Internship Joys

Random House Children's Books has won my heart and soul. Today the head guy of the division, Chip, held what he calls a "randomizer", an hour-long informal chat session in his office with a "random" bunch of people, who today happened to be all the Children's interns plus the CEO himself, Peter Olson, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans.

The first thing I see when I walk in at 4 in the afternoon is an assortment of beer and wine and Malibu bottles on this guy's desk, gleaming like beacons of hope amid a messy pile of paper and picture books. Chip asks me what I would like to drink; could he interest me in some sparkling white wine? OH hellz yeah... I mean, That would be great, thanks.

So we start chatting and all the interns are a little light-headed from the wine; Chip and Peter start bashing Disney and Mattel for being idiotic partners. Then they bash law, i-banking, Penguin, Simon & Schuster, among other things...but somehow everything sounds pretty inspirational. We laugh nervously, at times wholeheartedly. Peter looks so chilled out I want to joke around with him, but think better of it.

At 5:03pm, Chip ushers us out the door while we thank him and Peter profusely. Chip urges us to keep the two opened bottles of wine and divide it amongst ourselves. We are stunned and suddenly shy, and hand the two bottles over to the only male intern-- but only after I pour myself another cup of wine.

This is only one example, but it gives you an idea of how chill these people are while being serious about their work. No wonder people LOVE working here and especially in this division. We are having a 'high school graduation' themed party next week in the cafeteria (alcohol aplenty, I am informed), and we'll spend next Friday morning in a cinema watching a free screening of Ratatouille. Yeah, it's no 10K bonus, but it's really the little things that make the whole experience fun and worthwhile.

Or so I keep telling myself.

But good Lord, if ever I had any doubt about this place, these things have convinced me that I've found my professional home. -- If I decide to go into publishing.

As an added bonus to the day, a bunch of us interns went to Rudy's Bar and Grill after work for happy hour, consisting of dirt-cheap beer, free hot dogs, and good conversation. Did I mention free hot dogs?

Maybe these really are the best of times.

REJECTED

A depressing day at the office writing and mailing rejection letters, during which
- it hit me again and again that book publishing (like most cultural industries) can be so cold, so heartless, so money-minded an industry, rewarding marketability over artistic sensibility
- I resolved not to become jaded (probably in vain)
- I tried and tried but failed to craft a letter to a man who wrote to the editor (my supervisor) from county jail on a brown paper bag; was thoroughly distressed and heartbroken
- I had to go to the bathroom in order to take a nap in a stall because I got so unbearably sleepy after lunch


But redeemed by an evening out with my fave canadien Dan Faria, during which
- we ate til we (well, at least I) wanted to puke
- we developed a newfound distaste for Ben & Jerry's (problematic temp. control resulting in ultra-melted oversugared products)
- I vowed to myself to 1) never eat again; and 2) sign up for the gym within the next two weeks
- I then admitted to myself that these vows probably will not be carried out

looking before you leap

- As I was wandering the streets of Midtown after work today, I walked by a crowd that was waiting to catch a glimpse of Angelina Jolie in the NY premiere of A Mighty Heart. Because I had nothing better to do at that particular point in time, I loitered around for a couple minutes, pretending to care, as fellow commoners (ie non-media peeps) stood attentively, straining their eyes, wielding footlong-lens cameras. If I'd waited for another 10 minutes I'd probably have seen her... but dinner (in the voice of Leslie) called, and really...who cares. (obviously I do enough to write about it...)

[- My other option had been to enter a random bar, order a random drink (well, probably a vodkacranberry), maybe talk to some random people, do it up Sylvia-Plath-in-The-Bell-Jar style (her fave liquor was vodka!). But it was easier just to stand in a crowd.]

- Not terribly sure I want to be a book editor anymore. apparently most, if not all, manuscript-reading is done outside of work hours. the publishing director admitted today to being a terrible procrastinator and that every sunday night she ends up uttering "Shit. I have about 5 manuscripts I should've read this weekend." Sounds like someone I know a little too well. Neverending reading, I had thought, was soooo college. But I guess not.

- I apologise for the absence of scandalous stories to date. The only slightly interesting thing so far has been a facebook message reply in the form of: "hey ! thanks, yeah I had a lot of fun friday, we should definitely chill a lot this summer, seeya !" ["Friday" having been a friend's birthday gathering, during which the closest physical contact consisted of me passing the hookah hose to him and back again.] I realise that the intention behind this message could be purely platonic, but his reply has nonetheless prompted some uncertain giddiness on my part and I know not how to respond... yeah, I clearly need to get a life. Maintenant.

- I keep being inspired with random lines, images, and thoughts throughout the day but neglect to write them down. By the time I am ready to recall them from memory, they have vanished. My memory requires immediate improvement or I'll never make it in this world.

- If I see another misplaced apostrophe in what is meant to be the word its, I may have to slaughter. Or rip up manuscripts and stomp on them--in or out of the privacy of my cube.

Lunch time, at 3:45pm. After intense deliberation as I walked back from 14th St. station (got on the wrong train), I decided that one can't go wrong with chicken chow fun at Asian Express. As it turns out, apparently one can. The noodles have been cut stumpy short and clump together to form a texture reminiscent of goo. While the noodles aren't swimming in oil, there is a slight taste of cleaning liquid with every mouthful. Just a hint. It is comforting, I suppose, that they use cleaning liquid at least somewhere in the restaurant. Ugh. The wonton soup was wholly disappointing too. Should've stuck to my trusty pita and cereal. Still, as even new habits die hard, those Cantonese-speaking folks so conveniently located across the street will watch me come crawling back the next time I need a fix of pseudo-Chinese food. And they will try to hide their smirks.

I was just reading about New York's most expensive private school in some e-newsletter I don't remember signing up for. The Dalton School, located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, charges a stupefying $30,650-31,200 a year in tuition (lower bracket for K-3; upper for 4-12) for the 2007-2008 academic year. This is compared to $32,160 at Penn (undergraduate; tuition only). Think about it for a second. I don't know how common it is for a Dalton kid to go from K-12, but the parents of one such kid would be shelling out well over half a million dollars in tuition alone for their child's education, if financial aid does not come into the picture. To get into 4th grade or higher, writing samples, interviews, and standardized tests are all part of the application process, making it very much like applying for college. Poor kids, or not so poor. In sum, this is simply ridiculous. In a city where most public schools are underfunded and falling apart and deeply in need of resources, that such flagrant lavishness should exist just seems so wrong. Of course, the inequity is not just in education (although that is both caused by and leads to--perpetuates--other inequalities) but everywhere else as well, and this can be so clearly and literally seen in New York City... More later.

Semi-demi-hemi Fiction, I

Rush hour. The moment you step across that gap between the train and the platform, you enter an enclosed world of nonporous walls in which physical contact must be kept to a minimum and eye contact is taboo. All you can do to refrain from appearing to be a creep is to fold your arms in and fix your eyes on a book, a day-old paper, the overhead ads. Simultaneously, in order to retain some amount of decency, you feign ignorance of the fact that an over-the-hill man across the aisle, whose right hand is just out of sight, is staring square at you, or at some part of your modestly-attired body.

In the crowded train, some arm or knee grazing is inevitable and upon first contact, you must recoil subtly so as not to hurt the feelings of the other nameless wild child of the urban jungle. Someone stands and shoulders his way out while you and a toddler squeeze into the empty space. The seat is warm and you shuffle your butt cheeks—not so subtly—while masking your feeling of utter disgust by staring blankly at an ad above. A brand of whiskey that claims to be nectar from the gods. Bullshit, you think. Still, you could use a shot of whiskey right about now. Happy hour ends in 15 minutes, but you have half a bottle of Pinot Grigio at home so it's all good. A sweaty hand slides painfully slowly down the pole right next to you until it is almost touching your elbow, which happens to be resting against the cool metal. You were clearly there first, but you just shift your elbow away without a word. Talking to strangers is against the rule too. Two more stops to go.

It is now 10pm and you are staring at your laptop screen, waiting impatiently for episode three of the first season of 24 to load. What you're doing is deliciously criminal and you vow never to buy a DVD again. You're in your pyjamas, an array of biz casual strewn all over your unmade bed. The cell phone rings—that annoying Mexican hat dance you keep forgetting to change—just as the video has finished loading. Your friends are going out for some drinks; would you like to join? No thanks, it's only Thursday and you've still got that manuscript to finish reading for work. (Yeah right.) They're hitting up that new spot on 3^rd Ave with the amazing cocktails and amazing view. Empty calories, you mutter a bit too loudly as you hang up, pulling out a box of Honey Nut Cheerios from the bottom drawer of your desk. Good thing they were on sale last week at CVS and you stocked up. Don't even bother with the milk; just grab them by the fistful and shovel the goodness into your mouth, just like you did freshman year in college when you had no space for a mini-fridge and hence no milk. If HNCs could be ground into a paste and liquefied, this shit would be the real nectar from the gods, hands down. The cereal god would agree at least.

But the screensaver that just came on reminds you of your task at hand: 24. It's going to be a good night.

Mixing

one of the interns held a little mixer party at her apartment today after work, with wine and beer and appetizers galore. since we don't get a week of training here like the interns at many banks do in order to meet people/bond/make friends, this mixer was much needed and appreciated. (the brie was much needed and appreciated.) my social skills (or lack thereof) did not completely fail me, and the kids are generally cool. however, from tonight it must be concluded that the girls (which make up most of the intern population) are much friendlier and down-to-earth than the guys (at least those present), who seem douchey and arrogant overall. a pity, tis. i overheard some pledge of "male solidarity" before i left the party. it amused and disturbed me.

and yes, i'm slightly buzzed and thus cannot be completely articulate or eloquent. (and yes, that is just an excuse. the great writers wrote best under the influence.)

Random Images

this bank can officially suck it. because it sucks. no passport --> no bank account? do i look like a f***ing terrorist?


squirrel gobbling a fry out of garbage can in madison square park. too cute to resist; i simply had to eat it in turn. love me some food chain action.


I believe that is New Jersey. Looking out from Riverside Park near where I (used to :( ) babysit.

C'est tout, for now.

Time flies

when you're having fun. Or so they say. I've been bad--downright horrible--about this blog and I feel as if it is already approaching the end of its short-lived life. This is a desperate attempt to keep it afloat, for a little while more at least.

I have been meeting up with many more friends in the past week. It's been great. Visited a few bars, ate at more than a few restaurants, thus--along with a blinding amount of clothes shopping, though my materialistic wants have yet to be fully satiated--ruthlessly decimating my bank account. Not to mention that I'm as of now out of a babysitting job, due to a heart-wringing session last Thursday during which the kid cried and tried to make herself puke as she called out for her mommy, who was out for dinner with daddy. They both rushed back and I got to leave early (I was paid extra), but the phone message the mommy left me yesterday indicated that we're currently "on a break". Meaning my source of extra cash is no more. Meaning 'tis time to return some clothes I recklessly bought in previous weeks.

My two suitemates in the room next door are both from UMich, very friendly, very nice. Both i-bankers, with banking friends in the area. I don't know a single other person on my floor who isn't working at a bank this summer. Those I've met seem like cool people, but it is nonetheless sad. Must try extra hard (i.e. harder than I do at Penn) to keep the inferiority complex from resurfacing and ruining my summer. Have to keep reminding myself that yes, despite their little cocktail parties, corporate credit cards, free rides home, free dinners, country club events, and fat paycheques larger than the size of my ass and stomach combined during finals week--yes, despite all this, they are working insane hours, they are staring at Excel spreadsheets, they are doing something that means nothing to me and that I wouldn't enjoy even if the job fell into my lap. Yeah. What I'd wanted to say was that it was funny to hear them talk amongst themselves about Wharton (apparently every firm has a huge proportion of kids at Wharton, surprise surprise) seemingly with a degree of admiration. I felt some school pride for a nano-second before I remembered that I am not, indeed, in Wharton. This culture--business, banking--is something I've been trying to avoid the past three years, yet here I am being hit left and right in the face with exactly these people, and trying to make friends with them. Because, really, they're nice people and we just have different ideals.

Speaking of work, my internship began on Monday. I love it. Maybe it was the copious amounts of brainwashing during orientation and a "town meeting" in which the CEO spoke about the company, but Random House is a great company and an awesome place to work. The blend of corporate with artistic/literary license really shows through and everyone does seem passionate about what they do. My supervisors are great and it's a treat hearing them talk about "their" books. Children's Books is cool as hell. Some people wear jeans here. I now have about 50 new books on my to-read list. My cubicle has a sliding door. (Though I'd feel real shady about keeping it closed, so I don't.) Free books congregate in stacks like unwanted gold throughout the beautiful 25-floor part of the building (not counting the mad-expensive condos above us). Most of the other interns I've met so far seem like fun and chill people.

I am--dare I say this?--happy. For now. Perhaps serene and contented. I still love the city, and my unlimited ride Metrocard. Holla.

I ♥ N Y

Contrary to what seems like popular opinion, the "Shake Shack" in Madison Square Park isn't really all that spectacular. After reading up on it, all exceedingly positive reviews, I tried a frozen custard there a few days ago (cloyingly rich soft-serve ice-cream), then today decided to splurge ($10, after a half-hour wait in the midday warmth) on a shack burger and strawberrry milkshake. The burger was tiny, juicy but I've had better; the milkshake had only a hint of strawberry flavour. Lee's Hoagie House makes better ("extra thique") milkshakes. All in all, wholly disappointing. But maybe my sense of taste is irrevocably warped; barely anything I've eaten in the past few months has fully satisfied my taste buds. If the Shack can boast 1-hour average wait times, they must be doing something right. Sadly for them, I will never find out what it is.

I got a library card today at a little nearby branch. Flashed my HKID, was rejected (comme d'habitude), then whipped out my Employment Authorization Card, which worked (will try again to open a bank account with this). Good news, I don't have to pay the exorbitant 100USD out-of-state charge because I'm apparently working here for 3 months. Bad news, the library is tear-provokingly small (oh Van Pelt-Dietrich, how I miss thee) and I managed to find only 2 out of the numerous "young adult" novels I had intended to read as preparation for the internship. I don't think they even had a real children's section. How sad. But I got 2 Robert Cormier novels and Catch-22, a John Grisham, and the Portable Oscar Wilde--partly to offset any judgments the check-out person might've made on my literacy levels. Yes, I can't help but be self-conscious. People in general judge too often, and too quickly.

I walked past a man in a suit smoking a cigar in front of what I assumed to be the building where he works. I've heard of cigarette breaks, but--cigar?? Bizaare. I also walked past 2 kids--no more than 12 yrs old--walking along, sniffing coolly from some aerosol can and then spitting on the street. It horrified me a little bit.

SVA is situated next to a public school, a Japanese restaurant and a Chinese bakery selling overpriced buns. I wish Chinatown were within walking distance. SVA is overrun with Penn kids.

Mel left this morning. It is a bit lonely and sad being in this room with all her stuff gone. It's been really nice having her around not only because settling in completely alone would have sucked (prodigiously), but also because we rarely really hang out for any amount of time at Penn besides the occasional lunch or dinner gathering, so it was nice just to chill (when she didn't have training).

I'm going for my second babysitting session tomorrow. We're going to the Museum of Natural History by Central Park... haven't been in almost 6 years. Yippee.

The occasional siren from the street below (these windows are not at al soundproof) reminds me of Hill, freshman year. Except this time we got a more or less normal-shaped window. But no rocking chairs. And no Allison Castel or Julie Rothe to watch over us (not that they really did back then).

Laters.

NY Sojourn, à la Boswell

So begins a summer, an adventure, a 12-week pursuit of happiness of sorts, à la James Boswell. He went out into London at the fresh young age of 22, living on an allowance but otherwise on his own, naïve and full of hopes and expectations, learning about people and about himself through experience—and that is the best way to learn, is it not? Pia and I have established that I will in some manner try to follow vaguely in his footsteps, though by no means literally (ie. I will not meet Senor Gonorrhea), and make the most out of being in this huge and wonderful city called New York. I can only hope it doesn't overwhelm me, the sights and sounds and intense diversity that only fully struck me two days ago as I sat in Madison Square Park, people- and squirrel-watching and eating a gyro from a food truck.

My meaning of happiness may be different from Boswell's (after all, he was an 18^th century white male in England, I a 21^st century Chinese female in the US), but it is with his enthusiasm and optimism that I begin this journey. I hope to learn—not through his writing nor necessarily through other people's lives (though I will no doubt be influenced by what I hear)—how to make my "choice of life", or to get closer to doing so during the course of the summer. After all, the summer after Junior year is essentially a prep session for the real world… and so it will be. And where better to do it than in NYC—formerly the city of my dreams, now a(n albeit brief) reality.

Boswell's purpose of keeping a journal had been to "know himself better…by attending to the feelings of his heart and to his external actions", and though I do not expect to "know myself" by the time the summer is done (or ever?), I do believe that the journal—both writing and reading it—is an immensely useful tool for learning, remembering, planning. It records events, captures thoughts at a given time, things that will otherwise fade from memory. It is very individualistic and pretty solipsistic and narcissistic perhaps, but often contact with others increases the desire to be in contact with oneself, especially mentally and emotionally… and that is where the journal comes in. Expect more Boswell quotes as this journal progresses.

But enough of introductions. This is my third official day in New York and I am leaving in about half an hour to go up to the Upper West Side to meet the kid and mother of the kid I will be babysitting. I have been doing some intense shopping the past two days, both for clothes and for household stuff. I have already spent too much money, but I am hoping this babysitting gig will relieve of some of my financial woes.

Not having my passport with me has been of utmost inconvenience. I can't open a bank account with Bank of America. Damned Patriot Act.

More later.