City Sights, City Lights

The bright city lights, the many city sounds. The miles and miles of pavement. Instead of a church on every corner, there is a bounty unbeknownst to the Midwest eye of little groceries, ethnic restaurants, sex shops (well, just in Midtown), and corner hacks with great "finds" (from art to underwear to iPod accessories). Instead of interesting sights at the Wal-Mart, there are those wonderful street anomalies (I swear the other day I saw a Muslim woman with her pink Carrie Bradshaw phone tucked into her turban-veil, pushing a stroller, talking "hands free") And yet, tonight I find myself longing for the open roads, the sweet smell of grass, and the cows that were my childhood (the livestock, not the women at the swimming pool or in line at the Dairy Queen). Right now, I'm listening to the Dixie Chicks. As the guitars, banjo, and fiddle play, I'm not especially paying attention to the lyrics, but rather reflecting on those images these conjure up: hot summers, 400S, Granny, the pond, cookouts, Mom's meatloaf and mashed potatoes, Uncle Roger and Aunt Frieda, and the many other simple and unique (I'm just now finding out) wonders that filled my childhood and got me where I am today. This week has been a good week: I went to a few auditions, had an interview, am becoming more settled into my apartment, and have actually worked a bit (and after looking at my upcoming credit card bill, Thank God). I am really enjoying and getting to own my newfound life. I love going to auditions, feeling I have something special and important to get to everyday, and the opportunity to perform a little something for someone, even if just for 30 seconds. I love the possibilities each day gives: who will I see? who will I meet? will I get a callback? I love passing the many Broadway theaters, reminders of why I am here and where I want to go. And it's funny, I am starting to see the same mix of people at a lot of auditions; we must all read the same (trade) paper. They do say it is a small business.

One thing I am not enjoying is the new manager at the restaurant. This short, coke-snorting Italian (allegedly) runs around the restaurant like a mad person during rush hours and breaths down your (and by your's I mean mine) neck at every little thing. And let me just say once for the record, I thought Italian men were supposed to be charming heartthrobs - what happened to him? Who knew a soup spoon was such a matter of importance and chaos? Last night was my first dinner shift as a real server at Locale. The restaurant was pretty busy, and I would say I did good job. He and I were after each other all night, and we had to have a little "chat" after work. Those are my favorites. There was a point last night when I was ready to call it quits, but I am glad I didn't after I received my tip-out today. So, for now, it looks like I will be putting up with his bullshit for a little longer. Thank God he doesn't work brunch. There might be an "accident" with all that hot coffee going around. It's days like that I really yearn for inevitable days of stardom (because clearly, it's a sure shot), and all those that have crossed me will have to kiss my rich, famous ass. Until then, I suppose it's "Yes, sir," lots of open calls, and living in Astoria instead of the Hamptons or my Lower Midtown Penthouse. But maybe along the way I will rack up some fans as well (I was instant besties with a lipstick lesbian couple, they even wanted to know my name). And how would you like those eggs ma'am?