The Internet

This post might actually call in to question all of that "hard" work I was talking about in the post below. Maybe a better term for what I was trying to describe was consistency in ambition--or something like that. Anyway, my overall point there was that to get to a point where you have a manageable schedule doing what you enjoy, you have start at the bottom and that takes drive.


This actually leads me to another point too...I've known people who did not start at the "bottom" per se of their craft. Rather, they chose to go through the suburban route of schooling, only to find when they got out of their schooling with post-graduate degrees, they were too far up the ladder in expertise to be comfortable starting at the bottom. For example, the PhD who loves literature and aspires to be a novelist full time, but won't deign to write articles for the Internet at $20 or less a pop, just to pay the bills. And then there's any person with a J.D. or Masters degree whose graduate school friends are doing exactly what their degree was meant to do--staying on that same suburban path--but who aren't humble enough to ask if they can crash on their paid friends' designer couches while they look for a job. I got off track. And, start at the bottom, what you learn from there is the only way to prepare yourself for the top. NO, that doesn't mean skip college. Just don't assume college is your fast ticket up the ladder, espesh if you're going for a creative-type career.


ANYWAY, the Internet. Here's a piece of sage advice: do not underestimate the knowledge you can gain from the Internet--literally. Most of the time when I hear people say "you know everything about that!" or "How do you know that!?" My answer, almost embarrassingly, is that I googled it. And not only that, but this knowledge (such as some of the more esoteric grammar rules) took about 30 seconds to acquire.

Hard Work. Mother Fu**er.

Okay, so I here's the deal: I work seven days per week. Every single day. I usually wake up between 9 and 11 a.m. I dick around on the Internet for a few hours, answer emails, look at slideshows and then by around 2 p.m. I start my writing for the day. This, right now, consists of articles I write for a website in Italy about Italian fashion and lifestyle. I also write articles for a casino website in the UK. Quick little news briefs about what's happening in that world. In addition to that I work as a managing editor for a luxury lifestyle magazine that runs out of the Caribbean. And at the end of March I'll start writing copy for a new luxury lifestyle magazine that is going to be published in Switzerland. I'll write stories about yachts and fashion, etc. When I'm not doing those things, I'm scoping out the Internet for new jobs, because I love the International Luxe Mag gigs, but they don't pay the bills because they're new publications. Hence, the casino and Italian stuff--which is also not doing a whole lot for the bills situation. I apply for jobs just about every day or every other day. Most of the jobs I get offered, don't pay enough to make it worth me quitting the current jobs, which is awesome.


I also run my own fashion blog, that funny enough is the opposite of Luxe living. It's called the Lo Lo and all it's just a collection of slideshows of affordable, cute, stuff. I pepper in quotes about style and fashion. Each post takes about an hour to do because I curate it, in an effort to make it visually appealing. In addition to the posts, I've got to promote. So, I get on twitter and facebook and post my butt off. I try to post every day about the Lo Lo. I'm a member of Independent Fashion Bloggers and am using that as a promotion tool as well.


Often my work day doesn't start until 2, but doesn't finish until midnight or later. What's the point of me talking about this? Because doing what you love is work. It's getting up every day and trying again. It's sending out another resume, another form of self promotion, even when you want to cry because the job that would have solved all of your problems went to someone else, less experienced and qualified. 


No one should be fooled that following your dreams and working at what you enjoy is somehow easy. As a matter of fact, in some ways it's worse. Because it's taking a risk. It's actually quite frightening. Even when you get one or two jobs that really utilize your skills, and you tell someone "yes, I can!" You have to wonder, "Can you?" Something not necessarily the case in a data entry position. 


Why do we do it? Because life isn't safe, it's not easy, no matter what you do for a living. There are tragedies and disappointments and failures. And it literally does not make sense to play it safe 8 hours a day, only to deal with all the real world has to offer in your evenings and weekends. As they say, life is just too short not to live it. 


Oh, I forgot, I'm a business partner and creative director for an online fashion magazine in New York. And I'm bitter because we got invited to the most exclusive shows, we've ever been invited to, for fashion week and I'm not going. But, there's always September. 


7 days per week. Every day.

Is Everyone Doing What They Love?

The answer to this question is: a lot more than you think. I've talked before about growing up in the Midwest, in a suburban haven of safe productivity, of success defined by landing an "office" job. But as I keep working toward my goal, however much I'm stabbing in the dark--and I am, I'm realizing that surrounding me everywhere are the products of someone's labor of love. 


We make a huge deal about "following your dreams" because it's scary and it's hard and maybe we didn't know people growing up who followed theirs; or maybe we know someone who did and "failed." It is a risk, to be sure. It can put off personal relationships and it can destroy them, too. And every time someone goes a different way than their tribe they risk ostracism, which is horrifying. They will absolutely meet with loved ones who smile and nod and friends who "just don't understand." But you should always remember that if you choose this path you are not alone. You are surrounded by labors of love and risk-takers.


For example, the ongoing commitment to improve medical care, the thousands of years that doctors have put into experimenting (not always in the best ways) to find a cure, find a treatment were all endeavors of obsession. Every invention, every single one, involved a prototype and the commitment to research and plan and try to make it perfect and figure out a way to get it into your hands and your life. Even accidental inventions had a long way to go before they became a post-it note or a tub of Play-Doh. Every film you watch, whether fantastic or awful, was someone putting their ideas and their heart and their dreams on the line. Every book that fills every book store and every library was written and published by a risk-taker. Whether it's a biography, a work of fiction, a best seller or something that sold six copies; it doesn't matter. We take for granted the work, dedication, commitment and ability to overcome fear that makes our lives more enjoyable, more worth living. And these are just the broadest of instances. Someone invented your favorite flavor of ice cream. There's a woman in Dexter, MI who owns a store that sells nothing but buttons. Local crafters and sewers reap the benefit of her risk to open up that shop.


So is everyone doing what they love? A lot more than you think, in all sorts of ways.

What Turns You On?

I mean to ask the title question of this post in exactly the way you're thinking. What turns you on? Because I believe that love and passion and excitement, even bordering on the erotic, is one of our compasses for our life's work. 


Tonight I was watching The Next Iron Chef and one of the last contenders was working with a very expensive slab of beef. While he was cutting it up he said, "This is so beautiful...I'm having a sensual, romantic moment with this beef." I remember writing a gchat status a couple of years ago that said "I think I'm sexually attracted to clothing." At the time I wrote it, it didn't even make sense to me. And yet, write it I did. 


So ask yourself, what turns you on? What gets your dander up -- in a good way? What makes you hot and heavy? It could be a side of beef or The Theory of Everything (TOE), hell it could be a new dress. The only caveat to this question's answer is to love responsibly. Now, go get off.

What's Your Point?

I've been coming up with a lot of blog post ideas lately. And while earlier posts tended to be snarky and extremely opinionated, as of late I'm all about inspiration. Kind of like when Oprah made the announcement some time during the '90s that she was going to give up the traditional gossip/talk show format and go with shows that did nothing but share information to help people out. Yeah, kind of like that.


Anyway, I was thinking today about American culture, the American dream. I was thinking about the kind of culture I grew up in. The Midwest culture. And I was thinking that it infused me with an idea about the "point" of it all. See, where I grew up the point seemed to be, by and large, to get a job, get a family, live in a multi-bedroom house that was at least "nice" and raise your kids in it, nicely. If you did that and were paying your bills without serious struggle then you'd done it. You'd followed the point.


I remember being a kid and thinking of myself in a white house with a picket fence and some kids and a dog and for whatever reason let's say I failed to see the appeal. And though I knew that wasn't it, I didn't have any ideas what the alternative point "should be." I remember coming to the realization in late adolescence that I would never be able to read all the books I wanted to in my lifetime because work would inevitably get in the way. And so I started to fantasize about decades of retirement spent in a log cabin in Montana surrounded by books, with nothing to do but read them. Still, "the point" eluded me because retirement plans were after it.


When I moved to NYC a different kind of "point" came into view. Sexy, glamorous, moneyed lifestyles seemed to be it. Be as hot as you can be, no matter what it takes, get as much money as you can, travel as much as you can. Okay, fine, how do I do that? While New York's point seemed more appealing than Michigan's point, I still didn't quite know what to do.


And then today it hit me. Last night was a flurry of activity, I was writing my butt off, applying for more writing jobs, looking up resources for my website project and when I finally quit I was so tired, yet exhilarated, that all I could do was crash into my pillow. I woke up this morning excited about the possibility of hearing back from the jobs I applied to last night, about working today, working tomorrow, and what the future would bring with all of these balls I have up in the air. 


Last week I got my first copywriting job for a series of beauty lines and products. My writing is going to be on the packaging, sitting on store shelves. The week before that I got an opportunity to write a bio for Mary Shelley for a publisher who focuses on classical literature. They're also looking for writers to do forewords for their books. I put my name in and the contact happily assured me he liked the bio, and that he would keep my name on the foreword list. To have a foreword, I wrote, introducing a great piece of literature is almost too exciting to contemplate. To have a foreword I wrote on a book shelf in a book store, is just, the end.


And then today I heard back from a small, niche, print magazine I'd applied to over a week ago and got offered the opportunity to write a fashion article for them. My first article in print. AHHH! I felt like I'd "made" it. I felt like some of my hard work was maybe paying off. Did I mention I'm currently -330 dollars in my checking account? By paying off I meant that I seem to be making small steps toward being a real writer, a successful writer. Someday...someday...


And then something became crystal clear. It's not about someone else's point. Never that. It's about yours.

Out Of The Box

This is going to be short. All I have to say is that out of the box thinking is more than just being creative or finding a market niche. It's taking a project and idea by the balls and pursuing it. 


Some MFA students end up with successful careers as novelists. Some MBA students end up as successful executives. 


Mark Twain, as far as I know, did not attend an MFA program. His writing was based on wit, experience and life. Many of today's small business owners do not have business degrees. Many millionaires, like the guy who invented a special razor ergonomically designed to shave heads bald, did not attend Penn state or Harvard. 


The point is this: You don't always need spreadsheets, beta tests, financial models or classes that parse the minutae of great literature to be successful. 


What I think you do need is to be willing to take a stab at the dark. Maybe hit up some MBA watering holes and pick some brains : ) or even send an email to your favorite author's publisher. With every question you ask, with every article you read, you come closer to your goal. And you're out of the box.


There's nothing wrong with higher education, I LOVE education both formal and informal. But action is what counts at the end of the day. And falling on your face is part of everyone's path. Mark Twain HATED lecturing (his fans loved it) but he had to because so many of his investments failed and he needed the money. 


That might even be another point: don't take for granted what you do well.

What Did You Love To Do When You Were a Kid?

I was just watching a video on youtube, conducted by Gilt.com, with Gerard Yosca. I chose to watch it because one of my clients wants me to write a few hundred words of introduction to good old Gerard for her own interview with him. 


Something struck me toward the end of the video. The interviewer asks him "how it all started." And he goes into a beautifully succinct description of his major moments that led him to where he is. From the time he was little he loved to craft. It all started making pom-pom pets and selling them for 10 cents at his Dad's butcher shop. Then he went to Parson's school of design with the intent to study advertising, but it wasn't creative enough. Then he decided to study fashion, but didn't want to learn how to sew and drape and every outfit he sketched had a belt with it. So, he decided to try and make a belt. And he did. Eventually he became a very well-known, very successful jewelry designer, which is why people who have sites that sell jewelry clamor to interview him. At the end of his little speech he says that jewelry-making is going back to what he loved to do as a kid, which is to "make things". 


There are a couple of points about this that stuck out to me and I have always suspected are keys to a happy, successful working life. 1.) you've got to break some eggs. Your path to self-discovery and your true passion often comes in one ah-ha! moment that takes years to build up. Those years often include going down paths a little distance, realizing it's not for you and then turning around. 2.) We're born with a predilection for loving to do something. If we can recall what that is, we might be on a solid path toward what will make us happy as adults. Einstein's life turned around as a child when a family friend brought him a book about science and he fell in love. 


Not to bore anyone with my story, but in the vein of Gerard Yosca, it goes something like this: Little girl loves being read to. Though, she doesn't yet know how to read, she scribbles on pieces of paper, pretending that she's writing. Once she learns the alphabet she makes her parents buy her the sparkliest, pinkest-covered spiral bound notebooks at the drug store and with each one intends to write a novel, she's about 8. Life happens. Writing isn't practical, she tries to forget about it. Plus she never finished any of her novels anyway. At 15 it crops up and she accidentally starts writing poems. Then she stops. Aged 21, on a trip to Paris, she has a self-discovery that she's a writer. She tucks it away and knows it's true even if she never writes anything. At 24 it crops up again and she offers to write on a fashion blog b/c she loves clothes too. Goes to Business school, finishes with no clue what to do with herself. Moves back to Michigan from New York as a freelance writer. And somewhere along the way had an ah-ha! moment; it made perfect sense because this is what she loved to do, even before she knew how. 


Over the years, she went down several different employment roads, and decided never to work in a stuffy office again helping someone else make money off their widgets. Is confident she's on the right track and that someday, will have a life as fabulous as Gerard's. But for now, can be compared to him being broke, making his own jewelry in his kitchen as a 20-something with a dream.

My Dad Keeps Me Humble

I was on the phone with my Dad the other day, telling him that I am pretty burned out on spending all day by myself in my head. And since I've moved back, I need to branch out and make more friends. I also began to tell him my grand plan to start bartending/serving a few nights per week downtown to free up time to build and manage the websites I'm involved with and focus on their profitability. And also to be out in society talking to people.

Because at the end of the day, I don't care if it's in Vogue, GQ or whatever. I'm just not down writing for other people. I just can't stand the idea of working for someone else(s) in the long term.


Anyways, I start saying how I'll make good money working part time and he kind of interrupts and says that serving is an admirable job by virtue of its description/name. I keep talking and say that there are career servers in NYC at the best restaurants who make six figures per year. Why the fuck did I even say that? It's not like I'm going to do that. I guess I needed to try and class-up my moonlighting gig. But, good old Fred put me in my place and said "There are a lot of career waiters who work in dives and diners too." 


He didn't need to say anything else on the matter. His tone of voice said it all. "It's perfectly okay not to be wealthy, honest work deserves respect no matter what it is or where it's at."


My Dad keeps me humble. That guy on the far left.

My Mission Statement/Isn't This What Blogs Are For?

What's Yours? What is it that you want above all other things? What kind of difference do you want to make in your life or in the lives of others? I believe this is the heart of finding our purpose. I've thought long and maybe even hard about what I want. I've read 30 billion articles online and in print about advice to find what that is. I've read new age spiritual books about handling life. Detachment, helping others, self-respect all of these ideas have been floating around in my head for the last couple of years. And by Jove, I think I've got it. One of the great things about diversity of the human experience and the human personality and the human brain is that we all have something we feel passionately about. It's just that when we're young, we tend to believe that we have to subscribe to others' passions or else ours isn't valid. And that's not true. 

So, here it is: I want to stick a pin in the all of the areas of life experience that are currently surrounded by bubbles of pomposity, exclusivity and pretension. I want to burst those bubbles and invite everyone in who's interested in attending the party. Furthermore, I think the idea that education is a privilege instead of a right is totally backward. People saying that are just perpetuating a notion that makes it harder for everyone. (Ironically these are people decrying our system's flaws who often work for a non-profit trying to promote education. This is like a dietitian going around talking about how impossible dieting is.) It doesn't have to be. It's all about your attitude and the knowledge that you arm yourself with that makes the difference. We actually have a system in place that offers a lot of help to people putting themselves through school. Not only are there grants, loans and scholarships there are colleges and universities and trade schools to suit every schedule and every aptitude for learning.  There are a surprising number of opportunities for loan repayment too. I should know. I used the system, in the absence of my parents having a college fund for me, to educate myself. I want to get Thomas Jefferson on this country's a**. I don't want anyone to feel left out. But what's more, I don't want anyone to be left out. Rather than try to overhaul one flawed system with another that's bound to have flaws because we are only humans after all. I want to facilitate people using the current system in place to work for them.


That's my mission statement. What's yours?

Saying It Over and Over Doesn't Make It True...

But, it does make it believable. Two years ago I had this brilliant idea for a website. So, I looked into making it happen. I even built a prototype through godaddy.com. Then I found out about all of the sexy, self-website-building companies out there and abandoned by initial efforts to make something cooler, hipper whatever. Moving, boys, transitioning to full-time freelance writing put it on the back burner.


But since I've come back to Ann Arbor I've roped my two best girlfriends into starting the site with me, expanding on my initial idea to include their interests and ideas for a "lifestyle" online publication. I'm not going to say more about that on here. But, I will say that in doing market research I've come across a whole lot of douchey online "literary" and "lifestyle" websites their owners call "magazines" to give them more credibility. I've seen some cool stuff too, don't get me wrong. 


But the cool stuff doesn't give me cause to complain. It kind of speaks to what's great about the Internet. The democratization of information presentation. Say it three times fast. I dare you. The point is that people with new, interesting ideas to re-package old info, people who are creating new info, people who just come up with really cool visual shit rock. And thank god they have an inexpensive way to share their awesomeness. 


BUT people who create a "magazine" with this mission statement: was founded to discover and share the stories of creative and inspirational people. Through photography, video, and the written word, we let artists—and their work—speak for themselves. Are just wasting my surfing time, killing my buzz. What does that even mean, really? With all of the print publications covering "art" and "inspirational" stories, not to mention the bazillions of other sites trying to do the same thing, I have absolutely no incentive to keep reading. It's just a bunch of pretentious crap. A bunch of punk kids with a modicum of experience, promoting themselves and their friends.. and whatever. Is it any surprise that it's based in New York?


It's hard for me to understand the fine art/fashion/cultural world in terms of their insistence on speaking in their exclusive language, looking down on us Phillistines. Creating their "magazines" and garbage-ing up the Internet.


Perpetuating the idea that only certain people can understand what you're about, and only speaking to them is a joke. Plain and simple. It's a principle born on insecurity. There's one chick, Amber Rae, who puts out an email once a week, sharing stories of young people who started their own businesses (based on their passions), written in their own words, that is truly inspiring. She wants everyone to reach his or her own potential, whatever that may be. And there are others like her. And that is a good use of my time. Don't listen to the hype. Don't believe that you have to say a painting is good because someone tells you to, but doesn't deign to explain why. Don't believe that an "intellectual" story has merit just because someone claiming to be literate puts it online because they have an MFA in douche baggery--I mean creative writing. 


Don't start to believe, just because you've heard it over and over, that a website is a magazine. It's a website. Just because someone is under the age of 45 does not mean they hold the key to Pandora's box of "cool." You know? There are super cool people of all ages.


Art, fashion, culture and the love of food and wine can be shared by everyone. There isn't one person who needs to be left out when it comes to the enjoyment of these experiences. And anyone who gets off on the idea of being misunderstood deserves their fate: life lived in a place built on pretension, ironically devoid of meaning, heart and soul. Peopled now by hangers-on, those desperate to belong, spitting and sputtering away on nothing but fumes.

TBC or TBD

Prepare yourselves for a Carrie Bradshaw-esque post. 


 I didn't get cliched comments when I was younger about loving yourself, having respect for yourself, not putting up with unseemly behavior from love interests. I literally did not understand what it meant in relation to me. Nice guys seemed all too boring. The ones looking for a relationship seemed, well, not much of a challenge or a catch. They weren't always the best looking ones in the crop either. But now that I'm not as young as I used to be the term "all the good ones are taken" has frightfully taken on a new meaning. I'm sure all the good ones are not ever taken at any one time. But, I am sure the girls who snap them up like themselves. It occurs to me recently that women need a very serious booster shot containing self-love.


I am the quintessential chase-after-the-bad-boy kind of girl. While all girls love the chase, I seem to love it to a higher degree. This puts me at odds with the boys I chase after, since men also seek to pursue. At any rate, those guys who are not available for one reason or another intoxicated me. I was seduced by their nonchalant attitude and self absorption. They also tended to be pretty good between the sheets and quite handsome (vanity also came with the looks). 


Overtime I realized where this drive was coming from, it's really all too transparent. And I'd like to think that I've moved on from it. I was the unstoppable force crashing into the immovable object one too many times. Love stinks and so does the lack of common sense inherent in immaturity. I have to admit that as a natural story teller, I loved the drama. I loved going to my girlfriends and explaining the latest episode that may or may not have a TBC attached to it. Or, at least that's how I liked to think of it or tell it. Of course there was always a TBC and a TBD and that's the way I functioned best. That mystery, keeping something to the unknown made it safe, kept it playful and so on and so forth.


But, this is the thing...I've seen my former behavior mirrored by someone I'm close to and I cringe. Whatever the reasons, it's clear that antics such as sleeping with an ex in town for the weekend or starting a flirtatious friendship with a guy already in a relationship, who lives some distance away, are shallow ways to validate oneself. And what's worse, they're ways that are bound to fail. Why set yourself up for failure? Loneliness, something to talk about and maybe most importantly, this deep seeded fear that you can't do better. Or maybe at this time you don't even want to. I've found when my goals are off and I'm unsure of my future, so is my ability to do anyone any good in a relationship capacity.


I think complex women of some intellectual bearing might be fraught with similar insecurities, especially as they age. But, the fact of the matter is most women who settle down earlier are just simpler. And because most people are simple (not to mean that as an insult) in their wants from life, it makes sense that most people link up sooner. Am I getting off-topic? Perhaps.


So, this is my Carrie moment: Is it better to be single with no immediate prospects and have your sense of dignity and self respect or is it better to be fucking around in ways you shouldn't just to have SOMETHING? I can only say that I used to subscribe to the latter, but lately the former is growing on me.


We all make mistakes. We all do things later on we wish we hadn't. I don't mean to judge. But I do mean to point out that while you might be able to romanticize away your insecurities like I did, it all amounts to the same thing. We are the company we keep. We get out of life what we put into it. The level of respect we have for ourselves is the gauge others have to know how much respect to give us. And behaving in ways that say you don't mind a wishy-washy situation and you don't want the things you do you want is like wearing a sign that says "don't take me seriously. Don't respect me." It's a sign that's read all too clearly and stringently abided by, which isn't fair but is simply the truth. 

Crescendo

The second movement (Allegretto) of Beethoven's 7th symphony is my favorite. Not my favorite piece of music or my favorite piece of instrumental music. Not my favorite symphony or a product of my favorite composer. It's just my favorite. 

When I was little it was hard for me to get to sleep at night sometimes. If you've ever seen the movie "What About Bob?" and you remember the therapist's son Siggy, you might also recall that he wore black all the time and had a fear of death. Well, I did too for about a year during the age of 10 or 11. At one point in the film Sig and Bob are laying awake and Sig says something like "We're all going to die one day. You are going to die. I am going to die." It describes the fear perfectly. Because unlike monsters under the bed or bullies at school, you know that this realization can't be fixed and isn't ever going to go away. 

I used to sit awake at night, inevitably the thought of death would creep into my thoughts. It's not like I imagined how I would die or thought of myself in heaven or hell. In fact, I was pretty sure there was no such thing as one or the other. I just felt like you die and that's it. It was the void, the finality of death, the inevitability of it, that was so shocking to me. There was no boogey man fantasy attached to my fear. Just the knowledge itself was enough to make my heart skip a beat.

And so, I found a CD in my mom's music collection of Beethoven. I figured classical music would help drown out the pesky thought of the end of my life. And it did. And I discovered Beethoven's 7th. If I had to describe the symphony in words, I would fail utterly. 

Never has any piece of music I've ever heard flowed like this. The beginning, barely audible, starts out in such a bittersweet way. Light, but dark, uptempo and yet somehow still foreboding. And then there is the addition of strings, following the same melody as the woodwinds and a crescendo that takes measures and measures to come full blown. It's as if it's saying, everything starts out okay, but it gets more serious. Just when you think the climax is coming up stage left, the strings have more to say. It's something quietly whispering in your ear. It's dancing, it's enticing you to come along and listen. The oboes follow, drawing the point out, supported by other woodwinds. And then a descent into something quite more punctuated happens. Just the horns now with a delicate stacatto of strings behind them. You're being fooled. The original melody mocks you in the background. And then it comes and BAM! Timpany! There's hope! From such small, humble beginnings the piece finds its own inspiration and achieves greatness.

This is the symphony of life. Because life is like that. Up and down, quiet and when you least expect it, extremely loud. But, it all flows together in a way that turns out to be seamless. Though, while we're living it, we perceive enormous crevasses. As I've gone through moves and broken hearts and ambitions that turned into nothings and forged new ambitions and been humbled over and over again, I go back to that second movement that ends on three perfect notes whispering,  "to be continued." 

The Ann Arbor Tribe

Have you heard of Kelly Cutrone? She's this chick who runs a successful PR agency in NYC. Been on some reality TV, comes off as a real tough talking bitch. She wrote a book about navigating through life as a woman. And I swear I cried at the end looking at the picture of her daughter, whom I assume she wrote the book for. 


It's actually a pretty sweet little read. Her life has been insane. She moved to NYC when she was like 12. Okay, maybe 17 or something. She talked about drug abuse and the "good life" filled with money and prestige and celebrities. And now she's middle aged, wears a sloppy black T-shirt and jeans to work every day and doesn't give a fuck. She's in the business, I think, because it's one she knows well and she likes being a business owner. It's not to preen and kiss celebrity ass and feel important because she hobnobs with people on the cover of rags like People and UsWeekly.


I'm digressing. In the book she talks about finding your "tribe." The assumption being that you aren't necessarily going to find it in your hometown, you shouldn't be afraid to look elsewhere and if you are in a foreign place a big focus should be finding a group of people you fit in with, who will be down for you no matter what. I like this idea. I advocate it wholeheartedly. And I think about moving back to Ann Arbor in conjunction with tribal camraderie. 


I think about my little cousin Beth, who lives in NYC in pursuit of a career in big magazine fashion editing, and her tribe. Her tribe is definitely in New York. She met a girl there right away who became an instant best friend, they had so much in common. And they're still best friends. Her new bestie introduced her to more girls like them and in working the PR fashion mag circuit, she met even more women like herself. She found her tribe all right. 


My other cousin, Crystal, came to New York a political radical, a little bit of a hippie. She joined an anarchist group and became a therapist for a non-profit organization that fights human trafficking. Through her extracurriculars and job, she found her tribe.


I moved there with no specific goal in mind but to finish college. I had no specific career goals, I had no idea who I was, I had no friends my age and the job I had was with people who were all older than I, resigned to the menial low paying tasks they signed up for. Whereas I saw the gig as merely a stepping stone. But, a stepping stone to where? I didn't know. I couldn't have gotten an internship that helped me find a degree-centered job because I was working full time anyway. I wasn't particularly qualified for anything, really. Slowly, but surely my resume morphed from "office experience" to "writing and editing" but still, I wasn't sure how to parley this into more work. There was a job placement agency a girl I knew used to get her job and I guess I could have hit them up, but by the time I quit Reuters and wanted to freelance full time, I'd been living in New York for five years and was so burned out. So, very, very burned out. 


Where the fuck was my tribe? It wasn't there. Plain and simple. I never met a group of people that were really like me. I'd met people I liked more than others and no one that I would say I openly disliked, but yet, no one that really fit me or vice versa.  There was always something I found strange and a little "off" about the people who crossed my path. And maybe I was being overly judgmental. Maybe I should have given more people a chance. Maybe.


But, this is the thing. I was so spoiled in my upbringing. I'm not talking about I had a lot of toys and money and vacations to Hawaii. I'm talking I had insanely intelligent friends. People who are now, for the most part, doctors, attorneys, life/spiritual coaches and holders of MBAs and PhDs.  That's a tough act to follow, even for New York. 


Because, this is the other thing: In New York there is a population of 8 million people. And trying to find a tribe that compares to what you're used to in terms of intellect mixed with that Midwest "aww shucks" vibe is damn near impossible. Clearly, there are tons of artists and highly educated people in New York. But, it's almost not even worth it if you're going to be a pretentious prick about it. I grew up in the shadow of one of the country's most loved and highly respected universities. I grew up being taught to love knowledge for knowledge's sake. I grew up to revere being erudite, even more than holding any specific degree. 


And there's only one place I've ever been to whose tribe consists of the same kind of people; it happens to be my hometown.


I'm thinking that Cutrone could add some kind of note that if your tribe happens to be where you grew up, then it's quite all right to stay put, once you figure that out.

My "Work"

Today I'm gearing up to do some "work." I use quotation marks because, as a Midwestern girl, it's not work in the way I was raised to believe work is. Work was sitting in a cubicle, or an office, and doing something mundane and meaningless to you. In fact, if this was the kind of work you ended up doing, then you were doing all right for yourself. You were better than the people who had to work in food service or the people who had to work outside or on a car lot. You were classier, you had a college degree. You had bought yourself a lifetime of relative solitude, a desk and a chair, access to a printer, a desktop computer, and four partial walls made of God knows what covered in gray speckled fabric. 

I'm far from the first person to bemoan and belabor the point that work in most offices is hardly satisfying. And the meager pay as a cog in some company's wheel really isn't worth the real cost of wasting years of your life gossiping at the water cooler, drinking decent coffee you pay for or office coffee that sucks. In fact, office work you don't like or aren't in charge of is not any better than working on a car lot or in a restaurant or anywhere else.  You're still just someone else's bitch.


So, after a decade of office experience, I quit to "work" as a writer. And I've had my ups and downs in the last six months with it. Trying to find a balance between consistently working and total burn out. Trying to find some sanity in a job that I don't speak to anyone all day long in, but via email and if I'm lucky gchat. And trying to be honest with myself if this is really the right gig for me. 


Because, let's face it, just because you're good at something doesn't mean you should do it. And you may have a passion for something in general, but that doesn't mean you've always chosen the right version. You may be in the second or third iteration before you find the most satisfying way to express it. 


This current version I've thrown myself into is fashion and beauty writing. Freelance style. And so far today I have to write an introduction for a woman I'm helping write an eBook for. I'm in negotiations with an old work friend from New York who wants me to become partner and manage his fashion site. And I'm in the beginning stages of launching my own lifestyle site with two girlfriends. And then there's the easy, quasi reliable work that I've been doing for years. Short, instructional, articles for Tyra Banks website on everything from how to dress to how to wash your face. Some days I love it and I'm on fire and sharing the info I know is always fun. But, as a full time job, I couldn't/can't do it. Not indefinitely. Not for someone else. I'd go crazy with the same format all the time. 


Not to mention, I feel as though I've built up an online portfolio quite enough. I'm ready to go print. All I have to do is learn how to pitch to print magazines. But, learning and applying to new gigs, changing that iteration takes time. And when I'm writing my "pay-the-bills" stuff all day long, where is the time to do what I need to move forward? It's not there.


So, on Tuesday, I have an unofficial meeting with the manager at a restaurant downtown. A swanky wine bar/restaurant. I was looking for bartending work because I thought it'd be fun and have the added bonus of meeting people, except I have no experience bartending. So, this fine young man is going to put me on table service to start (if he likes me) and then I could potentially move into tending bar. And I'm doing it for two reasons: something to do that helps me to be around people rather than myself all day long and a way to make an income and buy myself time to change up the iteration into something I find more sustainable. That is managing my own site(s) and writing for myself, instead of everyone else. 


The funny thing is I always thought that the "creative" person's lifestyle of bartending or waiting tables was kind of sad, kind of lame. Unstable. How ironic that after working in an office for 10 years at the age of 28, I decided that I was done forever sitting in a gray cubicle. I realized that a mid-life crisis is probably more about going insane from the monotony of an office job, with no forseeable way out, than it is about trying to recapture lost youth or getting bored with your wife and kids.


So, it's Saturday, and I'm going to go and try to do some "work" right now. Wish me luck. The grind can be tough.

They Tried To Make Me Go To Rehab

That's not true. No one has ever tried that. But, I was just thinking. The thing about drunk dialing is that it's a lot more interesting than sober dialing. A lot more. I've sort of been bored ever since I stopped.


No, bored isn't the right word. I've been less free. There's something about the thrill of waking up the next day realizing that you said something unbelievably inappropriate. And there's something more about the thrill of wondering if you'll get a response.


Don't bother asking about the picture; it's an accident. I don't even know how it happened but it's called Jetpack Joyride and I cannot stop playing it .

Ahh New York...

I drove in two days ago from Ann Arbor, through pouring rain, with a girlfriend of mine. We arrived at my apartment at 9 pm. She (Sarah) Left to go stay with a friend. And then, the adventure began. There are four bedrooms in the apartment. One international roommate, from Europe, enjoys allowing his international friends to use our couch as if it were his personal New York City Youth Hostel. 


I have to say that during my time in the apartment, I was always a huge advocate for welcoming friends and family to stay. However, until last year there was never a roommate who abused the privilege. At any rate, I enjoyed talking to and seeing the old roommates. Though, I didn't enjoy sharing the living room with a stranger, I got the couch I wanted.


The next morning (buh buh buh): One (shitty) bathroom, six people. I woke up at 8, but didn't pee until about 9:30. Ornery? Yes. The person who's staying in my old room, a very nice young man by the name of Colin, wasn't leaving. He woke up at 8 (impressive), but seemed to have a 10 am start time. I didn't care when he left, except I needed to get into the room he now occupied, to move out the rest of my things. He FINALLY left. All morning I'd been fantasizing about getting breakfast. But, realize two things at the last minute. I can't leave b/c I don't have keys to get back in the apartment, and I can't order in because every breakfast place only accepts cash and I have none. Of course leaving to get cash is out of the question, for obvious reasons. Welcome to New York.


I called my friend Sarah and rant about the situation. She was in the city and I was supposed to meet her later. I decided the best course of action is to start packing up my stuff, hold off on the empty stomach until I get into Manhattan. This actually isn't anything new, these sorts of compromises for the place. I was hungry about 85% of the time I lived there either b/c of a lack of money, time or convenience in feeding myself. I'm pretty frustrated at this point.


I started packing. Get a surprising amount of work done in a short period of time. Shower, outfit, call Sarah. Take the B from 7th into SOHO. Ah, the city. SOHO, one of my favorite places on earth. But, noticed that it's ruined by so many "too cool for school", unfriendly faces stalking the sidewalks. And tourists. There seemed to be an especially high level of models walking around with their books, smokers and people in cliched downtown "cool" outfits. A little bit hipster, a little bit upscale, all black. I should have realized at the time, but didn't, that it was the day before fashion week. So the place sort of looks like the sartorialist vomitted.


Meet Sarah, look for a place to eat. Poor thing, she was trying to suggest places to go, talking about this place has good, soup, salad, Mercer Kitchen. I look over at Mercer. "I need. food. Not faggy up-the-ass soup and salad from Mercer Kitchen." We went into a dive across the street that has BLTs. And soups. And salads. I was pissed off. Hungry as hell, hating every single person I saw. This is why New Yokers are assholes.


She and I eat, have a glass of wine. Feel Better. Shop. MoMa. Everything is lovely. Miss New York. Talked about moving back someday when I make more money. On the high-line, definitely want to move back. After MomA, Pass by Alec Baldwin on the street. And then, the rain. Slowly at first until there were huge drops coming hard and fast. 5th Ave, cabs, cabs everywhere, but not a single one that's empty or on-duty. Soaked. Defeated. Hungry (again). Sit on the stone steps of a church that are only dry b/c of scaffolding above. I say, "Only in New York can you be surrounded by endless modes of transportation and be deserted." Sarah's Response, between puffs of a cigarette (though she successfully quit months ago): Stranded as Fuck. Hate New York. Can't wait to leave. Fuck this place.


Again, struggle to find a place to eat b/c of the debilitating, overwhelming, number of choices. Yelp app not working, too much fog in midtown. Hungry. Midtown expensive, can't get anywhere else. Trains blocks away, no cabs, not enough cash for a snipe cab and no ATMs or banks in sight. Finally settle into an Italian place and a meal that costs $72 per person.


Hour long train ride home. Miss light, unconditional love and my Mom's dog. Settle into my couch at around midnight to pass out. Foreign exchange friend still up. Lights on, computer on. Asks if I want lights off. No, it's fine. Assume she'll be in bed soon anyways. Pass out. Wake up at 2, she's still up. Fuck me. Lights now hindrance to falling back asleep. Finally get up and turn one off. 30 minutes later, she's in bed. And it's dark. 


This morning had to wake up at 8 to move the car for street cleaning. Come back at 8:30. She's not awake yet. Turn on the lights. She tries to stay asleep through it, but stirs occasionally and finally sits up at 9:15. Do I feel badly? Well, I've been in NYC for 24 hours. So, no. Sorry Sweetheart, this isn't a hotel. 


How can a place so great, be unbelievably terrible at the same time? I don't have a clue.
Though before I went to sleep I realized that I missed New York, but only in the way a kid must miss his favorite toy that's been taken away. Why would someone take a kid's favorite toy away? Because he played with it too much, it prevented him from growing up and didn't add any real value to his life.

From One Blog To Another

A friend of mine sent me a cool note from the blogosphere that I feel compelled to quote and share a link to. I have no idea who wrote it originally, or else I would sing his praises. For now it'll have to be sufficient to say that I did not write it. And I hope you enjoy.

Here's my favorite part: Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

And this is the whole thing.

The Truth Is Freeing

I actually don't know how to start this. I was going to wait until I was gone or on some beach in some tropical location to write this post. After all, it's a lot easier to write about your next move when the success of which has already come to fruition. But today is as good a day as any.


I started this blog on the insistence of a friend of mine three years ago. The suggestion planted the seed. And then another friend started his own travel blog and I saw how easy it really was. This friend of mine had lived in New York for about a year and then decided to take some of the bundles of money he made working in finance on the road. He was going to travel for a year. When he left he said that he'd come back to live in NYC--he never did. We actually had a bit of a falling out before he left. I accused him of leaving because NYC just wasn't for him (he's from LA), which he denied. "It's okay," I said, "You can admit it if you don't like it." He wouldn't. And of course he was reacting to my haughty attitude just underneath the surface of my accusations. "It's not for you...but it's for ME! hahahaha." 


The first post I ever intended to write was going to be called "Not Flaking Out" in direct response to his leaving. That wasn't the first post I wrote. The first was a sort of literary ode to NYC that is now buried under 150 other posts. Five years later...my goodness...I'm going to go ahead and say that New York is not for me anymore. And what's sort of ironic is that on my way out, I'm not sure it ever was, which is probably why I was so quick to accuse my friend of the thing I might have been in denial of about myself.


I've written some posts trying to explain what New York is like for the uninitiated and they're usually in favor of the place. Rationalization...is a useful thing. Of course my first instinct upon leaving is to write something about how much this place sucks and why it sucks and blah blah blah ad nauseum. I'm not going to do that.


What I am going to say is that I've learned more about myself than I would have if I'd just stayed in my home town wondering what it was like here. And I have every asshole I met along the way to thank for that. Every corrupted, hard, selfish, sad person.  (not saying everyone is this way, but most who crossed my path were) The people I met...well maybe they weren't for me either. I wondered often at those who seemed happy here and kept on thinking it was going to get better. That one day, any day now, I'd wake up and feel like things had fallen into place and feel content and happy. That day did not come. I never stopped missing my friends from home and I never stopped wishing the people I'd met here were more like them. I never got used to how much time commuting eats up here. Once I figured out that it's the fundamental problem in this city...I never got over it. I even tried to buy a bike, but let me tell you, I am not a biker. If you visit you'll see people riding in Brooklyn looking as serene as a monk in a monastery.  But, it's work and in the summer it's hot and an inefficient way to exercise on top of that. I guess for those people, New York suits them.


If you have tons of energy, New York will suit you. If you're willing to put in a great effort to build your career and don't mind searching every nook and cranny for friends (if yours aren't already living here) even after the first 1,000 people you met didn't really fit, New York will suit you. As it will if you don't need people to fit. If you have a shit ton of money, New York will suit you. If you come from a place where minds are small and conservative, New York might suit you. Though they might be militant and pretentious about their liberal ideals, you'll find people here who are more accepting of alternative lifestyles, as long as your alternative matches theirs. If you have a job that affords you the opportunity to have time and money to join clubs and classes and have real hobbies, New York will suit you. If you enjoy being the center of attention or trying to make yourself the center of attention, you have a limitless stage to perform on. If you like smoke and mirrors, or don't mind people coming in and out of your life randomly according to their want, will, or too busy schedule, you're good to go.


The truth is I was in none of those circumstances, nor am I that type of person. I'm a homebody. I like to read a book and be cozy. Sure, I like to go out, but I'm not 22 anymore. Getting "wasted" just kind of ceased to be a weekend goal like it is here for a lot of wayward souls (regardless of age). Yes, I want to be healthy and exercise, but Lord I don't want to sweat through a 20 minute walk to get to the gym. Let me drive there in AC, before spin class kills me.  Yes, I like to try new recipes and dabble in the kitchen, but not when the oven was born before my parents were. Not when I have to sweep off mouse droppings from the counter before I begin. Yeah, I like having a beer in a good spot, but not when my only choices are places filled with anti-social cliques or full-on meat markets. I could make this paragraph its own post, but I'll refrain.


I am very lucky. Very very blessed. Because for every person here who thought I was a permanent fixture (an impression I take full responsibility for giving) and put me in the background of their life, there is someone in an awesome place who wants me in the foreground. I'm extremely lucky that I started a freelance writing career here that gives me freedom and mobility in my choice of location. I am very lucky the connections and experience I got here are enough to continue on in another place, while still keeping professional ties here open. 


I guess I'm just damned lucky. And if it took five years of struggle to get to that conclusion, well then, it was worth it. 


What will I do now? Well, I was thinking about traveling for a year. : ) And you know, living the dream.

You Might Want To Get Used To This

"In June, virtually all the job growth came from private companies, which added 57,000 jobs, a striking retrenchment from the average of more than 200,000 jobs a month between February and April. The largest gains came from health care and leisure and hospitality, while manufacturing, which lost jobs in May, was able to add just 6,000 slots in June."  -- New York Times


I should be doing my job right now. But, this subject is more fun. Fun, you say? How can it be fun to discuss job loss, America's tanking economy and the dissolution of the middle class? To be totally frank, I'm not out of work. Nor am I Mr. Obama. To me, these statistics are abstract, and there's no reason why they shouldn't be for you too. 


Life is a game of opportunity mixed with preparedness. Or what some like to call "luck." Your luck is dependent on your work ethic, your planning and the pursuit of your life, each and every day. When we sink into the couch and assume our lot is safe, we set ourselves up for unpreparedness. And opportunities pass us by without us knowing. And we have no luck. 


Just the highlighted quote above can help you prepare for the future. You know the tides are changing, have been changing for some time. Do you know why hospitality is on the rise and manufacturing is on the decline? This isn't a temporary situation brought on by the after effects of a recession. This is a direct result, in my opinion, of a change in technology, a change from the age of industry to the age of information. 


So, little babies, do not expect that one day manufacturing jobs will come back. Or that the one you have now is safe. Get richer, get educated, invest your time and money and thought into your future and your goals. Don't be afraid to move to a new place. Don't be scared to change careers. Just keep pursuing your life, day after day. And for God Sakes, diversify.

 Once upon a time, an 8-month-old baby girl was born. She was 7lbs, bald and had a bright red dot in the middle of her forehead. Years later, she would be told by her father the mark was from the Doctor's thumb during delivery. And as a seventh-grader she would be told that had she been born an Aztec, such an obvious birthmark would have been worshiped by her people and then sacrificed to the Gods after about 15 years. She would have been sacrificed; not the birthmark. Or rather, they would have gone into oblivion together, you know what I meant to say.  


At some young age, knowing it would be there for life she decided neither to embrace nor ignore it and--wait--this isn't a story about a birthmark, dammit. Already I'm deviating off course. If you want know how it turned out for the red dot, I'll tell you. Just fine. It was a lot less obvious once the girl grew to regular adult size and most people thought it was left over from falling asleep with her head down on her forearms. Or didn't notice it until months after they met her, by which time she'd won them over with her sparkling personality making the mark of very little consequence.

Moving on, she cried. A lot. She may have been the most cryingist baby of all time. She was up all night long and asleep during the day. Her circadian rhythm was off from the rest of the world, much to the chagrin of her parents. She didn't like to be rocked to sleep either. She would cry and cry if you sat down with her. She must be walked. She was a god damned self-aggrandizing princess if there ever was one. Even at a mere 10 or 11 months (from conception).

Sitting on a park bench with her mother when she was 13, she heard the story of how she came to be: Her Dad came home from a business trip and wanted to have sex. Her mom didn't want to. He begged and begged. The problem was, her mother had a yeast infection and they were using this birth control method called foam. The foam would have irritated the infection and sex would have been risky. Eventually her mother gave in to her father and on their sofa they consummated their love. One night without birth control and mom was pregnant. It was probably the “What The Fuck!?!” heard round the world. The girl wouldn't know, for at the time she was a zygote.