WEEK ONE
22 January 2008
3:00pm
First class of the last first day of school, ever.
3.31pm
Heath Ledger is discovered dead by a masseuse and housekeeper in his SoHo apartment, naked, face down on his bed.
I get the news as I come out of class at around 6pm. Patrick's mother has sent him a text message. She lives in Ohio. At the moment we hear the news the paramedics are removing his body, in a bag, from the apartment. Tmz.com are running a live video stream for your viewing pleasure. Although if we wanted to, we could probably run over in about fifteen minutes, and watch it in person. I don't want to. I'm more shocked than I would have imagined. If I could have imagined.
It makes me think of Denver, my lovely irish bartender, who died March last year in much the same manner. Except with Denver it was a West Village apartment. Around the corner from mine. And I'd been inside it. I'd managed not to think about him for a while.
7.03pm
At 'Automatic Slims' I refuse my first drink for the 'month of sobriety', a post new-year challenge set by my concerned father. Later at 'Tortilla Flats' I pass on drinks 2 and 3. Turns out to be a most inopportune time as in meeting with production company discussing potential remounting of 'Limonade Tous Les Jour' with Austin Pendleton. Everything crossed by Fall I'll be legitimately employed in an equity 'off-Broadway' production.
23 January 2008
4.30pm
Meet with 'Director of Professional Development' to choose headshots. Good time not to be feeling insecure about physical appearance. It helps if you can think of person in photo as someone else.
'We' decide on two.
The 'Seriously Serious' actress, and the 'I want to work with this chick, slightly "whacked-out" (?) commerical shot'.
These will be sent out to the mysterious 'industry' in two strategic mailings.
After the meeting I refuse drink #4 at Slims, and instead share a goat cheese salad with Andrew and head to the East Village for first rehearsal of Tennessee Williams' 'Talk to me like the rain, and let me listen'. Opening February 14.
24 January 2008
Second rehearsal for 'Rain'. We do a physical improv and another read through. The play basically consists of two long monologues. I feel boring though trust the play is not.
Send the photos through to the photographer to organise touch ups and prints. Must do first mail out by Monday.
Having trouble sleeping. Can't decide whether it's the million things buzzing around my head, or lack of alcohol in my system.
25 January 2008
11.08am
Check in at ISS (International Student Services). This is my half yearly reminder that (despite all that hard work on a convincing neutral american accent) I am a foreigner and tolerated in this country only under the strictest of conditions, also with a definite expiry date.
3.00pm
First read through of 'Scab' a new play for director's full length festival happening at school in May. This will be my last project at school. Ever. I'm playing a 22 year old history student, beginning grad school.
10:00pm
Dan and I head to Amsterdam pool hall (where Jerry Seinfeld spent the best part of every week for 18 months working on his pool game after the show had finished and he came back to New York with a pocket full of serious cash and no responsibilities). The hardest part is waiting at the bar for our table to be free. Dan has 'tonic water' and I have a 'soda water'. The bartender gives us a look that screams 'The fundamentalist Christians have arrived!'
Probably avoid about six drinks over the course of the next two and a half hours. Watch with mild curiousity as others around us become increasingly intoxicated. Certainly no judgement, just curiousity and mild horror that that's usually me.
26 January 2008 - AUSTRALIA DAY
Drinks avoided: 6 (conservative estimate).
Sunday, January 27, 2008
THE TIMES, THEY ARE A'CHANGIN
And with that nostaligc (if gramatically incorrect) headline, I'd like to announce a new era for New York Minutes.
2008 - THE YEAR OF TRANSITION
So dubbed by my family, who developed a slightly bizarre penchant for labelling each year some time around 2003 ('The Year We Had to Have'). I think it's both supposed to reflect a realistic acceptance of the yearly outlook, as well as some kind of 'Secret'-style manifestation of what we'd like to have happen.
Regardless, whether I like it or not, 2008 will be the year of much transitioning.
In May, school is finished. Forever.
That's twenty years of my life (count them!) spent in one institution or another... and that's not even taking three-year-old Kindergarten into consideration.
I will finally be let loose in the wilds of New York City. No longer protected within the confines of 151 Bank Street, Manhattan. No longer heavily scheduled, no more imposed timetables, no longer micromanaged, and most horrifyingly, no longer consistently gainfully employed.
On the brighter side, it occurred to me that a much more interesting part of this little New York story is about to emerge, one that demands more attention than the sporadic and largely inconsequential letters home to date. In short, the minutes are hotting up. And let's face it, in this, the era of 'Facebook', there's nothing about the general day to day that a quick 'status update' can't fill you in on.
So I'm going to shift focus, and in 2008 keep you up to date with the minutae of this Australian's quest to become a working New York Actress. In fact, let's go all out, a SUCCESSFUL New York actress.
In the dramatic structure of this narrative there are a number of formidable obstacles:
1. The number of actresses already in New York.
2. The number of new actresses about to graduate with me.
3. The Writer's strike.
4. The fact that I'm considered an 'alien' in this country, with all its unpleasant connotations.
5. Time; there are 18 months left on my visa before either they kick me out, I 'make it', or I marry a gay friend... start your watches!
5. The odds of anyone, ever becoming a successful actress anywhere - let alone New York.
Please note, I am purposefully choosing to use the gender specific 'actress' for the purposes of this tale, as I believe there is something uniquely humiliating about the fledgling female actor's experience of being introduced to 'the industry'.
Other than that, I have nothing to say except that I promise to tell it all. Even the crash and burn bits. Especially the crash and burn bits.
In that way, this blog becomes like my insurance policy; the bigger the disaster, the more entertaining the story. (Screenplay rights, anyone?)
And with that nostaligc (if gramatically incorrect) headline, I'd like to announce a new era for New York Minutes.
2008 - THE YEAR OF TRANSITION
So dubbed by my family, who developed a slightly bizarre penchant for labelling each year some time around 2003 ('The Year We Had to Have'). I think it's both supposed to reflect a realistic acceptance of the yearly outlook, as well as some kind of 'Secret'-style manifestation of what we'd like to have happen.
Regardless, whether I like it or not, 2008 will be the year of much transitioning.
In May, school is finished. Forever.
That's twenty years of my life (count them!) spent in one institution or another... and that's not even taking three-year-old Kindergarten into consideration.
I will finally be let loose in the wilds of New York City. No longer protected within the confines of 151 Bank Street, Manhattan. No longer heavily scheduled, no more imposed timetables, no longer micromanaged, and most horrifyingly, no longer consistently gainfully employed.
On the brighter side, it occurred to me that a much more interesting part of this little New York story is about to emerge, one that demands more attention than the sporadic and largely inconsequential letters home to date. In short, the minutes are hotting up. And let's face it, in this, the era of 'Facebook', there's nothing about the general day to day that a quick 'status update' can't fill you in on.
So I'm going to shift focus, and in 2008 keep you up to date with the minutae of this Australian's quest to become a working New York Actress. In fact, let's go all out, a SUCCESSFUL New York actress.
In the dramatic structure of this narrative there are a number of formidable obstacles:
1. The number of actresses already in New York.
2. The number of new actresses about to graduate with me.
3. The Writer's strike.
4. The fact that I'm considered an 'alien' in this country, with all its unpleasant connotations.
5. Time; there are 18 months left on my visa before either they kick me out, I 'make it', or I marry a gay friend... start your watches!
5. The odds of anyone, ever becoming a successful actress anywhere - let alone New York.
Please note, I am purposefully choosing to use the gender specific 'actress' for the purposes of this tale, as I believe there is something uniquely humiliating about the fledgling female actor's experience of being introduced to 'the industry'.
Other than that, I have nothing to say except that I promise to tell it all. Even the crash and burn bits. Especially the crash and burn bits.
In that way, this blog becomes like my insurance policy; the bigger the disaster, the more entertaining the story. (Screenplay rights, anyone?)
Thursday, January 10, 2008
quiet time or sugar crash?
This morning it's just Ana (5) and Xavier (4) and I, for about three (3!) hours. I'm officical caretaker while their mother (my sister) is off collecting the newly arrived cousin (with the American accent) and visiting the great grandmother.
All is grand as we set off on our much hyped 'coffee date', which both charges have been very excited about all morning. Even to me, it sounds a very grown up and sophisticated thing to do with their much-hyped 'New York' auntie, and I'm rather proud of my inspired suggestion. Ana and Xavier even want to leave half way through Justine (their favourite playschool presenter) reading about some mud loving, ever increasing in girth, backyard pig.
I've chosen Torquay's hottest little breakfast nook 'the Nocturnal Donkey', which is 'just around the corner'. By the time we've crossed the road, Xavier asks 'where the corner is?' When we actually reach the corner, home to Torquay's pub and one stop gambling shop, Ana asks if this is where we will be having our coffee date. A few more steps, and Xavier is hot and wants to know if the hardware store is where we get the coffee.
To kill time I begin a lesson on the meaning of the word 'nocturnal', which seems to distract from the already formidable heat at least long enough for them to decide they will order the very gender-obvious 'one strawberry and one chocolate milkshake'. 'But I thought you wanted something with froth, like I have with my cappucino?' They stare at me like I'm an alien and shake their heads. Apparently, just a milkshake, and then maybe an icy-pole... tres chic.
Except the Nocturnal Donkey doesn't serve milkshakes. Only iced/hot chocolate, or iced/hot coffee. Xavier may be swayed with the promise of marshmallows, but Ana is not having a bar of anything but a strawberry milkshake.
So, we go to the take-away bakery next door, and grab cartons of flavoured milk out of the fridge, which the obliging waitress back at the donkey pours into proper cafe glasses, and serves with silver spoons and straws.
Except the straw is a little high for Xavier, and the glass a little heavy, so a third of the chocolate milk lands in a puddle in his lap. I ask the waitress for a napkin. And the biggest coffee she's got. She brings a pile of paper towels served with a knowing, if not entirely sympathetic, smile, because 'you can never have enough'.
We manage some conversation about favourite kinder friends, and what's best about the beach, and I try to describe the difference between the maple syrup and what they are convinced is actually honey on the Dutch pancakes. Despite any faux European cache in the labelling of our breakfast, they are only interested in the icecream, the syrup and the icing sugar dusted around the egdge of the plate, which Xavier cleans off with a freshly and repeatedly licked finger.
Before the bill has arrived, requests for the next course of icy poles, or maybe ice cream have begun. This time I pull out the old faithful 'I Spy' to distract, and learn that 'Aunty Elle', begins with the letter 'L', and that 'Rebecca' is a legitimate answer for 'something beginning with R', even though this presumed real, but perhaps fictional being was not even on the Bellarine Peninsula, let alone dining in the 'Donkey.
By the time we leave, a dusty-wind of Dorothy Gale proportions has blown up, and I'm out of games. The kids shield their eyes agains the debris as we round the corner once more, and before too long crash on the couch in the airconditioned living room resorting to whatever 'abc kids' has to offer. (I have to confess to being oddly drawn into the will-they won't-they love affair between the blonde, french equestrian rider, and the simple but honest Aussie stable hand on 'Saddle Club'.)
By the time Cynthia is back it is time for lunch. There is still much talk of icy-poles, which Cynthia deftly ignores in favour of one ham and one cheese sandwich. Then it's nap time. From what I can tell there is only the standard amount of protest before the kids crash out.
So, while my rather feeble attempt at introducing my niece and nephew to cafe latte culture was perhaps premature, and while a later quiz on the definition of the word nocturnal was met with blank stares and the pronouncement from Ana that she was 'not good at anything and should be thrown in the bin', and while I can't be sure whether the kids were genuinely tired, or just crashing after being jacked up on flavoured milk and fried batter covered in sugar, I do now strongly suspect I am an aunty better suited to happy hour than brunch, and henceforth plan to do all my parenting as I do my cooking... with a glass of wine in my hand.
This morning it's just Ana (5) and Xavier (4) and I, for about three (3!) hours. I'm officical caretaker while their mother (my sister) is off collecting the newly arrived cousin (with the American accent) and visiting the great grandmother.
All is grand as we set off on our much hyped 'coffee date', which both charges have been very excited about all morning. Even to me, it sounds a very grown up and sophisticated thing to do with their much-hyped 'New York' auntie, and I'm rather proud of my inspired suggestion. Ana and Xavier even want to leave half way through Justine (their favourite playschool presenter) reading about some mud loving, ever increasing in girth, backyard pig.
I've chosen Torquay's hottest little breakfast nook 'the Nocturnal Donkey', which is 'just around the corner'. By the time we've crossed the road, Xavier asks 'where the corner is?' When we actually reach the corner, home to Torquay's pub and one stop gambling shop, Ana asks if this is where we will be having our coffee date. A few more steps, and Xavier is hot and wants to know if the hardware store is where we get the coffee.
To kill time I begin a lesson on the meaning of the word 'nocturnal', which seems to distract from the already formidable heat at least long enough for them to decide they will order the very gender-obvious 'one strawberry and one chocolate milkshake'. 'But I thought you wanted something with froth, like I have with my cappucino?' They stare at me like I'm an alien and shake their heads. Apparently, just a milkshake, and then maybe an icy-pole... tres chic.
Except the Nocturnal Donkey doesn't serve milkshakes. Only iced/hot chocolate, or iced/hot coffee. Xavier may be swayed with the promise of marshmallows, but Ana is not having a bar of anything but a strawberry milkshake.
So, we go to the take-away bakery next door, and grab cartons of flavoured milk out of the fridge, which the obliging waitress back at the donkey pours into proper cafe glasses, and serves with silver spoons and straws.
Except the straw is a little high for Xavier, and the glass a little heavy, so a third of the chocolate milk lands in a puddle in his lap. I ask the waitress for a napkin. And the biggest coffee she's got. She brings a pile of paper towels served with a knowing, if not entirely sympathetic, smile, because 'you can never have enough'.
We manage some conversation about favourite kinder friends, and what's best about the beach, and I try to describe the difference between the maple syrup and what they are convinced is actually honey on the Dutch pancakes. Despite any faux European cache in the labelling of our breakfast, they are only interested in the icecream, the syrup and the icing sugar dusted around the egdge of the plate, which Xavier cleans off with a freshly and repeatedly licked finger.
Before the bill has arrived, requests for the next course of icy poles, or maybe ice cream have begun. This time I pull out the old faithful 'I Spy' to distract, and learn that 'Aunty Elle', begins with the letter 'L', and that 'Rebecca' is a legitimate answer for 'something beginning with R', even though this presumed real, but perhaps fictional being was not even on the Bellarine Peninsula, let alone dining in the 'Donkey.
By the time we leave, a dusty-wind of Dorothy Gale proportions has blown up, and I'm out of games. The kids shield their eyes agains the debris as we round the corner once more, and before too long crash on the couch in the airconditioned living room resorting to whatever 'abc kids' has to offer. (I have to confess to being oddly drawn into the will-they won't-they love affair between the blonde, french equestrian rider, and the simple but honest Aussie stable hand on 'Saddle Club'.)
By the time Cynthia is back it is time for lunch. There is still much talk of icy-poles, which Cynthia deftly ignores in favour of one ham and one cheese sandwich. Then it's nap time. From what I can tell there is only the standard amount of protest before the kids crash out.
So, while my rather feeble attempt at introducing my niece and nephew to cafe latte culture was perhaps premature, and while a later quiz on the definition of the word nocturnal was met with blank stares and the pronouncement from Ana that she was 'not good at anything and should be thrown in the bin', and while I can't be sure whether the kids were genuinely tired, or just crashing after being jacked up on flavoured milk and fried batter covered in sugar, I do now strongly suspect I am an aunty better suited to happy hour than brunch, and henceforth plan to do all my parenting as I do my cooking... with a glass of wine in my hand.
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