A Botched Audition, a Hair-Dryer, and a hunt for Piña Colada mix.

Another idiotic day in my life in New York, circa 2017.

Diary Entry:
June 10, 2017 👈
East Village, New York, NY

Dear Diary,

This morning I awoke with a throbbing frontal lobe, the result of an evening of copious imbibement at The Boathouse with

Anthony LeDonne

. I cursed the glorious sunshine streaming through the windows as I limped to the bathroom, my right heel still riddled with plantar fasciitis. My 97-year-old grandfather moves like a gymnast compared to me in my first hour.

I had to shower, badly, but not before re-recording a voice audition for a TV spot for Paul McCartney's Australian tour. My agent told me I sounded a bit scratchy, but the client had asked for “gravely”. Luckily I’d been yelling over loud music all night, so I think I pulled it off. (and in my pyjamas no less!)

I wandered down to Remedy Diner where my dear old pal

Ethan Hall

was sitting in a booth scrawling madly in his journal (No doubt about how late I was to our weekly noon Friday coffee date we've held for the last 2 years¹.) I had texted him en route, asking if he could order my usual, but with a side of sausages.

He texted back, "What's your usual, Sweet Yoghurt?"
I replied, "I told you not to call me that."

He put away his journal and glared up over his wire-rimmed glasses, “The fuck have you been?” He'd ordered precisely what I usually get but with a side of sausages. If I could marry this man, I would. Unfortunately for him, I'm already taken.

We discussed mostly politics, as is the usual agenda. I'd met the head of PR for the HILARY 2016 Campaign the night before and had some fun tea to spill, over watery diner coffee. The Comey hearings had held the nation captive the day before and we'd both watched in anticipation of some definitive articles of impeachment.

No dice.

We should be used to this by now. We are not. We split the check and meandered back towards our neighbouring apartments on e3rd Street, taking in the sun and the accompanying smell of ripe dogshit. Summer in New York is a wild symphony of stenches.

I realised I'd left little time to do anything else but panic as I was running late to head to the depths of Brooklyn to record the Let's Talk About Sets comedy podcast with Jeff McBride and Harrison Tweed.

(I drew part of their artwork. Well, some of it. They did the rest.)

At the conclusion of the 2-hour recording, Jeff hit the 'save' button only to be met with a frozen laptop screen. His face mimicked the screen, frozen in an expression I can only describe as sheer dread, as he waited for the progress bar to move past 4%...

After what felt like the length of the Comey hearing, the progress bar kicked back into gear and saved the episode. Jeff, however, had shaved years off his life from stress. The giant vein on his temple was still throbbing, adding an extra 2 inches to the circumference of his already sizeable skull.

With Jeff now one part relieved and two parts pure cortisol, we split a car back across the bridge to Manhattan while I learned my sides for a commercial audition I was now late for. Time blindness is a real thing— I’ve been dealing with it my whole life. Also, heel pain.

We hit bad traffic on the FDR, leading to me tagging in as the stressed-out, throbbing sweat gland for the remainder of the journey. The audition was in FiDi, but this car was headed up to the East Village, and Lyft being Lyft, I wasn't able to change the final destination.

Jeff jumped out at my apartment and started walking the wrong way down e3rd Street. He reappeared moments later with a wound to his leg, realising he had ventured towards Avenue D instead of Avenue C. It happens.

I asked my Lyft driver if I could request a job and see if he could accept it, with me standing right by the car. He said he didn't think so, then lit a cigarette. (Isn't technology marvellous.)

I flagged down a passing cab and hurtled South back down the FDR towards Wall Street. I sweatily scribbled my particulars at the check-in desk. A small Korean-American woman pulled me aside, pushed me against a wall and took my photo with the flash an inch from my face.

Now permanently blind, I wandered into the audition room where the director was reclined on the couch. He'd had a day, and I was now the only thing between him and Happy Hour. Perfect conditions for success.

"Just be yourself," he grunted. "But, you know, be the character we wrote."

"Oh... yeah, of course. Totally." I nodded, not understanding what the hell that meant. I’d barely learned the lines in the car.

"I mean, Don't Act, but when we say action, act out the things we wrote."

"Got it," I said, confidently.

"And... Whenever you're ready."

"Sorry." I stopped. "I just - one thing before I.."

"Yeah." He said, annoyed.

"I'm Australian. Do you want me to do it as me, or me as an American?"

"You." He said.

"Okay. So, okay. Good."

He paused. Sighed deeply, "Aaaand whenever you're ready."

I took my time reading the sides, attempting to memorise them on the fly. I stared down the barrel and said, "Hi." being careful not to Act.

"I'm Guy, and I... hate soda."

"Okay, stop." The director interjected.

"That was a little too "Big". You know?"

"Oh, yeah. Totally." I said. Not knowing what the fuck he meant.

"Just, do it again, but not so "Big."

"Okay. Cool."

"Aaand... whenever you're ready."

I took a breath. Sat down and looked at the camera, then at the cup sitting next to me. Then back at the camera.

"Hi." I said, less Big, "I'm Guy, and I hate Soda."

"Okay, we're good. Thank you for coming in."

"We're done?" I asked. "I can do it differently if you want?"

"No, we're good. Thank you," he said, anxiously wringing his wiry grey beard and adjusting his transitions lenses. "Have a nice night."

I walked out, realising I'd blown $14.13 on a cab to come and look like a gormless moron in front of a frustrated director who certainly didn't envision his career directing soda commercials. I needed a drink.

Luckily for me, my trusty companion, Sophie, was just finishing work and also in need of some refreshment.

"Drink?" Almost immediately, she texted back, "See you at the Ludlow Hotel. 30 minutes."

I zipped up to the Ludlow on the packed, terminally delayed F Train and emerged 45 minutes later. Sophie still hadn't appeared, so I ordered a Negroni and a Gin Martini, betting both ways on what she'd want.

She arrived and ordered a gin martini. After a couple of rounds, I said it was probably time I went home and showered before running out to do my 8:30 spot at Dangerfields. I was wearing a hat, you see, and had chronic hat hair. I looked like I'd stuck my head in a food processor.

On the way home I mentioned I needed a coffee to perk me up before my spot. We were just passing Yerba Buena on Avenue A when Sophie said, "Oh! We can just go in here. They have coffee."

We pushed open the door to find a bar full of gentlemen who had enjoyed a few too many happy hour lemonades waxing lyrical about the wonders of green energy and the evils of high fructose corn syrup. Between our ordering two espressos and downing them, the German man at the end of the bar had begun a TED Talk-style lecture on American organic food and how the FDA is the devil.

The stress of the situation led us to exit the building and immediately sit down at 2A; the dive next door, to wash away the crazy with a couple of whiskeys. A lanky old man sat behind us at the window, listening intently and dancing to his walkman whilte downing copious amounts of booze. He moved like he was made entirely of sinew.

At this point, time was creeping up on me and I didn't think I'd have time to get home, shower and get back out to head up to 61st Street for my spot. Sophie said, "Why don't you just use the bathroom here to wet your hair, dry it, and style it using the product that's already in there!"

“Genius!” (Said the whiskey)²

I jumped up and headed to the bathroom as Sophie ordered us another round. I turned on the moldy old tap and shoved my birds-nest of a head inthe grimy sink to soak it, before turning on the hand dryer and attempting to find an angle where I could get my head under it without breaking my neck.

I cupped my hands to redirect the hot air towards my hair. I styled it with my hands and strolled out of the bathroom feeling like I'd gamed the system. I knocked back one more whiskey before whistling for a cab and zooming North towards the club.

I walked into the club with 10 minutes to spare, fist-bumped Tony, the owner, and was immediately asked by Chario, the waiter who'd been working there for 47 years to come and help him carry a dozen bottles of piña colada mix from up the block back to the club.

We went searching up and down the Manhattan streets for a liquor store that would stock piña colada mix but to no avail. Chario grumbled about how much the neighbourhood had changed, and finally settled on buying one bottle from a random store before marching back into the club, plopping the bottle on the bar and saying "There. Thassit. Thass all they got!"