Keep Hustling, Keep Flowing

In my reluctant and humble conversations to drum up publicity for the blog and therefore, my career, I'm often left to explain the title to the four out of five people who- to my bewilderment- have never seen Hustle and Flow.

"You know? 'It's Hard out Here for a Pimp?' It's like that..."

More blank stares. And then I'm left to explain the premise, skillfully dodging the blatant suggested connection with sex that is of course meant to be satirical and ironic (believe me, it's ironic). This doesn't always work so here, allow me:



Hustle and Flow is a Memphis film, through and through. Conceived and developed by Craig Brewer, the movie follows DJay (Terrence Howard), a Memphis pimp creeping past his prime years with nothing to show for it except his cadre of prostitutes and a clawing aspiration to rap. Here's a disclaimer: some prominent Memphians have spoken out against the film, saying it smacks of racism and base stereotypes. Perhaps, perhaps, but there is an undeniable authenticity to life in the South and as I snarkily try to convey, a sweaty reverence for the Dream that won't go away, set to thrashing rhymes and assonant beats.

So although I did host a rap radio show my sophomore year of college ('Twas called "Sweet Jams." It's on my resume), I don't make any claims to deeply relating to the film. Yes, I was filled with an enormous pride when DJay and crew create a makeshift studio and record "Whoop That Trick" (yes, misogynistic indeed!). But Craig Brewer articulates the hazy lethargy of being caught in your aspirations and feeling, well, discouraged and unable to move forward.

As my own journalistic career is inert at the moment, I often (have you been reading?) consider alternate career paths and weigh how to continue on with gaining a livelihood. But if DJay can staple fast-food styrofoam cup holders to his walls to pad the sound and make a demo, there is hope for me yet.

The last line of the movie, after all, is "Everybody got to have a dream." Now let's just disregard the fact that he says this from jail. You have to start somewhere.

The Waiting Game

A New Yorker friend told me once that finding an apartment is like finding a husband: you just have to wait until a good one comes around. Equally encouraging and disheartening in that, okay, there's only so much one can do until something pans out, or, buy me a cat and give me a muumuu because here comes perpetual singlehood. 

Until the elusive perfect-for-right-now apartment appears, each and every interaction with a prospective roommate is very much like a first date. You've already exchanged pleasantries via Craigslist postings, merely showing that you can string together coherent sentences via email, you are 23, your occupation, and that you are staunchly opposed to emoticons. So if the person who is soliciting a roommate responds, there's only a quarter of the battle. 

Case in point: I visited a fantastic apartment the other evening that I am desperately pining after- great location, excellent price, no rodents or bedbugs, laundry on the floor, and most importantly, seemingly fun roommates. So what do you do when you meet? Are you totally, unabashedly, 100% yourself? 

After walking in, one of the girls showed me her other roommates's room: "It's kind of messy right now." Me: "No worries. My room looks like a meth lab." 

Does my comment show that I have a sense of humor, or does it instead raise red flags that I know how to turn sinus meds into illicit drugs? I overanalyzed at once as if I were hopefully interacting with a crush. Because, really, I'm trying to show that I'm low key and not uptight about organization to an obsessive degree, but the prospective roommates could take that as I would just as rather go without showering for too long (true) and that I might as well clean the dishes with the toilet brush (also true but moving on...). After some pleasant conversation, even a couple of laughs on the couch in which all, you plus interviewing roommates, acknowledge the potential awkwardness of the situation, you have to go because someone else is coming to look at the space. But before you part, you have to declare your interest: how serious are you about the apartment? "I'll be honest," I said, "if you offered it to me, I'll take it. I feel really good about this. Umm...not that that's vulnerable or anything." I reneged from my overt confidence in the situation with an uncomfortable chuckle, unsure if my interest was entirely reciprocated. "Ok great, we'll let you know next week," they said. 

Until I hear anything, I will continue to find suitable alternatives, wait wait wait, check my gmail 218,947 times to see if they've emailed with a hearty "welcome! we'd love to have you and your less-than-domestic tendencies!", and of course, I will not get my hopes up. I will not get carried away with decorating ideas; that's akin to doodling your married name on your Lisa Frank binder before even DTRing. I will not to analyze too much, I will not replay the conversations so I may pick up context clues, nor am I trying to second guess myself. Relationships and apartment searching should certainly be more upfront: I like you, you like me, here's the check, let's live together (maybe not so much in relationships; money complicates the partnership). But after all, I am a girl, and since there is no boy in the picture, I must analyze some sort of interaction, particularly since there are no subtle flirtations or promising texts to account for. What else am I going to do? Certainly not shower. 

Make It Happen

Nothing emboldened my 8-year-old soul quite like Mariah Carey's 7 octave range (and I'll say it: Devon Sawa, but for different reasons). I have incredibly vivid memories of trying to emulate her pitch, bebopping to the 90s beats while getting ready for Sunday School, as my patient mother nearly Van-Goghed me, half-successfully curling my hair. "Mom, doesn't she have THE best voice?" (I now realize what her distracted and hushed affirmation really meant.)  

Particularly monumental during my formative years was "Make It Happen." I only rediscovered this song in the fall pre-move up here, and, as I am wont to do, purchased said anthem and placed it appropriately on my "New York" mix on the iPod: "Yes, I WILL make it happen!" At the risk of sounding like Ally McBeal's therapist, I highly recommend choosing a default song of encouragement. Especially for the days when you realize the most interaction you've had with the opposite sex is relegated to the homeless man who complimented you on your green tights with the hopes you could give him a cigarette. 

But anyway, what were we talking about? BEHOLD: 

We've both aged considerably. I still have both ears but my affection for Mariah is unerring; I've got the scars to prove it.

Rest in Peace, Domino

Domino, a Condé Nast publication, shuttered today after suffering the economic blow currently afflicting many other magazines and newspapers. A decorating how-to for established party planning mavens and aspiring aesthetes alike, the shelter magazine is the latest fatality in a line of similar publications in recent months.

Just shy of its 4th birthday, Domino leaves behind its founding editor-in-chief, Deborah Needleman, and numerous other staffers now left to ride out the virulent financial crisis elsewhere. The website will also perish; although the date is still unclear, the site will presumably close nearer to the release of the final issue, in March.

"This decision to cease publication of the magazine and its website is driven entirely by the economy," Charles Townsend, CEO and President of Condé Nast, consoled concerned readers in a press release Wednesday. 

Economic strategists and politicians, after much deliberation, have yet to attribute the spreading depression to any one cause nor have they been able to satisfactorily remedy any diseased journalistic ventures.

In lieu of flowers, Domino staffers ask for job leads instead.

Condé Nast Folds Domino [Mediaweek]

Law & Order

It's not uncommon to walk down a Manhattan street and notice a city permit, taped on a lamp post, forbidding parking on this particular road for a particular date because Gossip Girl, 30 Rock, or some other New York-centered show or movie is filming. 

Thanks to these, New York is comprised of financially incompetent writers with insanely large abodes or sexually promiscuous trust-fund babes whose various addictions are only paralleled by the scope of their hair accessories. Or rather, the boroughs are crime-riddled dens of debauchery and corruption. (Law & Order will be filming down the street from my apartment tomorrow. Should I be concerned that a neighborhood park will most likely be set as a believable scene of a gruesome and bloody atrocity? Perhaps. I'm more concerned that there's a sign underneath the stairwell in my building asking us to refrain from urinating.) 

Hate to tell you, those aren't the most accurate of representations. However, I know of one show that is true to the stage of life I'm in right now. I refer to this with some trepidation as I have already gotten genuine offers of money in fear that I will do something like this. I know this blog has been a continuous lament of my rather self-involved economic situation, but in the name of Chuck Bass, I assure you I will take no such measures:

No Job? No Apartment? No Problem!

A little over 3 months ago, I packed 2 suitcases and headed to the Memphis airport to fly to Manhattan on a 1-way ticket. 'The rats, the gossip girls, the mad men- this will be brilliant fodder for my no-doubt soon illustrious journalism career! Hand me my beret and call me Mary Tyler Moore!'

Yep, I moved to New York a few days before the stock market took a serious dip, without any reliable employment or a place to live, only a few kindly friends who offered me an air mattress as a temporal home. I luckily found my current internship within 36 hours of landing, but the apartment came later...much later. After countless days of inaudible sobbing on the streets and serious consideration of sleeping at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I found a sublet- for now.

I haven't had to sleep on the subway, and my parents still have a probable chance of having grandchildren since I haven't yet made good on my promise to sell my eggs. But I've ralphed for the first time since 1995, and Tina Fey has yet to offer me a full-time position as her protege. 

Cupcake by cupcake, things can only go up from here. Right?