Sunday, February 29, 2004
It's Jewish Book Week.
Ever Seen Them in the Same Room?
Surely I can't be the only person who's noticed that Martin Sorrell and Captain James T Kirk share a certain something?
Surely I can't be the only person who's noticed that Martin Sorrell and Captain James T Kirk share a certain something?
Mean Girls: Tina Fey's debut movie, based on this New York Times article, and the book by Rosalind Wiseman.
Apparently, film companies can option a non-fiction work as a source. Interesting, huh?
Apparently, film companies can option a non-fiction work as a source. Interesting, huh?
... [sings] Letter From The Postman [/sings] ...
So, lovely-surprise (as they say in the Great Suburban Northwest... of anywhere) yesterday: Word Spy from Amazon, courtesy of a reader. Thanks, Sam:) (Note: I never do smileys. That's how happy I am with this unexpected gift.)
So, lovely-surprise (as they say in the Great Suburban Northwest... of anywhere) yesterday: Word Spy from Amazon, courtesy of a reader. Thanks, Sam:) (Note: I never do smileys. That's how happy I am with this unexpected gift.)
Saturday, February 28, 2004
Ridiculous (TV) news story - which thankfully hasn't made it to the web - about how the Skipping Initiative in schools is linked to citizenship and personal social responsibility. Like yeah, and you can do that without a breast-reduction op? [link might not be safe for work].
Friday, February 27, 2004
Talking on the phone to a friend last night, I heard a slight tap-tap-tap on the line. What d'you reckon?
New word - via S - nomadicity.
Boutros Boutros Ghali. Peri Peri Chicken Chicken. Tiger Tiger. Kofi Kofi Annan. I sense a theme emerging.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Ze Chermans, And How I Feel
Back in the mid-nineties, I had a job in the marketing department of a B2B services player, a big one. I was all negotiating with printers, buying envelopes by the million and buying media direct without agency commission.
A few months later, I got involved in a start-up project in Israel. Weird from the get-go: Mr Big who owned the company insisted that the product marketing cycle be over Jewish New Year, on the basis that all countries had to fall in with his British mode of business, despite my telling him that no-one would be even working then. And the team was made up of me, a JAP from New York, and a German guy whose father was a priest who'd been involved in all the reparations stuff after the war, and had guilt tattooed in indellible ink across his forehead. The A Team, we weren't.
And weirdest of all, the project was run as a subsidiary of our German office. I tried to tell Mr Big that most businesses in Israel probably wouldn't want to sign a contract with a German company - because of the war - but he wasn't having any of it. Efficiency, that's what counts. Everyone else is marching out of step (to coin a war analogy).
So I'm in Israel, setting up a pilot project with my colleagues, and we're like the comedy Three Musketeers. Sample JAP: gee, is there no Zagat's guide to Tel Aviv? Er, no, sister, it's mostly felafel stalls. Sample guilty German to Yael Dayan, who we had rented an apartment from: Yael. You sound like a man. It is all the cigarettes you smoke. People were also a little scared because he answered the phone by barking "Eichart!", which left most Israelis quaking in their sandals. Sample me: I just can't negotiate the way I can at home. Everyone here's got chutzpah.
So Wolfram, the General Manager from Germany, is coming out to check up on us half-way through the project.
History: Wolfram had trained in the London office, and we'd got off to a bad footing, because he was working on a TV/radio project, and gave me the complete runaround. His media plan included a publication called Broadcast News. I talked to the world and her lover trying to track it down. He was senior. Eventually, in a meeting, I said to him "are you sure you don't mean Broadcast? Not Broadcast News?" As I said Broadcast News, I did that thing with my hands like I was a film cameraman - charades - to indicate a film. I also tried to do a Holly Hunter impression, but that's hard when you don't have dark hair and you're from Eastern European peasant stock.
"Not Broadcast," he replied, firmly, losing face, "Broadcast News". I resisted the temptation to do the charades thing that indicates it's a book.
But the damage was done: his star was on the ascendant, on account of his magic with a spreadsheet, and general efficiency, and I got black marks from him for enfooling him in a meeting. So I had to push really hard to get on the Israel project, because he didn't want me. Which was odd, because there weren't a huge number of people queuing up to go to a war-torn country in the Middle East - we all had some previous.
Another piece of history: after London and before Israel, I worked on a global project for Mr Big, going round each of the offices and standardising their key technology. Most people rolled out the red carpet: I came straight from Head Office, they'd get whatever I needed, Ma'am.
Not Germany. Apart from the fact that I got the culture all wrong and kept calling people by their first name, Wolfram had power. So I do my whole little presentation to the management team of what we're looking for from them (code for what they have to give us), and whereas everyone else kowtowed and ran out and got it, he said, looking at my list "von, two unt sree, ve vill give you. Four, ve vill not. Five, you vill tell us vot ze other offices are doing." He said this as he shone the bright light in my face. I felt a little uncomfortable.
He offered me lunch. Now the British bombed most of Frankfurt during the war - don't mention the war - so the office was in a new shiny high-rise in the burosdadt, and he took me in the glass elevator, down to the basement where the restaurant was. Cool marble floors. As he got out of the lift, I realised he had those clicky things on his shoes, toes tapping against the granite as he walked. Suddenly, I didn't feel hungry. Over lunch, he told me about his right wing politics while I tried not to think about the war.
So back to the plot. I'm in a pokey rented office in downtown Tel Aviv with the Guilty German and the JAP, and Wolfram rolls into town. Books himself into the Hilton; no appartment rental for him, he's all luxury and service-enabled. Comes into the office, tells us he had a hard time at security in the airport, and goes to the beach for two weeks.
Two weeks later, he's back in the office with a permatan to die for.
"Sasha, I am leafing zis ufternoon. You vill write me a letter for ze security."
So I take our headed paper, and write out, in the most grammatical Ivrit I can muster, the following:
"Herr Doktor Schmidt was in town to help us with our business endeavours. He was not quite as helpful as we would have liked."
Wolfram proudly puts the letter in his breast pocket, day dreaming of the duty free and air hostesses and whatever else floats his boat.
I heard that he spent hours in airport security. Hours.
Back in the mid-nineties, I had a job in the marketing department of a B2B services player, a big one. I was all negotiating with printers, buying envelopes by the million and buying media direct without agency commission.
A few months later, I got involved in a start-up project in Israel. Weird from the get-go: Mr Big who owned the company insisted that the product marketing cycle be over Jewish New Year, on the basis that all countries had to fall in with his British mode of business, despite my telling him that no-one would be even working then. And the team was made up of me, a JAP from New York, and a German guy whose father was a priest who'd been involved in all the reparations stuff after the war, and had guilt tattooed in indellible ink across his forehead. The A Team, we weren't.
And weirdest of all, the project was run as a subsidiary of our German office. I tried to tell Mr Big that most businesses in Israel probably wouldn't want to sign a contract with a German company - because of the war - but he wasn't having any of it. Efficiency, that's what counts. Everyone else is marching out of step (to coin a war analogy).
So I'm in Israel, setting up a pilot project with my colleagues, and we're like the comedy Three Musketeers. Sample JAP: gee, is there no Zagat's guide to Tel Aviv? Er, no, sister, it's mostly felafel stalls. Sample guilty German to Yael Dayan, who we had rented an apartment from: Yael. You sound like a man. It is all the cigarettes you smoke. People were also a little scared because he answered the phone by barking "Eichart!", which left most Israelis quaking in their sandals. Sample me: I just can't negotiate the way I can at home. Everyone here's got chutzpah.
So Wolfram, the General Manager from Germany, is coming out to check up on us half-way through the project.
History: Wolfram had trained in the London office, and we'd got off to a bad footing, because he was working on a TV/radio project, and gave me the complete runaround. His media plan included a publication called Broadcast News. I talked to the world and her lover trying to track it down. He was senior. Eventually, in a meeting, I said to him "are you sure you don't mean Broadcast? Not Broadcast News?" As I said Broadcast News, I did that thing with my hands like I was a film cameraman - charades - to indicate a film. I also tried to do a Holly Hunter impression, but that's hard when you don't have dark hair and you're from Eastern European peasant stock.
"Not Broadcast," he replied, firmly, losing face, "Broadcast News". I resisted the temptation to do the charades thing that indicates it's a book.
But the damage was done: his star was on the ascendant, on account of his magic with a spreadsheet, and general efficiency, and I got black marks from him for enfooling him in a meeting. So I had to push really hard to get on the Israel project, because he didn't want me. Which was odd, because there weren't a huge number of people queuing up to go to a war-torn country in the Middle East - we all had some previous.
Another piece of history: after London and before Israel, I worked on a global project for Mr Big, going round each of the offices and standardising their key technology. Most people rolled out the red carpet: I came straight from Head Office, they'd get whatever I needed, Ma'am.
Not Germany. Apart from the fact that I got the culture all wrong and kept calling people by their first name, Wolfram had power. So I do my whole little presentation to the management team of what we're looking for from them (code for what they have to give us), and whereas everyone else kowtowed and ran out and got it, he said, looking at my list "von, two unt sree, ve vill give you. Four, ve vill not. Five, you vill tell us vot ze other offices are doing." He said this as he shone the bright light in my face. I felt a little uncomfortable.
He offered me lunch. Now the British bombed most of Frankfurt during the war - don't mention the war - so the office was in a new shiny high-rise in the burosdadt, and he took me in the glass elevator, down to the basement where the restaurant was. Cool marble floors. As he got out of the lift, I realised he had those clicky things on his shoes, toes tapping against the granite as he walked. Suddenly, I didn't feel hungry. Over lunch, he told me about his right wing politics while I tried not to think about the war.
So back to the plot. I'm in a pokey rented office in downtown Tel Aviv with the Guilty German and the JAP, and Wolfram rolls into town. Books himself into the Hilton; no appartment rental for him, he's all luxury and service-enabled. Comes into the office, tells us he had a hard time at security in the airport, and goes to the beach for two weeks.
Two weeks later, he's back in the office with a permatan to die for.
"Sasha, I am leafing zis ufternoon. You vill write me a letter for ze security."
So I take our headed paper, and write out, in the most grammatical Ivrit I can muster, the following:
"Herr Doktor Schmidt was in town to help us with our business endeavours. He was not quite as helpful as we would have liked."
Wolfram proudly puts the letter in his breast pocket, day dreaming of the duty free and air hostesses and whatever else floats his boat.
I heard that he spent hours in airport security. Hours.
I can't help wondering if Mel Gibson's The Passion will encourage all manner of crucifixion chic.
I'm one of only three people who've come up with the word goydar, apparently.
I love signing up to mailing lists as Daffy Duck, Disney Corporation (when I ran a commercial mailing list, about 20% of our subsribers were either Tony Blair or fictional characters), and I love it even more when I get email addressed thus:
"Dear Daffy,
SAVE up to ?100.00 by registering your place on:
BEST PRACTICE STRATEGIES FOR FUND MANAGEMENT
25TH & 26TH MAY 2004
PARK LANE HILTON, LONDON
Hurry! ? Early-booking DISCOUNT ends 26th March 2004!"
"Dear Daffy,
SAVE up to ?100.00 by registering your place on:
BEST PRACTICE STRATEGIES FOR FUND MANAGEMENT
25TH & 26TH MAY 2004
PARK LANE HILTON, LONDON
Hurry! ? Early-booking DISCOUNT ends 26th March 2004!"
Books are the new black. At last.
In the words of Wilde: "to lose the whip once is unfortunate, twice looks like carelessness."
I just thought I head someone say - ironically, or so I thought - ridership on the Today programme. Turns out its a real transport sector buzz word. Bingo, anyone?
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
What to look for in an agent. Because you never know when you might get a book deal.
Not Only But Also
Not only am I still the number one search for Anna Friel advert, but the BBC has written a great ironic dig at the economics of such a generic brand-building campaign.
Not only am I still the number one search for Anna Friel advert, but the BBC has written a great ironic dig at the economics of such a generic brand-building campaign.
106 people on google have a stationery fetish. And only 26 have a stationary one.
Today's word? Mysticalia.
The Passion
Jeff Jacoby in the Boston Globe, on Mel Gibson's The Passion.
Update: and, via Yoz, David Denby in the New Yorker. And some press views garnered by the beeb. And Gawker.
Jeff Jacoby in the Boston Globe, on Mel Gibson's The Passion.
Update: and, via Yoz, David Denby in the New Yorker. And some press views garnered by the beeb. And Gawker.
All I can find out about North by Northwest script development workshops.
There's an.... extremely small chance I may get to meet A B Yehoshua.
A promised me chocolate vodka shots on Monday, and we had to make do with B55s.
Cleanpolitix? Turns out my old boss is in the top ten donors to the Conservative Party. I like think that in some ironic way, I've paid for that. Not.
I have just had a seventeeen minute conversation covering everything from how the CEO's office works (which I didn't need to know), to the board's holiday plans (which I didn't need to know), to the homeworking arrangements (which I didn't need to know), with someone's secretary who has been sending messages back to me via the switchboard for a week that she's sorry she can't take my call, she's too busy.
Busy talking crap. Send that woman on a time management course, ferchrisakes.
Busy talking crap. Send that woman on a time management course, ferchrisakes.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Mourning Sickness and Conspicuous Compassion
Civitas have got a new report out on Conspicuous Compassion, that's garnered a lot of press attention.
"Britons are feeding their own egos by indulging in "recreational grief" for murdered children and dead celebrities they have never met."
All well and good.
But I'm having a certain sense of deja vu. It's Frank Furedi and his ilk all over again: it's the libertarian right (or left; they meet round the back, sometimes) getting it's knickers in a twist about the senitimentalisation of society. And a bunch of them said all that in Faking It in 1998. And it's full of all those sheitgeist phrases like compassion inflation, and it doubtless drones on and on in quite a whingy way about victim culture, and how terribly unfair it is. Poor sods, it's them I feel sorry for.
Truth time: we all - probably myself included - have far too much free time/brainspace to consider every aspect of every aspect of modern life. It's deconstruction gone Zebedee, boinging up and down on a bit of trip desparately hoping that some idea'll stick/have stickiness so that they get their late-night righteous-debate TV show. So then, they can retire to the posh bit of Norfolk with all the other failed celebrities and faded academics.
See, I feel sad even writing this. I feel an emptiness about how we've analysis paralysis about every little item of culture or even everydayness in the modern world. How there's a label for everything. How we need to slag off more and more people and ideas to feel we've made our mark. How even me writing this now is contributing to the over-informed whatever that is the doodar that we might not like. See, it's gone to my head. The words, the words....
Civitas have got a new report out on Conspicuous Compassion, that's garnered a lot of press attention.
"Britons are feeding their own egos by indulging in "recreational grief" for murdered children and dead celebrities they have never met."
All well and good.
But I'm having a certain sense of deja vu. It's Frank Furedi and his ilk all over again: it's the libertarian right (or left; they meet round the back, sometimes) getting it's knickers in a twist about the senitimentalisation of society. And a bunch of them said all that in Faking It in 1998. And it's full of all those sheitgeist phrases like compassion inflation, and it doubtless drones on and on in quite a whingy way about victim culture, and how terribly unfair it is. Poor sods, it's them I feel sorry for.
Truth time: we all - probably myself included - have far too much free time/brainspace to consider every aspect of every aspect of modern life. It's deconstruction gone Zebedee, boinging up and down on a bit of trip desparately hoping that some idea'll stick/have stickiness so that they get their late-night righteous-debate TV show. So then, they can retire to the posh bit of Norfolk with all the other failed celebrities and faded academics.
See, I feel sad even writing this. I feel an emptiness about how we've analysis paralysis about every little item of culture or even everydayness in the modern world. How there's a label for everything. How we need to slag off more and more people and ideas to feel we've made our mark. How even me writing this now is contributing to the over-informed whatever that is the doodar that we might not like. See, it's gone to my head. The words, the words....
The Insitute of Ideas on Teen Fiction. Judy Blume, anyone?
Can't get into medidation? Try this for mesmeric.
Wish You'd Bought Those Weather Derivatives?
-- Britain will have winters similar to those in current-day Siberia as European temperatures drop off radically by 2020.
-- Europe and the United States become "virtual fortresses" trying to keep out millions of migrants whose homelands have been wiped out by rising sea levels or made unfarmable by drought.
-- "catastrophic" shortages of potable water and energy will lead to widespread war by 2020.
Lucky I've still got my thirty litres of water, then. No mule, though.
-- Britain will have winters similar to those in current-day Siberia as European temperatures drop off radically by 2020.
-- Europe and the United States become "virtual fortresses" trying to keep out millions of migrants whose homelands have been wiped out by rising sea levels or made unfarmable by drought.
-- "catastrophic" shortages of potable water and energy will lead to widespread war by 2020.
Lucky I've still got my thirty litres of water, then. No mule, though.
Blogging about blogging about....
So, when I was in New York on February 8th, I linked a great piece about virus writers from the New York Times. Which you can't read now, because the week of free information is up.
Luckily, two weeks later, the Observer printed the identical piece in its supplement. And the Guardian/Scott Trust are all open-source/commited to their accesible archive, so I'll be able to read it whenever I want.
Which proves my comment about the ever shrinking information village: in 1995, how would I ever have known that? Oh, wait. I would: I'd have got back from my trip and read the papers in London. Difference is, I couldn't prove it.
Luckily, two weeks later, the Observer printed the identical piece in its supplement. And the Guardian/Scott Trust are all open-source/commited to their accesible archive, so I'll be able to read it whenever I want.
Which proves my comment about the ever shrinking information village: in 1995, how would I ever have known that? Oh, wait. I would: I'd have got back from my trip and read the papers in London. Difference is, I couldn't prove it.
See, in the olden days (before about 1995), if you wanted to find something out, you had to really want to find something out. I see it in the work I do... in the early nineties, just knowing something was enough to make a research project fly. Now, everyone who's google-enabled knows everything, it's the analysis, the value-add (buzzword bingo, sorry) that makes the difference.
And it releases the stalker-within. Like in 1995, if you met someone at a party who said they were a writer, you'd have to go down to the library and look up their books on the microfiche. If you could be bothered. Now, twenty seconds online, you know what they wrote, what their Amazon rating is, what the critics said, where they live (if you have a 192.com subscription), and what they had for breakfast (if they have a blog).
All I'm saying is, it's easy to find things out, now. Especially if there are clues.
And it releases the stalker-within. Like in 1995, if you met someone at a party who said they were a writer, you'd have to go down to the library and look up their books on the microfiche. If you could be bothered. Now, twenty seconds online, you know what they wrote, what their Amazon rating is, what the critics said, where they live (if you have a 192.com subscription), and what they had for breakfast (if they have a blog).
All I'm saying is, it's easy to find things out, now. Especially if there are clues.
Michael Chabon has an August Van Zorn page. Weird?
Weird Short Story prize at McSweeneys. I think they mean weird as in occultesque, rather than everyday weirdshit.
Got home last night to catch the tail end of Homeless to Harvard, the true story of Liz Murray who put herself through an accelerated High School programme in New York, and won a New York Times prize to pay for Harvard, while homeless.
Liz doesn't seem to have a blog, but Crystal Evans does, and of course so does the Homeless Guy. Sure made me reconsider/perspectivize (watch google go crazy with that one) quite how annoying I find our managing agents.
Liz doesn't seem to have a blog, but Crystal Evans does, and of course so does the Homeless Guy. Sure made me reconsider/perspectivize (watch google go crazy with that one) quite how annoying I find our managing agents.
Oh, What A Night
For a Monday, especially. Couple of nibbles in the Shoreditch Shish - because let's face it, I'm a creature of habit, and if I leave North London for East, I like to eat in the same place. New menu; fabulous feta and roasted onion wrapped in vine leaves, although, strangely, served as a side-dish.
We got there - Cargo - half-way through the support - Big Strides - but Jonny and the guys were the main deal. Serious collection of witty and club-style t-shirts. No question. Great gig, and I also found out that D could breakdance (later), that the doorman liked my hat, and that all my friends (K, A and D in this case), got on with each other. And there was free toast. And a boogie (which obviously I didn't blame anything on). What more could you want from an evening?
For a Monday, especially. Couple of nibbles in the Shoreditch Shish - because let's face it, I'm a creature of habit, and if I leave North London for East, I like to eat in the same place. New menu; fabulous feta and roasted onion wrapped in vine leaves, although, strangely, served as a side-dish.
We got there - Cargo - half-way through the support - Big Strides - but Jonny and the guys were the main deal. Serious collection of witty and club-style t-shirts. No question. Great gig, and I also found out that D could breakdance (later), that the doorman liked my hat, and that all my friends (K, A and D in this case), got on with each other. And there was free toast. And a boogie (which obviously I didn't blame anything on). What more could you want from an evening?
There was something of a desert standstorm in Hamsptead and Highgate, as I got home last night. No, really. And they say we haven't upset the planet, whoever they are.
The Ikea catalogue has a bigger print run than the Bible? Naaah.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Is there a watchdog for watchdogs?
From The Editor's Postbag
Dear Sasha,
As a home owner in Cheadle I am writing to register my disgust at the allegation that the fixing of UPVC double glazing to a 1930's house is an architectural travesty.
We, who read your blog, are well aware, that the 1930's and the art deco era, form a substantial part of your architectural appreciation. It will therefore not be news to you, that the essence of such design was modernism; a use of modern materials and effects. In short, if they had mass produced UPVC in the 1930's then they would have used it.
Life, is about change, or to use a window metaphor, windows are like wood and UPVC.
Would you suggest that the industrial revolution should have been halted, due to an emotional attachment to steam? Are you suggesting, that a house in a relatively modest 1930's housing estate, should retain the fake windows which were installed in the 1980's?
Probably yes, and I make no criticism, you suffer from the effects, of too much post modernism before breakfast. We want to deconstruct, and reconstruct in the image of our forefathers/mothers. We buy a Victorian property and retain the original features, refurbish all the fires (although we wouldn't dream of burning coal). The Victorians would have loved to have had central heating.
Let's get a grip. I like my UPVC windows, it goes with my BMW X5 roads, and my DFS furniture. It compliments my fellow overtanned gym members and their obscenely face-stretched mothers. It fulfills my materialistic desire to have building work done without needing planning permission. It is part of the suburban utopia.
Like every American has a right to carry a gun, every suburban Enlishman/woman, has a right to architecturally deface their home. It is a sign of their success.
So don't be too quick to offend the rights of the suburban masses, a radical bunch when roused. It would be unfortunate if you wake up one morning to find that someone has given you a UPVC front door (and forgotten to give you a key, imprisoning you in a UPVC hell, from which there is no escape).
Yours
The Fenestration Guild of the Great Suburban Northwest (FGGSN)
Dear Sasha,
As a home owner in Cheadle I am writing to register my disgust at the allegation that the fixing of UPVC double glazing to a 1930's house is an architectural travesty.
We, who read your blog, are well aware, that the 1930's and the art deco era, form a substantial part of your architectural appreciation. It will therefore not be news to you, that the essence of such design was modernism; a use of modern materials and effects. In short, if they had mass produced UPVC in the 1930's then they would have used it.
Life, is about change, or to use a window metaphor, windows are like wood and UPVC.
Would you suggest that the industrial revolution should have been halted, due to an emotional attachment to steam? Are you suggesting, that a house in a relatively modest 1930's housing estate, should retain the fake windows which were installed in the 1980's?
Probably yes, and I make no criticism, you suffer from the effects, of too much post modernism before breakfast. We want to deconstruct, and reconstruct in the image of our forefathers/mothers. We buy a Victorian property and retain the original features, refurbish all the fires (although we wouldn't dream of burning coal). The Victorians would have loved to have had central heating.
Let's get a grip. I like my UPVC windows, it goes with my BMW X5 roads, and my DFS furniture. It compliments my fellow overtanned gym members and their obscenely face-stretched mothers. It fulfills my materialistic desire to have building work done without needing planning permission. It is part of the suburban utopia.
Like every American has a right to carry a gun, every suburban Enlishman/woman, has a right to architecturally deface their home. It is a sign of their success.
So don't be too quick to offend the rights of the suburban masses, a radical bunch when roused. It would be unfortunate if you wake up one morning to find that someone has given you a UPVC front door (and forgotten to give you a key, imprisoning you in a UPVC hell, from which there is no escape).
Yours
The Fenestration Guild of the Great Suburban Northwest (FGGSN)
My new best friend is Almond Sunset herb tea from Celestial Seasonings. It really smells and even tastes of almond and carob. It has taken over in my affections from honey camomile and vanilla. Life moves on, right?
Not entirely because of the war, but I'm sure in part, I'm driven by the worst-case scenario. So two difficult-to-reach lightbulbs in my house need changing, and I'm worried about going up a ladder because of all the Terrible Things that could happen. I could fall off, alone in the house. I could - even worse - fall off the ladder and straight down the stairs (one is the top of the stairs uplighter).
I worry. It's my heritage. It's my destiny.
And I feel foolish asking people who come round to help me, so I ... do nothing. But it was only one lightbulb up until now, and now it's two; and it's getting dark.
Nu?
I worry. It's my heritage. It's my destiny.
And I feel foolish asking people who come round to help me, so I ... do nothing. But it was only one lightbulb up until now, and now it's two; and it's getting dark.
Nu?
I feel sorrier-than-sorry for Megan Lane, who had to write this piece of fashion-pastiche journalism for the BBC.
Listen to me, Megan: brown was the new black like, four years ago. And purple for autumn? Wasn't that last autumn? Or the autumn before? old is the new new, is where we're at, and we don't care. The beeb is not where I go for sartorial advice.
Repeat after me, BBC: you're losing your way; stick to your core business - news, information - and stop pretending you're the Face or Dazed and Confused or London Fashionweek news or something. Stop. The Renaissance is over, this is the age of specialisation, just do what you're good at.
Thanks.
Listen to me, Megan: brown was the new black like, four years ago. And purple for autumn? Wasn't that last autumn? Or the autumn before? old is the new new, is where we're at, and we don't care. The beeb is not where I go for sartorial advice.
Repeat after me, BBC: you're losing your way; stick to your core business - news, information - and stop pretending you're the Face or Dazed and Confused or London Fashionweek news or something. Stop. The Renaissance is over, this is the age of specialisation, just do what you're good at.
Thanks.
Catskills font. For Jews, everywhere.
Don't Mention The War
So I'm in a bar, and I'm telling my (two English) friends and their German guest about a mad flatmate I once had, and how her eating disorder meant that she officially only ate fruit and vegetables, but she'd eat everything in the house, generally at night, but obviously I couldn't ask her about it, because she denied any knowledge of it (er, hello, like there's no one else here) and it got out of hand. Sugar cravings, mostly, I was guessing. Party line? She didn't eat.
When she left, I cleaned out the larder, and realised that she'd carefully arranged its contents to make it look full.
Only I told it this way:
"I like to have full cupboards. You know, because of the war." Jewish-code for the feeling of self-protection and plentifulness one tries to engender. Awkward pause. Really awkward pause? "So, er, I was very surprised to open the cupboard and find she'd moved out with like half my food."
Whoops.
So I'm in a bar, and I'm telling my (two English) friends and their German guest about a mad flatmate I once had, and how her eating disorder meant that she officially only ate fruit and vegetables, but she'd eat everything in the house, generally at night, but obviously I couldn't ask her about it, because she denied any knowledge of it (er, hello, like there's no one else here) and it got out of hand. Sugar cravings, mostly, I was guessing. Party line? She didn't eat.
When she left, I cleaned out the larder, and realised that she'd carefully arranged its contents to make it look full.
Only I told it this way:
"I like to have full cupboards. You know, because of the war." Jewish-code for the feeling of self-protection and plentifulness one tries to engender. Awkward pause. Really awkward pause? "So, er, I was very surprised to open the cupboard and find she'd moved out with like half my food."
Whoops.
My weekend: long chat with S about NLP; great dinner party, lunch at Chutneys with C and J; Limmud stuff; Bartok with C, M and M. This is a data-only post, sorry.
I should have written more/better: I'm the number one search for advert Anna Friel. The democracy of google, it's a strange one.
Sunday, February 22, 2004
The next big thing? Sheila Quigley?
Still on uPVC - an interesting article in yesterday's Telegraph.
"Putting uPVC windows in a period property is like making your grandmother wear a shell suit."
Reminds me of my friend Judith's film, Blue Vinyl, about her journey with her parents not to put blue vinyl siding on their house, because of the dangerous pollutant nature of the chemicals.
"Putting uPVC windows in a period property is like making your grandmother wear a shell suit."
Reminds me of my friend Judith's film, Blue Vinyl, about her journey with her parents not to put blue vinyl siding on their house, because of the dangerous pollutant nature of the chemicals.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
Patsy Kensit joins Emmerdale (previously Emmerdale Farm, if you remember). Wonder who she'll find to marry there, and can't help wondering in which direction her stars going. You really couldn't make this stuff up.
There's still a lot of places I haven't been...
create your own visited country map
or write about it on the open travel guide
create your own visited country map
or write about it on the open travel guide
Welcome to the Evolution
Have you seen that ridiculous almost-porn that passes for the new Three advert? Sadly, it's almost impossible to google on her, as three is a very popular word, and there are three of lots of things to do with Anna Friel, apparently.
You can just imagine some young creative team drooling as they say; "we can get Anna Friel. We can make her do that wrinkly thing with her nose. Cute nose, yeah? We could get her to dress as a mermaid, that would be cool."
Anna should know better. How much can you get paid that makes prostituting yourself that worthwhile? Hardly the pinnacle of creative endevours. Reaching the Lost in Translation pinnacle of getting sent to Nowherestan to film a two million dollar advert?
All I can say is, come the Evolution, Anna Friel'll be the first up against the wall.
Have you seen that ridiculous almost-porn that passes for the new Three advert? Sadly, it's almost impossible to google on her, as three is a very popular word, and there are three of lots of things to do with Anna Friel, apparently.
You can just imagine some young creative team drooling as they say; "we can get Anna Friel. We can make her do that wrinkly thing with her nose. Cute nose, yeah? We could get her to dress as a mermaid, that would be cool."
Anna should know better. How much can you get paid that makes prostituting yourself that worthwhile? Hardly the pinnacle of creative endevours. Reaching the Lost in Translation pinnacle of getting sent to Nowherestan to film a two million dollar advert?
All I can say is, come the Evolution, Anna Friel'll be the first up against the wall.
Some debate over at LMG about Anna Friel dating, and there's also Alanis Morisette and any manner of other dating for the "marridge minded". What's great is, they know what Korean people and seniors look like, and there's photographic proof, but "Jewish dating" is just inidicated by two gold rings. Couldn't find a photo of a Jewish couple? Don't mind re-enforcing racial/social stereotypes, but draw the line at Jewish people? Er, what exactly?
[link via Darren]
[link via Darren]
Friday, February 20, 2004
The halfbakery. Home of half-baked ideas.
How's this for annoying? I just ordered a flash drive from Dabs, but they won't deliver it, because I edited my address on my account online to include my flat number, and last time I tried to buy something from them, they wouldn't ring the doorbell, as I just had the housenumber, and I had to go out and collect it from a stupid place. Now they think I am trying to perform some kind of address-oriented fraud on them, when in fact I'm trying to minimise the hassle. Sheesh. The modern age. It's all underpinned by a crap delivery infrastructure.
Last Thursday, I was meeting R for a drink in Kilburn (I'd just flown in from NY, wasn't up for trecking into town). Our previous meet had been snowed off, the day of the Big Snow.
So I walk down to the station for our assignation, and the place is crawling with police. I mean, crawling. Fluorescent vests over uniform, the whole megillah. Dogs. They're standing around, looking obvious. It's about 8pm.
In my usual neighbourly way (remember my bus shelter? Don't even ask), I enquire about what's going on.
Me: Hi, you guys look busy, what's going on?
Police officer: We're on an operation.
Me: Oh, right.
Police officer: Nothing to be alarmed about. (I must look scared). There's a lot of burglary in this area, and it's on the increase. We think they use this station.
Me: Er, right.
Police officer: So, we're a deterrent. They see us, they know
Me: Oh, OK. Should I get a new burglar alarm?
Police officer: Don't be alarmed, it's just a precaution.
It honestly did go something like that. So burglars use the tube? Right. And then they carry home our TVs, DVDs, and white goods in large bags labelled swag, all over the London underground network. Pull the other one, officer, it's got bells on it.
So I walk down to the station for our assignation, and the place is crawling with police. I mean, crawling. Fluorescent vests over uniform, the whole megillah. Dogs. They're standing around, looking obvious. It's about 8pm.
In my usual neighbourly way (remember my bus shelter? Don't even ask), I enquire about what's going on.
Me: Hi, you guys look busy, what's going on?
Police officer: We're on an operation.
Me: Oh, right.
Police officer: Nothing to be alarmed about. (I must look scared). There's a lot of burglary in this area, and it's on the increase. We think they use this station.
Me: Er, right.
Police officer: So, we're a deterrent. They see us, they know
Me: Oh, OK. Should I get a new burglar alarm?
Police officer: Don't be alarmed, it's just a precaution.
It honestly did go something like that. So burglars use the tube? Right. And then they carry home our TVs, DVDs, and white goods in large bags labelled swag, all over the London underground network. Pull the other one, officer, it's got bells on it.
Promethea and ideaspace.
Wordspy the book!!! I want I want I want.
Heeb-hop, no, really, from 50 Shekel. His friends call him chamashim.
I am only posting this so I can see my new Bloglines notifier work.
Yoz dropped in from the future, and told me to get me an Atom feed, subscribe to Bloglines, to get Mozilla's Firefox pronto, because of what it'll do for my tabs in research (no, I don't know, either). Those future-enabled kiddies.
Yoz dropped in from the future, and told me to get me an Atom feed, subscribe to Bloglines, to get Mozilla's Firefox pronto, because of what it'll do for my tabs in research (no, I don't know, either). Those future-enabled kiddies.
I lost my Rescue Remedy. How will I be rescued now?
World Jewish Stuff:
CAJE 29, the Washington Conference, Chai retreats at the UAHC, Isabella Freedman Retreat Center, and - if only I could find it - the General Assembly of European Communities, in May.
CAJE 29, the Washington Conference, Chai retreats at the UAHC, Isabella Freedman Retreat Center, and - if only I could find it - the General Assembly of European Communities, in May.
The Today Boys have done it again. So it was only back in September that they wheeled out Charles Bailey with his politico-rap, and now they've pressed the repeat button, in a rather retro style - off the back of a hook about a serious 3 CD set of Maggie's speeches.
The best bit? Hearing John Humphrey's respond to Charles' "we've niced it up for the listeners," with an up-his-own-arse "respect."
The Today programme ain't where I'm going for my funkster grooves, people. It's about news. Where is the news, by the way?
The best bit? Hearing John Humphrey's respond to Charles' "we've niced it up for the listeners," with an up-his-own-arse "respect."
The Today programme ain't where I'm going for my funkster grooves, people. It's about news. Where is the news, by the way?
Thursday, February 19, 2004
You a Spice Girl fan? Then get thee to this ridiculous eBay auction of Mel B in embrace with Jimmy. Because you can be too rich.
I've been losing sleep about integrating prescence into ... stuff. No more.
Phrases I have come to hate:
"can I have a quick word?" - usually means your employee is leaving
"can I have more information" - usually means your client is taking the piss/haggling
"it's not you, it's me" - well, we all know what that means: it is you
"the accounts department will be sending it to you" - the cheque's in the post, AKA we're paying you sl-o-wl-y
"would you mind just..." - just doing loads of extra work for no money. Er, no
"I was meaning to call you -" call me what, exactly?
... any more for any more?
... any more for any more?
Yahoo does its own thing.
Does anyone care about owning digital media anymore? Douglas has some ideas...
I've made an Atom feed. I don't actually know what it means, but it's here: http://sashinka.blogspot.com/atom.xml
I am having a dinner party Saturday night. This is what I'm thinking of making, waddya think?
home made chickpea-less flatbread
humous, maybe lime rather than lemon?
both of these may or may not include za'atar
mexican chilli, with squash and stuff (mildish, not too hot)
couscous, maybe with cinamon? or quinoa, more south american?
figs in syrup for desert? Or poached pears?
or maybe something with kiwi - my organic box has sent me more kiwis than I can shake a cinamon stick at
Hey, if you're coming to dinner, act surprised:)
Hey, if you're coming to dinner, act surprised:)
Don't ask me why, but I am the number one google search for Marylebone High Street and eyebrows. Next, where to get your legs waxed in Tribeca.
Is Orkut like Friendster, comrade?
When I was about fourteen, I saw a made-for-TV version of the Dybbuk, by Sholom Ansky. It haunted me. Now, this, on eBay, of all places.
Update: it's subtitled. So maybe it was in Yiddish. See, with the internet, you don't need to have a memory anymore.
Update: it's subtitled. So maybe it was in Yiddish. See, with the internet, you don't need to have a memory anymore.
I'm gonna reserve my views on Suzie Gold till I've actually seen the movie. Not least, because the Director is a from der heim. I'm worried, though. Till then, her "new home on the web".
I just want you all to know that, currently, I'm having quite a nice time with my blog. A blog's like a relationship; ups and downs, times when you like it more. Today's good. I feel... creative. All week, in fact. Sadly, my brain is mostly full of IT outsourcing, social policy and the car fleet sector. Great. It's partly to do with this great new writing class I've joined on a Tuesday night. And partly because I'm a Londoner. Not.
I want to study language: I have, like, too many discourse particles.
Immigration and asylum are back on the agenda. And Michael Howard's been busy this morning; the Today programme at 7am, and BBC at 8am.
And, when questioned on his view, he proved quite how Jewish he is, with his passive-agressive reply: "The government's got into a terrible muddle over all this. They said nothing till I raised a question at PMQ. They've known about it for three years, but better late than never, I look forward to hearing their response."
Michael says "the BNP is a stain on our body politic" and "we have a long tradition of good race relations in this country." While I might agree with the former, I certainly don't with the latter; what about the British Government's reaction to Jews in the 30s and 40s? Viraj Mendis?. Cockle collectors? Burnley? Stephen Lawrence? C'mon, we don't care. Admit it.
Know what I can't get over? Michael Howard's father got off the boat from Romania two generations later than my family, and I don't know where he gets off on this Englisher-than-thou trip. Don't forget, Michael, from der heim, erois. Don't forget, Michael, humanity is more important than politics. Don't forget Michael, politics is for the people, not the politicians.
And, when questioned on his view, he proved quite how Jewish he is, with his passive-agressive reply: "The government's got into a terrible muddle over all this. They said nothing till I raised a question at PMQ. They've known about it for three years, but better late than never, I look forward to hearing their response."
Michael says "the BNP is a stain on our body politic" and "we have a long tradition of good race relations in this country." While I might agree with the former, I certainly don't with the latter; what about the British Government's reaction to Jews in the 30s and 40s? Viraj Mendis?. Cockle collectors? Burnley? Stephen Lawrence? C'mon, we don't care. Admit it.
Know what I can't get over? Michael Howard's father got off the boat from Romania two generations later than my family, and I don't know where he gets off on this Englisher-than-thou trip. Don't forget, Michael, from der heim, erois. Don't forget, Michael, humanity is more important than politics. Don't forget Michael, politics is for the people, not the politicians.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Molly Ringwald was 36 today. Even 80s celluloid stars get old. Although, oddly, she looks exactly the same. Botox, anyone?
I read with interest that she just left the New York cast of the play, Enchanted April, because I was at school with Polly Walker, who played Caroline in the made-for-TV movie of same. Later, Polly went on to be second lead to Sharon Stone in Sliver. Oddly enough, she glosses over attending our school in any press interviews: presumably because people who are now vets, doctors and lawyers didn't judge her to be good enough to even be in the school play. I mostly remember that her sister was the first person in our school to wear all her clothes from Benetton. Boy, were we jealous.
I read with interest that she just left the New York cast of the play, Enchanted April, because I was at school with Polly Walker, who played Caroline in the made-for-TV movie of same. Later, Polly went on to be second lead to Sharon Stone in Sliver. Oddly enough, she glosses over attending our school in any press interviews: presumably because people who are now vets, doctors and lawyers didn't judge her to be good enough to even be in the school play. I mostly remember that her sister was the first person in our school to wear all her clothes from Benetton. Boy, were we jealous.
Eighties movies at Fast Rewind. And for neo-maxi zoom dweebies everywhere? The Breakfast Club.
I want to go to Antenna tomorrow, but I'm doing something semi-worthy. Shame.
I used to be friendly with this guy - M - who said it was boring if I had an experience, told him the story, wrote about it, posted it on my blog, got comments, and even talked about it some more. He said, can't I process stuff just once? We're not friends anymore. Partly because I got slightly freaked when he pointed out an obviously anorexic woman at a party and said she was obese. Random thought over and out.
Ryman's 253 interactive novel.
I know where I'll be Monday... the truly fantabulous, and Kilburn-based Jonny Berliner Band are playing a gig at Cargo. This, you can't miss.
My parents are getting UPVC windows. In the house I grew up in. I am upset. Even though, as my Mum pointed out, the windows I mostly grew up with (wooden) were not the original, Crittall windows. It's a 1930's house. But at least the wooden window frames were... in keeping with the house, in some way. Organic.
They're going to be white. And shiny. And need no maintenance whatsoever. Everyone in Cheadle has them. And as my Mum also pointed out, I've not lived there for years. Although I do feel that it's my childhood home. I've asked for a photograph, before the deed is done. I don't know if I can sleep in a house with plastic windows.
I hope my ability to speak comes back.
They're going to be white. And shiny. And need no maintenance whatsoever. Everyone in Cheadle has them. And as my Mum also pointed out, I've not lived there for years. Although I do feel that it's my childhood home. I've asked for a photograph, before the deed is done. I don't know if I can sleep in a house with plastic windows.
I hope my ability to speak comes back.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
The Meeting
I often think as a freelancer I'm better at getting the work than doing it - I love to sell and I love to close.
So I was going to be in New York anyway, and called up a couple of potential clients and said "hi, I'm Sasha, I work for lots of your competitors, and I know a fair amount about [obscure area of finance]. Do you want to meet?"
They all said yes. Two were professional and arranged a meeting. The third guy, let's call him Jacob, said "gee, we really want to open up in Your-RoPe - that's Europe to you and me - are you looking for an MD job?" He over-pronounced the P in Europe, like Woody Allen in the Early Nightclub Years, although I suspect not ironically.
I said I wasn't looking for a job at all, I do project work, I'm a freelancer, I don't like to be tied down to any one company.
He said let's have lunch.
I didn't want to have lunch, because I was trying to get my meetings at the beginning or end of the day so they didn't break up my valuable shopping/hanging-out time, and so I wouldn't have to wear a suit all day. He insisted we had a lot to talk about, lunch was the only way.
And that's what found me at 30th and like Eighth Avenue in some seedy office block, where I right away knew this wasn't what I was looking for. I take the elevator up to the fifth floor. It's all open plan, cube-farm hell, and wires everywhere. Somewhere between a health and safety nightmare and a really fun place to work.
The woman nearest the door says hi and asks me who I'm here to see. I say Jacob. She calls him, and then turns to me and says, "he'll see you shortly. Take a seat."
I look around and there are no seats. There's no reception. Why waste the overhead? I wander around, looking at the noticeboard (there's $38,000 in the 401k plan and at least 25 cube-rats), and read some old brochures, dating back to 2001. You can download them all off the web anyway, but I pick up a couple to while away the time while I'm kept waiting.
The unreceptionist interrupts my thoughts, and says, "Jake'll see you now." She doesn't tell me anything else, like where his office is, and he doesn't come out to reception, grasp my hand firmly and say "thanks for shlepping from London."
So I find Jake's office, and walk in. He's wearing a headset like he's going to teach an aerobics class, but I proffer my hand anyway, as he's "sent me" in, but he indicates he's talking on the phone. I take a seat and wait. He finishes up his call, and says hi. Like he's better behind a keyboard than real life. We shake hands. Limply. I can't help thinking he's backoffice.
He sees the brochures I've been reading and says: "whered'ya get those? We don't generally let people take those." I resist the urge to say you can download them all off the web, as he snatches them out of my hand. I feel things have started really well. He's matched my corporate trouser suit with a 1992 Citibank funrun t-shirt, and two days of beard. We're clearly on the same page.
"So, Sasha, waddya want?"
I explain that he can outsource research projects to me, and talk him through what I've done for other people. He asks all sorts of commercial-in-confidence questions that I can't answer. He pushes me. I demure. I say I would do the same if I was working for him. He pushes me more. He asks to keep the brochures from my projects, and I say they're my only ones. He looks disappointed.
I wonder if I want to have lunch with this guy. While I'm thinking that, he answers his phone, still wearing his headset, and says "lunch? gimme ten minutes. See you you in the lobby." So I figure, no lunch. Glad I blew out my friends.
He turns to me, clearly wanting to wrap up, as his lunch date's waiting.
"You don't know me, I don't know you," he says, stating the obvious. Like yeah, I'm thinking, that's why we're having a meeting. "All these clients on your resume, they know you. I can't risk a whole project with you if I don't know you. I'm thinking win-win for both of us. How's this? You sell some sponorship, just a couple of clients, on our big event for Your-RoPe for the spring, and I'll give you 25% of whatever you sell."
Now I don't really sell. I brief salespeople, and I put together the content, but I don't sell. And I know he means commission only.
"And what sort of fee would you be looking for, for a project like that?" I ask.
"I can't risk a fee. What if you don't sell anything?"
I explain that all my other client work is fee-based, so I'm going to inevitably spend less time on his project if it's straight commission. It's the truth. He thinks I'm negotiating.
"Tell you what," he counters, "let's call it 35%. No risk for you - we do the venue, logistics, marketing. And you get the feedback from your clients about us, what we're like. It'll be a couple of calls."
"I already have client feedback," I tell him, "people in the market respect you, that's why I approached you." I don't add that his respect rating is spiralling during this conversation.
It's clear that we're not going anywhere, and I'm clear that it's going to be pretty hard to do business with someone who doesn't beleive in the old-fashioned work-money trade. "Why don't you send me a proposal," I say, "and I'll be happy to consider it."
"Great," he says, relieved at a way out.
"Obviously if you want me to sell for you, it would be helpful to have some background on the company - how many events you do, how long you've been in business..."
He looks uncomfortable. "We do a bunch of events. We've got a few people working here. We've been in business for a little while." I wonder how he'd feel if he knew that I know how much is in the corporate 401(K) plan.
"That's really helpful, thanks." I close my notebook, indicating that I want to get the hell out of there. "I look forward to getting your proposal. Thanks for making the time to meet with me." I add the "with" to show how transatlantic I can be.
He gets up from his desk for the first time, to escort me from the building, and he's about six foot six. Not that I mind tall; some of my best friends blah blah blah. I just wish I'd have had some warning, I was a little... surprised. He behaved like an extremely short person.
"You're a very smart girl, Sasha," he says to me. I avoid eye contact, and think about the fact that he's probably ten years younger than me, if a little taller.
Jake walks me out to reception like Daddy Long Legs and shakes my hand by the elevator. While I'm still waiting, he turns away towards the faux-receptionist, and exclaims:
"Why d'you let her take the brochures? You know we don't let brochures out of the office?"
Sasha has left the building.
I often think as a freelancer I'm better at getting the work than doing it - I love to sell and I love to close.
So I was going to be in New York anyway, and called up a couple of potential clients and said "hi, I'm Sasha, I work for lots of your competitors, and I know a fair amount about [obscure area of finance]. Do you want to meet?"
They all said yes. Two were professional and arranged a meeting. The third guy, let's call him Jacob, said "gee, we really want to open up in Your-RoPe - that's Europe to you and me - are you looking for an MD job?" He over-pronounced the P in Europe, like Woody Allen in the Early Nightclub Years, although I suspect not ironically.
I said I wasn't looking for a job at all, I do project work, I'm a freelancer, I don't like to be tied down to any one company.
He said let's have lunch.
I didn't want to have lunch, because I was trying to get my meetings at the beginning or end of the day so they didn't break up my valuable shopping/hanging-out time, and so I wouldn't have to wear a suit all day. He insisted we had a lot to talk about, lunch was the only way.
And that's what found me at 30th and like Eighth Avenue in some seedy office block, where I right away knew this wasn't what I was looking for. I take the elevator up to the fifth floor. It's all open plan, cube-farm hell, and wires everywhere. Somewhere between a health and safety nightmare and a really fun place to work.
The woman nearest the door says hi and asks me who I'm here to see. I say Jacob. She calls him, and then turns to me and says, "he'll see you shortly. Take a seat."
I look around and there are no seats. There's no reception. Why waste the overhead? I wander around, looking at the noticeboard (there's $38,000 in the 401k plan and at least 25 cube-rats), and read some old brochures, dating back to 2001. You can download them all off the web anyway, but I pick up a couple to while away the time while I'm kept waiting.
The unreceptionist interrupts my thoughts, and says, "Jake'll see you now." She doesn't tell me anything else, like where his office is, and he doesn't come out to reception, grasp my hand firmly and say "thanks for shlepping from London."
So I find Jake's office, and walk in. He's wearing a headset like he's going to teach an aerobics class, but I proffer my hand anyway, as he's "sent me" in, but he indicates he's talking on the phone. I take a seat and wait. He finishes up his call, and says hi. Like he's better behind a keyboard than real life. We shake hands. Limply. I can't help thinking he's backoffice.
He sees the brochures I've been reading and says: "whered'ya get those? We don't generally let people take those." I resist the urge to say you can download them all off the web, as he snatches them out of my hand. I feel things have started really well. He's matched my corporate trouser suit with a 1992 Citibank funrun t-shirt, and two days of beard. We're clearly on the same page.
"So, Sasha, waddya want?"
I explain that he can outsource research projects to me, and talk him through what I've done for other people. He asks all sorts of commercial-in-confidence questions that I can't answer. He pushes me. I demure. I say I would do the same if I was working for him. He pushes me more. He asks to keep the brochures from my projects, and I say they're my only ones. He looks disappointed.
I wonder if I want to have lunch with this guy. While I'm thinking that, he answers his phone, still wearing his headset, and says "lunch? gimme ten minutes. See you you in the lobby." So I figure, no lunch. Glad I blew out my friends.
He turns to me, clearly wanting to wrap up, as his lunch date's waiting.
"You don't know me, I don't know you," he says, stating the obvious. Like yeah, I'm thinking, that's why we're having a meeting. "All these clients on your resume, they know you. I can't risk a whole project with you if I don't know you. I'm thinking win-win for both of us. How's this? You sell some sponorship, just a couple of clients, on our big event for Your-RoPe for the spring, and I'll give you 25% of whatever you sell."
Now I don't really sell. I brief salespeople, and I put together the content, but I don't sell. And I know he means commission only.
"And what sort of fee would you be looking for, for a project like that?" I ask.
"I can't risk a fee. What if you don't sell anything?"
I explain that all my other client work is fee-based, so I'm going to inevitably spend less time on his project if it's straight commission. It's the truth. He thinks I'm negotiating.
"Tell you what," he counters, "let's call it 35%. No risk for you - we do the venue, logistics, marketing. And you get the feedback from your clients about us, what we're like. It'll be a couple of calls."
"I already have client feedback," I tell him, "people in the market respect you, that's why I approached you." I don't add that his respect rating is spiralling during this conversation.
It's clear that we're not going anywhere, and I'm clear that it's going to be pretty hard to do business with someone who doesn't beleive in the old-fashioned work-money trade. "Why don't you send me a proposal," I say, "and I'll be happy to consider it."
"Great," he says, relieved at a way out.
"Obviously if you want me to sell for you, it would be helpful to have some background on the company - how many events you do, how long you've been in business..."
He looks uncomfortable. "We do a bunch of events. We've got a few people working here. We've been in business for a little while." I wonder how he'd feel if he knew that I know how much is in the corporate 401(K) plan.
"That's really helpful, thanks." I close my notebook, indicating that I want to get the hell out of there. "I look forward to getting your proposal. Thanks for making the time to meet with me." I add the "with" to show how transatlantic I can be.
He gets up from his desk for the first time, to escort me from the building, and he's about six foot six. Not that I mind tall; some of my best friends blah blah blah. I just wish I'd have had some warning, I was a little... surprised. He behaved like an extremely short person.
"You're a very smart girl, Sasha," he says to me. I avoid eye contact, and think about the fact that he's probably ten years younger than me, if a little taller.
Jake walks me out to reception like Daddy Long Legs and shakes my hand by the elevator. While I'm still waiting, he turns away towards the faux-receptionist, and exclaims:
"Why d'you let her take the brochures? You know we don't let brochures out of the office?"
Sasha has left the building.
Monday, February 16, 2004
PayPal sucks, allegedly.
Tova Mirvis' new book is out. But then I raved about her first one and not everyone got it.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Great new way to use Audblog (or, as they pronounce it, ord-blarg) - niggun sharing. Of course.
"I think the reason there is all this beastliness towards Gilligan is because he is not particularly good looking."
Thus says Boris Johnson, on hiring Gilligan to the Spectator. Sheesh. I'd really like my boss to say that about me.
Thus says Boris Johnson, on hiring Gilligan to the Spectator. Sheesh. I'd really like my boss to say that about me.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
The tyranny of trousers in New York. In fact, only in New York.
A little out of season, I know, but - thanks to Fabe - the Fisher Price Chanukah set.
Monday, February 09, 2004
Courtesy of my Jerusalem correspondent: The Yarmulke Bra. Of course. And for people who are not too voluptuous, right?
Sunday, February 08, 2004
Not Exactly the Velvet Underground
Great piece in this weekend's New York Times on virus writers and their thang. (use sashablog/sashablog as a login).
Great piece in this weekend's New York Times on virus writers and their thang. (use sashablog/sashablog as a login).
Saturday, February 07, 2004
So Friday night, N and I make our way down to The Crane Club, on Amsterdam at 79th. Really. No, we're not clubbing, we're participating in Kol Zimrah, a post-denominational neo-chavura (motto: meanigful prayer through music) - watch me use that jargon. I'm a born-again Jewish intellectual. There's about a hundred people in the basement. Many of them may also be grappling with where they are on the spiritual dimension.
What do New York Jewish women wear? Same as me: black, black and more black. Because you can never look too thin. Especially if you have some curves you're intent on hiding. But this is not a manicure story: I digress in a fashion-oriented way, when really this is about spiritual connection, and music, and a Carlebachy-Debbie Friedman kinda vibe. I like.
Some years ago, I had my first experience of the Noo-York-Jewish-Thang: a friend took me to BJs on a Friday night, and growing up midddle-of-the-road Anglo orthodox, I was bowled over by the hundreds of people, the sound system, the musical instruments, and the fact that everyone went out for Chinese afterwards.
Kol Zimrah has a way-mellow vibe, although there's still something slightly surreal about sitting in the basement of a club on the Upper West Side (had to hold back the urge to order a Manhattan), and N reminds me that they had musical instruments in the Temple, too. Exactly.
After lots of humming swaying, and me wishing I could sing, we made our way down the the JCC for the Tubishvat Seder. Now the irony of having an $x million dollar building three blocks away that doesn't allow "prayer groups" or whatever language they use, was not lost on me. This isn't a problem we have - yet - in the UK, because Anglo-Jewish life officially evolves around the synagogue you don't go to. But I can see why the existing synagogues could be worried that this shiny new toy (it's be open less than two years) would take people away from traditional synagogue buildings.
And it has a gym, the JCC, which obviously I didn't visit on shabbes, but it got me thinking. I've often thought a shul is very like a gym: you pay a lot of money, you don't go often enough, you feel guilty, and when you're there, you spend time chatting not doing what you came for. Why not combine the two? Looks like the JCC of Manhattan already thought of that.
There's a lot more to say. But I'm thinking of getting a workout, and then I'm meeting J and O on the Lower East side. Tough life, eh?
What do New York Jewish women wear? Same as me: black, black and more black. Because you can never look too thin. Especially if you have some curves you're intent on hiding. But this is not a manicure story: I digress in a fashion-oriented way, when really this is about spiritual connection, and music, and a Carlebachy-Debbie Friedman kinda vibe. I like.
Some years ago, I had my first experience of the Noo-York-Jewish-Thang: a friend took me to BJs on a Friday night, and growing up midddle-of-the-road Anglo orthodox, I was bowled over by the hundreds of people, the sound system, the musical instruments, and the fact that everyone went out for Chinese afterwards.
Kol Zimrah has a way-mellow vibe, although there's still something slightly surreal about sitting in the basement of a club on the Upper West Side (had to hold back the urge to order a Manhattan), and N reminds me that they had musical instruments in the Temple, too. Exactly.
After lots of humming swaying, and me wishing I could sing, we made our way down the the JCC for the Tubishvat Seder. Now the irony of having an $x million dollar building three blocks away that doesn't allow "prayer groups" or whatever language they use, was not lost on me. This isn't a problem we have - yet - in the UK, because Anglo-Jewish life officially evolves around the synagogue you don't go to. But I can see why the existing synagogues could be worried that this shiny new toy (it's be open less than two years) would take people away from traditional synagogue buildings.
And it has a gym, the JCC, which obviously I didn't visit on shabbes, but it got me thinking. I've often thought a shul is very like a gym: you pay a lot of money, you don't go often enough, you feel guilty, and when you're there, you spend time chatting not doing what you came for. Why not combine the two? Looks like the JCC of Manhattan already thought of that.
There's a lot more to say. But I'm thinking of getting a workout, and then I'm meeting J and O on the Lower East side. Tough life, eh?
Friday, I got up lateish, N made me a truly healthy kale, lentils and onion breakfast, which I'm going to recreate back home, and then I set out for some serious shoppage. I love to walk in the City. Sadly, it was utterly pissing it down, but I walked from 72nd down to 28th, and back to 59th (then I got a taxi as it was getting late).
The rain is everywhere. The snow is piled up at the side of the pavement, and you can see tide marks on nearly everyone's troushers, around knee level. It's wet. When you go into stores, security guards give you a bag for your umbrella. People comment on your "cute accent". Everyone uses the word safe a lot; "safe trip", "safe weekend", and not in the London street way. I was last in New York before 9/11, and it's changed. People are calmer, friendlier, warmer. While waiting at the beauticians on 30th, I fell into a long conversation with a woman who'd had a double manicure/pedicure because she was going away for the weekend, and when we said goodbye, that's what she said: "safe weekend."
The rain is everywhere. The snow is piled up at the side of the pavement, and you can see tide marks on nearly everyone's troushers, around knee level. It's wet. When you go into stores, security guards give you a bag for your umbrella. People comment on your "cute accent". Everyone uses the word safe a lot; "safe trip", "safe weekend", and not in the London street way. I was last in New York before 9/11, and it's changed. People are calmer, friendlier, warmer. While waiting at the beauticians on 30th, I fell into a long conversation with a woman who'd had a double manicure/pedicure because she was going away for the weekend, and when we said goodbye, that's what she said: "safe weekend."
I know I've been lax - I've been busy. Great trip, though.
Thursday, went to N&N's farewell party (winging their way back to East Finchley after four years in Manhattan) at the private room at Amuse in Chelsea. Given that it was already 1am London time when I got there, I think I did a pretty good job of staying awake chatting to people. Ran into a couple of (ex) Londoners, ate fabulous canapes, and cute little "British" biscuits iced with union jacks. Theme of the evening: hedge funds. I learned a lot. And my client who just decided to do a (big hedge funds) piece of work internally rather that with me? Huge mistake.
Thursday, went to N&N's farewell party (winging their way back to East Finchley after four years in Manhattan) at the private room at Amuse in Chelsea. Given that it was already 1am London time when I got there, I think I did a pretty good job of staying awake chatting to people. Ran into a couple of (ex) Londoners, ate fabulous canapes, and cute little "British" biscuits iced with union jacks. Theme of the evening: hedge funds. I learned a lot. And my client who just decided to do a (big hedge funds) piece of work internally rather that with me? Huge mistake.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
Remember Connect 4? This is DeConnect 4 - the ultimate in deconstruction. So twentyfirst century.
The syndrome that never was? Gulf war syndrome litigation collapses.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Urban tribes and its favourite review.
The Jerusalem Post Literary Quarterly.
Tangential aside: couple of years ago I saw Will Self interviewed by Melvyn Bragg at Jewish Book week. Self said that when Elena Lappin asked him to write more than he wanted to, he responded: "I'm only Jewish quarterly."
Tangential aside: couple of years ago I saw Will Self interviewed by Melvyn Bragg at Jewish Book week. Self said that when Elena Lappin asked him to write more than he wanted to, he responded: "I'm only Jewish quarterly."
It's on LiveJournal (OK, three hail mary's), it's dramatic. You know what you need: LJDrama - all those brioguses and fribles writ large, in detail and online.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Any alphabet you want, anytime.
I'm starting to hate Micro$oft Outlook with an intense hatred. What it does to IMAP folders shouldn't even be reported. If I add up all the wasted time while I reboot, it must be 30 minutes a day, and time is money, as I just said to a telemarketer trying to sell me double glazing. Anyone recommend any palm-friendly mail clients/diary type thingies?
Monday, February 02, 2004
Remember the eighties? Oh, OK, maybe it's the seventies. This music does my head in - and has been since 197X, I suspect - so it's not my screensaver, but I so remember sitting in the hall when I was in Upper IIH (at least that's what I think it was called), and watching this thing go round and round till the TV programme came on.
I only post this, because last night's show was at JFS's brand new school building, and school nowadays seems to be rather like a modern university campus: all computer screens with directions, shiny newness and amazing facilities. Whither sick-coloured walls, the smell of overcooked cabbage and not a computer to be had?
I only post this, because last night's show was at JFS's brand new school building, and school nowadays seems to be rather like a modern university campus: all computer screens with directions, shiny newness and amazing facilities. Whither sick-coloured walls, the smell of overcooked cabbage and not a computer to be had?
Jonathan Lethem mentioned this, and I don't want it to drop off the end: Twitch and Shout, a movie about Tourette's Syndrome.
I caved in - my new car is supposed to arrive today. I'm not holding my breath, as it was supposed to arrive last Tuesday, but they sold it to someone else. They've guaranteed that it'll be here before 11am, as I have to out to a meeting, but I'm feeling generally untrusting of any customer service operation. Call me a cynic. OK, I'm a cynic.
Feed Me, Seymoour!
Last night I took 15 of my closest friends to see Little Shop of Horrors in the brand-new Off Crickewood Broadway Production (which you've missed. Two nights only). Yes, it's am-dram. But it was fab, and I came home all singing and toe-tapping and full of the joys of intergalactic scary-plantlife.
Last night I took 15 of my closest friends to see Little Shop of Horrors in the brand-new Off Crickewood Broadway Production (which you've missed. Two nights only). Yes, it's am-dram. But it was fab, and I came home all singing and toe-tapping and full of the joys of intergalactic scary-plantlife.
Sunday, February 01, 2004
Jewish people have a habit of calling the rest of the world "non-Jews", implying that the world is mostly Jewish, and there's just a handful of the non-variety. Today, I wondered if Muslims do the same: and there's only one way to find out. The democratiser of the web - google. So google has 75k hits for non-Jews, and - surprisingly - 108k hits for non-Muslims. So they do it more than us. Though, on a per-member basis, perhaps less so.
Slightly scary, so look out for these: common "pretexts" used by private investigators.
Did I mention I'm flying Virgin?
About Last Night
Dinner at M's in N10. (Or N's in M10, and then it would have been on the motorway) I feel under pressure now, actually, because I - possibly misguidedly - mentioned I had a weblog during the conversation, and now everyone'll look, and think either (a) I'm just not a very good writer, (b) I haven't accurately reflected the evening, or (c) something else derogatory. Upbeat this morning, aren't I?
I always get stressed going to M's house because he lives on a road you just can't park on, and I say that as someone who lives in zone 2. Albeit, someone who just sold her car. So last night, through a judicious combination of a totally incompetent car hire company, and the generosity of my friends who turned out to be going to the same dinner party, I didn't have to do that, which was cool.
Great evening: conversation covered everything from education policy, the sandwich business, children and how cuddly they are... all the usual chattering classes stuff, although we did forget house prices and London transport policy. M made wonderful (mostly) veggie food, including a Delia puy-lentil dish with goat's cheese that I will be recreating in NW6 sometime very soon.
OK, I can relax now.
Dinner at M's in N10. (Or N's in M10, and then it would have been on the motorway) I feel under pressure now, actually, because I - possibly misguidedly - mentioned I had a weblog during the conversation, and now everyone'll look, and think either (a) I'm just not a very good writer, (b) I haven't accurately reflected the evening, or (c) something else derogatory. Upbeat this morning, aren't I?
I always get stressed going to M's house because he lives on a road you just can't park on, and I say that as someone who lives in zone 2. Albeit, someone who just sold her car. So last night, through a judicious combination of a totally incompetent car hire company, and the generosity of my friends who turned out to be going to the same dinner party, I didn't have to do that, which was cool.
Great evening: conversation covered everything from education policy, the sandwich business, children and how cuddly they are... all the usual chattering classes stuff, although we did forget house prices and London transport policy. M made wonderful (mostly) veggie food, including a Delia puy-lentil dish with goat's cheese that I will be recreating in NW6 sometime very soon.
OK, I can relax now.
Psychiatrists on trial - great piece in yesterday's Guardian about what happens if you "pretend" you're hearing voices. It's an extract from Opening Skinner's Box, published sometime soon.
Moneysupermarket - compare rates on all sort of financial stuff.
After the fun and games (good ones, of course) I had at the UKPA this week getting my new passport, I discovered from a job ad that their mission statement is "confirming identity, enabling travel". P-u-leese. Sounds like it's been through the Dilbert Mission Statement Generator, although I notice that on their website, it's actually "Confirming nationality and identity, enabling travel", which they seem to think is perhaps slightly too xenophobic for a job ad.
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