Thursday, December 20, 2007

The Bus After the Next One

Yesterday began just like any other day. I woke up. I came to work. I worked. I ate too many office Christmas treats. I got ready to go.

Late in the afternoon, I started to hear the pitter-patter of precipitation on the air-conditioning unit that hangs outside the window.

"Great," I thought. "It's gonna be a long trek home."

I slipped into the Subway right outside my building, over-sized hood up, ipod on, completely oblivious to the 6 seconds of rain that may or may not have fallen on me.

2 stops on the uptown R later, I took the underground tunnel into Port Authority, dodging the elements all together. At this point, I had no idea what was happening outside.

As I walked through the terminal, I could sense that something was wrong. The lines were too long. Longer than they should be, even for a rainy day. People were tense. Something was up.

I got on my usual line at gate 7, with all the familiar faces: jerky Wall Street guy, good looking skater guy in black hat who I always try to start a friendly conversation with but never do, pretty Spanish woman in boots. As you already know from my previous profile on commuting, while we smile and nod at each other as we scoot down the aisle of the bus, that's as far as it goes. We never speak, so these shallow descriptions are all I have.

6:20 came and went, but the bus did not. 6:30, 6:50, 7:00, 7:20. At this point the lines had circled in on themselves and wrapped around the terminal so many times, they were completely indecipherable from one another.

Then the announcements came: "Due to inclement weather, we are currently experiencing delays on all inbound and outbound traffic." Good looking skater guy gave a look like, "wonderful." I knew we were in for an even longer than usual night of not speaking.

The woman behind me looked worried. "What does that mean, delays? How long will we all be here? HOW WILL WE GET HOME TONIGHT!!!?!?!?!" She was yelling, and making a scene, and personally I thought she began to panic a little to early, but I went with it.

A mob began to form around the Academy Bus dispatchers. The mob was angry. And terrible things like "group-think" and "mob-mentality" began to take shape.

"EVERYONE NEEDS TO JUST CALM DOWN, AND STOP CLOSING IN ON US. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE OUT THERE. I GOT DRIVERS FROM JERSEY STUCK IN TUNNELS IN BROOKLYN, AND DRIVERS FROM UPSTATE ON BACK ROADS IN GREENWICH. IT'S MADNESS. MADNESSSS!!!!!"

With that outcry, even the people who were keeping it together lost their cool. The Academy dispatchers never had a chance. The mob closed in around them and bludgeoned them to death with their own Walkie-Talkies and clipboards.

That's when it started to get out of hand. First the looting. The crowd raided the Hudson News stand and made off with every issue of Good Housekeeping, US Weekly, Just 18, and Latin Inches. Along with all the pocket sized reading lamps and Triple-A battery packs they could find.

The Auntie Anne's Pretzel Stand employees rapidly tried to roll down their metal-panel wall while simultaneously sling-shotting cinnamon-sugar pretzel sticks at people to hold them back. It was so naive. Didn't they know the aroma would only draw MORE people??

Meanwhile, upstairs at Leisure Time Bowling: Spirits and Lanes, angry commuters carelessly took to the lanes for free without the proper footwear. All Hell was breaking loose, and it showed no signs of stopping.

I survived most of the massacre with a few other people inside the men's bathroom on the main level. I was just whistling and tapping my foot to pass the time, and for some reason that seemed to draw looks from the other men. Weird.

During the next hour, the food supply dwindled fast, so did the heat. The Pepperidge Farm display in Duane Reade was completely cleared out, save for the Apricot Veronas. No one ever liked those.

People were freezing, hungry, and the body count started to climb. First the elderly went. Then the children. The larger commuters survived longer, living off their own stored energy and body heat for a few extra hours.

It got very quiet. You could hear the moans and cries of the almost dead, and the tears of the hopeless. "So this is how it ends," I thought. I sat outside the door of Gate 7 for a while, just thinking about things.

My eyes began to fade. So... cold... so... ridiculous...
















Suddenly, a voice.

"Anyone going to Lincroft? Parkway Express 109?"

That was my route. By the grace of God, one bus had made it through. I thought I'd have to tear my way through crowds of people, but there was no mad rush to the door, because only a handful of us were still alive. I made my way onto the bus alongside pretty Spanish woman in boots, and skater guy, but Wall Street guy didn't make it.

As we rode home in silence, I wondered: would anyone be there to greet us? Was the Port Authority apocalypse a mirror of the outside world? Or was it just a taste of things to come...

On some level, maybe this is the universe telling me I'm not cut out for this. Or maybe it's just something telling me to speed up my moving plans and get into the city sooner rather then later.

My good friend Maura recently decided that New York was in her future. All this time I thought I'd been living it already, but I'm starting to realize that commuting doesn't mean the same thing as NY. And until I make the move onto the island itself, I'll always be waiting for the bus after next...

Saturday, November 17, 2007

The (Ham and) Cheese Stands Alone

I logged into my Facebook account earlier this week, and after perusing, reading, stalking, scrolling, and posting around my usual places, I stopped by my own page to have a look at what the cosmos had in store for me this week:








Could this be true? Did someone else finally recognize that I am the sane one!?!? I spent so many years thinking the world was out to get me, but maybe I was wrong after all.

***In honor of this post on crazy, I've posted some old pictures of people (myself included) looking completely nuts.***

It all started as far back as Kindergarten, because Kindergarteners can be so cruel. After lunch, when we had play-time, I would sometimes dabble in the game of "house". You know it, I'm sure: children act like grownups, mimicking their parents, and everything they see them do in a day: taking care of the baby, grocery shopping, kissing boo-boos, drinking too much.

Seemed perfectly normal to me. Don't we all live in houses? Won't we all, eventually, become the figures we are mimicking? Might as well get in some practice while we're young...RIGHT?

Unfortunately, NO. According to kindergarten, only girls can play house. And boys who play house, well there's a word for them. I can't say it here, but it's REALLY ironic.


























On Valentine's Day, my class played a game called Special Delivery! One person sat in the center of the circle blindfolded. Someone delivered to them a valentine (like a mailman!). The blindfold is removed. And the recipient has to guess who sent it to them. Simple.

When it was my turn to deliver (and trust me I did!), the spotlight-hungry child-actor came rushing out of me, and I marched up to the kid in the chair (Nikhil Vais), knocked on the back of it, put on a funny voice to mask my own, and said "Special Delivery" out loud. Wasn't I adorable?

Well Nikhil IMMEDIATELY removed his blindfold and just stared at me. The rest of the class glared, like I had RUINED the game for EVERYONE! My teacher just shook her head. Apparently by spicing things up, I had broken the rules. Shame on me. I'd show them...just how spicy I could be.
































The years went by. In 3rd grade we had to write an essay about what career we saw ourselves in. I couldn't pick a career, so I spent the bulk of the essay explaining why I did NOT want to be a garbage man. I did not get a good grade on that assignment.

In 4th grade, the height of my note-passing years, Chelsea Barker and I got into a heated note discussion one afternoon about whose house we would play at after school, and if she could invite Marybeth. I didn't want Marybeth there, and as I explained in my note, I thought Marybeth was "a bitch".

I knew it was a bad word. But I also knew I meant it. Cursing was cool! What I DIDN'T know was that Chelsea did not approve of cursing, and she promptly showed my note to Mrs. Nicolato. WHAT?? She was supposed to be my friend! We were having a private discussion! Why would she stab me in the back like that?? If I didn't know the true meaning of the B word yet, I certainly did now.




























Middle School, in its entirety, was one giant prank on me, I'm convinced. It's not even worth going into.

In more recent years, however, I've caught on to the fact that I actually might not be the crazy one. People all around me are just becoming more and more insane, but I still need reassurance occasionally.

Last week, my dad and I stopped into this cafe for lunch. It's called All-Mixed-Up, and you check off what you want on a little paper menu, write your name on top, hand it to someone behind a counter and VOI-LA: Lunch!

The waitress brought our paninis over a few minutes later, handing us a hot little chicken/portabello/balsamic number for me, and a ham and cheese for Marty, which seemed odd. He doesn't eat ham.

"I didn't order this."

"Oh...I'm sorry.... maybe there was a mistake. Let me check your ticket."

A minute later, the waitress came back with his ticket. She hesitated, and handed it to him. "Marty: Number 4. Ham and Cheese."

"I SWEAR I didn't write that. I wanted the same one you got!"

"Then why didn't you CIRCLE number 1?" This was not a Florida election ballot. This was a sandwich menu.

"I don't know... I must have gotten All Mixed Up"





























So maybe my horoscope is right. Maybe it IS just me, and everyone else is playing on a completely different level. From the looks of it, it's been this way for many years, and shows no signs of stopping.

I've always seen this blog as a place where we could all get away from the psychoses of everyone else, and just stand back, point, and laugh at them. Some people think that's cheesy. But I like it. I guess the cheese really does stand alone.

At least the cheese isn't insane.

Good luck everyone.


Evan

Friday, October 26, 2007

Shot through the heart, and you're to blame...

...You give New Jersey a bad name!



Dear readers,

I need to get something off my chest.

I hate Bon Jovi.

And I am DONE being ostracized for my beliefs! Sometimes I feel like an outsider in my own state because of this. I feel persecuted. Just because I'm from Bon Jahovi's home state, I'm supposed to worship him? To swoon, to pump my fist, to buy a can of VA-VOOM hairspray. Am I crazy? Or just living on a prayer?

I know what you're thinking. Who can resist this:



















On the eve of the kickoff to his big 2007 tour, christening the new Prudential Arena in Newark with 10 (not so sold out) shows, I was in the car with my Dad, and some Bon Jovi song came on the radio. I did a Tourettes-style jump in my seat and instantly switched to a different station.

"I don't know what you're big problem is with Bon Jovi...he's an icon," Martin mused.

Wait wait wait. You DON'T see the problem?? First of all, look at him:



















This guy was once wanted dead or alive? Can't we just pick one of those?

Maybe it's his fans. Like many other die-hard fan groups, Jovi fans find hundreds of little ways to work Jovi into their lives, ruining it for the rest of us. I'm sure they have a name, like Dead-heads for Grateful Dead fans. BJs? Jovi-heads? Joviwild!?!?!? Or Dave Matthews fans. Wherever they are. Whatever those are called.

I've never met one.

I think my biggest beef with the man is that he has has completely ruined New Jersey. New Jersey, the state I've worked so long and hard to change the hair-band perception of. And yet every year, BJ goes on tour, and the fans crawl out from back behind the register at the Claire's in the mall all over again.

The most important thing to remember is that Bon Jovi is from Sayreville. I don't know how many of you have actually been to Sayreville recently, but it's disgusting. You know the old phrase: You can take the boy out of Sayreville....
"Who says you can't go home?" Hopefully his own judgment. I wouldn't set foot there.

New Jersey has a lot of obstacles to overcome. First off, outsiders have the horrible perception of it from the one road they all drive down: The New Jersey Turnpike.
We get it. It's gross. So is most of Indiana, but you don't hear us jumping down their throats about it. One little road. Give me a break.

There's no use trying to defend this state to outsiders. I like to let them call it "the armpit" all they want, knowing that my corner of this place is secluded, untouched by New York weekenders, a beach heaven, and totally amazing. But it's ok. you don't have to believe me :)

Finally, the music. I'm not going to argue against his tunes, because there will always be someone who will rip apart my own taste (even though it's the BEST!). All I'm saying is ever since "It's My Life" came out and he discovered that robot-harmonica-voice-morphing thing, his singles have all sounded mysteriously similar.

I have a few friends who love the Jovi. I don't get it. I never will. But truth be told, this is not the first bandwagon I decided to let pass.














Like Bjork. People either think Bjork is "foreign and weird", or they worship her so much they will actually defend this as a good decision:

















Bjork people are like Curb your Enthusiasm people. Curb people think Curb is the be-all and end-all of television comedy. My friend Will and I often discuss the social peculiarity of being an intelligent, dry humor-loving, non Curb fan.

When you tell someone who loves Curb that you don't like it, they do 1 of 2 things:

1. They say, "You just don't get it."

2. They wait for you to leave, turn to their friend, and say "They just don't get it."












It's a unique position to be in when you can confidently, successfully say:

"Oh I get it...and I still think it sucks. How about you switch on 30-Rock?" And I'm not saying you should agree with me. It's just my opinion. But hey, you're here aren't you?

So Bon Jovi isn't for me. But maybe that's what you're in to. And that's cool. Just keep it to yourself for Christ's sake.

Or go back to Sayreville.

















-Evan

Thursday, October 18, 2007

It's Just a Jump to the Left!















And then a step to the r i i i i i i i i ght.


Come on everybody, let's do the Times Square Shuffle!

Sunday, September 30, 2007

Commutehead: Welcome to the Suck

OOORAH!

I've now been a member of the gainfully employed for one month. One month of work. One month of lunches and meetings, of portfolios and tear-sheets. One month of metro-cards, and people referring to it as "the subway" instead of "the T". That last one is particularly nice.

And one month of commuting.

Let me tell you something about commuting. I'll let you in on a little secret about it....




It sucks.




Now don't get me wrong. I love my job. It should be illegal to like a first real job as much as I do. But destinational passion aside, it is impossible to overlook that pesky, 2-way, 45 mile commute.


















Each day, along with hundreds of thousands of New Jersey, Westchester, and Connecticut residents, I get on a bus near my house that takes me straight to New York, in just under an hour, and drops me off at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. We are commuteheads. And the commuteheads are me.





















I have a very long, complicated, love/hate relationship with this building. Port Authority was the start and end to many trips back and forth to Boston during college. It was the meeting place for nights out with friends before we had licenses.

And when I was acting, and going to auditions or rehearsals a few times a week, this is where I would meet my dad to go wherever I needed to go. This was a solid routine, played out without fail, literally hundreds of times.

One day, when I was about 13, I was hanging around the Hudson News stand on the main level, our usual meeting point, waiting for my dad to bring me to an audition, when 2 Port Authority security officers, who obviously thought I was a teen hustler, approached me.

"Hey kid."

"Hello."

"How old are you?"

"13."

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

"(Shouldn't you have stayed in school? Of course what I really said was) I'm waiting for my dad."

"Oh really, well why aren't you in school?"

"I'm an actor. I'm going to an audition."

"Oh right... well why don't you come back to our office here and we can call him."

I'd heard about this office before from my friend Jesse, a fellow New Jersey kid actor. Sadly, he was not quick enough on his toes to talk his way out of the ordeal, and spent a few hours waiting for his mom to pick him up, surrounded by homeless junkies and truant street urchins.

"Why don't we stay right here and I'll call him myself," as I took my GIGANTIC Nokia cell phone out of my bag. This was 1998, the last thing these guys expected me to whip out was a cell phone.



















This scene played out for a few more minutes until my dad got there, when we both had to show some form of ID, to make sure he wasn't my pimp, and I could be released into his custody.

Long story short, now that I'm a full timer, I've learned A LOT about the daily commuting routine, from the commuteheads who have been doing it day after day for years now, and I'd like to share some of this with you.

There are a few unspoken rules about commuting on a bus, that everyone just seems to inherently know. IF violated, one can expect certain excommunication from the inner circle of friendly nods and preferential seating.

First off, don't make noise. Ever. In any form.
Don't talk to the person next to you.
Don't allow your iPod to be audible to anyone except you.
Keep phone conversations extremely whispered and limited to the phrases "I'm on the 6:30" or "Pick me up in an hour".
And if your cellphone or blackberry actually makes a sound instead of vibrating....
well, only God can save you then.

Second, how dare you recline your seat all the way back.
And don't even think about putting your briefcase on the seat next to you to bar people from trying to sit there. You think you're the first one to ever try that? Grow up.

Fatties? Beware! This bus is filling up. Just because you're huge doesn't mean I'm not going to need that seat next to you. (That's not to say I want it.) But save yourself the embarrassment of having to get up to let me in, and just slide over to the window.

Now, there are a few exceptions to these rules, sort of like a peak/off-peak system of when they are in effect. For example, the noise rules are only in effect until 9am and after 4pm.

Last week, I had an early doctor's appointment, and got on a 9:30am bus. By this time, the bus is mostly filled with older women, just going to spend the day in the city. These women spend the entire ride talking about their kids, their grandkids, their medications, that new Nathan Lane play, and the horrible service at Murphey's Grill the other night. And they don't care WHO hears it.













We call this bus the Yenta Express.

The Yenta Express is widely considered the least desirable bus to be on, however it also comes in ghetto-pregnant and Spanish-speaking varieties.

On Friday's return trip, I encountered a type of commuter I had never seen before: secret alcoholic commuter.

This is the man who's week was SO stressful, he literally can't wait until he gets home to crack open a few cans of Bud. This man sat next to me, and concealed between his leg and the window was a brown paper bag with not 1, but 2 cans of Bud in it.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as he covered the can top with his hand, trying to muffle the sound of the can cracking open as he slowly let the fizz out. He then removed a straw (A STRAW!!) from his inside jacket pocket and proceeded to sip down the beer for the rest of the ride home. When he got off the bus, he left the empty cans in the bag on his seat, not even bothering to throw them out. Sad.











What drives a man to drink regular Bud from a can through a straw on a bus? Is his job really that bad? Or has 20 years of commuting finally gone to his head? Does he now live with PTCD - Post Traumatic Commuter Disorder?

Luckily, my tour of duty as a commutehead will not be long enough for me to find out, but it's good to know the rules from day one. They could come in handy in the future, because a minuscule, tiny part of me will always be one of them.

That's all for now. I'll be back soon with more stories from the road and the workplace. To end with, a quote:

"A story. A man rides a bus for many years. And he goes to work. And afterwards he comes home, and he sees that whatever else he may do with his life - build a house, love a woman, change his son's diaper - he will always remain a commutehead. And all the commuteheads, driving and riding, they will always be me. We are still on the bus."


ooorah.


-evan

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Return of the Speed Bump

For about 10 years, my family lived in a community known as Deep Run, in Old Bridge, NJ. It was a small, private development of about 90 homes, sectioned off into small cul-de-sacs, each one named after a place in California: Monterey, Belaire, Dorado, Ventura, Westwood, Sierra, and Malibu.

One road connects them all in a giant circle, the binding loop of the entire development: Deep Run Drive. One Road to rule them all, and One Road to bind them.

As with many communities set up this way, there was an association of 6 or 7 board members, a fellowship, if you will, who would meet once each month and make decisions for the community, about snow or leaf removal or whatever.

By 2003, my father, and current roommate, Martin, decided it was time for some new blood on the board, and campaigned along with some of his homowner friends for spots on the board. They won, and within months, you could literally see the effects of their political strong-arming. Better management, streamlined maintenance, soda in every water-fountain!

But power corrupts, and by 2004, Martin decided that he thought it would be a good idea to install speed bumps on Deep Run Drive. Why? No one knows. He claimed people drove too fast, children were in danger, babies were being crushed. But nothing like that had ever happened before, so why bother now?













To every home owner's dismay, as well as anyone who visited from the outside, 4 gigantic speed bumps were installed on the loop, which were so high off the ground, they tore up the bottom of half the cars in Deep Run. I don't even think they were installed correctly. They were just big lumps of cement, that protruded like 10 inches off the ground. You'd think Martin paved them himself. These behemoth, yellow monstrosities were unsightly, and utterly useless.










Widespread community outrage plagued board meetings for months to follow, not to mention internal family drama, but Martin and his conservative majority wouldn't budge. Those speed bumps were staying as long as he was on the board!

In August of 2005, we moved out of Deep Run, to Ocean NJ, and in September, the speed bumps were removed, never to be mentioned again. So much for the Silverberg legacy. Reports from the demolition suggest that people rejoiced in the streets, and I think the scene probably looked very similar to this:


















I thought that was the last time we'd ever see these speed bumps... but was it?



As you all know, I started my job a few weeks ago, and even though I've only been there 2 weeks, I can report that I am having a blast. When I was a kid, I thought artist management and representation was limited to actors, because I was one, and I had limited brain-using capabilities. My firm, however, represents people in the fashion industry (not models), like stylists, and hair and make-up designers for labels and photographers.

So basically, if you open any issue of Vogue or Elle or Harpers, or any of the major fashion mags, flip to the fashion editorials, and look for the styling credits on the last page of each story, we represent THOSE people.

Fashion week was a fascinating time to start working, because while the office was probably the busiest it will be all year, I was able to immerse myself in the industry and learn so much in a very short period of time.















As a perk, I got to go to a show that one of our stylists was working on. I was on cloud 9, totally enamored by the people and activity swirling around me.























So work is wonderful, and living at home is alright, but socially, I'm in this very strange limbo. I'm not in Boston. I'm not technically in New York, nor do I want to be on my days off. Most of my friends from Old Bridge have gone back to college. And here I am. In Ocean. And not too many people are around. It's a transitional period. But it feels like someone's hit the breaks. Things are slowing down.

Speed Bump, Straight Ahead.

The day I started my job, our NEW development, named Hidden Meadows, began a major repaving project for the main road. Hidden Meadows has street names like Tanya, Daniele, Stacey, and Jerod (please). There were no speed bumps to speak of, and a management fellowship that my dad had absolutely no part of.

Yesterday, they finished the repaving project, and christened the newly paved Hidden Meadows Drive with a newly paved...you guessed it:













What exactly is going on here? I don't really know what conclusions to draw from this. Why are these things popping up everywhere I go? What are they trying to tell me? Where's Frodo when I need him? (It should be noted that the road sign in the above photo clearly says "Speed Hump")

With everything else going so well, I've got to figure out a way to move past this social speed bump. Some late night demolition may be in order. Personally, I find it kind of funny that something so small can cause so much mischief. But then again, that's what they said about me.



-Evan

Saturday, September 01, 2007

The Summer of Unemployment Comes to an End

I know summer doesn't officially end until September 20-something, but I made my peace with the season over the last 7 days. And now, as I get ready to start life as a 20-something of my own, I think this pivotal week deserves a review.

It's a little bit ironic, you know. I was starting to think I was never going to find a job. You know that Train song? "Calling All Angels"? Where the guy starts out by shouting, "I NEED A SIGN!" I'd been looking for a sign all summer, something that could re-assure me that I wasn't a freak and that I'd find a job soon.

But at the same time, I was really beginning to like my life as an unemployed, beach dwelling, restaurant-only eating, responsibility-free college graduate.

But then I realized there's a name for people like that: trust fund babies.

And that's not me.

























So after a summer's worth of job interviews and uncertainty, I am finally a member of the gainfully employed. And what a relief, because if this went on any longer, I'd have to dip into the trust fund.

Looking for a job is hard work. I spent so many days this summer scanning the job postings of Craigslist, CareerBuilder, Monster, Media Bistro, Entertainment Jobs, sending out cover letter + resume after cover letter + resume.

In the beginning, I got a few interviews, and was quick to get my hopes up. I had my first interview at Hungry Man and THAT was my job. Then I interviewed with 21c, Rubenstein, Creative Group, Gilla Roos, and more, and I planned on getting all of them. Turns out getting a job isn't as easy as getting an interview. It also turns out you can't get a job just by BEING easy either. Some HR people don't like that, I learned.

In the end, I replied to an ad for a marketing position at a boutique fashion agency that represents stylists and the like, and I just had a feeling, a hunch, that this would be good. My first interview took place at a cafe in Chelsea, with the head of the agency. We talked for about a half hour about my resume, and about the position. It went well, and he told me to expect a second interview sometime near the end of the month.

Last weekend, I made the first trip up to Boston since leaving in May. I stayed at Maura's place and spent the weekend visiting with Karen, Kevin, Kara, and other people whose names start with a K, among other letters.



























It was strange being back by BU. As comfortable as I was walking around my old neighborhood, I felt out of place. I went to bars expecting to know so many people, but it was a lot of new faces. Here I thought I OWNED this town, but then I remembered I'm not a tool, and only tools say stuff like that.

It was a very relaxing weekend, and I'm glad I got to catch up with so many people. It made me look forward to going up to visit every once in a while, but at the same time, confident in my decision not to seek employment up there. Sometimes, you just have a hunch about what's right for yourself, even if you can't find the words to express it out loud.

I took one last look around before getting in the car to take off, and in the street below me, I spotted a sign:














With that, I knew everything was going to be just fine. I'm not stupid or ugly. This sign was obviously false.

And that's the truth isn't it. Signs and hunches are completely different. Signs come from anywhere, and can be easily misinterpreted. That's how psychics make money. People go in looking for a sign, and will find a way to somehow relate to anything broad they might say. Hunches we create for ourselves, because sometimes we just know.

A few days ago, I went back in for a second interview at the fashion agency, to meet with the other agents in the office. And while sitting on the bus on my way home from the interview, I got the call. They were making me an offer, and I was going to take it.

So now I have a job, although I haven't started yet. I'll let you know when I do though, and will keep you posted on everything as it happens. I know nothing is certain, but I have a feeling this is going to be a really great opportunity.

I don't know, it's just a hunch.


-evan

Sunday, August 05, 2007

Having Your Own Place is GREAT!

Over the last 2 weeks, I have come to realize how great having your own place really is.

I have to apologize for taking so long to write, but things in my life have just been changing so rapidly, it's nearly impossible for anyone to even consider trying to keep up. So don't. I mean, living situation, jobs, traveling... it's been one hell of a summer. But I figured I would try and update everyone on my current "status", since some people won't leave me alone with the inquiries.

So here goes... try and stay with me.

OK let's start with the living situation. I didn't ACTUALLY get my own place, but I did move to New York after graduation. Well, not technically New York, it's a little bit outside the city really. It's kind of like New Jersey. And I'm not on my own, fully. I sort of have these 2 roommates. They're cool. They stay pretty quiet, have full time jobs, and go to sleep relatively early.

The girl is great, she takes care of the laundry and stuff like that, which is a RARE find these days. Sometimes she gets on me about "bringing in the mail" or "clearing my plate", but you know, it's a give and take. That's what comes along with roommates I guess.

The guy is cool, too. He has a home office and a car he lets me use whenever I want. Honestly, I don't think I could have asked for better roommates. They're in their 50s, drink a lot of wine, and have been married for almost 32 years. Here's a pic of us from a few weeks ago, at a party they threw me for graduation:















My job has been really awful lately, mostly because, I don't have one. So I've been really busy with no-work-related things like taking clients to the beach, buying "supplies" for myself, BBQ-ing with colleagues, and running errands for my roommates. I don't mind. I mean someone has to order and pick up lunch, right?



























And that's why, in case you were wondering, why I haven't had time to write in this too often. Because I mean, when the work week is through, and my roommates head to their beach house, all I want to do is kick back and relax, you know? Is that so much to ask of the weekend?

So when the clock hits 5 on Friday afternoon, it is BAM! Party time. And if you thought college kids knew how to party, let me show you a little bit of what college graduates do on weekends:








































Eating pizza, brushing teeth, Corey in a speedo...It's a non-stop crazyfest, every Saturday and Sunday. That's just how we unwind, you know? Because once Monday rolls around, it's back to the shirt and tie, daily grind, cubicle life.







































So I really feel like things are happening for me. And what a relief because that's what being a college graduate is all about. Making moves. And trust me, I am! I have this great place with 2 roommates who, let's be honest, I genuinely love.

It can get a little complicated though, because since I'm not really working, my roommates are trying to prep me for the real world. Kind of like training, I guess, for future employment opportunities. Using office jargon, acting like my superiors, stuff like that. Like tonight, for example, Carol (who HATES it when I call her that...) said that if I finish all of my projects for the week (which she hilariously called "chores"), she'll increase my expense account.

Two quick announcements before I finish up. First off...this one is a little embarrassing actually...but I finally got to second base with Jaimie (but also with anyone :(.















I know that's probably hard to believe, but I wanted it to happen with someone special, you know?

And finally, I just want to give a shout-out to my friend Kim...















...who just entered rehab. We're all pulling for you!




Check back soon. Peace out readers.

Evan

Sunday, May 27, 2007

What's a metaphor? I don't know, what's a meta-with you?

A week ago, on May 20th, 2007, I graduated from college. And now, I have just one question:

Now what?

In high school, our teachers tried to tell us they were preparing us for college, but we all know that's wrong. Of course no one remembers stuff from chemistry, physics, calculus or other utterly useless subjects, but there were supposed to be "practical" subjects too. I don't really remember anything about "shorthand" notation, which was part of a class known as "study skills." I also don't type using the "home keys," and personally I think I type much faster MY way.

Then they say that college is supposed to prepare you for your first job, but we all know how wrong that is too. I don't really know what my first job is going to be, so how can I say I'm prepared for it?

I think college made me a better writer, and gave me a better overall understanding of the world we live in. That's pretty much it in terms of what I learned in a classroom. Outside the classroom, I learned how to think more critically and creatively, to be a better judge of character, to get the most out of myself and of other people, to "trim the fat" from every aspect of life imaginable, and only take what is absolutely needed. Sounds harsh. I know.







































Before graduation, we had a week long celebration of Senior Week, and every night was a different event. Clambake, booze cruise, senior ball, pub crawl. It was so much fun.

I will truly miss a lot of the people I have come to know and love over the last 1-2-3-and 4 years. That's not to say I won't be talking to or seeing some of them quite regularly (the internet... it's crazy huh?), I just mean that the frequency of our talks and visits will slowly decrease. Sure, we knew this going into it, and truthfully I had allocated time and emotion for dealing with it, so I think I'll be ok.

I hung out around Boston for a few days after graduation, trying to soak it all in, looking for something I hadn't yet found. I realize now that was foolish. I am a true believer that you can't possibly retain any information you don't already know by studying for a test the night before. The same goes for this.





































When I came home on Tuesday, it took me a few days to unpack my room as it stood, along with everything I brought back from school, organize, throw away, donate, redistribute, reorganize, pack away, and ultimately get my room and life back in order. For whatever lies next.

My closet took on new life as a mini storage facility for things of childhood sentiment, things I might be able to use in the future, and a few things I just don't know how to let go of.

Friday night I went into the city to see my friend's show and to go to a party. Yesterday I went to the beach with Beth, then up to Old Bridge for a little BBQ and pool action with some friends. It was such a good weekend, but a lot of the time my mind wandered.


























I came home early, for me, with the idea of curling up on the couch and catching up on the last few Sopranos episodes. I fell asleep mid-episode, and the closing credits woke me up around 3:15. I shut off all the lights and went upstairs.

When I hopped into bed, I heard a creak. Then another. Then another, louder, longer creak.

Then my entire closet, shelves and bars, broke out of its wall supports and collapsed through the sliding doors, spilling out into a giant heap on the floor of my bedroom.

And here I've been trying to keep it all together. Metaphor much?


























As I write this, thunder and lightening are starting to pick up outside. And I am trying to figure out the next step. I just assume I'm supposed to start working, but some people have been telling me to put it off, to go on an adventure, to explore, to "find myself." Trust me, I've found myself, and I'm going to be spending quite a bit of time with me in the future, so I'm kind of sick of it.

The future will be wonderful, I have no doubt of that. But what of right now? The last 4 years have each been about looking to whatever events and milestones lay ahead. Now, I kind of feel like, hurry up and wait. And that scares me.







































And what about that metaphor? I'm worried that all that occupies the right now is putting my closet back together, and having to go through it all. And I'd really like a distraction.

So if you have any ideas, keep me posted. I have some shelving to replace.