Shmosh Nad

Shmosh Nad

Even in theater camp, which seems an entitlement in itself, and for all intensive purposes, it was, there were some elite who did better than others. They came from wealthy families. They had big houses and went to schools where they wore uniforms and the air was pumped in from ivy league schools, so they’d be ensured a head start. But I did well for the lower middle class kid I was. And I was ahead in talent and they matched my chutzpah with money when their abilities fell short.

So, many did not stand out for me. I have a photographic memory for the most part, so faces stay with me whether the memories of their inception that stayed in my mind had any real merit or not. But certain features stand out for those, even whom I seldom interacted with.

The pretty blonde, the girl with the curly hair I so badly desired: the chubby fat guy with the annoying lisp who’d get the token Farley-prat-fall sort of roles… In fact, let’s call the token chunky dude ‘Shmosh Nad’. I pick a pseudo name for fear that even mentioning his real name would earn him more Google merit than he could have now, which begrudgingly, I cannot bring myself to invest in… not yet.

So, after performing arts high school, which even in itself, was in the ghetto and my success was largely in part for my own minority status combined with extra brownie points for not having ever been ‘jumped’ despite my striking resemblance to the race that persecuted my peers in a historical fashion that fueled their current anger. I was as urban as a middle class Jewish girl could be. I spoke the language. I said the inappropriate things everyone else was too scared to say. It could have gone sour, but my ethnic peers chose to embrace me and giggle at my nonsense. Being the lead in those shows was practically like being famous, so I was confident in my place in our ‘field’. Boys and lust took over my decision making process and I fell behind. Not having ever really had to work at success, my move to New York was humbling and red wine and bar culture won over most of my meager efforts.

I had heard ‘Smosh’ did well for himself, landing himself in a college I hadn’t the balls to try out for. I wore my proverbial eye roll like a new scarf and waited for the news that he’d become the star of some local theater company and faded out of my peripheral. I figured the token fat kid could use a break and being in a great school was probably more based on the type he fit into and not so much on talent. I mean, Chris Farley died, Seth Rogen was really expensive, and Jonah Hill was working, so then there’ Shmosh when all else failed. Good for him…

I bumped into his mom before I left for NYC. I was shopping at the discount store for cheap irregular products that had an extra arm in the shirt or had three jelly beans melted together so that I could stock up on essentials only the manager of Claire’s could afford.. There she was, purchasing dog toys and stocking stuffers as gag gifts and could not wait to tell me how well he was doing. I volunteered as little as possible. I mean, I did BS my way into a Claire’s job as a manager at 18…but that was hardly the success they’d figure that bright and talented little Sami would have earned by now… She was so nice. How could I hate her for being proud? I did a little….

When I heard that he took the lead of the token fat guy in a role of a new shmash hit on Broadway, it stung. Why didn't someone just recognize me and cast me immediately? ‘Probably because he auditioned’, I thought… I threw myself at exactly one audition for an off Broadway musical where tons of triple threats, prettier than I am, were all vying for the same shitty chorus role… ‘I don’t dooo chorus’, I quipped and ignored the call back. I never heard anything from that show again, so I assumed it did not go far and I was pleased with myself for the lack of effort.

I was walking proudly back from the loo to go outside for a smoke during a midday pub crawl in the West Village, and there he was…. ‘Shmosh?’ I mouth-vomited… “Sami?” He grinned. “You remember me?” I asked… of course he did… “My first girl crush? Of course I remember you!” He was so pleasant and mature and nice, with that New York flare as though he would pleasantly and maturely greet any of his fans. “You should come by and see the show!” He assumed I knew what show he meant as though after not seeing him since age 10, I would have followed him or something and knew of his amaaazing success… I mean, I did, but that wasn’t the point. “Oh, I would…but I’m so busy and I just don’t like theater these days…” and then I mumbled something catty about the politics of theater and rambled on some political rant as though I had any real opinion other than jealousy and I watched his face drop and deflate a little as I unknowingly and yet pointedly offended his entire being. He said some quick summary about things going well and wished me the same and in a face full of flubbery blubbery puff, he was off.. .probably to some house party with puff pastry and mid-priced wine that just screamed ‘impoverished artist’ while still living way above the means of any reaaaal actor. I consulted my drinking buddy/BFF who lamented about people we know who ‘make it…’ Why, just a few months back, she had been at a football party at a NY home of a friend of a friend of her ex boyfriend’s, also an alumn of that overpriced back patting fest of a school where her (not really) nemesis ‘Shmisten Hell’ cooked up her famous pasta salad and was as pretty and pleasant as can be in that overly animated way that makes men coo and women love/hate them and wahm! They’re famous. I stumbled drunkenly into a cab and waved goodbye, figuring out how I could take up residence in a car or something to have a cool enough story to stand on my own. Whatever, it’s one show… They’ll eventually see his fatty face and curly hair and lisp that never quite left as gross -soon enough and I can go on with my miserable life. Worse part is, our other theater camp dork grew up hot and married a way famous guy’s daughter, so there were constant photos of them living up the life together, bumping elbows with ‘Ashton’ who they no doubt knew on first name basis and probably used his name in sentences ‘Oh my GAwwwd, that is so funny, like when Aaaahhhshton….’ Blah blah blah.

Seasons changed. And he grew…not in the girth I had prayed for, but in popularity.

I was excited about the next Broadway show coming out…but when I heard ‘he’ costarred, I could not bring myself to listen. And I was the theater geek who knew every lyric to every show- hey they could be potential audition pieces in there- I WAS Rachel from Glee, after all- and he initiate the role of a Broadway show…aaaagain…and it was huge. Huger than him. In fact, the bigger he got, the bigggger he got.

It crossed over movie star/theater separation lines and he was IT. I lead life with a perpetual pillow over my head, ignoring his name, his rising fame.. I’d resort to a funny show on Comedy Central and BAM- he was a guest host, conducting a parody… and not just once, but like a lot… often… Good bye John Stewart. Then a movie comes out and I’m dying to see it… but there he is, the token fat guy, mucking it up. And then in a movie with my vocal idol who doesn’t DO movies, but she is in one… with him… as his bestie/lover, who knows.. I couldn’t bring myself to see it… He’s every where. He is in sitcoms, starring in new ones, joining older ones…I mean, I can’t even shit now with a proper People magazine update without some small corner of HIM and his political opinions or amazing blog… then youtube videos ‘how Shmosh Nad refuses to Google himself’- cause NOW he is taking the advice from AAaaaahshton and Shmiiiisten and PINK… fucking PINK!... I turn a pale shade of green and curl up, waiting for his descent into nothingness… I casually stalk his Facebook and see his kid, his wife, all very normal and perfect… his friends, his newsfeed- littered with supporting comments from his arsenal of friends he has made over time from being so fucking NICE and wonderful.

I take a moment… I laugh and think it will all be over soon. And then I take my kids into the basement to have a moment or proper piracy at its finest, downloading the new 5-star rated Disney flick, saving a good $50 on movie fare and BOOM, Shmosh and Shmisten STARRING toooogether in a Disney flick- together. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!!

No, that voice, no… it can’t be. I Google it. And there it is “Shmosh is not only fucking brilliant, but he basically stole the whole movie, coming in only shy of brilliant is Shmisten Bloody Fuckin Shmell”.

 I try to hate it. I roll my eyes. I grimace the whole time. I plot his death. I contemplate my own… I OD on popcorn and mentally pace through every painful scene…

And then my kids roll around laughing at his fatty-shlap-shtick and roar over his silly ways… They love him. They’re hysterical. He doesn’t further the plot. But he makes butt jokes. And he lisps. And he says random funny things when things get a little intense for a kid movie and there is a lightness and relief when he is on the screen…

And I look back at my kids, holding me and cuddling me in this perfect moment… and smile in my greatest arabesque of acquiesce…and I say…

 “Mommy knows that guy. I was his first crush. We used to be great friends…”