Behind the velvet ropes
One of the most fascinating things about my job is how I develop all kinds of relationships with people I've never met face to face. So last night, at a very very fancy party with very very fancy people I decided - after a few vodka tonics - that it would be a good idea to march right up to a VIP member of the press with whom I speak almost daily (but have never met face-to-face) and introduce myself.
And that I did.
"Sam*," I said, "Alli. Nice to finally meet you!"
"Alli!" He stuck out his hand. "Wow! Nice to meet you too! Wow, you're totally not what I pictured you to be! You're stuatuesque!" Clearly the vodka tonics had been flowing freely.
"What'd you expect me to be like?" I asked. "Frumpy? Hiding under my desk, slitting my wrists." He laughed and pulled out the chair next to him.
"Sit," he said. And I did.
And when the drunken theatrical intellecutal conversation in which the Nederlanders and the Schoenfeld's also partook came to a nice pause, I excused myself and walked away, for discussing the tragectory of national theatrical economic and social impact over the last 50 years is not something I like to discuss with a little vodka in the blood stream. I prefer baseball. Or Quantum Physics.
This morning, exhausted, before I had finished my coffee, my boss came and stood right in front of my desk
"So which VIP reporter are you flirting with now Alli!?!??"
"I was NOT flirting with him! He was with me! It's not my fault." My co-worker who had been by my side last night came to explain.
"Oh yeah? Well, I don't believe you," my boss said. "And someone's going to be jealous" (Meaning the actual VIP reporter who I have a legit crush on. Our face-to-face meeting is one of the story books, let me tell you.
Being chastised in general I can handle, pre-coffee chastising I cannot.
Later, my boss walks up to my desk. "This has been the longest fucking week."
"I'm so exhausted," I say.
"Well, of course you are," he says, "flirting with every journalist on Broadway!"
A few hours later the phone rang.
"Alli." It was Sam.
"Hey..."
"It was good to meet you last night."
"Yeah, you too."
"Now I have an entirely different image of you. Tall. Gorgeous. Intellectual."
"...thanks?" I replied, trying to keep my eyes open through the lack of sleep.
The notion of celebrity has always fascinated me. We have our top 5 VIP reporters, who are the single most influential people my office deals with. We coordinate red carpet arrivals and parties to which we invite celebrities who will in turn bring out all kinds of press for us. Last night, as Sarah Jessica Parker and Nathan Lane and Mario Cantone and Victor Garber, etc etc etc all walked by I felt like I knew them. When you put a face to that name, to the voice on the phone, your reality in turn gets shaken a bit in the sense that it actually becomes reality, and not a fantasy. This is actually happening. You are actually building relationships. You cannot hide under your desk. This is your life.
*the names have been changed to protect the innocent!
And that I did.
"Sam*," I said, "Alli. Nice to finally meet you!"
"Alli!" He stuck out his hand. "Wow! Nice to meet you too! Wow, you're totally not what I pictured you to be! You're stuatuesque!" Clearly the vodka tonics had been flowing freely.
"What'd you expect me to be like?" I asked. "Frumpy? Hiding under my desk, slitting my wrists." He laughed and pulled out the chair next to him.
"Sit," he said. And I did.
And when the drunken theatrical intellecutal conversation in which the Nederlanders and the Schoenfeld's also partook came to a nice pause, I excused myself and walked away, for discussing the tragectory of national theatrical economic and social impact over the last 50 years is not something I like to discuss with a little vodka in the blood stream. I prefer baseball. Or Quantum Physics.
This morning, exhausted, before I had finished my coffee, my boss came and stood right in front of my desk
"So which VIP reporter are you flirting with now Alli!?!??"
"I was NOT flirting with him! He was with me! It's not my fault." My co-worker who had been by my side last night came to explain.
"Oh yeah? Well, I don't believe you," my boss said. "And someone's going to be jealous" (Meaning the actual VIP reporter who I have a legit crush on. Our face-to-face meeting is one of the story books, let me tell you.
Being chastised in general I can handle, pre-coffee chastising I cannot.
Later, my boss walks up to my desk. "This has been the longest fucking week."
"I'm so exhausted," I say.
"Well, of course you are," he says, "flirting with every journalist on Broadway!"
A few hours later the phone rang.
"Alli." It was Sam.
"Hey..."
"It was good to meet you last night."
"Yeah, you too."
"Now I have an entirely different image of you. Tall. Gorgeous. Intellectual."
"...thanks?" I replied, trying to keep my eyes open through the lack of sleep.
The notion of celebrity has always fascinated me. We have our top 5 VIP reporters, who are the single most influential people my office deals with. We coordinate red carpet arrivals and parties to which we invite celebrities who will in turn bring out all kinds of press for us. Last night, as Sarah Jessica Parker and Nathan Lane and Mario Cantone and Victor Garber, etc etc etc all walked by I felt like I knew them. When you put a face to that name, to the voice on the phone, your reality in turn gets shaken a bit in the sense that it actually becomes reality, and not a fantasy. This is actually happening. You are actually building relationships. You cannot hide under your desk. This is your life.
*the names have been changed to protect the innocent!
posted by AllDeTime at 11:29 AM
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