Today was the official launch of McGraw-Hill's internship program. To kick it off, we got to skip work and visit the executive floor of their corporate headquarters for introductions and schmoozing. The company's top dog Controller was there to present a comprehensive spiel on his role with mergers and acquisitions, and interns all across the country were tuning in via video-conference to catch a glimpse and snag a sound-byte of the key success factors senior management might whisper through the phone lines. A lot of interns were eager to ask their burning business questions. Admittedly, I went because "refreshments" was italicized on the invitation.
Now whether one thought the Controller's speech was boring or intriguing, whether the desserts were too sweet or too salty, or the microphones were too loud or too quiet, everyone agreed on at least one thing:
The top floor of 1221 6th Ave has a breathtaking view.
The windows that line the walls showcase New York at its finest. The canopy of the concrete jungle is spectacular from above, towers of glass stretching out like a valley of steel hoodoos. The Statue of Liberty wades in the south waters off Ellis Island; the Empire State spire pierces the clouds from Midtown South. Kanye West's ego takes up half of Tribeca.
So the view was definitely a highlight, and I can't wait to go back for the other intern events they have planned there.
In other news, I was robbed tonight.
Two greasy bozos off 52nd charged me $8 for a terrible banana split. They didn't even have bananas -- flippin' ridiculous! If either of those two workers are reading right now, listen up. I understand you have to make a living, but here's the deal: buy some proper stock and change that pedophile tune you're pumping out your ice cream truck speakers. Business fact: sales and creepiness are inversely related.
The last thing I have to share tonight -- a surprise, if you will -- is... wait for it...
My brand new Manhattan haircut! I spent a good two hours on Sunday scouring Yelp online for a well-rated salon, and finally settled for a place called Jean Perre (mostly because it sounded French).
And, lo-and-behold, it was French.
My barber, Raphael, was a tall, slim fellow with bone-tight tweed pants. I didn't hear most of what he was muttering, and I'm pretty sure he didn't understand a word that I said. That, or he didn't care.
I was plopped down in a chair right beside the front window so that everyone walking by could see what was happening with every snip. Raphael's three favorite tools were his sheers, his blow-dryer, and his cell phone. In that order, from least to most important.
The cut lasted fifteen minutes, fourteen of which Raphael was chatting to someone about Paula Abdul on his iPhone. When he hung up, he sent me to the sinks to get a shampoo from his cute hair-washing mistress, and when I came back he was already a quarter done buzz-cutting another customer. But have no fear -- he sloshed some gel in my hair with his right hand while continuing to razor the other man's scalp with his left, and then I hopped out of the chair to pay Woman #2 at their register.
This place had haircuts down to an assembly line. An awkward, gossiping, semi-inefficient French assembly line, but, hey, chacun à son goût.
So is it the best haircut I've ever had? Of course not. Is it shorter than it was when I walked in? Yup, and when the average haircut in New York is $70, my wallet and I are perfectly happy with Jean Ferre's $25 steal.
And trust me, I need that extra cash to cover for sub-par banana splits.
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