Monday, February 27, 2006
TJ, my old roommate, came into town over the weekend. After his fiancée broke off their engagement due to a number rather extenuating circumstances (I won’t get into that on this blog, that’s for sure) and he was in need of a change of pace, and to drown his sorrows in New York’s ocean of life.
And so we did (or attempted to). Anyone knowing TJ knows of his determination to hook up with women--fuel this all with drink and you have a comedy the likes of which nobody could write. Friday night was a pretty dry night for him but when Saturday night rolled around he was in full force. And he made some major investments in the endeavour: buying drinks for nearly all the women in an attempt to cloud their judgment and then getting upset when they didn’t respond (one told him he had a fat butt).
But it wasn’t all about the clubs and bars. We did manage to get some culture in. Well, that is we went to see Avenue Q, which is basically an R-rated Sesame Street. Then we went downtown to Wall Street, former WTC, the Statue of Liberty, and then to Rockefeller Center for a view and dinner.
It was totally remniscant of old times: Waking up the next morning and talking about the previous night, laughing, and plotting out the remainder of the day.
And so we did (or attempted to). Anyone knowing TJ knows of his determination to hook up with women--fuel this all with drink and you have a comedy the likes of which nobody could write. Friday night was a pretty dry night for him but when Saturday night rolled around he was in full force. And he made some major investments in the endeavour: buying drinks for nearly all the women in an attempt to cloud their judgment and then getting upset when they didn’t respond (one told him he had a fat butt).
But it wasn’t all about the clubs and bars. We did manage to get some culture in. Well, that is we went to see Avenue Q, which is basically an R-rated Sesame Street. Then we went downtown to Wall Street, former WTC, the Statue of Liberty, and then to Rockefeller Center for a view and dinner.
It was totally remniscant of old times: Waking up the next morning and talking about the previous night, laughing, and plotting out the remainder of the day.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Over the weekend I went to Philadelphia. There was really no particular reason except that Rob and I wanted to get out of town and enjoy a slower, friendlier pace of life. And with the City of Brotherly Love within an hour and a half drive, we made a run for it.
For those of you who knew me way back when, Max lived in Philly for a year and I used to go up there from Washington. Once there it was not unusual that we would drive up to New York for the weekend. So taking the train into Philly I couldn’t help but be flooded with strange memories of that relationship.
There was the time when we rented a car and Max left his work keys in the rental after we returned it. He freaked out and slipped into a state of depression, not talking to me and just staring into a wall. I was the one who simply called the rental company and got them while he sat stunned. And there was the time he freaked out because the phone rang after we went to bed – he ripped the cord out of the wall and threw the phone out the window. The list goes on and on. Suffice it to say that those were not happy times--and they only got worse once we moved in together in New York.
So in trying to get away from it all I took an unpleasant trip down memory lane. But lest I forget the pain in my life– otherwise I risk repeating those mistakes.
Thankfully there was plenty of good company, drinking and dancing. I had a blast.
For those of you who knew me way back when, Max lived in Philly for a year and I used to go up there from Washington. Once there it was not unusual that we would drive up to New York for the weekend. So taking the train into Philly I couldn’t help but be flooded with strange memories of that relationship.
There was the time when we rented a car and Max left his work keys in the rental after we returned it. He freaked out and slipped into a state of depression, not talking to me and just staring into a wall. I was the one who simply called the rental company and got them while he sat stunned. And there was the time he freaked out because the phone rang after we went to bed – he ripped the cord out of the wall and threw the phone out the window. The list goes on and on. Suffice it to say that those were not happy times--and they only got worse once we moved in together in New York.
So in trying to get away from it all I took an unpleasant trip down memory lane. But lest I forget the pain in my life– otherwise I risk repeating those mistakes.
Thankfully there was plenty of good company, drinking and dancing. I had a blast.
Friday, February 17, 2006
A sort of professional milestone was passed over the last month marking my assent in the corporate world: Being bombarded by various projects it was determined that we needed more staff. And believe it or not I was given a budget (me, with a budget!) to hire someone to report to me. An old colleague and professor of mine, who also knows the CEO, had a candidate in mind.
I told the candidate I didn’t want to do a formal interview. I suggested going to a trendy restaurant-bar where we could sit down and chat--I don’t believe in the traditional hiring process. She was bright – just graduated at the top of her class at Columbia University – and wanted to do something of substance with her career. And a couple of glasses of wine later over some tuna tar tar, I got out of her what she was making and what she was capable of doing (and that she was interviewing with some top consulting firms). She got out of me exactly the types of things she would be working on and what my management style was. We both walked away entheusiatic about the prospects.
And yesterday I made her an offer. She accepted.
There’s also less fun things going on. . .
One of the reasons I’ve been hired is that I have technical skills my predecessor did not have. And because of his lack of these skills we have had to staff a contractor to do some relatively simple reports. I determined we could do the job internally with existing resources and had to let him go.
Doing this was quite a performance. I explained situation to him –about my role, what was going on with the company and the project he was working on – to a point where I didn’t even have to say anything like “your services are no longer needed”. He figured it out himself and simply asked me “so do you want me to continue finishing up January or not?” And that was it.
He was a nice, honest guy and yea, I can’t help but think about his family, etc., who perhaps relied on that check from this company. But at the end of the day we have a business to run and if I’m worth the salary they pay me I’ve got to figure out ways to save money and do things more efficiently. We have investors.
God, did I really write that!
I told the candidate I didn’t want to do a formal interview. I suggested going to a trendy restaurant-bar where we could sit down and chat--I don’t believe in the traditional hiring process. She was bright – just graduated at the top of her class at Columbia University – and wanted to do something of substance with her career. And a couple of glasses of wine later over some tuna tar tar, I got out of her what she was making and what she was capable of doing (and that she was interviewing with some top consulting firms). She got out of me exactly the types of things she would be working on and what my management style was. We both walked away entheusiatic about the prospects.
And yesterday I made her an offer. She accepted.
There’s also less fun things going on. . .
One of the reasons I’ve been hired is that I have technical skills my predecessor did not have. And because of his lack of these skills we have had to staff a contractor to do some relatively simple reports. I determined we could do the job internally with existing resources and had to let him go.
Doing this was quite a performance. I explained situation to him –about my role, what was going on with the company and the project he was working on – to a point where I didn’t even have to say anything like “your services are no longer needed”. He figured it out himself and simply asked me “so do you want me to continue finishing up January or not?” And that was it.
He was a nice, honest guy and yea, I can’t help but think about his family, etc., who perhaps relied on that check from this company. But at the end of the day we have a business to run and if I’m worth the salary they pay me I’ve got to figure out ways to save money and do things more efficiently. We have investors.
God, did I really write that!
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Snow probably doesn’t much interest the vast majority of people who follow this blog. They are from the Midwest and, quite frankly, feel they endure worse out there with their lake-effect snow than most places in the world. But over the weekend a biblical snowfall hit New York the likes of which even the most jaded Midwesterner would gawk at.
Here the weathermen were predicting 10-12 inches all over the news; a snowstorm, yes, but nothing too far out of the ordinary (here they call them Nor’easters). And on Saturday night a fine snow began to dust the area. I went to bed early, smiting the weathermen for sensationalizing the weather just like their fellow anchormen. “This is going to be nothing.”
Early in the morning a giant clap of thunder woke me. “Thunder, in February?” Little did I know in that confused state that it was indeed still winter and also that this was nature’s way of announcing to this arrogant city that it was she who was boss. I came to my senses and looked out the window to see nothing but white and lightning in the skys. “An electric snow storm”, I thought. Holy sh*t.
It didn’t stop. And by time Sunday afternoon came around a total of 27” would have fallen in Central Park. And just so those jaded Midwesterners gain a sense of perspective the largest single snowfall in Chicago was a mere 22”. I’ve got you by at least five inches (those words will never come from this mouth again).
And with the coming and going of the snow came tranquility to this ordinarily bustling and noisy city. No cars, and a thick blanket of snow to absorb any remaining sound took care of that. On the subway people of all ages could be seen in their winter gear and toys to go play in the snow. And this epicenter of culture, business, publishing – you name it – took a little time out to go sledding.
As for me, I was with the remaining people not in Central Park. . . Looking out from my warm apartment – eer, with a Cosmo in my hand.
Here the weathermen were predicting 10-12 inches all over the news; a snowstorm, yes, but nothing too far out of the ordinary (here they call them Nor’easters). And on Saturday night a fine snow began to dust the area. I went to bed early, smiting the weathermen for sensationalizing the weather just like their fellow anchormen. “This is going to be nothing.”
Early in the morning a giant clap of thunder woke me. “Thunder, in February?” Little did I know in that confused state that it was indeed still winter and also that this was nature’s way of announcing to this arrogant city that it was she who was boss. I came to my senses and looked out the window to see nothing but white and lightning in the skys. “An electric snow storm”, I thought. Holy sh*t.
It didn’t stop. And by time Sunday afternoon came around a total of 27” would have fallen in Central Park. And just so those jaded Midwesterners gain a sense of perspective the largest single snowfall in Chicago was a mere 22”. I’ve got you by at least five inches (those words will never come from this mouth again).
And with the coming and going of the snow came tranquility to this ordinarily bustling and noisy city. No cars, and a thick blanket of snow to absorb any remaining sound took care of that. On the subway people of all ages could be seen in their winter gear and toys to go play in the snow. And this epicenter of culture, business, publishing – you name it – took a little time out to go sledding.
As for me, I was with the remaining people not in Central Park. . . Looking out from my warm apartment – eer, with a Cosmo in my hand.
Friday, February 10, 2006
My parents’ week-long opera gorge was actually well-conceived. The week had a number of the world’s strongest singers cast in the opera staples. It started off with what was supposed to be Domingo starring in Cyrano de Bergerac, a production made especially for him. But Domingo has been very sick and canceled all his performances over the next few months. The understudy filled in and, with all do respect, nobody wanted him there. He was an older tenor who’s voice was -err- tired. Though off to a rocky start the remainder of the week would be substantially improved (to say the least)
The next day Mom and Dad went to see Rigoletto starring two rising international stars, Villazon and Netrebko as the licentious Duke and naïve Gilda, respectively. And they were, apparently, fantastic. I declined to go because of work.
The following night was Verdi’s grand opera, Aida (after several years of listening to the music, I appreciate it now more than ever). Add to this a Metropolitan Opera production of epic proportions, cast of hundreds, maestro Conlon, and principal singing the envy of any great opera house and you have a night of thrilling theater.
The Met’s Aida had an old-school opera cast: not compromising the voice for a cute face, slim figure or how one moves on stage. Is was old-fashioned raw vocal POWER, the best kind. The title role was performed by the dramatic soprano Andrea Gruber. She approached the role in a very Callas-esq way with a forceful vocal drama, if not always technically secure or beautiful. Radames was Botha, a big man with a big voice. . . he shook some dust off the rafters delivering those long, Verdian lines of sound to every corner of the house. And Amneris was performed by Zajak, a world-famous mezzo soprano. It was during the triumphal march of the Egyptians that the conductor shined. . . . holding together some of the most complex music written, a ballet, and a cast of hundreds. Sure, some of the principals were clumbsy on stage, but the drama was in the sound: We mustn’t that the composer is the dramatist.
The last one I saw with them was the opera that hooked me on this art-form, La Traviata. Little did I know when booking the tickets that the star of it was Gheorghiu, who has risen to international fame since her debut here. Having seen Fleming performing Travaita on opening night I thought I’d pretty much seen the best Violetta the world had to offer. But Gheorghiu kicked some serious ass in this role. Though her coloratura and high notes cannot be relied on like Fleming’s, she had a large sound and acting that more than compensate (Fleming’s singing, though very beautiful and well-constructed, lacks power). Gheorghiu had that house wrapped around her fingers in a way Flemming never did. At once point Violetta, Fatigued with turburculosis, belted out a line of sound before falling into her lovers arms that was so dramatic that the audience broke into applause. At the end she dies in his arms –it was really something. Her death had a hint of anger, of bitterness. An interesting interpretation. . . “God will forgive me but my fellow man will never!” she said at one point. Very interesting.
I'll stop at that. . If you couldn’t already tell, I had a fantastic time. I’ve rarely been so engaged in performances.
With the house sold out all week at the Met, critics who call the Met stodgy and the art form dead would have something to mull over. Certainly “American Idols” and their music have come and gone, but the great operas and have been and will be around for centuries. For God's sake, they are still selling out a 4,000 seat house.
The next day Mom and Dad went to see Rigoletto starring two rising international stars, Villazon and Netrebko as the licentious Duke and naïve Gilda, respectively. And they were, apparently, fantastic. I declined to go because of work.
The following night was Verdi’s grand opera, Aida (after several years of listening to the music, I appreciate it now more than ever). Add to this a Metropolitan Opera production of epic proportions, cast of hundreds, maestro Conlon, and principal singing the envy of any great opera house and you have a night of thrilling theater.
The Met’s Aida had an old-school opera cast: not compromising the voice for a cute face, slim figure or how one moves on stage. Is was old-fashioned raw vocal POWER, the best kind. The title role was performed by the dramatic soprano Andrea Gruber. She approached the role in a very Callas-esq way with a forceful vocal drama, if not always technically secure or beautiful. Radames was Botha, a big man with a big voice. . . he shook some dust off the rafters delivering those long, Verdian lines of sound to every corner of the house. And Amneris was performed by Zajak, a world-famous mezzo soprano. It was during the triumphal march of the Egyptians that the conductor shined. . . . holding together some of the most complex music written, a ballet, and a cast of hundreds. Sure, some of the principals were clumbsy on stage, but the drama was in the sound: We mustn’t that the composer is the dramatist.
The last one I saw with them was the opera that hooked me on this art-form, La Traviata. Little did I know when booking the tickets that the star of it was Gheorghiu, who has risen to international fame since her debut here. Having seen Fleming performing Travaita on opening night I thought I’d pretty much seen the best Violetta the world had to offer. But Gheorghiu kicked some serious ass in this role. Though her coloratura and high notes cannot be relied on like Fleming’s, she had a large sound and acting that more than compensate (Fleming’s singing, though very beautiful and well-constructed, lacks power). Gheorghiu had that house wrapped around her fingers in a way Flemming never did. At once point Violetta, Fatigued with turburculosis, belted out a line of sound before falling into her lovers arms that was so dramatic that the audience broke into applause. At the end she dies in his arms –it was really something. Her death had a hint of anger, of bitterness. An interesting interpretation. . . “God will forgive me but my fellow man will never!” she said at one point. Very interesting.
I'll stop at that. . If you couldn’t already tell, I had a fantastic time. I’ve rarely been so engaged in performances.
With the house sold out all week at the Met, critics who call the Met stodgy and the art form dead would have something to mull over. Certainly “American Idols” and their music have come and gone, but the great operas and have been and will be around for centuries. For God's sake, they are still selling out a 4,000 seat house.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
The parents came in last week for a visit. Not just any visit, an epic visit. And not just any epic visit, an epic opera visit.
My mother, since I took her to see Flemming’s Traviata in 2003, has become a serious opera buff of the worst type: obsessive compulsive and with the resources to endulge them. And those that have seen something at the Met know that there’s pretty much the Met and everything else. My parents came in for a week long visit and opera gorge. Generally speaking, it's tolerable to be with either of my parents separately, but never at the same time.
They went to the Met five nights in a row -- My God! I joined them for only three, because of financial (they buy Grand Tier seats, not cheap) and work limitations --not to mention needing some time alone. Of course, they saved money during this excursion by staying with me.
But there was an opera of sorts going on in my apartment alone. Mom and dad bickering about trivial things, me trying to keep my smoking and drinking habits from them, them finding condoms in my apartment and asking me about them (what the hell do you think they’re for – I’m 30 and single for god’s sake. . . be more worried if I didn’t have them) and the list goes on and on. All you needed to do was set it to music, and there it was. . . high drama (okay, not “high” but certainly drama).
Needless to say last Sunday I was very glad to get my apartment back to myself. After a week of sleeping on the floor of my living room and dealing with their crap lying around the apartment, I’ve never been more convinced that my parents – though I love them dearly – cannot stay THAT long ever again.
My mother, since I took her to see Flemming’s Traviata in 2003, has become a serious opera buff of the worst type: obsessive compulsive and with the resources to endulge them. And those that have seen something at the Met know that there’s pretty much the Met and everything else. My parents came in for a week long visit and opera gorge. Generally speaking, it's tolerable to be with either of my parents separately, but never at the same time.
They went to the Met five nights in a row -- My God! I joined them for only three, because of financial (they buy Grand Tier seats, not cheap) and work limitations --not to mention needing some time alone. Of course, they saved money during this excursion by staying with me.
But there was an opera of sorts going on in my apartment alone. Mom and dad bickering about trivial things, me trying to keep my smoking and drinking habits from them, them finding condoms in my apartment and asking me about them (what the hell do you think they’re for – I’m 30 and single for god’s sake. . . be more worried if I didn’t have them) and the list goes on and on. All you needed to do was set it to music, and there it was. . . high drama (okay, not “high” but certainly drama).
Needless to say last Sunday I was very glad to get my apartment back to myself. After a week of sleeping on the floor of my living room and dealing with their crap lying around the apartment, I’ve never been more convinced that my parents – though I love them dearly – cannot stay THAT long ever again.
