Notes from the Sofa

You know what's the best thing about being an actor? Waiting for a "You got the job!" call from your agent. No, really - in those waning hours of need, you get to treat everyone else who calls you like a pointless distraction. In one of those desperate periods yesterday, I kept my mind off the non-ringing phone by watching the news. And since there was live footage of a tragic accident (Cory Lidle's plane crash), it was a good news day. After a half-hour of watching NY1, the phone rang. "Sweet," I thought, "it's my agent and I got the job." But no, it was just my brother wanting to know whether or not I was okay. He lives in the suburbs, so he assumes that each Manhattan resident must be connected to a smoldering Upper East Side condo. I said I was fine, sitting on a plush sofa and eating macaronis. He said he didn't care about all that shit, he just wanted to know if I was all right. He hung up. I watched some more footage of the building and an on-the-street interview with some banker's slutty wife. She kept nattering on about how she, "needed to save (her) puppies!!! And one of them? Yeah, he's still in there! He could be in flames or something!!??" She later admitted that she actually lived five blocks down from the scarred building, which would put her precious pup a quarter-mile from any flames. But I guess we all want to ride the tragedy bandwagon sometimes.

Then the phone rang again! "Sweet," I thought, "now it's my agent and now I got the job." It was my mom. She wanted to know if I was okay. I told her about the sofa and macaronis then said something dicky like, "Can I talk to you later or something? I wanna watch this story develop, okay? Bye." My subtext was, "Why aren't you my agent with a job? Does it matter that you gave birth to me and funded my college education? I want to be on cable TV!" Disgusting.