A Tale of Two Restaurants

Last week, blessed with both Thursday and Friday night off, I decided to treat myself to a couple of wonderful dinners with friends. To start my dining excursion I met my good friend Esther and a Locale regular at LIPS restaurant on the Upper East Side. Not always located on UES, this is not your average restaurant. Part show and part dinner, LIPS specializes in the very best of "drag dining." All of the servers, bartenders, hosts, and, of course, performers are drag queens. Clearly, this was a "must" on my NYC to-do list. After a few failed attempts and some botched planning, we settled on Thursday as our date with LIPS. Formerly situated in the West Village, I expected something kitschy, campy, draggy, bitchy, and maybe even a little dingy and musty (what do you think is happening under all that makeup, hair, and padding?). While the décor was certainly draggy, it felt more like Medieval Times on ecstasy, very faux glamorous, disco balls a shining. Situated in its new location across from the Outback Steakhouse most often frequented by Liza Minnelli, its new neighborhood gives it distinctly, corporate, unbelievably conservative feel. If I am at a drag show in New York City, one wants tits, dicks, drugs, and swearing, right?

As we made our way to our table, not only did we realize that we were arriving late to the part, but also the memo that everyone else in attendance would be a white girl under the age of 20. Now, we all love young white girls, but they are not my typically accompaniment to a quality drag show. When asked if we were celebrating anything special this evening, I simply retorted, "Thursday." Unbeknownst to us, everyone seemed to believe this was the perfect location for a bachelorette or 18th birthday party as opposed to a dressed up Thirsty Thursday. "Oh Jesus," I thought, as I ordered a Frozen Cosmo, their signature cocktail. This drink proved a metaphor to the restaurant itself: tacky, supersweet, icy, and overpriced. The food was a big OK, living somewhere in between good bar food and average hotel fare. My sole with crab was tasty, but only so because of lots of butter and salt, with unfortunately unexciting texture. Esther found her pasta primavera, the only vegetarian option on the menu, decidedly bland and leaving her wanting more. As for the service, well you know I love me some queens, but they did seem a little preoccupied (we didn't arrive early enough for the balloon show - who eats dinner before 9 anyway?). As one of the only males in the room, I feel I received more than my due personal attention (aka one of them humped me), but how do you raise a fuss with a 6 foot drag queen when your friend doesn't receive a dessert menu? The show itself was entertaining, the highlight being Jesse Volt's fabulous Joan Rivers monologue and Morgan Royale's dead-on Mary J. Blige (it was celebrity impersonation night). However, I was left wondering where would these "girls" be without their glitter, gowns, and jewelry? One has surely never had this thought about yours and mine favorite Tiffany Simone Alexander. At the show's conclusion, Ester and I quickly found the check and attempted to make a somewhat quick getaway, dessert or no. After dishing out more cash than I anticipated, we ventured to our next venue, New World Stages, for the final round of Karaoke Idol, starring my good friend Alissa (who as first runner up, was ROBBED). Causing our usual mix of mischief and ruckus, we popped in and out of the bar, saying hello to friends and locating Esther's dessert just in time for Alissa's fabulous performance. Sure she had the prize in the bag, I politely excused myself, noting the next day's early film shoot. Though perhaps not wowed, this was a fun night in NYC, one I won't soon forget, and a bonding experience for me and the dessertless Esther. She now is working in a macaroon shop and doing quite well.

The next night was quite the different experience. After a day of extra work on Law & Order: SVU, I had plans to meet my good friend Ali (Velma Von Tussle in Millbrook's Hairspray) for dinner. Taking advantage of a special deal on Opentable.com, we decided on Essex Restaurant in the Lower East Side, serendipitiously close to the day's film shoot. Finishing filming a bit early, but without enough time to go home, I wandered around LES for a while, before deciding to step into the restaurant. Soft, loungy music playing, candles already lit, I informed the hostess who I was and that I would be camping out at the bar. After an extended bathroom trip that not only included emptying my bowels but also changing clothes, I reemerged fresh and ready to dine. Citing a corner barstool, I opted for a glass of Brüt and whipped out my usual ensemble of book, notebook, and magazine. After cautiously sipping my first cocktail (I didn't want to overshoot the runway after all), my dining companion arrived just as I was polishing off my glass. Escorted like VIP to our table, my suitcase in tote (it was a "wear 1, bring 2" day at L&O), we settled into our little corner table on one of the restaurant's upper decks. I immediately knew this was going to be the perfect quiet (well except for our respective cackling), intimate dinner after a long day's work. Oozing with gossip and lots of long time no sees, we eventually opened our menus and began to plan our dinner. Drinks, the first and most important matter settled, I decided to stick to Champagne while Ali cocktailed it to her heart's content. Eyeing their oyster selection, we couldn't resist starting with 6 of each, raising our glasses to a very fun evening. After more gossip and storytelling, we finally decided on our dining strategy. After trading favorites ("I'm feeling the duck" "I had salmon for lunch"), sharing stratagems ("If you do the scallops, then I'm doing the crab cake), and pairing palates, we established the course of the evening. "To start," I said, "We are going to share the scallop appetizer and the trio of tartares, and you know what, we better get the calabaza salad as well for something green? Then for the entree, we are going to split the duck." "Medium?" she asked. Mischief in our eyes, we replied, "Medium-rare," throwing caution and credit card balances to the wind. The oysters were delicious, slipping down our hungry throats with the coolest of cool, dressed up with hot sauce, red wine vinaigrette, or simple lemon juice. It was decided that in this battle of East Coast vs. West Coast, the West was the winner, as Ali snagged the majority of those rocky wonders (smart girl). A tray of ice and empty shells remaining, we exchanged our defrocked mollusks for our round of appetizers, thinking that perhaps our eyes were a little bigger than our stomachs. The scallops were perfectly cooked, soft, melting in my mouth, complemented by summer peaches, water melon, croutons (which I could have done without), and balsamic. Ali's trio of tartare was a little intimidating, served with tortilla chips to encourage dipping. The salmon was fresh and lemony, the tuna spiced with just enough scallion and horseradish, both sitting well on a crunchy tortilla chip. The steak tartare, while good, was a little too extreme for both of us, looking a little too much like dog food, and not tasting quite good enough to forfeit our remaining calories (as if we were counting). The salad was unique and yummy, arugula and mixed greens served with sheep's milk cheese, pumpkin seeds, and roasted pumpkin. Creamy and rich, the salad was good, but probably didn't belong amongst all of our summer seafood. Next time, we will know the wiser and order in November. Slowly eating, gabbing away, we finally finished our appetizers to see our duck was on its way. I informed the waitress that would be needing a midcourse of tobacco and nicotine, and to please keep the duck warm. Of due note: smoking kills and if we were at the Locale under my own supervision, a customer's entree never arrives until the appetizers are finished, cleared, and silverware replaced. (Become a fan of Locale on Facebook and read our smashing new review!) After puffing away, taking in the cool (thank God) night air, we returned to the table to gorge on our duck. The duck was tender, perfectly cooked and dressed with a soy-ginger sauce. The accompanying bok choy was yummy and refreshing, though the egg roll was a little to be desired. Then again, perhaps it was crispy and delicious 10 minutes before when it arrived at our table. Licking up the last bits of duck and sauce, we settled for dessert in a glass for our final course, Ali trying their Blood Orange Mojito while I opted for their Green Zinger (green tea vodka, lime, mint, and Pimms). Buzzed, but not falling down, we saddled up with our server Valerie, and headed out into the New York air. Decidedly content, we caught our appropriate trains, one returning her to Brooklyn, one taking me to Queens, having experienced a marvelous, if perhaps a little expensive, evening together. That night I slept very well, waking Saturday refreshed by my two days of galavanting, ready for another long day at the Locale.

Getting My Affairs in Order

Ahhh. The carpet is swept, the Febreeze has been sprayed, rent check written, and bank deposit made. What a busy day for this Broad Meadow New Yorker. Now of course it helped that today didn't start with a bourbon on the rocks or a hungover recollection of what I may have done last night (just kidding mother . . .). You may think going to the gym, tanning, and getting your back shaved are shallow pursuits, but they are very important to a young actor living in New York. Clearly you don't live in an area where people have ready access to the beach all the summer (not that I've been, but that's a different story). I won't say that I have become shallower since moving to the city, but I will say that I certainly have had to up my game. A typical lack of fast food drive-ups and giant Gulp size sodas seems to make for a fitter, more attractive population. That and a greater abundance of wealth and Botox. Running through my errands, carefully marked down in a neat list on a stolen Locale waiter pad, some tasks took only a few minutes ("charge phone," "look up the Arthur remake"), while others required considerably more time and energy ("gym," "blog"). After hitting the gym, I did usual circuit of tanning/library/bank/grocery, looping from my place to Steinway, to Broadway, and back again. While the tanning and the iced green tea from Starbucks that accompanied it were fairly easy, both the bank and the library attempted to throw me a curb ball. Checking out my usual load of books and movies (it's research, I swear), the automated self-checkout informed me i owed $21 in fines. Having just paid a large set of fines the day before, I informed the attendant that this simply was not true. While she tried to make sense of the squibbles on the screen, my persistent righteousness and piercing glance told her she better get her braids in a ball and call the supervisor. Enter a very white male librarian. After he too was confused by what he saw on the screen, yet tried to tell me I had no idea what I was talking about, I pressed harder for freedom, eventually getting him to wave the fees. Sucker. Now, such a sanction would never have been granted, if I was the Latina lady standing next to me with her litter of children. Sorry bout it. Crossing the street to the bank, I got in the long line to deposit to tiny checks. Enter my next customer service wonder, a plump business woman in shiny spike heels and business coat named "Ntina." Like a siren, she lured me to her desk to complete my deposit, me thinking I was some sort of Chase VIP. After filling out my deposit ticket, she confirmed my name, address, telephone number, employer, shoe size, Zodiac sign, and eye color. Then she offered to open another credit card for me, a savings account, a rewards program, and a new feature called "Person2Person Pay" that allows you to email people money. After fervently saying "No," to each of her questions, I finally had my transaction completed. On leaving the bank, I duly noted there was no line. For some reason, the Chase associates make me feel more naked than a 7th grade physical.

Returning home from my Astoria circuit, I took a shower and gatehred steam for my last to-do. In my quest for completeness, I ventured to industrial Woodside, walking next to a major highway, in search of my case of Zagat-recommended wines. Noticing a great deal in the mail, I could not pass it up, exchanging my credit card # for 12 bottles of wine plus this special offer of 4 tasting glasses and tasting notes for each wine (!!!!). After a few failed deliveries, and one troubled conversation with 1.800.Fedex.Go, I realized that I would have to put in some real work to get my discounted wine. Having lost one online purchase to the Post Office, I was determined to Get That Wine. Noting the chain metal fences and broken down cars, I was glad I was performing this chore in daylight. How quickly cheery little Astoria melted into deserted streets, warehouses, and highway. After trekking on foot to the Fedex Home Delivery Office (not as flashy as your regular Fedex/Kinko's), the associate helped me locate my package, kindly letting my Indiana ID slide for proof of age and residency. If my cardinal-embossed license should attempt to interfere with my next wine pursuit, I may just have to make a visit to the local BMV (the NYC/Queens BMV? Now that is a blog waiting to happen). After noting its exorbitant weight ("Shit, that's heavy. Oh, excuse me"), she retrieved my package from the back, scanning it into the system as "picked up" and looking at me like I was crazy for walking to the Delivery Center. "Don't worry," I said, "I am going to call a car." Pushing SEND on my contact "Taxi Cab," I hustled my box to the corner and waited for a creeping black car. After an initial worry the car couldn't find me, I waved my hand, large box in tote, attracting the attention of another yellow cab and strange looks from the local residents. Waving the cab along, I stepped into the car sent especially for me. Wine in the trunk, I did my best Anna Wintour, sitting cross-legged with sunglasses mounted on my face in the back seat, silently taking in the car ride. I recalled that moment at the end of The Devil Wears Prada when Meryl Streep turns to Anne Hathaway and says, "This is what everyone wants to be." Looking over my crazed afternoon, I thought, "Yes indeed."

And How Do You Like Your Eggs, Honey?

I have a special phone voice. Well, not so much a special phone voice as that my voice is special, and that quality particularly translates well via the telephone. Now, I know there are many things that make my unique voice wonderful (thank you, Patsy Rodenburg), like the fact that in my opinion, I enunciate my words clearly and speak a somewhat educated version of English (unless, of course, I am calling you 2+ martinis in the bucket). But perhaps its most special quality is the fact most people think I am a woman on the phone. Yes indeed, a woman. Not even a girl, not a young, pretty thing, but a full fledged woman. As my voice teacher Will put it, I have a "grande dame" quality about me (this came in quite handy for my audition on Tuesday that consisted of a monologue from Love! Valour! Compassion and my Judy-inspired version of "Smile").

Now, as a young male-child growing up in rural Indiana, this specialness really bothered me. Countless times, tele-marketers, family, and some of my mother's more colorful friends would ring up our home on 400 South and immediately greet Susie and ask how she is and such. From some of these greetings, one would get the impression that my mother is a very fun gal. And while I thought such mistaken identities would end after puberty, I now know to answer any phone but my own with, "This is Bradley." After initial embarrassments, I have moved on, moved out, and moved East where I capitalize on my superpowers whenever possible. Many times at work, owner Johnny has called upstairs to "discover" the cute, female bartender has developed a cold. No she has not; the person on the other line is Bradley. Or yesterday, as I waited on hold, begging Chase to give me even more credit, I was referred to as "Ma'am" for the majority of the phone call, despite the fact that my name, address, spending habits, shoe size, and who knows what else lie in plain sight on their computer screen in Mumbai. Even this morning, I unknowingly played a trick on the man delivering my omelette (in fact, it's on its way now). He wanted to know what I would like, kept calling me honey, kindly asking me for my phone number, address, and how I liked my coffee. Considering he now knows this personal information about me, he may be somewhat disappointed to discover that his mid-morning coffee date was with a fairly hairy Midwestern boy by the name of Bradley. Alas, no worries. He never has to know. When singing, my friend Esther and I have generally agreed that most times I sound like a mix of Elaine Stritch and Stevie Nicks, with a few moments of show choir boy clarity. Of course, this is all fine and dandy, both these grande dames earning equally impressive accolades for their vocalizations. But when I try to tell a casting director I am a young Stevie Nicks, it for some reason just does not communicate all that I want it to. My fine-tuned whiskey voice of a 50 something woman works great when I give an inspiring performance of "Poor Unfortunate Souls" at Uncle Charlie's, but somehow falls short when attempting "If I Loved You" from Carousel. However, this is no means for alarm or caution, for my talents are many. It's often been confirmed that I have the best legs in Astoria, and there are few waiters who have given such rousing renditions of the daily specials as I do each night at Locale. Boy, oh boy, a man of many talents am I. Oh, I think my omelette has arrived! I hope he doesn't mind I didn't shave this morning.

If any of you out there should ever be taking my breakfast order:

1 Spinach Omelette

Made with Egg Whites

Fresh Fruit instead of Homefries

Wheat Toast

Coffee with Skim Milk and 1 Splenda on the side

or if I am really hungover and/or being a fucking fatass:

1 McDonald's Bacon, Egg, & Cheese Biscuit Combo

Very Large Diet Coke

(and if it's a really unhealthy day)

1 Breakfast Burrito with Hot Sauce

Movies and Mayhem!

How busy this summer has been! After my stream of blogs and days off, my time has been taken up with lots of time at the restaurant, keeping in contact with my NYC friends, and even trying to get some sleep. On top of that, I have been doing some "extra" work for Central Casting. This past Thursday, I made my major motion picture debut on the film Friends with Benefits starring Justin Timberlake and Mila Cunis. From sundown to sunup, I portrayed a Times Square passerby (along with many others), who for reasons unbeknownst to us, break out into a choreographed routine surrounding the young starlets, abruptly stopping and reengaging in our NYC lives just in time for Mr. Timberlake to say, "Huh." Tomorrow (OK, this has also actually already happened), I am scheduled to work on Gossip Girl. After an unsuccessful formal wear attempt with Wall Street 2, this time I am armed with my tuxedo (which I haven't worn since high school) and ready for an artificially fabulous gala. Perhaps there will be champagne? Work has been just fine, just work and a lot of it, as my coworkers take turns taking vacation each week. In my reading quest, I just finished Chelsea Handler's third installment Chelsea Chelsea, Bang Bang to much pleasure and a few LOL on the train. Following her example, I too have been contemplating how I might better use such devices as lying and storytelling to enliven my workplace. Whoever said a little mischief is uncalled for? Any success in said exercises will appear in this blog forthcoming. On the audition front, there has not been a lot going on. I was planning to attend another round of auditions for Naked Boys Singing, but to my mother's joy I will be working on Gossip Girl instead (where I will likely not be naked or singing). This past Sunday, I brought my songbook to a new venue as my vocal coach Will had a gig at the Path Café in the West Village. Belting out my best Judy Garland, Willie Nelson, and Noël Coward numbers, I made friends with the owner-bartenders and sampled a majority of their wine list (big surprise!). No doubt, they will welcome me back with open arms this week (in fact, they did - and there was more wine and even some cheese tasting). Oh! And in Indiana news, my first friend in the whole world Ashley Rae has given birth to her first child, a girl, Laney Sue. Once the Post-partem disengages, Ashley will realize that I, in fact, named her child during a drunken night (ie me being the drunk) sitting around our kitchen table in Indiana. Hopefully, one day I will have some Ling-Ling or brown babies for Ashley to name for me. I am really looking forward to holding Ashley's new little munchkin. I wonder when I will be in IN next? (Can I just say that at this point, I have been trying to finish this blog for 9 days??? clearly my life has been reeling out of control. It's time to hit the brakes and get my life in order!). Tomorrow (yes, the real tomorrow), I am traveling to New Jersey to audition for a bunch of theaters at a big unified audition (my first one!). Let's hope I can shake off the restaurant rust and give them a sparkling performance. I am scheduled for tomorrow at 5:30. If you can, think Liza thoughts for me. That's all for now, I promise to write something really earth-shattering next time. For now, I am going to go tanning and get some f-ing Starbucks. It's hard out here for a pimp!

The Kids Are All Right

Last night, I ventured to the Upper East Side to catch one of the summer's biggest movies (well, in my world anyway). And no, I didn't gorge myself on another viewing of Sex and the City 2. This evening's feature was The Kids Are All Right, the new lesbian-family comedy starring Annette Bening and Julian Moore. The film centers on a close-knit, non-traditional family living in sunny California. Bening and Moore play mothers to two children, their oldest, a girl named after Joni Mitchell, about to venture off to college. At the prompting of her younger jock brother, Lazer (played by future heartbreaker Josh Hutcherson), Joni sneaks into her mothers' private papers in order to contact the sperm bank from which she and her brother received half of their chromosomes (imagine, a bank that deals solely in sperm). Following some secretive phone calls, their father is none other than Mark Ruffalo, still looking affably boyish, a restauranteur playboy who also likes to play gardner. Upon meeting their "Dad," the reluctant Joni finds a kindred spirit in her supposed father, while Lazer finds disappointment in his would-be male role model (though to be honest, Annette Bening does a fine a job at that - but more on that later). Before anyone knows it, Ruffalo is having dinner at their home, popping up on their iPhones, and eventually giving Moore's new gardening business its first "gig." The film is funny, witty, lavish in color and detail without being a special-effects epic or mere showcase for spectacle. The film shares a kindred spirit with the mise-en-scéne of fellow female director/writers Nancy Meyers (Something's Gotta Give, It's Complicated) and Nora Ephron (Julie and Julia), living in a world of candle-lit silhouettes, traipsing with interesting, personalized costume choices, and frame after frame and sumptuous looking food. This film (and the others mentioned) carry a certain, undeniable feminine look, soft, balanced, the beauty of a quiet blooming flower rather than the booming and stormy energies behind the works of Polanski, Scorsese, etc. (though my own little theory/assumption is delightfully overturned by Kathryn Bigelow's heartbreakingly stark The Hurt Locker).

Bening and Moore are at their finest as the power-lesbian couple, a pairing of two of America's finest and most sensitive actresses. They are also perhaps the two most deserving actresses, yet to win an Oscar (how, how can Hillary Swank have 2 Oscars, and these women have none). Though it's a little early to start playing the Oscar prediction game, one can relish in the fine work of this film's two leading ladies. Bening is stunning as the slightly butch Nic, a gynecologist with a booming career (at times a detriment to her relationship with partner Jules) and a taste for red wine. Looking and acting older than her lover, Bening captures a woman beginning to slowly lose touch with her children and her lover, the family she has worked so hard to build momentarily falling apart around her. One of my favorite and perhaps the most heartbreaking moment in the film occurs when Nic discovers that perhaps a little more than gardening has been happening at sperm-donor Paul's sprawling villa. Bening has been high-powered, high-strung career women for years, often to stunning results (note her two previous Oscar nominations), and while Nic certainly does share a thread with American Beauty's Carolyn or even the title character from Being Julia, Nic seems distinctly more balanced, more loving, less selfish and less controlling than these other women. Moore delights as the slightly loppy, hip Jules, the younger, "lipstick" partner, part stay-at-home Mom and part wandering career woman. While Bening typifies the 21st century power lesbian mother, Moore creates a character that is distinctly womanly, her matter of orientation a secondary characteristic. Her children about to leave the house and with no steady career to draw self-worth from, Jules is curious, restless, looking for some adventure in middle-age (and boy does a rugged looking Mr. Ruffalo give her just that).

This a unique film, and though not a big Hollywood release or popcorn blockbuster, it certainly lives in the mainstream, readily available to both metropolitan and middle America. While most of popular Queer and Gay cinema centers on gay men (Milk, Brokeback Mountain, Philadelphia) or men dressing as women (The Birdcage, Two Wong Foo, Priscilla Queen of the Desert), this is a woman's film, a film about two women in love, but more interestingly two women in love with a family. The film does not center on a battle of gay/straight or matters of acceptance or Pride pageantry, but rather tells the story of a modern family, growing and in transition. This is not necessarily a new story (Mom is getting older; the children leave the nest), but is told in a new way, a new setting that continues a greater portion of American family units. While we have not seen this story on the screen before, surely similar situations have happened to the children of gay parents before. The film flips our expectations, the parents gay and the children straight, a feeling of normalcy given to what was once queer. How refreshing to hear a story about homosexual people that does not center on AIDS, hate crimes, or drugged induced club experiences. This film (and surely many others that I have never seen) diversifies the canon of gay works, telling a new story that has certainly been there the entire time. How exciting to live at a time when we can go to the mainstream cinema and watch The Kids Are All Right or tune in to a weekly episode of Modern Family on ABC. This film is funny and brimming with feeling, heartfelt but not requiring too much tissue, a refreshing break from the cymbal crash of traditional summer blockbusters.

I Missed the Bus

It happened again. I missed the bus. I knew when the bus was leaving. My e-ticket clearly said which corner to be at, to be there 15 minutes, and to have my reservation number in hand. Somehow I found myself running to the wrong corner hoping the bus was running late, only to find an empty sidewalk devoid of fellow travelers and no sign of the Megabus. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be? Perhaps God was keeping me from some hidden dangers in North Central PA or teaching me a lesson about following directions. Or maybe I am just late everywhere I go? Yesterday, it was my intention to visit my former castmates at the Millbrook Playhouse to check out their current production of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. Instead, I spent most of the day in my room watching movies. Perhaps my current movie-binge has turned into a real addiction, trapping in my house and separating me from human contact. I'm going to go see a movie tonight (with a friend, in a theater!). This could be a real problem. So, friends and family at the Millbrook Playhouse, I apologize I teased you with a surprise visit. Looks like we will have to wait until you all return to New York or I return next summer for more work. My first missed Megabus experience when my dear friend Matthew and I attempted a venture to Chicago during Spring Break (we eventually made it). At least that time we saw the bus pulling away. I was really looking forward to that bus ride too! I had my book, ready to finish, a magazine, and a play. Having actually made it on the bus once (Aaron and Boston, you are very lucky!), I was planning to take full advantage of their unlimited Wi-Fi and outlets. Instead, I finished my book on the exercise bike at the gym this morning and hauled my backpack and pillow to Midtown for nothing. It's one thing to miss your bus, it's another displeasure to haul your crap to and from Midtown during morning rush hour. Pillow and backpack, I found myself a sweaty, hair-gelled mess as the sun was rising. On my shameful walk back to the subway, I managed to pass two lines of homeless, getting their morning rations from the local churches. I returned home ashamed and afraid. This afternoon I watched The Accused with Jodie Foster and knew exactly how that poor girl felt. So, now I am in New York, the hour not long past when I would returned theatre-d and hungover from Pennsylvania, my phone and camera full of drunken inspired tech-bites. "Well maybe, next year." "Send in the Clown" indeed.

Bradley From the Broad Meadow, Part 2

A month and a half, give or take. That's how much time I have taken away from this blog. During that time, I completed my contract at the Millbrook Playhouse, made a lot of new friends, and returned to New York to a Heat Wave, a new manager, and a lot wondering as to what my next move will be. I decided, semi-consciously, to take a break from this blog, this vehicle that has chronicled the first part of my New York journey, in part so that I could entirely immerse myself in my PA theatre experience, and in part because I felt fatigued, out of ideas, in a rut. Now, I may be back in New York, but out of the rut I am not sure. Certainly, this is a time of transition for me. As I near my one-year anniversary in the City, I am no longer a newbie, a tourist; I am no longer "trying it out." In the past few weeks, I have been contemplating how long I will stay in New York, what my next move will be. While that previously mentioned move remains to be seen, for the time being it will not be away from New York. After all, I feel I just got here. Having had a year to acclimate to the city and truly dirty hands with "the business," let's see how far I can go, how hard I can push myself to work towards my dreams, to achieve greater artistic vision and clarity, to be a better me, to entrench myself in this city, this business, and the fabulous people I run into. I have been maxxing out my Queens Public Library Card, renting movies both new and old, trying to keep up with what's happening now and what has come before (I have made serious headway on AFI's 100 Greatest Movies List), and searching the stacks for literary inspiration, running the gamut from Carson McCullers to Chelsea Handler (now, that's a English seminar course, I'd like to take). My ears have been searching for new music, both for listening and performing, looking to add songs to both my book and my iPod. After my pre-Tony binge, I am looking to go to the theater again, but hoping to venture off The Great White Way and see what New York's smaller theaters have to offer. I am buying and reading plays, learning the new authors and searching for monologue material. I think it's ironic I recently filled up and cashed in my Drama Bookstore Frequent Customer Card, a month shy of its one year expiration date.

I am in transition. As my family and I move from our time of grief (does grief ever end?), the initial period of shock, of constantly retracing steps, clinging to conversations, looks, texts, we venture out into the world again, somewhat scared, but strangely stronger and at peace. Under the hot summer sun the past months, I have allowed myself to let loose of some of my walls, to let some of the grief and sadness melt away, to surrender to my own profound brokenness. I feel like new skin after the scab has gone away, new and complete, but still fragile, sensitive, and red. While I was in Pennsylvania, I didn't share the tragic story of my sister's death with many people. Still, it's hard to think about, too hard to fathom, to attempt to get my mind around. Though I'll never stop sharing memories of my sister, for now, I prefer to stop the story in December 2009, not January 2010. With the exception of a minor breakdown on our closing weekend, I kept my grief to myself, not out of shame, but because I have chosen to not let this one tragic event define my life ongoing. No doubt it has and will shape, color, and rattle my little world, but I refuse to wallow in my grief, to hold it like a crutch for the rest of my life. In short, I choose to live my life, live the kind of life my sister so generously reveled in every step of the way. Looking ahead, one of my oldest and dearest friends is about to have her first child (now, how did I get so old that people are having babies?), and I couldn't be more thrilled. It is time to celebrate, to rejoice, for new life and new hope.

I am in transition professionally. As I look for work again in the city, I am attempting to challenge myself as a performer, to work as an artist, and to be my own business. How far can I go? How much energy can I put out? How much noise can I make? For now, I am looking for my next big break, but also contemplating creating opportunities of my own. Who knows what could be just beyond the horizon? As for Locale, the near-constant since I have been in New York, I am back to the grind, though the grind has not been near as back breaking. Now, sure, summer and a little vacation definitely help keep the work blues away, but there is one big factor at play - STEFANO FINALLY GOT FUCKING FIRED! While away in hilly PA, the owners sought to it to replace their oily Italian buffoon with a younger, hipper, female manager. Though she and I are still becoming acquainted with one another, I can see things are going to run more smoothly and be more enjoyable for all involved. With some new fancy cocktails and unique beers and cheeses, I feel very at peace with my current employer. Let's hope this feeling finds no end soon, and we can all focus on taking care of customers (people whom for the most part I genuinely enjoy), rather than running from our drunken Italian dictator. As I have seen many of my co-workers come and go, I can only say in summation: Survivor: Locale - Outwit, Outplay, Outlast.

It's good to be back, and I hope to write soon.