Boxers v Pants
At an impromptu welcome back BBQ on Monday night (Labor Day) our host Patrick filled us in on some of the success he's having with his blog. It's sports related... (I want to say football) and he's connected to something called a 'blog network', and even attends sports related events replete with 'media pass'... suffice to say he's operating on a slightly different level from me.
He's even starting to earn a paycheck; not enough to live on (yet), but certainly a nice bonus.
Patrick tells us that his boss in the blogosphere has just quit his regular job, and now works from home, all day... blogging.
"Livin' the dream," says Patrick.
Dan grunts, knowingly.
"Is that the dream?" I ask, innocently enough.
"Are you kidding?! Getting to sit at home all day in your boxer shorts!?"
Dan just nods, with his eyes closed, as if the mere mention of such a possibility is almost too much bliss to handle.
Patrick's question is clearly rhetorical, so I don't answer it. But it makes for an interesting distinction.
I usually hesitate to speak for all women, but I like to imagine that for most of us 'the dream' is usually represented in our imaginations by the donning of things, be it a red carpet gown, or scrubs, legal robes, or even just great sunglasses.
And if our dreams turn to the kind of self-employment that involves working out of one's living room, it's probably because we imagine being able to make our own hours, and fit our work around families and friends, or some greater artistic pursuit that doesn't yet pay the bills.
Whereas it turns out that for men, the great obstacle of life to be overcome... is pants.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Let every man be master of his timesheet.
Monday was Labor Day, and I returned home after three months at the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival playing Cressida in Troilus and Cressida. The summer took on a speed I had not quite anticipated, and as we rolled down the steep hill of August, more than one wheel threatened to come off the cart.
On August 12th, my friend and mentor Paul Rudd died, after a ten month battle with pancreatic cancer. His memorial service (the best I've seen, and incidentally, a full house) was on my birthday. We drove to Greenwich, Connecticut to join in the laughing, crying and singing ('Take me out to the Ballgame!' and my favourite, 'Isn't it grand, boys... let's have a bloody good cry!)
Paul is nearly impossible to capture in words, though if anyone could have managed it, it would have been him. A poet, a clown, an artist, a wit. Someone you could never imagine feeling lost around - he simply gave off too much light.
Everyone had her own claim on Paul; mine was that rather awkwardly, at the beginning of my third year of graduate school, I asked him to be my mentor. (A friend recently pointed out if I'd used 'mentor' as a verb, it might have sounded less naff, but regardless...) He said yes, and watched over my work very closely all through that final year, even helping me with my first Shakespeare Festival audition. But the truth is Paul was a mentor whether you contractually obligated him to it or not.
Paul used to talk about paradox. A lot. Paradox and danger... these are two things an actor should not just look for in the text, but strive for in performance. Everyone loved Paul, and most will find much better ways to honour him than I, but I will say that as the embodiment of paradox, a truly complex and human woman, Cressida seemed the perfect role to offer up in gratitude.
Besides being an extremely rewarding experience, this summer was also my first time going head-to-head with notorious New York Times critic Ben Brantley. I lost two nights sleep and more than one margarita to the battle. Then, it turned out, he loved it, and everything was all right again.
There is a conversation to be had about critics; how much power they wield, whether their opinion should be valued above others... whether one should read her own reviews, but that's a conversation for another day, when I've had more sleep, and when I'm cool enough to care less about my own press.
Also in August, I shot a little commercial for a local bank in a place called 'Coxsackie'... try saying that with a straight face.
And like a gift from the out-of-work actor gods, I got about six days of corporate roleplaying work, which translates to roughly six months rent, and should have left me feeling pretty relaxed coming back to NYC, with a brand new agent, a great review and the world at my feet.
And yet, here I am, THE DAY after returning, sitting at a desk on the 47th floor of a building in midtown Manhattan... temping. Sometimes temping means being very busy, jumping in without much background, trying to play the role of someone who knows what they're doing. Today, temping means sitting around trying to kill ten hours on the internet, WITHOUT access to Facebook or Gmail. In the last four hours, I have answered one phone call.
I'm not exactly sure why I'm here. I mean, presumably the firm had a reason for employing me, albeit not very gainfully. But why am I here? Fear of long term unemployment? Impractical shoe budget? A chance to reconnect with the big, bold city, by way of a pretty spectacular view?
Who can tell... but it certainly can't be that I secretly enjoy the work.
The experience of temping at a large, investment manager has all the menial duties of 'Devil Wears Prada' and all the testosterone of 'Mad Men', but with none of the free clothes or afternoon martinis.
Ah well, one more day.
Then I'll buy some shoes, drink a cocktail, and go back to being an artist.
Monday was Labor Day, and I returned home after three months at the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival playing Cressida in Troilus and Cressida. The summer took on a speed I had not quite anticipated, and as we rolled down the steep hill of August, more than one wheel threatened to come off the cart.
On August 12th, my friend and mentor Paul Rudd died, after a ten month battle with pancreatic cancer. His memorial service (the best I've seen, and incidentally, a full house) was on my birthday. We drove to Greenwich, Connecticut to join in the laughing, crying and singing ('Take me out to the Ballgame!' and my favourite, 'Isn't it grand, boys... let's have a bloody good cry!)
Paul is nearly impossible to capture in words, though if anyone could have managed it, it would have been him. A poet, a clown, an artist, a wit. Someone you could never imagine feeling lost around - he simply gave off too much light.
Everyone had her own claim on Paul; mine was that rather awkwardly, at the beginning of my third year of graduate school, I asked him to be my mentor. (A friend recently pointed out if I'd used 'mentor' as a verb, it might have sounded less naff, but regardless...) He said yes, and watched over my work very closely all through that final year, even helping me with my first Shakespeare Festival audition. But the truth is Paul was a mentor whether you contractually obligated him to it or not.
Paul used to talk about paradox. A lot. Paradox and danger... these are two things an actor should not just look for in the text, but strive for in performance. Everyone loved Paul, and most will find much better ways to honour him than I, but I will say that as the embodiment of paradox, a truly complex and human woman, Cressida seemed the perfect role to offer up in gratitude.
Besides being an extremely rewarding experience, this summer was also my first time going head-to-head with notorious New York Times critic Ben Brantley. I lost two nights sleep and more than one margarita to the battle. Then, it turned out, he loved it, and everything was all right again.
There is a conversation to be had about critics; how much power they wield, whether their opinion should be valued above others... whether one should read her own reviews, but that's a conversation for another day, when I've had more sleep, and when I'm cool enough to care less about my own press.
Also in August, I shot a little commercial for a local bank in a place called 'Coxsackie'... try saying that with a straight face.
And like a gift from the out-of-work actor gods, I got about six days of corporate roleplaying work, which translates to roughly six months rent, and should have left me feeling pretty relaxed coming back to NYC, with a brand new agent, a great review and the world at my feet.
And yet, here I am, THE DAY after returning, sitting at a desk on the 47th floor of a building in midtown Manhattan... temping. Sometimes temping means being very busy, jumping in without much background, trying to play the role of someone who knows what they're doing. Today, temping means sitting around trying to kill ten hours on the internet, WITHOUT access to Facebook or Gmail. In the last four hours, I have answered one phone call.
I'm not exactly sure why I'm here. I mean, presumably the firm had a reason for employing me, albeit not very gainfully. But why am I here? Fear of long term unemployment? Impractical shoe budget? A chance to reconnect with the big, bold city, by way of a pretty spectacular view?
Who can tell... but it certainly can't be that I secretly enjoy the work.
The experience of temping at a large, investment manager has all the menial duties of 'Devil Wears Prada' and all the testosterone of 'Mad Men', but with none of the free clothes or afternoon martinis.
Ah well, one more day.
Then I'll buy some shoes, drink a cocktail, and go back to being an artist.
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