But I forgot to tell you that we've been here over a year now, and yes we have decided to stay put, renewing our lease, appreciateing our new jobs and situations and letting our sentences run on and on and on.
The neighborhood (Bushwick) has really changed since we've moved in. It's like every able-bodied hipster who doesn't want to pay Williamsburg (aka Manhattan, Jr.) rent is moving down the L train. I originally liked my barrio for its gritty nature, ethnic monolithism (hispanic) and sense of distance. But the recent newcomers provide an interesting influx of character.
This past week my friend Hart has come to visit. I met him in 6th grade in Iowa City; we used to sneak out in the middle of night and try to meet girls. He was the first of my crew to touch a boob. He's awesome.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Monday, July 31, 2006
The Lost Month
I've not blogged in a month, and what has transpired? I've been fishing off of Sheepshead Bay in South Brooklyn, which is a wonderful time that enables me to fulfill my dream of kicking back with a beer on a boat while being shat upon by gulls; I've attended a 4th of July Party on a Williamsburg rooftop (courtesy of Mark) overlooking the East River fireworks (courtesy of Macy's); a friend from high school, Ken, visited (and we went fishing); I've been trained at work on Acrobat, and self-trained myself in preliminary skills of Photoshop, iMovie, and Garageband (ps, i love Macs now); my friend from college, Louis, visited me, which entailed much Indian food and basketball letdowns; Heather interviewed twice and was hired as project manager at Kaplan in a matter of 7 days; and I joined a poker league on Wall Street with other people who just want to play nice and get better. I have a feeling much of the rest of this blog will be poker-related. Beware.
For instance, everyone has a poker nickname, what's mine?
For instance, everyone has a poker nickname, what's mine?
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Last Day, Birthday, Independece Day Extravaganza!
Last Friday was Heather’s birthday, and the gifts I gave her over the course of our mini vacation will remain a private affair between we two. But suffice it to say that I had wanted to make this weekend our best in a long time. Because of the peculiar way in which the Fourth played with the calendar, we had a 4.5-DAY weekend, and so were able to celebrate Heather’s last day of teaching, her birthday, my impending full-time status at work, Independence Day, and most of all, our engagement, all in one big extravaganza.
I had many ideas as to how to propose; one involved a suite at the Plaza, one involved a picnic and a kite, but really I knew that she would just like a simple, private, organic experience and so after work on Friday (it was a half day) we got some sandwiches and took a cab to the boat house in Central Park.
We rented a little row boat for two, and I rowed us here and there until I found the perfect spot. We finished our lunch and I read to her a letter I had written for her birthday. The letter purported to be a salute to the idiosyncrasies I adore in her, though in reality it was a preamble to a question I have wanted to ask her for some time.
You can see the red dot on the picture here which marks the secluded alcove wherein I surprised her with the ring my father gave to my mother 30 years ago asking the same question, “Will you marry me?’
And so we are engaged, and life is just beginning!
I had many ideas as to how to propose; one involved a suite at the Plaza, one involved a picnic and a kite, but really I knew that she would just like a simple, private, organic experience and so after work on Friday (it was a half day) we got some sandwiches and took a cab to the boat house in Central Park.
We rented a little row boat for two, and I rowed us here and there until I found the perfect spot. We finished our lunch and I read to her a letter I had written for her birthday. The letter purported to be a salute to the idiosyncrasies I adore in her, though in reality it was a preamble to a question I have wanted to ask her for some time.
You can see the red dot on the picture here which marks the secluded alcove wherein I surprised her with the ring my father gave to my mother 30 years ago asking the same question, “Will you marry me?’
And so we are engaged, and life is just beginning!
Friday, June 30, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Cusp
Main Entry: turning point
Part of Speech: noun 2
Definition: critical juncture
Synonyms: climax, crisis, critical mass, critical point, crossroads, crucial moment, crucial period, crunch, cusp, decisive moment, defining moment, emergency, high noon, hinge, kairotic moment, moment of truth*, nexus, peripeteia, pivotal moment, point of no return, race against time, rising action, turn of the tide, when push comes to shove, zero hour*
Source: Roget's New Millennium™ Thesaurus, First Edition (v 1.2.1)
Copyright © 2006 by Lexico Publishing Group, LLC. All rights reserved.
* = informal or slang
Part of Speech: noun 2
Definition: critical juncture
Synonyms: climax, crisis, critical mass, critical point, crossroads, crucial moment, crucial period, crunch, cusp, decisive moment, defining moment, emergency, high noon, hinge, kairotic moment, moment of truth*, nexus, peripeteia, pivotal moment, point of no return, race against time, rising action, turn of the tide, when push comes to shove, zero hour*
Source: Roget's New Millennium™ Thesaurus, First Edition (v 1.2.1)
Copyright © 2006 by Lexico Publishing Group, LLC. All rights reserved.
* = informal or slang
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Last Goodbye
My grandpa passed away on the morning of the 11th. It was a Sunday; he was born on a Sunday too. So it goes.
His name was Douglas Harry McDowell. Harry was his middle name because his mother’s maiden name was Harry. He’s from that generation. He was born in Chicago in 1926. There were many pictures of him as a child, and while I was gathered with my family for his wake last weekend, we noted how the photos abruptly stopped after his childhood. “Well the Depression came,” was an answer muttered and we all understood: there was no money for frivolity, photographs being the most frivolous things at the time. There was a picture of the house they had lost in Illinois, on the back there’s a note reading, ‘we paid $400 down.” He’s from that generation.
The photos picked up again in the 1940’s, after the war. He was in the army air corps in the occupying force in France; he fixed the ball turrets in B29 bombers. In his black and white photos he looked very handsome in his uniform, all of 20 years old. He stands in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triumph, stands in front of his bombers, he stands with friends in front of a base, his uniform pristine: tie tucked into shirt, a short smirk on his face, just a bit confident that his country had done the right thing. He’s from that generation.
He told me a story once about his airfield in France. He was walking the perimeter fence one day with an orange in his hand, and a girl stood on the other side of the fence looking at him. He gave her his orange, and having not seen proper fruit in 4 years of Nazi occupation, she cried.
He was good with his hands, and after he left the service he worked repairing cash registers and typewriters in Iowa. He had twin sons who grew and had children of their own, who also had children of their own. After his retirement he made a hobby of refurbishing ancient radios and woodwork.
He loved garage sales and would bring things home, sneak them past my grandmother and keep them in the basement. But she knew.
My grandpa was simply quite wonderful. I had only known him to be kind and generous, and I knew that I would miss him when he passed. Four years ago he was diagnosed with liver cancer, and we all knew it was just a matter of time for a man his age. He gave me a check for $50 the year of his diagnosis, for helping move his radios from the garage to the basement. I never cashed it, and today it is the only thing I have of his bearing his signature. I kept it because his name was worth more.
I cried the night he checked into the hospice and I was too drained to cry the next morning when he died. It happened quickly, as he slept, which is a wonderful way to die. I knew the funeral was going to be sad, not tragic, but I wasn’t prepared for this enormous grief. And as my father eulogized his own, I cried when he said, “The last thing he said to me was ‘I want to take a nap.’”
A few years ago I helped my friend Jay and his family move from a town north of Denver to a town south of Denver. His little girl, Brittany, had to say goodbye to a friend she had seen every day of her young life. As her friend walked away, Brittany started crying with her own sorrow of a friendship ended by the circumstance of geography. “It’s a new feeling for her, eh?” I asked her mother. “It is,” she said.
When you’re 6 years old you have a lot of emotions to yet experience. At 26 I had naively thought I was finished learning how to feel, but my grandpa’s death has proven to me otherwise. I’ve been heart broken and depressed, sad and pitiful, but I have never known this feeling: so absolute and pure, genuine and grave. I’m learning now what real grief is, I am learning how to mourn someone I loved, and even after his funeral I am not done crying over his loss.
It’s odd to know I won’t be able to see him again, hug him and say ‘I love you’ first because otherwise it’d only be silently understood. It’s odd to wonder what his death was like for him, and what he could have been feeling himself as he passed. It seems we’re never fully learned when it comes to emotion, and that is a discomforting thought.
But I smile now as I recall my memories of him:
He’d let me watch him brush his teeth when I visited him in the summers of my childhood. He always made me laugh because he’d have to take out his top dentures and set them on the sink and I thought he was like George Washington.
He used a magnifying glass to read the paper sometimes, and I’d use to it to burn ants in his backyard.
I’d play with his old radios in the basement, pretending to be in a submarine, and he’d come down and show us how they worked.
He’d get cut off mid sentence by my grandmother sometimes, and he’d just swallow his sentence and tilt his head with a little nod, and while everyone’s attention was now drawn to my grandma, I’d keep focused on him and note the look on his face as if he was saying, “Well you go ahead, honey, you tell it, it’s not like it was my story or anything.”
He drove with both feet.
He had a dent in his head from when they had to remove a small growth decades ago.
He was hard of hearing, but wouldn’t get a hearing aid.
He said “warsh” instead of “wash.”
He always carried a small pocketknife and used it to cut an apple at lunch or tighten a screw. My grandma gave it to me before I came back to New York, knowing he would have wanted me to have it.
He loved us all, without ever having to say it. He was from that generation.
His name was Douglas Harry McDowell. Harry was his middle name because his mother’s maiden name was Harry. He’s from that generation. He was born in Chicago in 1926. There were many pictures of him as a child, and while I was gathered with my family for his wake last weekend, we noted how the photos abruptly stopped after his childhood. “Well the Depression came,” was an answer muttered and we all understood: there was no money for frivolity, photographs being the most frivolous things at the time. There was a picture of the house they had lost in Illinois, on the back there’s a note reading, ‘we paid $400 down.” He’s from that generation.
The photos picked up again in the 1940’s, after the war. He was in the army air corps in the occupying force in France; he fixed the ball turrets in B29 bombers. In his black and white photos he looked very handsome in his uniform, all of 20 years old. He stands in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triumph, stands in front of his bombers, he stands with friends in front of a base, his uniform pristine: tie tucked into shirt, a short smirk on his face, just a bit confident that his country had done the right thing. He’s from that generation.
He told me a story once about his airfield in France. He was walking the perimeter fence one day with an orange in his hand, and a girl stood on the other side of the fence looking at him. He gave her his orange, and having not seen proper fruit in 4 years of Nazi occupation, she cried.
He was good with his hands, and after he left the service he worked repairing cash registers and typewriters in Iowa. He had twin sons who grew and had children of their own, who also had children of their own. After his retirement he made a hobby of refurbishing ancient radios and woodwork.
He loved garage sales and would bring things home, sneak them past my grandmother and keep them in the basement. But she knew.
My grandpa was simply quite wonderful. I had only known him to be kind and generous, and I knew that I would miss him when he passed. Four years ago he was diagnosed with liver cancer, and we all knew it was just a matter of time for a man his age. He gave me a check for $50 the year of his diagnosis, for helping move his radios from the garage to the basement. I never cashed it, and today it is the only thing I have of his bearing his signature. I kept it because his name was worth more.
I cried the night he checked into the hospice and I was too drained to cry the next morning when he died. It happened quickly, as he slept, which is a wonderful way to die. I knew the funeral was going to be sad, not tragic, but I wasn’t prepared for this enormous grief. And as my father eulogized his own, I cried when he said, “The last thing he said to me was ‘I want to take a nap.’”
A few years ago I helped my friend Jay and his family move from a town north of Denver to a town south of Denver. His little girl, Brittany, had to say goodbye to a friend she had seen every day of her young life. As her friend walked away, Brittany started crying with her own sorrow of a friendship ended by the circumstance of geography. “It’s a new feeling for her, eh?” I asked her mother. “It is,” she said.
When you’re 6 years old you have a lot of emotions to yet experience. At 26 I had naively thought I was finished learning how to feel, but my grandpa’s death has proven to me otherwise. I’ve been heart broken and depressed, sad and pitiful, but I have never known this feeling: so absolute and pure, genuine and grave. I’m learning now what real grief is, I am learning how to mourn someone I loved, and even after his funeral I am not done crying over his loss.
It’s odd to know I won’t be able to see him again, hug him and say ‘I love you’ first because otherwise it’d only be silently understood. It’s odd to wonder what his death was like for him, and what he could have been feeling himself as he passed. It seems we’re never fully learned when it comes to emotion, and that is a discomforting thought.
But I smile now as I recall my memories of him:
He’d let me watch him brush his teeth when I visited him in the summers of my childhood. He always made me laugh because he’d have to take out his top dentures and set them on the sink and I thought he was like George Washington.
He used a magnifying glass to read the paper sometimes, and I’d use to it to burn ants in his backyard.
I’d play with his old radios in the basement, pretending to be in a submarine, and he’d come down and show us how they worked.
He’d get cut off mid sentence by my grandmother sometimes, and he’d just swallow his sentence and tilt his head with a little nod, and while everyone’s attention was now drawn to my grandma, I’d keep focused on him and note the look on his face as if he was saying, “Well you go ahead, honey, you tell it, it’s not like it was my story or anything.”
He drove with both feet.
He had a dent in his head from when they had to remove a small growth decades ago.
He was hard of hearing, but wouldn’t get a hearing aid.
He said “warsh” instead of “wash.”
He always carried a small pocketknife and used it to cut an apple at lunch or tighten a screw. My grandma gave it to me before I came back to New York, knowing he would have wanted me to have it.
He loved us all, without ever having to say it. He was from that generation.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Fighter Jet
On the deck of the USS Intrepid, the aircraft carrier turned museum on the Hudson river, near 42nd Street.
Photo Booth
This is one of those photo booths you would find at a mall, which takes your picture and places it in a goofy frame. Inexplicably, this was left on the sidewalk outside my building, note the gutted insides.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Carla, we hardly knew ye...
memorial day weekend was a great time for my brother doug to come visit. he arrived Friday afternoon, and after having gotten off of work early (they actually closed at 3!) we met up in midtown to rendezvous with his old high school friend, neil, and eat cheap chinese. no kidding, i got half a duck in a bowl the size of a toilet full of noodles and dim sum for $4. then we met neil's brother at grand central, and headed up to the bronx on the 4 train to watch the Yankees lose to the lesser-talented but morally superior Royals. the game was rained out in the bottom of the ninth, and the four of us were drenched beyond repair. i am still soaked.
saturday heather, doug and i woke up early and headed down to Coney Island. our original intent was to make the morning boat out to the atlantic ocean for sea fishing, but as it became painfully clear that a holiday weekend MTA schedule would preclude us from making it to sheepshead bay by 7am, we opted to slow it down a bit and get a nosh at mcdonalds (the only place open) and meander our way to Coney Island. we were to walk the boardwalk, partake in the roller coaster and shoot the freak. of course, arriving at Coney before 11am is not advisable as literally only ONE place is open, and so we found ourselves on the solitary pier, watching the russian gangsters consort with fishermen who owed them money. many a crab was crushed.
after beers at the ONE place that was open (now 9am) we walked to Brighton Beach and hopped the Q train once more to find ourselves at sheepshead bay. this is a place i've been wanting to visit since we've arrived, mostly because of the fresh fish market (literally just family owned boats, the patriarchs of which yell out in their peculiar accents, "FRESSSHH FISSHHH!"). the morning boat (the Dorothy B IVV) excursion was still at sea, and so at 11am, we were the first customers of a newly opened Applebee's, partaking of hard liquors and mixers.
finally, at 12, we were on a boat, feeding bait to seagulls and about to shove off for the best fluke fishing available. and by best i mean mediocre. i would surmise only about 12 fish were caught during the whole four-hour trip, heather and i having caught two of those. unfortunately doug didn't catch any, but we all did have a fun time anyway as fishing has always been a great means of bonding. heather was introduced to the fluke (think of a flounder, only smaller) and doug and i hit the ocean for the first time in ten years.
that evening we hung out watching tv and eating Indian food, of which doug was not a fan.
sunday was another maritime adventure, the NYHRC yacht held a brunch, launching from Pier 6 (East 23rd St. and, um...the East River). many fine honies available for doug's flirtation exploration (after seeing the women in the city he did proclaim many times,'That's it, I'm moving to New York!") though he was satisfied to simply watch the passing skyline of New York.
incidentally it was Fleet Week in New York. that is, Navy ships come into port and the city is rife with servicemen. they also perfom demonstrations and the Coast Guard was out in full force, guarding the docked ships and aircraft carriers while helicopters flew overhead performing maneuvers and practicing a rescue excercise.
we went to ground zero, st. paul's chapel and the movie, Thankyou for Smoking. sunday night we walked around time square where we were pleasantly surprised to find a Dave&Busters. i won a stuffed dog for heather, but doug and i failed to save our hostage on a shootemup game.
On monday we went to Central Park and the Seinfeld diner (aka Tom's Restaurant at 112th and Broadway) but not before seeing Rhea Perlman (of Cheers fame) on 18th Street near 6th Ave. i hadn't been paying attention, just walking along, but doug asked, "is that Danny DeVito's wife?" and we watched her: looking quite confused, with a paper in her hand, like she was following directions to nowhere.
after lunch we took doug to LaGuardia via the M60 bus through Harlem and he left around 4pm. it was such a great weekend, and it was awesome seeing him again. i hope we'll be able to hang out again sooner rather than later, but with the new job and other forseeable responsibilities, i don't think i'll be able to get out to colorado this summer. but i have a suspicion i am in for a windfall of visitors.
saturday heather, doug and i woke up early and headed down to Coney Island. our original intent was to make the morning boat out to the atlantic ocean for sea fishing, but as it became painfully clear that a holiday weekend MTA schedule would preclude us from making it to sheepshead bay by 7am, we opted to slow it down a bit and get a nosh at mcdonalds (the only place open) and meander our way to Coney Island. we were to walk the boardwalk, partake in the roller coaster and shoot the freak. of course, arriving at Coney before 11am is not advisable as literally only ONE place is open, and so we found ourselves on the solitary pier, watching the russian gangsters consort with fishermen who owed them money. many a crab was crushed.
after beers at the ONE place that was open (now 9am) we walked to Brighton Beach and hopped the Q train once more to find ourselves at sheepshead bay. this is a place i've been wanting to visit since we've arrived, mostly because of the fresh fish market (literally just family owned boats, the patriarchs of which yell out in their peculiar accents, "FRESSSHH FISSHHH!"). the morning boat (the Dorothy B IVV) excursion was still at sea, and so at 11am, we were the first customers of a newly opened Applebee's, partaking of hard liquors and mixers.
finally, at 12, we were on a boat, feeding bait to seagulls and about to shove off for the best fluke fishing available. and by best i mean mediocre. i would surmise only about 12 fish were caught during the whole four-hour trip, heather and i having caught two of those. unfortunately doug didn't catch any, but we all did have a fun time anyway as fishing has always been a great means of bonding. heather was introduced to the fluke (think of a flounder, only smaller) and doug and i hit the ocean for the first time in ten years.
that evening we hung out watching tv and eating Indian food, of which doug was not a fan.
sunday was another maritime adventure, the NYHRC yacht held a brunch, launching from Pier 6 (East 23rd St. and, um...the East River). many fine honies available for doug's flirtation exploration (after seeing the women in the city he did proclaim many times,'That's it, I'm moving to New York!") though he was satisfied to simply watch the passing skyline of New York.
incidentally it was Fleet Week in New York. that is, Navy ships come into port and the city is rife with servicemen. they also perfom demonstrations and the Coast Guard was out in full force, guarding the docked ships and aircraft carriers while helicopters flew overhead performing maneuvers and practicing a rescue excercise.
we went to ground zero, st. paul's chapel and the movie, Thankyou for Smoking. sunday night we walked around time square where we were pleasantly surprised to find a Dave&Busters. i won a stuffed dog for heather, but doug and i failed to save our hostage on a shootemup game.
On monday we went to Central Park and the Seinfeld diner (aka Tom's Restaurant at 112th and Broadway) but not before seeing Rhea Perlman (of Cheers fame) on 18th Street near 6th Ave. i hadn't been paying attention, just walking along, but doug asked, "is that Danny DeVito's wife?" and we watched her: looking quite confused, with a paper in her hand, like she was following directions to nowhere.
after lunch we took doug to LaGuardia via the M60 bus through Harlem and he left around 4pm. it was such a great weekend, and it was awesome seeing him again. i hope we'll be able to hang out again sooner rather than later, but with the new job and other forseeable responsibilities, i don't think i'll be able to get out to colorado this summer. but i have a suspicion i am in for a windfall of visitors.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Sunday, May 21, 2006
The Saddest Face in the World
New York has afforded me some celebrity sightings. not that i get very star-struck. so far i've seen Jean Reno (aka The Professional) at the Union Square Circuit City, Famke Janssen walking her dogs on 13th Street, Kurt Vonnegut at a WNYU radio interview, and then on Saturday i was walking on Ludlow Street after a trip to Katz's Deli and was star struck indeed.
out of the corner of my eye i noticed a hockey stick resting against a wall and thought, 'wow, free hockey stick!'
in the next step i noticed a guy sitting on a step in his hoodie and shorts, in the next step i noticed it was a face i recognized, in the next step i realized that face belonged to Mike Myers. it was somber and down-trodden, he was on his phone, he looked right at me as he just listened to whomever was speaking on the other end.
and i kept walking, and asked Heather, 'do you know who that was?'
i suspect he looked so sad because of bad news, perhaps about his divorce. it didn't seem the right time to stop and chat about fat bastard or how that movie sucked.
i would have rather talked about So I Married an Axe Murderer, but didn't want to be rude.
out of the corner of my eye i noticed a hockey stick resting against a wall and thought, 'wow, free hockey stick!'
in the next step i noticed a guy sitting on a step in his hoodie and shorts, in the next step i noticed it was a face i recognized, in the next step i realized that face belonged to Mike Myers. it was somber and down-trodden, he was on his phone, he looked right at me as he just listened to whomever was speaking on the other end.
and i kept walking, and asked Heather, 'do you know who that was?'
i suspect he looked so sad because of bad news, perhaps about his divorce. it didn't seem the right time to stop and chat about fat bastard or how that movie sucked.
i would have rather talked about So I Married an Axe Murderer, but didn't want to be rude.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
I can't wait to get off work and see my baby...
Work is a nice little enterprise. All I do all day is proofread, drink coffee, take in lunches with friends in/near Union Square, cruise the internet (i can't be expected to keep track of all my wheelings and dealings) and feel confident in the fact that things are falling into place.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
And So On
Listen:
I met Kurt Vonnegut yesterday. I high-tailed it from Gloucester, MA to Stamford, CT in about 4 hours to catch a train back to NYC, and went straight to the studios of WNYC by City Hall.
It was a BBC World BookClub interview, specifically about Slaughterhouse Five, and I was among 20 people who got to be part of the audience and ask questions. Not everyone asked a question, but I was the first, and once they post the show on the internet, I'll be sure to link it. It was amazingly fun and enlightening, and while I didn't get my book signed, as he left I shook his hand, looked right into his eyes and simply said, 'Thank you.'
And he answered, 'Ok.'
I have to say this is by the best experience that New York has afforded me, and pretty much I should probably just move away right now, as it can't get much better. But then again, I start my new job tomorrow.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
When it Rains, It Pours
On Monday, i had two interviews in a row. they were entry-level assistant positions at Court TV, which would do well for my future as a litigator/pundit/talking head cum Simpsons writer. a friend got me in the door, and i couldn't be more grateful, because i am at that point now where if i don't land something in my field of interest, i'll take anything and the last time i took anything, i was a bouncer for 18 months.
my 3 o'clock was peculiar and i can only relate it to you in the following scenario.
my 3 o'clock was peculiar and i can only relate it to you in the following scenario.
INTERVIEWER
(Shaking hands rather limply)
Have a seat.
NICK
It's a pleasure to meet you, thanks for taking the time.
(Shaking hands rather limply)
Have a seat.
NICK
It's a pleasure to meet you, thanks for taking the time.
INTERVIEWER
(Turns to his computer, works on the design of his business card)
What the hell is going on with this font?
Interviewer proceeds to damn his computer and Mircrosoft Word as he can't find the right design template or get his spacing just right on the outlay. He then proceeds to email said design to several coworkers, in silence.
During this time I tried to help, making little suggestions here and there. I basically spoke up only after several moments of wondering if this complete dismissal of my presence in his quite small office was hostile or nonchalant. Was this a test? Is his assistant suppossed to take the initiative and offer computer advice or am I to sit there quietly and test my patience and endurance for awkward social situations? If there's one thing I know it's awkward social graces, so I stayed quiet with only intermittent offerings of color and border advice. It was a good 20 minutes of this before he turned to me and the interview began in earnest. We spoke of the evolving job description, and it would basically be a liason position among the different departments at the company. Nothing glamorous nor bold, but then i've never been either of those. He was constantly distracted by incoming emails and employees asking for his signature. A small gnat had found its way into the office and chose to spend 30 minutes of it's short lifetime buzzing in my face, which made me all the more attractive with my constant light blowing of air and subtely waving my hand in front of my head.
The subject of news viability on television and media in general was broached, and the interviewer proceeded to lambast the very industry in which he has worked for 20 years; he denounced journalism in general; noted I have no experience in news or media per se; called NPR a "bunch of communists;" and took the last ten minutes of our time to show me what he'd been working on for the online promotion of his network, which for technical and karmic reasons beyond my comprehension took forever to upload and display; and we seemed to have come full circle with our awkwardness, just waiting there in silence. his legs and left hand shook the entire time, leading me to ponder about his medical condition, and if i should ask him about his obvious palsey. i stood up and offered and thank-you, he showed me to the stairs and thanked me for time as well. i left him and wondered if he could recall my name if i asked him, or if he even remembered what position i was interviewing for in the first place.
my 4 o'clock was by all measures a better interview, on both parts. the interviewer looked to be a Kennedy descendant, with admirable hair and skin tone. it was obvious to me that i was out of my league when, having been seated on one of his leather couches, my mouth went dry and fumbled for proper diction and clarity of voice. he was ever so polite and made me feel better about the interview process as a whole and i left wondering what life could be like at Court TV.
Tuesday I had yet another interview at an advertising firm. they are looking for proofreaders for all the copy they handle, and this was the mother of all interviews. the interviewer made me feel at ease, we talked earnestly and thoroughly about writing and work, the city and the industry. i took a proofing test and she was impressed, and since there is plenty of room for growth there, this is the job i am hoping will come through.
i am also waiting to hear from a major cell phone company about a newly created position in their newly created editorial department. i also have an interview on monday with Kaplan Test Prep and Admissions, as a student advisor. this job would entail lots of fun things, none of them in the scope of my career as space cowboy. so with all these things on my plate and really great feelings about the aforementioned interviews/jobs, it behooved me to actually TURN DOWN a job offer as a proofreader for WebMD. the pay was livable, but not as much as these other jobs, and i would have had to start Wednesday...which for a myriad of reasons didn't work. one reason: i didn't want to start a job only to have to quit it after a week, should i get accepted as a proofer elsewhere. another reason: i am attending the wedding of one Bryan O'Connor this Friday, and leaving Thursday for it, in Massachusettes.
A funny thing about this wedding weekend extravaganza, i had planned to stay away from New York for an obviously extended weekend cavorting with various friends. but then i got the following email...
To: Nickmcdowell@gmail.com
so it goes.
(Turns to his computer, works on the design of his business card)
What the hell is going on with this font?
Interviewer proceeds to damn his computer and Mircrosoft Word as he can't find the right design template or get his spacing just right on the outlay. He then proceeds to email said design to several coworkers, in silence.
During this time I tried to help, making little suggestions here and there. I basically spoke up only after several moments of wondering if this complete dismissal of my presence in his quite small office was hostile or nonchalant. Was this a test? Is his assistant suppossed to take the initiative and offer computer advice or am I to sit there quietly and test my patience and endurance for awkward social situations? If there's one thing I know it's awkward social graces, so I stayed quiet with only intermittent offerings of color and border advice. It was a good 20 minutes of this before he turned to me and the interview began in earnest. We spoke of the evolving job description, and it would basically be a liason position among the different departments at the company. Nothing glamorous nor bold, but then i've never been either of those. He was constantly distracted by incoming emails and employees asking for his signature. A small gnat had found its way into the office and chose to spend 30 minutes of it's short lifetime buzzing in my face, which made me all the more attractive with my constant light blowing of air and subtely waving my hand in front of my head.
The subject of news viability on television and media in general was broached, and the interviewer proceeded to lambast the very industry in which he has worked for 20 years; he denounced journalism in general; noted I have no experience in news or media per se; called NPR a "bunch of communists;" and took the last ten minutes of our time to show me what he'd been working on for the online promotion of his network, which for technical and karmic reasons beyond my comprehension took forever to upload and display; and we seemed to have come full circle with our awkwardness, just waiting there in silence. his legs and left hand shook the entire time, leading me to ponder about his medical condition, and if i should ask him about his obvious palsey. i stood up and offered and thank-you, he showed me to the stairs and thanked me for time as well. i left him and wondered if he could recall my name if i asked him, or if he even remembered what position i was interviewing for in the first place.
my 4 o'clock was by all measures a better interview, on both parts. the interviewer looked to be a Kennedy descendant, with admirable hair and skin tone. it was obvious to me that i was out of my league when, having been seated on one of his leather couches, my mouth went dry and fumbled for proper diction and clarity of voice. he was ever so polite and made me feel better about the interview process as a whole and i left wondering what life could be like at Court TV.
Tuesday I had yet another interview at an advertising firm. they are looking for proofreaders for all the copy they handle, and this was the mother of all interviews. the interviewer made me feel at ease, we talked earnestly and thoroughly about writing and work, the city and the industry. i took a proofing test and she was impressed, and since there is plenty of room for growth there, this is the job i am hoping will come through.
i am also waiting to hear from a major cell phone company about a newly created position in their newly created editorial department. i also have an interview on monday with Kaplan Test Prep and Admissions, as a student advisor. this job would entail lots of fun things, none of them in the scope of my career as space cowboy. so with all these things on my plate and really great feelings about the aforementioned interviews/jobs, it behooved me to actually TURN DOWN a job offer as a proofreader for WebMD. the pay was livable, but not as much as these other jobs, and i would have had to start Wednesday...which for a myriad of reasons didn't work. one reason: i didn't want to start a job only to have to quit it after a week, should i get accepted as a proofer elsewhere. another reason: i am attending the wedding of one Bryan O'Connor this Friday, and leaving Thursday for it, in Massachusettes.
A funny thing about this wedding weekend extravaganza, i had planned to stay away from New York for an obviously extended weekend cavorting with various friends. but then i got the following email...
| From: listenerservices |
Date: Apr 25, 2006 2:57 PM
Subject: WNYC-BBC Book Club with Kurt Vonnegut
Dear Mr. McDowell:
We attempted to contact you by phone, but the number we have listed for you is incorrect (917.583.2680). We have you listed as our first alternate for the April 29 taping of the BBC Book Club with Kurt Vonnegut. One of our confirmed participants has canceled and we would like to offer you the chance to attend the taping, details are below:
BBC’s World Book Club with Kurt Vonnegut on Saturday, April 29, 2006.
World Book Club Taping with Kurt Vonnegut, author of Slaughterhouse 5
Your hosts: Leonard Lopate and the BBC’s Harriet Gilbert
Location: WNYC New York Public Radio
1 Centre Street, 25th Fl. (directions and building security information are below)
You should arrive at: 4:00 p.m.
Taping begins: approximately 4:30 p.m.
You must arrive with a question in mind about Slaughterhouse 5 for author Kurt Vonnegut
If you can attend this taping, please reply to this email no later than 4pm on Wednesday, April 26. If we do not hear from you by then, we will have to offer the reservation to another listener.
Thanks for listening to WNYC Radio.
Kind Regards,
Lorraine Mattox
WNYC Listener Services
Needless to say, as Vonnegut has been my hero for sometime now, i immediately answered in the affirmative. this means, though, that saturday morning i'll have to high-tail it back to New York instead of hanging with friends. but it's more or less a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and if i didn't go, i'd just die.so it goes.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Oops, I Crapped My Pants
This is embarassing to admit, but I was just watching that Maury Pauvich show. You know: that man whose soul purpose is to perform DNA tests to determine who is your baby daddy? I swear to god, the copy during the teaser read as follows, "If He's Cheating, Their Getting a Divorce."
I just about shat my pants.
I'm losing it!
I just about shat my pants.
I'm losing it!
Friday, April 07, 2006
Long Long Long
it's late now, but not as late as i was once used to, not as late as i wish it was, not as late as it could be, not as late as it needs to be, but just as late as it can be.
a lot of people have implored/inquired/demanded inquiry as to why i haven't kept up on this blog, despite numerous promises i've made to keep this alive like johnny five. the thing is: i wanted to blog about my triumphs and curious goings on in this new city and life, but all i have at the moment is failures. still unemployed and dangerously close to bankrupt as a result of recent tax filings. i've been interviewing at many a company and every time i seem to get my hopes up only to have them dashed by the thinly veiled message (veiled, that is, in the technical jargon of human resources professionals like, 'why do you even bother,' or 'everything you say is wrong,' or, 'you, sir, are worse than hitler!') that every choice i've made in my life regarding my employability has been wrong.
there's a very small roach that lives in our parlour (ie, tv room/office) which i've only seen once (and to which i am the lone witness) and which i've just now pounced upon with a wadded ball of tissue, only to retrieve a mere twitching leg, and now i am sure it is recouperating, very pissed off and what's more, knows whom to blame for it's new gimp.
i'm watching conan obrien reruns, in the state of new york at 1am, which seems to imply very little has changed for me since high school. this is an intriguing hypothesis, and brings to mind such evidence as my current list of friends which includes people with whom i went to high school, i am unemployed, i am up late and wondering about this life and what i've done to impede it.
i am so stunted by my own lack of talent, it's staggering. i used to write. i used to write well. i used to have ideas, and what's more, i used to have the balls to write when i didn't have ideas. but that's probably not even true either. i don't think anything i've ever done has been worthwhile and that's stopping me from doing anything else. this is the most depressing feeling in the world.
i'm amazed at anything written down on a page. that is: anything printed, which took countless people countless man-hours to print and set and edit and proof and receive in the mail and write at all. that people have ideas which other people will find intriguing and worth their time is a stupefying situation. i am amazed, in particular, with jonathan safran foer. his career and celebrity seem to be this exalted example of what i aspired to in my former days as a would-be fiction writer, and now i am just a fan in awe of someone very near to my age who has made it and is set for life. his first novel, Everything is Illuminated, was and is amazing, and what's more, was an amazing best seller. in this sense, he never has to go to another interview in which a man with a job asks him, 'if you were alone in a commerical airliner, and you had one ping pong ball in your hand, how would you go about estimating the number of ping pong balls needed to fill the volume of the aircraft?' he wouldn't have to stammer for an answer aloud and in his mind wonder what the hell is the point, and what's the real answer? he'll never have to wait for days to hear the bad news that he'd been passed over, yet again, and that he'll have to start all over again by rewriting his cover letter.
and now that i am older, a very homely 26, all i want to do is be able to sit and write something worthwhile about life which someone somewhere will ponder someday. a majority of writers are older, did you know that? a majority of them have daytime jobs. what makes you any different? probably sloth. sloth and envy.
i have ideas for plays, and this is a good city to have such ideas. but the correct response is this is a good city to write such ideas. plots have very little to do in literature, as you may know, the real story is what lies underneath the words: the message, the meaning, the revolutionary thing that evolves into philosophy and questions. the thing that will justify celebrity and best sellers.
plus i've been sick, which feels and looks awful. we have received a new couch, though, so that's cool. the cats outside are making love and sound worse than my parents did in their heyday, but not as passionate. the sirens outside my window are all unmistakable signs that someone somewhere is suffering, possibly because they can't write, and when they do, they might as well be failing another one of life's job interviews. but i'm not sad, just pensive and hungry for rice krispies.
a lot of people have implored/inquired/demanded inquiry as to why i haven't kept up on this blog, despite numerous promises i've made to keep this alive like johnny five. the thing is: i wanted to blog about my triumphs and curious goings on in this new city and life, but all i have at the moment is failures. still unemployed and dangerously close to bankrupt as a result of recent tax filings. i've been interviewing at many a company and every time i seem to get my hopes up only to have them dashed by the thinly veiled message (veiled, that is, in the technical jargon of human resources professionals like, 'why do you even bother,' or 'everything you say is wrong,' or, 'you, sir, are worse than hitler!') that every choice i've made in my life regarding my employability has been wrong.
there's a very small roach that lives in our parlour (ie, tv room/office) which i've only seen once (and to which i am the lone witness) and which i've just now pounced upon with a wadded ball of tissue, only to retrieve a mere twitching leg, and now i am sure it is recouperating, very pissed off and what's more, knows whom to blame for it's new gimp.
i'm watching conan obrien reruns, in the state of new york at 1am, which seems to imply very little has changed for me since high school. this is an intriguing hypothesis, and brings to mind such evidence as my current list of friends which includes people with whom i went to high school, i am unemployed, i am up late and wondering about this life and what i've done to impede it.
i am so stunted by my own lack of talent, it's staggering. i used to write. i used to write well. i used to have ideas, and what's more, i used to have the balls to write when i didn't have ideas. but that's probably not even true either. i don't think anything i've ever done has been worthwhile and that's stopping me from doing anything else. this is the most depressing feeling in the world.
i'm amazed at anything written down on a page. that is: anything printed, which took countless people countless man-hours to print and set and edit and proof and receive in the mail and write at all. that people have ideas which other people will find intriguing and worth their time is a stupefying situation. i am amazed, in particular, with jonathan safran foer. his career and celebrity seem to be this exalted example of what i aspired to in my former days as a would-be fiction writer, and now i am just a fan in awe of someone very near to my age who has made it and is set for life. his first novel, Everything is Illuminated, was and is amazing, and what's more, was an amazing best seller. in this sense, he never has to go to another interview in which a man with a job asks him, 'if you were alone in a commerical airliner, and you had one ping pong ball in your hand, how would you go about estimating the number of ping pong balls needed to fill the volume of the aircraft?' he wouldn't have to stammer for an answer aloud and in his mind wonder what the hell is the point, and what's the real answer? he'll never have to wait for days to hear the bad news that he'd been passed over, yet again, and that he'll have to start all over again by rewriting his cover letter.
and now that i am older, a very homely 26, all i want to do is be able to sit and write something worthwhile about life which someone somewhere will ponder someday. a majority of writers are older, did you know that? a majority of them have daytime jobs. what makes you any different? probably sloth. sloth and envy.
i have ideas for plays, and this is a good city to have such ideas. but the correct response is this is a good city to write such ideas. plots have very little to do in literature, as you may know, the real story is what lies underneath the words: the message, the meaning, the revolutionary thing that evolves into philosophy and questions. the thing that will justify celebrity and best sellers.
plus i've been sick, which feels and looks awful. we have received a new couch, though, so that's cool. the cats outside are making love and sound worse than my parents did in their heyday, but not as passionate. the sirens outside my window are all unmistakable signs that someone somewhere is suffering, possibly because they can't write, and when they do, they might as well be failing another one of life's job interviews. but i'm not sad, just pensive and hungry for rice krispies.
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