I should note that I do not know Kentucker Audley.
In fact, I’ve never even met him.
But he’s been the subject of some online discussion for the past few days.
He’s been popping up on my Facebook as my “friends” (Facebook? Real?) discuss him and his movies and I guess, their friendship with him.
What I gather is that he’s a mumblecore filmmaker, stuck among the bunch of my friends who also roughly consider themselves in this category.
The way that I gather this stems at least somewhat from a conversation I had with Rob-mlecore Malone last night, as I sat on his couch/current place of sleeping:
ROB: Do you know who Kentucker Audley is?
ME: No, not really.
ROB: I’m going to be playing “Sound Guy” in his next movie.
ME: Wow, how’d you land that?
ROB: Because I was the sound guy on some other movie.
*End of conversation*
I also mentioned Kentucker Audley to Zach Weintraub, another mumblecore filmmaker/friend, this morning though the subject was mostly on yet another mumblecore filmmaker in what amount to a sort of mumble-jerk.
That filmmaker, who is presumably friends with all of the above filmmakers, is Lena Dunham whom I interviewed and then found, to my surprise, in a feature article in the New Yorker.
I say to my surprise but it was really to my shock and horror as Lena Dunham, director of the film “Tiny Furniture”, is roughly my age, shares childhood friends with me and is currently writing a pilot for HBO with Judd Apatow.
Also, and this is verging on the personal here, it is actually my secret dream to have a New Yorker profile about me.
I’m not sure if I’ve told anyone that before.
What a bloggy thing to say.
Anyway, when I found out that she had her New Yorker profile I ranted and raved to my friends, nothing personal of course, just that “fucking Lena Dunham has a fucking profile in the fucking New Yorker”.
“So?” Zach said, in that very same G-Chat conversation. “She built herself up and has earned everything coming to her. Good for her.”
The words of someone living a Kerouakian lifestyle, starring in his second mumblecore film.
Meanwhile, I work in a movie theater.
Which brings me to an audition I went on yesterday, a callback actually for a yogurt ad, where I’d be playing a sleeping roommate.
No lines, no movement really. Just sleeping on a bench.
Actually, when I got in the audition room for the callback I saw there was a couch and thought I’d been upgraded due to my callback “first reject” status, but no.
It was back to the steel bench for my sleeping audition.
The callback was nice, my first one in 3-4 weeks after a mini-dry-spell. When I told my father I had auditioned for the part the first time of “sleepy/gross roommate”, he would make a point of bringing it up in conversations to ask why I hadn’t been called back yet for “a part you are so right for”.
But as I waited in the waiting room for the callback, way early in the morning, the first one called (good? not good?) I saw my old boss, an acclaimed doc-director, walk in and sit down to talk to me. She was directing the commercial and I was her intern for 8 or so months. Seeing her brought back both the swell of emotions from that time in my life, a time of both learning and tumult and also led me running to my memory trying to figure out whether I was “net-positive” in her book, a rather sudden assessment of my internship experience.
As I talked to her and showed her the spec commercial I made, I tried to balance the professional (“I was a post-coordinator on a doc!”) with the pathetic (“I’m hoping to be promoted to projectionist so that I can tell people I meet that my job has the word ‘-ist’ at the end.”) and make it seem like I wasn’t the whole mid-young-life nervous-trainwreck I absolutely was. All I was thinking as I talked to her though was, would this be my break? I had been told repeatedly that if I booked a project, I’d be called in and signed. The part was a sleepy roommate, lineless. My old boss could probably fill it with whoever she wanted in that anodyne callback-waiting room of me-look-a-likes. I would go out on comedy auditions then, freelance again. I’d be a signed client.
Only, was my ex-boss still angry at me for poorly packing family photos while we were moving out the office? Would she remember when she saw me sleeping there in that audition.
Whatever way, she didn’t let me know.
When I went to go do my slate, the portion of the audition where you look at the camera and say your name and agency, I couldn’t help staring at her instead, looking at me, impassively smiling.
“I’m sorry.” I said, getting my bearings. “It’s a little hard not to.”
And then, on that cold metal bench, I went to sleep.
I know in some way there’s no closure to the story I told there. Lena Dunham is doing very well, god bless her, and I wish like Zach or Rob my feelings towards her could be something other than unrepentant spite.
I’ll know if I got the audition when I know, just like any other one, though it still makes me crazy even as I beat myself up and remind myself that “only one person can be hired”.
I guess, like I’ve said before, I’m so anxious for my life to “start”, that it’s hard not to stare and look for it, even when it won’t do no good.
He told me to watch it soon.
How I found myself at Rob’s apartment last night anyway was shooting a short-from-a-feature where I was playing a character named Nick who interrupts conversations with musing bridging from pizza toppings to Barack Obama.
Sean Dunn, the writer-director, asked me whether it was ok that he had written this for me without meeting me much in real-life.
“No, I assume you read the blog.” I told him and he gave me back a happy nod.
I made a bad mistake and drank a 40 of Steel Reserve I got from the ghetto-deli downstairs at 7:30 when the shoot ended at 1pm.
By the time I got out, I had a head-ache and a quarter-drunk and a couple Tylenol downed to keep me from barfing on the subway.
“Did you mix Four Loko into the Steel Reserve and then drink it?” Zach asked me later, still in that very same G-Chat.
“No, are you fucking serious.” I replied.
“Yeah, I did it for fun.”
“And how was it?”
To tell you the truth, I was hoping to have something more exciting to tell you about food-wise, but it sort of fizzled-out this week.
For my heavy work scheduled, I ended up trolling the usual places, eating halal and pizza and leftover sandwiches from Better Being Underground.
I did manage to go on an audition to a new-fangled burrito joint in the Flatiron and snuck off on a doctor’s visit to a place that offered “Arugala and Warm Chicken Meatballs”, but neither one of them ended up being worth talking about.
Instead, what ended up here again, was a sandwich brought by my mom to me at work with half-an-apology, as it was purchased sadly, not even from her work cafeteria, but from the work coffee-bar downstairs.
“I was happy they had anything that even remotely looked good.” My mother told me, before hurrying back to meet a deadline.
And good, surprisingly, it was.
It was grilled chicken, sundried tomatoes, broccoli rabe and roasted garlic on seeded semoline bread.
Surprisingly, it hit the spot.
It could have used maybe some cheese, some fresh mozz, but it thankfully didn’t have mayo.
The broccoli never was unchewable, the roated garlic was sweet and a little spicy.
And the chicken was real, not sliced or processed, which was particularly welcome.
I finished it and was full, with a little help from my free soda-Sprite mixture in my water bottle and pack of employee-priced Sea-Salt-and-Vinegar potato chips.
Congratulations, Mom. You win.
SCHOLASTIC RED BAR (employees only?)
Grilled Chicken, Sunried Tomatoes, Broccoli Rabe and Roasted Garlic on Seeded Semolina, w/free soda and Employee-priced Potato Chips (not included)- $6.75
Scholastic Building, Broadway between Prince and Spring Sts, 2nd Floor.
R to Prince St, 6 to Spring St. BDFM to Broadway-Lafayette.