They Call Me the Working Man

Finally I have finished this obscene envelope-stuffing project at my mom's company. Since last Friday afternoon I have been folding papers, shoving them into envelopes, running them through an automatic postage meter, and leaving them by the crate for the mailman to pick up, and now it's over. What was the mailing for, you ask? For a cruise that the company is hosting for current and prospective members of the medical practice, which may or may not happen depending on how many people register, and which may or may not bring the company any revenue. I swear, I don't understand the business world. If I had my way, we'd just barter for everything.

I also found out today that I won't be moving to New York until next Friday, rather than Thursday. We couldn't rent a cargo van for Thursday, so the move is happening a day later. This is a bummer for me because 1) I'm antsy and want to get there already; 2) that's one more day I'll have to wait for my glorious MacBook (I had it shipped to NY in the event it takes a while to arrive); and 3) it's going to mean sitting in Friday evening traffic in the New York metro area. That last reason alone is enough to make you want to put a bullet between your eyes.

I suppose I shouldn't complain, though, as there's a lot of good things on the horizon. For example, my uncle's TV-producer girlfriend has a lot of friends in the LAByrinth Theatre Company, and she's taking me to a "throwdown" of short plays they're hosting, followed by a party at which I'm hoping to hobnob with the likes of Stephen Adly Guirgis, Daphne Rubin-Vega, Eric Bogosian, John Patrick Shanley, and (God willing) Philip Seymour Hoffman. With the exception of Bogosian, it seems you have to have three names to be a LAB member. While associating with LAB in any way is beyond cool, I don't think I could handle being "Harrison James Gibbons." My name reeks (erroneously) of rich Southern white boy enough as it is.

For any artists out there who happen to be reading this, I highly recommend you read "Letters to a Young Artist" by Anna Deavere Smith if you haven't done so already. I brought it to work today to read on my lunch break, and it was a great liberation from the corporate vampirism I've dealt with for the last week. I've been fairly crippled lately by anxiety over feasibly making a living and career as an actor (and at a very inconvenient time, if I say so myself); while Smith's book hasn't quite assuaged those fears for me, it is very refreshing and, dare I say, inspiring--it has even given me a lot to think about in regards to the value of art and why we artists do the work we do. As for the professional side of things, I know deep down that I have a lifetime to worry about that, and I learn by doing, so it's pointless for me to get worked up about it before I'm even there.

If you happen to be reading this and are in New York, first let me say thanks--you lend a little bit of legitimacy to this endeavor of mine. (Thanks also if you're not in New York, I just said that because I'm getting to a point.) Secondly, if you are an actor, some other kind of artist, or someone who sees the world just a little differently and doesn't evaluate everything exclusively with a consumer's eye, please let me know: New York is a big mean city, and everyone needs friends in a place like that--I know I will.