11:26: It's a Fine, Fine Life

         Monday morning. I'm at the corner of Grand and Baxter when my phone goes off. It's Joey. 

         Hi, Joey. 

         Hey, are you there yet?

         Nearly. You?

         I can't find it. 

         I can see him on the wrong side of the street, a block away.

         I see you. Cross the street. 

         Together we find the studio, sitting right where Hopstop said it would be. We enter the building and an awesome, industrial, cage-like elevator takes us up to the top floor and the doors open up to white, white, white. We've arrived in heaven. 

         

         -

 

         It was a Saturday evening. I don't remember what I'd been doing - I'd had rehearsal till six and then gone and done something food-related, probably. Whatever it was I got off the subway at my home stop - Columbus Circle - and in an act of habit pulled out my phone for the messages I'd missed while underground. New Voicemail. I skipped the first two messages (people I'd been meaning to get back to) and went straight for the third, the new one. Hi Sam, it's Ryan from PR, it began, I'm calling because we've got an interesting publicity opportunity for you.

I didn't think much of it. We'd just filled out a questionnaire  - Would you be willing to be in this publication or that publication, Would you be willing to sing the national anthem at a baseball game, etc. - so I thought it was gonna be something run-of-the-mill.

We'd like you to take part in a photoshoot for Vogue. (Sharp intake of breath). If you're interested, you and nine others from the cast will appear in the February issue in a fifteen to twenty page spread mixing photos and editorial (stop breathing altogether). 

I started hopping up and down right there at the intersection of 8th and 60th. I didn't even know what to think, how to react, what to do. I was just hopping up and down. Up and down. The excitement was physical, visceral, consuming. I was going to be in Vogue. 

         -

         

         We enter the studio and everything is bathed in white. High white walls, vaulting white ceiling, white morning light streaming through the giant east and south-facing windows. It's a big barn-like space, with a couple of side rooms and a loft. A set has been constructed in the big center of the space - basketball hoop, streamers, balloons. The girls are already there, hair in pin curls. The rest of the guys arrive and we sit in the back of the space, on the couches by the food (lox sandwiches, hot chocolate, coffee, OJ, fruit, muffins) in an early morning daze. We've not been allowed to style our hair, the girls weren't allowed to come in wearing makeup. We look like something the cat dragged in, sleepy and unkempt. 

         One by one the hair, makeup and costume people come for us, and over the course of the next hour magic happens. People return to couches severely altered. A girl leaves looking the worse for wear, bags under her eyes, and returns stunning, if not piecemeal - face perfect but hair a mess and still in sweats. Then a boy comes back, hair perfectly coiffed. Slowly but steadily we're transformed. My cheekbones are suddenly sharp, my jaw masculine, my hair combed up and back in that could be fifties or could be eighties. I don slacks, sweater, shoes. The tiny digital cameras we've brought come out and snapshots are taken of friends in groups and pairs, solo portraits with Isaac Mizrahi in the background. 

         The real photography is nothing like what I'd expected. Arthur, the photographer, sits in a chair smoking a pipe, camera on a low tripod in front of him. He's been in this business more than twice my lifespan and is completely likable, loud and funny. He's on the older side but not remotely out of it, even if his references and jokes are a little out of date. 

         A tableau is set up and he takes a single photo. He looks at it on the lcd screen, and calls for adjustments. This person needs to move left, that person needs a more upright pose, somebody go fix that girls hair. Five minutes later, another single shot. More adjustments. This continues through six different tableaus, and I find it remarkably easy. Intoxicatingly easy.

    

         Soon enough, the photos are over, and I haven't even broken a sweat. Everyone get out of your costume, we're told, and then lunch.

        The breakfast was delicious, but lunch is a feast. Chicken and mushrooms, shrimp and rice, salads, sandwiches, beautiful deserts and chocolate covered strawberries. I go back for seconds, thirds, and - yes - fourths, followed by desert. I've done no work and I'm being fed for it. I can't believe my luck.

         I leave the studio with Joey. Sam, he says as we get back in the elevator, we've got to find a way to break into this business. Looking back at how ridiculously fun and easy my morning was, I couldn't agree with him more. Yes, Joey. I don't know how. But we're gonna find a way.

11:17: Enter the Monomanus

         I made pasta the other night - It was one of many battles I've had with my kitchen in recent weeks. In hopes of proving the validity of cooking in general I've decided to make a list of the pros and cons surrounding it.

Pro: Roasted Carrots

         I never really learned how to cook. It's the fault of no one, really, but now that I'm on my own it would've been nice to have picked up the skill somewhere. Anyway - I decided to roast vegetables to put in my pasta. I looked up how to do it online ("This simple cooking method helps preserve the nutrients of the veggies" - score.), and tried it out. Roasted carrots are curious. Cooking them as I did in olive oil, the outside - which had browned in the cooking - had a nice savory flavor but the inside was sweet. They weren't perfect for the pasta but were delicious nonetheless. 

Con: Bloody Carrots

         Midway through chopping my first carrot, I noticed a pinkish tinge on one of the slices. The other side, I found, had a wash of crimson on it. Then I noticed two, three, four others...and oh, look at my left finger. A long horizontal gash at the tip. Bleeding profusely. How do I not notice these things when they happen? I ran to the bathroom, cleaned it up, put a bandaid on it. 

         I bought bandaids five days ago - a box of twenty. There are six left. Cooking means war.

Con: Burns. 

         Along with the carrots and later some corn, I roasted eggplant. It took longer than I expected it to (google said it would only take half an hour...NOT.)  and by the time my eggplant wedges were done my pasta was boiling and onions already sautéed. I took them out with my right hand (using a potholder, of course) and set them down on what little stovetop was available. 

         There is a clock that rests on top of my stove. A big, round, silver one. When I used my hips to close the oven door, the stove shook and the clock fell forward off its perch and hit the hot pan of eggplant. The pan flew out and caught me both in the palm of my empty left hand and on the stomach, and clattered to the floor.

         I assessed the situation: I had first degree burns on my my hand and stomach. Eggplant was all over the floor. My big round silver clock was nearly on the burner that was heating my soon-to-boil-over pasta. Priorities: quick: save the food. Nursing my hand, I scooped up the salvageable eggplant and got it on the counter. Then saved the clock. Then dealt with the burns. My left hand was now completely out of commission. And the noodles were boiling over.

Pro: Roasted Eggplant

         Unlike carrots, the flavor and consistency of roasted eggplant is the same all the way through. It has a light, earthy flavor that was easily distinguishable from the other flavors in my pasta but was nowhere near overpowering. I've decided it's probably better to peel the skin off as it isn't terribly easy to bite through, but it's definitely worth the effort.

Con: Being One Handed is Harder Than I Thought. 

         There were the obvious frustrations trying to finish my pasta with one hand; opening the jar of sauce is a good example. But the real problems came later, when I decided to take an after-dinner shower. 

         I'd been able to sort of fake the use my left hand throughout the evening, using my four remaining digits and the back of it and such. But stepping into the shower my cheap bandaids fell right off and the hot water made my hand sting and throb. So I committed to doing the entire shower solely with my right hand. Shampooing was frustrating enough. I had to first figure out how to open the bottle and get the shampoo in my hand (my knees and teeth helped out a little). I lathered it through my hair and rinsed all with one hand. Trying to wash the left side of my hair couldn't have looked more awkward; I stood crooked so as to avoid the hot water hitting my burned stomach and thrust my left hand out across my body to avoid the same. Meanwhile my right hand arced up over my head to wash the left side. It was quite a picture.

         The lid on the facewash was even harder to open. Having dealt with it (again aided by knees and teeth) As I set the closed bottle down the facewash spilled out of my hand and onto the tub. I repeated the maneuver with better luck, and felt empowered by my one handed skill.

          Washing one's right armpit with one's right hand is extremely difficult. While I can actually reach my right pit with my right hand (by folding it in like a chicken wing), there's no mobility once folded and I found myself slapping the washcloth uselessly against my armpit. I tried a different approach - I bent over sideways so the cloth would sit on top of the pit and wiggled around trying to scrub it with the couple of fingers that could reach. Result: Mostly unwashed armpit, minor forehead/tile collision. 

Pro: 

          My pasta was really darn good. It was fettuccine with roasted corn, eggplant, and carrot, some sautéed onions and garlic, and chicken, all in a sun-dried tomato alfredo sauce. It wasn't the most orthodox combination of ingredients or flavors, and I'd probably do most of it differently if I were to do it again. But man I had to work for that pasta. It took nearly three hours to make, and literal blood sweat and tears went into it. Sitting down with a glass of milk and a movie at dinnertime, I couldn't have asked for any other dish.