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

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

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