A while ago, I wrote a post all about silos and ladders—stuff I’d overheard at my local Newsbar. Last week, I have the first interview with an agency in months and all they’re talking about is fucking silos and ladders and thread counts (and no, not as in high quality Italian linen sheets) and seamless this and seamless that. And I’m ever so fiercely nodding my head up and down, just like I did when I was first learning French and only understood two words out of ten. Then, some little tweenie at the end of the table says: How much of the runway left do you plan to work?
I’m like huh? Runway? WTF? And then, I see the light. Boy, do I ever. This guy’s talking about my age!! It’s a euphemism. I could sue him. Instead, I burst out laughing.
Listen, kid, I don’t HAVE a runway. Runways waste fuel. I’m like one of those British Harrier jets. I just take off and go straight up.
The Yoda in the room—who’s probably 40— guffaws.
I head for the door and another tweenie asks :
I notice on your resume you don’t give out your cell phone number.
I don’t have a cell phone.
The look on this kid’s face… I’m talkin’ polaxed. But, but, we’re in here discussing social media and digital platforms and you don’t….
My daughter left her Facebook open. And I do have a blog. That’s social media, isn’t it?
Yoda guffaws again.
Also spent Valentine’s Day touring the world’s most beautiful sewage plant. The huge silver domes, they call them eggs, reminded me of some mosque in a William Gibson novel. All I remember about the facts is that the busiest time at the plant is between 9 30 and 10 am. Apparently, that’s when all of New York flushes away their intake of Starbucks. The highlight was meeting a young woman who is homeschooling her children.
We’re fishermen, she said. Third generation up in Alaska. But we live here off season. We run a coop with the catch. Sockeye salmon. We even smoke it right here in Manhattan. I’d never tasted lox till a year ago. Now, I’m obsessed. We also make wine over in Red Hook.
Hot damn. How cool is that? It was like my encounter a month ago with a young girl called “The Nose.” She was a perfumer. Or a guy they call the Hanger. He installs million dollar art in the houses of billionaires. Forget about tweenies into apps and digital platforms. Maybe it’s time I give it all up and go fishing. Or learn to blow the horn like the guy on Friday at the Brooklyn Bowl. Man, did he clear my head.