of wedding), children (enjoy holding and smelling them, fear being responsible role model for them). My day is spent in diapers (has to be a better way to say that) and yet I, myself, have never changed one.
There are hundreds of me out there. Thousands. We look alike and think alike and come up with almost identical ideas because we approach life from the same perspective. We roam the streets of New York and Los Angeles, San Francisco, Minneapolis, London, and Amsterdam. The less reflective among us whine that weâre not âmore.â Havenât done more, achieved more, made more. The smarter ones thank God every morning for the world of advertising. Most days I enjoy going to work and am quite fond of my coworkers. The bad days are the days when I wonder what might have been had I tried something else or when I read about someone doing something that took courage and talent, neither of which I possess.
Me on advertising: âIs there any way I can get an extension on this?â
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
We are all here. The beautiful twenty-six-year-old girls who work in media and enjoy the perks of free tickets to anything in town they want, who will be married within three years and entirely out of the industry within six. The thirty-eight-year-old producers, almost all women, almost all single, having pursued the career in the hopes of switching from commercials to Hollywood films but who never made the transition, who know far more about the complex job ofmaking television spots than clueless young creatives (âYeah, but why canât we use a helicopter for that one shot?â) and who now bring a bitterness to the job in large part because they put off marriage and children in the hopes of achieving something professionally. The account people, jackets and ties, smart skirts and tops, the front line in client services (âI get to work with creative people and I get to work with business people. Itâs really the perfect balance.â). The skinny Asian boys with bad skin who run the computer help desk and who laugh aggressively at inside jokes, hidden away somewhere in the subbasement (âUm, like, is that really how you set up your desktop menu?â). The fit, handsome, gay designers, gym bags at the ready, shirts tucked in, black belts cinched a hole too tight. The accounting department, thin men who blink a lot and bite their nails, and heavy-set women, most of whom are black, who leave at five-thirty on the dot every afternoon. Human resources, socially conscious people who put up flyers near the elevators ( LEUKEMIA WALK SATURDAY !). The art buyers, twenty-eight-year-old women, chunky shoes, multiple piercings, amateur photographers, fine arts degrees that translate into nothing in the real world, body art at the base of their spine (and often, for a fashion reason beyond my ken, the top portion of their ass crack), revealed when they spread a photographerâs portfolio on the carpet and shake their head and use the word derivative .
So another day begins at Lauderbeck, Kline & Vanderhosen, a subsidiary of Tomo, Japanâs largest shipping company and third largest in the world. Almost five hundred people looking for a paycheck, a dental plan, and an intangible something that will give us a sense of purpose at the end of the day. Most often we settle for free soda in the refrigerators.
PASS THE GRAVY BOAT
I an and Pam take a car service from the shoot back into the city, but I get carsick in a parking lot, so I take the subway whenever I can.
I make my way to Corner Bistro, where I find a seat at the bar. I eat a cheeseburger, drink a couple of beers, and read the Times , though often I stare at the TVs, which show a hockey game, a cable show with what appears to be a panel of eight people yelling at one another, and, for some reason, The Sound of Music . None of the TVs have sound.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
I call Phoebe on my way
There are hundreds of me out there. Thousands. We look alike and think alike and come up with almost identical ideas because we approach life from the same perspective. We roam the streets of New York and Los Angeles, San Francisco, Minneapolis, London, and Amsterdam. The less reflective among us whine that weâre not âmore.â Havenât done more, achieved more, made more. The smarter ones thank God every morning for the world of advertising. Most days I enjoy going to work and am quite fond of my coworkers. The bad days are the days when I wonder what might have been had I tried something else or when I read about someone doing something that took courage and talent, neither of which I possess.
Me on advertising: âIs there any way I can get an extension on this?â
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
We are all here. The beautiful twenty-six-year-old girls who work in media and enjoy the perks of free tickets to anything in town they want, who will be married within three years and entirely out of the industry within six. The thirty-eight-year-old producers, almost all women, almost all single, having pursued the career in the hopes of switching from commercials to Hollywood films but who never made the transition, who know far more about the complex job ofmaking television spots than clueless young creatives (âYeah, but why canât we use a helicopter for that one shot?â) and who now bring a bitterness to the job in large part because they put off marriage and children in the hopes of achieving something professionally. The account people, jackets and ties, smart skirts and tops, the front line in client services (âI get to work with creative people and I get to work with business people. Itâs really the perfect balance.â). The skinny Asian boys with bad skin who run the computer help desk and who laugh aggressively at inside jokes, hidden away somewhere in the subbasement (âUm, like, is that really how you set up your desktop menu?â). The fit, handsome, gay designers, gym bags at the ready, shirts tucked in, black belts cinched a hole too tight. The accounting department, thin men who blink a lot and bite their nails, and heavy-set women, most of whom are black, who leave at five-thirty on the dot every afternoon. Human resources, socially conscious people who put up flyers near the elevators ( LEUKEMIA WALK SATURDAY !). The art buyers, twenty-eight-year-old women, chunky shoes, multiple piercings, amateur photographers, fine arts degrees that translate into nothing in the real world, body art at the base of their spine (and often, for a fashion reason beyond my ken, the top portion of their ass crack), revealed when they spread a photographerâs portfolio on the carpet and shake their head and use the word derivative .
So another day begins at Lauderbeck, Kline & Vanderhosen, a subsidiary of Tomo, Japanâs largest shipping company and third largest in the world. Almost five hundred people looking for a paycheck, a dental plan, and an intangible something that will give us a sense of purpose at the end of the day. Most often we settle for free soda in the refrigerators.
PASS THE GRAVY BOAT
I an and Pam take a car service from the shoot back into the city, but I get carsick in a parking lot, so I take the subway whenever I can.
I make my way to Corner Bistro, where I find a seat at the bar. I eat a cheeseburger, drink a couple of beers, and read the Times , though often I stare at the TVs, which show a hockey game, a cable show with what appears to be a panel of eight people yelling at one another, and, for some reason, The Sound of Music . None of the TVs have sound.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
I call Phoebe on my way
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