New York at Christmas.
People sing about it, dream about it, make movies about it, et. al. More than anything else, I was looking forward to the Yuletide season, my first in Manhattan. The Christmas tree at Rockefellar, the lights lining Avenue of the Americas, Macy's, snow flurries and carriage rides in Central Park, jovial New Yorkers wishing me season's greetings. And, to some extent, my First Holiday Experience has been that.
Working at the New York Post, I have full access to the decorations 1211 Avenue of the Americas has to offer. This year, giant globular ornaments outside the building, questionable red tinsel wrapped around the columns outside, a small tree in the atrium. Respectable. Up on the 10th floor, there's a lone menorah, placed for the disgruntled Jewish journalists, as well as another tree and a wicker reindeer. Further down, roundabouts the neighborhood of The Wall Street Journal, there are fountains and twinkle lights, row upon row of white lights. I have a hunch, though, that all of theses decorations were somewhat scaled back due to the recent economic climate. Excess and luxury went out of fashion more quickly than acid-wash jeans and Pokemon.
As for the famous tree/skating rink at Rockefeller? Wonderful. But nearly ruined by the Exodus of Tourists that crowd around en masse. So it is to be avoided as the Plague, or at least admired from a distance.
And what of the festive season in my stomping grounds of East Village? Modest twinkle lights grace some storefronts, fake snow is sprayed unceremoniously, and 14th Street reeks of pine. Christmas trees are shipped in by the truckload from the pine forests of ... the Adirondacks and other nondescript places to be used as decoration, only to end up on the street once more January 2nd. I'm not sure if it's this year in particular, but things seem solemn all around, and holiday modesty is as ubiquitous as Hipsters in Brooklyn.
Even at Lipman, the holiday spirit seems subdued. Our Christmas party was canceled, as layoffs don't tend to put people in the holiday spirit. I sadly packed away my reprehensible reindeer antlers and Christmas jumper. Maybe next year, I tell them as I pack them in their boxes. We spin out campaigns for Lord and Taylor that encourage the consumer to "spend wisely," and give the gift of love. Etc, etc. High-end boutiques like Marc Jacobs have marked down their merchandice. They're practically giving it away. When I walked by a few days ago, shoes had been marked down to 90% off; handbags, 70%. Who said there was no silver lining to the worst economic crisis of our time?
Added to this befuddlement of Christmas melancholy, there has been little snow, mild climes, and a noticlable lack of Salvation Army bell ringers. Not to mention, I will spend Christmas Day on the beaches of Florida, eating grapes fed to me by Eduardo Diego, the salacious pool boy. And then, it's off to Europe, where I will expand my mind (though not my bank account) with the wonders of travel.
So, Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good Recession!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Interns? Indentured Servitude? Slavery?
Slavery, in its essence - at least in America - has become a thing of the past. Thanks to good ol' Abe and the Emancipation Proclamation, honest folk were allowed to earn a decent wage, and be proud of that. But I don't think that's the case for eager youngsters such as myself who are jonsing for an ever-elusive position within the East Coast Media Elite. But, at what cost?
An article on Gawker recently illuminated the plight of a young student seeking a part-time internship at Atlantic Monthly. When she asked if the unpaid internship could be negotiated (either fewer hours or a stipend), the HR guy at Atlantic said, "Sorry, there's no wiggle room." Now, how is that possible? Humor me, as I do a little math.
College Education: $84,000
Remaining Student Loans: $20,000
Rent for a Microscopic Studio in East Village: $1,400/month
Utilities to Heat, Light, and Television-ize said Microscopic Apartment: $150/month
Whole Foods Market, One Bag of Groceries: $50/week
Over-priced Hipster Bars: $6/drink
Sad Little Bar-chats that Result from Not Wanting to Pay $6/drink: Your Dignity
Unlimited Metro Pass: $81/month
Getting Groped on the L Train by a Brooklyn Hipster: Free
Let's add up the numbers:
At least, there is $2,000 a month going down the tube. Annually, that's $24,000. About what a minimum wage worker makes. Not to mention little accidentals (I flew back to Ohio in September, lost my keys on the plane, and had to fork over $300 for a locksmith to break into my apartment at 1 in the morning...not to mention the Albanian locksmith wanted to take me out to dinner with the $300 I had just paid him.) Now, I know I majored in Creative Writing and numbers tend to give me hives and make me feel squeamish, but these are cold, hard facts. College graduates are lucky to make it out with enough to get started without working at Ben's Burger Shack for a few months, let alone sustain a demanding New York City life for more than a week at a time. As a lowly intern now, I have two jobs. I, at one point, had three. Even as a young, doe-eyed, fresh-faced twenty-something who gets dressed with the aid of birds every morning, I have my limits. And New York seems to be testing them.
This is for you, entertainment and media industry - we can't do this anymore. I am not a Rockefeller or a Vanderbilt, and I probably will never be. I know this is a rite of passage, it will make me a better person, everyone has to pay their dues. But enough. I'm smart. I work hard. Just because my parents decided not to be investment bankers shouldn't mean I'm denied an opportunity (although, investment banking ain't what it used to be.) The economy is sluggish. But don't let your morals be.
Love,
Me
Quote of the Day (from Gawker.com): "As always, offers of "opportunities" for eager and energetic youngsters looking to get into media are nothing short of insulting, and becoming more common. To the magazines: we know you're broke. But so is everybody else. So offer something, because family-funded minions will become less available as the recession progresses."
An article on Gawker recently illuminated the plight of a young student seeking a part-time internship at Atlantic Monthly. When she asked if the unpaid internship could be negotiated (either fewer hours or a stipend), the HR guy at Atlantic said, "Sorry, there's no wiggle room." Now, how is that possible? Humor me, as I do a little math.
College Education: $84,000
Remaining Student Loans: $20,000
Rent for a Microscopic Studio in East Village: $1,400/month
Utilities to Heat, Light, and Television-ize said Microscopic Apartment: $150/month
Whole Foods Market, One Bag of Groceries: $50/week
Over-priced Hipster Bars: $6/drink
Sad Little Bar-chats that Result from Not Wanting to Pay $6/drink: Your Dignity
Unlimited Metro Pass: $81/month
Getting Groped on the L Train by a Brooklyn Hipster: Free
Let's add up the numbers:
At least, there is $2,000 a month going down the tube. Annually, that's $24,000. About what a minimum wage worker makes. Not to mention little accidentals (I flew back to Ohio in September, lost my keys on the plane, and had to fork over $300 for a locksmith to break into my apartment at 1 in the morning...not to mention the Albanian locksmith wanted to take me out to dinner with the $300 I had just paid him.) Now, I know I majored in Creative Writing and numbers tend to give me hives and make me feel squeamish, but these are cold, hard facts. College graduates are lucky to make it out with enough to get started without working at Ben's Burger Shack for a few months, let alone sustain a demanding New York City life for more than a week at a time. As a lowly intern now, I have two jobs. I, at one point, had three. Even as a young, doe-eyed, fresh-faced twenty-something who gets dressed with the aid of birds every morning, I have my limits. And New York seems to be testing them.
This is for you, entertainment and media industry - we can't do this anymore. I am not a Rockefeller or a Vanderbilt, and I probably will never be. I know this is a rite of passage, it will make me a better person, everyone has to pay their dues. But enough. I'm smart. I work hard. Just because my parents decided not to be investment bankers shouldn't mean I'm denied an opportunity (although, investment banking ain't what it used to be.) The economy is sluggish. But don't let your morals be.
Love,
Me
Quote of the Day (from Gawker.com): "As always, offers of "opportunities" for eager and energetic youngsters looking to get into media are nothing short of insulting, and becoming more common. To the magazines: we know you're broke. But so is everybody else. So offer something, because family-funded minions will become less available as the recession progresses."
Friday, December 5, 2008
Peter, Noel, & Mary
There are several grand traditions during the festive month of December in New York: ice-skating in Bryant Park, going to see the Rockettes, shopping at Macy's, and buying a Christmas tree off the street from a man at a bodega. Slightly less well-known is a tradition I began this year. No, not caroling at the Union Square station, though that seems like a terrific idea. No, no, dear readers. This was a Holiday Celebration with Peter, Paul, & Mary.
It also happened to be my Carnegie Hall debut.
Every year, the New York Choral Society teams up with the legendary trio of folk singers - Peter Yarrow, Noel Paul Stookey, and Mary Travers, to ring in the holiday season, complete with classic holiday favorites, PP&M classics, and a piece or two from Sweden. In 1988, the concert was recorded for an annual PBS broadcast; an audio CD was also made. I highly suggest iTune-ing it; it's quite a festive mix.
Downbeat (a fancy word musicians use for call time) was at three sharp at Carnegie Hall. I arrived a few minutes late, owing mostly to some irritating delays on the ACE line. When I got to Carnegie, winded and worrisome, I remembered I hadn't looked up how to get on-stage. Surely they wouldn't let strangers off the street in, especially in my "street" clothes. (Though I would have been innocuous enough in a sweeping floor-length black dress...especially in Manhattan. Could have been an Evanescance conference or something). Luckily, a fellow Society member had arrived a few minutes late as well, so we braved it together. We went in through the stage entrance on 57th street and went through any number of locked doors and security checkpoints. There was music playing somewhere. I was getting close.
I walked through the door I could only assume was the stage entrance to Carnegie. I pushed the lever, the door yielded, and I let out a small cry.
It was beautiful. It was better than beautiful. It was an orgy of gilt Baroque decorations, cascading ivory balconies, and light! The Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra sat on the front of the stage-with timpani, xylophone, and bells predominately on stage left. I had to stop a moment and get lost in the moment - I was coming to rehearse with Peter, Paul & Mary in one of the best music venues in the world.
I giggled a bit; one of the stagehands gave me an eyebrow so severe that I was worried it would migrate straight into his hairline. So I threw my belongings on the plush red velvet seats and scampered onto the stage.
Robert DeCormier was the conductor for the evening. Conductor emeritus of the New York Choral Society and composer of most of the arrangements, he was meticulous and mechanical in his conduction. Dress rehearsal lasted a good four hours, leaving an hour and a half before call time, and only two hours before the show. I met my parents in the lobby, where we began the harrowing task of finding a place to sup.
I first thought PJ Carney's would fit the bill - a delightful little pub kitty-corner to Carnegie. It has become a favorite haunt of NYCS members after Carnegie rehearsals. And the fact that I came not with 20 people, but only 2, in tow, they must love me for that. But I must have missed the memo - Manhattan is a busy place at 7 on a Friday night. So my parents and I settled for Pax.
"So, are you excited?" my Dad asked over a Diet Coke and a panini.
"Sure," I said. "Why not?"
"Well, it's your Carnegie Debut, after all," Dad continued. "There will literally be thousands of eyes on you, watching you perform."
I looked at Dad. "Well, that's kind of the point," I began. "But I think - and this is just a hunch - that the audience may be a bit more concerned with PP&M than they are with a nameless choral member."
"Oh. Right."
So it began. I bid adeux to the parental units and scampered up to the third floor warm-up room. It looked like a wake - black everywhere - save for the men's red bow ties and a spray of red, green, and gold ribbon the women had. Paul Stookey was outside the warm-up room on his cell phone (an odd site to behold), and smiled at me. "Are you excited?" he asked.
Why was everyone asking? I nodded, smiled, and returned the question.
"Oh sure," he said. "Just jazzed!"
Then came the march onstage. The recital hall was conspicuously full of patrons, buzzing in that wonderful pre-concert excitement. I spotted my parents but had been strictly forbidden to wave, so I amused myself with taking in the grandeur and planning my life out as a famous mezzo-soprano so I could perform here more often, having star-crazed fans showering me with roses and bars of Toblerone.
Dare to dream.
The concert went by as most do - a blur of notes and chords and applause. It was, indeed, such a high - I've sang in in Canterbury Cathedral, or St. John the Divine, the Brooklyn Tabernacle - but there was something distinctly different about this. It was...it was not a spiritual experience, per se, but an emotional high - being in vicinity of so many other talented musicians.
Now, my short list of New York things to do is severely limited.
-Have an ID badge
-Work in SoHo
-Meet a celebrity
-Be involved in a major news story
-Appear on TV
-Get published
-Eat a bagel
-Brooklyn
-Get asked for directions as a native
-Appear in Page Six
-Hang out with Tina Fey
-Go skating in Rockefeller
-Have magical New York moments
Quote of the Day: "Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?"
It also happened to be my Carnegie Hall debut.
Every year, the New York Choral Society teams up with the legendary trio of folk singers - Peter Yarrow, Noel Paul Stookey, and Mary Travers, to ring in the holiday season, complete with classic holiday favorites, PP&M classics, and a piece or two from Sweden. In 1988, the concert was recorded for an annual PBS broadcast; an audio CD was also made. I highly suggest iTune-ing it; it's quite a festive mix.
Downbeat (a fancy word musicians use for call time) was at three sharp at Carnegie Hall. I arrived a few minutes late, owing mostly to some irritating delays on the ACE line. When I got to Carnegie, winded and worrisome, I remembered I hadn't looked up how to get on-stage. Surely they wouldn't let strangers off the street in, especially in my "street" clothes. (Though I would have been innocuous enough in a sweeping floor-length black dress...especially in Manhattan. Could have been an Evanescance conference or something). Luckily, a fellow Society member had arrived a few minutes late as well, so we braved it together. We went in through the stage entrance on 57th street and went through any number of locked doors and security checkpoints. There was music playing somewhere. I was getting close.
I walked through the door I could only assume was the stage entrance to Carnegie. I pushed the lever, the door yielded, and I let out a small cry.
It was beautiful. It was better than beautiful. It was an orgy of gilt Baroque decorations, cascading ivory balconies, and light! The Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra sat on the front of the stage-with timpani, xylophone, and bells predominately on stage left. I had to stop a moment and get lost in the moment - I was coming to rehearse with Peter, Paul & Mary in one of the best music venues in the world.
I giggled a bit; one of the stagehands gave me an eyebrow so severe that I was worried it would migrate straight into his hairline. So I threw my belongings on the plush red velvet seats and scampered onto the stage.
Robert DeCormier was the conductor for the evening. Conductor emeritus of the New York Choral Society and composer of most of the arrangements, he was meticulous and mechanical in his conduction. Dress rehearsal lasted a good four hours, leaving an hour and a half before call time, and only two hours before the show. I met my parents in the lobby, where we began the harrowing task of finding a place to sup.
I first thought PJ Carney's would fit the bill - a delightful little pub kitty-corner to Carnegie. It has become a favorite haunt of NYCS members after Carnegie rehearsals. And the fact that I came not with 20 people, but only 2, in tow, they must love me for that. But I must have missed the memo - Manhattan is a busy place at 7 on a Friday night. So my parents and I settled for Pax.
"So, are you excited?" my Dad asked over a Diet Coke and a panini.
"Sure," I said. "Why not?"
"Well, it's your Carnegie Debut, after all," Dad continued. "There will literally be thousands of eyes on you, watching you perform."
I looked at Dad. "Well, that's kind of the point," I began. "But I think - and this is just a hunch - that the audience may be a bit more concerned with PP&M than they are with a nameless choral member."
"Oh. Right."
So it began. I bid adeux to the parental units and scampered up to the third floor warm-up room. It looked like a wake - black everywhere - save for the men's red bow ties and a spray of red, green, and gold ribbon the women had. Paul Stookey was outside the warm-up room on his cell phone (an odd site to behold), and smiled at me. "Are you excited?" he asked.
Why was everyone asking? I nodded, smiled, and returned the question.
"Oh sure," he said. "Just jazzed!"
Then came the march onstage. The recital hall was conspicuously full of patrons, buzzing in that wonderful pre-concert excitement. I spotted my parents but had been strictly forbidden to wave, so I amused myself with taking in the grandeur and planning my life out as a famous mezzo-soprano so I could perform here more often, having star-crazed fans showering me with roses and bars of Toblerone.
Dare to dream.
The concert went by as most do - a blur of notes and chords and applause. It was, indeed, such a high - I've sang in in Canterbury Cathedral, or St. John the Divine, the Brooklyn Tabernacle - but there was something distinctly different about this. It was...it was not a spiritual experience, per se, but an emotional high - being in vicinity of so many other talented musicians.
Now, my short list of New York things to do is severely limited.
-Have an ID badge
-Work in SoHo
-Meet a celebrity
-Be involved in a major news story
-Appear on TV
-Get published
-Eat a bagel
-Brooklyn
-Get asked for directions as a native
-Appear in Page Six
-Hang out with Tina Fey
-Go skating in Rockefeller
-Have magical New York moments
Quote of the Day: "Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?"
Sunday, November 9, 2008
It's a Mad Mad Mad Madhattan World
Yesterday on the phone, my father suggested that I should document my time here in Manhattan so I can look back, and remember how poor I was. And it seemed like such a brilliant idea; though my life becomes redundant from my perspective, I transport myself back to where I was a year ago, stuck in the Midwest, the proverbial buckle of the Bible Belt, and thinking of what sorts of shenanigans I manage to get myself into. So, without further adieu, it is my adventures in Manhattan.
I've been living in this fair, fine, fiscally draining city for nearly three months. In that time, I have experienced much of the City. I have been harassed not only by construction workers, but Teamsters, illegal immigrants, and fratty NYU college kids. I have gotten horribly lost in Alphabet City, The Village, and anywhere and everywhere off the grid. I have seen (and met) several celebrities, and been mistaken for some myself (Kirsten Dunst, Piper Perabo, and Nicole Kidman, in case you were wondering. The Nicole Kidman, unfortunately, was by a tourist group from Korea. We all look the same). Indeed, New York is grand.
There is everything you could ever want here, if you have the motivation and the economy isn't as lame as my great uncle's old Carin terrier, Colonel. Within a mile of my humble studio, there are culinary delights - anywhere from Ethiopian to Peruvian to Scandinavian. There is the wonder of "Hot and Crusty." Though I was at first hesitant to eat somewhere that sounded vaguely like the symptoms of gonorrhea, I have learned to embrace all that is East Village.
I always love riding on the subway. Most New Yorkers are so jaded to it that they lose the experience, but not I! As a New New Yorker, the novelty has not yet been lost. Today, for instance, there was a guy on the L train knitting a sweater. A sweater. On the L train. Love the oddity.
A few weeks ago, a co-tern (co-intern) and I went to a photographer's book expo. Among the French Connection plaid shirts and United Colors of Benetton jackets, there were photographs. Of exceptional, unique teenagers from across America. There was a football player from Minnesota, a goth kid hanging out on a candy-colored playground. And just then, while Lindsay and I were enjoying the simplicity and honesty of these photographs, there were yells. Oh no, I thought! Teenage-hating-ne'er-do-well's! But my fears were assuaged momentarily. Oh, it was just teenagers in spanx and glitter and...
CHEERLEADERS.
Everything I fought so fiercely against in high school.
They began their cheers to baffled onlookers. I wouldn't wonder if this was the first specs of glitter every SoHo-nian hipster had seen since their own high school days. Then there were the flips. One cheerleader, hoisted in the air by the ever-cliche male cheerleader. She stands on one leg like a pelican. And then does a complicated triple dismount maneuver. At that exact moment, with the cheering of the crowds and the heat in the room and the flashes of the glitter, I wanted to be a cheerleader.
Gross. Please don't judge me.
So, that is my life in a nutshell. Two unpaid/lowpaid internships - advertising and journalism - I suspect that my dreams will be pushed to the wayside, but until that day, I remain hopeful. And I keep my eyes open.
You know you love me, XO X---
Not.
Until next time, loyal reader(s), I remain,
East Villager
I've been living in this fair, fine, fiscally draining city for nearly three months. In that time, I have experienced much of the City. I have been harassed not only by construction workers, but Teamsters, illegal immigrants, and fratty NYU college kids. I have gotten horribly lost in Alphabet City, The Village, and anywhere and everywhere off the grid. I have seen (and met) several celebrities, and been mistaken for some myself (Kirsten Dunst, Piper Perabo, and Nicole Kidman, in case you were wondering. The Nicole Kidman, unfortunately, was by a tourist group from Korea. We all look the same). Indeed, New York is grand.
There is everything you could ever want here, if you have the motivation and the economy isn't as lame as my great uncle's old Carin terrier, Colonel. Within a mile of my humble studio, there are culinary delights - anywhere from Ethiopian to Peruvian to Scandinavian. There is the wonder of "Hot and Crusty." Though I was at first hesitant to eat somewhere that sounded vaguely like the symptoms of gonorrhea, I have learned to embrace all that is East Village.
I always love riding on the subway. Most New Yorkers are so jaded to it that they lose the experience, but not I! As a New New Yorker, the novelty has not yet been lost. Today, for instance, there was a guy on the L train knitting a sweater. A sweater. On the L train. Love the oddity.
A few weeks ago, a co-tern (co-intern) and I went to a photographer's book expo. Among the French Connection plaid shirts and United Colors of Benetton jackets, there were photographs. Of exceptional, unique teenagers from across America. There was a football player from Minnesota, a goth kid hanging out on a candy-colored playground. And just then, while Lindsay and I were enjoying the simplicity and honesty of these photographs, there were yells. Oh no, I thought! Teenage-hating-ne'er-do-well's! But my fears were assuaged momentarily. Oh, it was just teenagers in spanx and glitter and...
CHEERLEADERS.
Everything I fought so fiercely against in high school.
They began their cheers to baffled onlookers. I wouldn't wonder if this was the first specs of glitter every SoHo-nian hipster had seen since their own high school days. Then there were the flips. One cheerleader, hoisted in the air by the ever-cliche male cheerleader. She stands on one leg like a pelican. And then does a complicated triple dismount maneuver. At that exact moment, with the cheering of the crowds and the heat in the room and the flashes of the glitter, I wanted to be a cheerleader.
Gross. Please don't judge me.
So, that is my life in a nutshell. Two unpaid/lowpaid internships - advertising and journalism - I suspect that my dreams will be pushed to the wayside, but until that day, I remain hopeful. And I keep my eyes open.
You know you love me, XO X---
Not.
Until next time, loyal reader(s), I remain,
East Villager
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