"I THINK NOW WOULD BE A GOOD TIME FOR A BEER"
- Franklin D. Roosevelt, upon repealing Prohibition laws in 1933
Let me paint you the picture.
It's Sunday evening, shortly after 8pm. I'm sitting at my computer wearing a floppy woolen beret, a grey blanket draped over my knees and a hot cup of 'Yogi; Breathe Deep' tea drawing next to me. I have been inside all day. Enjoying the moody grey blanket draped over the downtown skyline, and the occasional impressive swirl of snow outside the window.
Partly, I am being overly conscious of a vaguely sore throat that threatens to derail my big performance this week, and partly I'm only vaguely conscious of what I might otherwise have been doing, in a former lifetime, on a New York Sunday night...
I'm twenty days into a one-month sobriety challenge. Of course those of you even vaguely following this blog might remember that I tried that once before, and it ended after a rather pathetic 72 hours. But this time two things are different.
1. I have not only a pseudo-sponsor, but a partner in temperance, joining me on the crusade, and staring me down in moments of weakness.
2. Most importantly, this time, the challenge has been laid down by my father. In fact, it was almost more like a dare. And so, it has become a matter of pride, and more importantly, a matter of competition.
As one who likes to think I can do anything to which I set my mind, and who would firmly hold that my consumption of alcohol has always been well short of intervention-worthy, more horrifying than trying to live in Manhattan sans martini, is with what overwhelming pride (and perhaps borderline shock) my father has responded to hearing the news of my success. At the one-week mark he even forgave a speeding ticket I incurred in his car on a recent trip home to Australia. (Unfortunatley when the second ticket arrived in the mail, much of that sheen seemed to have worn off).
Having never been a smoker, I can only imagine trying to quit induces similar pitfalls. It seems to me it's the habitual associations that are the hardest to conquer. Great pizza without cheap red wine, the Superbowl without an icy beer, the pool hall without a strong vodka... Brooklyn without anything you can get your hands on. I mean let's face it, without a cocktail, Friday night happy hour becomes nothing more than one hell of an overrated hour.
On the other hand, drinking water all night in its various creative forms (iced/boiled/soda/seltzer/tonic) is an interesting sociological experiment. We get to watch, as others not only fall off the wagon, but knock over coat racks, kick over garbage cans, fight with their partners, stumble into taxis. Even more benignly, we get to walk through that uniquely alcohol-infused 'wet breath' expelled into the air and faces of passers-by in crowded bars. We get to enjoy the voices of fellow pool players become louder, and louder and finally dissolve into squeals and shrieks. And not mind so much, as realise that most weekends, or even most nights, it's probably us.
All that said, my interest in the social sciences have a definitive time limit, and that limit is exactly one month. No more, and (because I can't thing of a clever way out of this stupid challenge) no less.
So I will make it to February 22nd if it kills me. And it well might.
As if my father were the devil himself running around planting apple-martini trees in this dry, dry garden of Eden, I received an email last week inviting me to hear an Irish poet read at something non-ironically called the 'Global Nomad Poetry Salon'. It's sponsored by Jamesons. It's at the SoHo loft. Cocktails start at 6.30pm. ON FEBRUARY 21st!
Five hours from the finish line stands an Irish man, in downtown New York City, holding a free bottle of Jamesons. And while I suspect not even God himself (and certainly not my father) would be able to resist such temptation, I'm determined to make it.
Because when midnight comes, I will be ordering the biggest Big-Apple martini I can find, and announcing that while yes, YES I CAN go a month without drinking, I would never hope to be in the distasteful position of having to do so again. For if nothing else, I think we can all agree that listening to Irish poetry while sober is just plain bad manners.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
HUNDREDS AND THOUSANDS
For two and a half years now, I have had the good fortune (or better, small fortune) of living at one of the trendiest addresses in Manhattan; the West Village. (Also known as 'Hollywood's New York')
Once upon a time, not so many decades ago, 'The Village' was celebrated for affording a renegade, beatnick, bohemian lifestyle; speakeasys, coffee houses... both the cool Dylans. Now, it affords very little to very few. And most of those few work on Wall Street.
However, if you're prepared to live in a cupboard. And sublet half that cupboard to a Finnish movie star. And enter into negotiations with a heavily accented Italian man named 'Tony' when it comes time for the annual rent hike... Then it's what you might consider 'doable'. It's all a matter of perspective after all. As the broker pointed out when showing us the place, 'The West Village is your living room!'
As it turns out, he was telling the truth. And not a bad living room at all. A great Irish bar at the bottom of my building, the best tapas in Manhattan across the street, a laundromat full of non-judmental Korean women ninety seconds away... Best of all is school, a mere ten minute stroll down one of Manhattan's rare tree-lined and winding roads.
Unfortunately, if not planned with the utmost care and focus, that stroll can land you smack in the middle of couture central; the Paris end of Bleeker Street. Coach, Juicy Couture, Cynthia Rowley, Marc Jacobs, and the scene of my latest fashion accident, Ralph Lauren.
By way of background I perhaps need to explain that little dresses, or cocktail frocks, or 'numbers', are my personal Achilles heel. Or, if you will, my crack habit.
Initially I was just a social user, but then the social occasions became more and more frequent, until eventually I was buying dresses at will, in anticipation of the next event, and the next. Of course that led to a small shoe-purchase abuse problem, and had I not been smacked into submission by a return to the student lifestyle in one of the most expensive cities in the world, frivolous purses could not have been far too away.
On a strict 'Sex and the City' repeats 'methodone program', I have managed to stay more or less on the wagon for the past two or so years, with only the occasional slip here and there. (Surely sample sales are considered entrappment?)
Until last Friday.
I don't want to overstate it. It was just a little black dress. Slinky. Knee length. Silk. Not so much in the window of Ralph Lauren, as on a svelte mannequin just inside the brass-handled door, saying 'buy me... buy me'. The word 'Sale' was stencilled on the window in muted tones, engendering the smallest cause for hope.
I resisted for a full 24-hours before dragging my most grounded, yet gentle friend David along to watch me try it on. I needed someone there to tell me I was being insane, without embarrassing me in front of the Waspy, and highly judgemental sales girls.
They had only one. It was my size. I took it into the dressing room and scrounged for the price, which was nowhere to be found on the tag. Great. The only other thing I know to be 'Price on Application' is the sort of Real Estate for which you submit tenders. In short, if you have to ask, you probably can't afford it.
But I did ask, and Kent (not a made up name) went off to check in the computer. I probably had a total of 45 seconds to float around in front of the full length skinny-mirrors before she came back with the verdict,
"Twenty four ninety eight." (The decimal point is deafeningly silent.)
I can't help but smile a little at how the high-end masterfully manage to eradicate words like 'hundred' and 'thousand', and with such transparent devices. Take the the non-sensical irregularity of the price tag - it's not actually intended to trick us is it? They don't expect that we'll blithely hand over the credit card, and be too embarrassed to come back when we get the statement and realise the dress was not in fact sold to us for the bargain basement $24.98?
It's as if to acknowledge it would be crass, or dirty. As if saying out loud that this finely crafted piece of black silk will set you back TWO THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS, would betray some silent code, or break the magic spell of couture. Would a very human, mutual acknowledgement of the extravagant price tag really ruin the fun of the extravagance? Would it really hurt us to be a little more real about the whole thing - after all, Ralph Lauren began life as one 'Ralph Lipschitz', a young lad from the Bronx, who sold ties out of the trunk of a car. So tell me, when did common sense become just plain common?
But Kent is not done. While the dress is unfortunately not part of the sale, the strappy four-inch heels she has grabbed for me to try on 'just for effect' are. More than that, Kent informs me, 'they are a steal'. Even level-headed David has to acknowledge that the reduction from $590 to $144 is fab-u-lous, and I'd be mad to pass them up. (For all my intentions, I can't help but feel I subconsciously took a gay man with me for this very reason.)
So I don't pass them up. I hand over my credit card and sign some form and Kent promises she'll have my size in from interstate before the off-broadway opening of Lynn Redgrave's new show I'm due to attend next Monday. Of course, with what dress I'll wear them (as clearly the little black number went back on the rack) or indeed what business I have wearing strappy satin heels in the middle of winter in Manhattan I have no idea, but I have some drying out to do before I can even contemplate that next (well-heeled) step.
For two and a half years now, I have had the good fortune (or better, small fortune) of living at one of the trendiest addresses in Manhattan; the West Village. (Also known as 'Hollywood's New York')
Once upon a time, not so many decades ago, 'The Village' was celebrated for affording a renegade, beatnick, bohemian lifestyle; speakeasys, coffee houses... both the cool Dylans. Now, it affords very little to very few. And most of those few work on Wall Street.
However, if you're prepared to live in a cupboard. And sublet half that cupboard to a Finnish movie star. And enter into negotiations with a heavily accented Italian man named 'Tony' when it comes time for the annual rent hike... Then it's what you might consider 'doable'. It's all a matter of perspective after all. As the broker pointed out when showing us the place, 'The West Village is your living room!'
As it turns out, he was telling the truth. And not a bad living room at all. A great Irish bar at the bottom of my building, the best tapas in Manhattan across the street, a laundromat full of non-judmental Korean women ninety seconds away... Best of all is school, a mere ten minute stroll down one of Manhattan's rare tree-lined and winding roads.
Unfortunately, if not planned with the utmost care and focus, that stroll can land you smack in the middle of couture central; the Paris end of Bleeker Street. Coach, Juicy Couture, Cynthia Rowley, Marc Jacobs, and the scene of my latest fashion accident, Ralph Lauren.
By way of background I perhaps need to explain that little dresses, or cocktail frocks, or 'numbers', are my personal Achilles heel. Or, if you will, my crack habit.
Initially I was just a social user, but then the social occasions became more and more frequent, until eventually I was buying dresses at will, in anticipation of the next event, and the next. Of course that led to a small shoe-purchase abuse problem, and had I not been smacked into submission by a return to the student lifestyle in one of the most expensive cities in the world, frivolous purses could not have been far too away.
On a strict 'Sex and the City' repeats 'methodone program', I have managed to stay more or less on the wagon for the past two or so years, with only the occasional slip here and there. (Surely sample sales are considered entrappment?)
Until last Friday.
I don't want to overstate it. It was just a little black dress. Slinky. Knee length. Silk. Not so much in the window of Ralph Lauren, as on a svelte mannequin just inside the brass-handled door, saying 'buy me... buy me'. The word 'Sale' was stencilled on the window in muted tones, engendering the smallest cause for hope.
I resisted for a full 24-hours before dragging my most grounded, yet gentle friend David along to watch me try it on. I needed someone there to tell me I was being insane, without embarrassing me in front of the Waspy, and highly judgemental sales girls.
They had only one. It was my size. I took it into the dressing room and scrounged for the price, which was nowhere to be found on the tag. Great. The only other thing I know to be 'Price on Application' is the sort of Real Estate for which you submit tenders. In short, if you have to ask, you probably can't afford it.
But I did ask, and Kent (not a made up name) went off to check in the computer. I probably had a total of 45 seconds to float around in front of the full length skinny-mirrors before she came back with the verdict,
"Twenty four ninety eight." (The decimal point is deafeningly silent.)
I can't help but smile a little at how the high-end masterfully manage to eradicate words like 'hundred' and 'thousand', and with such transparent devices. Take the the non-sensical irregularity of the price tag - it's not actually intended to trick us is it? They don't expect that we'll blithely hand over the credit card, and be too embarrassed to come back when we get the statement and realise the dress was not in fact sold to us for the bargain basement $24.98?
It's as if to acknowledge it would be crass, or dirty. As if saying out loud that this finely crafted piece of black silk will set you back TWO THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS, would betray some silent code, or break the magic spell of couture. Would a very human, mutual acknowledgement of the extravagant price tag really ruin the fun of the extravagance? Would it really hurt us to be a little more real about the whole thing - after all, Ralph Lauren began life as one 'Ralph Lipschitz', a young lad from the Bronx, who sold ties out of the trunk of a car. So tell me, when did common sense become just plain common?
But Kent is not done. While the dress is unfortunately not part of the sale, the strappy four-inch heels she has grabbed for me to try on 'just for effect' are. More than that, Kent informs me, 'they are a steal'. Even level-headed David has to acknowledge that the reduction from $590 to $144 is fab-u-lous, and I'd be mad to pass them up. (For all my intentions, I can't help but feel I subconsciously took a gay man with me for this very reason.)
So I don't pass them up. I hand over my credit card and sign some form and Kent promises she'll have my size in from interstate before the off-broadway opening of Lynn Redgrave's new show I'm due to attend next Monday. Of course, with what dress I'll wear them (as clearly the little black number went back on the rack) or indeed what business I have wearing strappy satin heels in the middle of winter in Manhattan I have no idea, but I have some drying out to do before I can even contemplate that next (well-heeled) step.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
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).
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).
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.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
All I want for Christmas...
A couple of weeks out from the looming festive season, the questioning begins:
'What are a few of the top things on your wishlist for Christmas?'
'What would you be upset about not getting for Christmas?'
And finally, desperately;
'What is it, specifically, that you want for Christmas?'
The first present buying occasion in any relationship is always fraught, particularly if that first occasion happens to be Christmas, when, let's face it, gift giving is kind of a competition. (If not to see who loves who more, then at least to see who is the better listener.)
The thing about my ghosts of Christmas past (or at least the past three years) is that the day seems to come and go in a blur. School screeches to a halt on or around December 23rd, I get on a plane, December 24 gets sucked into the Space-Time Continuum, Christmas morning I emerge from the plane dazed, confused and in need of febreezing, varying kinds of roast meat get eaten, varying qualities of wine imbibed, jetlag crash lands, and the whole thing is over for another year.
As might be evident from the lack of updates, the lead up this year was no exception. In fact, if possible, it might have been the busiest semester ever, and one particularly loaded with a sense of finality; last Fall, last year, last degree.... unless of course this acting thing doesn't work out and I decide to study medicine. Suffice to say, the last three months induced the kind of nauseating, weight-loss causing stress that made my Christmas wish list pretty short.
1. Sleep.
(Please!)
With just 48 hours between finishing classes and getting on a cramped plane to clean my apartment for subletters, pack, Christmas shop, take in Broadway's latest, hottest offering and catch up with some very dear Irish friends in town for a short visit, it seemed a tall order, even for Santa.
Then, something amazing happens. Due to 'weather', and the craziness of Christmas time, our plane is almost three hours late getting out of JFK, and thus lands at LAX fifteen minutes after the ever faithful QF 94 is due to depart for Melbourne. Fifty-two disgruntled passengers suddenly find themselves being rebooked on QF 108 to Sydney, and in the blink of an eye, losing their respective Christmas lunches. Instead of arriving at 9am, we will now arrive into Tullamarine on a domestic flight from Sydney at 1.30pm, Christmas Day.
According to my body, it's about 5am, and all I want in the world is a window to pass out against. The lady handing out boarding passes, is, however, decidedly lacking in Christmas spirit, and hands me my non-negotiable ailse seat ticket on the now packed flight 108 to Sydney.
I walk away with my tail between my legs and as I go I hear the two Australian gents behind me ask for 'the manager'. When I finally return from making a rather pitiful phone call back to the only person in New York who will abide my 5am whimpers, the announcement comes that those passengers originally bound for Melbourne should wait behind as the others boarded. Irrationally I feel nervous, like I've just been paged to the principal's office - though I was never in trouble back then, so why now should be any different I'm not sure. The same two men seem to know what's going on. They stand right by me, not saying much, yet filled with the tension of a secret, as if holding tightly to the Christmas wish that dare not speak its name. I don't say anything either. If what I think is going on is indeed going on, I don't want to be the one to break the spell.
Then, without much pomp or ceremony, in fact, I would say almost begrudgingly, we are called up in groups of three and handed brand new boarding passes - that is we are handed BUSINESS CLASS boarding passes. I snatch mine and run onto the plane, before they can change their minds.
As I huff and puff with my overstuffed carry-on luggage up the narrow stairs to the top section of the 747 (orignally designed and utilised as a bar/happening nightclub for international jetsetters) an impossibly fresh air hostess looking down from above informs me with a wide smile that 'it's worth the climb'.
And it is. As I settle myself into front-right window seat 11K, and take out my phone to put in yet another (this time elated) status report to Manhattan, the gifts just keep on coming. First a glass of non-vintage French champagne, (before even taking off, business class passengers get to celebrate the achievement of, I suppose, just managing to be them.) As I sip, I ponder the myriad of choices for breakfast, and tick the appropriate boxes on the form (so I won't be disturbed during the 'evening').
I almost giddily accept my complimentary Morrissey pajamas and sleep socks, as well as the toiletries' pack including the four-part organic herbal extract high-altitude skincare regime. It's now nearly 6am, so I can't say I'm hungry, however I also seem to have lost my power to say no.
I choose the recommended 'healthier choice' Sea-Bass for dinner, with the Margaret River Chardonnay, and for dessert a Baileys on the Rocks and a screening of 'No Reservations' on my private TV. (Not sure what it is, but something about the thin air seems to diminish my capacity to choose quality films.)
Then, the most magical part of all, with clean teeth, glowing skin and in my 'jammies, I press the button that indicates my chair will coordinate itself in a 'horizontal' fashion, climb under my natural fiber blanket, secure my eye mask and lay my head down on my soft, soft pillow.
And I sleep.
It's the first time I've ever found myself wishing the fourteen hour flight home were longer.
Renee Zellweger has a line in the movie Jerry Maguire:
'First class; it used to be about a better seat, now it's a better life.'
I'm not sure that's true. I'm pretty sure the best of life is still that which you get to spend with loved ones on either side of the epic journey across the Pacific. I will say however, that Business class most definitely represents a better sleep, and that perhaps I arrive a better (certainly better smelling) person in time for a most lovely and far more conscious Christmas dinner.
I should finish by saying that a few days before I left, unprompted, I received the entire series of 'Sex and the City' on DVD, neatly packaged in a hot pink velvet case for Christmas... so I think it's fair to say, he wins.
A couple of weeks out from the looming festive season, the questioning begins:
'What are a few of the top things on your wishlist for Christmas?'
'What would you be upset about not getting for Christmas?'
And finally, desperately;
'What is it, specifically, that you want for Christmas?'
The first present buying occasion in any relationship is always fraught, particularly if that first occasion happens to be Christmas, when, let's face it, gift giving is kind of a competition. (If not to see who loves who more, then at least to see who is the better listener.)
The thing about my ghosts of Christmas past (or at least the past three years) is that the day seems to come and go in a blur. School screeches to a halt on or around December 23rd, I get on a plane, December 24 gets sucked into the Space-Time Continuum, Christmas morning I emerge from the plane dazed, confused and in need of febreezing, varying kinds of roast meat get eaten, varying qualities of wine imbibed, jetlag crash lands, and the whole thing is over for another year.
As might be evident from the lack of updates, the lead up this year was no exception. In fact, if possible, it might have been the busiest semester ever, and one particularly loaded with a sense of finality; last Fall, last year, last degree.... unless of course this acting thing doesn't work out and I decide to study medicine. Suffice to say, the last three months induced the kind of nauseating, weight-loss causing stress that made my Christmas wish list pretty short.
1. Sleep.
(Please!)
With just 48 hours between finishing classes and getting on a cramped plane to clean my apartment for subletters, pack, Christmas shop, take in Broadway's latest, hottest offering and catch up with some very dear Irish friends in town for a short visit, it seemed a tall order, even for Santa.
Then, something amazing happens. Due to 'weather', and the craziness of Christmas time, our plane is almost three hours late getting out of JFK, and thus lands at LAX fifteen minutes after the ever faithful QF 94 is due to depart for Melbourne. Fifty-two disgruntled passengers suddenly find themselves being rebooked on QF 108 to Sydney, and in the blink of an eye, losing their respective Christmas lunches. Instead of arriving at 9am, we will now arrive into Tullamarine on a domestic flight from Sydney at 1.30pm, Christmas Day.
According to my body, it's about 5am, and all I want in the world is a window to pass out against. The lady handing out boarding passes, is, however, decidedly lacking in Christmas spirit, and hands me my non-negotiable ailse seat ticket on the now packed flight 108 to Sydney.
I walk away with my tail between my legs and as I go I hear the two Australian gents behind me ask for 'the manager'. When I finally return from making a rather pitiful phone call back to the only person in New York who will abide my 5am whimpers, the announcement comes that those passengers originally bound for Melbourne should wait behind as the others boarded. Irrationally I feel nervous, like I've just been paged to the principal's office - though I was never in trouble back then, so why now should be any different I'm not sure. The same two men seem to know what's going on. They stand right by me, not saying much, yet filled with the tension of a secret, as if holding tightly to the Christmas wish that dare not speak its name. I don't say anything either. If what I think is going on is indeed going on, I don't want to be the one to break the spell.
Then, without much pomp or ceremony, in fact, I would say almost begrudgingly, we are called up in groups of three and handed brand new boarding passes - that is we are handed BUSINESS CLASS boarding passes. I snatch mine and run onto the plane, before they can change their minds.
As I huff and puff with my overstuffed carry-on luggage up the narrow stairs to the top section of the 747 (orignally designed and utilised as a bar/happening nightclub for international jetsetters) an impossibly fresh air hostess looking down from above informs me with a wide smile that 'it's worth the climb'.
And it is. As I settle myself into front-right window seat 11K, and take out my phone to put in yet another (this time elated) status report to Manhattan, the gifts just keep on coming. First a glass of non-vintage French champagne, (before even taking off, business class passengers get to celebrate the achievement of, I suppose, just managing to be them.) As I sip, I ponder the myriad of choices for breakfast, and tick the appropriate boxes on the form (so I won't be disturbed during the 'evening').
I almost giddily accept my complimentary Morrissey pajamas and sleep socks, as well as the toiletries' pack including the four-part organic herbal extract high-altitude skincare regime. It's now nearly 6am, so I can't say I'm hungry, however I also seem to have lost my power to say no.
I choose the recommended 'healthier choice' Sea-Bass for dinner, with the Margaret River Chardonnay, and for dessert a Baileys on the Rocks and a screening of 'No Reservations' on my private TV. (Not sure what it is, but something about the thin air seems to diminish my capacity to choose quality films.)
Then, the most magical part of all, with clean teeth, glowing skin and in my 'jammies, I press the button that indicates my chair will coordinate itself in a 'horizontal' fashion, climb under my natural fiber blanket, secure my eye mask and lay my head down on my soft, soft pillow.
And I sleep.
It's the first time I've ever found myself wishing the fourteen hour flight home were longer.
Renee Zellweger has a line in the movie Jerry Maguire:
'First class; it used to be about a better seat, now it's a better life.'
I'm not sure that's true. I'm pretty sure the best of life is still that which you get to spend with loved ones on either side of the epic journey across the Pacific. I will say however, that Business class most definitely represents a better sleep, and that perhaps I arrive a better (certainly better smelling) person in time for a most lovely and far more conscious Christmas dinner.
I should finish by saying that a few days before I left, unprompted, I received the entire series of 'Sex and the City' on DVD, neatly packaged in a hot pink velvet case for Christmas... so I think it's fair to say, he wins.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
all about me
It was pointed out to me very recently that I have not updated this once optimistically prolific blog since July. So, it has gone the way of most of the journals in my life. (Much to the dismay of my irritatingly disciplined father who has kept a faithful diary, every day of every year of his life since 1964. Evidence below.)
That same irritating father also likes to wax lyrical about 'writing tomorrow's history
today'.... so in the spirit of that. Here I go again.
long way away from the west village. A whole mindset away.
'Tis an interesting thing shifting neighborhoods in New York. For such a tiny island it manages to engender strange loyalties and comfort zones within very small radii. In fact, my friend Jane and I, who for most of the last two years lived three minutes from one another, had different coffee shops, different laundromats and different pharmacies. We did manage to come together, however, at the same bar.
Day five into housesitting, I did have to see about some laundry. An almost traumatic experience, as today, rather late in the year, marked the first snow of the season. And in my limited experience, the first snow is best enjoyed in pajamas, inside. I have however, ventured out once or twice. And here are the differences I have so far noted about the Village de East.
3. Nail salons are very conveniently located to laundromats.
4. Bars have pool tables. And fewer wankers.
5. Sidewalks (footpaths) are wider, but on a Saturday night can just easily become overcrowded with wankers.... presumably heading west.
Hopefully you will hear again before May. But if not... that's when the sun rises over the new world. Whether it will be in the east or west.... or indeed northern or southern hemisphere... remains to be seen.
It was pointed out to me very recently that I have not updated this once optimistically prolific blog since July. So, it has gone the way of most of the journals in my life. (Much to the dismay of my irritatingly disciplined father who has kept a faithful diary, every day of every year of his life since 1964. Evidence below.)
That same irritating father also likes to wax lyrical about 'writing tomorrow's history
today'.... so in the spirit of that. Here I go again.
Tonight, I write, from the east. East Village, that is. I have been nominally 'housesitting' for Dan (see below) while he has been visiting family for a belated Thanksgiving in Kentucky.
By housesitting I mean enjoying having an apartment to myself that has food in the fridge, vodka in the liquor cabinet and (in recent times) Sex and the City recorded on the DVR every time it pops up on television.
Dan's apartment is a twenty minute walk from mine. Almost the same latitude, but along way away from the west village. A whole mindset away.
'Tis an interesting thing shifting neighborhoods in New York. For such a tiny island it manages to engender strange loyalties and comfort zones within very small radii. In fact, my friend Jane and I, who for most of the last two years lived three minutes from one another, had different coffee shops, different laundromats and different pharmacies. We did manage to come together, however, at the same bar.
Day five into housesitting, I did have to see about some laundry. An almost traumatic experience, as today, rather late in the year, marked the first snow of the season. And in my limited experience, the first snow is best enjoyed in pajamas, inside. I have however, ventured out once or twice. And here are the differences I have so far noted about the Village de East.
1. Laundromats are bountiful, and are predominantly self service. They are only marginally cheaper than the lovely korean ladies on my block, who both wash and dry for me, however, it did give me a perverse sense of satisfaction to do my own laundry for the first time since December 2005.
2. Manicures can be achieved in the East Village for $6. ($2.00 less than I am yet to achieve in the West).3. Nail salons are very conveniently located to laundromats.
4. Bars have pool tables. And fewer wankers.
5. Sidewalks (footpaths) are wider, but on a Saturday night can just easily become overcrowded with wankers.... presumably heading west.
Five is probably enough for now. Hopefully this anthropological migration will last long enough for me to manage some actual insight.
Meanwhile the end of school looms. New heashots have been taken. (Sample below). Agents are being targetted. Commercialism and 'Schmoozing' have become part of the common parlance.
Hopefully you will hear again before May. But if not... that's when the sun rises over the new world. Whether it will be in the east or west.... or indeed northern or southern hemisphere... remains to be seen.
Monday, July 09, 2007
QF 94
I love airports. There is something timeless about them. And I don't mean timeless like Audrey Hepburn and Carey Grant. I'm talking about 'in the moment' timelessness, in that at any moment it could be any time at all. No one knows where you have been or where you are going. Whether forty-five minutes ago you jumped in a cab from Manhattan, or if you are eight hours into a thirty-two hour journey from Toronto to Melbourne. In practical terms, no matter what time of day it is, in an airport you can always plonk yourself at a bar and order a drink without fear of retribution, on the very solid basis that it is always happy hour somewhere in the world. This makes airports particularly good for introspection. (If particularly bad for drinking problems).
I write from Melbourne, having recently navigated the twenty-four hour trip home for the second time in six months. The flying visit was a whim of my mother's, and a very timely one. General good sense has it that Manhattan is a city to be loved from afar over the summer, and while two weeks of the Melbourne winter should be more than enough to ready me for my final year of grad school, I have to confess that mum's special brand of red wine, open fires, clothes shopping and green tea and sympathy for the soul, will be hard to leave. (Not that she really approves of the green tea... only tolerates it, barely).
In fairness, summer and the city are not without their charms. A day trip to Coney Island, a private jet for a long weekend boating on Lake Squam in New Hampshire, Romeo and Juliet in Central Park really just a few of the highlights in a very long list of the joys of having some time to enjoy Manhattan without school. (Of course, I would also include a trip to Home Depot to buy supplies to build shelves very near the top of that list, so perhaps I am not so very discerning.)
However the last few weeks also brought the end of romance, which seems most unfair since all the good love songs tell me summer is exactly the time for enjoying love and all its accoutrements. In this way, it is appropriate that I have abandoned summer in New York for the much more moody Melbourne winter. Much like happy hours, somewhere in the world, there can always be found a season to match your internal weather forecast.
In spite of its source inspiration, I think I'll resist the urge to turn this update into a relationship column - it seems to me 'Facebook' does a much more clinical job of filling people in. At the click of a button you can update yourself from 'In a relationship' to 'Single'. If only.
Oh I guess that means I am now on Facebook. It is very bizarre. And very addictive. I am convinced it is Big Brother's way of watching. Nonetheless. More regular, and believe it or not more banal, updates can be found there.
I love airports. There is something timeless about them. And I don't mean timeless like Audrey Hepburn and Carey Grant. I'm talking about 'in the moment' timelessness, in that at any moment it could be any time at all. No one knows where you have been or where you are going. Whether forty-five minutes ago you jumped in a cab from Manhattan, or if you are eight hours into a thirty-two hour journey from Toronto to Melbourne. In practical terms, no matter what time of day it is, in an airport you can always plonk yourself at a bar and order a drink without fear of retribution, on the very solid basis that it is always happy hour somewhere in the world. This makes airports particularly good for introspection. (If particularly bad for drinking problems).
I write from Melbourne, having recently navigated the twenty-four hour trip home for the second time in six months. The flying visit was a whim of my mother's, and a very timely one. General good sense has it that Manhattan is a city to be loved from afar over the summer, and while two weeks of the Melbourne winter should be more than enough to ready me for my final year of grad school, I have to confess that mum's special brand of red wine, open fires, clothes shopping and green tea and sympathy for the soul, will be hard to leave. (Not that she really approves of the green tea... only tolerates it, barely).
In fairness, summer and the city are not without their charms. A day trip to Coney Island, a private jet for a long weekend boating on Lake Squam in New Hampshire, Romeo and Juliet in Central Park really just a few of the highlights in a very long list of the joys of having some time to enjoy Manhattan without school. (Of course, I would also include a trip to Home Depot to buy supplies to build shelves very near the top of that list, so perhaps I am not so very discerning.)
However the last few weeks also brought the end of romance, which seems most unfair since all the good love songs tell me summer is exactly the time for enjoying love and all its accoutrements. In this way, it is appropriate that I have abandoned summer in New York for the much more moody Melbourne winter. Much like happy hours, somewhere in the world, there can always be found a season to match your internal weather forecast.
In spite of its source inspiration, I think I'll resist the urge to turn this update into a relationship column - it seems to me 'Facebook' does a much more clinical job of filling people in. At the click of a button you can update yourself from 'In a relationship' to 'Single'. If only.
Oh I guess that means I am now on Facebook. It is very bizarre. And very addictive. I am convinced it is Big Brother's way of watching. Nonetheless. More regular, and believe it or not more banal, updates can be found there.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Eau de 'New York'
Yes that's me. Yes, in a bikini. Yes, in June. (I know for Australians the sun without the Christmas presents and New Year's Day hangover can be a difficult concept). Yes, I am the whitest person you know. No - despite Nicole Kidman's best efforts - porcelain is not the new black.
So this shot was taken a couple of weeks ago at a pool party at the shoe mansion. I know... it makes my summer look like a never-ending par-tay, in manner of reality TV shows Laguna Beach, or Girls Gone Wild. In fact it was more like; Foreign girl goes to Long Island overnight to escape increasingly disconcerting stench infiltrating the streets of Manhattan - but that doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
Summer looms ahead. Another three months, and for the most part an amorphous, unstructured inconceivable amount of time yet to be 'gainfully employed'.
To alleviate acute withdrawal I am putting in as many hours as bearable at the admissions office. A windowless, unairconditioned room that has the dubious distinction of being the one space in Manhattan smaller than my apartment. It's days like these I dream of being a Trust Fund Baby. Still my friends are there. The internet is there. And the paycheck I receive every two weeks largely depends on my being there every now and again.
Every other now and again I escape for an audition, or to the gym, or to a new babysitting job at an apartment on the Upper West Side that has the actual distinction of being a gorgeous, air-conditioned, obscenely large, cable-fitted, help yourself to anything in the fridge type apartment in a building inhabited by New York royalty types, where I do nothing but eat leftovers and catch up on Law and Order: SVU.
I had been warned about the New York summer. Words like unbearable, hideous, and pungent were oft bandied around in April and May, but as a bona fide summer lovin' Aussie I wondered how bad it could possibly be. And the truth is, not that bad. Except, occasionally and often without warning, for the smell. And that it has only been 13 days of said summer.
In regards to the smell, it doesn't help that I live in the west village, which suffers a daily hangover from being party central (just the other night, as I wandered home from babysitting, the window on a stretch limo in front of my building slid down and the male occupant oh so temptingly shouted, 'Hey you! Wanna party?'... how could I refuse? Very easily mum - I promise!). Ahem... it also doesn't help that Zay's place in Bushwick is opposite what is euphemistically referred to as a 'Transfer Plant'. Fortunately his loft is on the other side of the building, but the walk to and from the subway requires some serious alternative breathing methods.
Speaking of Zay (though that was probably not the most auspicious segue I could have dreamed up)... I seem to recall promising a photo. So here goes:
This was taken at 'Drama Proma' - end of school year celebrations. Open bar. Enough said. He leaves for a summer teaching job in California on July 5th, so there is some talk of my visiting La La land this summer. As a carrot I have been promised roller coasters and the Pacific Ocean. Now that is tempting...
Yes that's me. Yes, in a bikini. Yes, in June. (I know for Australians the sun without the Christmas presents and New Year's Day hangover can be a difficult concept). Yes, I am the whitest person you know. No - despite Nicole Kidman's best efforts - porcelain is not the new black.So this shot was taken a couple of weeks ago at a pool party at the shoe mansion. I know... it makes my summer look like a never-ending par-tay, in manner of reality TV shows Laguna Beach, or Girls Gone Wild. In fact it was more like; Foreign girl goes to Long Island overnight to escape increasingly disconcerting stench infiltrating the streets of Manhattan - but that doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
Summer looms ahead. Another three months, and for the most part an amorphous, unstructured inconceivable amount of time yet to be 'gainfully employed'.
To alleviate acute withdrawal I am putting in as many hours as bearable at the admissions office. A windowless, unairconditioned room that has the dubious distinction of being the one space in Manhattan smaller than my apartment. It's days like these I dream of being a Trust Fund Baby. Still my friends are there. The internet is there. And the paycheck I receive every two weeks largely depends on my being there every now and again.
Every other now and again I escape for an audition, or to the gym, or to a new babysitting job at an apartment on the Upper West Side that has the actual distinction of being a gorgeous, air-conditioned, obscenely large, cable-fitted, help yourself to anything in the fridge type apartment in a building inhabited by New York royalty types, where I do nothing but eat leftovers and catch up on Law and Order: SVU.
I had been warned about the New York summer. Words like unbearable, hideous, and pungent were oft bandied around in April and May, but as a bona fide summer lovin' Aussie I wondered how bad it could possibly be. And the truth is, not that bad. Except, occasionally and often without warning, for the smell. And that it has only been 13 days of said summer.
In regards to the smell, it doesn't help that I live in the west village, which suffers a daily hangover from being party central (just the other night, as I wandered home from babysitting, the window on a stretch limo in front of my building slid down and the male occupant oh so temptingly shouted, 'Hey you! Wanna party?'... how could I refuse? Very easily mum - I promise!). Ahem... it also doesn't help that Zay's place in Bushwick is opposite what is euphemistically referred to as a 'Transfer Plant'. Fortunately his loft is on the other side of the building, but the walk to and from the subway requires some serious alternative breathing methods.
Speaking of Zay (though that was probably not the most auspicious segue I could have dreamed up)... I seem to recall promising a photo. So here goes:
This was taken at 'Drama Proma' - end of school year celebrations. Open bar. Enough said. He leaves for a summer teaching job in California on July 5th, so there is some talk of my visiting La La land this summer. As a carrot I have been promised roller coasters and the Pacific Ocean. Now that is tempting...
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Thursday Night
At Melbourne University I took a creative writing class called 'Journals, Diaries, Autobiography'. The professor had a favourite line, 'Begin with now...' she would say. When in doubt, 'begin with now'.
To begin with now:
It is 8.03pm. I am sitting alone in a converted loft apartment in an area of Brooklyn the hipsters call 'East Williamsburg', and those too cool to be hip acknowledge as what it is; 'Bushwick'.
I am drinking my second glass of Cavit pinot grigio. Cheap at double the price.
An ice cream truck keeps driving past. Would not have imagined this industrial neighborhood to be his demographic. He keeps it real by mixing up his electronic musak, and I keep thinking my mobile phone is ringing.
I am in Brooklyn because a dispute over the long standing 'open wardrobe policy' I have with my crazy scandinavian flatmate flared up on Monday due to an overdue pair of black pants on her part, built up frustration on my part, and aforementioned craziness (again on her part) drove me out of the west village in search of some peace. So here I am at Zay's apartment, while he is out at a Laure Anderson concert with his boss.
It's 8.07pm. School finished on Monday. On Tuesday I began to have guilt at not being productive enough so I read through the day's casting breakdowns and discovered the perfect acting job for the summer; 'Black Comedy' a British farce being performed in the Berkshires. I even knew the director. Perfect! Today, I went in for an audition. 'Twas not perfect. Though I couldn't even tell you what was actually wrong with it. Just sometimes you know, and sometimes you don't, and today I knew, and the reaction was a very polite 'ho hum'. David Mamet says when you're done (performing, auditioning, whatever), you should wipe your feet at the door. I did; the door to a wine store.
Time to myself extremely weird. I guess this is the come-down from the high of school. Need to make a list of intelligent books to read, need to figure out my tax, need to find a way not to spend forty hours a week in the admissions office, need another glass of wine.
8.13pm. A guy outside the window keeps yelling 'Noooo....' loudly and weirdly. This is definitely not Williamsburg. Makes me think of the stalker phone call in 'The Bodyguard', and my father's subsequent impression of him at frighteningly regular intervals.
To end with now:
It's 8.21pm. The ice-cream truck is back, and the musak has looped back to 'Music Box Dancer'. It's actually kinda catchy. I am considering changing my cell phone tone.
At Melbourne University I took a creative writing class called 'Journals, Diaries, Autobiography'. The professor had a favourite line, 'Begin with now...' she would say. When in doubt, 'begin with now'.
To begin with now:
It is 8.03pm. I am sitting alone in a converted loft apartment in an area of Brooklyn the hipsters call 'East Williamsburg', and those too cool to be hip acknowledge as what it is; 'Bushwick'.
I am drinking my second glass of Cavit pinot grigio. Cheap at double the price.
An ice cream truck keeps driving past. Would not have imagined this industrial neighborhood to be his demographic. He keeps it real by mixing up his electronic musak, and I keep thinking my mobile phone is ringing.
I am in Brooklyn because a dispute over the long standing 'open wardrobe policy' I have with my crazy scandinavian flatmate flared up on Monday due to an overdue pair of black pants on her part, built up frustration on my part, and aforementioned craziness (again on her part) drove me out of the west village in search of some peace. So here I am at Zay's apartment, while he is out at a Laure Anderson concert with his boss.
It's 8.07pm. School finished on Monday. On Tuesday I began to have guilt at not being productive enough so I read through the day's casting breakdowns and discovered the perfect acting job for the summer; 'Black Comedy' a British farce being performed in the Berkshires. I even knew the director. Perfect! Today, I went in for an audition. 'Twas not perfect. Though I couldn't even tell you what was actually wrong with it. Just sometimes you know, and sometimes you don't, and today I knew, and the reaction was a very polite 'ho hum'. David Mamet says when you're done (performing, auditioning, whatever), you should wipe your feet at the door. I did; the door to a wine store.
Time to myself extremely weird. I guess this is the come-down from the high of school. Need to make a list of intelligent books to read, need to figure out my tax, need to find a way not to spend forty hours a week in the admissions office, need another glass of wine.
8.13pm. A guy outside the window keeps yelling 'Noooo....' loudly and weirdly. This is definitely not Williamsburg. Makes me think of the stalker phone call in 'The Bodyguard', and my father's subsequent impression of him at frighteningly regular intervals.
To end with now:
It's 8.21pm. The ice-cream truck is back, and the musak has looped back to 'Music Box Dancer'. It's actually kinda catchy. I am considering changing my cell phone tone.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Winter, Spring, Summer....
To begin; a haircut:
To begin; a haircut:
Above photo: taken the day of haircut, cut by my very favourite six hundred dollar hairdresser. A frenchman who works out of a salon in an upper east side brownstone, and thank god a friend, so for me, not $600. Not even anything like it.
The haircut was in service of the show, 'Limonade Tous Les Jour', by Chuck Mee, performed after four months of rehearsal with Austin Pendleton at 59E59 Theatres, Tuesday, April 24. My New York debut. Quite a night. Smashing, sold out crowd. Lots of compliments followed by lots of vodka on the roof top bar of the Peninsula hotel on fifth avenue. Famous for its rooftop bar, and people who can afford $21 martinis. And those who every so often like to pretend they can.
One performance only, unless we get picked up for a full season, which is looking, if not likely, then at the very least highly possible. There are a couple of producers 'talking'... a lot of which goes on in this town. Recommendation: keep fingers crossed but do not hold breath.
On a slightly related note, Austin, my 'co-star' or scene partner (depending on levels of pretention) is about to be awarded a special 'drama desk award' for being 'the renaissance man' of the New York theatre. Never met a real live one before, but can report that acting opposite a bona fide renaissance man is a highly gratifying experience.
Above photo: taken in an apartment on the Upper West Side that I spent 5 weeks looking after, for a playwright off on an artist's retreat. A playwright with two cats. Two psychotic cats, 'Bailey and Scout'. However a very timely 'time-out' from the village, and the joys of sharing a one bedroom apartment with high maintenance scandinavian. Also a good way to meet a real live playwright. One that gets to go to 'retreats'.
Above photo: taken by aforementioned Zay. Still around. Still lovely. Super lovely. This was taken Easter Sunday eve, before surprise solo easter egg hunt he prepared in lieu of my being home to attend highly competitive annual Handley Family hunt. Next update I promise a photo of him.
Two weeks left of school, and nine subjects left to pass. Actually, eight. Finished off dialects today with Russian presentation. Then the long, stinky New York Summer. Not sure of plans yet. Invitations to LA, Seattle, Long Island, London and a Lake House in New Hampshire. Also possible I will spend forty hours a week in a windowless office earning $12 an hour. Possible, but fingers crossed highly unlikely.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
The city (girl) that never sleeps
So many blog options have drifted through my head since my return from Australia; pithy headlines, observational witticisms, gratuitous New York City star spots. But the time to sit down and craft these to my liking has never materialised. Now, sitting in the admissions office, with an unexpected hour to myself, I feel the need to write something. Just to prove I'm not dead.
THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
First of all, Australia was, as it always is in January, hot and awesome. (Yes, I just used the word awesome.) Thanks for the fine wine. Thanks for the conversation. Thanks for living in apartments bigger than broom cupboards. In fact, I had such a good time that I've gone ahead (with a little help from my mum - Well, let's be honest, mum's gone ahead...) and cashed in a stack of frequent flyer points for next Christmas. Almost the same itinerary; I'll be in town from December 25th until January 16th. Yes, I know it's a long way away, but it's also the first time in more years than I care to count that the Handley Family in its ever increasing entirity will be on southern shores for Christmas. Put your duty-free vodka orders in now!
SAME OLD NEW SCHOOL
School is insane. Quite literally ('tis a method-based program after all). Second year really seems to be about stretching you to the limit of your capacity and seeing what shape you bounce back to. If you ever do. On the plus side (or I guess more accurately, the minus side) I've lost about 5 kilos, which has made up some time in missed gym sessions.
At this point I'm debating over whether to give you a comprehensive rundown of how I fit in nine (9!) subjects, rehearsals, readings, work and wine or just to cut to the two most exciting things....
Okay,
Number 1: I just got cast in a third year production. Very small part, but very flattering, and it means I'll be up on the mainstage for the rep season. Which is fun. The play is called 'Desire, Desire, Desire' by Christopher Durang. A comedy. Apparently. Rehearsals start Monday. Show goes up final weekend in March. Y'know... in case you're in town.
Number 2: (this one almost needs a drumroll). I have been cast in the lead of a full length production called Limonade Tous Les Jours by Charles Mee. (Actually, if you're super keen you can read it on-line at www.charlesmee.org - unless you're Zay, and promised not to read it before opening night!) In my opinion it's a super fabulous two-character play. But that's not the best bit. Nor is the best bit that I get to play a character called 'Ya-Ya', nor that she's french, nor that she's a cabaret singer. No, the best bit, is that due to a late recasting, I get to play opposite this guy! Actually his career as a broadway director/actor and recently writer is even more impressive that the film and tv stuff. He teaches one of the directing classes here at school, which is how we were able to approach him to do the show. Anyway, rehearsals are a dream. It's such a funny, sexy play and he is so generous and easeful as an actor, that all I have to do is turn up and ride the wave. So.... y'know.... if you're in town at the end of April...
I GOOGLE NY
or
THE YEAR OF YES - A CONFESSION
Those of you who have been following these ramblings regularly might remember this blog, about my new life philosophy based around a book I found 'while sufing the web recently'. I should have known that casual phrase would one day come back to bite me. So... here goes... a funny story for those of you with some time to kill.
The reason I was surfing the web that fateful day back in November was that a certain first year playwriting candidate here at the school had caught my eye, and I wondered in the age of myspace and cyber-everything, if some insight into his background, or hell, even relationship status might be revealed on line. Among reviews of plays he'd had produced in San Francisco, his own comprehensive theatre blog and professions of devotion from a bunch of teenagers he'd taught at the California State Summer School for the Arts, I found this.
Revealed on the promotional website for the book were the true identities for some of the featured characters in it. Including one Zak/Zay, the 'best friend/roommate' character during Maria's 'Year of Yes'. So enamoured was I by the concept of the book, that I was sent off on a bit of a tangent, and promptly neglected any thoughts I might have had of pursuing Zay outside the cyber realm.
Flash forward to just before school ended in December, and far more traditionally (for a third-grader) Zay asked a close friend if I was seeing anyone. Which of course that same faithful friend ran and told me. And so, aided by the many end-of-year performances/after parties, we got to spend a little time together, and when I got back we actually started to do what the Americans refer to as 'date'.
In the interests of time I'll save you the unabridged version of this story, except to say that due to one rather false step early on you were very nearly treated to a blog entitled 'All Men are Idiots'. And so, early on, I had 'hand'. Until of course Zay decided to google me. Now I'm not above admitting I've googled myself in the past, and know that this blog has been very carefully constructed not to appear under a google search of my name. However this guy (who once worked for Ask Jeeves for god's sake!) managed to find it through a combination of an old email address leading him to www.handley.cc and my brother, who without authorisation, had recently chosen to link my blog to that completely unauthorised and previously obscure website.
Alas... all was revealed. And in a very roundabout, slightly spooky way, The Year of Yes worked its magic a second time around.
We (we being Zay and I, as a couple - yes I said it!) actually had dinner with Maria (the author) when she was here in New York last week. She was here to attend a 'Self Help Book Awards' ceremony in which 'Yes' had been nominated under the 'relationship' category. We spoke at length over dinner about how the book was clearly a memoir, and had nothing to do with self help. Although... after hearing the above story, she promised to mention us in her speech if she won.
Whew! And finally...
I HEART NEW YORK
When the snow melts and suddenly the sun reappears in a golden wash over Greenwich Village, it's like waking up after a glorious sleep, stretching and finding you are still in the dream. It's lovely. And while I'm not sure that we're completely done with the cold weather, the hint of Spring is extremely encouraging.
My head will be mostly down until mid-may, but then I'll be very ready to re-stock my wardrobe with some open toe shoes with cork wedge heels (the look for Spring!).
XO
So many blog options have drifted through my head since my return from Australia; pithy headlines, observational witticisms, gratuitous New York City star spots. But the time to sit down and craft these to my liking has never materialised. Now, sitting in the admissions office, with an unexpected hour to myself, I feel the need to write something. Just to prove I'm not dead.
THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
First of all, Australia was, as it always is in January, hot and awesome. (Yes, I just used the word awesome.) Thanks for the fine wine. Thanks for the conversation. Thanks for living in apartments bigger than broom cupboards. In fact, I had such a good time that I've gone ahead (with a little help from my mum - Well, let's be honest, mum's gone ahead...) and cashed in a stack of frequent flyer points for next Christmas. Almost the same itinerary; I'll be in town from December 25th until January 16th. Yes, I know it's a long way away, but it's also the first time in more years than I care to count that the Handley Family in its ever increasing entirity will be on southern shores for Christmas. Put your duty-free vodka orders in now!
SAME OLD NEW SCHOOL
School is insane. Quite literally ('tis a method-based program after all). Second year really seems to be about stretching you to the limit of your capacity and seeing what shape you bounce back to. If you ever do. On the plus side (or I guess more accurately, the minus side) I've lost about 5 kilos, which has made up some time in missed gym sessions.
At this point I'm debating over whether to give you a comprehensive rundown of how I fit in nine (9!) subjects, rehearsals, readings, work and wine or just to cut to the two most exciting things....
Okay,
Number 1: I just got cast in a third year production. Very small part, but very flattering, and it means I'll be up on the mainstage for the rep season. Which is fun. The play is called 'Desire, Desire, Desire' by Christopher Durang. A comedy. Apparently. Rehearsals start Monday. Show goes up final weekend in March. Y'know... in case you're in town.
Number 2: (this one almost needs a drumroll). I have been cast in the lead of a full length production called Limonade Tous Les Jours by Charles Mee. (Actually, if you're super keen you can read it on-line at www.charlesmee.org - unless you're Zay, and promised not to read it before opening night!) In my opinion it's a super fabulous two-character play. But that's not the best bit. Nor is the best bit that I get to play a character called 'Ya-Ya', nor that she's french, nor that she's a cabaret singer. No, the best bit, is that due to a late recasting, I get to play opposite this guy! Actually his career as a broadway director/actor and recently writer is even more impressive that the film and tv stuff. He teaches one of the directing classes here at school, which is how we were able to approach him to do the show. Anyway, rehearsals are a dream. It's such a funny, sexy play and he is so generous and easeful as an actor, that all I have to do is turn up and ride the wave. So.... y'know.... if you're in town at the end of April...
I GOOGLE NY
or
THE YEAR OF YES - A CONFESSION
Those of you who have been following these ramblings regularly might remember this blog, about my new life philosophy based around a book I found 'while sufing the web recently'. I should have known that casual phrase would one day come back to bite me. So... here goes... a funny story for those of you with some time to kill.
The reason I was surfing the web that fateful day back in November was that a certain first year playwriting candidate here at the school had caught my eye, and I wondered in the age of myspace and cyber-everything, if some insight into his background, or hell, even relationship status might be revealed on line. Among reviews of plays he'd had produced in San Francisco, his own comprehensive theatre blog and professions of devotion from a bunch of teenagers he'd taught at the California State Summer School for the Arts, I found this.
Revealed on the promotional website for the book were the true identities for some of the featured characters in it. Including one Zak/Zay, the 'best friend/roommate' character during Maria's 'Year of Yes'. So enamoured was I by the concept of the book, that I was sent off on a bit of a tangent, and promptly neglected any thoughts I might have had of pursuing Zay outside the cyber realm.
Flash forward to just before school ended in December, and far more traditionally (for a third-grader) Zay asked a close friend if I was seeing anyone. Which of course that same faithful friend ran and told me. And so, aided by the many end-of-year performances/after parties, we got to spend a little time together, and when I got back we actually started to do what the Americans refer to as 'date'.
In the interests of time I'll save you the unabridged version of this story, except to say that due to one rather false step early on you were very nearly treated to a blog entitled 'All Men are Idiots'. And so, early on, I had 'hand'. Until of course Zay decided to google me. Now I'm not above admitting I've googled myself in the past, and know that this blog has been very carefully constructed not to appear under a google search of my name. However this guy (who once worked for Ask Jeeves for god's sake!) managed to find it through a combination of an old email address leading him to www.handley.cc and my brother, who without authorisation, had recently chosen to link my blog to that completely unauthorised and previously obscure website.
Alas... all was revealed. And in a very roundabout, slightly spooky way, The Year of Yes worked its magic a second time around.
We (we being Zay and I, as a couple - yes I said it!) actually had dinner with Maria (the author) when she was here in New York last week. She was here to attend a 'Self Help Book Awards' ceremony in which 'Yes' had been nominated under the 'relationship' category. We spoke at length over dinner about how the book was clearly a memoir, and had nothing to do with self help. Although... after hearing the above story, she promised to mention us in her speech if she won.
Whew! And finally...
I HEART NEW YORK
When the snow melts and suddenly the sun reappears in a golden wash over Greenwich Village, it's like waking up after a glorious sleep, stretching and finding you are still in the dream. It's lovely. And while I'm not sure that we're completely done with the cold weather, the hint of Spring is extremely encouraging.
My head will be mostly down until mid-may, but then I'll be very ready to re-stock my wardrobe with some open toe shoes with cork wedge heels (the look for Spring!).
XO
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Me, Ms. Rabbit, and all that jazz...
Okay, so I know I said I was done with updates until Christmas but I'm too excited to let this go.
I have to take a moment to record the fact that last night, I (and let's quickly review; birthplace permanently inscribed on my passport: Moe, Victoria. First performance space: mound of dirt in parent's backyard). Yes that very same I, performed at a jazz bar in New York City's Greenwich Village!!! (www.sweetrhythmny.com)
The 'gig' was my cabaret class final. I wore a red dress. I wore red lipstick. I had a snifter of scotch to calm my nerves. Then I sang. First Sinatra's 'Lady is a Tramp' as a duet, and then (**drumroll**) in an unabashed homage to an animated sex goddess, I cooed 'Why don't you do right?' to a packed house. Twice.
Even better, I got paid! The door, split between 13 class members and 4 band members, made my share a whole $25. First official New York City performance pay check.
It was what they call, 'a defining moment'.
Unfortunately there are no official reviews, but I can report that at the end of my solo number in the second set, an unidentified male voice rang out through the darkness, "Marry Me!"...
Sweet of course, but as anyone who remembers the movie will tell you, this lady might look like a tramp, but in actual fact, 'she's not bad, she's just drawn that way....'
Okay. I'll stop now.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Yes - Update!
This may well be the last update I manage before I journey back to southern shores for what is neutrally referred to in this city as 'The Holidays'.
It would seem that 'The Holidays' (or, what I suspect is actually the retail industry's euphemism for 'start spending mother f%#!ers!') begins at Halloween and ends at 'Kwanzaa'. However at the New School for Drama the holidays don't begin until December 23rd, so I suspect I shall be a bitter disappointment to the retail industry this year.
The 'Year of Yes' project has been both fruitful and now tempered by the fact that the thing I most often find myself saying yes to is school, and between now and when I collapse into my seat on the aeroplane and cry out for a gin and tonic that will have to be the case I'm afraid.
However, had I had more time to keep you up to date, here would have been some of the headlines:
The Curse of Crobar
How I got an industry card to the biggest nightclub in New York, and why I pray I will never use it.
Thanksgiving in the Building
How my life came to look EXACTLY like an episode of 'Friends'.
Thanksgiving at the Shoe Mansion
Why sometimes even unlimited access to designer shoes is not enough to make some people thankful... no, really, WHY???
Four Plays in Five Days
Free tickets and why they are ace.
What Alan Rickman and Helena Christensen have in common
Eleanor updates her list of New York City star spots.
My Date with the Fifty Million Dollar Man
Or... Really, how much can a personality possibly cost?
The Domestic Anti-Christ
How my one and only cooking effort for the semester very nearly resulted in a fire.
Are my Niece and Nephew the 'Cutest Children Ever'
The New York glitterati discuss at length.
The Indian Dialect
And why acting in it could potentially be a harmful career move.
And finally,
Passports
100,000,000,000 reasons not to lose them.
This may well be the last update I manage before I journey back to southern shores for what is neutrally referred to in this city as 'The Holidays'.
It would seem that 'The Holidays' (or, what I suspect is actually the retail industry's euphemism for 'start spending mother f%#!ers!') begins at Halloween and ends at 'Kwanzaa'. However at the New School for Drama the holidays don't begin until December 23rd, so I suspect I shall be a bitter disappointment to the retail industry this year.
The 'Year of Yes' project has been both fruitful and now tempered by the fact that the thing I most often find myself saying yes to is school, and between now and when I collapse into my seat on the aeroplane and cry out for a gin and tonic that will have to be the case I'm afraid.
However, had I had more time to keep you up to date, here would have been some of the headlines:
The Curse of Crobar
How I got an industry card to the biggest nightclub in New York, and why I pray I will never use it.
Thanksgiving in the Building
How my life came to look EXACTLY like an episode of 'Friends'.
Thanksgiving at the Shoe Mansion
Why sometimes even unlimited access to designer shoes is not enough to make some people thankful... no, really, WHY???
Four Plays in Five Days
Free tickets and why they are ace.
What Alan Rickman and Helena Christensen have in common
Eleanor updates her list of New York City star spots.
My Date with the Fifty Million Dollar Man
Or... Really, how much can a personality possibly cost?
The Domestic Anti-Christ
How my one and only cooking effort for the semester very nearly resulted in a fire.
Are my Niece and Nephew the 'Cutest Children Ever'
The New York glitterati discuss at length.
The Indian Dialect
And why acting in it could potentially be a harmful career move.
And finally,
Passports
100,000,000,000 reasons not to lose them.
For the full articles you will just have to catch me in person between December 25th and January 15th.
Until then much love, peace and commerce to you all for 'The Holidays'.
XO
Sunday, November 12, 2006
There's No Place Like Home
Just a quick note to let you all know my wonderful mother has clicked her ruby heels together and organised me a ticket to Oz for Christmas!
I will be arriving Christmas morning and staying in town until January 14th.
Fire up the barbies, chill the chardy... this marks my fifth Summer in just over two years!
Can't wait to see you all xo
Just a quick note to let you all know my wonderful mother has clicked her ruby heels together and organised me a ticket to Oz for Christmas!
I will be arriving Christmas morning and staying in town until January 14th.
Fire up the barbies, chill the chardy... this marks my fifth Summer in just over two years!
Can't wait to see you all xo
Saturday, November 04, 2006
The Year of Yes!
"That woman speaks 18 languages, and can't say 'no' in any of them." - Dorothy Parker
In surfing the web recently, I came across a novel by Maria Dahvana Headly, a New Yorker who decided her romantic life had been too bleak for too long, and in an inspired move decided for one year to date absolutely everyone who asked her out. A very bold move in this city of bold men. (And women!)
From her website:
Over the next 12 months, Maria ended up dating most of NYC: a homeless guy who thought he was Jimi Hendrix, a subway conductor, a mommy-obsessed millionaire, a guy who wanted her to bite his…well, you can guess, a woman who asked her to have her baby, an ice cream man who gave her a free cone – no euphemism here, he really did, a 70-year-old salsa dancer, a Playwright, a 30-year-old virgin,a Colombian Cowboy/Handyman, a Player King, a matched set of Princelings, a reincarnated dachshund owned by her mother in the early 70’s, and more. She fell apart. She fell over. She fell into a few beds. She fell out of a few beds. And most importantly, she fell in love. Twice.
I haven't actually read the book. I'm not even sure how much of it is true. But I'm intrigued by this idea of saying yes to the universe, at the very least to come up with more material for this blog.
And so, since Halloween eve marked the anniversary of me unexpectedly becoming a single New Yorker, I have decided to embrace Headly's spirit and start saying yes to EVERYTHING I get invited to do. Not within reason, not that I can fit in. Just everything. All the time.
"That woman speaks 18 languages, and can't say 'no' in any of them." - Dorothy Parker
In surfing the web recently, I came across a novel by Maria Dahvana Headly, a New Yorker who decided her romantic life had been too bleak for too long, and in an inspired move decided for one year to date absolutely everyone who asked her out. A very bold move in this city of bold men. (And women!)
From her website:
Over the next 12 months, Maria ended up dating most of NYC: a homeless guy who thought he was Jimi Hendrix, a subway conductor, a mommy-obsessed millionaire, a guy who wanted her to bite his…well, you can guess, a woman who asked her to have her baby, an ice cream man who gave her a free cone – no euphemism here, he really did, a 70-year-old salsa dancer, a Playwright, a 30-year-old virgin,a Colombian Cowboy/Handyman, a Player King, a matched set of Princelings, a reincarnated dachshund owned by her mother in the early 70’s, and more. She fell apart. She fell over. She fell into a few beds. She fell out of a few beds. And most importantly, she fell in love. Twice.
I haven't actually read the book. I'm not even sure how much of it is true. But I'm intrigued by this idea of saying yes to the universe, at the very least to come up with more material for this blog.
And so, since Halloween eve marked the anniversary of me unexpectedly becoming a single New Yorker, I have decided to embrace Headly's spirit and start saying yes to EVERYTHING I get invited to do. Not within reason, not that I can fit in. Just everything. All the time.
I should point out that this is not about me and Men. This is about me and New York.
#1 HALLOWEEN
So here I am as Betty Boop. (I didn't say this experiment would be without embarrassment.) The costume actually caused more confusion than you might imagine given she's a classic American icon, but I guess these hipsters were more your Jessica Rabbit generation. (One guy saw me standing next to Edward Scissorhands and asked if I was meant to be from 'Beetlejuice')
The party was at the private home of a friend of a friend from school. (Madonna, pictured below). That friend is a doctor and lives in a huge 5th floor loft in Soho. It was fully catered, fully DJ'd, and perhaps just little too fully attended. However, besides the usual vodka cranberry spilled down the front of my dress and some girl's vomit dangerously close to my shoes (300 people, one toilet does not for an efficient bathroom dash make) it was shaping up to be a pretty happening shindig. Then the 4th floor neighbours arrived to report their roof was cracking, and generally showing signs of giving way, so the DJ relaxedly reported we might want to finish off our beers and head out. This officially goes down as the closest I've ever been to 'bringing down the house'. (Lame perhaps, but seriously, when will I get another chance??)
#2 THE WILD DUCK, BAM, BROOKLYN
One day I need to write an entire blog devoted to the benefits of living with a Finnish movie star. For now it's enough to say that Finnish movie stars date Norwegian movie stars who work in the Norwegian theatre, and are able to get you free tickets when the National Theatre of Norway comes to New York to perform Henrik Ibsen's The Wild Duck.
Even better, is that as well as seeing a great show, in great free seats, and as well as getting a tour backstage in perfect timing for the champagne toast to close out the season, we also got invited out to dinner with the entire company. (And by invited I mean enticed to the point of kidnapping!)
I learned two things that night; Norwegians LOVE to toast! (I must have raised my glass to join in 'skoll' at least 18 times) and the Vikings know how to treat the ladies. Jenni and I were fully treated to a three course dinner at "Queen" restaurant in Brooklyn Heights, (voted #1 Italian in New York City 2006.) The $115/bottle wine flowed so freely the only way to stop it being poured was to leave a full glass in front of you. Sacrilege in any language! Then we were put in a car and delivered safely back to Manhattan.
It was one of those magical, spontaneous New York evenings that reinvigorates the creative spirit... but that could just be the good wine talking.
Here is a picture of Jen and I with Harvard, the Sound Designer and our chaperone, looking a bit tired after Halloween the night before. I think Harvard may actually be experiencing an allergic reaction, after I insisted he try my shrimp appetizer. Apparently I was so overcome by how delicious it was, that I completely forgot Harvard had not ten minutes before told me he was allergic to shell fish. He thought I was testing his manhood, and so rose to the challenge. Ah... the Vikings.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Same Old, Same New....
I think I started my first 'dear diary' type attempt at documenting life at around age ten, when the idea of a book with a padlock my brother couldn't open held more appeal than actually documenting anything of worth within it. As such over the years, I have collected many half-assed attempts at writing about my life. Lots of beautifully bound books without approximately10 - 15 pages filled with ramblings long forgotten or torn out and burned.
It is often pointed out to me however that the life I am currently living is not only surreal, but much coveted, and as such it behooves me to pay a bit more heed to giving updates to those who are interested.
So in the interests of not breaking the weak Kmart lock and burning this blog prematurely... please indulge a DRUM ROLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I think I started my first 'dear diary' type attempt at documenting life at around age ten, when the idea of a book with a padlock my brother couldn't open held more appeal than actually documenting anything of worth within it. As such over the years, I have collected many half-assed attempts at writing about my life. Lots of beautifully bound books without approximately10 - 15 pages filled with ramblings long forgotten or torn out and burned.
It is often pointed out to me however that the life I am currently living is not only surreal, but much coveted, and as such it behooves me to pay a bit more heed to giving updates to those who are interested.
So in the interests of not breaking the weak Kmart lock and burning this blog prematurely... please indulge a DRUM ROLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I am an auntie! Fourth time round. I went back to Seattle for a very quick visit, exploiting the long weekend for the Jewish Holiday 'Yom Kippur', which from my limited knowledge is all about fasting to atone for your sins. I chose to honour it by eating red meat and raising a glass to the arrival of 'Veronica Amira Handley'. She arrived September 10th. 8 lbs 10. Amira is arabic for Princess. And now Handley for perfect. She's very, very adorable.
In vastly inferior news, school is back in session. Busy, 'discombobulating' (new favourite word), but ultimately productive. Of all people, the stage combat teacher gave us a lecture in recapturing the joy in the gift of doing what you love to do each day, rather than whining about how tired you are.
In a show of inspiration and motivation, I thus joined the 'Y'. Yes, the very same 'Y' made famous by the lads of the Village People. I have not actually been in to exercise yet; believing that signing up burned the requisite amount of calories for this week, and the rest I can catch up in the steam room.
Really, there's not much else to report. The rains began today, as a gentle lead in to the snows I'm sure. I still live above a bar and a sex shop, but sadly neither are particularly enticing these days.
I added Liv Tyler and John Stewart to my star spot lists, and just for good measure got into an argument with the crew member who barred me from crossing Washington Square North while they were filming the new Will Smith movie... so yes...
All in all it remains the same old, same New York.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Less is More
Okay, so my self imposed 40-day stint 'on the wagon' ended after just 72 hours.
I will say however, that those 72 long hours were useful for proving a number of things:
Okay, so my self imposed 40-day stint 'on the wagon' ended after just 72 hours.
I will say however, that those 72 long hours were useful for proving a number of things:
- I can go days (plural) without alcohol. A special skill not tested since 1998.
- I can survive parties in NEW JERSEY absolutely, painfully sober.
- Regardless of one's relationship to the devil drink, I still believe it to be sacriligious to toast the arrival a brand new baby (Niece number 2: Veronica Amira Handley, 10 September 2006 - check me out!) with a latte.
- At restaurants, my friends NEED me to perform the pretentious wine testing ritual. Really, they were lost without me!
But the really sobering revelation that came about during my abstinence is that I have without doubt entered a world of busy, and the journey back to the land of lazy champagne filled afternoons seems to be a protracted one.
So, in the interest of my sanity and not having to make any more grand AA style pronouncements, I am contenting myself with a the following.
There will be vino, as there has always been vino. Just less. Which I think is more than enough!
Saturday, September 09, 2006
40 Days and 40 Nights
I once joked (over a chardonnay no doubt) that I would never allow my drinking habits to reach alcoholic proportions, because with my luck some well meaning friend would take it upon himself to stage an intervention, and I'd be forced into rehabilitation - a fate that seemed worse than saying no to the ninth drink.
Well, yesterday one such well meaning friend sabotaged me over a Friday night out at one of my favourite restaurants in the Village. ("Voyage", check it out, they do a great White Cosmopolitan). Now I think this turn of events probably has more to do with the change in my living arrangements than in my drinking habits. I now find myself in the grand old US of A, and I think our cultures have slightly different definitions of what actually constitutes a drinking problem. (For example, for Mr. X, it's a problem that I don't always remember everything everyone says. For me, that's a bonus.)
So while I'm not overly perturbed, it happens that the sermon I received over dinner (and my fifth glass of wine) last night, coincides with a sharp increase in the amount of productivity and output required of me over the next five or so weeks. The first week back at school has left me with a list of reading and rehearsing that requires some sharp focus, something vanilla vodka tends to inhibit.
And so, I thought I would try an experiment. Now that I no longer have the excuse of the tedium of life in Laconia for keeping my BAC at a solid .05, and now that I no longer have access to my brother's fine wine cellar in Seattle, and now that the shoe budget is completely diminished, it seems prudent to assess what may reasonably be defined as an 'essential' part of the daily ritual.
In light of all these things, I am electing of my own free (if extrememly frightened) will to take a walk through the liquorless desert of Manhattan for the next forty days and forty nights.
As I write, it is the end of day one. I just survived 4 hours at a housewarming in NEW JERSEY (where the alcoholic beverages were both chilled and free!) with nothing to drink but iced water. Side effects as yet don't include the more traditional shakes and sweats, although there was certainly some glazing of the eyes during the afternoon of sober conversation.
Wow, stay tuned. I can tell this is going to be one wild ride. (Yes, I can see your eyes glazing over... you might want to bring a bottle of pinot to the next installment).
I once joked (over a chardonnay no doubt) that I would never allow my drinking habits to reach alcoholic proportions, because with my luck some well meaning friend would take it upon himself to stage an intervention, and I'd be forced into rehabilitation - a fate that seemed worse than saying no to the ninth drink.
Well, yesterday one such well meaning friend sabotaged me over a Friday night out at one of my favourite restaurants in the Village. ("Voyage", check it out, they do a great White Cosmopolitan). Now I think this turn of events probably has more to do with the change in my living arrangements than in my drinking habits. I now find myself in the grand old US of A, and I think our cultures have slightly different definitions of what actually constitutes a drinking problem. (For example, for Mr. X, it's a problem that I don't always remember everything everyone says. For me, that's a bonus.)
So while I'm not overly perturbed, it happens that the sermon I received over dinner (and my fifth glass of wine) last night, coincides with a sharp increase in the amount of productivity and output required of me over the next five or so weeks. The first week back at school has left me with a list of reading and rehearsing that requires some sharp focus, something vanilla vodka tends to inhibit.
And so, I thought I would try an experiment. Now that I no longer have the excuse of the tedium of life in Laconia for keeping my BAC at a solid .05, and now that I no longer have access to my brother's fine wine cellar in Seattle, and now that the shoe budget is completely diminished, it seems prudent to assess what may reasonably be defined as an 'essential' part of the daily ritual.
In light of all these things, I am electing of my own free (if extrememly frightened) will to take a walk through the liquorless desert of Manhattan for the next forty days and forty nights.
As I write, it is the end of day one. I just survived 4 hours at a housewarming in NEW JERSEY (where the alcoholic beverages were both chilled and free!) with nothing to drink but iced water. Side effects as yet don't include the more traditional shakes and sweats, although there was certainly some glazing of the eyes during the afternoon of sober conversation.
Wow, stay tuned. I can tell this is going to be one wild ride. (Yes, I can see your eyes glazing over... you might want to bring a bottle of pinot to the next installment).
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Four Sleeps (extended edition)
When I was younger, much anticipated events were measured by how many sleeps away they were. It was a good way of containing the sometimes overwhelming excitement that might erupt at any moment. Christmas, (back when Santa still existed), Easter (back when chocolate contained no calories), Birthdays (back before I started lying about my age. Incidentally, the 15th August marks my 25th yet again!).
Today, I find myself counting the sleeps 'til I am back in New York. Or perhaps, more accurately, when I am no longer in Laconia. To bring you up to speed, I write from New Hampshire, where I have been acting at the Winnipesaukee Playhouse for nearly seven weeks. This has not been without its charm. Working as an actor (even working very hard as an actor) seems to still hold much appeal, which is comforting given the two years of grad school which loom ahead. And spending my summer in the tourist populated 'Lakes Region' seemed also to hold much appeal. Laconia even seemed a good omen. I have oft heard Australians described as laconic. And I like Australians.
Apparently, as well as describing men of few words, laconic can also mean 'short and terse'. This has played out more than once, from the first day when a local yelled at me for walking on his 'private road', to the librarian who kicked me off the 15-minute email terminal in an empty library. Not to mention the old man on the bench, (no doubt his private bench) who, instead of choosing from some of the more popular greetings like, "hello there ma'am" or "Good Day to you, young lady," informed me rather gruffly and loudly that I was "WEARING A MAN'S HAT!"
While the theatre is in the much more lively 'Weirs Beach', my accomodation here in Laconia has been quite eye opening. It's the sort of town where the Thursday special at the 'Soda Shoppe' is 'Cheeseburger Soup', and the consultation rooms at the local medical centre have wide open bay windows that look out onto Main Street.
While not rehearsing or performing, I have found much solace at the Gym. A lovely, modern facility with a big pool, multiple machines, a locker room far less crowded than the one bathroom eight of us share at the condo, and a regular Yoga class that has helped me keep my sanity. Still, the gym is not without its own cast of characters, like the large naked lady in the locker room who is usually on for a friendly naked chat, and the 'Step Combo' instructor; a man named Janine.
The three productions have gone very, very well. I particularly enjoyed the first one, in which I got to play the title role in A.R Gurney's "Sylvia". The reviewer seemed to like it too. So much so that she has made reference to it in the reviews for both the subsequent shows. My mention for this final production ('Polish Joke') simply said, "Joining him on stage in multiple roles ... is the ever adorable E. H. (‘woof’!)". (Sylvia is a dog, in case that seems particularly offensive.)
Now that we have made it to the run for the final show I have found some time to have a little fun. Yesterday I spent the afternoon throwing myself down waterslides at 'Surfcoaster USA'. The sort of activity that catapults one instantaneously back to pre-teens, and inspires the use of words like 'bodacious' and 'righteous'. There has also been much lying by the lake, catching up on reading, and as many times as possible, eating at 'Lago' (the one restaurant that will serve you dinner after 10pm. Or at least, the one that I've found.)
Regrettably, my only romantic prospect came in the form of a shirtless 20 year old lad who used the time-honoured technique of hitting me with a wayward football as I was innocently sunning myself on the near-empty beach. Cutting to the chase, he asked me to join the game, followed quickly by my age, my phone number and, to seal the deal, if I'd like to take a ride in his friends car to experience the wonders of his new 20 inch rims. I looked at him as blankly as he looked at me when I told him I was 'acting'... 'IN A PLAY'. And while I have since gained at least a cursory understanding of what indeed 20 inch rims are, I'm yet to verify whether he has made it into a theatre. Ah well, another unhappy end for an unlikely pair of star (or beach football) crossed lovers.
When I was younger, much anticipated events were measured by how many sleeps away they were. It was a good way of containing the sometimes overwhelming excitement that might erupt at any moment. Christmas, (back when Santa still existed), Easter (back when chocolate contained no calories), Birthdays (back before I started lying about my age. Incidentally, the 15th August marks my 25th yet again!).
Today, I find myself counting the sleeps 'til I am back in New York. Or perhaps, more accurately, when I am no longer in Laconia. To bring you up to speed, I write from New Hampshire, where I have been acting at the Winnipesaukee Playhouse for nearly seven weeks. This has not been without its charm. Working as an actor (even working very hard as an actor) seems to still hold much appeal, which is comforting given the two years of grad school which loom ahead. And spending my summer in the tourist populated 'Lakes Region' seemed also to hold much appeal. Laconia even seemed a good omen. I have oft heard Australians described as laconic. And I like Australians.
Apparently, as well as describing men of few words, laconic can also mean 'short and terse'. This has played out more than once, from the first day when a local yelled at me for walking on his 'private road', to the librarian who kicked me off the 15-minute email terminal in an empty library. Not to mention the old man on the bench, (no doubt his private bench) who, instead of choosing from some of the more popular greetings like, "hello there ma'am" or "Good Day to you, young lady," informed me rather gruffly and loudly that I was "WEARING A MAN'S HAT!"
While the theatre is in the much more lively 'Weirs Beach', my accomodation here in Laconia has been quite eye opening. It's the sort of town where the Thursday special at the 'Soda Shoppe' is 'Cheeseburger Soup', and the consultation rooms at the local medical centre have wide open bay windows that look out onto Main Street.
While not rehearsing or performing, I have found much solace at the Gym. A lovely, modern facility with a big pool, multiple machines, a locker room far less crowded than the one bathroom eight of us share at the condo, and a regular Yoga class that has helped me keep my sanity. Still, the gym is not without its own cast of characters, like the large naked lady in the locker room who is usually on for a friendly naked chat, and the 'Step Combo' instructor; a man named Janine.
The three productions have gone very, very well. I particularly enjoyed the first one, in which I got to play the title role in A.R Gurney's "Sylvia". The reviewer seemed to like it too. So much so that she has made reference to it in the reviews for both the subsequent shows. My mention for this final production ('Polish Joke') simply said, "Joining him on stage in multiple roles ... is the ever adorable E. H. (‘woof’!)". (Sylvia is a dog, in case that seems particularly offensive.)
Now that we have made it to the run for the final show I have found some time to have a little fun. Yesterday I spent the afternoon throwing myself down waterslides at 'Surfcoaster USA'. The sort of activity that catapults one instantaneously back to pre-teens, and inspires the use of words like 'bodacious' and 'righteous'. There has also been much lying by the lake, catching up on reading, and as many times as possible, eating at 'Lago' (the one restaurant that will serve you dinner after 10pm. Or at least, the one that I've found.)
Regrettably, my only romantic prospect came in the form of a shirtless 20 year old lad who used the time-honoured technique of hitting me with a wayward football as I was innocently sunning myself on the near-empty beach. Cutting to the chase, he asked me to join the game, followed quickly by my age, my phone number and, to seal the deal, if I'd like to take a ride in his friends car to experience the wonders of his new 20 inch rims. I looked at him as blankly as he looked at me when I told him I was 'acting'... 'IN A PLAY'. And while I have since gained at least a cursory understanding of what indeed 20 inch rims are, I'm yet to verify whether he has made it into a theatre. Ah well, another unhappy end for an unlikely pair of star (or beach football) crossed lovers.
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