Gawker Says It Best: Like a Staycation, But at Work, For No Pay

I'll admit I used to be a big fan of Gawker. Now, eh, not so much. It's recently become more recaps of shows (God Bless that Richard Lawson, he's the only funny one left) and blatant and not-so-great ripoffs of DListed (that website is so, very good. If you are still reading Perez Hilton or the Superficial, I implore you, DListed is the gold standard). But this article caught my eye, and I'm hoping the tide is turning over there so they can get back to what made them great, what continues to make, say, Jezebel great (except when they are just recapping shows and ripping off DListed as well...sigh).

Today's article is about the Union Square Virgin Megastore closing. Have you seen this? Another nail in the coffin for those of us who are praying that there will be some sort of divine intervention to come down and pull us out of this mess. I was a permalancer. Now? Prolancer. I'm a professional lancer of sorts. I freelance as a profession in a world where nothing is certain and anything can be taken away with a drop of a hat (sounds like a great movie line, right?) Anyway, on with the story.

From Gawker:

"The Way We Live Now: Eking out a hard living in cubicle hell while beauty dies, duh. We work without music. We work without pay. We work without jobs, just to say "Hey, one day."

Virgin Megastore is officially dead. Dead along with it is one of your top five theoretical backup jobs in the event of your layoff; the idea that selling music in a store could be a profitable endeavor; your own whimsical daydream about one day maybe opening up a little record shop, just the really cool shit, and just living that life; and the music industry as a whole.

Hell, Joan Kroc gave the Salvation Army $1.8 billion and it still can't scrape together enough to build a new swimming pool in Detroit. Argentina's not crying for you, buddy. At least you have a job. You better hold onto like the precious diamond that it is—a valuable gem made out of dirt that you squeeze really tight. You do what you must. You do what the boss says. You do what the boss doesn't say, just to scrape and give yourself that tiny edge that just might cause them to lay off Doris, the receptionist, instead of you, when the time comes. "Furloughs," they said. "Ten percent less in the check, but you get a few more days off each month," they said. What happened? You work right through those furlough days. Because there's too much work. It's kind of like a staycation, but at work, and minus the "-cation." Just a "stay."

Of execution? One might say that. Yes one might. Because your Stay could be a staycation—of poorness:

"The real problem is that long-term unemployment is going up dramatically," said Franklin Allen, finance professor at the Wharton School. "Unfortunately, many people in their late 40s and 50s may never get jobs again."

How do you like them apples? I hope you like them enough to sell, for nickels, for the next 30 years."

Ugh. Wretched. And how much do we hate Franklin Allen? What a jerk! I mean, yes we're looking at the coffin in the store, but could you at least wait until someone dies before you decide to bury it? That metaphor worked in my mind, at least. But come on! Let's hope Professor Allen doesn't get laid off in his 40s and then decide his life is over and just give up and buy ten cats and stare at a wall for the rest of his natural-born life.

High Noon

I work from my bed, coffee shops, other people's living room rugs. Sometimes one office, sometimes another. I feel still blessed to have the life I have, however downsized from what it was following the economic meltdown, but I can't help think back to the days when I would escape with my lunch outside the office...all that I used to think because outside moments were so precious:


It’s a joy to be in Bryant Park at high noon. Debonair and foreign gentlemen toss gleaming silver weights on the Bocce court; over faded gray pebbles at the west end. Before the crushing lunch rush, you can sit under the shade of trees and shadow of Tom Colicchio’s gourmet sandwich stand, ensconced at a painted table and chair, the smooth finish warm against the backs of knees and elbows, sipping ginger beer, turned towards the splash of the fountain and long of the meadowed lawn. A space to breathe; encircled by towers of steel, brick and mortar of banks and shops, and snaking lines of yellow cabs.

Slowly, as the crowds peter in, slim suits morph into separates as jackets are removed, then laid as impromptu picnic blankets, paper bags crunch open, napkins assemble and the seal of designer water bottles crack. The power lunch turns lazy under the sky, loafers and heels kicked off, freeing feet, now tickled by the cool blades. They face the heaving animals of the merry-go-round, the marble lip of the stairs, slipping colors and crawling clouds.

On the south side, flowering plants for sale are vibrant and rich, and priced for the vibrant and rich. On the north, the young and free attempt to continue their path to the library, veering off to lay their bags on sod for catnaps. Once on the field, stillness begins, the shine of light against closed eyelids feels heavy, and it seems as though anyone at all can capture the tranquility of the Far East right here in Midtown West.

An hour under the sun as reward for eight under cheap florescence. For a weekday, it’s not a bad trade at all.

Needful Things

In times like these, some fashion items cross over from accessory to necessity. Like this this,for instance.* There was a time where I was going to make a necklace out of my wisdom teeth dipped in bronze, but it turned out that making it was far more work than just acting like I was going to do it until the novelty wore off in my mind.

In other news, I have lost my voice for what is now the second day. The first (yesterday), it was this little cracking, off-key, in and out honking voice that rasped up at the end of each sentence, making them all seem like questions which made it sound like I was an undergrown goose with a cold.

Today, it's so bad it's a whisper. I never have lost my voice before, but I remember being twelve and wanting to, because I thought it sounded sexy. It, as it turns out, sounds like emphysema, which is decidedly un-sexy. Luckily any jobs I have require me to write, not speak, and now that I'm working from a variety of coffeeshops and living rooms, I can just tap all day. I need that computer voice so that I can communicate with people. You know the one.**

*Thanks for sending, CD!

**How do I use that? I'm pretty inept at computer programs but assert that because I have a Mac, the option's got to be on here. I mean, I could record play the guitar on this thing, or so says some icon at the bottom of this screen that I'm not cool enough to click on.

A Poster on Gawker Sums It Up Best...

About this AIG mess from today's Gawker comments:

"I'm sure there are individual bankers who did their job, did it well, and probably deserve some extra compensation. But the notion that these bonuses are somehow promised compensation is absurd. Every employer I've ever worked for that offered bonuses took great pain to specify that bonuses are just that - an add-on to your salary. They've also taken great pains to specify that the terms of the bonus can change almost without notice.

I don't begrudge (some) people in the financial services industry their money; they do a job that, in many cases, I don't understand or comprehend. But the notion that hundreds of millions of dollars are required to retain "top talent" - in many cases, talent that oversaw the actions that got us into this damn mess to begin with - is absolutely absurd, and not in keeping with, you know, the overwhelming majority of Americans. Regardless your level of employment, if you work for a firm that was required to take bailout cash to continue functioning as an organization, I'd say that pride in your organization is misplaced (regardless of what area you work in). I work in support operations, and if our marketing group does an awful job conceptualizing or releasing a product, the product is a failure regardless of whether the support operations are solid or not.

In short, fuck them."

Lesson Learned?

So remember when I took the huge artistic stand? And was preparing to get fired from the publication? Well turns out, acting like a man about it (this is my theory, when I act assertive and full of confidence and like I don't accept something less than what's a little bit more than I'm worth, I'm not a bitch, I'm acting like a man...this gives me some sort of Oprah-esque boost where I prance around in unflattering pants and go "I'm FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABulous!") actually worked! (So far, I can be proven wrong at any given moment).

Throwing my theoretical balls out on the table showed everyone I wouldn't accept less than, pointing out the mistakes made in a non-threatening, non-emotional and somewhat authoritative way actually showed that I was a professional (mwah, hah, hah, they'll never know the truth) and I got respect in return! I mean, no one's asked me to write a feature or come on staff there or anything (pssst, I'm totes available to fill a position there, please please please?).

So uh, I'm worth it? Coincidentally which is also some sort of makeup commercial I think. Maybe she earned it? Maybe it's Maybelline!

Extreme Makeover: Life Edition

It started small, they always do. Turn the T.V. off a half hour before sleeping. Insist boy that buying a rug will indeed make his pad more homey. Just say no, a thousand times to Vegas, only to be bamboozled into it, and watch as boy unceremoniously takes it out on the rug.

Work on Children's Book until I get back my oldie but goodie (that's Saturday). Listen to new music (Handsome Furs, that new Eminem song--I'm not kidding it's just great). Make a lot of wine dates with various factions of still-employed girls. Write a really bold email proposing a job to a place that's not hiring (that's how I roll). Spend the weekend eating sushi and playing Wii. Hooray for Super Smash Bros. No longer wonder why I want to write Children's Books.

Talk my parents to taking the family out to lunch at Chanterelle (you have not lived until you've tried the grilled Seafood Sausage) now that the economy has made it, for the first time in the restaurant's 30 year history, possible to order a la carte.

Get asked to buy a dirt bike for my interview subject. Promise him it can be so, only if he picks up his other bandmate in NY and drives back to their home, cross country, with snot streaming on their cheeks a la Dumb and Dumber style. Do not hear about dirt bike again.

Try to want to see any of the Oscar award movies. Say to myself that's selling out to see them just because they're recognized even though I'm not as interested as I should be. Listen to Lady GaGa instead and hang my head in shame.

Keep browsing overstock.com. The wishlist on there is as long as a wedding registry. Consume inordinate amounts of White Tea. Decide honey can be used as a condiment for anything.

Buy a new pen. That's the reality here, people. This is revelatory.

Email about an apartment in Paris, because, why not?

Think about new recipes. Knit two inches of a scarf while letting laundry building into a teetering tower of Pisa.

Watch a whole lot of Anthony Bourdain. Make new outfits from purple tights, a black and white dress and a green sweatshirt, even if I'm called Punky Brewster by more than one person.

Ride on a Ducati a lot. Realize that it's the motorcycle equivalent of the thong.

Sing for no reason when someone scares me on the street. Realize this, in turn, scares them.

Got a long way to go...

Avert your eyes

Buttermilk fried chicken, sour cream and ricotta chocolate cake. The fridge is full for my imaginary ten child family.

The cooking continues, the descent into madness deepens. The hurry up and wait game, that's not under my control either. There are promises of jobs, but no jobs, there are hands extended with glittering assignments that would be perfect if only that restaurant didn't just close, that band just didn't break up over depleted funds, that boutique design startup with the cute pleating whose parents' just cut their talented but precious children off.*

And while all that happens, the government cheese is drying up (some issue at the unemployment office because of...what's the word, oh yeah recession) and my traveling tendencies start kicking in. It's an addiction, and it's not pretty. Especially when there is no no no no money at all to take it!

So, don't think about it, keep making cake, keep watching videos of kittens falling asleep, keep ordering Vietnamese hot and sour soup, keep scrubbing the floors, pick lint from cushions, refold quilts, neatly write and rewrite to-do lists and scratch through tasks done with a satisfying stab of a red pen.

Catch up on movies, Aliens, Body Heat, King of New York, Dressed to Kill, classics and eighties thrillers, melodramatics, period pieces, arthouse pleasers (do not see "Nightmare" even though it was on the IFC circuit and On Demand with a really great trailer), see Coraline 3-D and then go all the way back beyond rentals to the Free Movie Channel on Demand (Friday the 13th 2 anyone?)

Read. Read until I feel like writing. Conversely, write. Write until I feel like reading.

Stack magazines. Cancel magazine subscriptions. Stare longingly at old issues of Oprah, Real Simple, Time Out. Rinse and repeat.

Make green tea like it's going out of style. Try peppermint to mix it up.

Lose iPod. Try not to freak out. Find it, realize all the music is at least a year old and bemoan lost status as the go-to friend for music.

Tape every show I used to miss, without abandon. Sleep until 11 AM without abandon. Start flossing on a regular basis.

Avoid haircuts, nibble nails and put on woolen socks to cover three month old pedicures, knit badly, take lots of hot showers and keep going to the gym, wear a scarf because it's very very windy outside and try to ignore the texts of people I really want to go play with who have warm weather dreams, the South, the West, my pregnant friends in pretty places, and all the rest. It's winter in the city, it's deep in the recession and I'm a cheery person, so to save my sanity and my dreams, I'll bury myself in busying myself, or else we all know where that leads: Nicaragua and beyond...

*Damn you parents! Take care of us until we're forty!

Go Hang a Salami, I'm a Lasagna Hog

Read: the above title. There was a time when I was little and I loved palindromes. Insert thrown rotten tomato/nerd alert comment/anything else. Yes I loved reading! And words! And reading words! And I had pink glasses with smurfettes at the corners and bangs that were cut by my mom and I wrote my first book when I was in second grade and wrote it about two poodles who solved crimes and drew pictures of them with big fluffy heads and enormous black noses and purple trees. It was a big hit in Mrs. Tropiano's class, other kids even checked it out of our homegrown library.

Anyway, back in those days I had a book, titled "Go Hang a Salami, I'm a Lasagna Hog" (I know, it makes no sense, but had a cartoon of someone eating a lot of lasagna when someone is offering them a big salami) and at that time it was the longest palindrome that I could find. The others were "Llama Mall" or "Boob". And today, I'm thinking about words, and well, lasagna. Because I just made one, yes I have become that domesticated. I went out, bought a tub of ricotta, shredded mozzarella, strips of pasta, sweet sausage, a big yellow onion and garlic, and parmesan cheese. Combining those with a faulty oven, a too small dish, an uneven stovetop and a a stolen jar tomato and basil sauce from my parents' house, I made lasagna. For no reason. I'm even going out to dinner tonight with my uncle, and my roommates are vegetarian, weekday salad eaters and working late nights at school (in that order).

So what, I'm unemployed, and now a lasagna hog too. Hey, as I said yesterday, all the good restaurants in New York are closing. I've got to make my own. Speaking of that, now back to knitting...