Today's not the day to bring Joanna the wrong flavor of cream cheese on her toasted cinnamon raisin bagel but, guess what, I'm human and it happens and - hey maybe we ran out of whipped dill, did you ever think of that? - but anyway, more importantly, she's sort of forgotten about it by now so let's all do Brian a favor and pretend this paragraph doesn't exist. Cool? Awesome.
Jo and I wake up jubilant and refreshed and get started on what I'm almost 90% sure is the right foot. Both of us. The right feet.
Nearing our rehearsal space and shooting location, Joanna spots a 7-Eleven and goes Ooo-ooo-ooo and hollers what may very well have been Stop there Jeeves and asks that I retrieve her a pot of coffee. When I approach the cash register, the clerk cries conspiracy and barks something in Farsi and insists that a coffee pot's worth of coffee is not a valid 7-Eleven menu item. As a twisted and time-sucking compromise, he demands that I pour the pot into the appropriate amount of breakfast coffee cups until it's empty, and then - 17 and 3/4 cups later - he's charging me for 17-3/4 cups plus $15 for the coffee pot itself. $30 later, passing the pot to Jo in the backseat, I pretend she doesn't ask This is decaf, right?
The space we're shooting in is an unused courtyard at the rear end of a Silverlake pre-K and elementary school. Maggie and Matthew (also recently relocated New Yorkers), who are both starring in and producing the video, beat us to the set and are found wandering idly about the rundown block of cement with LA-appropriate sunglasses and arms akimbo. This music video will promote Matthew's new single - Goodbye - on his most recent EP - The Goodbye EP - or at least that's the idea.
In minutes I find that I too am wandering about the space: the gated entrance to the north; wheelbarrows and mounds of dirt to the east; a cement wall topped with tall green pine-ish trees to the west; and at the south end, a 3' high stage, complete with an aluminum overhang, non-working electrical outlets and a bizarre assortment of Christmas decorations in dilapidated cardboard boxes, Halloween-related banners, wooden doors, glass panels, children's clothing, bike helmets, and a living room-worth of furniture that the Goodwill would downright refuse.
Joanna stands in the center of the courtyard, taps her cane three times on the ground and goes, Here, so I fetch the ventilated canopy from the trunk of the Hummer limo we've rented for the day and set it up in the designated spot. I tell her that her caprese salad will be delivered at 11:30AM on the nose and that the restaurant didn't know how to make an Arnold Palmer but I've ordered her an iced tea and I've made a batch of hand-squeezed lemonade so we'll make it in-house and she seems "o-k" with that.
The premise of the video is that Maggie - Matthew's wife in real life and his muse in the world of the film - is supplying Matthew's words/lyrics for him. He tries to introduce himself, begin a conversation, get this mysterious woman's name, but he can't seem to grab her attention. He brings on an assortment of props to assist in his efforts; when that doesn't work, he shifts gears from props to production value, bringing on various circus acts to impress her, but it's no use. Matthew's efforts backfire as the stage becomes a virtual circus and the swarm of people he hoped would assist him are now trampling him...
...and you'll have to wait for the video's premiere to find out what happens.
I scan the crap furniture hoarded beneath the ridged aluminum sheets and select the pink and cream paisley couch - without a doubt the crappiest of them all - and we lug it down the rusted steps, off the stage and into the frame, and the crew huddles around to see how it looks in the monitor and we all go Ooo. This is where Maggie and Matthew meet at the beginning - in this very artistic-looking alleyway - and the couch is sort of the centerpiece of the video, albeit dusty and potentially diseased...
...but let's just keep the whole "Maggie and Matthew" thing between you and me, cause Joanna - don't ask me why - insists on referring to them as Zucko and Sandy for the entirety of the project. It's all "Zucko does this" and "Sandy feels this way about it" and god forbid someone call them by their actual names cause she might just throw a stick at them but, seriously though, I didn't even know she liked musicals...
The rehearsal is more productive than we could have hoped and we all celebrate with warm water bottles and sweaty high-fives. Most of the crew departs at this point, but Joanna and Zucko (::cringe::) and I stick around to audition some cheerleaders, ballerinas and football players. Joanna has the talent stand on hollow blocks and recite this monologue she downloaded from moviescripts.com. You might remember it. It's the one where Lieutenant Dan pulls Forrest down onto the floor of the barracks roundabout midnight and tells him that he was supposed to die in the heat of battle.
Needless to say, the majority of the actors have trouble connecting to the piece, which Joanna blames almost 100% on saturated fats and, while I'm sure that that does play some part in the lack of connection, you kinda gotta blame it on the fact that the scene's a tiny bit intense for a music video audition, but whatever, you didn't hear it from me, but Joanna's pleased with Girls A, D and F and Guys 3 and 4 and casts them on the spot. We pack up our things and the leftover pizza and we're on our way.
I filled up the tank this morning but the Hummer's already down to a quarter so I stop at the 7-Eleven pumps to refill on gas. From the backseat I hear an Ooo-ooo-ooo and of course I know what that means - Wild Cherry Slurpee - but she wants it with crushed up oreos and a real spoon, not a plastic spoon, but like real friggin' china.
p.s. If you know anything at all about Joanna and/or her direction, you also know that I can tease her like I do because she's the most good-natured, kind, unimposing director you'll ever meet. Even with the whole scraggly beard slash Che Guevara thing she has going on these days, I still have to push her to take charge. Just FYI.
Tune in ... uh, some other time ... when we rock Part Two of the kid makes a movie. Oh, and did we mention that the whole video is shot in one take?
Okay, so listen, Joanna totally told me to write that thing about the "good-natured," "unimposing" blah blah blah. I'm kinda borderline thinking I'm not gonna make it out of this stupid video in one piece, so let's --
hold on
oh, here she comes, i gotta go crap okay bye
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
Altitude-inspired stream of unconsciousness
THE WEDNESDAY BEFORE THE LAST ONE
It’s like a week ago and here I am, past the frills and thrills of checkpoints and 3 oz. baggies, now onboard and safe and secured and it so happens there’s this blonde, too-muscular woman on the plane who – random coincidence – will be on the same returning flight that I’ll be on in a week; but for the time being she’s in the seat directly behind mine – 19F – stowing her purse and buckling her buckle and clearing her throat, and I can be sure that it’s her because the throat-clearing is rather muscular.
The stewardess bestows upon me a warm pizza in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag and, although I can think of no greater pleasure than pizza packaged in plastic, I do hesitate, then consider, then waver, then gesture like this (::gesture::), and then decide,
“Yes, and a pitcher of thee finest brew, wench.”
I sit there, de-packaging the pizza, savoring this dark Continental lager, thinking about my life. I have a brief conversation with myself about how I might improve said life and then move on to a game of Backgammon on my personalized TV. I’ve never played Backgammon – certainly not touch-screen backgammon, which I hear is infinitely more difficult – but the window seat brings me confidence and I’m up for the challenge. I register as ACE McGEE and battle it out with JOSE M in First Class. JOSE M has clearly played the game before and dominates for eight merciless rounds. He forfeits the ninth match, giving his full attention to his Bourbon Highball and the small, Filipino masseuse who makes the rounds through the First Class cabin, and I take this to mean that I win.
JOSE M and the Filipino and the muscular broad in 19F and the rest of the passengers and I deplane in a mad rush when we arrive at Newark. Three escalators later and we’re at baggage carousel #3, a pool of black sedan drivers in tattered suits hovering under the sign that reads Ground Transportation. I grab a bag I believe to be mine, hop on an unnamed shuttle bus with a leprechaun painted on its exterior, pay the man with the extended hand and tell the driver as we pull out of one world and into another, “Wow, kind of feels like home.”
LAST THURSDAY
Today’s Thursday and that means Moving Day. Jo and I are up and at ‘em with buttered bagels and chocolate coffee concoctions. We head to our old stomping grounds with what feels like a skip in my step but is actually just a large pebble lodged between my middle toe and the tip of my shoe.
That fresh lobby stench of rats and feces has disappeared, replaced by the welcoming odor of improvement. Joanna and our super pal Gill and I climb the stairs we’ve climbed oh like millions of times, reflecting, reminiscing – “Remember when I almost tripped here?” – ascending to the fourth floor of 128 Montague, where we are met by everything we own. Indeed, the entirety of our Brooklyn possessions are stacked yea high in the hall outside our old East Coast pad. We sigh and stomp and piss and moan – “$%&@!” – before tackling the stack as only three bright, goal-oriented individuals with Bachelors of Fine Arts could. The hallway’s like oh I-don’t-know like a thousand degrees but so be it. We tell jokes; we share stories; we fry eggs on our heads and hyperventilate and goshdarnit we make the best of it. Our subletters gave us lemons and we made lemon half-chicken in mash with mixed greens.
After donating a horrid sushi plate I once painted and $900 worth of semi-reusable items to the neighboring Housing Works storefront, I tuck our tax receipt in my jean pocket and pack the car full o’ stuff. I know I’ve done a fine job because – when I get into the driver’s seat and attempt to drive – I can’t see a damn thing.
Gill (our Moving Day motivator) takes home a like-new chalkboard and a modish DVD rack and leftover dish detergent as tokens of thanks. Jo and I pack the remaining items into 22 somewhat-manageable boxes and bags, marked with corresponding numbers and letters and the words Hollywood or Bust.
(Feeling literal and a tad superstitious, Joanna snatched the black permanent marker from my hand, scratched out the words or Bust and preceded the word Hollywood with PLEASE nobody steal this box because it’s urgently needed in…)
LAST FRIDAY
The Express Shipping dock at the Newark Amtrak station is deserted save for two truckers who bicker over the contents of the latest Martha Stewart Living magazine. Jo and I unload our goodies onto a rusted, metal pushcart and confer with the Amtrak representative, who later directs our cart of treasures to a large scale built into the ground and my first thought, obviously, is Why don’t we have one of these at home?
The load comes in at around 500 lbs, give or take a ton. Jo fills out the paperwork while I “man” the car and help resolve a Martha Stewart related bet (the original Waldorf salad was, in fact, dressed with mayonnaise), and in the end we pay a little over $275 to ship 22 mislabeled boxes of books and bed sheets across the United States.
We spend the afternoon in the company of David Beahm Design and the evening in the company of friends at our old watering hole. After three tall whiskey sours I come to the sad realization that my dinner – a roasted turkey sandwich – was not roasted to perfection and, sitting in the chic, downstairs lounge at Union Square’s Coffee Shop restaurant, paranoia sets in. An attempt to focus my attention on the TV screens across the room is a total failure. I pick at something chocolate-y and chug ice water and ask someone who’s not the waitress for our bill and try not to alarm Kelly and Howie (our gracious hosts for the week) who sit across the table and whisper, “Isn’t he Irish?”
THIS PAST SATURDAY
Blocking out the horrific events of last night doesn’t seem likely – a daredevil cab driver with a need for a speed; crouching down on the sidewalk outside Kelly & Howie’s Brooklyn apartment; and clutching the lid of a bedside trash can – so I sip a rejuvenating Vitamin Water that I can’t actually taste and swear that I’ll never eat at “Unnamed Brooklyn Café Chain” ever again.
Despite the food poisoning and a mild hangover, Jo and I snap headshots in the old Dumbo studio and then hustle to midtown to shoot two David Beahm weddings: the first at the luxurious St. Regis Hotel and the other at Ciprani 42nd Street. By the end of the night we’re downright exhausted and we collapse on the couch with a pint of mango sorbet, clicker in hand, watching everything and nothing at the same time.
SUNDAY
Joanna recovers from a severe lack of sleep before we venture to Central Park’s Great Lawn for Lauren's scorching birthday picnic. The surrounding gunshots and general hoopla are the product of the notorious Puerto Rican Day Parade, but my Hispanic heritage grants us safe passage. Seated on multi-colored bed linens on the parched grass, we munch on homemade, white bread turkey and mayo sandwiches, play card games and toss around a hot Frisbee until a third partygoer collapses from heat stroke, at which point we decide it’s best to go.
Joanna joins her former boss (photographer Kathi Littwin) for dinner while I sit in a Boerum Hill Starbucks, peeking at yesterday’s headshots and witnessing a transformer explosion that eventually leads to a five-block blackout. Jo retrieves me from the blackened coffee shop and we accompany Kelly & Howie in Union Square to watch the Celtics clobber the Lakers in the second game of the series.
MONDAY
Joanna and gal pals enjoy a midday shopping spree while I kill time on a stroll through Brooklyn Heights, stopping at my favorite deli (Lassen & Hennigs on Montague) for a Pierrepont sandwich. We meet up again for coffee with our friend Ande and then head to Hell’s Kitchen for dinner at David Beahm’s smashing new apartment.
His bachelor pad comes complete with a swarm of leather armchairs and sofas that he purchased at wholesale prices and a sprawling terrace with an Ikea canopy bed and a view that could best be described as “wow.” We sip Brooklyn-brewed beers (Brian) and lime-accented cocktails (Jo) with David and Christina, talking shop and devouring hummus, goat cheese and Triscuits. Downstairs, at the neighborhood Greek restaurant, we are treated to an enthusiastic set of swinging Greek jazz and mistake a very unattractive woman for a washed-up celebrity.
The evening ends as every evening should – stretching out on the canopy bed on the penthouse terrace, looking out over the metropolis, over the ups and downs, the flourishing towers and trembling tenement buildings of a city too good to be true, and we bid New York a premature farewell.
TUESDAY
Joanna meets up with our old pal Teresa to purchase a wonderful painting of hers that will bring some much-needed Feng Shui to our new LA apartment. Meanwhile, I prepare for this afternoon’s play reading as only I know how – by spending the morning on the vacant third tier at the Chelsea Piers driving range. Looking out over the Hudson River and the banks of New Jersey, whacking at the little white globes and sending them soaring into the surrounding nets, my first thought (obviously) is, Why don’t we have one of these at home?
We hit up separate Crunch gyms for a quick workout before meeting up at the Snapple Theatre on 50th Street and Broadway. My fellow Irish Curse readers include Roderick Hill (who, like me, originated his role in the original Fringe Festival production), Patrick Boll (who participated in last reading), New York actor John Hillner and TV/film actor Dan Butler (pictured here).
The reading goes incredibly well and, although we didn’t have the attendance we were hoping for, Marty and the producers are beyond optimistic, and the lot of us head downstairs to a token Times Square Irish pub to snack on sliders, cleanse our palettes and admire our waitress’ hard Irish brogue.
We wrap up our New York tour at Kelly & Howie’s place, picking at sushi combination plates and shuddering under the incessant howl of a Brooklyn hailstorm.
WEDNESDAY
Today is Wednesday and that means it’s time to leave, which we do. We pack our things and weigh our baggage (“45 pounds! Yes!”) and get to our respective airports on time. I sit there on the plane, my buckle buckled, laptop in lap, the too-muscular blonde clearing her throat only two rows back, and because we’ll be circling on the ground for the next hour and a half, I have plenty of time to sit here and think about my life.
Unable to come to any particularly interesting conclusions, I shut the laptop down and shut my eyes and leave one world and wake up in another.
---
We'd like to dedicate this particular blog to Kelly and Howie and their spare bedroom, and we're sorry that some guy backed into your car when I was driving it.
love,
bri (&jo)
It’s like a week ago and here I am, past the frills and thrills of checkpoints and 3 oz. baggies, now onboard and safe and secured and it so happens there’s this blonde, too-muscular woman on the plane who – random coincidence – will be on the same returning flight that I’ll be on in a week; but for the time being she’s in the seat directly behind mine – 19F – stowing her purse and buckling her buckle and clearing her throat, and I can be sure that it’s her because the throat-clearing is rather muscular.
The stewardess bestows upon me a warm pizza in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag and, although I can think of no greater pleasure than pizza packaged in plastic, I do hesitate, then consider, then waver, then gesture like this (::gesture::), and then decide,
“Yes, and a pitcher of thee finest brew, wench.”
I sit there, de-packaging the pizza, savoring this dark Continental lager, thinking about my life. I have a brief conversation with myself about how I might improve said life and then move on to a game of Backgammon on my personalized TV. I’ve never played Backgammon – certainly not touch-screen backgammon, which I hear is infinitely more difficult – but the window seat brings me confidence and I’m up for the challenge. I register as ACE McGEE and battle it out with JOSE M in First Class. JOSE M has clearly played the game before and dominates for eight merciless rounds. He forfeits the ninth match, giving his full attention to his Bourbon Highball and the small, Filipino masseuse who makes the rounds through the First Class cabin, and I take this to mean that I win.
JOSE M and the Filipino and the muscular broad in 19F and the rest of the passengers and I deplane in a mad rush when we arrive at Newark. Three escalators later and we’re at baggage carousel #3, a pool of black sedan drivers in tattered suits hovering under the sign that reads Ground Transportation. I grab a bag I believe to be mine, hop on an unnamed shuttle bus with a leprechaun painted on its exterior, pay the man with the extended hand and tell the driver as we pull out of one world and into another, “Wow, kind of feels like home.”
LAST THURSDAY
Today’s Thursday and that means Moving Day. Jo and I are up and at ‘em with buttered bagels and chocolate coffee concoctions. We head to our old stomping grounds with what feels like a skip in my step but is actually just a large pebble lodged between my middle toe and the tip of my shoe.
That fresh lobby stench of rats and feces has disappeared, replaced by the welcoming odor of improvement. Joanna and our super pal Gill and I climb the stairs we’ve climbed oh like millions of times, reflecting, reminiscing – “Remember when I almost tripped here?” – ascending to the fourth floor of 128 Montague, where we are met by everything we own. Indeed, the entirety of our Brooklyn possessions are stacked yea high in the hall outside our old East Coast pad. We sigh and stomp and piss and moan – “$%&@!” – before tackling the stack as only three bright, goal-oriented individuals with Bachelors of Fine Arts could. The hallway’s like oh I-don’t-know like a thousand degrees but so be it. We tell jokes; we share stories; we fry eggs on our heads and hyperventilate and goshdarnit we make the best of it. Our subletters gave us lemons and we made lemon half-chicken in mash with mixed greens.
After donating a horrid sushi plate I once painted and $900 worth of semi-reusable items to the neighboring Housing Works storefront, I tuck our tax receipt in my jean pocket and pack the car full o’ stuff. I know I’ve done a fine job because – when I get into the driver’s seat and attempt to drive – I can’t see a damn thing.
Gill (our Moving Day motivator) takes home a like-new chalkboard and a modish DVD rack and leftover dish detergent as tokens of thanks. Jo and I pack the remaining items into 22 somewhat-manageable boxes and bags, marked with corresponding numbers and letters and the words Hollywood or Bust.
(Feeling literal and a tad superstitious, Joanna snatched the black permanent marker from my hand, scratched out the words or Bust and preceded the word Hollywood with PLEASE nobody steal this box because it’s urgently needed in…)
LAST FRIDAY
The Express Shipping dock at the Newark Amtrak station is deserted save for two truckers who bicker over the contents of the latest Martha Stewart Living magazine. Jo and I unload our goodies onto a rusted, metal pushcart and confer with the Amtrak representative, who later directs our cart of treasures to a large scale built into the ground and my first thought, obviously, is Why don’t we have one of these at home?
The load comes in at around 500 lbs, give or take a ton. Jo fills out the paperwork while I “man” the car and help resolve a Martha Stewart related bet (the original Waldorf salad was, in fact, dressed with mayonnaise), and in the end we pay a little over $275 to ship 22 mislabeled boxes of books and bed sheets across the United States.
We spend the afternoon in the company of David Beahm Design and the evening in the company of friends at our old watering hole. After three tall whiskey sours I come to the sad realization that my dinner – a roasted turkey sandwich – was not roasted to perfection and, sitting in the chic, downstairs lounge at Union Square’s Coffee Shop restaurant, paranoia sets in. An attempt to focus my attention on the TV screens across the room is a total failure. I pick at something chocolate-y and chug ice water and ask someone who’s not the waitress for our bill and try not to alarm Kelly and Howie (our gracious hosts for the week) who sit across the table and whisper, “Isn’t he Irish?”
THIS PAST SATURDAY
Blocking out the horrific events of last night doesn’t seem likely – a daredevil cab driver with a need for a speed; crouching down on the sidewalk outside Kelly & Howie’s Brooklyn apartment; and clutching the lid of a bedside trash can – so I sip a rejuvenating Vitamin Water that I can’t actually taste and swear that I’ll never eat at “Unnamed Brooklyn Café Chain” ever again.
Despite the food poisoning and a mild hangover, Jo and I snap headshots in the old Dumbo studio and then hustle to midtown to shoot two David Beahm weddings: the first at the luxurious St. Regis Hotel and the other at Ciprani 42nd Street. By the end of the night we’re downright exhausted and we collapse on the couch with a pint of mango sorbet, clicker in hand, watching everything and nothing at the same time.
SUNDAY
Joanna recovers from a severe lack of sleep before we venture to Central Park’s Great Lawn for Lauren's scorching birthday picnic. The surrounding gunshots and general hoopla are the product of the notorious Puerto Rican Day Parade, but my Hispanic heritage grants us safe passage. Seated on multi-colored bed linens on the parched grass, we munch on homemade, white bread turkey and mayo sandwiches, play card games and toss around a hot Frisbee until a third partygoer collapses from heat stroke, at which point we decide it’s best to go.
Joanna joins her former boss (photographer Kathi Littwin) for dinner while I sit in a Boerum Hill Starbucks, peeking at yesterday’s headshots and witnessing a transformer explosion that eventually leads to a five-block blackout. Jo retrieves me from the blackened coffee shop and we accompany Kelly & Howie in Union Square to watch the Celtics clobber the Lakers in the second game of the series.
MONDAY
Joanna and gal pals enjoy a midday shopping spree while I kill time on a stroll through Brooklyn Heights, stopping at my favorite deli (Lassen & Hennigs on Montague) for a Pierrepont sandwich. We meet up again for coffee with our friend Ande and then head to Hell’s Kitchen for dinner at David Beahm’s smashing new apartment.
His bachelor pad comes complete with a swarm of leather armchairs and sofas that he purchased at wholesale prices and a sprawling terrace with an Ikea canopy bed and a view that could best be described as “wow.” We sip Brooklyn-brewed beers (Brian) and lime-accented cocktails (Jo) with David and Christina, talking shop and devouring hummus, goat cheese and Triscuits. Downstairs, at the neighborhood Greek restaurant, we are treated to an enthusiastic set of swinging Greek jazz and mistake a very unattractive woman for a washed-up celebrity.
The evening ends as every evening should – stretching out on the canopy bed on the penthouse terrace, looking out over the metropolis, over the ups and downs, the flourishing towers and trembling tenement buildings of a city too good to be true, and we bid New York a premature farewell.
TUESDAY
Joanna meets up with our old pal Teresa to purchase a wonderful painting of hers that will bring some much-needed Feng Shui to our new LA apartment. Meanwhile, I prepare for this afternoon’s play reading as only I know how – by spending the morning on the vacant third tier at the Chelsea Piers driving range. Looking out over the Hudson River and the banks of New Jersey, whacking at the little white globes and sending them soaring into the surrounding nets, my first thought (obviously) is, Why don’t we have one of these at home?
We hit up separate Crunch gyms for a quick workout before meeting up at the Snapple Theatre on 50th Street and Broadway. My fellow Irish Curse readers include Roderick Hill (who, like me, originated his role in the original Fringe Festival production), Patrick Boll (who participated in last reading), New York actor John Hillner and TV/film actor Dan Butler (pictured here).
The reading goes incredibly well and, although we didn’t have the attendance we were hoping for, Marty and the producers are beyond optimistic, and the lot of us head downstairs to a token Times Square Irish pub to snack on sliders, cleanse our palettes and admire our waitress’ hard Irish brogue.
We wrap up our New York tour at Kelly & Howie’s place, picking at sushi combination plates and shuddering under the incessant howl of a Brooklyn hailstorm.
WEDNESDAY
Today is Wednesday and that means it’s time to leave, which we do. We pack our things and weigh our baggage (“45 pounds! Yes!”) and get to our respective airports on time. I sit there on the plane, my buckle buckled, laptop in lap, the too-muscular blonde clearing her throat only two rows back, and because we’ll be circling on the ground for the next hour and a half, I have plenty of time to sit here and think about my life.
Unable to come to any particularly interesting conclusions, I shut the laptop down and shut my eyes and leave one world and wake up in another.
---
We'd like to dedicate this particular blog to Kelly and Howie and their spare bedroom, and we're sorry that some guy backed into your car when I was driving it.
love,
bri (&jo)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
