Ders Kerds Ern Brerklern

Two years after shooting ended, I finally got to see the NYU student film in which I play an unbelievably naïve appartment hunter.  I hesitated before clicking the link to vimeo, anticipating the discomfort and embarrassment of hearing myself say stupid things stupidly.  But the pangs of self-hate were quite moderate, either because my state of ennui, weltzshmerz, apathy etc. is nearly complete, or because I knew for a long time that the film was likely going to suck and could therefore not be disappointed.

It all started when I took a intro improv class at the Upright Citizens Brigade theatre in New York.  I was initially wowed by the talent of my classmates, and most of them had agents and real experience and intense aspirations to be professional actors.  So when another student asked me to be in a short film, my first response was, "Why me?"  Did the others refuse?

I actually thought I did OK and "kept up" while doing improv with the clearly more polished performers in class.  I think that my only strength was precisely in my lack of polish, and my avoidance of over-acting or taking over the scene. 

The director said she wanted us to do a lot of improv, but we would be shooting on film... and she was poor.  So... erm.. clearly there's a conflict (she couldn't just leave the camera rolling and hope some improv gold comes along).   We did do several minutes of improv but none of it made it in the movie.  At one point I made the real estate agent snap out of character because 'I wasn't respecting her' during some improv (I had innapropriately put my head on her shoulder as she was rambling... not funny.)  I stayed in character during and after her outburst... a tiny victory for my craft.

The whole on-set ambiance was just weird.  We had only done one rehearsal (which went way better than the actual shoot).  There was not enough time to establish any kind of rapport.  When I showed up on set at the buttcrack of dawn (as instructed) the director barely acknowleged me.  Her eyes were half closed as she grumpily slouched around.  An hour later the other actors showed up.  Then I had to wait even more while the college crew figured out how to load the camera.  Free bagels!

The director had literally nothing to say about the takes.  I understand she was preoccupied by the technical aspects, but no feedback at all?  I should make it clear that I made a lot of mistakes, and horrible noob mistakes like looking directly into the camera.  Everyone was stressed, and the fatality of the whirring film only added stress.  I remember at the end feeling incredibly worn out.  I had been there for 12 hours, and most of it was feeling hot and sweaty, unfunny, and self-conscious.

I sometimes feel like I shouldn't criticise anybody involved in this shameful display, but that would be to pretend that I have some sort of future doing this type of stuff.  Freed of that burden, I can say that the writing stunk, the shot composition was questionable, and the editing was sloppy.  And I'm a crappy actor!  I'm still happy I was a part of it, and look back at that time with strange fondness.

Bite + Bite = Ouch

I was looking desperately for a little market in Lyon (it was 8 o'clock on a Sunday) when an "arab" caught my eye. I was so excited I failed to notice the "bite" and slammed my bite into the bite, if you catch my drift. That's the first time that has ever happened (surprisingly enough) and it hurt like hell! My balls are still tender. A young lady saw my slapstick routine and couldn't help but laugh. I had to laugh too.

Voleurs

In the past two days two people tried to rob me. First on the bus, a teenager tried to lift something out of my backpack and beelined out the front entrance of the bus (cleverly preventing me from getting at him because of the impending crush of boarding passengers), but another passenger stopped him. At first I thought the good samaritan was rooting through my bag, and I felt ashamed for yelling at him.

Then, late last night as I was walking home a group of 18 year olds drinking mousseux on the street asked me to come have a drink with them. They seemed like they were just drunk and having a good time (as I was) so I went over for impromptu good cheer. Within seconds one of them had his hand in my back pocket... and he wasn't flirting with me. I gave him an elbow and got the hell out of there.

Both attempts failed. The first punk, if successful, would've made off with a glorious booty of pencils, erasers, and used kleenex. The second insulted my intelligence by thinking I'd keep my wallet in my back pocket (not that this wouldn't have worked on me before). A shameful display all around.

Rue Consolat

I was looking for the apartment on la rue Consolat. I took a side street towards where I thought it was, and passed a portly woman sitting on a stoop and asked her for directions.

"Rue Consolat?" she pondered. "Non, je ne connais pas" she said deliberately. "Pardon!" she erupted, surprising me with her seeming inability to modulate her voice.

I continued to the next intersection and looked up at the corner of a building to see a blue sign that sure enough read "Rue Consolat". I looked over at the woman on the stoop who was less than 20 meters away. I waved and yelled "C'est ici!" but she didn't notice me.

After having established the location of the appartment I went to a small café I know to wait for the landlady who is notoriously late. It's a café I've gone to several times, mostly while waiting for Audrey who taught classes nearby last year.

The waiter brought me a pastis. The proper way to serve pastis is to pour a shot over an icecube or two and present with a bottle of water, allowing the customer to add the amount of water he prefers. My pastis came premixed, which is more and more common these days, and is surely an indication of the eroding morals and eventual descent of western civilization.

I was pondering the mysterious black specks floating in my glass when a drunk man in his 60's sat next to me. He opened his packet of cigarillos and asked me if it bothered me if he smoked. I acted surprised, since at least in France they haven't yet outlawed smoking outside.

"Je suis respectieux!" he explained. I appreciated that! He licked his finger and held it in the air. "Tu vois, le vent vient de ce côté, donc ça pourrait te gêner!" You're right, I said. I'm asthmatic I said. But I didn't say that I just don't like people breathing smoke on me, no matter what the associated health risks. He obviously didn't expect me to actually ask him to not smoke, and reluctantly said, well, I guess I'll go over there... No, no, no, I said, let's just switch seats. That way the smoke will blow away from me and you'll still be in the sun.

At first he was reluctant, but then his ruddy cheeks beemed, clearly pleased that we could come to such a civil and mutually beneficial agreement, and we congratulated ourselves for our sensitivity and politeness. Not a common sight these days, he'll tell me.

Now he was on my right. "Oh! Je vais commander" he said. He came back with a small glass of red wine. Since I engaged him before, he now felt comfortable to chat me up. He asked me what I do, and he told me he had heard about ancient DNA before. He told me about his cats and their names. He talked about how young I am and how old he is. I found out that he was a diesel truck mechanic. He punctiated all of his phrases by prodding my arm with the back of his hand.

He was a prodder. This inebriated exagerated tactile need that can be found worldwide. His hands were tough and dirty, and frankly I didn't like it at all. Relax, it's just your overcoat. Just the other day you scraped pigeon shit off of it without a second thought. The outside of my coat had become part of the public urban landscape.

Finally he remembered that he wanted to light his cigarillo. It was quite windy, and even someone with all of their senses would have a hard time. He failed miserably 4 times.

Then another customer's dog jumped on a passerby, who was drooling drunk. He was a poor, poor bastard, and decided to stop and slur indignations on the dog's owners. He told them that the dog damaged his pants. His hobo pants had so many patches that there was practically nothing left of the original set of jeans. He called the dog names.

The drunk next to me derided the other drunk, and if he wasn't such a nice guy he'd pop him one. Poor dog, he said.

Ah, just another beautiful Saturday afternoon in Marseille I thought.

Anise Brine

1 cup kosher salt 1 cup packed brown sugar 2 pods star anise 4 bay leaves Preparation 1.In a large pot set over high heat, combine 1 gallon of water and the rest of the ingredients and stir to combine. Heat until the sugar and salt are dissolved, then remove from stove. 2.Let cool completely and refrigerate until needed. YIELD About 1 gallon

Smothered Pork Chops

Ingredients 8 thick, bone-in pork chops (more if using smaller chops) Anise brine 4 tablespoons neutral oil, like peanut or safflower, or lard 1 cup all-purpose flour 8 medium yellow onions, peeled and thinly sliced 1 bay leaf Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste 2 quarts pork stock or chicken stock 1 tablespoon finely chopped parsley, optional Preparation 1. In a large nonreactive container, submerge the pork in the brine and place in refrigerator for at least 12 hours or overnight, then remove the chops and dry well with paper towels. 2. Preheat oven to 325. Heat the oil or lard in a large ovenproof pot or Dutch oven set over medium heat. Dredge the chops in the flour, shaking off the excess. Reserve the leftover flour. 3. Cook the chops in the fat, about 4 minutes per side, until they are brown and crisp on the exterior, and transfer to a plate. Reduce heat to medium-low. Add the onions and bay leaf and cook, stirring often, until the onions are softened, about 15 minutes. Season well with salt and pepper. 4. Add 6 tablespoons fl our to the onions, stir well and allow to cook 3 or 4 minutes. Slowly add the stock, stirring and scraping the pan well, until it is incorporated and the mixture is slightly thickened. 5. Return chops to the pot and bring to a simmer, then cover tightly and cook in the oven until very tender, 2 or more hours. Transfer chops to a plate and place pot on stovetop, over medium heat. Reduce sauce until it is thick enough to resemble gravy, skimming excess oil and foam if necessary. Return chops to pot to reheat, then serve with their gravy over rice or mashed potatoes. Garnish with parsley if you like.

Eggs

So on French TV some hotshot chefs said the following about eggs: Get free range duh. Never refrigerate eggs. Fresh eggs will not spoil for a week. Also, using eggs that are at ambiant tempurature will allow you to more easily poach them. Cold eggs in hot water messes it up. To poach eggs add a bunch of vinager to boiling water. Add no salt (this decomposes the albumen). Dump the eggs in the water then immediately remove water from the flame. That's all.