On the Prowl

I’ve spent the last few weeks stressing and fretting about my lack of employment. I was premature about the steakhouse hostess-thing, but it’s still a possibility. Problem being only that my guy there is on vacation, and won’t be back til next week. So in the meantime, I printed out multiple copies of my resume and started trekking the city, giving it to any decent looking bar, cafe or restaurant I think might be able to use an attractive, outgoing white girl such as myself.

I went hunting in the East Village, but only talked to middle-men, so I don’t know if I’ll ever hear from any of those places. I’m hoping Murphy & Gonzales might take me, if only because I would love to work at an Irish bar and Mexican place in one. That’s just cool.

Today, my roomie Mel accompanied me as I went about our neighborhood, and I think I might find more success here. I’ll be blunt when I say that my attractiveness will help, especially because most hot young things (hah) would want to work in Manhattan over Brooklyn; possibility of more high-end clients and thus better tips. Or I so I imagine. Point being, that’ll help me here. The bar on the corner of my block was my first stop, and the guy I talked to asked if I could bartend. I can’t, at the moment, but I told him I was training and would be by the end of August, so I think he’s definitely considering me. Working there would be sweet, I could literally leave my place 5 minutes before work. The other places I went all seemed fairly receptive to me, especially one cafe with a cute little Asian girl manager, who introduced herself and said they were hiring, and that she would email me tomorrow. Score. Not that I want to count my chickens or anything.

On a similar note, I finally got my hair cut, thank Odin. My hairstylist, Rita, is an amazing woman who I simply adore, and she loves me. So much so, that she told me about a job opening at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen at the end of August, that was going to try and set me up with. So if my place fails, I have a possible back-up. On top of that, she’s inviting me to a semi-corporate party thing she’s hosting so I can hand out my resume. Double score.

That’s all, but I want to leave you with a gift. If you want a beautiful haircut (guys and girls), go to Astor Place Hair and ask for Rita. Tell her Bean sent you. It’s well worth the visit, and it’s affordable. I won’t let anyone else touch my hair. She also happens to run her own beauty service (make-up/hair) for celebrities, and she works on people like Harry Conick Jr. Her friend cuts Chris Noth’s hair. I know. She’s a badass.

Catch you on the flip-side,

Bean

“Giggedy. Giggedy-goo,”

Said the drunk man with the Taylor guitar and torn up twenty dollar bills (he also asked if we thought he could use them to buy pizza. We said Yes) who approached us while having a smoke outside Peter McManus Pub on the corner 19th & 7th Ave. As far as your average drunk bums go, not a bad fellow. His name was Josh, or Jerry. Not sure. So what began as a mellow Tuesday evening with the girls turned into having to fend off troubled patrons, and having WAY too much beer. And for those that know me, there’s almost never any such thing as “too much beer.”

It all really started when my roommate Sarah Jean’s friend Zara left. It was the first time I’d hung out with Zara, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself; we seemed to hit it off. She had an audition the next morning, so late night drinking was out of the question. Prior to her exit, a mutual guy friend of SJ (she dislikes the nickname, but it’s faster to type) and I showed up, and bought us a pitcher. Another classmate from our school (everyone mentioned by name is in school with me), Matt C, had coincidentally been drinking there too, so he joined us. He bought a second pitcher, and we were having fun. Matt C and I went out for a smoke when we met the utterer of the afore-mentioned phrase, which he approached us with. Nothing particularly interesting happened, except that I learned that McManus used to be called “Bob & Bruce’s.” Who knew. Our new bum friend, apparently.

So after everyone had been at the bar for a while, myself, SJ, one of our other roomies (Dannie) and her guy from work, as well as two Matt’s and Taylor. I went outside to look for SJ, who I saw from afar was talking to Matt C (the other being Matt G, who bought the first round) and a rather slovenly, unattractive, drunk-looking girl. Not that I judge. That didn’t happen until later. As I approached, Matt C walked away, past me back to the bar. The Drunk Girl appeared rather confused and asked what his problem was, and if he was gay. SJ laughingly apologized, as she’d been jokingly giving Matt C a hard time, and that we were classmates. Drunk Girl didn’t seem to process anything we said, and stormed off after telling us she lived in Long Island (then why the hell are you here by yourself? One wonders). We head back to the bar, and I sit down with Dannie and her guy. Matt C tells us to stay away from Drunk Girl; she’s crazy. Fair enough.

So it’s just me, Dannie and her guy, and I see Drunk Girl coming back. I whisper that I don’t think she’ll recognize me. No sooner do I say that, than she stops at my table, right next to my chair, leans in and says “come here,” whilst grabbing my face.

As though electrocuted, I jump back, raise my finger in a “bad doggy!” kind of way and say, very loudly, “FUCK. OFF.”

She looked stunned, and hoping to avoid her becoming violent or even-more unreasonable, I quickly followed with “I’m sure you’re a lovely girl, but I’m not interested, please go.” She turned away without a word, walks around my table to Dannie, and tries to pull the same thing. Dannie immediately leaned into her guy, told Drunk Girl she was with him, see? Kissy kissy. So Drunk Girl decides the best thing to do is go to the AC unit and take her shirt off. Not a pleasant sight, even with a bra. So the younger bartender steps in, and drags her out by the arm. She didn’t really protest, but then, this broad didn’t know left from right. I seriously doubt that she only under the influence of booze. On top of that, she couldn’t have been older than 19. Probably 18. I went out for a smoke, saw her around a potted plant, did a 180 and asked the bartender for a light, shaking my head. We briefly commiserated, and he returned to work.

But that’s not all.

SJ is uncommonly pretty. Actually, all of my roommates are. A well-off fellow in his thirties took notice, and started buying us rounds. And when I say us, I mean pretty much all of us. He walked over with 5 Bud-Lites, and we thanked him enthusiastically. Who am I to say no to free beer? At any rate, it got late, Dannie was exhausted from work and wanted to leave, as did I. She wouldn’t leave without both me and SJ. SJ didn’t want to leave. Neither did Matt G, and we still had a lot of beer. So we finished the second round (mostly) that our benefactor bestowed upon us, when, out of nowhere, he comes back with another 5 beers, totaling 15. I ended up picking up a few, and imposing them upon a young guy named Zed we’d met earlier, and his chick friends. There is a time and a place for that much beer, and a Tuesday night at 3 o’clock in the morning is not it. This was on top of the other pitcher Matt G bought, as well as the tequila shots. I was drunk, and if I’m drunk, usually everyone else is. Sometimes not, but that’s another story. Dannie and I managed to get almost everyone outside, so I went back for the stragglers. Namely SJ and Matt G. SJ comes willingly. Matt G proclaims that we need to rally the troops and pound the remaining 5 or so beers as well as the pitcher. I literally dragged him by the arm out of the bar, apologizing and thanking the bartenders as we went. We got a cab and got home. I offered to make pasta with alfredo for Matt G and SJ, who, by the time I was done cooking, had passed out on the couch. So I ate two bowls myself, and saved the rest for later.

So, to sum up, I discovered that the first person to really sexually harass me in NYC would not be a drunken older man or fresh over-grabby party boy, as I thought, but an 18 year old Drunk Girl. And, sometimes there is too much beer.

Good-night all, I’m going back to watching Nip/Tuck with Sarah Jean.

Cheers!

So I’ve officially been back in New York for a month. I still don’t have a job, though that is extremely subject to change in the next week. Well, technically, I was hired at a steakhouse in mid-town, but they haven’t brought me in for training yet, so I might as well not have a job. As frustrating and financially tedious as that is, I have a few other routes to pursue in the meantime. Aside from art commissions, I, as well as my roommates, are getting pretty good at throwing parties. Like, really good.

We had our housewarming two weeks after I moved in, and it was a blast. So much so, in fact, that a friend of ours offered to pay us in exchange for hosting a birthday party for him. We happily obliged. I put up some pictures; sadly none of them really show off the whole place, but c’est la vie.

In short, the first of many shindigs, hootenanies, gatherings, festivals and celebrations to come.

Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.

-Bean

Here to stay

I am officially moved into my loft apartment with my lovely roommates. Now I just need a job. Let the fun commence.

peace,

-Bean

“Bean, don’t flip off black guys in Brooklyn.”

So I’m sitting on my soon-to-be-roomie’s fire-escape, smoking a cigarette, holding a bag of ice to my face , in my bra and sweatpants.

Fire-escape? She’s at work and I’m staying with her til I can go back to DC and move my shit into my brand-spankin’ new apartment.

Smoking? To deal with the ridiculous stress that was today.

Ice? No, not because of the two black guys I flipped off (more on that later), but to de-swell the rest of my face, which is almost back to normal. Joy!

Last night I took an inordinately long bus ride to NYC, and due to a layover in PA, it took about six hours. Not fun. This morning, Dannie and I went to sign the lease and make the deposit on our loft. Mel, one of our other two roomies, was supposed to meet us there with she and Sarah Jean’s half of the payment. But, as we learned while we were waiting for her, their was a problem with getting all of her money because her bank account is foreign (English) and she could only withdrew a certain amount. After about five hours of much stressing and phone call-making, we learned that Dannie and I would have to come up with about $850 of the deposit. We were supposed to have it all in by 3:30, which is when our landlord, Alex, was supposed to leave and deliver the deposit for Sunday, when our lease starts. Well, at about 3:30, we realize the only way we can get the last of it was for me to go to a Commerce, my bank, and withdraw what my dad transferred. Mel managed to get part of it, so I needed about $700. Thus started the Great Trek Across Brooklyn.

I set off, already sweating in the glaring afternoon sun, and after about three blocks, finally manage to get a cab. Upon asking the driver, I discover the Commerce was farther than I thought, but I figure, fuck it, I have to get there. So we make our way through Atlantic Ave traffic, all the while Dannie calling me every couple minutes to see where I’m at. We finally make it to the bank, I tell the driver to wait, and I bolt in, a hot mess of sweat and anxiety. I have to wait in line for a teller, and when I finally do get up there, the transaction takes a couple of minutes. People must have thought someone was chasing me.

“I need to withdraw a large sum of cash.”

“Ok, please wait in line.”

You can imagine the thrill. So I bolt out of there with a fat envelope, hop in the cab, and race back to the loft. I tipped the guy well; this older Asian man who managed to get me there rather quickly, through rush hour. I felt a bit like I was in some kind of gangster movie; a wad of cash, repeatedly on the phone saying “I’ll be there in ten, I’ll be there in five, et.c” Over-active imagination, you see.

I literally run the next block, until I come into view, where Dannie, Mel, Alex and our super are outside. I hear Dannie yell “stop running!” and they all seemed very amused by my dehydrated and exhausted state. I imagine I did look rather funny, the red bandana around my neck flapping against my face as my heavy work boots clobbered the sidewalk, my arms pumping, red-face and breathing hard. I do what I can.

So it all worked out, and Alex wasn’t pissed. I think we managed to avoid having our reputation with our landlord completely tarnished. Let’s just say we’ll be amazingly on-time with rent from here on out.

And ah yes, the black guys. In the middle of our financial crisis, Dannie and I are sitting on the side walk, both trying to stay calm. These two guys, both fairly short, walk by saying shit like “Oh, that’s nice, baby, yeah.” You know, the usual Sidewalk Caveman communication. I just look up, pissed and stressed beyond belief, and just give them a very definitive bird. They pause, and say something to the effect of “Oh, that’s bad, she’s bad” while Dannie just kind of cordially implored them to fuck off, we were having a rough day. They did. BUT wait, there’s more. A little while later, I’m on the phone with my dad and they walk by again (apparently they don’t have anything better to do than harass young women). One of them, as they walk by, start telling Dannie over and over again that her friend had an attitude, and she should change it. Dannie just kind of “Okay’d” them until they were out of earshot. This resulted in Dannie, as we were heading home, uttering the title quote. And she’s right of course, but mighty zeus, what I’d have given to beat someone up right then, and they were spared only because A) I was too exhausted, B)I have a bit of temper when I want to, but I’m not an IDIOT, and C)I didn’t want to have to explain to the police why two grown men were on the ground screaming in pain from the mace-pepperspray I just used on them. Take too much time. Just kidding.

Sort of.

And now, food.

Peace,

Bean

Home-free

I got a call a few hours ago from my rental agent. The lease was approved for my roommates and I, we should sign the lease this Friday and move in Sunday. Let the fun begin!

Below, an image from the housing’s website of what half my loft looks like:

Spacious, were it not that I was sharing it with a couple other girls. Oh well! We’ll manage. Or hate each other. Or both.
See you in the city,

-Bean

P.S. This totally makes up for my face.

Vanity Isn’t A Deadly Sin

People always get it mixed up. The Seven Deadly sins are Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride. Not Vanity, PRIDE. One might say that Vanity is simply a sub-category, and that’s valid, BUT, in my own humble opinion, vanity is a far less harmful variety, as it refers to things like personal appearance, and the value you place in other’s opinions of it. A vice, to be sure, but not damning. Hollywood always gets it wrong (ie, The Devil’s Advocate and other films). I’m really only defending it, because I happen to be horribly vain myself, and I guess that’s a major weakness. Incapacitating-ly so, I’ve discovered.

I was recently the victim of some kind of allergic reaction/insect bite(I’ll find out what precisely at my impatiently-awaited trip to the doctor), and as a result, my cheeks have swollen to at least twice their normal size, making me resemble a disgruntled, overweight middle-schooler. You can imagine my displeasure. Aside from the fact that my face is in many ways my “money-maker” (being an actor and all) it also made me take a second to think about appearance in general. I don’t even want to go out in public like this. I am truly frightened of not being treated like an attractive person. Catcalls aside, I have noticed in the last year that being pretty has its definite perks, and I really really enjoy them. And now that that has been, albeit temporarily, taken away, I feel utterly vulnerable.

Which brings me to my point(s), I guess. The first, not taking for granted certain blessings (or any for that matter). There’s that old saying, you never know what you have until its gone. Well I can attest to that. And, maybe, if I wasn’t so humanly weak with my vanity, I wouldn’t realize what a gift I have now. So I guess what I mean is that vices have their benefits? But enough self-centered yammering.

My second point was just that I realize I, and other people, need to think about how they treat others based on looks. It’s an old tale, I’m not telling you anything new, but it bears repeating. I know I’ve done my fair share of gaping and gawking at people with deformities or scarring(or who are just plain fugly) and I’m not proud. That sucks. So I’d best thank my lucky stars I don’t have to go through that every day. Plus, working and living in a place like New York City, where good looks and material goods are idolized, one should take a breather every now and then remember that, hey, looks aren’t everything.

But damn, I hope my face gets better soon.

And on that note, while this blog will most likely NOT be a place for me to reflect on morality and sin, I figure once or twice can’t hurt. Shit, it is my blog.

Peace,

-Bean

Shameless Self-Promotion

Well, that didn’t take long. I just remembered that like any good entrepreneur, I need exposure, and hey, if you can’t use your own blog for that, than what good is it?

As well as aspiring actor/bar-tender/waitress, etc, etc, I’m also a freelance artist. I do portraiture of people and pets as commissions, so check out my deviantart: RefriedBean. I also dabble in graphic novel art, but that’s a bowl I haven’t really gotten rolling yet. Stay tuned!

Entry the First

In order to properly run and update a blog about the adventures and mishaps of living in the Big Apple, one actually has to live there. At this precise moment, I do not. I’m back in my hometown, right outside the Nation’s Capital. Instead of squealing cab tires, vociferous pedestrians and all the other things that constitute New York’s daytime symphonies, I can hear almost nothing. The calm, punctuated by chirping birds and the occasional laugh of nearby children playing, is almost eerie in its peacefulness. Indoors, at the moment, I look out my window to see trees and parked cars, rather than looking into someone else’s apartment. It’s a nice respite, but, as much as I enjoy seeing the stars at night, I’d much rather see neon lights.

Let me back track.

I’m a young, female, acting student. I’m from the DC area, but due to my family, I’m no stranger to NY, and I ended up going to Manhattan for school. I just finished my first year at a conservatory for acting, and am currently awaiting the approval of my lease for my apartment in Brooklyn, which I’ll be sharing with three roommates this summer. As soon as I get back, I’ll probably start hostessing, then waiting tables, and then, hopefully, bartending, my ultimate part-time career goal.

I want to study people. There are plenty of jobs that let you do that, but in my view, nothing hurls you head first into the unwashed masses like the food industry, and bar-tending is a way of getting that hands-on experience while maintaining some distance. I mean literally, there’s about two or three feet between me and them. I’m pretty sociable, but I’ll be damned if I let some greasy, middle-aged, gold-chain wearing cretin grab my ass while I’m trying to do my job. Just sayin’. Anyhow, bar-tending is pretty much the perfect job for sociable, attractive people with good memories and a knack for making friends. Which I like to think I am, so you can see the attraction. Plus, late hours, which works, ’cause I still have classes.

But to the REAL POINT of this blog. It will be a place for me to work on my writing skills while simultaneously sharing amusing anecdotes, stories, photos, etc of the rabble, high-class and low, that I encounter on my acting/waiting/tending adventures. Also, the occasional odd thought or observation. Probably won’t have anything terribly interesting for a week or so, but all in due time.

I can’t wait to get back.

-Bean