A Case of the Mean Reds

I love Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Yes, I do realize it's completely cliche, but I can't help it.

When I was about fourteen, my mother and I went to see this one-woman play in Toronto. It was called Purple Heart, and while I don't remember the significance of the title, it stands out it my mind from the hundreds of plays I've seen in my little life. It was about this woman who hadn't left her apartment in three months and was obsessed with Breakfast at Tiffany's. It was revealed at the end of the play that the reason she hadn't left her apartment was because her lover had been hit by a car and killed and, well, I don't really remember the rest, sufficed to say she was seriously bummed out and afraid to move on with her life. Taking inspiration from Holly Golightly, this timid protagonist was obsessed with the windows at Tiffany's and throughout the play she read a series of letters that she had written to the "Tiffany Window Lady", whoever that was. The letters all had to do with the window displays that she'd passed by over the years, questions that she had about them, and about the solace she found in the tiny, bejeweled scenarios, like tiny little safe havens where nothing could go wrong and everything was beautiful.

I remember liking the play very much (despite how poorly I'm now describing it, I'm certain it wasn't as Lifetime-Movie-of-the-Week as I'm making it seem) and liking the actress's performance a great deal. My mom and I left feeling connected in womanhood, and had much to discuss on the drive home...particularly how neither of us had ever seen Breakfast at Tiffany's. I can't remember who suggested it, but we ended up renting it on the way home, and watching it that evening with popcorn and wine.

Ever since that night, I've been in love with the movie. It is definitely in my top five favorite movies of all time, up there with It's a Wonderful Life, Amelie, and Disney's Beauty and the Beast. Now, I feel it important to state that I do not necessarily define my favorite movies by the overall quality of the filmmaking or the depth of artistic merit. My favorite movies are movies that I can watch over and over again without tiring of them, and at any given time are proven to make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. This said, I generally shun romantic comedies because of the unrealistically tidy way they depict romantic relationships in modern times. I refuse to see anything with Kate Hudson (save Almost Famous), Reese Witherspoon (save Walk the Line), or Sandra Bullock (honestly, I can't think of a single Sandra Bullock movie that I actually like...by no fault of hers. She's perfectly charming, but she makes the schlockiest movies.) And don't get me started on Cameron Diaz (save Being John Malkovich...why don't these dumb waify blondes challenge themselves more often?)

Breakfast at Tiffany's is definitely an early incarnation of the chick flick, though that doesn't bother me at all. I think it's partially because it's from a different era--so Sixties--and partially because there is something so tragic and poetic about the two main characters. I mean, George Peppard is a failing gigolo writer with absolutely no sense of self worth and Holly Golightly is a confused little orphan who runs away to be a New York party girl and survives presumeably on handouts from rich men that she teases and a mobster who manipulates her into being a prison informant. It's dark stuff, wrapped up by Hollywood in sparkly pink chiffon. I'm ashamed to admit, literary snob as I like to fancy myself, that I still have never read the Truman Capote novella that the film is based on, although I did pick it up at Borders the other day and flipped to the end: low and behold, in the book, Holly doesn't end up with Paul the writer, but rather does fly off the Brazil with wealthy dignitary Jose de Silva Periera. When I read that, I felt disheartened and at the same time strangely satisfied.

See, the end of the movie is one of my favorite endings of all time. Paul picks up Holly after spending the night in prison, and having picked up all her belongings, he proceeds to take her to a hotel where he plans to take care of her through the trial of Sally Tomato, to whom she has been unknowingly smuggling in drug traffic information. But Holly is determined to get on her scheduled flight to Brazil, even after Paul reads her a letter from Jose, breaking off their affair. Paul is determined to force the stubborn, naive Holly to wake up and see that he is the only person in New York who really and truly cares about her, the only person who can save her from herself, and that he needs her just as much in return.

Paul Varjak: I love you.
Holly Golightly: So what.
Paul Varjak: So what? So plenty! I love you, you belong to me!
Holly Golightly: [tearfully] No. People don't belong to people.
Paul Varjak: Of course they do!
Holly Golightly: I'll never let ANYBODY put me in a cage.
Paul Varjak: I don't want to put you in a cage, I want to love you!

Holly is terrified of truly letting herself be loved, and refuses him. To which, Paul replies:

Paul Varjak: You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken, you've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, "Okay, life's a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness." You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

By this point in the movie, I'm already dripping with tears, every single time. So then, Paul gets out of the cab, and goes looking for Holly's nameless cat, who she has thrown out of the cab earlier into the pouring rain. After a few moments, Holly, ruined and desperate, gets out of the cab and follows Paul. There's this great moment where he realizes that she's come to her senses, and they look for the cat together. The last moment is of Holly, clutching the soaking wet cat in her trenchcoat, tears in her eyes, and Paul kissing in the pouring rain, as he wraps his arms around her and the cat, a little family united at last.

Oh, it's so good. If I had a VCR I'd be watching it right now (I only own in on VHS).

It's like the urban, independent-but-totally-confused woman's fairytale: finding an equally confused and fucked up man who is strong enough to force us out of our holding pattern of delusional self-destruction, and relieving us of the terror and painful loneliness that comes with going it alone in the world, but being sensitive enough not to stifle our free spirit. I cry every time because, like millions of women before me, I see a little piece of myself in Holly Golightly. Except that I have a job. Two in fact.

A few days ago, I started to write that I was beginning to feel as if the roller coaster of my life was finally on the upswing, climbing to the next great height. Fall is in the air, any minute the leaves are going to burst into color, and any minute my life is going to turn around and I'll be catapulted out of this pit of destitute self-pity and miserable despair I've been living in. A few days ago, I believed that it was my time to climb out of the pit.

Today I had a really shitty day. I was up at 5 am for the Arden audition in Philly, and while my plan for the day timed out perfectly, the audition was not so successful. I won't bore you with the details...sufficed to say, I left feeling like a miserable wreck. And I never bomb auditions anymore. It's been seven months since I had a callback for anything, but I've gotten to this marvellous place where I no longer take it personally and I feel like I'm nailing a good eighty percent of my auditions. I sing my face off, I commit, and I generally get great feedback. The callbacks will come in time. So it was jarring to have an experience that I felt so poorly about, and it wasn't for lack of preparation--it was all about nerves. Which I only let get the best of me when I'm auditioning for people I know personally and respect. I can go into an EPA at Telsey and think nothing of it, but at the Arden, I care about their personal opinions. It's a little twisted.

Thankfully, upon arriving back in New York, I was not needed to come into work at the restaurant tonight, so I was able to curl up in bed, eat grilled cheese and watch the presidential debate. Oh yeah, and wallow in despair. It's not even self-pity, it's...I don't know what it is. Self-defeat, self-deprecation...some form of emotional self-abuse. Some days I wake up feeling so ready to take on the world, to take control of my life back. And some days I wake up and just want to go back to sleep. It's not for lack of knowing what I want, or how to get it, or even believing that I'm capable of acheiving it. I know all of those things deep down. I'm just so hard on myself all the time that I constantly find it difficult to overcome my restlessnes, my impatience, my feeling that I'm not working hard enough or fast enough and thereby not accomplishing all my life's goals fast enough. Of course, the beating myself up over it wastes a lot of time. This is something I've been working on for years, and while I've made immense improvements over the past few years, it continues to be my own personal cross to bear. (I won't get into all the dull psychological reasons for these things--my own self analysis is really only interesting to me, I'm sure.)

Anyway.

Unsure of how to cope with these unwelcome yucky feelings, I was reminded of the words of Holly Golightly:

Holly Golightly: You know those days when you get the mean reds?
Paul Varjak: The mean reds, you mean like the blues?
Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?
Paul Varjak: Sure.
Holly Golightly: Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that'd make me feel like Tiffany's, then - then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name!

Maybe my problem is that I haven't found my Tiffany's.

I think going to Tiffany's itself would actually make me a little bummed out, the way I always feel when walking down Fifth Avenue, amongst the designer shops and sharply-dressed business people...all that extravagent wealth, all those people who feel so disgustingly entitled. But having a place that always cheers me up...a sanctuary from the Mean Reds...a place that represents who I want to be, the type of person I'm working to become, a place that reflects my ideals of beauty, serenity and emotional fulfillment in this crazy life. A place where I can be at peace.

I shall find this place, and the search shall by my way of diffusing the Mean Reds from my life. I must always be searching...the search is truly, to me, the definition of being alive.

After all, you never know what you might find along the way...or what might find you.

Blogging at Work (and Other Extracurricular Activities)

I often make loud proclaimations at Morimoto about how much I love working reservations (as opposed to hosting on the floor.) This has led my manager Maria to schedule me exclusively for reservations shifts. The truth is, I love reservations because I'm a lazy bitch: hell yeah I'd rather sit in an office all day/night where I can read or play online when the managers are all upstairs than be on my feet on the floor all day/night dealing with pushy people face to face!

Tonight happens to be a particularly slow Thursday night. I'm averaging about four calls per hour and have nothing to do otherwise. I'm also a little anxious because I have to get up at 5:00 am to take a bus to Philadelphia tomorrow for an audition I'm only kind of prepared for. I was called in this week for the Arden Theatre Company's holiday production of James and the Giant Peach. I'm usually a little self-righteous about going to Philly for auditions, but since I happened to have the day off tomorrow until 6:00 pm, I decided it was worth it for a number of reasons:

1. I've worked at the Arden before and I adore every single aspect of working there.

2. The show is being directed by Whit MacLaughlin, who I've worked with and both adore and admire.

3. The timing of the show is perfect: starting rehearsals a week and a half before my sublet ends, and ending a week before The Irish... at the Kimmel Center is slated to begin.

4. They are looking at me for the role of the Grasshopper, who in the script plays the violin.

Of course, as always I have my misgivings about working out of town... I just started two new jobs in the past month and I'm desperately trying to put down roots in New York. But I figure that either circumstance (me getting the show, me not getting the show) works out in my favor. Either way I end up with health insurance--either through working for Danny Meyer at Tabla, or through Actor's Equity if I work for 10 more weeks under a union contract.

Also, I'm very excited about taking the Bolt Bus for the first time tomorrow.

So this evening, while looking for ways to kill time, I've been going over my sides for the audition. My first thought when I got the call was "Halleliuah for sides!" Then I became paralyzed with fear when I printed out the sides I'd been emailed and learned that they want me to prepare 5 different characters.

Crap.

Not to worry, I assured myself. I earned the hell out of that BFA hanging on the wall. I can make 5 distinct, bold choices in just 3 days. I have all kinds of tools. Plus, this is fantasy children's theatre, so the sky's pretty much the limit.

I started with Google Image Search, employing a technique favored by my Musical Theatre Rep teacher, Rick Stoppleworth, as well as my Junior acting teacher, Rosey Hay. Both encourage the use of image work, especially for characters who live in worlds far beyond our own personal experiences. I look up pictures of spiders, ladybugs and grasshoppers, both real and caricatured. I print out my favorites on the office printer at Morimoto. Then, I make a list of the characters and try to come up with specific qualities for each of them. Which leads me to a brilliant idea.

During Grand Hotel tech rehearsals my junior year at UArts, our choreographer Rex taught us all a game to pass the time. My friends and I became obsessed with it and still play sometimes while sitting around in each other's kitchens.

I know, I know. We are so cool.

One person thinks of a subject. We usually play that the subject is a person from the School of Theatre Arts. Then the other people take turns coming up with questions for the person in the middle. The questions are categories, like "If this person were a color, what color would they be?" or "if this person were a kitchen appliance what would they be?" and the person in the middle has to answer. The object is to guess which person the person in the middle is thinking of. Whoever guesses it thinks of the next person.

Trust me, it's a blast.

So, here I am in the reservations office making a chart of the 5 characters I'm working on. It ges something like this:

Color:

Grasshopper--forest green
Ladybird--ruby red
Miss Spider--charcoal
Aunt Sponge--chartreuse
Aunt Spiker--fuschia

Flavor:

Grasshopper--toffee
Ladybird--tomato
Miss Spider--licorice
Aunt Sponge--pickled eggs
Aunt Spiker--prune

Symbol:

Grasshopper--check mark
Ladybird--pear shape
Miss Spider--asterisk
Aunt Sponge--circle
Aunt Spider--vertical line

Shoe:

Grasshopper--oxfords
Ladybird--mary janes
Miss Spider--ballet flats
Aunt Sponge--birkenstocks with socks
Aunt Spiker--too-small grandma pumps

Beverage:

Grasshopper--hot toddy or mint julep
Ladybird--shirley temple
Miss Spider--glass of merlot
Aunt Sponge--moonshine and olive juice
Aunt Spiker--vinegar

Literary Genre/Author:

Grasshopper--literary classics (Faulkner)
Ladybird--romance novels (Danielle Steele)
Miss Spider--fashion magazines (Vogue)
Aunt Sponge--TV (Jerry Springer)
Aunt Spiker--tabloids (National Enquirer)

Who would play them in a movie:

Grasshopper--Katharine Hepburn
Ladybird--Imelda Staunton
Miss Spider--Audrey Hepburn
Aunt Sponge--Kathy Bates
Aunt Spiker--Carol Channing

I can't believe I'm getting paid right now.

Silly as it may seem, I'm finding this exercise totally useful. It's kind of a spin on this worksheet my Viewpoints teacher Bill used to hand out where you filled in all these details about your character like their birthday, zodiac sign, religious beliefs, sexual orientation, etc. only more whimsical...which is appropriate, I feel, given the subject matter. As I play, I start to feel a sense of clarity evolve in my mind of how each of these characters might behave.

I'm still nervous...but now I have tools. Halleliuah for tools!

Tomorrow at 6:00 am I'll hoist that trusty old violin on my back, don my favorite trenchcoat, and head for the bus.

Several hours later, I'll be back in this very office, undoubtedly amusing myself with some new task.

Who knows? Maybe even a new blog.

Climbing Up the Food Chain, One Restaurant at a Time

Today I started a new job.

Don't fret, I'm still a passionate and enthusiastic Morimoto employee...after all, how could I leave the Iron Chef hanging? I am too huge a Food Network fan to let that job go any time soon. (Note: I have not, as of yet, met or even seen Masaharu Morimoto, although he's been in the restaurant several times in the past week. I was of course downstairs in the dungeon at the time taking reservations...and most likely obsessively updating my blog. Bummer.)

Times being tough, I've spent the last three months looking for secondary employment and this week, at long last, I was offered a serving job. Halleluiah! I'm now a server at Tabla's Bread Bar, owned by Danny Meyer's Union Square Hospitality Group. Hooray! Today I went in to fill out paperwork and do a kitchen trail, which meant gearing up in chef's jacket and baggy pants and hanging out behind the line sampling all the yummy food. Total bliss. And it's an Indian restaurant, which made the experience even more exciting, since my knowledge of Indian food is very limited. I enjoyed myself enormously, although the intense, exotic spices have been doing a number on my digestive system for the past few hours.

(By the way, there is totally a section in the employee handbook about blogging. I write this evening with this passage looming over my head: "It has become a common practice in our current society to use blogging as an outlet for our thoughts and experiences. Employees are to exercise caution when blogging about the restaurant and to always disclaim that the opinions expressed in one's blog are personal opinions that are in no way shared or endorsed by the company." To paraphrase. I shit you not. I'm a rebel without a cause!)

At some point in the evening, it dawned on me that the Bread Bar is no less than the eighth restaurant that has employeed me. Eight restaurants! As follows:

1. Cosi in Rittenhouse Sqaure, as a host and then server
2. Chili's Center City, by the convention center, as a host (for six weeks) and then server (for two very long years)
3. City Tavern (host...for three months. That's all I could handle.)
4. Jones (host, for 5 months)
5. Beacon (host...my first New York City restaurant job)
6. Lunetta (server, on and off for 10 months)
7. Morimoto (yay!)
8. Tabla's Bread Bar

Last night at Morimoto, one of the hosts who has been with the restaurant since it opened remarked to me that I've been doing a very good job on the floor. "We've definitely noticed. And the managers notice, too" says Aneesa sweetly. She's one of my favorites, this gorgeous girl who looks exactly like an Indian version of Keira Knightley. She's smart too, and very friendly, unlike some of the whiny divas (both male and female) I share the host podium with. "You remind me of me on the floor!" I laughed gaily and affably, then a moment later wanted to shout out: "Well, of course! I have more restaurant experience than all the hosts put together! Eight restaurants in five years!" Of course, I didn't say a word. Humility is a virtue, after all, and biting one's tounge is a necessary part of maintaining one's star status. I'm not actually bitter. Just overqualified. And I love this job, so I see nothing to gain from being sassy just because I can. Plus, again, I really like Aneesa. She's very genuine.

Anyway.

The restaurant biz is like a parasite in my life. It snuck in stealthily, without causing a commotion. Just a temporary fix to help me pay my college tuition. Then it nestled itself deep inside my stomach and waited for me to feed it. Every time I switched to a new job, or added a job, it fed on my withering soul, eating up all my creative impulses and all my physical energy. It grew bigger as it gorged itself on my life. I spent summers in the dark depths of Chili's serving enormous fatty burgers and Awesome Blossoms (which in and of itself is more calories than one should have in an entire day...2300 calories, people! I feel it's my duty to warn the masses...I cannot in good faith allow anyone I know personally to order such a gluttenous travesty) to fat, tan suburban families, visiting the city on their way to the shore for the weekend. The parasite inside me fed on french fries and the greasy dollar bills I pocketed each evening, eating and eating as I fed it more and more of my time, my energy, my youth, and never being satisfied, never fattening up my bank account, only processing my days in a never-ending black hole of desperate financial necessity. Look, I'm a smart and capable person. I know I could have had many other more fulfilling day jobs. But I chose to continue working in restaurants year after year specifically because I hated it with every fibre of my being. I knew I could never get stuck in a job that always seemed so disposable. I'd never feel guilty having to leave when lightening struck and I booked the big acting gig I'd been slaving away waiting for all those years.

Well, things have changed. And I'm not sure how I feel about it.

It was different when I was carrying enormous bowls of coffee at Cosi for $2.83 an hour and barely making enough in tips to pay my cell phone bill every month and buy new black work clothes when the old ones fell apart on my back. Of course I hated Chili's where even the salads tasted greasy, and people sitting in the lounge blew cigarette smoke in my face when I brought them that third ramekin of ranch dressing, and obese families racked up a $150 bill each ordering their own appetizer, full rack of ribs and their own friggin' Molten Chocolate Cake and then left me $2 in change. Or City Tavern, the three-star restaurant I hosted at one summer, where all the employees dressed up as colonial servants and served the type of fare our founding fathers once ate and the general manager was a coke addict who took shots of tequila out of the host stand throughout the shift and whose met his dealer out back with cash he borrowed from the register. I mean, come on. The people who get stuck working in those places are alcoholic bottom-dwellers, money-hungry lowlifes who got stuck in their adolescence and are too fucking depressed to see a way out, and too lazy to even look. Of course I'd never be one of those people. I think I always prided myself, on some level, on being better than my coworkers. I had passion and determination and spirit that was never going to be killed. I had self-esteem, for crying out loud, not to mention talent and intelligence self-control. I was more responsible at 19 than my mangers were in their forties.

When I started working for Stephen Starr's company in Philadelphia, the Starr Restaurant Organization, my view of the restaurant biz started to change. Here was a company that pretty much ruled the restaurant scene in Philadelphia, with 10 restaurants around the scene, each more beautifully designed and trendier than the last. This was my introduction to concept dining, from the inside. It's a cosmopolitan dream in a most accessible way...Philadelphia is nothing if not an accessible city. Creative cocktails, exquisitely flattering lighting, beautiful and delicious food, and an equally beautiful staff at every restaurant. I'd never worked more tragially hip people. Everyone had an interesting story to tell. And I'd never met people who cared so passionately about hospitality. Now, Jones is an extremely casual atmosphere (it's upscale comfort food, after all...you couldn't ask people to eat fried chicken and waffles in a suit and tie) so the transition from family dining was easy for me. It was nothing compared to the kind of service I'd learn about when I got to New York.

Beacon was the second easiest job I've ever gotten. (Morimoto was the first...I walked in, filled out an application, was hired on the spot and started training that evening.) I found Beacon on craigslist, emailed a resume, got a phone call forty-five minutes later, had an interview the following week, and started the day after the interview. Melissa, the GM, used to work for SRO in New York, and I'm convinced that made her favor me. After all, there were thousands of actresses and models in NYC that were way more beautiful than me who she could have hired--one of their hostesses was a Miss New York 2007 and another was a model who appeared on the first season of Project Runway. But I'm pretty damn smart and charming, so I guess that sealed the deal for me. Once hired, I was expected to look "sexy and chic" every day, always in heels. I was incredibly insecure about my wardrobe for months, especially since I was just starting to transition to the impeccably chic street-style that is the norm in New York. But I learned a lot quickly about fine dining hospitality--most importantly, how to handle rich old ladies from family money who wore chinchilla furs and had the most inflated sense of entitlement I'd ever witnessed. I knew people like that must exist, but I'd never met them in person before. Although $13.00 and hour was far more than I'd ever made hosting before, I was flat broke and in tons of debt (funny how little changes in a year) and so I took on the second restaurant job, at Lunetta.

The Saga of Lunetta is really a story for another day, it's so long and rich with incredibly outrageous stories of all kinds. For now, I'll simply say that for a while it was a God-send of a job (well, an Elyse-send...my most charming friend Elyse Ault hooked me up with the gig by talking me up to the entire staff and telling them the most likeable anecdotes about me she had from college), but when I left for Philly, I wasn't the least bit sad to go. It was time. I knew it in my gut. Three months later, back in New York and more broke than ever, I went back for a short time, until I almost got fired (see "When It's Time to Change, You've Got to Rearrange", August) and quit instead.

I'm certain that it's no coincidence I ended up at Morimoto. As previously mentioned, I'm obsessed with Iron Chef America and I can't really explain why. I don't know much about cooking, I have no culinary aspirations whatsoever. I have, however, always admired the creative nature of cooking. What they do on Iron Chef America is art. Coupled with brilliantly devised entertainment. Kitchen Stadium? Come on, that's golden. Let's combine competitive sports with food! It's that combination that America was built on, after all! No wonder people love the Food Network. My friend Jamison once told me that he has a theory that the Food Network is like porn for the pallate. There are a wide variety of fetishes to choose from: the Girl Next Door (Rachael Ray), the Foreign Sex Goddess (Giada De Laurentiis), the Big Deep-Fried Southern Momma (Paula Dean), the Italian Stallion (Emeril Lagasse... and Mario Batali, for that matter), the Big Man on Campus (Bobby Flay), the Sugar Daddy (Marc Summers) and so on and so forth.

I was watching Food Network Unwrapped the other night, where Marc Summers was going behind the scenes of the Food Network's hottest shows. Watching him behind the scenes on Iron Chef America was the most titillating TV I'd seen all week, and suddenly a strange, foreign thought popped into my head: I think I'd love working for the Food Network. Not even as a personality ('cause God knows, I'm nothing special in the kitchen), but, like, in production or something. I mean, seriously. And the thought didn't seem far-fetched. After all, I currently work in Chelsea Market, in the same building where the Food Network shoots. Iron Chef America shoots upstairs. I could be a PA or something. And it would combine both of my careers: food service, and entertainment.

Wait, what am I thinking??? I'm an artist, not an entertainer! Granted, the two cross paths very frequently, but I've always thought as a performer the minute you lose sight of art you become merely an audience whore, exploiting your talents to pay the bills. I sure as hell want to pay the bills, but I want to move and inspire people as well! I also want to write, direct, teach, paint, sculpt...I want to make a difference in the world, contribute to society in a way that improves everyone's quality of living, help people. I don't have time for a second career! I can't be developing an interest in service!

I think the root of this little thought started last Thursday when I met Joe, my old manager from Beacon for a drink after he got off work. Joe was always my favorite--he's a 24 year old restaurant prodigy, a former captain who got promoted to sommelier and then to manager. He also happens to be absolutely adorable. He's this petite little Italian-Irish New York native with a boyish grin who darts around the restaurant with a seemingly endless amount of energy in these dapper little three-piece suits, charming the pants off of everyone he meets (including me...pants are still on so far, but here's hoping.) We used to open the restaurant on Sunday mornings together, and he's been promising to take me out for a drink since January. When we finally did, we had a fantastic time, and I learned all kinds of interesting things about him, like that he went to culinary school in Paris and is planning on opening his own restaurant...and soon. "I have an interested investor already" he says. I swooned--and started to understand that for some people, hospitality and food are a passion, not so different from my passion for art and theater. Both fields are about bringing people together, celebrating the amazing phenomenon of human existence, the joy of life and family and community. This was an idea I'd never been able to understand before I really started to climb the ladder of the restaurant industry, which in New York is truly one of the most celebrated, high-profile industries one can conquer. No wonder the star-fucker trust-fund baby owner of Lunetta decided to pour his inheritance into a restaurant--opening a new restaurant is the quickest way to get New York to notice and (hopefully) revere you.

Never in my life did I ever think I'd be actually considering a career in the food service industry. But here I am, my imagination wandering...I'm a damn good employee at Morimoto. The managers love me. There's definitely possibility of advancement within the company...I could be promoted to Maitre 'D, Manager, maybe a nice job in the corporate office...it would be so much easier, so much more straightfoward than achieving success as an actor...

Of course I'm not actually suggesting that I might give up my theatrical ambitions. My heart and soul is in the theater, and it always will be. Sometimes I have to consicously stay away from it all because it hurts too much to go see an amazing play and wonder when my chance to be involved in such a feat will come. I feel the same way about watching fantastic film performances now, too. Deep down, I know I'm on the right path to wherever it is I'm supposed to go and that all the opportunities I want and need will come when it's time. In the meantime, I'm starting to find inspiration in my day job, my second unlikely and unwitting career, and that leads me to believe, again, that I didn't stumble into the world of hospitality by accident. There are things for me to learn here, too. Maybe it's the confidence I feel in my ability to charm the guests I greet on the phone or at the door and the higher-ups I work for, my confidence in my ability to climb the ladder...does this not sound like a kind of confidence I could apply to my artistic pursuits? Or maybe it's cultivating a love for the uniting power of food and wine, the way a good meal can bring people together over all kinds of circumstances. Maybe still it's developing a respect for the different passions and ambitions people can have, and understanding that one of the cornerstones of a good relationship is respecting and admiring each other's passions.

Who knows? At the very least, I'm getting lots of free food.

And certainly, there's nothing wrong with that.

I Blog at the Laundromat (After Some Technical Difficulty)

I love blogging. There, I said it. I'm officially hooked. Furthermore, I love my Palm Centro cell phone extraordinaire. Finally, I love the laundromat. Now blogspot.com has allowed me to combine these great loves of mine in one blissful feat of technology. What could be sweeter?

Yes, I love the laundromat. It's like a sanctuary to me. Going to the laundromat means I've managed to fit three full hours of downtime into my stupid schedule. I love being hypnotized by the spinning machines, being soothed by the soft hum of the dryer and it tosses my clothes in a snuggly warm, Bounty-fresh embrace. I love folding my clothes while listening to Spanish telenovellas on TV. I feel at peace at the laundromat, like I'm finally starting to get my life in order.

Of course, three weeks later, I inevitably find myself once again out of clean underwear, work clothes tossed in a smelly heap on the floor after being worn to the absolute max, and helplessly trying to race home from work in time to get to the laundromat before it closes.

It's the circle of life. We eat, sleep, go to work, pay taxes and do our laundry.

I am transfixed by life's little routines. I want to create a series of theatrical performance installations that explore these routines. One will be set in an actual laundromat, real laundry-goers and audience members mingling, some there for art and some for function. The piece will focus on the different garments and cleansing methods of choice that each "performer" exhibits. One will be set in a grocery store, where "performers" shop alongside non-performers, audience members gathered in the aisles, or following the "performers" as they select items to add to their carts.

What can we tell about someone from their laundry? From their choice of groceries?

Time to go...the dryer's done.

Success and the City: How I Plan to Procrastinate My Way to the Top

As every twenty-something New Yorker inevitably must at some point, I find myself presently broke and almost entirely free of commitment. Luckily, I have at my disposal a large TV, DVR and an impressive DVD collection belonging to my friend Alex, whose bedroom I'm currently subletting. Amongst the many teenybopper flicks she has shamelessly displayed on her shelf (She's All That? Seriously?), I find gold: Planet Earth, the first two seasons of Grey's Anatomy, and boxed collections of the entire series of Gilmore Girls, Family Guy and Sex and the City.

TV shows on DVD are my absolute greatest weakness, greater than fashion magazines (which I hoard in great stacks), grilled cheese and avocado sandwiches (eaten regularly at 4:00 am), and cheap plastic jewlery from Forever 21 (that breaks easily and quickly thus necessitating frequent purchasing). TV shows on DVD could absolutely lead to my complete demise. For most of my life, I've lived without cable. My mother doesn't believe in cable and thus hasn't ever had it in the 14 years since she and my dad divorced. When I moved away for college, I sure as hell couldn't afford cable--though I did have one blissful albeit academically unproductive semester when a roommate's parents paid for it until she dropped out and moved back home--and having gotten used to not having it as an option, it always seemed like an unnecessary luxury. I'd rather be able to afford to eat at restaurants and go to the theater.

Sufficed to say, I got into most of the my favorite TV shows (as listed on my Facebook profile) via the glory of DVD, then taken to a new level by the advent of Netflix.

Netflix has totally enabled my TV show on DVD addiction. It's like being a coke addict and having a drug dealer boyfriend. Netflix is all, "Come on...I've got the stuff right here. It's so convenient...you know you want it." The next thing I know I haven't left the house in two days because I've been holed up watching the entire first season of Weeds...episode, after episode, after episode.

The year Molly and I were in sophomore acting studio together, taking Meisner technique classes three times a week and crying our eyes out pretty much every day, we watched the entire series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Starting in the fall, watching episodes whenever we had shared free time. The extreme teenage angst coupled with monsters-and-demons intensity was the perfect outlet for all of our raw emotional baggage that was oozing out of our acting studio wounds. It took us about a year-plus to get through the whole series...mostly because neither of us had the seventh and final season, until her mom gave it to me for my birthday.

Molly also owned the entire series of Friends, which we used to pop in the DVD player as a substitute for channel surfing. Yes, these shows on DVD ended my long-term period of television abstinence.

Though it didn't really start in college. When I was in high school, my mom started renting Sex and the City on VHS (remember VHS? My mother was definitely the last person in Canada, if not North America, to get a DVD player) and the two of us quickly became addicted. And this was after the show had already gone off the air!

SATC happens to be my all-time not-so-guilty pleasure. Whereas Buffy is near and dear to my heart but I constantly have to defend its integrity to the many naysayers who criticize my devotion to the show, SATC is more universally accepted and adored by girly girls, aspiring career women, and even some sheepish straight boys (while watching a disc of season two at the boys' house this spring, my temp-roommate Jake came downstairs, sat down on the couch next to me and after a few minutes mumbled "I hate to admit it, but I kind of like this show.")

Although I've seen every episode about 75 times, I've recently decided to start a casual marathon of the entire series. It's right there, at my disposal, after all.

Did I mention I'm broke? Not pathetic. Broke. Just to clarify.

Now, I love SATC, and like many twenty-something New York novices hoping to transition successfully into self-assured, experienced thirty-something New York career women, I frequently reference the show in everyday conversation with my girlfriends and gayfriends. But I must admit, as I grow up, I've developed a few beefs with the show. Not the usual judgments of the show that some people form just for the sake of being opinionated, despite having never seen a full episode: the characters are too promiscuous, Sarah Jessica Parker is obnoxious, Kristin Davis can't act (she gets better and better as the show goes on), etc. Molly bitches that "they're just horrible people. There's nothing redeeming about them" and I want to scream at her, "that's like saying every single one of our friends is a horrible person just because they drink too much and have casual sex occasionally!" Dude! It's the millennium, for crying out loud. And the show is not really about sex anyway. It's about relationships, the important ones that define our lives: your friends, your job, the city, sometimes romantic relationships, but that all of these are secondary to the most important relationship you can have, which is with yourself.

Anyway.

The thing is, I'm a little bitter about the effect the show has had on the women of my generation. See, the show isn't about us. It's about women in their thirties and forties. But my girlfriends and I all watched the show as teenagers and on some level we moved to New York expecting to fall into this glamorous world of fashion and parties and gorgeous men who would want to buy us cocktails. I didn't really expect any of these things to happen--but the possibility that they could was burned into my subconscious. The harsh reality is that the world of Sex and the City doesn't really exist...except for silver spoon-fed trust fund babies and socialites.

I was just reading an article about Candace Bushnell, the author of the novel Sex and the City on which the show is based, in October's issue of Elle magazine. She mentions how young women coming to New York don't realize that Carrie worked very hard in her twenties and early thirties to get where she ends up in her late thirties and early forties. You never get to see the years where she was where we are now: broke, living in shitty apartments and completely clueless as to how to get ahead financially, socially and professionally.

Now, I like to think of myself as being smarter than the average 22-year old. In conversations with my friends I've made the argument that young women don't understand or take into consideration that the iconic characters of SATC have worked very hard to get where they are. That's one of the things that I've always liked most about the show: these are career women. They are self-made and proud of that fact, with the exception of Charlotte who quits her gallery job when she gets married to the wealthy Trey. Not one of them came from money, however, and I respect that about the writing. In short, I get it. They worked hard. But aren't these tougher economic times? Isn't it harder for young women to get ahead these days? Haven't we become more jaded, haven't current socio-economic factors become even more challenging to cope with as a recent college graduate?

Determined to prove this point to myself, thus isolating and validating my own particular struggles, I do the math: if the show debuted in 1998 when Carrie is 32 (based on the fact that at the beginning of season 4 she turns 35), then she would have been 22 in 1988. I was a toddler in 1988 and have no way of remembering what the economy was like back then, so I do some quick Wikipedia research. Here's what I find out:

"On Black Monday of October 1987 a stock collapse of unprecedented size lopped 22.6 percent off the Dow Jones Industrial Average. The collapse, larger than that of 1929, was handled well by the economy and the stock market began to quickly recover. However the lumbering savings and loans were beginning to collapse, putting the savings of millions of Americans in jeopardy."


--Wikipedia, "Early 1990's Recession."

Hmmm.

From the New York Times last Friday:

"This is the worst financial-services crisis of our lifetime,” and Wall Street is its epicenter, said Robert N. Sloan, who heads the financial-services executive recruiting practice at Egon Zehnder International in Manhattan. “You have major firms that have imploded or are at risk of imploding. It is a deconstruction — and a reconstruction to follow — of the financial-services industry as we know it.”

--The New York Times, "As Financial Empires Shake, City Feels No. 2 on it's Heels"

Well, there you have it. The new millennium is just as financially shaky so far as the old one. I guess it's time to stop feeling sorry for myself and accept that success and stability in the real world, and especially in New York, takes time, patience and hard work.

Of course, patience has never been my strong point.

Maybe it would help if I turned off the TV.