want. I didn’t want to kid myself by trying to shop for fancy stuff I didn’t understand, so I just picked him up a nice looking corkscrew and got it engraved with “With warm wishes, from Telly”. And seriously, I have never seen the guy really make contact with anyone like this: he put his hand on my shoulder, looked me right in the eye and said “Telly, not only is it perfect, it is exceptionally thoughtful. You let me know as soon as you have a free night and I’ll have you over to help me break it in.” He then went on to tell me he has some kind of kickass TV being shipped so I should wait until at least late next week so he can show it off.

Cookie: He and his live-in girlfriend just got a new puppy, so I got them a dog training book and one of those retractable leash things. This was admittedly a bit of a gamble given that, well, these are the things you buy yourself when you get a puppy… But if they already had stuff like that, he didn’t let on.

Ernie: E brews his own beer, he’s been really into it over the last year. He’s actually been bottling it and giving it to friends (thanks for the case, E!) and mentioned that he was thinking about getting more serious, so I bought him a “gift certificate” for a consultation and demo proofs from a graphic designer friend of mine, like for getting labels made. He was really stoked, he said he was a bit nervous about not being able to get around to it any time soon, but I told him it was cool, no expiration date or anything, so he was really excited.

Bird: Avid jogger. I know, he doesn’t look it, right? He did two half marathons last year and is pretty serious about trying to do a full this year. I don’t know how he even finds the time. I talked with his wife - she was getting him an iPod and one of those things where you put the thing in your shoe and it like talks to the iPod or something and it… screw it, it’s for jogging. I don’t get it. Anyhow, what goes better with an iPod than some music? I actually didn’t know what to do, but his wife said she’d get him a gift card of some kind and put it on the tree, from me. Everybody’s happy.

Prairie Dawn: Nicest dresser I know. Mom always taught me to never try to buy clothes for girls, so she gets a gift certificate to Anthropologie, which I know she’s a fan of.

There’s more, but I don’t want to spend any more time on that. I have to touch on the Christmas dinner experience before I go… I always spend it with my Mom, she always makes a ham, we always get a touch tipsy on cider and then brandy, and fall asleep watching terrible television. It’s just how we like it. This year? A little different. My uncle Dave got kicked out of his house on Christmas Eve. Why? His wife walked in on him banging his secretary. Again, on Christmas Eve. So not only is he staying at my mom’s already-too-small place, he is hammered. All day. And it’s not exactly easy to tell the guy who may have just permanently screwed up his family life that he needs to slow down. He’s not listening. And really, it may be the best thing for him.

So heading into the afternoon, I’m thinking it’ll probably be me and Mom just sharing sighs and eye-rolling from across the room every time Uncle Dave says something rude or racist or whatever, maybe helping him into bed when he can’t stand up anymore, and so on… Not quite. By 3pm he was so messed up he wet himself. This was right when we sat down at the table to eat. So obviously we’re not going to enjoy dinner while Dave is sitting there smelling of urine, and we have to clean him up. In the process, when he realizes that his sister and his nephew are essentially doing for him what normal adults only do for babies, he completely blows a gasket, starts yelling about not needing our help, shoves me against the bathroom door and shuffles down the hall with his pants around his ankles. I was fine, but clearly he had gone to the bad place so I held Mom back when she tried to follow him.

Next thing we know, he’s on the front porch, naked from the waist down, SCREAMING at this poor kid trying to walk his dog about how all women are <plural horrifically sexist expletive>. I mean seriously, this kid is probably damaged for life. At this point my Mom starts yelling at him, runs out the front door, immediately slips and lands on her ass and slides off the front step, taking out Dave’s legs and throwing him backward over her in the process. He whacks his head flat on the porch floor. He didn’t exactly lose consciousness, but it did seem that the process of passing out was accelerated. Mom was fine, her forward motion softened the vertical drop enough that all she got was a little scrape on her arm. I dragged Dave into the house and checked to make sure he was still responsive throughout the evening, but he slept right there on the floor by the front door. Mom was pissed. I keep meaning to call and find out what’s going on with Dave’s family. Stay tuned.

I decided to try and put a little effort into it this year. Usually it’s just your typical niceties without a whole lot of thought, and nobody minds - who has the time? The cheese log from Hickory Farms ultimately manages to say “I tolerate you” roughly as well as a carefully chosen handmade tea pot. But I’m trying to turn my mood up a notch and going the extra mile seemed like a good way to keep that ball rolling. The tough thing is, the mall is no place to accomplish thoughtful shopping. Holy Jeezus, what crap. Seriously, when the most promising place you can roll into is a Cost Plus (who named that dump?) or Pier 1, you better hope all of your friends are from Fake-Ass Africa or Cheap-as-Hell Argentina, because then at least whatever they’re getting will remind them of home. You can’t even buy good irony anymore.

I spent 45 minutes rummaging around these places trying to find something that offered even the smallest indication that I have a soul inside me, while Bert and his bag of putrid candles and maple sausage sticks waited at the BK. The result? I go down to the Village tomorrow and try all over again, and be the dork that shows up with gifts after the new year. I was *this* close to rolling back to the set with fruitcakes, but I held strong. Eh, maybe I’ll regret the trouble, but I think I would have been more bummed if I’d folded. And nobody will mind the late delivery, obviously I’m not going to hand-deliver. Some of these guys are out in like the suburbs, and Telly just ain’t got the stomach for the suburbs.

Heading upstate to Mom’s tomorrow on the Greyhound, probably stay for a couple days after Christmas. I like her place, it’s small but the neighborhood is nice. She’ll be glad to know I’m writing.

Oh, last thing - if anyone wants to play Santa for ol’ Tel: all I really want this year is a new TV. Not a big one, not a fancy one, just one that doesn’t have a migrating purple blotch. Yeah yeah, I’m an actor, I can afford a TV… Maybe not the kind of TV that someone who GETS THEIR IMAGE LICENSING IN ORDER (that was for my agent Stevie Grant) can afford, but yeah… anyway. If I don’t post again, have happy holidays. I’ll let you know how the shopping turns out.