Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Here's how it played out. The following is pretty much a summary of how our entire "relationship" played out. Me being nice. Him being rude.
Sent: Monday, January 23, 2006 3:47 PM
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
He laughed. "Ha. Me neither," and we toasted.
Of course, I imagine that he, unlike me, has a hefty trust fund that allows him to "do nothing" quite comfortably. That, or he already retired at age 29 from some cush job left to him by his father. In other words, to him this status report was a declaration of purpose; a compliment to self. To me it was but a disguised admittance of failure.
Fast forward to now. I have received a promotion. My status has changed. While I am still most certainly unemployed, I am no longer doing nothing. Now I am a professional interviewer. I try to fit in 2 or 3 a week - even got a job offer, which I kindly declined (well, after working there for one day). I started my NYC adventure as an amateur interviewing candidate -- displaying all of the tell-tale signs of such: desperation, anxiety and shyness. Following the aforementioned promotion, I have gained the confidence necessary to walk into a corporate office, snub the interviewer and pretend like I could care less whether I get the job. Sure, this is all an act, but it seems to be working well.
For instance, today I had an interview with a magazine in Brooklyn. Quite the hike, by the way. The position I interviewed for was Editor-in-Chief, but the publication isn't one that I would otherwise read and the pay package isn't very impressive. I'd rather take the job I interviewed for on Monday. The publisher asked me when I could start. I told him I was waiting to hear back from another place so I could weigh the options (them: yes, you: no), but Monday would be fine if I do, in fact, accept the job.
"But you will have a lot more fun here. I interviewed Bill Clinton, Ariel Sharon, Mayor Giuliani, [etc...] We go to parties. Look at these invitations. Next week you can go too..." His plea continued like so.
"Can I bring my boyfriend?" I inquired because a) I don't give a fuck; and b) D will be in town.
"Well, I will be your boyfriend that night."
"Oh, that's okay. I don't mind having two boyfriends."
As he walked me out, he pointed out the pictures of him and a plethora of celebrity/politico figureheads in a "this could be you" fashion. I assured him that I'd be in touch.
I think that interviewing works the same way as snagging a boyfriend: Act as though you're not interested and they are so putty in your hands.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
I've been applying for editiorial and PR positions, although editorial is my preference. However, it seems almost impossible to get the kind of editorial position I want - that being something similar to the position I described a few posts ago. I have many theories as to why I'm not being considered for these positions. They all culminate into the following conclusion: Maybe I just suck. But, I'm way too egocentric to accept this, so I flip it and assume that I'm just too overqualified. Yeah. That must be it.
I have a standing offer for a PR job, but it would be working on a project basis, which means I'd have to bartend or wait tables in between projects. This is something I am deftly trying to avoid. I've already paid my dues damnit. I've worked in the service industry for 10 years while trying to support myself through college and the starting a magazine. Haven't I earned some sort of universal credit? My former partner at the magazine would answer this query with an affirmative, "No. The world owes you nothing." He always kind of depressed me with that attitude problem of his. The depressed artist schtick. The "Woe is me, the world conspires against my happiness" mumbo jumbo. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty sure the world is definitely conspiring against me at this time, but nevertheless, I'll stick to believing that, regardless, it owes me a cookie for my sacrifice. Chocolate chip, preferably. Then again, maybe I'm like Jesus and my sacrifice is to benefit others, not me. I just get killed in the end. Complete disrespect.
It's a possibility, right?
Anyhow, this job. After my interview, I sent the hiring lady my references and sample press releases -- one of which I borrowed from M since mine are all spin publicity and this is a pretty conservative position. (My dependence upon M further interferes with my ability to tell him that he can't stay with me. It's a big mess.) Anyway, the hiring lady wrote back immediately and said:
"Great and thanks. I like your style and sensibility. I'll be in touch."
I'm pretty sure that's a good thing. As a chick, I could analyze the sentence for hours.
-Maybe she's trying to let me down easy by giving me a compliment first.
-By "style" does she mean that I'm too "hip" for the position?
-"Sensibility." Hmmm. Maybe she wants somebody more irrational than me.
-"I'll be in touch." Sounds like a guy in a club who isn't really going to call. "I'll call you sometime." Sure you will, asshole.
Then again, it could simply mean that she likes my style and sensibility. It's a toss up for sure.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Anyhow, they are having a farewell party Friday, January 27th here in NYC. I'll be there. Evidently, so will M.
M is supposed to stay with me. D isn't having it. I understand where he's coming from, so I will have to let M know. M will be at the Black Table party regardless. So will D and I.
I like where M and I are at this point. We have a lot of similar interests, but certainly have no business dating. We've come to terms with that (I imagine he before me). I would love to remain in contact with him. He's incredibly intelligent and has admirable insight. Plus, he tends to like my writing. I can't hate someone with such refined taste.
I just have to convince D that I am not at all interested in M. I'm really not.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Saturday, January 14, 2006
(We had to create a reason as to why we were publishing it, so we made it part of our "Valentine's Day Holiday Guide." Duh)
Oh yeah, after I initially wrote this, I gave a copy of it to my mom to read. She brought the copy with her to the sulphur baths at Glen Ivy Hotsprings. She read it to some lady who was soaking up the smell with her. Evidently the lady started crying. She thought I had written it for my mom. I find that humorous. It would be very sick if I wrote this for my mom. So, with that said, and without further ado, here is my lovely rhyming poem:
You’ve probably just arrived at the time you’re reading this.
(It’s only 7 hours later)
And at the time I am writing this,
I’m experiencing my first panic attack
Cause it’ll be ten days til you get back…
And I miss you like an injured runner misses the track...
Like a muted duck misses its quack...
Like a woman with breast cancer misses her rack...
(Or like a man with testicular cancer misses his sack)
You’re missed like the stares aged beauty used to attract...
Like the flowers that from her, men seem to retract...
I miss you like a recovering addict misses the smack...
Like a dieting fat chick misses her midnight snack...
Like a geek with no computer misses the hack...
Like the knick, the paddy & the whack miss the knack...
Cause you are the tic & I’m obviously the tac...
If you are the fiction, I’m definitely the fact...
You are the friction on my fast-paced track...
If you’re ‘lone in the cold, I’m the warm wooden shack...
If you are the player, I’m no doubt the mac...
If you are the coke, then I’m certainly the crack...
If you are the box, then please call me Jack...
Cause I’m an unstable Domino & you’re the falling stack...
Exactly, cause we’re all that goes hand in hand like:
The Ric and the Rac...
The fric and the frac...
The boom and the clack...
The hay and the stack...
2003 and the war with Iraq...
The prey, the hunter and the ravenous attack...
The clothes, the luggage and the annoying pack...
A corkboard, a post-it and a plastic tack...
A sugar-coated gummy and a mouth full of plaque...
Not to mention, the actor and the act...
The bloody, pointy fangs of a satisfied Drac…
On the Road and Jack Kerouac
A scraped floor’s affinity to a glossy schellack…
The robber in his outfit of plain ol’ black…
Or the Saved by the Bell characters, Kelly & Zack.
We’re symbiosis on a whole ‘nother level in fact…
Similar to moss growing from a dirted, cement crack…
Or a fat person eating a whopper—No, a big mac…
A mountain dwellin’ Tibetan & his milk producin’ yak…
A marine living from the resources in his bar-rack…
& If you’re feeling lazy, I’m here to pick up the slack
We’re photosynthesis too, if you look at it like that…
Consuming nutrients from one another, but quick to give ‘em back…
Oxidizing each other’s lives as if by fateful fact…
That our meeting was an effect of the stars, the moon
and the sun having aligned orbits in perfected tact…
That they were moving through the galaxy on a predestined track…
Oh, I’m stuck in your maze & there’s no turning back…
The space, the place & the time: Inexact.
And perhaps to you I seem an insane and estranged quack…
And maybe there is one card missing from my once full stack
But it seems to me that while you’re gone, it’s more like half the world that I lack.
(It’s been 7 hours since you left. There’ll be 233 more ‘til you get back)
Awww. Now, ain't that the sweetest thing you ever did read?
Friday, January 13, 2006
We ended the conversation with my promise to send her references (which I did in about .5 secs) and her getting back to me with word from the company. I didn't hear back from her the next day so I emailed her today and asked what was going on. You know, I wanted to know so I could make travel arrangements and all that...
She wrote back and said that they thought I was a little bit too "alternative" for them. That maybe I would be more comfortable at a "downtown" publication.
I love corporate America! I especially love HR fuck-ups (read: family studies major flunkies) who play God with my life. Can't you point your cursatory finger at someone else? I've worked entirely way too hard for such blind judgment by similarly-sighted fools. And, on top of all that, I hate you. Every single one of you.
I wrote back and sent a very sterile writing clip I had from Chicago magazine. Maybe that will be dry enough. I hope so. I really want the job. Sob.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Me to M:
So, any word on why the Black Table is closing up shop?
M to me:
I've been meaning to shoot a quick e-mail to Will, but I've been busy. I think they're all just busy with other stuff now that he's doing deadspin and Gillin went to Maxim.
Me to M:
Okay, thanks. Just let me know if you find anything out.
I'll keep the updates coming, given there are any updates to keep coming.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
The end of a publication. Aaaghh. Brings back fond memories of torture (and I'll be damned if we don't all grieve for torture lost) -- although, I highly doubt this ending has anything to do with failure. No, no, no. What most likely happened is that those Black Table-ites probably experienced success. Way too much success; got jobs that paid them real life money and such. This in opposition to what I get paid. Nothing.
Well, gee golly. I'll do some research and get back to my non-existent reading audience. And by "research," I mean that I'll glance at their website with some frequency and see if they mention why they are folding.
Talking to myself has never been so much damn fun.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
"I need a place to crash when I'm in NYC on January 28th. One of my writers is putting on a one-act play."
[I live in NYC now, I just haven't updated in way too long. I will though, oh yes!]
My thoughts were thus:
1) Say please, please.
2) You make money. Get a hotel.
3) Stay with your friend.
4) I'm dating someone (refer to above entry) and I'm so not willing to fuck it up for you.
So, naturally, I told him it would be no problem. It will be a problem though. As it turns out, he who I am dating will be in town that weekend. Yes, it will most definitely be a problem.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
I mentioned earlier that I dropped my phone in the toilet.
Here's a letter I got from a friend after doing so. I've always loved this letter:
You dropped your phone in the toilet. :) I swear you
are absolutely the loveliest person I know.
I think I'll have a place to stay, (my friends booked
a hotel room downtown...) but if I don't I'll need
your help. Of course, I don't want to be an
inconvenience, so let me know again if it's cool.
In other news:
I got into a fight with my parents (more specifically
my father) and am currently homeless.
My friend Jay has been kind enough to let me stay at
his apartment for the time being while I try to get
back on my feet.
Put simply and with as little drama as possible, my
father lost his temper for no rational reason and
caught me at a moment when I didn't want to placate
him. He was unequivocally wrong, knows it, and is too
proud to apologize.
My parents have always fallen back on the idea that
their higher status as parents in the traditional
Chinese filial piety hierarchy allows them to be free
of responsibility for what they do (i.e. They've got
an endless quantity of diplomatic immunity passports).
Ironically, their abuse of the relationship has
reversed what I perceive to be the natural order of
things, by requiring a standard of maturity and
rationality out of me that they don't require of
I'll admit to losing my temper as well, but only after
the fact and in response to his tantrum. Its really
stupid, but I really had no choice but to move out of
Not that I wasn't planning to. I suppose this just
expedites things a bit. Nonetheless, I've been
uprooted. All of this is to say that I'm homeless,
jobless and broke. I'm debating whether or not to join
the military... HA HA HA
I'd love to write for the magazine. My only excuse
(and it's a pretty good one) is that my current
circumstances have made it pretty difficult for me to
write. I need to find a job right now....
(Thomas - the party host, Shauna, some hot guy, and me)
So, the party... There was a dj, a full bar, and table full of sushi and finger foods. It was great. The only thing missing was D - the guy I'm dating. He lives in Chicago, but flew out to Arizona for the big football game Tuesday (whatever that s). We text messaged all night, giving each other the obligatory Happy New Year's shout-outs, west and east coast times.
Some long-haired Jewish guy followed me around the whole night trying to kiss me. I told him I had a boyfriend, but he insisted I wouldn't kiss him because he had bad breath. Sure, whatever works for your ego. Personally, I would just believe the boyfriend line. I would think that realizing you have halitosis would just add to the pain of rejection.
After successfully ditching the Jew, I passed out in some random bedroom in the apartment. I was way too drunk. I've pretty small, so it doesn't take me much. I woke up and two people were having sex on my feet. No big deal. I non-chalantly greeted them (they weren't too formal as you might imagine), and walked out of the room. The makle hosts had, by then, transformed into character, wearing G-Strings and hiking boots. Ever the polite host, one of the G-String mavens asked if I was okay and if I needed anything.
"Just my coat."
We left. I went home and Shauna and Ken went to a bar where they commenced hooking up. They ended up here, but didn't get very far. Shauna and I had spent the first half of the night talking about our sexual adventures in front of Ken. Evidently she felt like a whore in his bed after having divulged some pretty risque and very recent acts. I'm sure Ken would have overlooked the details.
I lugged my camera around all night hoping to get some shots but all I got were three. And of those three, two are exactly the same. I'm pretty pissed that I didn't get a picture of the G-String Crew. Out of all the pictures I could have taken, that would have been the most representative. That, or a picture of the people fucking on my feet.
(Ken and I. Ken is obviously quite sober.)