smoke and mirrors

I got into work a bit early this morning and the hallways are still very quiet. I can hear the fellow two doors down from me interviewing a young female, who is probably about to be a college grad, for a position at the agency. He just asked her to talk about any trends that she might have recently noticed, no doubt in an attempt to identify whether she is a person who is outer-aware and curious. This came after he asked her to name some ads that she liked and disliked. I heard her ask whether she could get back to him on that.

Fair or not, that last request may hurt this girl's prospects; she is looking to work in advertising afterall. But, I feel for the girl. Interviewing blows, and hearing a live one brought me back to that scene in “Reality Bites”, in which Winona Ryder fails to land a job at that newspaper because she can’t define “irony” on the spot. At least Winona was asked for a tangible definition. The advertising industry lends itself extremely well to personal bias and subjectivity. If you don’t learn to run with your gut from the get-go you’ll kill yourself perpetually wondering whether you answered the hypothetical question “right”.

those who are vapid

While realizing that this might be a gross overstatement, in the context of the work world, and in terms of a morale-productivity continuum, there are three buckets of people.

The first bucket includes the gung-ho types who are fundamentally into their career or whatever it is that they do to earn money. They care, they want to do well, and they are generally trustworthy, good, and hardworking people. They also happen to be “into” whatever project it is that they are working on at that moment in time- perhaps it is a great assignment or perhaps they just like their line of work that much.

The second bucket includes people who are fundamentally into their work and career path, similar to the first bucket, yet they aren’t into their current assignments. They have momentarily lost their motivation, for whatever reason, and their minds are elsewhere.

The third bucket, and the one that truly fascinates me, contains people that work really hard at creating the illusion that they are hardworking and career-inspired. Often they maintain this shenanigan for a lengthy period of time, perhaps for their whole working lives. They seem into it, they seem professional, and they seem to keep the ball rolling. But, there is something about them that seems artificial and off, and makes you want to run screaming rather than have to work with them. It took me a while to put my finger on it, but I have realized that these people are hard to be around because their sole existence relies upon them overcompensating for something that was never there to begin with.

swoop

swoop

Last Wednesday I found myself in Minneapolis on a “business” trip. Business in quotes because the word cuts a far too serious image for what I do--- advertising.

There are two Minneapolis-based hotels that are preferred by my agency. One is old school and luxurious, the second is new, “hip”, and stark. I prefer the latter but got booked in the former. No big whoop, I was only there for one night.

My cohort on the trip was booked in the hip hotel and we planned to meet the next morning at the obligatory Starbucks off of its lobby. I got to Starbucks a little bit early so that I could indulge in the Home & Garden section of the Times, along with a big fat latté and defrosted raspberry crumble cake thingy, pre-departure. It’s the little things that matter most.

As I was settling into an article on Hilary Swank and Chad Lowe’s Oscar-winning NYC retreat, Graydon Carter, the Editor-in-Chief of Vanity Fair magazine, happened to amble through the door of that particular Starbucks. After recovering from my initial shock, I pulled myself together enough to give Graydon a sort of halfhearted smirk smile as he walked by my table. I then went to work putting my New York Times in a strategically visible position and even debated pulling out my New York Magazine, to add to the literary spread. This, I was sure, would telepathically communicate to him I was a fellow New Yorker and a comrade, also trapped in Minneapolis, the City of Lakes. I then began fielding texts to friends and family about my “star” citing. Judging by their responses, my texting contacts were measurably less impressed; even after I informed them of Graydon Carter’s identity.

As Graydon added the necessary accoutrements to his hot brew, I fantasized about him coming over to my table and striking up conversation, perhaps even asking if he could join me. Realizing that this wasn’t going to happen, I deliberated about whether to get up and introduce myself. Despite my penchant for a good story, I considered the fact that no one wants to be bothered by a complete stranger, especially pre-coffee. Besides, what was I going to say to him? While Vanity Fair is a sexy magazine with celebrity-meets-politics appeal, its lengthy articles don’t work well with my increasingly short attention span. And while I have always been fascinated with Graydon’s remarkable swoop of hair, as well as with his pompous persona, I didn’t see as how that gave me much to work with in terms of a conversation starter. Maybe I should have gone with, “Hi, I’m Ali. It seems like your ego’s as big as your hair, but it’s working for you--- go with it!"

As Graydon walked out the door and out of my life, I couldn’t help but wonder why I was feeling so disappointed. Did I think that if I had introduced myself to him, he would have been so taken with me that he would have swept me into his seemingly glamorous world, just like that? Would I even want to be there? Or, was it just the idea of it, the flattery of it, which turned me on? Would exchanging words with Graydon have made the situation more real? Is that why people get autographs--- for proof? Or, did I just want a better story to go on?

Thoughts that I pondered, as a baby stared at me, on my return flight back to where I belong…..

flames

They say that you can call yourself a New Yorker after you’ve lived in the city for five years. I don’t know who “they” are that made this rule, but apparently I make the cut.

I started out on the Upper West Side nearly six years ago and since then I have relocated roughly every two years (save for a brief but hellish stint in a commercial space on Canal with seven guys as housemates; it was a misguided decision on my part but I was drawn in by the absurdness, as well as the Real Worldness, of the situation at the time). I have made my way through the West Village, to the Lower East Side and now, to Brooklyn.

While I have moved downwards and eastwards from a geographic perspective, I continue to move onwards and upwards in terms of quality of life. Each of my apartments has had its pros and cons (save for the above-mentioned Canal street debacle, which was just heinous all around), but they have all fit my needs and wants, and the stage of life that I was in, at the time.

My place in the West Village was tiny tiny, but at least I had a legitimate room (versus a pod made of temporary walls and featuring a take-out window, to allow “fresh” air to breeze in from the living room). And, I was smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood filled to the brim with charming little restaurants and bars; perfect for me as I began to court food, drink and dining out with heightened intensity.

The Lower East Side provided me with a break in rent and the much needed experience of living alone, not to mention amazing and accessible restaurants. The LES is known for its “hipster” appeal--- apparently it has a great music scene, as well as tons of bars. Truth be told, I will never be a hipster, despite the wacky clothes. Good food and drink with friends, or alone, was always what turned me on and a bar or two after that a lucky strike extra.

As of this past Thursday I have relocated to Brooklyn--- Boerum Hill to be exact (but not too exact). I have moved in with my good friend Becky (otherwise known as Pink Pelvis) and her two very lovely Colombian roommates. While I may be in the midst of a “honeymoon period”, so to speak, so far so good--- I am enjoying the company and adore our spacious, charming apartment. The change of scene was also much needed on my part, as well as was another cut in rent.

I am superstitious and I want to say that I knew it was going to be a dreamy new living situation as soon as the moving van from Schlepper’s pulled up to my apartment. But, that would be a lie. In all honesty, I just want to tell this story:

I was sitting in a coffee shop/bar on Clinton and Stanton--- the one without the sign but which I believe is called “Lotus Lounge”--- waiting for the arrival of Schlepper’s. When they called and said that they were running about an hour and a half late, I muttered “bloody hell” and was quickly inspired to move from my cappuccino to a Bloody Mary. I wanted to sooth my nerves as well as to take advantage of the bar’s 4pm start for happy hour, perhaps for the last time. Time passed and I received a call telling me that my two moving men would be arriving in a few minutes. As I left “Lotus” I saw an enormous, bright orange Schlepper’s van approaching my apartment. I quickened my pace and greeted Moving Man #1 just as he lowered himself out of the van and to the ground. The following conversation ensued:

Me: Hi there- I think you’re moving me. My name’s “Ali”, what’s yours?
Moving man #1: “My name is “Fire”.
Me: Fire huh? As in…(cut to me interpreting upward-moving flames, utilizing my hands and hissing noises)?
Fire: Yep, that’s right. And damn, I saw you walking there on the street and was just about to yell out the window to you, “Damn girl, you are F-I-N-E. Fine.”* Now I’m really glad that I didn’t do that.
Me: I'm glad you didn't either, Fire.
*Do keep in mind that I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, baggy pants, running sneakers and a knit cap; there was nothing fine about the way that I looked, though I appreciated the positive feedback.

For the record, Fire and Moving Man #2, Juan, did an impeccable job and even let me ride over to Brooklyn with them in their big van. Juan had a fun time trying to convince me that it was the first time he had ever driven a commercial truck.