Attention Employee: Office Holiday Party

An email that went out to my business "associates."

In the spirit of the holidays and because everyone else we know has office/company christmas parties, I've decided to make my own. I know you guys, my fellow freelancers, actor's assistants, writers, "entrepreneurs" and unemployed friends, will appreciate this one.

Begin forwarded message:

Please join me at my office holiday party. Celebrating the season's festivities and a toast to the employee of the year, AVB. The party will take place starting on Monday, December 17th during office hours: 11 pm - 3 am extending through Christmas and into the New Year. During the party, I will be revealing my secret santa, a refreshment will be served and don't be surprised if karaoke makes its way into the festivities! Dress code is business casual (read: flannel pajamas and old camp tee shirts). Please be on your best behavior as a photographer (me with a camera) will be documenting the event and photos will be available for purchase. 

Please note that due to recent cutbacks and a flagging economy, the annual holiday bonus will not be given this year. Instead a "donation" has been made in AVB's name to the Human Fund, funding humans where they need it most.

Please RSVP to AVB in the HR department.

Happy Holidays!

AVB
President, Founder, sole proprietor, etc. etc.



Dictated, but not read.

A Well-Worn Shelf Life

My books tell the story of my life. Just by seeing the spines staring back at me from my bedroom bookshelf I can tell exactly how old I was when I read them. Years of reading have ruined my distance vision, so I can't make out the titles, but I can still see how well-thumbed, broken-spined and tattered the books are. From there, I can usually guess the author. For instance, the thick-spined pastel-colored paperbacks, so wrinkled as to be labeled fragile, are from ages 13-18 and are most likely the works of Edith Wharton, Henry James, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, the Brontes and Sharon Olds. This was an age where I was careless with my books. Pages are marked up with notes, doubled dog-eared and sentences underlined. As I grew older, first edition hardbacks prevailed, looking as if the spines have never been cracked. I try to keep my books clean and new looking, saving them for a generation of children I may/may not have.  Books rarely leave the safety zone of by bedroom. Magazines are for the subway and train. Newspapers are for waiting on a friend at the coffee shop. 

Today my thoughts on my pristine hardcovers and paperbacks changed. I'm in the middle of reading "A Three Dog Life" by Abigail Thomas. I seem to find this book following me everywhere -- and typically, near water. She's (yes, this book has a gender) made her way on the ledge of my bathroom sink, sitting precariously close to the bathtub, on my small antique writing desk where a few drops of water from my glass hit her cover. She ended up in my bag last night and then in my hands as I tried to read her and drink tea while walking home from the subway -- her edges now tea-stained. 

Abigail Thomas writes of living a life with three dogs after the man she loves is left brain damaged and with "a collapsible memory." The idea of leaving an imprint behind seeps into the pores of my copy. I like that the book is becoming a little tattered. In lieu of my beloved dog, I now think of my books as companions, constantly by my side, providing me comfort at night, inspire me when I need it and filled with love both inside and on their very surface.

Trust the Man with Opposite Side of the Street Parking

Talk to any New Yorker with a car (or motorized vehicle) about opposite side of the street parking, and you will get five million different strategies. From reading the paper to carrying a timer, eating breakfast, talking on your cell, or paying off the maintenance man to sit in your car, everyone has a story. I had never seen mine in practice until I watched the film, TRUST THE MAN. In the movie, Billy Crudup plays a car-owning New Yorker who treats OSSP like a competitive sport. He camps out in the car from early morning armed with a sandwich maker, a timer, his cell, and his computer (complete with stolen wireless connection), and he works (he's a freelance writer) from his car until parking goes into affect. This film is truly a New Yorker's view of life--I can only imagine the people in the flyover states trying to figure out why the hell cars keep getting towed if they're parked on the street (just try to decipher the hieroglyphics on those signs). But there were a few things that seemed incongruous: a literary agent's assistant making enough money to afford a large one bedroom apartment in the (near east) village, a cool wardrobe (all designer), and lunches/dinners at Fred's, Bar Pitti, Pastis, Da Silvano…yeah right, only in the movies.

I Heart NY

No matter where in the world you live, apartment hunting is a pain. It is only in a few select cities however, that your hard earned money (and that of your parents) becomes no object. Manhattan is a competitive city for rentals. The market is cutthroat, the paperwork a nightmare. When you find a neighborhood you love though, you remember why the city holds the magic it does. I've always felt that way about the West Village. From the time I was 13 through today I knew it was the place I'd felt most at home. Today, I watched my sister (and roommate) experience it for the first time. It was her "aha!" moment. The city revealed its best and greatest magic to her. From the beautiful brownstones, to the cobblestones, and the Vespas zipping down the street. It really is one of the few places in Manhattan proper where you get the sense of a small European-feeling community. Unfortunately everyone knows my secret, and is prepared to pay top dollar to experience it. Suddenly your top number gets pushed to the limit. You see places to rest your head, but not your soul. The village has its charm, but the apartments you can afford are far from charming. It's frustrating to witness such a centralized location of wealth, and see that you are just a spit in the ocean. "Humbling" does not even begin to describe it. Door-to-door we knocked, Super-to-Super we talked, freezing in 15-degree weather. Where do you draw the line on what you love and the price you are willing to pay for it? Our hearts our big, our wallets are small, but our minds are set. Wish us luck.

48 Hours of Calamity Physics

I spent the last 48 hours engrossed in SPECIAL TOPICS IN CALAMITY PHYSICS. I did have moments of "oh god, please let this end." But once I plowed through the first half of the middle (don't check my math on that), I was hooked. Marisha Pessl's research paper notations presented throughout are interesting and intellectual, without being pretentious. The characters from Gareth and Blue to the Bluebloods, each has their own specific persona. A little bit of Royal Tenenbaums mixed with a Philip Glass score. Once I hit the last page, I wanted to take the rest of the day to walk around the city mulling over what I read, then head home and read it again. The layers upon layers of story and nuance are fascinating, and a true work of art. Not to mention the real art in the form of "visual aids" drafted by Pessl.

I am depressed in knowing that I did not write a book like this first. But I am glad that someone did, because I needed a great work of fiction to discover and devour over this cold weekend.

Subway Stories

So now that I am back to the commuting lifestyle and roam beyond the confines of the UWS, I can tell you honestly that despite the fact the train is packed every morning and every evening, I do love it. I love watching the woman reading "Everything Is Illuminated," and laughing out loud. I love watching the man kiss his wife good bye when he gets off at his work stop and she continues on to hers. I love watching the young dancers from the ABT sweep gracefully into the car with their hair swept up in nice tight buns and wrapped with a hair net. I love that every one complains to no one in particular, but someone always pretends to be listening. We shuffle off of cars, through turn styles and (almost) patiently wait while the elderly person in front of us takes their time to walk up the stairs. Another world awaits us up from the underground. It always feels hopeful, full of anticipation or the promise of home. You exit, breathe the air and feel as if you are starting anew. And I will again, tomorrow morning.