A Good Job
October 11, 2004
Happy Columbus Day
"The teachers told the children that this was when the continent was discovered by human beings. Actually, millions of human beings were already living full and imaginative lives on the continent in 1492. That was simply the year in which sea pirates began to cheat and rob them." --Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Breakfast of Champions
A few weeks ago, I received an e-mail from a young woman named Lina asking if she could interview me for her "multimedia DVD project about blogging as a contemporary tool of self-representation." It's a part of her Master's thesis in Anthropology, which she'll be presenting at the American Anthropological Association's annual meeting.
She's from Montreal, but was staying in Brooklyn for a few weeks, and wondered if I'd have time to meet her while she was here. Sure, why not?
"I was pleasantly surprised at how open and receptive everyone has been," she said. "Nearly everyone I contacted was willing to participate."
Well, I mean, c'mon, we're talking about bloggers here. Nothing a blogger likes more than to blab about the minutiae of their lives. It wasn't until after I signed the release form that I started to have second thoughts, but at that point, the ball was already rolling, and I had little choice but to roll right along with it.
We met at a local bar for a preliminary drink, and then headed to my loft, where she could videotape me in my natural habitat. The conversation was all over the place, mainly because I can never stay on topic. We were either talking about philosophy or Scotch whiskey when the phone rang. "Go ahead and answer it," Lina said, "I'll turn the recorder off."
It was my illustrious friend, Joe. He must've heard Lina in the background because he immediately asked if he was interrupting anything. I explained what we were doing. "Is she cute?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "Very."
"How old?" I couldn't figure out how to answer him without Lina realizing what we were talking about. "Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?" Joe proceeded to guess. "Twenty-nine?"
"No."
“Twenty-five?"
"Yes."
"Oh man, sometimes I wish I were still single."
I laughed. All she and I were doing was talking. The fact that she was smart and beautiful was a nice bonus, but we weren't doing anything that you had to be single to do.
"Where is she from?" he asked.
"Montreal."
"Is she a Francophone?"
"Yes."
"Nice, nice. A redhead?”
"No," I laughed. "Why'd you ask that?"
"Oh, because I went out with a French Canadian once. She had red hair. Whenever I think of French Canadians, I always picture a hot redhead."
After rushing Joe off the phone, I realized that Lina had been listening to my half of the conversation, and I wondered if she'd been able to figure out Joe's line of questioning. If she didn't know what he was talking about then, she probably does now.
After the formal Q&A, Lina wandered around my loft and casually asked what I pay for rent. I told her, and she said, "You must have a good job."
By "good," I assume she meant "well-paying." I mean, I didn't even want to get into what constitutes a "good" job, though I'm fairly certain it doesn't involve the pharmaceutical racket like my current gig. I just laughed and said, "Sometimes."
If I could, I’d just wander around town, drinking coffee and sipping cocktails all the time. After all, writing about the random high-jinx of my friends and the assorted strangers I meet is my favorite thing to do. Unfortunately, I'm working all week. (Well, not "unfortunately," since I desperately need money to pay the high-dollar rent that led to Lina’s conclusions.)
The bad part is that, since I'm freelance, my employers have me stuffed into a corner with no windows and no internet access. That means I can't write posts on company time. Just as well, I suppose, since it would be construed as stealing by the corporate bigwigs.
October 14, 2004
Working long hours at the “good job” has started to burn me out, so when I finished my project earlier than expected, I was relieved. But just now, as I sat down to do a little writing, I got a call. "We need you back here right away!" So I don't have much time to write. I know it's hard to believe, but this balderdash actually takes time.
While I was at the ad agency, working on some pharmaceutical rubbish, a friend of mine called with a lead on a freelance art directing gig for a dull, middle-of-the-road clothing manufacturer.
"What was that all about?" one of the other animators asked when I got off the phone.
"A job lead," I told him. "Art directing some fashion stuff."
"How the hell does an animator get a call about an art director's job like that ?" he asked.
"I do all sorts of stuff," I said. "And anyway, it's just a lead, who knows if they'd actually hire me."
"But you're gonna call about it, right?"
"I don't know. The job doesn't sound that great."
"Why not?" he asked. "Fashion? It sounds kinda fun."
"Well, it's not exactly fashion," I explained. The company makes these dumpy, old-lady, mall clothes."
"What's the company?" he asked.
When I told him, he cocked his head and pulled on the neck of his sweater. " Dumpy mall clothes? " he said. "That's who made my sweater."
"Oh, shit," I laughed, with some discomfort. "It looks good on you, though."
He shook his head, spun around in his swivel chair, and went back to work.
