I Like Iyke

(From the Janesville Messenger, 5-11-2015)

You might be impressed that 274 people are following me on Twitter. Until you know that 265 of them think I am someone else.

Of course, the first question you may ask is why on Earth I am on Twitter in the first place. And in all honesty, there is really no good reason, at least not from a personal standpoint.

It all dates back to 2009, the year of my great social media awakening, when I officially became part of the generation that stole Facebook from America's youth. Facebook was fun and even addicting, but Twitter? I didn't see the point.

Then my employer added a new feature to its digital billboards which allowed us to use Twitter to instantly update information on the displays. The primary demonstrator needed to create an account that tied into the billboards, and that fell to me.

In doing so, I unwittingly erred in two ways. One, it was set up like my own account, using my real name. Second, the profile identified me as an actor with a photo in costume as Cogsworth the clock from “Disney's Beauty and the Beast.”

The account served its purpose. The first 100 or so tweets were almost exclusively from trade shows in Janesville and Rockford. At some point in mid-2011, however, I noticed that I actually had followers – a lot of them. Most were women from the African continent, especially Nigeria. Assuming it was a scam of some sort, I ignored them. But similar friend requests, messages and followers started showing up on Facebook, too. After comparing notes with my friends, it appeared that no one else was receiving these African contacts.

Finally, a comment in one of the uninvited messages gave me a clue. A Google search revealed the answer – a Nigerian actor named Jim Iyke. He is a Nollywood (Nigerian Hollywood) sex symbol and bad boy. The confusion with me was obvious.

Apparently, the lower case L in my Twitter name, plus the reference to being an actor, led to my large group of admirers. The profile photo of a dorky white guy dressed as a clock did nothing to dissuade them. Amused by this discovery, I briefly changed my Facebook profile photo to one of Mr. Iyke.

Boy, was THAT a mistake.

A tsunami of messages and friend requests from overseas engulfed my account. It was like the movie “Monty Python's Life of Brian” when poor Brian gets mistaken for the Messiah and can't convince anyone otherwise.

Three times in six months, I tweeted my followers to alert them they had the wrong guy. It didn't work; the fans kept coming. It was time for a new approach.

@jimlyke7 – 7 Jan 2012: I quit movies. I hate Nollywood. Moving to Turkey.

That didn't work. Therefore, another tweet.

@jimlyke7 – 25 Jan 2012: Nollywood is the worst. I am quitting movies. I hate my fans. I am moving to America because I hate Africa.

In retrospect, maybe that wasn't the most mature way to go about it, though it was kind of fun. Subsequent solutions included the hashtag #NotNigerian, highlighting my non-African heritage on my Twitter profile, and adding a big cover photo that practically screamed “I am a goofy Caucasian!” I even went so far as to change my Facebook name to Jim NotTheNigerianActor Lyke.

The message finally seemed to register. Though it doesn't appear that many of my foreign friends have actually un-followed me, the Facebook messages have trickled down to almost none except an occasional “hi plz frnd me.”

The recent Twitter activity to establish my true identity actually led to some real followers. This is turn encouraged me to send a few tweets; just for the novelty of it, I guess. But I'm still not seeing a real need or purpose for a guy like me to use Twitter, other than perhaps as a source of news, sports and weather information.

Or...maybe to promote a certain monthly newspaper column. What do you think, Mr. Editor?

A Role To Dye For

(From the Janesville Messenger, 4-19-2015) 

Being involved in community theater makes you do funny things.

That doesn't always mean presenting comedic lines. Sometimes, what you have to do to prepare for a stage role is the bigger, and stranger, challenge.

For instance, learning how to juggle beer cans. Or how to imitate Julia Child. Or how to talk like a donkey. Or how to waltz - while wearing a bulky clock costume - with someone dressed as a wardrobe. That particular dance ended up being cut from the show, a decision that may have saved lives.

Away from rehearsals, however, my only obvious concession to being cast in a play has been the addition of facial hair. Whenever whiskers sprout, friends and relatives automatically assume there's a play in my future. They are often right. For “Camelot,” it meant growing a full beard that came in so white, it added years to my appearance. As soon as the final audience was gone, so was the beard. To play Cogsworth in “Disney's Beauty and the Beast,” my facial enhancement was a snazzy Frank Zappa moustache and soul patch combo that I was quite fond of.

But for a recent role as a priest in the drama “Doubt,” the director requested two beautification events that are generally avoided by males of the species.

My character was at least a decade younger than my real age and the director thought my graying temples were not right for the role. A request was made to have my hair dyed back to its darker original color.

Chemicals in my hair is not a foreign concept for me. In my late teens, my sister gave me home perms to give me a hip afro, like a Caucasian Billy Preston or a “Hotel California”-era Don Henley. Many years later, I made an ill-fated attempt at dying the aforementioned white beard at home, which ended in a stained-face disaster reminiscent of an Emmett Kelly poster.

The risk of looking like I was fighting middle age was one thing. Growing my fingernails long was nearly a deal-breaker.

My character's long fingernails are mentioned several times in the play's dialogue. There is even a point where he shows off his nails to the audience. Reluctant to use fake nails for fear of them falling off during a performance, the director asked me to grow mine out.

The biggest concern was that, being in sales, long nails would look unprofessional and require explanation. But I dutifully followed instructions and allowed them to progress uncut.

Oh. My.

They were barely half the length they needed to be, and I was already going crazy. Longer nails just felt wrong. There were weird clicking sounds when I typed. Scratching an itch drew blood.

It was time to revisit the fake nail scenario. A nice, if amused, young woman at a beauty supply store helped me pick out some press-on nails. Trying them on for a rehearsal, it became apparent that losing one during a show was not a concern; those suckers weren't going anywhere. The director approved. My real nails could be cut. Oh, joy. Rapture!

Thankfully, one of the females in the cast asked how I was planning on removing the nails. Unbeknownst to me, normal nail polish remover wasn't going to work. She said it would require pure acetone. It might have made for an interesting evening at home if she hadn't mentioned that.

Wearing my winter gloves to disguise my benailed fingers, I made a second trip to the beauty supply store. To my surprise, when you buy pure acetone, you have to show your ID. Apparently, not only does acetone do a great job removing fake nails, but also your faculties; it can be used to produce meth. You can't say this wasn't a learning experience.

As it turned out, a cast illness resulted in the show's cancellation, so having my hair dyed turned out to be in vain. Or at least, that's what some people assume.

Anyone need a bottle of pure acetone? 

The Fall Guy

(From the Janesville Messenger, 12-7-2014)

I'm not what you would call graceful.

My history includes many episodes that range from awkward to downright clumsy. A classmate once described me as being “as coordinated as a cow on stilts.” But the defining moment of my school career occurred during a junior high basketball game when, after attempting a layup, a laughing teammate declared that I looked like a flying camel.

And lo, unto me a nickname was born. To this day, former school friends – as well as their parents – still refer to me as Camel.

On one recent morning, it was hard to tell whether I resembled a camel, cow, Bambi, or some other odd animal as I lay sprawled upon my icy driveway, howling in pain. Venturing out in a bathrobe and flip-flops to get the morning newspaper, the freezing rain claimed another victim, a cruel reminder that Mother Nature takes no prisoners during Wisconsin winters.

In pursuit of the day's headlines, I instead acquired a headline of my own, a Harry Potter-like laceration above my right eyebrow. When I went down, my forehead struck the corner of a stone wall, almost immediately inflating a bulge that looked and felt like a baseball growing out of my face.

After the ice melted on the roads - and in the pack on my forehead - we made the obligatory trip down to urgent care, where x-rays of my head showed nothing (apologies to Yogi Berra). The medical staff were all very nice and sympathetic, never once blurting out “You idiot! What were you doing out on the ice?”

Of course, when you visit the doctor, you get asked to rate your pain on the 0 to 10 scale, with 0 being no pain and 10 being worst possible. There is a chart on the wall to assist you in your pain estimate, with helpful facial expressions next to each number. For example, 0 is a big smile and 10 is a huge frown with tears. With each number up the scale, the center of the eyebrows moves upward, the smile straightens and then turns downward, the eyes look sadder and finally cry. Even with that as a guide, I never know what to say. It would be easier to self-assess with real world examples; say, a paper cut is a 2 and having your leg gnawed off by a tiger is a 10.

I was also brutally honest with the doctor examining me. When she asked how I was feeling, I simply replied, “stupid.” No other answer (“OK,” “Fine,” “Not so good,” etc.) seemed appropriate.

Fortunately, no stitches were required on the cut; instead, it was held together with a big glob of glue. It was like being in second grade art class all over again.

A knock to the noggin is the gift that keeps on giving. Three days later, swollen purple sacks formed in the corners of both eyes. Within a day or so, I sported two shiners straight out of a Rocky Balboa film.

Trying to hide facial injuries is an art. The head wound was camouflaged by parting my hair to the other side. With the black eyes, contact lenses were eschewed in favor of dark-rimmed glasses. The restyled coiffure just felt weird, though, so it didn't last long. There are worse things in the world than displaying a big purple splotch on one's forehead. Heck, it didn't stop Mikhail Gorbachev.

It is also an art to avoid staring at someone's injury. The wound on my head is just so darned interesting to folks. It is hard to avoid laughing when seeing people's eyes dart from my forehead to my eyes and back. At least they can look straight into my eyes to appreciate the shiners.

I guess I should have listened to the advice I dispensed from the theatrical stage two years ago, as I sang the line, “When on thin ice, please watch your step.” The musical? Of course....“Guys On Ice.”