There are some things in life so ridiculous that they demand instant blogging. Tonight was one of those nights.
So I'm at home, drinking apple juice out of a coffee cup and eating butter flavored Crispy Minis on a Sunday night (I wish I could say I was doing something cooler, but let's be honest), when all of a sudden I hear someone's fire alarm going off in another room. 'Ok,' I think to myself, 'my fire alarm goes off all the time'. So I leave it.
The alarm persists for fifteen minutes.
At this point, I can't possibly think of a reason that a fire alarm is going off for fifteen minutes at 11:00pm on a Sunday night unless something is wrong. I slowly start packing up my laptop and passport and glasses (in situations like this, I'm a little paranoid -- if the building is indeed going to burn down, in no way will I be caught unprepared for a proper getaway).
Five more minutes pass. I wander out in the hallway to check for signs of trouble, and find two seventy year old men listening at the door of the room beside me.
We feel the door, smell for smoke, knock loudly. Nothing. But the alarm going off inside won't stop, so one old man touches the handle and discovers that the door's unlocked.
Now it's starting to get creepy.
We back away, concluding that we're all staying out of there. And just as we decide to phone the police, an old lady bursts through the side stairwell in an absolute tizzy. She's wrapped in a faded blue night robe, her glasses perched on her nose and white hairs flying everywhere (I later learned her name is Louise).
"What the blazes is going on?" Louise demands.
"We don't know," the old men and I reply. "The door's open but the lights are off inside."
"Well I can smell smoke outside!" yelps Louise.
At this point I run back in my room and dart for the patio -- sure enough, when I get outside there's the strong smell of smoke gushing from the room right next to mine. Suddenly I hear Lousie's loud voice bellow, "GET UP YOU ASS! YOU'RE BURNING THE BUILDING DOWN!"
I run back to the other room -- by the time I get there, Louise has thrown a smoking steel pot into the kitchen sink and is now fanning the fire alarm. Her and the old men are pointing and screaming at a middle aged man who looks drunk and/or stoned out of his skull: "Don't you know you could have killed us?!", "What were you doing?!", "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"
The guy was completely out of it, barely able to string together a sentence. Had he been on drugs, I imagine this whole experience would have been extremely frightening -- to be startled awake by three screaming seniors while a very tall college boy quietly sips apple juice from a coffee cup in the background.
It turns out the burning was from overcooked macaroni and, despite being the only person there, this place wasn't even the stoned guy's apartment. Bizarre. Two firefighters showed up and Lousie filled them in on all the details, still agitated (and rightfully so). By then, more people were coming out of their rooms and I ended up meeting some really funny U of S students from down the hall. Not the best circumstance to be making friends, but, hey, when life gives you lemons.
So that's the story -- this crap basically writes itself. The extra cruddy part is that this is the third time my building's fire alarm has gone off. I've been evacuated three times.
THREE!
That's thrice too many.
A few months ago, management sent everyone a memo that asked if we had any suggestions for what to name the condo. You know, something nice like "Elm Ridge" or "Windsor Terrace".
Tomorrow I think I'll submit "Smoky Mountain" or "Flaming Pines". If you have any other recommendations, please, let me know.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
There's No Place Like Home
January 2nd, 2010: my hunt for a summer internship began. One hundred and fourteen cover letters, eight months, and twelve weeks in NYC later, I’m proud to announce I finished everything I set out to do (and more). Mission complete. Sweet success. Flawless victory.
I’ve been asked a lot why I decided to do this. Unsurprisingly, the answer’s not far removed from the reason men do most things -- a girl, of course. Not to impress this particular girl, though, but rather because I was jealous of the NYC internship she’d scored the summer before. Her stories of Manhattan adventures, white collar coteries, and ridiculous fun inoculated a little voice in my brain that whispered “if she can do it, why can’t I?”.
That’s a question I ask myself a lot. Jealously ignites a fire in my gut, and if someone else has something I want, then it’s time to kick ambition into high gear until I get it. If that sounds selfish, it’s because it is. It's not schadenfreude –- it’s just my belief that people should do whatever they want to do if they’re willing to put in the effort. Win-win for everyone.
So last we left off, I had just moved out of my apartment to a hostel in Times Square. ‘Twas my first time in a hostel -– all I had to do was survive six nights with a roommate who, hopefully, wouldn't be a crazed serial killer bent on lurid murder.
Well, no worries there. My bunk buddy was a high school biology teacher from the UK: his cockney accent, plump waist, and fuzzy feet made him about as threatening as a hobbit. I didn’t see a lot of him because I was still working 9 - 5, but we did have good chats every night before bed -- like kids do at sleepovers, really, but instead of rating girls or laughing over words like ‘shart’ and ‘uranus’, we delved into deeper discussions on politics, history, and culture. It was odd, philosophizing with this complete stranger on topics like 9/11, the English monarchy, oil sands, and Baptist churches, but, oi, why not?
Those last six days at the hostel were bittersweet. I wasn’t a fan of living out of a suitcase, but very much enjoyed meeting folks from Ireland, France, Australia, and Israel. They were all terrific (except for the kiwi who made us watch Ghosts of Girlfriends Past – that movie is atrocious, what was he thinking?).
Back at McGraw-Hill, it was time to say goodbye. The coworkers took me out for lunch in Korea Town, and, at 5:00 on Friday the 13th (coincidence?), I took the elevator down from the 21st floor and walked away from Penn Plaza for the last time. Sigh. I’ll miss those guys.
So that’s that. I’m penning the end to this episode in the La Guardia airport, about to hop the plane home. It seems like just last week when I arrived, all wide-eyed and eager and stuffed with first-class breakfast. Now I’m heading back in Cabin Y, the caboose of crammed economy, on Air Canada’s rickety little jazz craft. Good Lord, how could my aristocracy crumble like this? What has flying come to?
But in all seriousness...
Twelve weeks ago, I ended my first blog post in New York with the sentence: “this is a story where even the author doesn’t know what happens next”. Now that the tale’s been told, I look back with bloody amazement: from picnicking in Central Park to taking pictures on top of the Empire State Building; from sailing past the Statue of Liberty to touring Saturday Night Live soundstages in Rockefeller Center. I met dozens of celebrities, saw seventeen Broadway productions, laughed with Letterman at the Late Show, sat front row mezzanine at Radio City Music Hall, ate two scrumptious meals at two dinner show cabarets, munched lunch with my CEO, ooo’d and aahhh’d at 4th of July fireworks, walked the boardwalk at Coney Island, acted in an MTV show, AND met great new friends who best keep in touch or else. Elise, Casie, Jon-Jon, Jocelyn, Kirk, Maria, Prerna, Robyn, Erica, Angela, Alex, Stephen, Matt, Michelle, Peter, Andrew, George, Sam, Benjamin -- thanks for all the fun!
In retrospect, if living in New York has taught me anything –- if I can draw any themes from my own story, they would be these:
1. Value people over places, and
2. Success doesn’t rub off.
Of course I loved Manhattan, but the best parts of the summer didn’t come from just being there; they came from making those new friends I mentioned and taking on the city together. Point two is pretty simple: being around celebrities doesn't make you one. I’ve gotta work my butt off to earn my way back to the big city, and while publishing was a great industry to dip my toes in, I’m still eager to try out show biz...
Let's address that show biz thought for a second: could I settle into a comfortable suburban life after graduation? Sure. But do I want to? Not yet. There's still too much out there I haven't explored.
Take Penn Plaza's elevator as a metaphor.
At the NYC office where I worked, McGraw-Hill only occupied a few of the mid-range floors. During the 9:00 and 5:00 rushes, the elevator car would inevitably stop on every single level. One particular hall that would pass by was Madison Square Garden’s office area. The doors would glide open and reveal a sign in solid gold letters that read: “Madison Square Garden: Where Legends are Made”. All summer I rode that elevator up and down, watching people get on/off that floor, and I’d read the sign -- Where Legends Are Made -- right before the doors would slam shut in my nose. I always wished I could get off there. You know, walk in and ask reception “Excuse me, but your sign outside says you make legends. Could you book me an appointment? I’d very much like to dive into the entertainment world and be an instant hero without all that hassle of hard work and such.”
Alas, if only...
I’m back on the prairie now, far away from the towering NY skyline in a land where people know what “supper”, “washrooms”, and “bunnyhugs” are, distanced again from the throbbing entertainment industry and rushing New York pulse. It’ll be tough going back to school for another year, but with only two terms left I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Where that tunnel goes, who knows. But if you’re keen on finding out, keep checking this blog -- just because the New York chapter is finished doesn’t mean the story’s over yet. Trust me.
Thanks again to all the Americans who were so welcoming. Contrary to international belief, you're not all ignorant, bull-headed, selfish fatties with a shitty economy. You're funny, friendly, and hard working people with a shitty economy. It was a pleasure being with you -- come up and visit any time.
Long live the Queen, God bless America.
- Devon
I’ve been asked a lot why I decided to do this. Unsurprisingly, the answer’s not far removed from the reason men do most things -- a girl, of course. Not to impress this particular girl, though, but rather because I was jealous of the NYC internship she’d scored the summer before. Her stories of Manhattan adventures, white collar coteries, and ridiculous fun inoculated a little voice in my brain that whispered “if she can do it, why can’t I?”.
That’s a question I ask myself a lot. Jealously ignites a fire in my gut, and if someone else has something I want, then it’s time to kick ambition into high gear until I get it. If that sounds selfish, it’s because it is. It's not schadenfreude –- it’s just my belief that people should do whatever they want to do if they’re willing to put in the effort. Win-win for everyone.
So last we left off, I had just moved out of my apartment to a hostel in Times Square. ‘Twas my first time in a hostel -– all I had to do was survive six nights with a roommate who, hopefully, wouldn't be a crazed serial killer bent on lurid murder.
Well, no worries there. My bunk buddy was a high school biology teacher from the UK: his cockney accent, plump waist, and fuzzy feet made him about as threatening as a hobbit. I didn’t see a lot of him because I was still working 9 - 5, but we did have good chats every night before bed -- like kids do at sleepovers, really, but instead of rating girls or laughing over words like ‘shart’ and ‘uranus’, we delved into deeper discussions on politics, history, and culture. It was odd, philosophizing with this complete stranger on topics like 9/11, the English monarchy, oil sands, and Baptist churches, but, oi, why not?
Those last six days at the hostel were bittersweet. I wasn’t a fan of living out of a suitcase, but very much enjoyed meeting folks from Ireland, France, Australia, and Israel. They were all terrific (except for the kiwi who made us watch Ghosts of Girlfriends Past – that movie is atrocious, what was he thinking?).
Back at McGraw-Hill, it was time to say goodbye. The coworkers took me out for lunch in Korea Town, and, at 5:00 on Friday the 13th (coincidence?), I took the elevator down from the 21st floor and walked away from Penn Plaza for the last time. Sigh. I’ll miss those guys.
So that’s that. I’m penning the end to this episode in the La Guardia airport, about to hop the plane home. It seems like just last week when I arrived, all wide-eyed and eager and stuffed with first-class breakfast. Now I’m heading back in Cabin Y, the caboose of crammed economy, on Air Canada’s rickety little jazz craft. Good Lord, how could my aristocracy crumble like this? What has flying come to?
But in all seriousness...
Twelve weeks ago, I ended my first blog post in New York with the sentence: “this is a story where even the author doesn’t know what happens next”. Now that the tale’s been told, I look back with bloody amazement: from picnicking in Central Park to taking pictures on top of the Empire State Building; from sailing past the Statue of Liberty to touring Saturday Night Live soundstages in Rockefeller Center. I met dozens of celebrities, saw seventeen Broadway productions, laughed with Letterman at the Late Show, sat front row mezzanine at Radio City Music Hall, ate two scrumptious meals at two dinner show cabarets, munched lunch with my CEO, ooo’d and aahhh’d at 4th of July fireworks, walked the boardwalk at Coney Island, acted in an MTV show, AND met great new friends who best keep in touch or else. Elise, Casie, Jon-Jon, Jocelyn, Kirk, Maria, Prerna, Robyn, Erica, Angela, Alex, Stephen, Matt, Michelle, Peter, Andrew, George, Sam, Benjamin -- thanks for all the fun!
In retrospect, if living in New York has taught me anything –- if I can draw any themes from my own story, they would be these:
1. Value people over places, and
2. Success doesn’t rub off.
Of course I loved Manhattan, but the best parts of the summer didn’t come from just being there; they came from making those new friends I mentioned and taking on the city together. Point two is pretty simple: being around celebrities doesn't make you one. I’ve gotta work my butt off to earn my way back to the big city, and while publishing was a great industry to dip my toes in, I’m still eager to try out show biz...
Let's address that show biz thought for a second: could I settle into a comfortable suburban life after graduation? Sure. But do I want to? Not yet. There's still too much out there I haven't explored.
Take Penn Plaza's elevator as a metaphor.
At the NYC office where I worked, McGraw-Hill only occupied a few of the mid-range floors. During the 9:00 and 5:00 rushes, the elevator car would inevitably stop on every single level. One particular hall that would pass by was Madison Square Garden’s office area. The doors would glide open and reveal a sign in solid gold letters that read: “Madison Square Garden: Where Legends are Made”. All summer I rode that elevator up and down, watching people get on/off that floor, and I’d read the sign -- Where Legends Are Made -- right before the doors would slam shut in my nose. I always wished I could get off there. You know, walk in and ask reception “Excuse me, but your sign outside says you make legends. Could you book me an appointment? I’d very much like to dive into the entertainment world and be an instant hero without all that hassle of hard work and such.”
Alas, if only...
I’m back on the prairie now, far away from the towering NY skyline in a land where people know what “supper”, “washrooms”, and “bunnyhugs” are, distanced again from the throbbing entertainment industry and rushing New York pulse. It’ll be tough going back to school for another year, but with only two terms left I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Where that tunnel goes, who knows. But if you’re keen on finding out, keep checking this blog -- just because the New York chapter is finished doesn’t mean the story’s over yet. Trust me.
Thanks again to all the Americans who were so welcoming. Contrary to international belief, you're not all ignorant, bull-headed, selfish fatties with a shitty economy. You're funny, friendly, and hard working people with a shitty economy. It was a pleasure being with you -- come up and visit any time.
Long live the Queen, God bless America.
- Devon
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
I'm NOT Homeless!
And thank God, because life was about to enter into panic mode.
As some of you know, my apartment is only scheduled to last until August 9th, while my internship goes until the 13th. That's six nights that I hadn't started worrying about until, oh, I don't know, yesterday.
Craigslist to the rescue!
I contacted about half a dozen listings (mostly shared studios for ~$50/night) and got a couple responses back. Most of them were unavailable for all the nights that I needed -- and I wasn't about to move multiple times in the course of six days -- so when one guy emailed back with a reasonably good location, a great rate, and perfect availability, it seemed like heaven had opened up and God was smiling down.
That euphoria didn't last long.
What I thought was the perfect Craigslist posting was actually little more than a blowup mattress, a toilet behind two closet doors, and a bathtub in the middle of a living room with some curtains around it.
Yep -- turns out sometimes when God's smiling, it's because he's laughing.
I should mention at this point that one of my coworkers graciously offered her couch as a backup plan. Unfortunately, she lives out in White Plains (over a half hour train ride to Manhattan in the morning), and I was sort of hoping to spend my last week with my remaining friends in the city. The gesture was very much appreciated none-the-less.
So it was back to Craigslist.
Something that I found really interesting about responding to these online ads was that usually the first thing people asked in their replies was: "could you please tell me more about yourself?".
Umm... ok. I'm almost 21. I'm doing an internship, I'm Canadian. I'm not a douche.
What else do they want to know? How detailed do I get?
I totally understand why they ask -- I mean, if they're living at the location too (which is often the case), they want to make sure that they're hosting someone with a congenial personality. I assume they want people who are tidy and nice and friendly etc. etc.. But honestly, no one is going to say "I throw obnoxious parties every night" or "I pick my nose" or "I don't put the toilet seat down", so unless it's for a stay longer than five nights, I would rather just exchange cash up front for the room keys and be on my merry way. I mean, real estate relationships are measured in square-foot-per-dollar. And let's face it: if someone's a serial killer, they're not going to admit it in their introductory email anyway.
Long story short, I didn't even go with anything from Craigslist. [Sorry -- you could have saved three minutes of your life by skipping straight to this part of the post instead, but hey, too late now.]
I ended up booking a room at the Times Square hostel. Good price, great location, no bath tub with curtains. So that's an immense weight off my scoliosis.
In other news, work is wrapping up insanely quick. Today, one of my coworkers brought me a box of cookies (to share with the whole department... not just for me) because she's off on vacation next week and I won't get to see her again. So all day, I had people popping in my cubicle wishing me good luck and best wishes and all that before stealing a cookie and ducking out. I hadn't even met most of them before, but free cookies in an office are like tequila shots to Lindsay Lohan. Irresistible.
Now, time for a celebrity update.
My parents and grandparents came in yesterday, and after having dinner at The Olive Garden, we walked through Times Square only to see a crowd of people doing a large choreographed dance around Justin Timberlake. Such is the weirdness a pedestrian can encounter here. Lots of my friends have spotted Russell Brand and Katy Perry walking around, too, so cross your fingers for me. And to Tina Fey: if you're reading this, I'm free for coffee next Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday.
Because of all the moving and commotion of the upcoming week, I doubt I'll be able to do another blog post until next Saturday or Sunday. It will be the final post of my New York adventure, and even as I write this now, I feel something in my chest that has a hard time handling that. So until that last post, I'll take another break from the blogosphere to enjoy this last week in New York with wild abandon.
Oh, and if you don't see another post in the next ten days, chances are Tina Fey and I eloped. That, or I got stabbed at the hostel.
As some of you know, my apartment is only scheduled to last until August 9th, while my internship goes until the 13th. That's six nights that I hadn't started worrying about until, oh, I don't know, yesterday.
Craigslist to the rescue!
I contacted about half a dozen listings (mostly shared studios for ~$50/night) and got a couple responses back. Most of them were unavailable for all the nights that I needed -- and I wasn't about to move multiple times in the course of six days -- so when one guy emailed back with a reasonably good location, a great rate, and perfect availability, it seemed like heaven had opened up and God was smiling down.
That euphoria didn't last long.
What I thought was the perfect Craigslist posting was actually little more than a blowup mattress, a toilet behind two closet doors, and a bathtub in the middle of a living room with some curtains around it.
Yep -- turns out sometimes when God's smiling, it's because he's laughing.
I should mention at this point that one of my coworkers graciously offered her couch as a backup plan. Unfortunately, she lives out in White Plains (over a half hour train ride to Manhattan in the morning), and I was sort of hoping to spend my last week with my remaining friends in the city. The gesture was very much appreciated none-the-less.
So it was back to Craigslist.
Something that I found really interesting about responding to these online ads was that usually the first thing people asked in their replies was: "could you please tell me more about yourself?".
Umm... ok. I'm almost 21. I'm doing an internship, I'm Canadian. I'm not a douche.
What else do they want to know? How detailed do I get?
I totally understand why they ask -- I mean, if they're living at the location too (which is often the case), they want to make sure that they're hosting someone with a congenial personality. I assume they want people who are tidy and nice and friendly etc. etc.. But honestly, no one is going to say "I throw obnoxious parties every night" or "I pick my nose" or "I don't put the toilet seat down", so unless it's for a stay longer than five nights, I would rather just exchange cash up front for the room keys and be on my merry way. I mean, real estate relationships are measured in square-foot-per-dollar. And let's face it: if someone's a serial killer, they're not going to admit it in their introductory email anyway.
Long story short, I didn't even go with anything from Craigslist. [Sorry -- you could have saved three minutes of your life by skipping straight to this part of the post instead, but hey, too late now.]
I ended up booking a room at the Times Square hostel. Good price, great location, no bath tub with curtains. So that's an immense weight off my scoliosis.
In other news, work is wrapping up insanely quick. Today, one of my coworkers brought me a box of cookies (to share with the whole department... not just for me) because she's off on vacation next week and I won't get to see her again. So all day, I had people popping in my cubicle wishing me good luck and best wishes and all that before stealing a cookie and ducking out. I hadn't even met most of them before, but free cookies in an office are like tequila shots to Lindsay Lohan. Irresistible.
Now, time for a celebrity update.
My parents and grandparents came in yesterday, and after having dinner at The Olive Garden, we walked through Times Square only to see a crowd of people doing a large choreographed dance around Justin Timberlake. Such is the weirdness a pedestrian can encounter here. Lots of my friends have spotted Russell Brand and Katy Perry walking around, too, so cross your fingers for me. And to Tina Fey: if you're reading this, I'm free for coffee next Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday.
Because of all the moving and commotion of the upcoming week, I doubt I'll be able to do another blog post until next Saturday or Sunday. It will be the final post of my New York adventure, and even as I write this now, I feel something in my chest that has a hard time handling that. So until that last post, I'll take another break from the blogosphere to enjoy this last week in New York with wild abandon.
Oh, and if you don't see another post in the next ten days, chances are Tina Fey and I eloped. That, or I got stabbed at the hostel.
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