May I be Frank?

Another nail in the coffin that is my life in New York ...

In other words, why do I still live here?

Recently, I was out at a bar in the East Village that I go to fairly often. It’s usually a pretty relaxing place — even when it’s packed and people are actually dancing. It’s not expensive, it’s not a scene, it’s not intimidating — it’s just fun.

I was with a friend who I don’t see very often — our other friend had to be sent home after throwing up on the sidewalk. Anyway, my friend was really into some guy who was hanging out with a bunch of people. One was this horrendous guy (frankly, I hesitate to use the word guy and for lack of a better term I use it loosely) with Christian Siriano glasses, a ridiculous assymetrical haircut and this joke of a floor-length shearling coat that was dyed some hilarious jewel tone and trimmed with what appeared to be faux dog hair.

My friend managed to glom onto their crew and proceeded to introduce me around before cornering the object of his affections. They sort of disappeared and everyone else sort of scattered except for Dog Fur and I.

So I was like only half-talking to him because I just wasn’t in the mood to chat with anyone I didn’t already know and he was a real mess (And, like, seriously, a woman … A gross one. That’d I’d never be friends with.). So, I was kind of looking over his shoulder giving like single syllable answers trying to find an out — but at the same time I’m pretty sure I wasn’t being downright rude. Then, he asked me what I do.

I answered “graphics” but wasn’t terribly forthcoming, it’s not really a topic I love rehashing at this point in my life.

“Graphics? Like for what?”

“Like apparel and marketing stuff, mainly,” I replied.

He literally responded: “Apparel … What does that mean?” And it was dripping with condescension. Dripping.

Losing my patience and sensing the bitchiness that was about to be unleashed I told him “apparel is another word for clothing.”

“I know what apparel is, I meant for whom?”

So I sort of just brushed it off and told him I had done work for a few different companies. But he pressed on, “Yeah, but, like, who?”

With a sigh I gave him the shortened name of one of the two well-known contemporary American lines I’d done work for as well as the first name of the designer of the other; I told him I also worked with a start-up and a few licensors and a catalog.

He zeroed in on the Designer. He pretty much shouted the designer’s first name in the form of an enraged question before repeating the collection’s full name

I am, of course, totally confused by his reaction — but I’m pretty good at reading a person’s tone and was pretty sure I was in for a bumpy ride. Still looking for an out, I muttered, “yeah … ?”

So, firmly planted on his soapbox he responds, “Well, I work at [famously not doing very well New York-based mainstream women’s fashion magazine] and we have contact with [the designer’s name] all the time and I’ve never heard of you … I’ve never even heard of a Frank.”

Is this little clown-colored creature seriously thinking I’d lie about this? Like, what the hell is going on. What benefit would I reap from faking a resume with someone I don’t even want to be talking to at a bar that’s only about a notch above a dive?

I simply told him I’m a freelancer … I pretty much work under contract or from home or on a per project basis … That I don’t, like, have a desk in their studio …

“Ohhhhh … you’re a freelancer, how’s that going for you?’

Cue total unadulterated rage: “Um, probably a lot better than any job at a magazine that everyone knows is hemorrhaging ad pages and laying people off.” Then, I excused myself before things got really nasty.

At this point it was late, and I wasn’t drunk, and my friend was otherwise engaged: it was time to leave. I started saying my goodbyes and I noticed that Dog Fur was cackling and gesticulating at me with his friends and it just set me off. I told my companion that “that woman in the dog coat needs to cool it,” and on my way out I patted Dog Fur’s shoulder and said, “Wow, you must be really insecure … But that’s okay, a lot of people like you are insecure,” and walked off.

I didn’t see his face or hear him say anything but several of his friends thought it was hilarious. And it was. The whole situation was hilarious. Look, I live in New York in the Age of Snark and [when I work] I work in an industry in which poking fun is practically a requirement. I get it.

But I also don’t go around trying to make total strangers feel like shit. I have seriously never met such an outwardly condescending (and sad) individual — and I’ve met plenty of hugely successful and even relatively famous people who actually have the right to be condescending if they really wanted to be.

Like, “Hi, I’m an assistant at [Dying Magazine] and make a base salary of $23,000 a year and I wear cheesy Christian Siriano glasses and look like a woman and I force people to talk about their careers against their will so I can brag about mine …” What is that? Are you jealous of people that don’t get abused by the publishing industry?

Furthermore, don’t fuck with me, because I’m much quicker on the uptake, meaner, more clever and wearing a Margiela sweater.

I’m fine.