Had the weirdest day yesterday. Had to go to a freelance gig in the morning and then a film audition in the afternoon. Cranky had to get up at 7am. Cranky is used to sleeping ‘til 8. Oh oh.
Actually left on time. But there was a set back when the line at Starbucks in Penn Station was out the door and into the station. Of course, I stood on it anyway, because even though they serve coffee at the freelance place, Cranky cannot drink just any coffee. What they serve my Italian mother used to call “dishwater.”
So ran down 8th Avenue with a Venti Starbucks that kept splashing out of the lid and kept trying to pass the man in front of me who was walking in a serpentine pattern who had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, while texting on his phone and walking at the same time. A poster boy for New York City. “Why do I have to share the sidewalk with this guy? Pick a lane Dude.” I thought.
Finally pass him and get there on time. Was delighted when I arrived to receive multiple compliments on my new haircut. Cranky mood improves considerably. This is big for me. You have to understand, that along with the search for happiness, stability, and the meaning of life, the life long quest for the perfect hairdo has been foremost on the life to do list. Something I thought I might never achieve. The curse of having two heads of Irish/Italian hair on one scalp. Way way too much hair that most haridressers are not equipped to deal with. Cranky has been to celebrity hairdressers even. Didn’t help. There have been times when people asked me what I’ve been doing lately and I’ve answered with, “Growing out my last bad haircut.”
When I go to lunch at a Greek diner with a friend and co-worker after freelance workshop, the minute we sit down, a platinum blond lesbian who is on her way out bends over and whispers in my ear in a deep husky voice, “I have to tell you, you’re a very attractive woman.” Then five minutes later, a lone man on his way out passes by our table and says, “ I’ve been staring at you. You have the most amazing eyes.” He is apparently gay also, which gives the compliment even more clout in my book. We are in Chelsea after all. Now I’m thinking of sending my hairdresser a bonus check. When we get the check I stand up and yell in a Brooklyn accent (for effect), “EXCUSE ME! BEFORE I LEAVE DOES ANYBODY ELSE WANNA GIVE ME A COMPLIMENT?” Only kidding. Only kidding. It was a fluke. And the universe sent it before I went to the audition so I wouldn’t like jump in the Hudson when it was over.
I have to walk to the meatpacking district in my high heel boots, which are not cobblestone friendly. I find the place, and it is a super trendy modern frenetic commercial casting house. Three irritated people are manning the front desk. They are throwing actors against a wall and snapping pictures, which are simultaneously spewing out of a printer. Everyone in the Meatpacking District thinks they are better than everyone else in Manhattan.
This place has a totally different vibe from the quiet serious film auditions I usually go to. They have written the sides on a board with magic marker. You have to use those and not hold the script. Huh?
The Polaroids and the board sides are what they do in commercial auditions when you have three idiotic lines.
I go in there, and they have me stand like a mannequin and read with another actress. They want us to cheat out and not face each other. Everything feels wrong wrong wrong. I’m used to a reader, a chair, and a script in my hand. I let it all throw me, and I pretty much suck.
To make matters worse, I have kinda learned the lines, and the actress I’m reading with said she hasn’t even had a chance to read it, so she improvises all over the place and I am trying to follow her and say lines from the script which in retrospect was stupid on my part. It was BAAAAD. But you get these results from a crap set up. It is the standard to audition actors separately with a reader so they are not depending on what the other auditioner is doing or not doing. I could not do my work. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I hobble out into the cobblestone street and back to subway. When I reach home, I have to lie on the couch and watch “Wife Swap” reruns to recover.
Certainly a come down after the Greek diner, huh?