promising opportunity

Tonight I meet Joy. 

My post about looking for introductions results in some reposts, and through one of those reposts, I connect with Joy — she is a stylist for a men’s custom-clothing company and she is looking to expand her team.

I read up on the company.  And what I read is impressive.  And so when Joy invites me to a 3-hour meeting tonight of the fall line, I say sure.

But as the time to leave approaches, I really really don’t want to go.  I’ve been out the last two nights and all I want to do is stay home and organize my apartment.  Plus, I do not want to have dinner at 4:15, so I can leave by five (I’m meeting Joy at 5:45 in midtown).  But I know I can’t cancel, and I know I should go.  And so I do.

I get to The Westin, where the meeting is being held, and at first feel like I’ve walked into an Avon get-together (though I've never been to one of those).  There are mostly women milling around.  All fashionably attired, bubbly, and familiar with one another.  

I don’t like cults, and initially I feel like I’m in one. 

But once I meet Joy, who is genuinely nice, and once the meeting begins, my

fears are quickly dispelled. 

The clothes are gorgeous.  The fabrics are from the top mills in Italy, including Loro Piana.  And much of the clothing is custom made. By cutting out the middleman, and selling directly to the consumer, the price of the clothing is reduced substantially.

I come home excited.  I could start right away. I can still do real estate. I think the product is fabulous and the pricing excellent.  I would have to learn how to measure men for suits and coats and shirts, but that I can learn.  

 And thankfully, we are not expected to measure the inner seam on the pants.

come and gone

I love long hair on men, but my son’s hair looks so much better short.  When left on its own, my son’s hair grows up and out, verses down.  It’s not his best look.  Short hair is.

Before leaving, Alexander gets a haircut.

I’ve been successful at biting my tongue, as I look at my son’s unmade bed for four days.  But then he surprises me and makes it before leaving, without even being asked.

My apartment was once big enough for both of us, but no longer is.  Alexander’s small room cannot contain him, and his being and belongings have pretty much taken over the living room/dining area. When Alexander is home and studying, I am relegated to my bedroom. And if my door is open, my son will come by and close it. 

Today he leaves and I have my space back. But as always, I feel a tinge of sadness as we say our hurried good-byes.

not the weekend I thought

Yesterday Alexander studied all day, with one trip out to the Apple store to learn that his computer will cost over $500 to repair.  Apple Care of course ran out just three months ago.

So today, I figure, he’ll study most of the day and then we’ll go to a four pm screening of Birdman, with dinner after.

But around two, Alexander announces that his studying hasn’t progressed as far as he’d hoped, there’s a great football game on tonight between the Giants and Eagles, he really really wants to do well on this prelim, and could he please, please not come to the screening.  Never mind that he loves film and that this movie promises to be one of the year’s best.  And forget the fact that the Q&A after will include the director Alejandro González Iñárritu, as well as Michael Keaton, Naomi Watts, Amy Ryan, Ed Norton and Emma Stone.

How can I argue academics vs. entertainment?  There are plenty of other things I could argue about, but I choose to say nothing and go alone.

The movie is great and it would be shocking if Michael Keaton weren’t nominated for a Best Actor award.  The Q&A is enlightening.  I am always impressed at how smart everyone sounds.  Are there no stupid people in Hollywood?  Or do they just not speak off-screen?

I meet Alexander after the movie at B Café, where he reluctantly agrees to a photo. 

We’ve really not done anything together since he’s been home — dinner tonight and about an hour last night watching an episode of Law & Order while eating sushi.  Everything else I’ve suggested has been met with, “I can’t; I have to study.”  I wonder how often this line gets repeated to his friends?

welcome home

Around noon Alexander calls from Ithaca.

“How’s the weather down south?  Should I pack shorts?”

Around 12:30 I get another call.

“Hi.  I’m taking the 1:15 bus home.  I can’t talk.  I have no batteries in my phone.”

Then, around 1:20.

“Oh, sorry, I made a mistake.  It was a 1:15 A.M.  bus, not P.M.  So now I’m on the 2:15 bus.  See you later.”

Then at 2:30.

“Hi.  I got off the bus before it even left.  The guy sitting next to me smells, and there were no other seats. The next one is at 4.”

Around 9:45 there’s a knock on my door.

“Hi.”  Alexander gives me a big hug and drops his stuff on the floor in the living room.

“I need to finish an assignment.  It’s due at midnight, so I’m fine.  I’ll eat after.  But I need your computer.  The screen on mine is all grayed out.  I might need a new one”

Around 11:20.

“What do we have to eat?”

I’ve missed him. Really.

another brush with fame

In the summer of 1999 there was a play I had to see. 

Despite a sold-out run, I went to the theater and waited for people not to show. And sure enough, I was able to snag a first-row seat.  It was a matinee and I went alone.  I figured the chances of getting one seat were better than getting two.

The play was called Bash: Latter Day Plays and contained three one acts. Attractive, relatable people each telling a chilling story of unforgettable violence. 15 years later, and I still remember the play’s three disturbing stories.  The playwright was Neil LaBute, and he soon became my favorite contemporary playwright.

  

I think I’ve seen every full-length play Neil LaBute has written since 1999. And tonight I am seeing The Power Shot at a theater in the West Village with my friend Carol.

I get to the theater early, and it is still mostly empty.  And there, standing in the back of the theater, I recognize the playwright.  Like a gushing teen, I go up to him and introduce myself, telling him how much I admire and love his work.  Despite the verbal brutality of some of his plays, Mr. LaBute is unassuming and engaging.  He is a total gentleman, and appears more than happy to talk to a fan, even posing for many iPhone photos until we agree upon a couple. 

I tell Mr. LaBute that I write a blog and give him my card.  I add that I’ll write about his play and what I think, and he replies, “Why not tell me before you leave?”  I go to my seat all excited.  But then I think, “Oh no, what if I hate the play?”  The chances I think are pretty slim, but still, what do I do if that happens?

Within the first few minutes of The Money Shot, my fear is gone.  But this is not typical Neil LaBute.  The play is a biting, insightful satire about the shallowness of Hollywood.  The writing, of course, is sharp and witty, and much of it is hilarious.  But true to the playwright’s original works, the alpha-male lead is beautifully drawn. He spouts idiotic facts with confidence. I loved this play.

Before leaving the theater, I approach Mr. LaBute and he says, “So, what did you think?”  I tell him the truth.  And then I say, “You create a-holes better than anyone.”  He laughs and says, “Maybe that’ll be my legacy.”

  

Like Gillian Flynn whom I recently met, I am amazed that such endearing, normal people can create such twisted characters.  I guess it’s part of their genius. 

I do wonder though, if their friends and families ever question the sources for their inspiration.