Adventures in Trying Not To Be a Pseudo-Celebrity Douchebag

“I hope she’s a foodie” was one of the comments on Facebook.

The others were comment on my “fly” appearance, how I was “styling” or “killing it” or, from Andy Roehm, always refreshing, wondering “what the fuck’s wrong with you drinking a vodka raspberry?”

When Rob put the picture up on Facebook, I was struck by how “cool” I looked, how “dapper” in my mismatched sport-coat and short-sleeved button-up, how my receding hairline had turned laziness into a sort of hair-do, how my staring ahead at the camera as opposed to the lady next to me, made me look important, or more than it all, or intense.

It was not a person I recognized, but then again, it was not reflective of who I was then, a problem I often have with photographs.

The truth of the matter was that I don’t know the young lady who was on my shoulder just then. She was someone who said the line I’ve heard repeatedly–”You’re that guy from Bethenny!”–and then it was off to the races.

I had to take my picture with her, had to meet her friends. These people didn’t know my name and nor would I expect them too, but I had no way to connect with them. In most ways, the interaction was like something digital, a “like” on Facebook or a retweet, with the lingering effect of having someone still look at you after the acknowledgment.

These people, this pretty lady, the whole open bar scene, they didn’t know me, so how was I supposed to process their blank acknowledgement?

The event was the Webutante Ball, a swanky charity-type thing run by Richard Blakely, a web-honcho whom I met in bar and kept in touch. I had comped passes for the event by Blakely’s kind offer but the only person I could think of for a date was Robert Malone, since a “ball” might be a heavy order for anyone I might have been tentatively pursuing and Rob, much more than I, knew how to have a good time.

We got dressed-up, we hit the party, sweaty and dank from the lingering night humidity outside and took part in the sadly vodka-only limited open bar, the reason for the drink Andy “Roehmed” me for.

As I walked around the event, I just felt crowded and more crowded as people filled it, different rooms, shoving past, trying to find others.

Rob had more of a tolerance for it all, especially with his camera, appointing himself Culture Vulture for the night.

“What’s the matter, babe?” He asked me. “Don’t want to hit up those ladies looking for some hot food-love?”

“Not really.” I told him. “I’m just not that interested.”

It’s not that I’m ball-less or even that intro-verted, I just couldn’t deal with the emotions, the crowded bar, the pressure to respond, the idea that somebody “knows” you, like that and expects that person they know from you.

What if I’m the me that wants to talk about movies, the me that talks about comedy shows, the me that just wants to fall in love?

How do you emerge as a person when to more people than you think, you’re just a character on a screen?

Reality TV just exacerbates the existential philosophy of the shit, as do Vodka Cranberries as did crowds.

Rob was disappointed in me when I told him I was leaving that night, though he came with, like a friend.

Bobby Olsen was disappointed in me a week later, when I left the after-party for Sophia Takal’s “Green” for similar reasons.

Sophia’s a friend and co-conspirator in the Find Rob Malone Love Association, and her movie was felt, honest, great (you can check it out at BAM, via the link above if you’d like).

I had been looking forward to the unexpected “free beer after-party”, but what I thought would be a soiree in an empty bar with a bunch of Brooklyn-y film nerds turned out to be a conglomeration of three different parties in a too-small LES hotspot.

Again, I found myself cornered by drunk people “recognizing me”, asking me questions, asking “what is she like? what are you doing with her? are you on the next season?”, things I don’t know how to answer, things I shouldn’t have to.

I’m not famous enough to deal with this always and the fact knowing that this is all uncontrollable and fleeting only makes it more difficult to deal with. Who knows what will happen to me, who people really are, what someone else’s plans are for me? All I’m interested in is writing and doing comedy and trying to find some sort of creative craft I have some control over.

Another crowded bar, another night, another time I couldn’t escape, until I did.

Bobby hadn’t seen the movie, he’d just biked in to see some friends. He’d been working hard and hoping to get some R+R. He wasn’t there to ask questions, just to see the person he actually knew, among others, of course.

But by the time Bobby got there, I had to apologize and leave and walk home, alone, 1 free beer deep, in the Lower-Manhattan late-time.

A question I ask often in this blog is “who am I?” There’s a certain necessary, but unclear schism between the person writing this and the person appearing in these stories. Another schism between the way I see myself and my friends’ conceptions of me. And then this other person entirely that I don’t know how to respond to, this context-less reality.

I looked at the picture above today and didn’t know necessarily who I was.

Except I wasn’t “with” that girl, I’m with no one. I didn’t have a hair-do, or a fashion sense. And I didn’t feel important.

I was just looking into the camera, seeking escape, feeling uncomfortable, sipping a Vodka Cranberry from a small black straw.

But that’s not the Nick that people saw on Facebook.

And why hurry to correct them when they just assume my success?

***

A friend found this picture online, not taken by anyone I knew and Frank Orio called me to tell me about it.

I had been at the Big Apple BBQ where this picture was taken, this past weekend but, of course, I had no idea who took it.

It’s certainly much less flattering than the other picture.

I was waiting online to get some Turkey Barbecue from Ed Mitchell’s pop-up tent, the only place offering a white-meat option. I was pulled out of line, handed a sandwich and told when I asked why, “you’re the foodie”. To which I glumly nodded and headed out.

The sandwich was fairly awesome, with dark-meat turkey shredded-up on a bun, with a cider-vinegar sauce and something called a “heating agent” sprinkled on top at my server’s behest.

It was sloppy and full of juice, like I like my ‘cue and when they asked me if I could talk with Ed Mitchell, the pitmaster, for a moment on camera, I gave them their bit, if not out of gratitude for the sandwich, then out of respect fr the man.

He talked about raising funds to open in New York (his store’s in Raleigh, NC) and I recommended, somewhat shamefully/passe-ly, that he might open a food truck in NY for less money than a full on restaurant, in order to prove the market for his style of BBQ in NYC. I told him I felt like such a thing would be a slam dunk here, but I conceded that “you know infinitely more about running a restaurant than I do”.

I joined Frank, his friends Charles and Val from college and his mom, an eccentric, lovable schoolteacher named Sophie in line for some ribs they were getting.

“You know, you guys shouldn’t be getting ribs here.” I pointed out as they stood in the Blue Smoke line. “You can get these any time; these guys are NYC-based.”

“Nick, not everyone lives in NY.” Frank said, gesturing to a complimentarily-waving Charles and Val as I conceded and waited with them for their food.

It was Charles who found the picture a few days later.

Later that night, I had a UCB show I thought I was pretty funny in though my teacher didn’t like it much. Rob and Dan Dickerson attended and I made fun of Dan’s moustache. Lorina and Ron, my improv friends came and Ron stuck around after to see the “ASSSSCAT’ show with me.

Now that my 401 class is over, I’ve gotten my notes and I’m waiting to be told I’m not good enough to study “advanced classes” there (an email I check for frequently), it was nice that Rob texted me and said I was the funniest part of the show, along with a girl in my class who’s a vet. It was nice that Ron stuck around to talk with me and hang out after. That they all gave me notes and thanks and were there.

It was nice that Frank called me to tell me about the picture Charles had found, which I used in my blog.

It was nice in a time of feeling not-good-enough, to hear that for the people that knew you well, you were accepted.

***

I’ll admit, I kinda wish that Turkey Sandwich had been enough to end the blog with.

But unfortunately, as far as I know, it will never again exist in New York, unless someone takes a trip to Raleigh and stores some in the back of their car.

So here’s another story.

As part of my current job, which I can’t really talk about except to say that I really, honestly enjoy it (which terrifies me), I find myself in the strange position of being down in the Financial District, which I finally decided to use to blackball one Robert Martin Malone into eating a solid meal with me.

I tried to lure him to Alfanoose, where I so frequently pick up mammoth platters that never last less than two meals, but he chose my alternate, Zaitzeff, a burger joint that had been strenuously recommended by my employer who told me that “if you’re going to eat a real burger at Peter Luger’s, you should do yourself the favor and eat one at Zaitzeff”.

When we arrived, Rob was only a couple minutes late and apologized. We took turns complaining about girl problems (mostly lack-of-girl problems) and ordered some food and drinks, I caught a turkey burger while Rob opted for a regular 1/4lb Sirloin.

Both came standard on a “Portuguese Muffin” which seemed to me very close to an English muffin though Rob said he both preferred to my choice of the sesame-seed bun and to a straight-up EM saying “there’s something roll-y about this I really like”.

My turkey burger was fairly yummy if a bit small and I’m not much one for grilled onions (fried or caramelized please!) but the muffin did take care of containing and sopping the burger juices and providing a nice palatable counter-point to the umami flavors at hand.

The real all-star for me were the “Mixed Fries”, a large paper dish containing a mash-up of sweet-potato and idaho fries in a generous, share-encouraging portion. I told Rob the fries were on me and he obliged in turn by getting the beverages.

“You’ve got a thing for expensive lunches, babe.” Rob added, knocking burger juice out of his beard.

“Alfanoose would have been the same as this.” I replied.

“Yeah, but less burger-y.” Rob replied.

And that was a good note to exit on.

So we did.

***

ZAITZEFF BURGERS

Turkey Burger w/White Cheddar on Portuguese Muffin w/Mixed Fries- $16.82

NE Corner of Nassau and John Sts

AC2345JMZ to Fulton St-Broadway-Nassau. E to World Trade Center. R to Cortlandt St.

Arguments

“Dude, clean up your fucking apartment.”

It had been a long day.

Actually it hadn’t.

It was the Monday after I’d finished by three-week improv intensive, complete with a full additional weekend of additional classes and shows and actually Monday was the first day I was actually free of any improv engagements, sketch, stand-up or the like.

I slept in, I didn’t go to bed too late the night before, I watched most of “National Treasure: Book of Secrets”, was amazed by the cast and took a shower in the middle. I was amazed from my Pandora Radio, yet again, not only how dark of a song “Jenny/867-5309″ by Tommy Tutone was, but that no one seemed to care in the slightest whenever I brought it up.

I got to see “X-Men: First Class” with Rob Malone, who managed to out phone-usage me during the movie, somehow, but we both enjoyed it with our free Regal loyalty snack rewards, which we upsized into a summer-size popcorn and soda.

I had dinner at Le Bernadin with my now-non-quasi-roommate John Beamer, his ‘rents and mine. Drank too much wine, as the event called for it and headed home with John, who came along to catch the tail end of National Treasure 2.

I wound up in the late hours with Bobby Olsen and John both there to crash, too tired from X-Files episodes and Magic Hat No. 9s to drag their asses home and I was happy for the company anyway. It’s strange to say, but when you’re missing love in your life, it’s nice to have see a friendly face in the morning in your apartment. No kisses there, but at least a smile, or some morning groans.

But as the X-Files episodes rolled on and as I neglected to take part in the 6-pack, refunded my 5-dollars by Bobby Olsen, a conversation was struck up about the state of my apartment.

“At least you could clean the shower.” Beamer added, piggybacking off Bobby’s comment.

“Dude, this place is like a disaster. And it would be this much work to even clean the bathroom.” Bobby gestured. “A chick is going to come in here and like, call it off because of that.”

“You’re self-sabotaging, is what you’re doing.” Beamer added on.

It was a difficult situation. I was tired, burnt out on the now-hours-ago wine and I needed to be up early on Tuesday for therapy. But something about this all struck a chord.

“Look,” I said. “First of all, this is who I am. I’ve got lots of gross habits. And if the one that turns you off is my bathroom being messy, that’s probably the canary in the coal mine.”

“That’s just an excuse, Nick, doesn’t mean it’s not self-sabotaging.” Beamer replied.

“It’s like you’re admitting it!” Bobby added.

“Second of all, you motherfuckers are telling me we ALL don’t do much more grievous things here to self-sabotage in front of women?”

“Not the point.” Bobby replied.

“This is easily fixable.” said Beamer.

“Look I might clean my apartment,” I conceded, double-teamed and irritable. “But if I do it’s going to be because my apartment’s gross, not because of some fantasy relationship that would be fantasy squashed because of this.”

And it continued.

I kept trying to tell John and Bobby that I didn’t disagree with the idea of cleaning my apartment, only the idea that somehow not doing so represented some sort of self-sabotage on a grand scale, because of all the things that would be associated from the fallout of that.

If I was self-sabotaging my romantic life by not cleaning my apartment, what else that I thought was right was wrong? What was my accepted reality then?

Also, there was the issue that I told them about somewhere mid-argument.

“Listen guys, I won’t back down from this. Somewhere forged in my adolescence, I figured out that I was not going to change who I was to be accepted, that there was nothing wrong with who I am. If I want to change that’s fine, but I won’t accept that there’s something I need to do for people to accept me. They’ll take me, or–”

And it gets murky here, because I repeated the end of this statement two different ways.

“–or fuck you.”

“–or they should own that and that’s fine, I’ll move on.”

The argument started then to metamorphose from my bathroom, to my “sad tweets” and my constant sharing of my emotional state (“a result of drunkenness”, “a way of externalizing my emotions” “journal-like”) no the nature and uses of social media, back to who I was and the roots of my behavior.

“Fellas,” I told them sometime round 2:30am. “I have to go to sleep. I have real therapy tomorrow.”

Eventually, I got them down in bed, though not before Bobby quizzed me and John to find some relic of his own childhood, a Power-Rangers like show that had the world “ultra” in it, was set in a computer and “was just one guy” (after 20 minutes of searching it turned out to be this) though before we found it, we kept telling Bobby he was insane.

I remembered the rare dream before waking, or at least the end of it.

I was sitting in an elementary school hallway, in a chair, with some white light at the end of it. I was beckoned into a classroom where a teacher, who looked like one of my improv teachers who I didn’t have but knew, was quizzing elementary school children on flash-card-like facts. The only line I remember from these calls and responses was the last one.

“A metaphor.” The teacher said.

And one of the students called out:

“None other than Ra’s Al Ghul.”

And I woke up 3 minutes before my alarm clock.

When I went into therapy that day, I still didn’t have an answer.

It occurs to me now, I should just blame Andrew Parrish and be done with it.

***

I’ve had a few auditions in the past few weeks, though I can’t or don’t sweat them as much anymore.

They come so infrequently now that I just to accept them and let it go.

I tried to be a “fairy” in a grilling commercial, a Jack Black via John Travolta in Pulp Fiction in a Swedish Milkshake commercial and a Seth Rogen-like sociopath (ala Observe and Report) in a low-budget horror movie.

The last one was my first ever taped audition and I arrived to my manager’s office with the copy in my newly-minted solar-powered backpack and the above lunch in the other hand.

I went looking for the Bistro Truck, which was usually in the area, but was gone that day and found instead what seemed shady but ended up being interesting: a truck called “Marrakech Chefs”.

They too offered a Dijon Chicken dish with couscous and salad and I ordered it warily, but was pleasantly surprised, when I sat down to eat my lunch in my manager’s tiny office.

Where as the Bistro Truck offers a refined and more delicate version of this dish, itself a more refined version of “street meat”, Marrakech Chefs seems to offer something that veers towards more authenticity/simplicity.

Their chicken is interspersed with cooked mushrooms, with a creamy rich dijon/creme fraiche sauce on top and what tasted like an earthier couscous than I was used to on bottom. The salad, far from being the usual (and preferred) arugala with light dressing, was an unexpected mi of crispy cucumber and unexpectedly welcome beets, whose cool and sweet clarity of taste contrasted with the creamy chicken on the other side of the metal plate.

As I sat in my manager’s office, the staff around me cooed and looked down at my food.

Which is to say they glanced at it a bit and one of them asked a question, before someone else asked if I “still hang out with Bethenny”.

I finished my food and did a convincing job I think as an overweight college security-guard/sociopath.

***

MARRAKECH CHEFS

Dijon Chicken Platter w/Coucous and Side Cucumber/Beet Salad- $6.50

Unpredictable location (Try here)

 

 

 

Happy Jew Year

I got this email a few days ago and I showed it to Chadd yesterday.

“Wanna see a preview of my new blog post?”

He was sitting in the corner of a small Alphabet City apartment, drunk, moody and uncharacteristically quiet, wearing an angsty Vincent Gallo t-shirt and so I thought I’d give him a little pepping up.

“Like I need one, like everyone should care.” Chadd told me.

But he did a double take when he saw it.

I had shown up barely announced to the cramped apartment with my best friend Frank and his friend Army Rob in tow, with a six-pack of Labatt Blue out of the sort of courtesy that one brings to a party in the form of beer or beer-like substances.

The main attraction though was a “Return to/from Russia” theme, espoused by the fur cap Bobby Olsen was wearing when I entered and the horseradish vodka shots, chased with mini dill pickles, that Dan Berk made us all take.

“I want to go to the vodka closet!” Dan declared after one particularly strong whiff of horseradish. “At these clubs around the city, you can go into an icy closet and there’s just a shit-ton of vodka and you can drink as many shots as you can take–30 shots, whatever.”

“Yeah, how much is that?” I asked.

“Nothing, it’s part of the club.” He replied.

And I nodded and chewed on my pickle.

Chadd looked at me seriously and tried to convince me that this was an augur that I should write a short film for Colin Quinn.

“Give him something he won’t expect, man.” He told me. “You’re good at that.”

I wasn’t so sure, about the idea or the script, but I took it.

Soon Chadd left and so did the rest of us. Frank and Army Rob were happy for the funny vodka, but complained heavily about the walking load of going anywhere from Alphabet City.

Army Rob wanted to try Karaoke for the first time, so I got him jazzed up with some pointers, describing to him my strategies versus the balladry of the other Ro-beardo Malone and how he belts out Celine Dion songs like they were covers by a one-Rob-Malone-band, but Army Rob not having Rob-knowledge, it was somewhat lost on him.

Planet Rose was packed full, though, of “bridge-and-tunnel” folks and the new place I tried, The Karaoke Cave (a Matt Chao rec) was also packed with 30-minute wait times on songs.

Frank and Army Rob went home, to Frank’s karaoke-less relief and Rob’s only slight disappointment.

For me, the horseradish vodka was enough to get me to bed.

***

Working in the movie theater lately has alternated somewhere between frustrating and fulfilling.

It’s always better when I have something else in my life, something to look forward to, some hope that this isn’t my endgame.

“I’m taking classes, somewhere, anywhere.” One of co-workers told me. “Because if this is the only thing in my life, I’d go insane.”

And while I reached a periodic low sometime last week, recoiling still from blowing my one audition, this week I had a good meeting with a manager, booked another audition and, most importantly, found a new video game to play.

I also gained some confidence from a writing group session which reached a good 6 or so people when I thought that no one would come. I made some revisions to a script, drank some good beers, and chatted about Mochi with a tipsy Emmeline Wilks-Dupoise while I escorted her to a dinner-date near by.

Andy Roehm liked my script so much that he ended up bugging me about it at work.

“Dude,” he began, in his usual So-Cal invocation. “I know those characters. I’d do justice to it, man. I’d do it right. You know it.”

It was fun being pursued like this, fun to know that people still like what you gotta say.

And it was funny seeing Andy say this, while wearing a black visor, preparing to clean a bathroom.

It was somewhere between feeling bad and feeling better that Mr. Quinn came by.

His show was over, so he must have lived the near the theater. He recognized me from an earlier time I took his ticket.

We chatted for about ten minutes, during the n0t-busy hours, about comedy, filmmaking, my posture (which he told me could be improved by “Alexander Technique”) and my favorite podcast, “WTF with Marc Maron”, which he said he was going to be on “just because you asked.”

“You’re the only reason I’m going on that show.” He told me and I probably blushed.

He solicited seeing my movie when I told him I was a film student and got back to me that same night.

It’s always a pleasure when someone like that is a decent fellow to you.

I guess working at the movie theater has its’ ups.

***

The downs, I suppose, came when I worked my first ever double shift: 17 hour straight.

It was going to be an event, opening and closing on a Friday. I told all my friends to come and see movies and drink coffee and soda and eat popcorn and candy: anything I could offer them for free.

Anything really, to have at least someone come and keep me company through what was bound to be a stressful period of my life/day.

As it happens, noone came. At least not to see a movie.

J.D. Amato came almost incidentally, as part of pre-show ritual of getting out the jitters through visiting multiple coffee shops.

Mr. Amato had amazed all my friends upon graduation college a year later than us, by landing a big corporate ongoing gig. Even though he wasn’t there anymore, he still seemed to be walking on air, producing shorts for the UCB’s website (which he created) and for Funny Or Die. In his “spare time” he also improved on teams, putting on shows in cool-sketchy venues.

In short, he seemed to have the sort of creative-artistic “progress success” that seemed to elude me and my friends, who found ourselves in various degress of “working in a movie theater.”

It was nice of J.D. to come though, and our talk precluded a long relationship we hav had now, playing Words With Friends on our iPhones.

The other person who showed up, was my Mom with two slices of Two Boots pizza, one my favorite, one hers.

It was a very nice gesture and one that I appreciated. So much, in fact, that that picture is all I managed to take of them.

The one slice, my favorite, the Mr. Pink, has marinated chicken, plum tomatoes and roasted garlic on an otherwise normal slice. It’s chewy and chicken-y and spicy with greasy cheese binding everything together, kind of like a streamlined chicken parm.

My mom’s fave, she was loathe to tell me about it, but turned out well, the Tony Clifton, which has Vidalia onions and wild mushrooms and some nice sauces.

I usually don’t like mushrooms and onions on my pizza (why my mom was scared to tell me), but really you just appreciate anything in that sort of circumstance and I warmed to Mr. Clifton quickly.

I got through the shfit somehow and went back to work the next day, still burnt, and somehow I feel like weeks later, I still haven’t recovered.

I celebrated Rosh Hashanah recently with my family and told my mom how much I appreciated the slices.

The next day, Eva’s Rochester-Irish father took me out to brunch and brought up the new year.

“Blessings on your face.” He told me.

“What?”

“I think that’s what you’re supposed to say on the new year.” He said.

I wondered if my acne had gone away.

***

TWO BOOTS

1 Mr. Pink (Chicken, Tomato, Garlic) and 1 Tony Clifton (Vidalia Onions, Mushrooms)- $7.50 (or free if your mom brings it)

Bleecker St between Broadway and Crosby St.

BDFM6 to Broadway-Lafayette/Bleecker St. R to Prince St.