Are you an actor or a real person?
So went the greeting at a recent commercial audition for [see non-disclosure agreement].
I hate commercial auditions. I'm not good at them. Partly I think from lack of practice, partly because I have trouble 'acting' my way through asinine questions like that.
The worst part is, I'm not really sure who it insults more. Actors or real people.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Slippery Slope?
Over the past few months there have been 12 attacks on women in Brooklyn. Specifically in and around the neighborhood of Park Slope. Where I live.
According to Wikipedia, "Park Slope is considered one of New York City's most desirable neighborhoods. In 2010, it was ranked number 1 in New York by New York Magazine citing its quality public schools, dining, nightlife, shopping, access to public transit, green space, quality housing, safety, and creative capital, among other aspects".
I have made a point of avoiding the growing anxiety. Not because I consider attacks on women walking to their homes to be trivial, but because I refuse to let someone make me feel scared to walk the streets. That's its own brand of attack. And one I can fight.
So, I have continued to go on my run around Prospect Park at dusk, which is coming earlier and earlier as the Autumn makes itself known. The newspaperman I live with doesn't like this one bit, but I tell him there are many other runners, and cyclists and skaters and parents walking their children. And now the occasional police van. And I'm fine.
Except last night on the hill near the end of the track I got a cramp, and had to take myself off to the side for a minute to stretch it out. And I wasn't fine. It was dark and I was creeped out. And as men approached on their runs, I tried to memorize their features, 'just in case'.
I was back running in a matter of seconds, and I made it home. (In record time). I decided to say nothing to the newspapermen; weary from a day spent poring over photos capturing the world at its worst.
Instead, we ate leftovers and headed out to a bar around the corner, to join friends for a Trivia night. It was an impromptu invitation, but, being the very definition of 'trivial', seemed like a a welcome distraction.
It was nice and low key. 6 teams playing for the glory of two free drinks a piece. 4 rounds. Round winners would receive shots. Tie-breakers decided by the time honored tradition of "Rock, Paper, Scissors".
Good clean fun.
Until one of the teams decided to name themselves, 'The Park Slope Rapists'.
The Trivia Master could barely bring herself to say their name as she announced the scores after Round 1 ("Current Affairs"), but decided not to make it an issue, beyond gritting her teeth and rolling her eyes every time she was forced to say it throughout the proceedings. Somehow made worse by the fact that they kept scoring very well.
At our table, between rounds, we mused over just how offensive it was, on the scale of 'Misguided to Misogynist'. I landed somewhere closer to the latter. As my friend Mag later pointed out, 'Would it have been okay if they called themselves the Park Slope Racists?'
They say success is the best revenge, and so we had ours by winning the night out from under our dubious competitors in a close but decisive finish. However my personal moment of triumph came when I was forced to face off with the Rapist's team captain in a game of Rock Paper Scissors to determine the winner of Round 3 ("X marks the spot").
In a best of three battle royale that lasted about 8 rounds, I finally beat him with a rock. My teammates leapt up in triumph. There were hugs and cheers and I impulsively exclaimed, 'Rapists never win!'
Except they're still pretty terrifying. So stop joking about it. Please.
Over the past few months there have been 12 attacks on women in Brooklyn. Specifically in and around the neighborhood of Park Slope. Where I live.
According to Wikipedia, "Park Slope is considered one of New York City's most desirable neighborhoods. In 2010, it was ranked number 1 in New York by New York Magazine citing its quality public schools, dining, nightlife, shopping, access to public transit, green space, quality housing, safety, and creative capital, among other aspects".
I have made a point of avoiding the growing anxiety. Not because I consider attacks on women walking to their homes to be trivial, but because I refuse to let someone make me feel scared to walk the streets. That's its own brand of attack. And one I can fight.
So, I have continued to go on my run around Prospect Park at dusk, which is coming earlier and earlier as the Autumn makes itself known. The newspaperman I live with doesn't like this one bit, but I tell him there are many other runners, and cyclists and skaters and parents walking their children. And now the occasional police van. And I'm fine.
Except last night on the hill near the end of the track I got a cramp, and had to take myself off to the side for a minute to stretch it out. And I wasn't fine. It was dark and I was creeped out. And as men approached on their runs, I tried to memorize their features, 'just in case'.
I was back running in a matter of seconds, and I made it home. (In record time). I decided to say nothing to the newspapermen; weary from a day spent poring over photos capturing the world at its worst.
Instead, we ate leftovers and headed out to a bar around the corner, to join friends for a Trivia night. It was an impromptu invitation, but, being the very definition of 'trivial', seemed like a a welcome distraction.
It was nice and low key. 6 teams playing for the glory of two free drinks a piece. 4 rounds. Round winners would receive shots. Tie-breakers decided by the time honored tradition of "Rock, Paper, Scissors".
Good clean fun.
Until one of the teams decided to name themselves, 'The Park Slope Rapists'.
The Trivia Master could barely bring herself to say their name as she announced the scores after Round 1 ("Current Affairs"), but decided not to make it an issue, beyond gritting her teeth and rolling her eyes every time she was forced to say it throughout the proceedings. Somehow made worse by the fact that they kept scoring very well.
At our table, between rounds, we mused over just how offensive it was, on the scale of 'Misguided to Misogynist'. I landed somewhere closer to the latter. As my friend Mag later pointed out, 'Would it have been okay if they called themselves the Park Slope Racists?'
They say success is the best revenge, and so we had ours by winning the night out from under our dubious competitors in a close but decisive finish. However my personal moment of triumph came when I was forced to face off with the Rapist's team captain in a game of Rock Paper Scissors to determine the winner of Round 3 ("X marks the spot").
In a best of three battle royale that lasted about 8 rounds, I finally beat him with a rock. My teammates leapt up in triumph. There were hugs and cheers and I impulsively exclaimed, 'Rapists never win!'
Except they're still pretty terrifying. So stop joking about it. Please.
Monday, April 18, 2011
April is the cruelest month.
So said T.S Eliot in The Wasteland. I'm not entirely sure what was his particular gripe was, but from where I sit, April 2011 has been the worst kind of seasonal tease, withholding Spring like a spoilt child. Too many times my Winter coat has gone optimistically into the closet, only to come right back out again to shield against the icy chill or the biting rain.
I've tried keeping in good spirtis, I've tried dressing inappropriately in the hope that she'd take pity. Pathetically, at the end of March, I even threw a 'first of the season' BBQ in our shady backyard, to try and summon the warm nights and balmy air in some sort of yuppie-pagan ritual. Still the rains and wind came at regular intervals.
This Saturday, in spite of grey skies and bitter wind, I defiantly (even jauntily) rode my bike one neighborhood over to celebrate a friend's birthday at a great little pub in Carroll Gardends called 'Jakewalk'. After which I had to abandon ship and return to Park Slope (1.1 miles away) in a car service, to avoid the epic thunderstorms.
Then on Sunday this happened.
Out of the sun, the air was still cool, but as I wandered around the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens more and more evidence of what promises to be the sweetest Spring I have ever known was bursting out, full of colour and fragance and romance.
And it occurred to me, that though this Winter has felt interminable in its slugglishness and while sometimes it feels like nothing will ever change, I can't help but smile at how far we've come in a few short months.
So said T.S Eliot in The Wasteland. I'm not entirely sure what was his particular gripe was, but from where I sit, April 2011 has been the worst kind of seasonal tease, withholding Spring like a spoilt child. Too many times my Winter coat has gone optimistically into the closet, only to come right back out again to shield against the icy chill or the biting rain.
I've tried keeping in good spirtis, I've tried dressing inappropriately in the hope that she'd take pity. Pathetically, at the end of March, I even threw a 'first of the season' BBQ in our shady backyard, to try and summon the warm nights and balmy air in some sort of yuppie-pagan ritual. Still the rains and wind came at regular intervals.
This Saturday, in spite of grey skies and bitter wind, I defiantly (even jauntily) rode my bike one neighborhood over to celebrate a friend's birthday at a great little pub in Carroll Gardends called 'Jakewalk'. After which I had to abandon ship and return to Park Slope (1.1 miles away) in a car service, to avoid the epic thunderstorms.
Then on Sunday this happened.
Out of the sun, the air was still cool, but as I wandered around the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens more and more evidence of what promises to be the sweetest Spring I have ever known was bursting out, full of colour and fragance and romance.
And it occurred to me, that though this Winter has felt interminable in its slugglishness and while sometimes it feels like nothing will ever change, I can't help but smile at how far we've come in a few short months.
Friday, April 15, 2011
In honour of my recently renovated blog
In 1945 Elizabeth Smart wrote a book about a passionate love affair called 'By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept'. During my undergraduate degree I carried it around in my bag for almost a year, but pathetically I never finished it. It's considered a masterpiece of the 'prose-poetry' genre, which to me seemed a bit like being a gold medallist in grass growing - sure, the result might be beautiful, but anything beyond a cursory appreciation felt a lot like hard work.
Also, for someone who'd made up her mind that she wanted to live in New York, there was a little too much weeping and a little too little Grand Central Station.
Grand Central endures as one of my most favourite places in the city. Every time I arrive feels like the first time; I'm a visitor all over again and I wish I lived in New York. Then I remember that, miraculously, I do.
In the past few weeks I've had time to read over this wayward blog, and I realised that for a bunch of ramblings collected under the heading New York Minutes, it's a little short on the New York.
So I changed the backdrop, to remind me of my own passionate love affair, and in honour of that, I present a random collection of Grand Central Minutes.
Things I have done at Grand Central Station
1. Sipped a cappucino, solo, at the coffee bar in the food court, while waiting for the train.
2. Had cocktails at the famed Oyster Bar, while waiting for the train.
3. Kissed a boy in the Grand Hall, while waiting for the train.
4. Chatted to the chefs at the Patisserie, while waiting for the train.
5. Stared in awe at the cathedral ceiling with a man named Gus, who I met on the train.
6. Had a secret conversation via the 'Whisper Wall', with the touring cast of Macbeth.
7. Boarded the train and ridden along the Hudson River to Cold Spring, in time to perform Shakespeare under a tent.
8. Boarded the train and ridden along the icy Hudson River to Cold Spring, in time to perform Dickens by the fire place.
9. Toasted my engagement over a glass of champagne at Campbell's Apartment.
10. Raised a glass at Cipriani Dolci in tribute to my friend and teacher, after learning of his death.
Things I have NEVER done at Grand Central Station
1. Sat down and wept.
In 1945 Elizabeth Smart wrote a book about a passionate love affair called 'By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept'. During my undergraduate degree I carried it around in my bag for almost a year, but pathetically I never finished it. It's considered a masterpiece of the 'prose-poetry' genre, which to me seemed a bit like being a gold medallist in grass growing - sure, the result might be beautiful, but anything beyond a cursory appreciation felt a lot like hard work.
Also, for someone who'd made up her mind that she wanted to live in New York, there was a little too much weeping and a little too little Grand Central Station.
Grand Central endures as one of my most favourite places in the city. Every time I arrive feels like the first time; I'm a visitor all over again and I wish I lived in New York. Then I remember that, miraculously, I do.
In the past few weeks I've had time to read over this wayward blog, and I realised that for a bunch of ramblings collected under the heading New York Minutes, it's a little short on the New York.
So I changed the backdrop, to remind me of my own passionate love affair, and in honour of that, I present a random collection of Grand Central Minutes.
Things I have done at Grand Central Station
1. Sipped a cappucino, solo, at the coffee bar in the food court, while waiting for the train.
2. Had cocktails at the famed Oyster Bar, while waiting for the train.
3. Kissed a boy in the Grand Hall, while waiting for the train.
4. Chatted to the chefs at the Patisserie, while waiting for the train.
5. Stared in awe at the cathedral ceiling with a man named Gus, who I met on the train.
6. Had a secret conversation via the 'Whisper Wall', with the touring cast of Macbeth.
7. Boarded the train and ridden along the Hudson River to Cold Spring, in time to perform Shakespeare under a tent.
8. Boarded the train and ridden along the icy Hudson River to Cold Spring, in time to perform Dickens by the fire place.
9. Toasted my engagement over a glass of champagne at Campbell's Apartment.
10. Raised a glass at Cipriani Dolci in tribute to my friend and teacher, after learning of his death.
Things I have NEVER done at Grand Central Station
1. Sat down and wept.
Monday, January 03, 2011
Making Strides - a sobering thought
We had a party at our place on New Year's Eve. Around 25 friends, eager to ring in the New Year, and with them enough winter coats to collapse our coat rack, taking a large chunk of the wall with it.
It was all highly festive, finishing in the late-early hours and leaving a lot of restoration to be dealt with the next day. Which didn't happen. Instead, we ordered pizza and watched romantic comedies, and finished off an open bottle of red wine. In this way, I consider January 1st to be a freebie; a hangover of 2010. (I mean this mostly literally.)
As of January 2nd, the remaining alcohol in our house has been put up on dry shelves and out of harms way, as we begin yet another month of sobriety. You may remember past attempts to do this caused much hand wringing and self pity, but this time I'm actually looking forward to it.
In the spirit of 2011's theme of 'Making Strides', I look forward to diving into the new year with some self-imposed clarity, and with fewer diversionary tactics.
I love wine. Good wine in particular, though it's not essential. There's nothing quite like the ritual of a glass of wine at the end of the day. But it's also a great way to let yourself off the hook. If a week becomes a bit hard, or if life's obstacles are piling too high, it's a great way to ceremoniously retreat from battle. And this year is all about leaping into the breach, not just once more, but with gusto. And about getting hooks back up on the wall. At least before the next party.
We had a party at our place on New Year's Eve. Around 25 friends, eager to ring in the New Year, and with them enough winter coats to collapse our coat rack, taking a large chunk of the wall with it.
It was all highly festive, finishing in the late-early hours and leaving a lot of restoration to be dealt with the next day. Which didn't happen. Instead, we ordered pizza and watched romantic comedies, and finished off an open bottle of red wine. In this way, I consider January 1st to be a freebie; a hangover of 2010. (I mean this mostly literally.)
As of January 2nd, the remaining alcohol in our house has been put up on dry shelves and out of harms way, as we begin yet another month of sobriety. You may remember past attempts to do this caused much hand wringing and self pity, but this time I'm actually looking forward to it.
In the spirit of 2011's theme of 'Making Strides', I look forward to diving into the new year with some self-imposed clarity, and with fewer diversionary tactics.
I love wine. Good wine in particular, though it's not essential. There's nothing quite like the ritual of a glass of wine at the end of the day. But it's also a great way to let yourself off the hook. If a week becomes a bit hard, or if life's obstacles are piling too high, it's a great way to ceremoniously retreat from battle. And this year is all about leaping into the breach, not just once more, but with gusto. And about getting hooks back up on the wall. At least before the next party.
Monday, December 27, 2010
The man with one leg
We spent Christmas in central New Jersey, at the home of a very dear couple and their four (almost suspiciously) well-adjusted children. After a delicious turkey dinner and more helpings of pie than is elegant, we settled back in their cosy rumpus room to review, over a snifter of bourbon, the year's highlights. It's something my parents like to do at the end of any holiday, or significant period of time; a kind of stocktake, or personal "top-ten".
On our host's list was the funeral of a dear friend of his from Yale. The funeral, while naturally sad, was an affecting reminder of the difference a resilient spirit can make in meeting life's challenges.
He told us his friend, Jim, was a 300-pound Ivy league footballer and handsome theater major, who one night in 1985, shortly after graduating, was struck down by a New York city bus. He was pronounced dead on arrival (they actually drew the chalk outline), but after 18 hours of surgery he stabilized, and awoke from his coma relatively in tact. Minus his left leg below the knee.
So, he worked and trained and transformed himself into an 150-pound iron-man triathlete, setting records and routinely finishing ahead of 80% of the able-bodied athletes.
Then, in 1993 while he was racing on a closed track triathalon in California, a marshal misjudged his speed and directed a van to cross the road. The van and Jim collided, sending him flying into a signpost. He broke his neck and was paralyzed.
The story goes on; he begins again, this time setting up a charity known as the 'Choose Living Foundation', and on and on, right up to being presented with an Arthur Ashe Courage Award at the 2005 ESPY's, by none other than Oprah Winfrey.
Last night it snowed. New York was hit by about 20 inches in less that 24 hours. A bone-fide, history-making blizzard. So my journalist husband insisted I join him and his camera out in the street, that I may experience history as it happened.
This is something of what that experience felt like:
We spent Christmas in central New Jersey, at the home of a very dear couple and their four (almost suspiciously) well-adjusted children. After a delicious turkey dinner and more helpings of pie than is elegant, we settled back in their cosy rumpus room to review, over a snifter of bourbon, the year's highlights. It's something my parents like to do at the end of any holiday, or significant period of time; a kind of stocktake, or personal "top-ten".
On our host's list was the funeral of a dear friend of his from Yale. The funeral, while naturally sad, was an affecting reminder of the difference a resilient spirit can make in meeting life's challenges.
He told us his friend, Jim, was a 300-pound Ivy league footballer and handsome theater major, who one night in 1985, shortly after graduating, was struck down by a New York city bus. He was pronounced dead on arrival (they actually drew the chalk outline), but after 18 hours of surgery he stabilized, and awoke from his coma relatively in tact. Minus his left leg below the knee.
So, he worked and trained and transformed himself into an 150-pound iron-man triathlete, setting records and routinely finishing ahead of 80% of the able-bodied athletes.
Then, in 1993 while he was racing on a closed track triathalon in California, a marshal misjudged his speed and directed a van to cross the road. The van and Jim collided, sending him flying into a signpost. He broke his neck and was paralyzed.
The story goes on; he begins again, this time setting up a charity known as the 'Choose Living Foundation', and on and on, right up to being presented with an Arthur Ashe Courage Award at the 2005 ESPY's, by none other than Oprah Winfrey.
...
Last night it snowed. New York was hit by about 20 inches in less that 24 hours. A bone-fide, history-making blizzard. So my journalist husband insisted I join him and his camera out in the street, that I may experience history as it happened.
This is something of what that experience felt like:
This morning I left the house around 7am. It was light, but no plows or pedestrians had carved a path. I was a pioneer, sometimes steeped in snow up to the thighs; certainly plenty found its way inside my rather useless gumboots (or wellies, or rainboots).
In a moment of grand delusion, I imagined myself to be just like a child living in a remote, third-world village, having to cross a rushing river to get to school. Except my river was soft and fluffy, and eventually deposited me into the subway, and directly into Manhattan, where the snowplows and the Starbucks were all up and running.
...
In all my New-Year-resolving and goal-setting, I have made a lot of noise about twenty-eleven being 'The Year of Making Strides', but when surviving the first snow fall of the season marks an epic victory, I can't help but wonder if some peoples' strides are more impressive than others.
Now, I know these encounters and life lessons have a way of wearing off, giving over to the neuroses and trivialities of the every-day. Yet, while I never expect to live life with the sort of true-grit and seismic impact of a Jim MacLaren, (or for that matter the boy our other Christmas host taught in Haiti over the summer, who crossed ACTUAL rivers as part of his three-hour journey to school), I wonder if in 2011, I might set the bar a bit higher for myself, and when I feel like I'm failing or limping through life, to imagine what it would be like to make strides with just one leg.
At the very least, it might lend a little more grace to the occasion.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Making up for lost blogs
It's Christmas time again. And for the first time, EVER, I'm spending the holiday in New York City.
Yes it's cold. Yes I'm away from family. And yes, it's amazingly beautiful.
Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center
My mother and sister were in town the first week of December, as a preemptive festive strike.
We discount-designer shopped at Century 21, we got $22 mani/pedi's, we drank wine in a hotel rooftop bar overlooking the Manhattan skyline, we saw Bernadette Peters and Elaine Stritch do their (rather remarkable) thing in 'A Little Night Music' on Broadway and we decorated my first, ever, live American Christmas Tree.
They were also here to see me perform in one of the two 'Christmas Carol' adaptations that kept me gainfully employed throughout the month of December, up at Boscobel in Garrison (home to the Shakespeare Festival during the summer).
The second performance was in the city at the beautifully refurbished Morgan Library on Madison Avenue, with Dominic Chianese (or Uncle Junior for any "Sopranos" fans) in the lead. It turns out the library owns Dicken's original manuscript, and produced a new 'chamber' version of the classic by composer Ray Leslee. The evening went over very well, and I'm now on the Morgan Library's radar as someone who can produce an authentic British accent for all their upcoming Jane Austin and Emily Bronte readings. :-)
Until such time, 'twill have to be enough to enjoy the season and not worry too much about what's next.
So for now, good food, good nog,
and worst case scenario,
more time to blog.
Merry Christmas... from Dr. Seuss, apparently.
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