6 posts tagged “becoming an adult”

As some of you may or may not know by now, I got a job at this sweet place that boasts being all about Music TV.  Hmm...weird.  Anyway...as a result, I am currently in a mass transition phase and will not be available to update this thing for a few days.  I know, you're all heartbroken.

In any event, I'll be back for the election so hold tight to your garters and GET OUT & VOTE.  Or as Diddy says, VOTE OR DIE.

so vote...or die.  obvi.

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(because they ruin everything) 
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...Needless to say, I'm
 

So, the title totally ruins this for me, but I suppose I can’t always do the bait ‘n’ switch—or at least I need SOMETHING to maybe even somehow keep people interested.  The truth is…

 I got a job.  At MTV.

….WHAAAT?  I know, it is still surprising me, too.  And to say I’m overwhelmed would be what they call an understatement.  But it’s true.  I am apparently totally rad enough to work at MTV.  Boy oh boy, I hope I get to meet Lauren Conrad!!!

Anyway, the highlight of that day (what I liked to call Speed-dating For A Job), was definitely seeing, live and in living color, a one Mister Anderson Cooper.

Let’s get a little back-story going.  I watch CNN.  Like, all the time.  Like, more times than most in my demographic ever set their eyes on CNN.  Maybe even more than my grandparents (though my grandfather is a sucker for that damned Bill O’Riley; fair and Balanced, people).  I sometimes would say that I live and breathe it.  One time I saw Larry King with my friend Ali walking outside a Starbucks, looking like the star-studded, 80 year-old leathery spray-tanned fetus that he is—complete with a leather biker jacket and those sweet, sweet, high-waisted jeans—and that was like when twelve year olds see those spunky High School Musical kids.  Only I don’t hysterically scream and weep with joy.  Often.  In any event, I love CNN.  Everyone on there is pretty much fantastic (oh, except for Lou Dobbs.  He, well…I can’t with him.)

So I was standing outside of MTV waiting for a friend of mine that also happens to work there.   With a mutual friend of ours.  We were—at first—busy laughing at the fact that a certain singer of a certain band that names rhymes with O.A.R., was wandering around the 1515 building for 45 minutes (I know because I was there waiting for that long), occasionally getting on the phone waiting to be noticed by people—and continually being IGNORED.  It was hilarious—truly sad how some people feel more important than they are.  However, at a certain point a couple of unidentifiable origins and completely unplaceable accents were asking where the Empire State Building was.  (p.s. it is definitely NOT in Times Square.  The entire city of New York and its attractions are NOT centered in a 5 block radius.  Just an FYI.) 

(Here, this is for you, so you can set the scene.  Press play, read on)

Let me set the scene for you.  It’s maybe 50 degrees outside, nearing 5:45, almost 6 PM.  There are crowds of tourists on the corner of 44^th and Broadway, and I am half trying to explain how to get to the Empire State Building, half trying to just get these people to leave.  Suddenly, the doors open and a light shines from within the building.  “Dream Weaver” by Gary Wright starts playing, and everything goes in slow-motion.  Out, walks a man of 6’-something, silvery hair and a glistening smile.

Anderson motherfucking Cooper.

Now, I rarely ever get starstruck.  Not to sound like the douche-du-jour (but I will), but I’ve met a fair share of “celebrities” and don’t get too phased, really.

But I was the biggest slopdog pile of babbling fangirl over Anderson Cooper.  I was mid-sentence with the rando couple and stopped speaking, staring at Anderson Cooper while I grabbed Karen’s arm, repeating (at least three times) “Oh…oh my god that’s Anderson Cooper.  It’s…it’s Anderson Cooper.  Oh my god I love him.  Oh my god.”

 The rando couple didn’t know what the hell—or who the hell—I was going on about.  They may or may not have thought Anderson Cooper was a street (he should have one named after him), or a subway stop.  Or maybe even the cab driver that would bring them right to the Empire State Building.  But it didn’t matter.  All I wanted to do was reach out and say something witty to make him laugh and magically bond us as BFFs.  

 …Instead I said “hi Anderson Cooper!” while staring, as his handler rushed him away.  He nodded, stoically.  So he acknowledged my existence.  So really, that’s all I need.  I can now die happy because I was anonymously acknowledged by my supernewshero.

 I’m pretty sure this means I can go to Claire’s for the BFF necklaces now, yeah?  It’s so definitely not too soon.

...Oh yeah, did I mention I totally got a job?  My BFF is so good to me, getting me a sweet-ass job at a totally rad company.  He’s so thoughtful!

Dear Greater-Manhattan-Area Entertainment Companies,

          I get it, okay?  I know, I know, times are hard.  It's hard out here for a capitalist.  There's only so much money out there, and half of it just took a nose-dive to Recessiontown by way of a detour on Wall Street.  I feel you, I do.  I'm really poor most of the time, and financially stable maybe 35% of the time; I feel your pain more than you do.  So, why don't we work together and try to make this a mutual relationship of give-and-take?  I'm thinking that right now--at this very moment!--it would be a very excellent idea to hire me into a middle-of-the-road, entry-level job making in the low-to-mid 30's.  Hey, if you're feelin' sassy, throw a couple benefits in there: medical & dental, anyone?  If you're really feeling generous I MIGHT take you up on that 401K/403B option...once the market settles.  I mean, hey, vision would be sweet, too, but I realize now I might be pushing it.  Don't worry, I know my place.
        Listen, this could be a really great thing for the both of us.  I mean, for one, I'm really funny and have a great personality.  And I have a lot of friends--some even in moderate places.  I'm also really good at naming obscure bands, making terrible pop-culture and literary references (oft in the same statement!), and could even increase brand visibility by like...tens or twenties of people.  I know how to use Facebook and Myspace, too.  I'm really good at playing Poppit!, and clearly writing this blog.  I could be your token indie fuck if need be; I'm flexible. 
        I'm a giver, really.  You give me what I need, I'll give you all of this and more!  I also have fantastic fashion sense--a keen eye for a fabulous yellow bag, ornate jewelery (usually involving unconventional animals), and sweet, sweet framez.  I use the letter 'z' at inapprop times, and am REALLY good at ironically abbreviating words.  It's cool though, I got a 3.45 GPA with an English and Writing degree--no one will get nervous or question my intelligence.  I even got a minor in Arts Administration...which is the business of art.  And art is classy.  So basically, I got a degree in being classy and meaning business.  Don't make me blow your mind with my thoughts on James Joyce's "Ulysses."
        I also have work experience--I know!  Can you imagine having all of these skillz & experience?!  It's a tough life--with really awesome references.  One of my references even said--and I quote!--"If there wasn't a hiring freeze I'd snatch you up in a second!"  (I know, I know...it hurts so good.)  I know fast-paced industry, I know slow-paced industry.  I know big, I know small.  I know music, I know healthcare.  I'm really running the gamut under the title of "Everything You Could Ever Ask For and More."
        So here's the thing.  All you have to do, is hire me.  I know, it seems too easy, yeah?  But there's no catch.  I think, ideally, you would be a fine upstanding organization in the world of music or writing.  Or both.  Or whatever.  But I mean, really...act now before someone else steals these skillz right out from under your nose.  Time's running out (okay maybe it's not and maybe I'm desperate, but I'm still really everything else I mentioned before.  Oh, and I'm modest.)

Yours in Employment,
Lutes

I've grown far too accustomed to doing, well, absolutely nothing in my days since graduation.  I've become a creature whose peak hours of activity come somewhere between 2am and bat-shit-crazy.  I get up at noon, I make coffee, I apply for jobs.  I get rejected from jobs.  I get automated letters in my email saying "thanks.  don't contact us, we'll contact you."  I get frustrated.  I get nervous about the prospect of getting a part-time job in this town where I will undoubtedly come across the judgey-mcjudgersons that rule the roosts in upper-middle-class Connecticut suburbia, asking questions about why I am working where I am.  In a perfect world I would find a bookstore that old men and women peruse where I could run the cash register, read, and daydream while getting paid for it a few hours a week while I wait for someone to tell me I got my dream job.

Usually around 4am I get frantic.  I scour the internet for some intricately-hidden job that I would love, would pay me well, wanted me and only me.  Doing something in A&R or strategic marketing at a record label (indie or otherwise).  Where I could wear jeans to work everyday, cute shoes, and motivated my happiness level to such a high degree that I melted away the weight I've put on and suddenly become the happiest girl in all of the music industry.  I imagine people realizing how funny I am and I end up giving witty commentary on an "I Love The Somethings" show on VH1 and becoming best friends with Mo Rocca.  Becoming 'the one to watch out for' in magazine fodder as The Girl Who Will Save The Music Industry.  I get some attractive musician-boyfriend type and we jet off to his hometown of London just because.  Maybe he misses the bangers and mash.  I realize that I feel like moving to New York and getting a job will solve all my problems.  I think it is a quick-fix to what I've been looking for in my life.  I think I'm crazy.  Scratch that, I know I'm crazy.

Then I get depressed and think that perhaps this isn't my path.  Perhaps all my resistance to Connecticut and this homegrown suburban lifestyle will lead me exactly where I don't want to end up: a white picket fence and a 9-5er wearing a suit.  And kids.  And complacency.  I shudder at the thought.  I don't do well with small crying things.

Today, in my fit of feeling inadequate, I was reading--I know, I know--the commencement speech given to my fellow newly-minted graduates of 08, from the class of an endearing little well-to-do school called Harvard.  (I know, I can't either.)  J.K. Rowling was the graduation speaker (Really?  I mean, don't get me wrong, Cory Booker was great.  But...really?) and gave this speech about failure.  It all seems so obvious to the reader at first, yes yes, from big failures come big successes.....just hold out, kids!  But--and hey, maybe it's because she's a world-renowned super-author of sorts--she seems to put exactly what I (and surely many others like me) have been trying to tell my mother for years.  More so in these past 3 weeks than normal.  It's OK to fail.

"It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all - in which case, you fail by default."

I imagine out of all zero of the people that read this, none are impressed.  Yeah, why have you not gotten that already, Alicia?  Well, I think I've always known it...which is why I'm trying to get into one of the most downward-spiraly industries of the current era and why I refuse to settle for a job that just pays the bills.  But somewhere along the way I lost sight of it, I suppose.

So, I may be failing at getting a job, securing my future, putting all my eggs in a single dream basket, getting myself out of the house, but at least I'm not failing at life.  In quite a contrary fashion, I'm doing anything but.  And that's good to know.

...This moment of saptastic positive outlook brought to you by the lack of caffeine in my cabinets and money in my pockets.  The snarkasaurus will be back in full effect in the coming days.

I know I am one of approximately eleventy billion college graduates hot on the heels of graduation, ready to grab life by its metaphorical horns and move on out.  And half of those college grads are moving to New York City.

I, too, am moving to this big, bustling, overpriced metropolis this summer.  And let me tell you, the search has already begun, and subsequently has started to drive me to some interesting observations.

As a twentysomething girl moving to "The Big City," I know I am supposed to dream of "The Good Life" as portrayed by Samantha, Miranda, Charlotte, and Carrie.  I know I'm supposed to dream of these quaint apartments on the Upper West Side, Manolo Blahniks, and a myriad of men to tuck into my bed.  I'm just not into it.  I mention living in the city and most of the elders in my family ask whether or not I want to live like those Sex and The City girls.  I shudder.  I am the opposite of that, I would say.

Unfortunately, my alternative has its own stigma: Brooklyn.

I admit it, I do want to live in Brooklyn.  I also admit that this carries with it the overly-saturated stereotypes of the Hipster lifestyle.  Living off of mommy and daddy's money and grammy and grampy's trust fund finances that they set up for you while looking meticulously blasé and apathetic on your way to art class and then the local dive bar.  I'm just not into that scene, either.  Sure, I listen to music some may consider hipster-esque, but I'm also attempting a job in the music industry; so as a young hopeful I just crave listening to all music in general--especially that which is new and exciting.

But Brooklyn--perhaps more apt just the Williamsburg and Greenpoint areas themselves, but those that do not know of these areas just see it all as one thing--is so laden with this stigma that I cringe to even tell people that I intend to live there.  Also, did I mention that it's expensive as fuck?  I don't know how I'm going to manage on 30G's a year.  Really.  I'll probably have to sacrifice food there for awhile, but perhaps then I'll really fit in.  Fuck.

Then there's also the less-than-nice areas of Brooklyn: Bushwick, East Williamsburg, Bed-Stuy, Flatbush.  All not the nicest.  And people always seem to find negative things to say, about all of them.  I just know that the rest of Brooklyn is probably not in my price range, and therefore not in my near future. Did I mention that the Real World is moving in, too?  If I want to get in there before EVERYTHING explodes in price, I should probably do that soon.

But seriously, the Real World: Brooklyn?  Why don't they just do the Real World: Camden, NJ then.  Just as random.  I'd think by now they'd do a Real World: DC, but maybe the political bigwigs are scared they'd get caught on camera with their pants around their ankles.  Zing!  I love political sex scandals.

What I'm trying to get at is there's this external struggle being placed on my own neurosis by the stigmas of New York.  So where do I live?  What do I do?  In the next few weeks I'll find out--maybe I'll end up in Harlem?--but it's weird that these stupid preconceptions bother me.  Mostly just because people bring them up--this isn't something I stew on, on the regular.  I suppose I should first worry about getting a job (oh let's not get started on that).  I suppose I should worry about finding roommates (in the works).  I suppose I should worry about Darfur and the energy crisis and my credit card bill.  But, for now I sit here and consider the up's and down's of this trivial shit, because it's 11:30 at night on a Friday and I should most definitely be out hanging with friends instead of blathering on a blog.