Cows to Concrete

And the Winner is…Not Me. Shocking.

norahej — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 22:03:10 +0000

There is nothing worse then moving, unless you don’t have a place to move to. That’s the kicker right there. Unfortunately for me, I have been experiencing this “moving” process for about 9 months…I’m a little over it. My apartment share of choice? Craigslist. I think I should probably stop looking because it has clearly not been a fruitful experience for me. That and I’ve lived with one too many crazies in such a short amount of time. The trouble with crazies and craigslist is that you don’t find out exactly how crazy they are until two or three weeks in–Gotcha! I love it. Now, aside from the crazies, there’s also the soul-crushing, bitter disappointment of not getting the room at all. That one I know even better. In fact, just today I recieved an email (very rare to actually respond to a person you’re not giving the room to) from someone about my roommate status:

“Hey Norah, so nice to meet you the other night, thanks for coming by. I want you to know that we’ve decided on a roommate, and I don’t mean to make you feel bad but, you were second place! (And I’m not just saying that to everyone–too bad we don’t have two rooms to offer.) We really liked you a lot, and it was a tough decision–anyway, we think you’re a cool chick with a great sense of humor, and it’d be lovely to hang out with you again sometime, truly. ”

Seriously. Seriously. Second? Second?! I hate coming in second! There is nothing worse then losing and then find out you were “this” close to clinching it. When I read the “I don’t mean to make you feel bad but, you were second place! ” I wanted to reply: “If you didn’t want to make me feel bad, why tell me how close I was to getting the room? That’s sort of a douchey move on your part. Thank you for such an uplifting email:)” Of course, all I did was have a minor brain seizure and swear a streak of blue (to myself).

Ahhhh. I love looking for rooms. Thank you for the wonderful experiences craigslist. Thank you:)

YES I’m an ACTOR! Fuck You Too!

norahej — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 02:04:15 +0000

There are so(oooooooooooooooooooo) many people in New York and chances are most of the people you come across are actors. Whether they wait your tables, pour your draft, or walk your dog, they do it because it’s their $money$ job. I know I don’t want to be waiting fucking tables until I’m so old I collapse under a tray of grilled cheese sandwiches–I do it because I have to. Currently I’m working two jobs (sonofabitch) and auditioning in the early morning. Not a good combition. Like any New Yorker (or long-time transplant) I don’t sleep, I drink coffee like it’s mother’s milk, and my feet are calloused from walking everywhere. The only habit I’ve seemed to blatantly disregard is smoking, although in this city I take in so much second-hand, my chances of not getting lung cancer are slimmer then if I’d been a chainsmoker at the age of ten. Yipee, ain’t life grand. I digress, because of getting up at 5am for auditions (I’m non-union, so I’m in the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay bottom of the barrel as far as getting seen at all) coupled with working two jobs, and trying to pay rent, there is one conversation I am sick of having–it goes like so:

Stupid: “So why did you come to New York?”

Me: “I went to Circle in the Square Theatre School.”

S: “Huh (smirks and guffaws). So you’re an actor then?”

M: “Yes I am.” (subtext: you are a fucking asshole)

S: “Isn’t that tough here?”

M: “Yes, but it’s worth it to be doing what I love.” (subtext: you are a dumb fucking asshole)

–coming up is the #1 offensive question to any actor, especially me–

S: “So what’s your back-up plan then? You know, when this doesn’t work out?”

M: (My restraint snaps and I proceed to choke the stupid fucking asshole, they die, i stand over them calmly) “There is no back-up plan asshole. I don’t plan on failing.”

–THE END–

That’s usually what’s going on inwardly when someone is stupid enough to ask about a “back-up” plan. I’m not an actor because I’m planning on failure or boatloads of money. I’m an actor because I have a passion for my art and a need to see my passion expressed. That’s it. There’s no “back-up” for passion, it just is. It is people who are afraid of failure, and bitter towards those they see following their passion, that need a “back-up” in order to justify their life. Then again, this is coming from a girl living one day at a time, sleeping five hours a night, and working two jobs in order to follow her passion. It’s worth it to me, is it worth it to you?

New York v. Me

norahej — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 00:26:27 +0000

There are two kinds of New Yorkers: born-and-bred (a rare breed indeed) and transplants (99% of New York). I’m a transplant and as a transplant I have been put through what you might refer to as “hazing.” I say this loosely because most hazing stops when the “Big Sisters/Brothers” have accepted you lovingly into their arms…or when Administration reads in the city paper that one of their students was found bound and gagged to their historic monument. I’m in limbo here, neither completely accepted by Big Brother New York, nor found duct-taped to the Statue of Liberty–yet. I have had my fair share of hazing though. Most transplants have experienced at least one in five situations below:

1. mugging/robbery (mugging requires a new set of underwear)

2. eviction (someone will ALWAYS screw you over)

3. getting hit by a cab (seriously, this happens more then you hear)

4. getting shot

5. infestation (cockroaches have no fear)

I must be the exception to simple hazing, because on this list, the only thing I have had yet to experience is number three (knock on wood). I have been robbed twice (the first time was my own stupidity, the second…my own stupidity), mugged three times (all in the village, all by crazies), evicted once, shot in the ass with a bebe gun (it broke skin, that counts), and infested my first day in the city with the meanest fucking cockroaches I’ve ever come across. You would think the hazing would stop, you would think I would be patted on the back, handed a nice choccy, and sent to bed. You would be thinking wrong. You see, unless you were born under the lucky sign of zeus and grew up in this concrete playground, you are not worthy of being a New Yorker–not until New York decides at least. Until then, I wait my turn and watch my back, there’s no telling when that yellow cab of death is going to knock me on my ass.

Life Begins…NOW!

norahej — Sun, 10 Aug 2008 23:21:46 +0000

Seattle to New York. Not a painless journey in the least bit, but then, that’s how it’s always been with any American airlines: “Discomfort or your money back.” Unless of course, you’re flying first class, and in that case, let’s meet for coffee (I’ll be your best friend). My first flight from Seattle to New York two years ago was a disaster, not to mention an omen of future disasters, when the flight was delayed because of rain (in Seattle? What a surprise) and then promptly on my arrival to the city, the discovery that my bags had decided to stay behind–super. Days later my bags arrived, worse for wear and in need of a drink–a feeling I knew too well after only a couple of days in the city. In the past two years, my aeronautic experiences have involved screaming children, awkward seatmates (you know the kind–oblivious to personal space, halitosis to rival the Hudson, and the need to know EVERYTHING about you), armed robbery (from a Las Vegas slot machine), and sexual assault (I will never again fly with an expired license–the airport security are a little too friendly for my tastes). The flying, however, was not the only derisory experience to happen upon me in my move to adulthood. Oh no, New York treats transplants like New Yorkers treat cockroachs: a little West Side Story without the dancing, mixed with a can of Raid–get ready to rumble.