The new position is different from the previous position.   On paper, my role is much the same, but in practice the mode of operation has significant differences.  Whereas the previous agency was a lightly-staffed satellite office of a purportedly trans-continental but seemingly slipshod operation, the present agency is the worldwide headquarters of a major global advertising powerhouse.  From the windows, one side has a beautiful view of mid-town perched on a hill overlooking the downtown section of the city.  The other side looks across the Hudson river to New Jersey.  For such a magnanimous building, the agency’s projects seem surprisingly small, and the budgets, based on as much as I am able to infer about them, reflect this.

Whereas every creative decision at the previous position went through a sometimes unhealthily intense debate with the Creative Director and Art Director, decisions in this firm are mostly passed like radon gas unnoticed without smell.  Perhaps a behemoth advertising firm has difficulty adapting to the Internet era.

The digital group in which I operate consists of a handful of people at best: three Project Managers of one sort or another who sit together at a series of giant desks stacked side by side as far as the eye can see in the main open area.  These people keep calm and organize periodic meetings with up to three Creative Directors, each of whose office has a more stunning view than the next, to extract the wisdom to be shuttled over to two or three Art Directors, who sit in slightly more sheltered sections of the open area.  The Art Directors produce pretty graphics representing the visionary concepts lavished upon them by the Creative Directors (in theory).  All work must pass approval from the Account Managers, who must ultimately ensure that the client is happy and that the client’s strategic goals are met by the work.  None of the personnel are used to working with someone of my obscure skills.  I am a sort of bridge between the Creative personnel, the Project Managers, and the Account people, stepping on the tips of each of their toes until they stop bothering to shine their shoes.

Only the Project Managers appear to devote their entire time to Internet projects.  The others have decidedly non-interactive backgrounds and tendencies.  Everyone seems to be a Vice-President of This-And-That-Other-Thing, although they perform roles no different from non-executive production staff I have encountered in other firms.  Each bathroom is replete with Scope mouthwash, hand lotion, and gentle facial tissues.

As it nears almost a month that I have been helping them, certain aspects of the business are becoming clear.  There are a handful of big clients who must fund the majority of the operation.  The Internet group could not be profitable, so this must mean that there are major accounts in other media, such as print and television, pulling the train along – areas of the business to which I have little-to-no exposure.  Judging by the sounds I hear while in the toilet, I am one of the few people to use the readily-available disposable splash-suppressing sanitary toilet seat covers with folded annular and bridging inner portions.

Because they are owned by a French parent organization, and, wink-wink, we all know the French have a different outlook on labor, or so I am told, the accounting system to determine the operating costs of any account (i.e. client project) is purportedly based on net revenue divided by the number of employees.  Since outside vendor companies are not considered employees, a variety of accounting tricks of using employees vs. outside contractors ensue.  At the moment, I am hired as an employee, although I may have to switch to using my corporation since I have recently begun working on an in-house project that is not bringing in any revenue.

As I was one day early on in this job instant messengering with a disgruntled employee from my previous client, I found myself recommending to them that they switch to a larger agency, where I said with new-found surprise, there is less politicking.  Having been there longer, I now know that the atmosphere in this agency is politically toxic.

The agency’s head Creative Director left the job during my first week.  People who live a life in these types of environs apparently consider such events to be monumental.  He asked his creative underlings out to a steak dinner – all except one or two.  One of the snubbed underlings, who happens to be the Art Director I am working most with, sits directly across from a Copywriter every day of the week, all year long.  They are very close and collaborate on everything.  Copywriter J got quietly up to leave for the lunch invitation without saying a word to Art Director J.

Art Director J came to confide in me (I was a safe confidant given my independent status) wide-eyed in some sort of subdued fluorescent tube Art Director rage that it was unconscionable for Copyright J to have sat across from her and not said anything about a lunch invitation to which everyone except Art Director J was invited.  I told her to let it go – it’s hard for me to fathom the snub and even harder to sympathize with the outrage.

Another week passed before L, a more junior Copywriter, but senior in personality and wit, called me in that whiny American sort of outrage via the internal line (a clunky-looking office telephone that some people are apparently accustomed to using) to complain about the direction the project we were working on together was taking.  I happen to agree with her that the guidance from our assigned Creative Director is more-or-less worthless, and the Art Director was producing design work that did not adhere to my plans and did not make the project seem exciting.  But I’m not sure I was able to satiate her thirst for outrage and vengeance.

But finally, a few days later, we had the big presentation (via clunky telephone) with the client… ten or so of us in a room. Account Manager A asked Creative Director J who should to talk the client through the ideas for the project. Creative Director J, clearly not thinking about much beside the buttons on his cell phone and the good-standing of his hair coiffure, indicated with a hand gesture of distraught that I was probably the one to do so.  This might have made sense in a less politically charged environment, since the flow of ideas is, after all, my specialty.  Account Manager A immediately caught his faux-pas and hurriedly asked Art Director J to do the talking to the client, as if giving a cupcake to a sobbing child.

For several months now, I have been keeping an Excel document especially to track my hours at these types of positions.  Each client has its own designated sheet, where I keep a log of hours and fees for each week of work.  Immediately upon arrival in the morning, I update the starting time for the day.  Immediately after lunch (and sometimes before), I enter in the length of my break.  Before departure, I update the timesheet to reflect total hours worked for the day.  In this manner, I am aware of exactly how much money I am earning at every leg of the day, every day of the week, every week of the year, and ultimately for the year as a whole.  When I send an invoice at the beginning of each week, the date, invoice number, and amount is tallied in the Excel document.  When the client pays the invoice, I enter bold text “Paid” next to the invoice number.  A final sheet, mislabeled “Net Worth”, automatically updates with every new entry to reflect my total earnings this year.

The office has an atrium with a skylight, a jukebox, some circular tables, and a small coffee shop run alternate days by ghetto tall Showannah and a bubbly tall Latina woman.  Showannah has decided that I like green tea in the morning.  And something about being someone who has an assigned drink appeals to me, so despite my preference for non-caffeinated beverages, I often have green tea in the morning.  The afternoon is peppermint tea time, sometimes with an oatmeal raisin cookie.  The atrium is almost always empty.

The building has a cafeteria four floors below mine.  I have not yet ventured there.

Today, one Project Manager asked me for a critique of the designs produced by one of the Art Directors.  All in all, the design left a lot to be desired.  The site is obviously going to be boring and static, although Project Manager K explained that this was not likely to change given budget and timing constraints..  When I was finished with my feedback, Project Manager K said, “Thanks, I’m so glad we have someone like you around.”  Project Manager J, sitting on the other side of the desk looked up and exclaimed, “Fuckin’-a, Yes!,” followed by “I only wish the Creatives understood that.”

I said, “The Creatives will not understand.”

There is a wedding at an estate. Nina and I and our party arrive and enter through a space where other guests are seated. It is quite crowded.

As we are walking through a corridor between seated people, one set of guests starts threatening me very aggressively. One of them, in particular, seems to be taunting me. He pulls his fist back in a cocked position as if to punch me. I recognize this person, and my instinct is to beat the crap out of him. But I refrain and simply ask politely repeatedly if he will please let us pass. Others are watching. My friend, Chris, is behind me as part of my party. This person again threatens to punch me, and his party also make remarks at me. At one point a foot is threateningly positioned in front of my face. But I maintain my cool, and eventually they let me pass, as they must.

Another table of guests, who had watched the altercation, accuse me and Nina of being at fault, saying something about how the table we wanted was quite large, large enough, as if explaining the other guests’ aggression. The man gestures toward the table, which is a two-person table with a table cloth. We continue walking. As we walk, a Mexican waiter comes up and says that we should have said something. I say that Nina was about to say something to the woman who was responsible, but that she had resisted the temptation.

Then we are inside a house, an old stone house that is part of the estate. As my party and others are inside, I climb out of a small window. Out behind the house, I peer inside at the party, but I know that there is someone out here who is coming to get me. A murderer dressed in a black outfit which is a bit worn out and faded, including a hood that seems to be quite disheveled. This person sneaks up behind me, but I know they are there and turn around in time. This killer is known to be at this party.

The guy who threatened to punch me is named Matthew Boldface. Despite being threatening, he is not the true killer, although he may know the true killer.

In the back yard, there is a band preparing to play to a small audience. I step into an awkward small corner of the yard, with a member of the band’s group is standing, and attempt to get out of the way to watch the music. On the other side of the performance area is the crowd of other guests. Where I am standing appears to be uncomfortable, so I move to a slightly better spot within the same corner. There is a Mexican traditional band that begins to play Carmen, the opera, however the music is “America” from West Side Story.

i have just arrived in Englnd to visit my Grandmother. i am waiting for her to arrive at her house (which does not look like her real house) when I see a cassette recorder, the type used for dictation or other portable needs, laying haphazardly on the floor. I put it up on a bureau and begin to play the tape of my grandmother speaking. There is a hand-written note attached to the player, probably some instructions from her to Uncle P, and I understand that this tape is not meant to be heard by me.

My Grandmother, uncle, and my parents all arrive at the house, and I quickly turn off the player trying to conceal that I have been listening to it. However, I think my grandmother has already concluded that I was listening. She gives me a kiss and light hug, very brusquely compared to usual. I notice at this point that she is extremely short and I wonder if she has always been that short. She harriedly walks off as if on an important errand to do around the house.

Uncle, cousin Gruber, parents, and I are in some sort of gourmet deli. We are each sitting on stools eating chocolates of various kinds, like chocolate covered nuts and such things found in gourmet delis. Gruber and I are conversing when accidentally a bag of chocolates drops to the floor and some spill out. Gruber notices that some of the chocolates on the floor are of a sort that have a block of some edible sort covered in chocolate. So he picks a few of those off the floor and eats them. I do the same.

Uncle Peter arrives with a brush and pan to pick up the spilled chocolate. He mentions discretely something about picking up and keeping the “treasure”. He carefully picks up some of the chocolate to salvage it while throwing out others. My mother eats some of the chocolate too.

Daniel and I are standing outside on a street – a pedestrian walkway of sorts with stone steps at a slow incline, European-looking. We are with Daniel’s girlfriend, who is cute, young, and dressed in a white tee shirt. As we are talking, she walks over to another guy on the opposite side of the walkway who is walking with the assistance of a cane. She and he obviously know each other, and at some point they start kissing unabashedly. She is being playful with him as if they are good friends and lovers. Daniel and I watch, and I make some remark towards Daniel about how he knows how to pick them.

The guy with the cane is good looking and also dressed casually. He has a friend with him. The crippled guy’s name is Anthony, and he introduces his friend, who is a bit burlier and darker haired, as being Tony. Anthony has a motorcycle and he says to the girl that Tony helps him with his bike. He mentions to the girl that actually he intends the motorcycle to be Tony and his together, as if sharing out of gratitude for Tony’s assistance. The girl seems to act also very comfortably around Tony, although they do not kiss.

Daniel and I are now on the inclined stone street together with a group of people standing in a forward-facing formation as if in a parade. Some of our group have entered a shop in order to get drunk. Those of us on the street are not drinkers and are waiting for those in the shop to get their alcohol needs done so we can continue on.

Toddy is giving a screening of his film in a large nice apartment. There are many people standing around waiting for Toddy to present. Toddy is sitting at a stool in front of the audience, and gives a soliloquy about how and why he made this film, and many interesting anecdotes. As he is talking, it becomes clear that this is an interview filming done by Daniel where he films Toddy talking about his latest film for a movie in its own right.

Back in 2004, I had the luxury of accompanying master Derek Wang on his BubbaBoard in front of a packed house at Tonic as part of the New Interfaces for Musical Expression class taught by Gideon D’Arcangelo at NYU ITP.  Just came across this footage, ripped from Derek’s old NIME blog.  Clearly some things last the test of time.

I also performed a solo piece based on video tracking, but that performance ended in disaster, and I believe the footage is lost, if it ever existed… I certainly never had a copy… I’ll ask around to see if I can dig it up.

Monday through Friday 9am to 7pm are spent at an interactive ad agency coming up with the creative concepts for a certain Nazi airline’s social-network infused travel tracking web and mobile application, continuously bearing the brand’s distinguishing factor in mind – their ability to pump fuel into the gas tanks with impeccable timing and efficiency until the journey comes to its successful conclusion. I charge for lunch.

By mid-day, New Jersey Art Director B, Connecticut Creative Director S, and I battle it out over the whiteboard, where we pore over my never-ending supply of diagrams and flow charts, printed fresh each day, discovering previously undisclosed nuances with every hour, debating each blot of ink until one of us submits to the other’s persistence.

S, who has final decision-making rights, stands an inch closer than comfort, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the target, my face, often seeming to not quite understanding exactly the details of B and my fervent discussions, but always making the correct high-level decision regardless.  S waits a bit too long with uncomfortable silence after I emit my usual delay tactic response to his asking me if I am interested in permanent employment.  He is not afraid of silence or proximity.  This ability to create uneasiness and action on the part of his minions (myself included) demands respect, and I am taking notes.

Meanwhile young chatterbox B waxes loquacious about social media, interactive design, usability, Toffte, and just about any other topic placed in range of his curly goldilox covered ears.  He, and the rest of the agency crew, maintain poise and courtesy throughout most of the 9+ hour workdays, finding joy and comfort in each others’ company.  Sometimes I think B is a genius just through the sheer level of his commitment to the otherwise inconsequential minutia of interactive media, his lack of anxiety, and what I perceive to be a certain level of premature wisdom.  But he is no doubt young and idealistic, and I have no doubts that the final product will be mediocre but nevertheless a flagship product for this interactive agency which has apparently never created anything quite so interactive before.  (Mind you, I’ve created a dozen of these things at a tenth of the budget with a twentieth of the people…. lessons to learn abound.)

Project Manager, W, a Kenyan seemingly by birth, once a day trots her stuff by and begins to talk about the status of the project in a deceptively offhand manner.  Like S and B (without the pickle soup of the true S&B in Williamsburg), W is also surprisingly intelligent and understands the impact of most design decisions without requiring a spoon feeding of soup.  Her observations are usually acute, and I admire her ability to maintain control while I repeatedly question her authority with my snide remarks, arrogance, and unintentional but conscious airs of nonchalance.  We are all in all getting along very well.

H, the Jewish senior designer of Romanian genetics, is soft-spoken but witty when spoken with a flat affect. She believes men should be men, and not sing mopey songs about unrequited love.  I feel that we share generally similar tastes, although our interaction is relatively limited.  It is due to her that I and you have now discovered her friends’ band, Tiger Flower, although she is by no means a metal-head.  H is a skilled designer and grasps conceptual matters with little effort.

At least once or twice a week, S, B, W, and I conference with R and H, the developers in England who will most likely actually build what we have designed.  The Brits do not restrict themselves to technical discussions and frequently question my design decisions without quite addressing them as such.  S, B, and W, seem somewhat unfamiliar with these aggressive tactics of programmers, so I take it upon myself to assuage the developers’ concerns while attempting to restrict their mental meanderings to only those areas in which they will be put to use. 

Nevertheless, the Brits are clearly positioning themselves to gain control over this project, its timing, and high level decision-making through the guise of technical issues, and my crew seem none-the-wiser.  Despite their being an internal group of the London sister office of the same agency, originally, the Brits were meant to be just one of many teams of developers who would bid on this project.  Without any bidding, they have de facto claimed status as the only developers in consideration.

Thursday 7:30pm, you can see my taking nosedives off of the diving board in the NYU pool, sometimes slipping and injuring myself as I try to impress the skinny young almost-but-not-quite asexual Chinese girls under the instruction of C, the flamboyant non-professional diver extraordinaire.

diving boards are dangerous

Friday morning, 8:30-9:30, I hit balls around on the tennis court with buxom instructor A, also of Romanian descent, and the busload of middle-aged Catholic women.

Saturday and Sunday 9am to 6pm are devoted to my hard-working students, health insurance, library rights, and a meager retirement plan. Somewhere there is time for banya, booze, and social networks, vegetarian meals and naturally caffeine-free tea.

As Trina says, “I’m gonna put that pussy on top.  I’m gonna ride you until that dick drop.  I’m gonna keep going non-stop until I hear you say, ‘Trina, god damn you a bad bitch.’”

It’s tennis & diving season again. Diving class consists of 4 young skinny asian girls, a tall latin american boy, me, and Yasuo, the prestigious fine art framer.  Yasuo doesn’t commune with the beginners, preferring to do his own thing on another board.  I bide my time waiting patiently for my turn amongst the newbies. Our instructor, C, is good with details.  He was impressed with my retention of diving prowess.  Besides Yasuo, who is a great diver, I am the only one who can perform a dive.  But C gives plenty of constructive criticism, often mimicking the ridiculous gesticulations of the divers with good humor.

Tennis is a different story.  A, the buxom young instructor, doesn’t mess around.  The 7 women and I run drills, returning balls, rallying with each other, and practicing volleys.  The two oldest women – a fiery 60-somethinger and a middle aged latina – joked about having to compete for me as a hitting partner.  An oversized and middle-aged administrator at the university stated matter-of-factly that I would hit with her since the two best hitters had already had me.  Later, the administrator questioned the integrity of my racquet, based on the sound made when hitting.  Towards the end, we practiced serves, with little guidance.