Boxers v Pants
At an impromptu welcome back BBQ on Monday night (Labor Day) our host Patrick filled us in on some of the success he's having with his blog. It's sports related... (I want to say football) and he's connected to something called a 'blog network', and even attends sports related events replete with 'media pass'... suffice to say he's operating on a slightly different level from me.
He's even starting to earn a paycheck; not enough to live on (yet), but certainly a nice bonus.
Patrick tells us that his boss in the blogosphere has just quit his regular job, and now works from home, all day... blogging.
"Livin' the dream," says Patrick.
Dan grunts, knowingly.
"Is that the dream?" I ask, innocently enough.
"Are you kidding?! Getting to sit at home all day in your boxer shorts!?"
Dan just nods, with his eyes closed, as if the mere mention of such a possibility is almost too much bliss to handle.
Patrick's question is clearly rhetorical, so I don't answer it. But it makes for an interesting distinction.
I usually hesitate to speak for all women, but I like to imagine that for most of us 'the dream' is usually represented in our imaginations by the donning of things, be it a red carpet gown, or scrubs, legal robes, or even just great sunglasses.
And if our dreams turn to the kind of self-employment that involves working out of one's living room, it's probably because we imagine being able to make our own hours, and fit our work around families and friends, or some greater artistic pursuit that doesn't yet pay the bills.
Whereas it turns out that for men, the great obstacle of life to be overcome... is pants.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Let every man be master of his timesheet.
Monday was Labor Day, and I returned home after three months at the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival playing Cressida in Troilus and Cressida. The summer took on a speed I had not quite anticipated, and as we rolled down the steep hill of August, more than one wheel threatened to come off the cart.
On August 12th, my friend and mentor Paul Rudd died, after a ten month battle with pancreatic cancer. His memorial service (the best I've seen, and incidentally, a full house) was on my birthday. We drove to Greenwich, Connecticut to join in the laughing, crying and singing ('Take me out to the Ballgame!' and my favourite, 'Isn't it grand, boys... let's have a bloody good cry!)
Paul is nearly impossible to capture in words, though if anyone could have managed it, it would have been him. A poet, a clown, an artist, a wit. Someone you could never imagine feeling lost around - he simply gave off too much light.
Everyone had her own claim on Paul; mine was that rather awkwardly, at the beginning of my third year of graduate school, I asked him to be my mentor. (A friend recently pointed out if I'd used 'mentor' as a verb, it might have sounded less naff, but regardless...) He said yes, and watched over my work very closely all through that final year, even helping me with my first Shakespeare Festival audition. But the truth is Paul was a mentor whether you contractually obligated him to it or not.
Paul used to talk about paradox. A lot. Paradox and danger... these are two things an actor should not just look for in the text, but strive for in performance. Everyone loved Paul, and most will find much better ways to honour him than I, but I will say that as the embodiment of paradox, a truly complex and human woman, Cressida seemed the perfect role to offer up in gratitude.
Besides being an extremely rewarding experience, this summer was also my first time going head-to-head with notorious New York Times critic Ben Brantley. I lost two nights sleep and more than one margarita to the battle. Then, it turned out, he loved it, and everything was all right again.
There is a conversation to be had about critics; how much power they wield, whether their opinion should be valued above others... whether one should read her own reviews, but that's a conversation for another day, when I've had more sleep, and when I'm cool enough to care less about my own press.
Also in August, I shot a little commercial for a local bank in a place called 'Coxsackie'... try saying that with a straight face.
And like a gift from the out-of-work actor gods, I got about six days of corporate roleplaying work, which translates to roughly six months rent, and should have left me feeling pretty relaxed coming back to NYC, with a brand new agent, a great review and the world at my feet.
And yet, here I am, THE DAY after returning, sitting at a desk on the 47th floor of a building in midtown Manhattan... temping. Sometimes temping means being very busy, jumping in without much background, trying to play the role of someone who knows what they're doing. Today, temping means sitting around trying to kill ten hours on the internet, WITHOUT access to Facebook or Gmail. In the last four hours, I have answered one phone call.
I'm not exactly sure why I'm here. I mean, presumably the firm had a reason for employing me, albeit not very gainfully. But why am I here? Fear of long term unemployment? Impractical shoe budget? A chance to reconnect with the big, bold city, by way of a pretty spectacular view?
Who can tell... but it certainly can't be that I secretly enjoy the work.
The experience of temping at a large, investment manager has all the menial duties of 'Devil Wears Prada' and all the testosterone of 'Mad Men', but with none of the free clothes or afternoon martinis.
Ah well, one more day.
Then I'll buy some shoes, drink a cocktail, and go back to being an artist.
Monday was Labor Day, and I returned home after three months at the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival playing Cressida in Troilus and Cressida. The summer took on a speed I had not quite anticipated, and as we rolled down the steep hill of August, more than one wheel threatened to come off the cart.
On August 12th, my friend and mentor Paul Rudd died, after a ten month battle with pancreatic cancer. His memorial service (the best I've seen, and incidentally, a full house) was on my birthday. We drove to Greenwich, Connecticut to join in the laughing, crying and singing ('Take me out to the Ballgame!' and my favourite, 'Isn't it grand, boys... let's have a bloody good cry!)
Paul is nearly impossible to capture in words, though if anyone could have managed it, it would have been him. A poet, a clown, an artist, a wit. Someone you could never imagine feeling lost around - he simply gave off too much light.
Everyone had her own claim on Paul; mine was that rather awkwardly, at the beginning of my third year of graduate school, I asked him to be my mentor. (A friend recently pointed out if I'd used 'mentor' as a verb, it might have sounded less naff, but regardless...) He said yes, and watched over my work very closely all through that final year, even helping me with my first Shakespeare Festival audition. But the truth is Paul was a mentor whether you contractually obligated him to it or not.
Paul used to talk about paradox. A lot. Paradox and danger... these are two things an actor should not just look for in the text, but strive for in performance. Everyone loved Paul, and most will find much better ways to honour him than I, but I will say that as the embodiment of paradox, a truly complex and human woman, Cressida seemed the perfect role to offer up in gratitude.
Besides being an extremely rewarding experience, this summer was also my first time going head-to-head with notorious New York Times critic Ben Brantley. I lost two nights sleep and more than one margarita to the battle. Then, it turned out, he loved it, and everything was all right again.
There is a conversation to be had about critics; how much power they wield, whether their opinion should be valued above others... whether one should read her own reviews, but that's a conversation for another day, when I've had more sleep, and when I'm cool enough to care less about my own press.
Also in August, I shot a little commercial for a local bank in a place called 'Coxsackie'... try saying that with a straight face.
And like a gift from the out-of-work actor gods, I got about six days of corporate roleplaying work, which translates to roughly six months rent, and should have left me feeling pretty relaxed coming back to NYC, with a brand new agent, a great review and the world at my feet.
And yet, here I am, THE DAY after returning, sitting at a desk on the 47th floor of a building in midtown Manhattan... temping. Sometimes temping means being very busy, jumping in without much background, trying to play the role of someone who knows what they're doing. Today, temping means sitting around trying to kill ten hours on the internet, WITHOUT access to Facebook or Gmail. In the last four hours, I have answered one phone call.
I'm not exactly sure why I'm here. I mean, presumably the firm had a reason for employing me, albeit not very gainfully. But why am I here? Fear of long term unemployment? Impractical shoe budget? A chance to reconnect with the big, bold city, by way of a pretty spectacular view?
Who can tell... but it certainly can't be that I secretly enjoy the work.
The experience of temping at a large, investment manager has all the menial duties of 'Devil Wears Prada' and all the testosterone of 'Mad Men', but with none of the free clothes or afternoon martinis.
Ah well, one more day.
Then I'll buy some shoes, drink a cocktail, and go back to being an artist.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
I act therefore I am....
Backyard on the first day of spring. Beautiful.
There have been other days that might have considered themselves the first, but then it rained again, or snowed again, or snowed and rained again. Today it feels like Spring means it this time.
I'm stealing an hour before I go in to the theater to continue with Tech Rehearsals for Limonade Tous les Jours by Charles L. Mee. Our first performance will be just two days from now. In the cell theater, Chelsea, New York, New York.
Yesterday I found out that The Times (translated for non-NYC dwellers as 'The New York Times') will come to review it. This is about as big a deal as it gets for theater folks in New York. Regardless of whether they like it or hate it (and sometimes they really hate it), the point is, you're on the page. You exist. A really famous paper says so. Of course, it would be great if they thought you didn't completely suck at existing, but at this stage of the game, that's just icing on the cake.
I'm having a stellar year. And since the weather matches my mood, I thought I'd update this poor, neglected blog, which I've kept limping along for four years now.
It began in January, when I flew off to Hilton Head Island, SC to perform the role of Gabriella in 'Boeing, Boeing'. Hilton Head is a resort destination, where a beach meets a bunch of golf courses. Not surprisingly the airline formerly known as 'Hooters Air' used to fly direct to Hilton Head, before they became defunct. During the winter months it's quite subdued, but still very pretty, and the perfect way to kick off the year with a six-week contract. Having explored the wilds of New York City a few times now, Mum and Dad even opted to time their annual visit in with the job, and so I had two weeks of living in the same neighborhood as my parents... something I haven't done for 15 years now.
We managed to fit a lot in; a lovely trolley ride around Savannah, a long drive to beautiful Charleston to see where the civil war began (at Dad's insistence), dinners and brunches, and of course, the play. (Which, by-the-by sold-out and extended). But I think my favourite moment was popping home, starving, between a matinee and evening performance, coming through the door to smell mum's pork chops in plum sauce waiting on the table. Amazing.
The week I arrived back in New York I hit the ground running, with two auditions, training prep for my new job teaching Shakespeare Workshops in schools, my first ever 'Neutral American Speech' student, and rehearsals for Limonade.
Since the end of February that has been my routine. And now here we are about to open.
There are, of course, infinite stories (and hours) between those two sentences. So much doubt, and anxiety, and stress, and a lost voice, and a wonderful trip to Paris courtesy of my incredible brother Brendan, and a million meetings about budgets, and fundraising, and ticket sales, and how to bring it all together.
But now here we are. The show will go on. As for the rest, who knows?
Just Yesterday I put my sister Cynthia and seven year old niece Ana in a car for Newark Airport, after 9 days of having them stay two doors up from us in a bed and breakfast in Park Slope. Again, we fit a lot in. Theater and museums and discount designer shopping. And again, my two favourite moments were feeling Ana squeeze my hand tightly as she sat in the chair waiting oh-so-anxiously to get her ears pierced, and then, having Cynthia in the room, when I received the call from the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival to say I'd be playing Cressida (of Troilus and Cressida) in the upcoming Summer Season at Boscobel, should I choose to accept.
Which of course, I did. Immediately.
We hugged in the living room as Dan ran out to get champagne to toast the fact that I now know where my paycheck is coming from right through September. But so much more than that, it's a fantastic part, in a really great play, with a company that feels like home.
No one should ask for more than that.
So all is pretty wonderful from the vantage point of this little backyard in Park Slope. And it's best to capture it now. Because in six months I could be unemployed, and uninspired, and badly reviewed in the New York Times... Twice!
Or it could be something else entirely. Who knows?
Meanwhile, here's some much more eloquent musings on the beauty of theater, and more than that, being able to exist in the moment - courtesy of the lovely Dan.
http://www.ted.com/talks/patsy_rodenburg_why_i_do_theater.html
Backyard on the first day of spring. Beautiful.
There have been other days that might have considered themselves the first, but then it rained again, or snowed again, or snowed and rained again. Today it feels like Spring means it this time.
I'm stealing an hour before I go in to the theater to continue with Tech Rehearsals for Limonade Tous les Jours by Charles L. Mee. Our first performance will be just two days from now. In the cell theater, Chelsea, New York, New York.
Yesterday I found out that The Times (translated for non-NYC dwellers as 'The New York Times') will come to review it. This is about as big a deal as it gets for theater folks in New York. Regardless of whether they like it or hate it (and sometimes they really hate it), the point is, you're on the page. You exist. A really famous paper says so. Of course, it would be great if they thought you didn't completely suck at existing, but at this stage of the game, that's just icing on the cake.
I'm having a stellar year. And since the weather matches my mood, I thought I'd update this poor, neglected blog, which I've kept limping along for four years now.
It began in January, when I flew off to Hilton Head Island, SC to perform the role of Gabriella in 'Boeing, Boeing'. Hilton Head is a resort destination, where a beach meets a bunch of golf courses. Not surprisingly the airline formerly known as 'Hooters Air' used to fly direct to Hilton Head, before they became defunct. During the winter months it's quite subdued, but still very pretty, and the perfect way to kick off the year with a six-week contract. Having explored the wilds of New York City a few times now, Mum and Dad even opted to time their annual visit in with the job, and so I had two weeks of living in the same neighborhood as my parents... something I haven't done for 15 years now.
We managed to fit a lot in; a lovely trolley ride around Savannah, a long drive to beautiful Charleston to see where the civil war began (at Dad's insistence), dinners and brunches, and of course, the play. (Which, by-the-by sold-out and extended). But I think my favourite moment was popping home, starving, between a matinee and evening performance, coming through the door to smell mum's pork chops in plum sauce waiting on the table. Amazing.
The week I arrived back in New York I hit the ground running, with two auditions, training prep for my new job teaching Shakespeare Workshops in schools, my first ever 'Neutral American Speech' student, and rehearsals for Limonade.
Since the end of February that has been my routine. And now here we are about to open.
There are, of course, infinite stories (and hours) between those two sentences. So much doubt, and anxiety, and stress, and a lost voice, and a wonderful trip to Paris courtesy of my incredible brother Brendan, and a million meetings about budgets, and fundraising, and ticket sales, and how to bring it all together.
But now here we are. The show will go on. As for the rest, who knows?
Just Yesterday I put my sister Cynthia and seven year old niece Ana in a car for Newark Airport, after 9 days of having them stay two doors up from us in a bed and breakfast in Park Slope. Again, we fit a lot in. Theater and museums and discount designer shopping. And again, my two favourite moments were feeling Ana squeeze my hand tightly as she sat in the chair waiting oh-so-anxiously to get her ears pierced, and then, having Cynthia in the room, when I received the call from the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival to say I'd be playing Cressida (of Troilus and Cressida) in the upcoming Summer Season at Boscobel, should I choose to accept.
Which of course, I did. Immediately.
We hugged in the living room as Dan ran out to get champagne to toast the fact that I now know where my paycheck is coming from right through September. But so much more than that, it's a fantastic part, in a really great play, with a company that feels like home.
No one should ask for more than that.
So all is pretty wonderful from the vantage point of this little backyard in Park Slope. And it's best to capture it now. Because in six months I could be unemployed, and uninspired, and badly reviewed in the New York Times... Twice!
Or it could be something else entirely. Who knows?
Meanwhile, here's some much more eloquent musings on the beauty of theater, and more than that, being able to exist in the moment - courtesy of the lovely Dan.
http://www.ted.com/talks/patsy_rodenburg_why_i_do_theater.html
Monday, September 21, 2009
Withdrawal...
I spoke to Australia early this morning. It was late at night there, but mum was still up, and ready for her 'fix'. (She often employs the parlance of the common junkie when referring to her children, which should perhaps be disconcerting, but is also kind of awesome.)
I myself had been jonesing for some contact with Australia; (hyperlink for mum's benefit... not sure she's that advanced yet) an unexpected bi-product and perhaps overreaction to the receipt of my 'Greencard' or, Permanent Resident's card.
That word, permanent, has been thrown around quite a bit since getting married and applying for legal residence in the United States, and since finishing my last job, exactly three whole weeks ago, I've had a bit too much time on my hands to think about what it means.
So, it is always nice to be saved from the plughole of my own brain with an uplifting chat to mum, and to hear tale of the latest from way down under.
She tells me a story about my seven year old niece, Anastasia, who came to lunch at her grandmother's house today. In her pajamas. Evidently she 'couldn't be bothered getting dressed', due to a 'big weekend with the cousins'.
Most unfortunately mum didn't have a picture, but I'm rather fond of the one in my head. I love the idea of my goddaughter, too spent to change out of her flannels, casually throwing on some sneakers and a coat, heading off to high tea with the grand matriach. I'm still trying to decide whether this makes her rockstar, or a welfare mother.
I'm not good at not working. Or rather, not being paid by someone else to do something. Every time I have a break from it I suffer from severe withdrawal, in every sense; I crave work, and I react by disappearing into a big black hole... this time in Brooklyn.
Later in the evening, as I'm crashing from the mum-high, the phone rings and it's my most lovely friend from grad school, David. Recently moved back to Pittsburgh (or as Sienna Miller affectionately dubbed it 'Shitsburgh') so he could live rent free and reassess the world. As I bemoan my lack of employment, he reminds me, 'it could be worse, you could have my job'.
David recently started work at a call center for a cable company. It's not telemarketing, but it's only one rung above. He gets paid about $19,000 pa, and he won't receive any sick leave or vaction pay for twelve months.
He tells me a story about a recent conference with one of the bosses, where David felt the need to ask the question about what he should do if he needs to visit the bathroom outside of his one allocated lunch break (45 mins) and two allocated ten minute breaks. His manager replied, 'I don't like to answer that question'.
I listen and then laugh at my poor, compliant friend, thinking his boss doesn't want to answer because it will embarrass him. ('What do you think you do? You get up and go! We're all grown ups here'.)
In fact, it turns out that what his manager doesn't like to say is that technically, 'employees are not allowed to get up from their desks, EXCEPT during those allocated breaks, and if absences of more than two minutes are logged by their computers, employees will be docked.'
I say, 'QUIT! QUIT NOW!!'
'I can't', David says, 'Not before Wednesday. Wednesday is Mudcup Day, every employee gets a free chocolate pudding.
I tell him to start a blog. You can't make that stuff up.
The truth is, I'm not unemployed. I'm self employed. I have plenty of work to do. Lots of self promotion and hustling and nose-to-the-grinding... but my manager is a lot less rigid than David's. I can go to the bathroom whenever I choose. And I can drink bourbon while I'm there if I want.
If history is anything to go by, rehabilition is inevitable. Something will come up. A big hand will reach into the black hole and pull me out. I'll be back on top, and wondering what all the fuss was about. And hopefully in fewer than twelve steps.
Meanwhile, I might take a leaf out of Ana's book, and enjoy the pajamas while I can.
I spoke to Australia early this morning. It was late at night there, but mum was still up, and ready for her 'fix'. (She often employs the parlance of the common junkie when referring to her children, which should perhaps be disconcerting, but is also kind of awesome.)
I myself had been jonesing for some contact with Australia; (hyperlink for mum's benefit... not sure she's that advanced yet) an unexpected bi-product and perhaps overreaction to the receipt of my 'Greencard' or, Permanent Resident's card.
That word, permanent, has been thrown around quite a bit since getting married and applying for legal residence in the United States, and since finishing my last job, exactly three whole weeks ago, I've had a bit too much time on my hands to think about what it means.
So, it is always nice to be saved from the plughole of my own brain with an uplifting chat to mum, and to hear tale of the latest from way down under.
She tells me a story about my seven year old niece, Anastasia, who came to lunch at her grandmother's house today. In her pajamas. Evidently she 'couldn't be bothered getting dressed', due to a 'big weekend with the cousins'.
Most unfortunately mum didn't have a picture, but I'm rather fond of the one in my head. I love the idea of my goddaughter, too spent to change out of her flannels, casually throwing on some sneakers and a coat, heading off to high tea with the grand matriach. I'm still trying to decide whether this makes her rockstar, or a welfare mother.
I'm not good at not working. Or rather, not being paid by someone else to do something. Every time I have a break from it I suffer from severe withdrawal, in every sense; I crave work, and I react by disappearing into a big black hole... this time in Brooklyn.
Later in the evening, as I'm crashing from the mum-high, the phone rings and it's my most lovely friend from grad school, David. Recently moved back to Pittsburgh (or as Sienna Miller affectionately dubbed it 'Shitsburgh') so he could live rent free and reassess the world. As I bemoan my lack of employment, he reminds me, 'it could be worse, you could have my job'.
David recently started work at a call center for a cable company. It's not telemarketing, but it's only one rung above. He gets paid about $19,000 pa, and he won't receive any sick leave or vaction pay for twelve months.
He tells me a story about a recent conference with one of the bosses, where David felt the need to ask the question about what he should do if he needs to visit the bathroom outside of his one allocated lunch break (45 mins) and two allocated ten minute breaks. His manager replied, 'I don't like to answer that question'.
I listen and then laugh at my poor, compliant friend, thinking his boss doesn't want to answer because it will embarrass him. ('What do you think you do? You get up and go! We're all grown ups here'.)
In fact, it turns out that what his manager doesn't like to say is that technically, 'employees are not allowed to get up from their desks, EXCEPT during those allocated breaks, and if absences of more than two minutes are logged by their computers, employees will be docked.'
I say, 'QUIT! QUIT NOW!!'
'I can't', David says, 'Not before Wednesday. Wednesday is Mudcup Day, every employee gets a free chocolate pudding.
I tell him to start a blog. You can't make that stuff up.
The truth is, I'm not unemployed. I'm self employed. I have plenty of work to do. Lots of self promotion and hustling and nose-to-the-grinding... but my manager is a lot less rigid than David's. I can go to the bathroom whenever I choose. And I can drink bourbon while I'm there if I want.
If history is anything to go by, rehabilition is inevitable. Something will come up. A big hand will reach into the black hole and pull me out. I'll be back on top, and wondering what all the fuss was about. And hopefully in fewer than twelve steps.
Meanwhile, I might take a leaf out of Ana's book, and enjoy the pajamas while I can.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
A word about assholes... (sorry mum)
About six years ago, in a time of my life before digital cameras, I travelled around Mexico for five weeks. One of the stops on the journey was Chichen Itza, a pre-columbian archeological site built by the Mayans.
The place is amazing. So amazing it's recently been named one of the 'NEW' Seven Wonders of the World.
The centerpiece of this ancient village is 'El Castillo', which is incredible for a number of freaky mathematical and astrological reasons that Wikipedia can tell you about, but suffice to say, it's also just kind of unreal to behold:
When I first saw Chichen Itza however, I got to do more than look, I got to climb the EXTREMELY steep steps of El Castillo, and look out over the breathtaking Mayan city. Also, thanks to archaeologists, you could venture inside a doorway at the base of the north staircase, which leads to a tunnel, from which one can climb the steps of the earlier version of El Castillo, inside the current one, up to the room on the top where you can see King Kukulcan's Jaguar throne. Carved of stone and painted red with jade spots, it's believed to have been a gift from Guatalmalans, who would have come to Chichen Itza for trade, though how they transported the large, heavy statue, remains a Stonehenge-style mystery.
The journey inside the chamber is not for the faint-hearted, and more than one turned back. The passage is narrower than an economy seat on an aeroplane, oxygen is scant, and the walls are damp with condensation from all the breath and sweat. That said, it remains one of the most thrilling things I've ever experienced, sitting right there, just where they found it, just as the Mayans left it.
In an album somewhere I have photos of me dangling precariously from the one, thick rope hanging down the side of the temple, kindly provided to assist in the climb. And I have photos of the unimpeded, breathtaking (and well-earned) view from the top. I don't have photos of the Jaguar, because flashes were not allowed, and in case you can't see where this is going, I'm not an asshole.
This year, in July, Dan and I got married and then honeymooned on the Yucatan peninsula. I couldn't wait to show him Chichen Itza - he being a far bigger history nerd than... well, just about anybody.
This was Dan's experience of El Castillo:
If you look very closely behind him, you'll see that the climbing rope has been replaced by an extremely thin, sad little museum style string all around the base. And there's no more climbing, or vista beholding.
The door that leads to the tunnel that leads to the steps that lead to the jaguar, is also barred. Presumably forever.
Why?
Because of assholes.
Because of asshole travellers who couldn't stop themselves from taking photos of, and damaging the ancient jaguar throne. Apparently some grand, head asshole even stole the jade eyes and the teeth.
And the climbing is allowed no more because of travellers who were (to be more polite about it than our guide) relieving themselves at the top of the temple. That's plural. MULTIPLE people saw fit to use the top of this 1500 year old temple as a toilet. So now, naturally, nobody is allowed up there.
Now, instead of standing where the Mayans did and saying, 'THIS IS SO UNBELIEVABLY COOL!', we can stand at a safe distance, and say instead, 'that looks to be extremely cool'. And what is so extremely irritating to me is that it's not because the Mexicans have suddenly developed a consciousness of public liability issues (the prevailing culture for most tourist attractions still seems to be, 'don't be stupid about it, and you won't end up dead'), but because of a handful of idiots (probably a rather large handful), who in my opinion, have no business calling themselves travellers. And whose passports we should probably revoke.
And while it might be impressive to one day dig out an olde-worldy photo album, and show my grandchildren pictures of their crinkly, old Granny climbing an ancient temple, it REALLY frustrates me that I'll have to use the phrase, 'back before you weren't allowed to climb it anymore'.
And so I use the word ASSHOLE. Liberally. And again, with apologies to my mother, who taught me to know better.
About six years ago, in a time of my life before digital cameras, I travelled around Mexico for five weeks. One of the stops on the journey was Chichen Itza, a pre-columbian archeological site built by the Mayans.
The place is amazing. So amazing it's recently been named one of the 'NEW' Seven Wonders of the World.
The centerpiece of this ancient village is 'El Castillo', which is incredible for a number of freaky mathematical and astrological reasons that Wikipedia can tell you about, but suffice to say, it's also just kind of unreal to behold:
When I first saw Chichen Itza however, I got to do more than look, I got to climb the EXTREMELY steep steps of El Castillo, and look out over the breathtaking Mayan city. Also, thanks to archaeologists, you could venture inside a doorway at the base of the north staircase, which leads to a tunnel, from which one can climb the steps of the earlier version of El Castillo, inside the current one, up to the room on the top where you can see King Kukulcan's Jaguar throne. Carved of stone and painted red with jade spots, it's believed to have been a gift from Guatalmalans, who would have come to Chichen Itza for trade, though how they transported the large, heavy statue, remains a Stonehenge-style mystery.
The journey inside the chamber is not for the faint-hearted, and more than one turned back. The passage is narrower than an economy seat on an aeroplane, oxygen is scant, and the walls are damp with condensation from all the breath and sweat. That said, it remains one of the most thrilling things I've ever experienced, sitting right there, just where they found it, just as the Mayans left it.
In an album somewhere I have photos of me dangling precariously from the one, thick rope hanging down the side of the temple, kindly provided to assist in the climb. And I have photos of the unimpeded, breathtaking (and well-earned) view from the top. I don't have photos of the Jaguar, because flashes were not allowed, and in case you can't see where this is going, I'm not an asshole.
This year, in July, Dan and I got married and then honeymooned on the Yucatan peninsula. I couldn't wait to show him Chichen Itza - he being a far bigger history nerd than... well, just about anybody.
This was Dan's experience of El Castillo:
If you look very closely behind him, you'll see that the climbing rope has been replaced by an extremely thin, sad little museum style string all around the base. And there's no more climbing, or vista beholding.
The door that leads to the tunnel that leads to the steps that lead to the jaguar, is also barred. Presumably forever.
Why?
Because of assholes.
Because of asshole travellers who couldn't stop themselves from taking photos of, and damaging the ancient jaguar throne. Apparently some grand, head asshole even stole the jade eyes and the teeth.
And the climbing is allowed no more because of travellers who were (to be more polite about it than our guide) relieving themselves at the top of the temple. That's plural. MULTIPLE people saw fit to use the top of this 1500 year old temple as a toilet. So now, naturally, nobody is allowed up there.
Now, instead of standing where the Mayans did and saying, 'THIS IS SO UNBELIEVABLY COOL!', we can stand at a safe distance, and say instead, 'that looks to be extremely cool'. And what is so extremely irritating to me is that it's not because the Mexicans have suddenly developed a consciousness of public liability issues (the prevailing culture for most tourist attractions still seems to be, 'don't be stupid about it, and you won't end up dead'), but because of a handful of idiots (probably a rather large handful), who in my opinion, have no business calling themselves travellers. And whose passports we should probably revoke.
And while it might be impressive to one day dig out an olde-worldy photo album, and show my grandchildren pictures of their crinkly, old Granny climbing an ancient temple, it REALLY frustrates me that I'll have to use the phrase, 'back before you weren't allowed to climb it anymore'.
And so I use the word ASSHOLE. Liberally. And again, with apologies to my mother, who taught me to know better.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
The Odd Life
As I sit on the porch of 'The Actor House' in Essex, Connecticut - just over a year since last I wrote - I realise that most of these so called 'New York Minutes' are tales of anywhere but. Probably because when I'm out of town, I'm working, and acting work actually takes up far less time and energy than the art of looking for acting work.
So I begin again. In my defense, the following things also kept me from blogging the past year:
One engagement
Three engagement parties
One trip to Kentucky
One move to Brooklyn
One trip to Australia
One trip to Hawaii
One three-month tour of Macbeth
One green card application
One more trip to Australia
One wedding in Mexico
One Honeymoon in same...
And now I'm here. At the Ivoryton Playhouse. Playing Cecily Pigeon in Neil Simon's 'The Odd Couple'. I left for Connecticut two days after Dan and I returned from our honeymoon, leaving behind a barely unpacked apartment and a very understanding husband. For those of you who don't really remember the movie, Cecily Pigeon is one of the British sisters who lives upstairs. In fact the character description in the audition breakdown read "silly British woman"... and so it is.
Here is a picture of my new, makeshift family.
I want to talk about a few of them, however I know how often the poorly constructed anonymity of this blog is exposed, so I will preface by saying how lovely a group they are; how easy it has been to work with everyone, and how I hope if they ever come across references to themselves here, they will forgive me.
First up, Laura Beth. She's the other bewigged lady, standing next to me in the orange shirt. (I'm in the pale blue). Originally from Knoxville, Tennessee she's thirty-three, newly engaged and going to appear in Julie Taymor's 'Spiderman' on Broadway at the end of the year. Suffice to say, life is pretty good for LB. She also makes a fabulous cocktail she calls a 'Hamptontini'. We have been keeping each other entertained during the long periods of downtime with daily trips to the gym (complimentary membership), incessant talk of weddings, horrible reality programming on TLC and of course, aforementioned cocktails.
Back left corner is Tony. He's playing Oscar. The messy one or 'Walter Matthau' for those playing at home. Brooklyn born and bred he now lives in South Jersey with his wife and very pretty sixteen year old daughter. Abd his in-laws, who evidently don't understand his life at all. Tony does more TV/Film than theater, and would admit this has been quite a workout for him. He likes to complain, but mostly for entertainment value. Actually, I think he's a big softie. He drops Laura Beth and I off at the train station in Stamford on days off so we can go back to the city. And he also took us to Mohegan Sun (the casino on the Indian Reservation), where he taught us to play Craps. Not very well unfortnuately. I lost my allotted $40 very quickly.
Just down from Tony, on the left edge, is Brian. Brian is a former Chicago actor, who took some time off to take a turn supporting his wife and three daughters when they moved to be near her family here in Connecticut. He's an excellent actor, but most distinctive about him is how much he loves his wife. He told us matter of factly that the secret is to marry your best friend. I met his wife last night at the opening night party and relayed his comment. She said when she says it, she has an addendum, "He's my best friend, who I still have a crush on"... somehow they manage to pull this off without being nauseating.
In front of Brian is M. (Yep, just M.) M lives in the house with Laura Beth and I, as well as the technical director and props charge, Cat and Rachel. (Front right). In contrast to Brian, M's marriage fell apart largely due to the fact that she didn't or couldn't understand his need to act. This is over simplified of course. Because the need to act is easy to support in principle. The long out-of-town stints, the large gaps between jobs, the sometimes paltry paychecks, these can be far more difficult to reconcile. He has two young boys who will come to visit us here for a few days towards the end of the run. Though I don't have the actual data, I believe Brian to be the exception that makes M's rule. The theater destroys more relationships that it creates. But it seems to me a very, very big sacrifice.
M gives LB and I use of his car, and makes us cocktails when we've run out of vodka. He is exceeding kind. Last night his mother came to see the show. Afterward she gave him a huge bear hug and told him how good he was. We all sat up talking about the night over drinks til 3am.
Back right is Mike. I don't know a lot about Mike yet, except that he's extremely cordial, he lives locally and he has a pool. With three long weeks left in August, it's good to know.
In the middle, next to me, is Bruce. Bruce plays Felix, the neat one or Jack Lemon. Bruce is a pro. He does theater and he does it a lot. He doesn't know how to drive, but he has his bike with him at all times and rides around town. Tony describes him as a 'pixie', because he has so much energy and shows no signs of tiring at the end of the long show. Bruce, like Felix, is allergic to lots of things. He doesn't have a cell phone, and I believe he only occasionally checks email on his dial-up connection at home. He is perhaps an anachronism, and in some ways very private. But mostly just sweet, and giving, and always right on cue.
Finally, Al. Al is in front of Mike and behind Laura Beth. Al is 59, retired, drives a Lexus, has two houses in Connecticut and an apartment on the Upper East Side. Al obviously made some money in his former 'business' career, and now dabbles in real estate, and recently started to explore the idea of acting. He is just about the sweetest most humble man I've ever met.
After the first preview on Wednesday afternoon, downstairs as we all hugged and congratulated each other, Al looked at me with his eyes wide and bright, and his cheeks flushed as he announced almost breathlessly, "That was my first performance of the first play I have ever done. Ever!" I hugged him again and congratulated him again. Then he said, "And I lived!"
I know he meant, "I survived", but for a perfect second I thought he was saying that for the first time in fifty-nine years he really "lived".
Because when it's good, that's what it feels like. This very strange, almost bohemian ritual, of packing up, coming out of town, moving into a well worn house with a bunch of strangers. Working together, playing together, creating a new vocabulary, pulling each other through the hard bits, pouring each other drinks after the good bits, keeping each other sane, keeping each other fit and fed, or even keeping out of each others' way. It's an odd way to live, but at least there's no question that it's living.
As a side note, in all my free time up here I've been revisiting the amazing Slings and Arrows It's a Canadian series that takes you back stage at a Shakespeare Festival in Canada. It's like a love sonnet to the theater. It's also incredibly funny. I don't think you have to be into theater to enjoy it, but if you happen to be in the theater you can't not.
As I sit on the porch of 'The Actor House' in Essex, Connecticut - just over a year since last I wrote - I realise that most of these so called 'New York Minutes' are tales of anywhere but. Probably because when I'm out of town, I'm working, and acting work actually takes up far less time and energy than the art of looking for acting work.
So I begin again. In my defense, the following things also kept me from blogging the past year:
One engagement
Three engagement parties
One trip to Kentucky
One move to Brooklyn
One trip to Australia
One trip to Hawaii
One three-month tour of Macbeth
One green card application
One more trip to Australia
One wedding in Mexico
One Honeymoon in same...
And now I'm here. At the Ivoryton Playhouse. Playing Cecily Pigeon in Neil Simon's 'The Odd Couple'. I left for Connecticut two days after Dan and I returned from our honeymoon, leaving behind a barely unpacked apartment and a very understanding husband. For those of you who don't really remember the movie, Cecily Pigeon is one of the British sisters who lives upstairs. In fact the character description in the audition breakdown read "silly British woman"... and so it is.
Here is a picture of my new, makeshift family.
I want to talk about a few of them, however I know how often the poorly constructed anonymity of this blog is exposed, so I will preface by saying how lovely a group they are; how easy it has been to work with everyone, and how I hope if they ever come across references to themselves here, they will forgive me.
First up, Laura Beth. She's the other bewigged lady, standing next to me in the orange shirt. (I'm in the pale blue). Originally from Knoxville, Tennessee she's thirty-three, newly engaged and going to appear in Julie Taymor's 'Spiderman' on Broadway at the end of the year. Suffice to say, life is pretty good for LB. She also makes a fabulous cocktail she calls a 'Hamptontini'. We have been keeping each other entertained during the long periods of downtime with daily trips to the gym (complimentary membership), incessant talk of weddings, horrible reality programming on TLC and of course, aforementioned cocktails.
Back left corner is Tony. He's playing Oscar. The messy one or 'Walter Matthau' for those playing at home. Brooklyn born and bred he now lives in South Jersey with his wife and very pretty sixteen year old daughter. Abd his in-laws, who evidently don't understand his life at all. Tony does more TV/Film than theater, and would admit this has been quite a workout for him. He likes to complain, but mostly for entertainment value. Actually, I think he's a big softie. He drops Laura Beth and I off at the train station in Stamford on days off so we can go back to the city. And he also took us to Mohegan Sun (the casino on the Indian Reservation), where he taught us to play Craps. Not very well unfortnuately. I lost my allotted $40 very quickly.
Just down from Tony, on the left edge, is Brian. Brian is a former Chicago actor, who took some time off to take a turn supporting his wife and three daughters when they moved to be near her family here in Connecticut. He's an excellent actor, but most distinctive about him is how much he loves his wife. He told us matter of factly that the secret is to marry your best friend. I met his wife last night at the opening night party and relayed his comment. She said when she says it, she has an addendum, "He's my best friend, who I still have a crush on"... somehow they manage to pull this off without being nauseating.
In front of Brian is M. (Yep, just M.) M lives in the house with Laura Beth and I, as well as the technical director and props charge, Cat and Rachel. (Front right). In contrast to Brian, M's marriage fell apart largely due to the fact that she didn't or couldn't understand his need to act. This is over simplified of course. Because the need to act is easy to support in principle. The long out-of-town stints, the large gaps between jobs, the sometimes paltry paychecks, these can be far more difficult to reconcile. He has two young boys who will come to visit us here for a few days towards the end of the run. Though I don't have the actual data, I believe Brian to be the exception that makes M's rule. The theater destroys more relationships that it creates. But it seems to me a very, very big sacrifice.
M gives LB and I use of his car, and makes us cocktails when we've run out of vodka. He is exceeding kind. Last night his mother came to see the show. Afterward she gave him a huge bear hug and told him how good he was. We all sat up talking about the night over drinks til 3am.
Back right is Mike. I don't know a lot about Mike yet, except that he's extremely cordial, he lives locally and he has a pool. With three long weeks left in August, it's good to know.
In the middle, next to me, is Bruce. Bruce plays Felix, the neat one or Jack Lemon. Bruce is a pro. He does theater and he does it a lot. He doesn't know how to drive, but he has his bike with him at all times and rides around town. Tony describes him as a 'pixie', because he has so much energy and shows no signs of tiring at the end of the long show. Bruce, like Felix, is allergic to lots of things. He doesn't have a cell phone, and I believe he only occasionally checks email on his dial-up connection at home. He is perhaps an anachronism, and in some ways very private. But mostly just sweet, and giving, and always right on cue.
Finally, Al. Al is in front of Mike and behind Laura Beth. Al is 59, retired, drives a Lexus, has two houses in Connecticut and an apartment on the Upper East Side. Al obviously made some money in his former 'business' career, and now dabbles in real estate, and recently started to explore the idea of acting. He is just about the sweetest most humble man I've ever met.
After the first preview on Wednesday afternoon, downstairs as we all hugged and congratulated each other, Al looked at me with his eyes wide and bright, and his cheeks flushed as he announced almost breathlessly, "That was my first performance of the first play I have ever done. Ever!" I hugged him again and congratulated him again. Then he said, "And I lived!"
I know he meant, "I survived", but for a perfect second I thought he was saying that for the first time in fifty-nine years he really "lived".
Because when it's good, that's what it feels like. This very strange, almost bohemian ritual, of packing up, coming out of town, moving into a well worn house with a bunch of strangers. Working together, playing together, creating a new vocabulary, pulling each other through the hard bits, pouring each other drinks after the good bits, keeping each other sane, keeping each other fit and fed, or even keeping out of each others' way. It's an odd way to live, but at least there's no question that it's living.
As a side note, in all my free time up here I've been revisiting the amazing Slings and Arrows It's a Canadian series that takes you back stage at a Shakespeare Festival in Canada. It's like a love sonnet to the theater. It's also incredibly funny. I don't think you have to be into theater to enjoy it, but if you happen to be in the theater you can't not.
Friday, August 01, 2008
SIX FLAGS: New Awesome
The thing about being an actor is that more often than not it describes something one can't help but be, like an Australian, or a schizophrenic... rather than something other people might actually pay you to do. So that when you find you are in the rare position of being involved in the commerce of acting, and turning up to a theatre (or tent) six days out of seven to act, for money, you feel obligated to an almost religious practice of gratitude. To say often, and with a huge smile on your face, that you are lucky, and privileged and so excited to be able to do the thing you love to do.
All that is true. But it’s also a job and just as for any lawyer or teacher or ice-cream truck driver who works a full time week, it’s exhausting.
And so I did something I don’t often do. I took a day off.
‘Six Flags: New England” land of the roller coaster and the water slide and the over priced arcade game. In short, land of awesome.
I can’t really remember the last time I went to a bona fide theme park. There was Disneyland in 1995, and Dreamworld on the Gold Coast sometime around 2000, but I think that’s it. I’d nearly completely forgotten how much pure, unadulterated fun they are. How much fun it is for the biggest stresses of the day to involve choosing between the ‘Mind Eraser and Batman’ (let’s do both!), and trying to remove the abject horror from your face just long enough for the photo on the descent of the award winning ‘Superman’ roller coaster.
Not to mention the fun and utter humiliation of being drowned by the 'Blizzard'... a white water rapids ride where you are at the mercy of where the spinning raft lands... in this case, with me directly under the waterfall... twice.
Mostly though, how much fun it is to spend a day yelling and squealing and laughing, instead of networking, budgeting, rehearsing, auditioning, or strategically planning my next move. I feel as if I’ve unclogged something.
Last night I slept. And I slept well.
The thing about being an actor is that more often than not it describes something one can't help but be, like an Australian, or a schizophrenic... rather than something other people might actually pay you to do. So that when you find you are in the rare position of being involved in the commerce of acting, and turning up to a theatre (or tent) six days out of seven to act, for money, you feel obligated to an almost religious practice of gratitude. To say often, and with a huge smile on your face, that you are lucky, and privileged and so excited to be able to do the thing you love to do.
All that is true. But it’s also a job and just as for any lawyer or teacher or ice-cream truck driver who works a full time week, it’s exhausting.
And so I did something I don’t often do. I took a day off.
‘Six Flags: New England” land of the roller coaster and the water slide and the over priced arcade game. In short, land of awesome.
I can’t really remember the last time I went to a bona fide theme park. There was Disneyland in 1995, and Dreamworld on the Gold Coast sometime around 2000, but I think that’s it. I’d nearly completely forgotten how much pure, unadulterated fun they are. How much fun it is for the biggest stresses of the day to involve choosing between the ‘Mind Eraser and Batman’ (let’s do both!), and trying to remove the abject horror from your face just long enough for the photo on the descent of the award winning ‘Superman’ roller coaster.
Not to mention the fun and utter humiliation of being drowned by the 'Blizzard'... a white water rapids ride where you are at the mercy of where the spinning raft lands... in this case, with me directly under the waterfall... twice.
Mostly though, how much fun it is to spend a day yelling and squealing and laughing, instead of networking, budgeting, rehearsing, auditioning, or strategically planning my next move. I feel as if I’ve unclogged something.
Last night I slept. And I slept well.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
A thousand words...
I have been lazy, or absent, or maybe just scared off by the fact that on the very first day of rehearsals, for my very first New York professional gig, the Artistic Director announced that he had "really liked that photo of me in my bikini." (So much for semi-anonymous blogging.)
So here it is, my laziest update ever, or perhaps we could call it a tribute to Dan's exciting new job as a photo editor at Wall Street's favourite journal...
After three years, I graduated with an MFA from Manhattan's New School for Drama. Here I am with one of my most lovely classmates, also my scene partner in the agent showcase.
At the same time, Dan 'met the parents' and gained official security clearance for forthcoming Christmas/New Year travel to Australia.
Then, Mum and Dad met Dan's mother Betty-Jo. No major international incidents occurred, despite much time voluntarily spent together in high pressure tourist situations, including the Circle Line Tour (pictured), the Staten Island Ferry and a long, hot walk over the Brooklyn Bridge (both pictured below).
Once all parental units departed, quick check revealed relationship still in tact. (Author acknowledges this is a completely unnecessary picture in terms of story telling... I just really like the hat.)
Next came the trip up to the lovely estate in the Hudson Valley for the opening of the festival. Pics below depict opening of Twelfth Night, in which I have a bigger part, and therefore a fancier opening night dress.
In short, life (in the pictures) is grand.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Low Level Panic
There's a play by that title, written by a woman named Claire McIntyre. I once did a monologue from it, which I can hardly remember now, except for the first line; Sometimes I come home, go upstairs, take off all my clothes, climb under the sheets and masturbate.
Or something like that.
There's actually no correlation between the play and the subject for today's post, except that every so often I like to pretend this blog has something to do with acting or the theatre, and that the title of that play happens to perfectly describe the relatively mastabatory state of self-induced anxiety in which I find myself languishing.
The end is nigh. I know I've been saying that forever, but now it's really, really nigh. As nigh as it's ever been. And I'm sure everything will be fine - unless one night I lose perspective in the wee hours, and jump off the nighest bridge.
Actually, my general state of anxiety is at such a constant buzz I hardly notice it anymore. The list has been the same for the past three months. Hell, for the past three years.
Finish all coursework.
Build strong auditioning portfolio.
Learn all my lines for showcase.
Find a way to be so fabulous in three minutes that the best agent in New York wants to sign me.
Sublet apartment so can afford to go and earn regional wages upstate for three months.
And finally...
Find mum and dad alternative New York accomodation, since heretofore reliable and charming Broadway Inn on 46th Street, where I know Otto the porter will take care of them, is showing possible signs of having closed down. (Hints include a disconnected phone, re-directed website and boarded up doors and windows).
Since most hotels that might otherwise meet my parents standards of cleanliness and spaciousness seem to be quoting prices in the $500-$600 range, and since my parents have their own list of demands and quirks (including, but not limited to, my mother's strict standards about her cups of tea, involving ideal temperature, strength, milk quantity, and importantly, what she is prepared to pay) it feels like it might be time to venture out and find them an apartment of their very own.
Fortunately there's a little tool called www.craigslist.org, where you can pretty much find anything your heart desires, from a couch, to a live-in-nanny to a one- night-stand. All I need on this occasion however, is a vacation rental, preferably on the Upper West Side, which I figure with its brownstones and its homogenous ye olde worldy charm is about Mama and Papa's pace.
With a little hunting, digging and refined searching, it seems like I might have found it; a delightful duplex, available my exact dates, belonging to a Canadian performance artist with impeccable taste, a king size bed, two big screen TVs and (drum roll....) a roof deck! (Summer cocktails anyone?)
Now, New York real estate is not for the light hearted. You get to step in, do one quick walk around, sniff for bad energy, try to impress upon the owner/broker that you won't break or steal stuff. Then you probably have about three hours to decide whether or not you want it. Three hours that don't coincide with daytime in Melbourne.
So I try to stretch it out. I go to class, I turn off my phone. I avoid the broker for a little while. But sure enough, the message comes as soon as my phone's back on. A professional courtesy from Jon, telling me a bunch of much mythologised 'Harvard Boys' want the very same apartment. And they want it for the whole summer. Now he will honour my 'first dibs', but I need to come up with the deposit. Now.
So I find myself in the heart of Times Square, in a non-airconditioned Ben and Jerry's, sticking to the plastic furniture, clinging to $300 cash, willing mum to wake up and tell me I'm doing the right thing.
Just before Jon arrives my phone rings again, it's a very sleepy mum. I whip through the details. She hmmms and has... and eventually tells me she guesses I know best.
I come home later that night, elated, dying to get on Skype and send the pictures through. "Look at the TV... Look at the bed.... Look at the roofdeck!"
"Is that bed king size? It doesn't look king size..."
"Yes mum, trust me, it's king size".
And then,
"Oh..."
"What?"
"Well, I thought it would be two bedroom".
I choose to take this as a sign of love and desire for me to be around as often as possible, rather than any sort of slight on my clearly impeccable apartment hunting skills. Hopefully, once she sees it in person she'll be sold.
In the same vein, let's hope her in-person assessment of the now not-so-new man in my life is less exacting. Past experience suggests it's a slim shot. Certainly, between now and their imminent arrival, the only thing left to do is to work on his tea-making skills.
There's a play by that title, written by a woman named Claire McIntyre. I once did a monologue from it, which I can hardly remember now, except for the first line; Sometimes I come home, go upstairs, take off all my clothes, climb under the sheets and masturbate.
Or something like that.
There's actually no correlation between the play and the subject for today's post, except that every so often I like to pretend this blog has something to do with acting or the theatre, and that the title of that play happens to perfectly describe the relatively mastabatory state of self-induced anxiety in which I find myself languishing.
The end is nigh. I know I've been saying that forever, but now it's really, really nigh. As nigh as it's ever been. And I'm sure everything will be fine - unless one night I lose perspective in the wee hours, and jump off the nighest bridge.
Actually, my general state of anxiety is at such a constant buzz I hardly notice it anymore. The list has been the same for the past three months. Hell, for the past three years.
Finish all coursework.
Build strong auditioning portfolio.
Learn all my lines for showcase.
Find a way to be so fabulous in three minutes that the best agent in New York wants to sign me.
Sublet apartment so can afford to go and earn regional wages upstate for three months.
And finally...
Find mum and dad alternative New York accomodation, since heretofore reliable and charming Broadway Inn on 46th Street, where I know Otto the porter will take care of them, is showing possible signs of having closed down. (Hints include a disconnected phone, re-directed website and boarded up doors and windows).
Since most hotels that might otherwise meet my parents standards of cleanliness and spaciousness seem to be quoting prices in the $500-$600 range, and since my parents have their own list of demands and quirks (including, but not limited to, my mother's strict standards about her cups of tea, involving ideal temperature, strength, milk quantity, and importantly, what she is prepared to pay) it feels like it might be time to venture out and find them an apartment of their very own.
Fortunately there's a little tool called www.craigslist.org, where you can pretty much find anything your heart desires, from a couch, to a live-in-nanny to a one- night-stand. All I need on this occasion however, is a vacation rental, preferably on the Upper West Side, which I figure with its brownstones and its homogenous ye olde worldy charm is about Mama and Papa's pace.
With a little hunting, digging and refined searching, it seems like I might have found it; a delightful duplex, available my exact dates, belonging to a Canadian performance artist with impeccable taste, a king size bed, two big screen TVs and (drum roll....) a roof deck! (Summer cocktails anyone?)
Now, New York real estate is not for the light hearted. You get to step in, do one quick walk around, sniff for bad energy, try to impress upon the owner/broker that you won't break or steal stuff. Then you probably have about three hours to decide whether or not you want it. Three hours that don't coincide with daytime in Melbourne.
So I try to stretch it out. I go to class, I turn off my phone. I avoid the broker for a little while. But sure enough, the message comes as soon as my phone's back on. A professional courtesy from Jon, telling me a bunch of much mythologised 'Harvard Boys' want the very same apartment. And they want it for the whole summer. Now he will honour my 'first dibs', but I need to come up with the deposit. Now.
So I find myself in the heart of Times Square, in a non-airconditioned Ben and Jerry's, sticking to the plastic furniture, clinging to $300 cash, willing mum to wake up and tell me I'm doing the right thing.
Just before Jon arrives my phone rings again, it's a very sleepy mum. I whip through the details. She hmmms and has... and eventually tells me she guesses I know best.
I come home later that night, elated, dying to get on Skype and send the pictures through. "Look at the TV... Look at the bed.... Look at the roofdeck!"
"Is that bed king size? It doesn't look king size..."
"Yes mum, trust me, it's king size".
And then,
"Oh..."
"What?"
"Well, I thought it would be two bedroom".
I choose to take this as a sign of love and desire for me to be around as often as possible, rather than any sort of slight on my clearly impeccable apartment hunting skills. Hopefully, once she sees it in person she'll be sold.
In the same vein, let's hope her in-person assessment of the now not-so-new man in my life is less exacting. Past experience suggests it's a slim shot. Certainly, between now and their imminent arrival, the only thing left to do is to work on his tea-making skills.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
REMUNERATION... WITH A VIEW
This is where I'll be spending my summer.
That is, this is where I'm getting paid to spend my summer!!!!!!!
Yes - the mandatory post-graduation waitressing job has been put off for at least four months, since my first audition for work post school was successful.
I've been employed by the Hudson Valley Shakespeare festival (www.hvshakespeare.org) to be part of their professional company for the summer rep season, which includes 'Cymbeline, Twelfth Night and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged)'
'Twas a three part audition, the final stage of which was filmed by PBS for a documentary they are doing on the festival from auditions through to opening night. (I only agreed on the condition that I could sign the release AFTER the audition - in case of a worst case scenario crash and burn).
Beginning April 29, we rehearse in the city until June, then we'll be shuttled to accomodations in the Valley, where we'll live for the three months of the festival. Presumably while being followed around by PBS cameras.
Beyond that, I have no idea what to expect. Right now, I don't even know what parts I'll be playing. But I do know I'll be getting paid to act. And I do know I won't have to be in Manhattan during the stinkiest parts of the summer.
However if I do happen to miss Manhattan's unique hot-weather aroma, the Hudson Valley is only one hour upstate of the city and therefore an easy train ride back to the gorgeous Grand Central Station.
Between now and then there's two more productions, agent showcase, graduation and a much anticipated visit from mum and dad to get through. But it certainly feels like lucky first step into (or at least a scenic way to delay the reality of) life outside of grad school.
This is where I'll be spending my summer.
That is, this is where I'm getting paid to spend my summer!!!!!!!
Yes - the mandatory post-graduation waitressing job has been put off for at least four months, since my first audition for work post school was successful.
I've been employed by the Hudson Valley Shakespeare festival (www.hvshakespeare.org) to be part of their professional company for the summer rep season, which includes 'Cymbeline, Twelfth Night and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged)'
'Twas a three part audition, the final stage of which was filmed by PBS for a documentary they are doing on the festival from auditions through to opening night. (I only agreed on the condition that I could sign the release AFTER the audition - in case of a worst case scenario crash and burn).
Beginning April 29, we rehearse in the city until June, then we'll be shuttled to accomodations in the Valley, where we'll live for the three months of the festival. Presumably while being followed around by PBS cameras.
Beyond that, I have no idea what to expect. Right now, I don't even know what parts I'll be playing. But I do know I'll be getting paid to act. And I do know I won't have to be in Manhattan during the stinkiest parts of the summer.
However if I do happen to miss Manhattan's unique hot-weather aroma, the Hudson Valley is only one hour upstate of the city and therefore an easy train ride back to the gorgeous Grand Central Station.
Between now and then there's two more productions, agent showcase, graduation and a much anticipated visit from mum and dad to get through. But it certainly feels like lucky first step into (or at least a scenic way to delay the reality of) life outside of grad school.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
"I am Google-able, therefore I am."
I'll admit it, within the modern dating landscape, I am highly dubious of anyone with no Internet profile. If a Google search for a prospective suitor turns up nothing, he immediately becomes a suspect individual. In fact, I may begin to seriously question his very existence. And I don't think I'm the only one. Anecdotal evidence garnered around a bar table at least, seems to suggest that "googling" prospective dates is not only no longer something to be ashamed of, it is recommended and standard dating procedure.
Perhaps paradoxically (perhaps not), I'm extremely nervous about exposing myself on the Internet. Unavoidable though it would seem to be. Initially, I even went to great pains to make this blog completely anonymous, which didn't stop the chair of the Playwriting department at school (who just happens to be Sarah Jessica Parker's brother) from coming across it. Highly embarrassing given the thinly-veiled origins of the site.
However, as graduation looms and my attempts to enter 'the industry' become imminent, the current man in my life (who judging by his passion for all things cyber-connected may be a founding investor in Google) is keen to help build my professional profile via the establishment of a 'web presence'. I guess the theory is, if you can't beat them, at least control the information.
Thus the counter on my newly imposed 'Google Desktop' tells me that I have 61 days to complete 'Project Over-Exposure', which includes my own website, facebook, flickr, myspace, youtube, wikipedia and any number of related groups through which I may 'aggressively market myself via the web'.
Now, call me old fashioned, but I can't help but cling to the notion that retaining a bit of mystique adds to an actor's allure, and ultimately to her effectiveness. I buy Helen Mirren, and I buy Emma Thompson, and I buy Jodie Foster as pretty much anything they choose to play. I don't buy Lindsay Lohan as anything but Lindsay Lohan... and to be frank, I'm not lining up to buy much of that.
Now, I realise that a bit of savvy self-promotion is a far cry from setting yourself up to be snapped panty-less upon arrival to an LA nightclub, or from getting arrested while driving home hammered afterwards, so I will comply and be very grateful of the assistance. But if I have my way, we will construct the dark sunglasses and floppy cap e-version of myself, rather than the Paris-Hilton-sex-tape version. That, I CAN control.
I'll admit it, within the modern dating landscape, I am highly dubious of anyone with no Internet profile. If a Google search for a prospective suitor turns up nothing, he immediately becomes a suspect individual. In fact, I may begin to seriously question his very existence. And I don't think I'm the only one. Anecdotal evidence garnered around a bar table at least, seems to suggest that "googling" prospective dates is not only no longer something to be ashamed of, it is recommended and standard dating procedure.
Perhaps paradoxically (perhaps not), I'm extremely nervous about exposing myself on the Internet. Unavoidable though it would seem to be. Initially, I even went to great pains to make this blog completely anonymous, which didn't stop the chair of the Playwriting department at school (who just happens to be Sarah Jessica Parker's brother) from coming across it. Highly embarrassing given the thinly-veiled origins of the site.
However, as graduation looms and my attempts to enter 'the industry' become imminent, the current man in my life (who judging by his passion for all things cyber-connected may be a founding investor in Google) is keen to help build my professional profile via the establishment of a 'web presence'. I guess the theory is, if you can't beat them, at least control the information.
Thus the counter on my newly imposed 'Google Desktop' tells me that I have 61 days to complete 'Project Over-Exposure', which includes my own website, facebook, flickr, myspace, youtube, wikipedia and any number of related groups through which I may 'aggressively market myself via the web'.
Now, call me old fashioned, but I can't help but cling to the notion that retaining a bit of mystique adds to an actor's allure, and ultimately to her effectiveness. I buy Helen Mirren, and I buy Emma Thompson, and I buy Jodie Foster as pretty much anything they choose to play. I don't buy Lindsay Lohan as anything but Lindsay Lohan... and to be frank, I'm not lining up to buy much of that.
Now, I realise that a bit of savvy self-promotion is a far cry from setting yourself up to be snapped panty-less upon arrival to an LA nightclub, or from getting arrested while driving home hammered afterwards, so I will comply and be very grateful of the assistance. But if I have my way, we will construct the dark sunglasses and floppy cap e-version of myself, rather than the Paris-Hilton-sex-tape version. That, I CAN control.
PUBLIC RELATIONS - CHAPTER ONE
In the first week of February, I sent the following headshot, accompanied by what I hope was a pithy, non-crazy cover letter to approximately seventy agents and casting directors.
It's supposed to be my 'I'm a serious actor' shot.
As of today I have been contacted by a total of zero agents and/or casting directors.
Just before school began in August, I went to lunch with the Chair of the school's directing program. Sitting across the table at the Bus Stop Cafe in the West Village, she told me the story of a well-known graduate of the program; how two months before she was cast in the role for which she would ulitmately be 'Tony-nominated' she'd been crumpled in a heap on the Chair's living room floor weeping and feeling completely lost.
I have pre-booked my appointment on said floor for approximately two weeks after graduation. Just in case.
In the first week of February, I sent the following headshot, accompanied by what I hope was a pithy, non-crazy cover letter to approximately seventy agents and casting directors.
It's supposed to be my 'I'm a serious actor' shot.
As of today I have been contacted by a total of zero agents and/or casting directors.
Just before school began in August, I went to lunch with the Chair of the school's directing program. Sitting across the table at the Bus Stop Cafe in the West Village, she told me the story of a well-known graduate of the program; how two months before she was cast in the role for which she would ulitmately be 'Tony-nominated' she'd been crumpled in a heap on the Chair's living room floor weeping and feeling completely lost.
I have pre-booked my appointment on said floor for approximately two weeks after graduation. Just in case.
CURTAINS
On February 16th 'TALK TO ME LIKE THE RAIN AND LET ME LISTEN' - my last major thesis project - came to an end, producing the weird sensation of somehow - though not quite - being done with school. Worst, being six days shy of completing the drinking challenge, I couldn't even mark the occasion with a stiff drink. (My apologies to Mr. Williams.)
While I still have classes, something pretty catastrophic would have to happen for me not to graduate. So that's it. Done... Sort of.
If it were a film, you might say my degree is in the can. Now all that's left are the rounds of interviews and walks down the red carpet to sell the shit out of it.
On February 16th 'TALK TO ME LIKE THE RAIN AND LET ME LISTEN' - my last major thesis project - came to an end, producing the weird sensation of somehow - though not quite - being done with school. Worst, being six days shy of completing the drinking challenge, I couldn't even mark the occasion with a stiff drink. (My apologies to Mr. Williams.)
While I still have classes, something pretty catastrophic would have to happen for me not to graduate. So that's it. Done... Sort of.
If it were a film, you might say my degree is in the can. Now all that's left are the rounds of interviews and walks down the red carpet to sell the shit out of it.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
"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.
- 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.
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.
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