The Move

Although there have been many lucky things about landing this internship (I can't think of any right at
this moment, but I am sure (SURE!) that there are some), the luckiest of all is that I got to be here
during "The Move." John is vacating one of his three (yes THREE) Greenwich Village apartments, and relocating
the contents to a facility in Maryland. A facility run by two of the sweetest and least
competent people on this planet, Dan and Annie. The move has provided the entire staff with a lot of
excitement, as well as opportunities for close interactions with John. Interactions that the
average person just does not get to have.

For example:

John, noticing that dirt is coating his file cabinets, asks me to grab a rag from the "rag bag" in
the kitchen. No problem. Except that there was a problem. And the problem was this: The "rag" that
was available to me was none other than an old pair of John's underwear. Not even underwear that was cut
into pieces - just a fully intact pair of men's briefs. And although there are many things I will do,
cleaning cabinets with John's used underwear is not one of them. John became impatient because I was
taking so long retrieving the rag, and I really wanted to say, "John, I would take a normal amount of time
if you provided me with a normal rag."

Once the file cabinets were cleaned with John's briefs, they were to be relocated. As the only female
member of the moving team, I was doing my best to "carry my weight" (and the accompanying weight of a
very full file cabinet). At one point John tilted a cabinet so that its weight bore down completely on me;
I could barely hold it up and - I kid you not, this is the way it happened - just as I was struggling to
maintain my balance and not be crushed by metal, John gets an email on his BlackBerry and proceeds to
respond to it while the full weight of the file cabinet bore down on me. In case I wasn't clear,
John was the person responsible for easing the cabinet off of me and onto the floor.

The whole moving process has been painfully slow. John has been relegating a minimum of four people to
tasks that require one person, tops. If he wants a poster moved he will undoubtedly call in all the
troops so that each of us can hold one corner of the poster. This, as opposed to what a normal person would
do, which is carry the damn thing themselves. To make matters worse, in a sea of hundreds of boxes, papers,
cabinets, etc., all of which need to be packaged up and moved, John has us inspecting (as a group) and
then moving ever so slightly one tiny item at a time. And when I say "ever so slightly" I mean that I am
literally asked to pick up a box, at which point John will point to an open spot on the floor mere inches
away, and asked to lay down the box again. The distance I'm moving things is imperceptible to the
untrained eye. I am also routinely asked to move papers from one box into other identical boxes for
reasons I cannot begin to discern. There is no re-organization going on, per se, just a lot of slight
movements aimed at accomplishing nothing whatsoever with the exception of annoying the interns.

And on the topic of movement aimed at nothing, routinely over the past two weeks I've received text
messages from John instructing me to meet him in Greenwich Village (as opposed to our main studio) first thing
in the morning. This requires me to get up earlier than usual, walk twice as far to a train, and head
downtown, as the Village is a much longer haul from my apartment. Of course, when I arrive in Greenwich Village I am,
more often than not, immediately told that I will not be needed there, and to head back to our studio. Well
ok. Once I got a phone call from John just as I was arriving in the Village saying that he was at the studio,
and, "Oh, did I say you should go to Greenwich Village? No, I don't need you there." Another time I was asked to
move ONE (not exaggerating) box 6 inches or so and THEN told my services were no longer needed, and that
I should head back to our main studio. Mind you, all of this came on the heels of a tirade by John about how offices
can't function without good communication and efficiency, precipitated by James going to the wrong studio (I can
only assume because he received a text from John instructing him to do so, which John promptly forgot
about).

There have been other problems, too. James "the foreman" was the driver of our rented moving van for
two days, and in each of his at bats behind the wheel he hit something. And in this case "something"
happened to be a biker (day one) and a parked car (day two). The rental company did not like this, nor, I
assume, did the biker. The parked car, from what I can tell, didn't care much. Now there is paperwork to
be filed, claims to make, all of which will fall to Dan and Annie in Maryland, meaning it will
never, ever get done.

One thing that has been a pleasant surprise to me in this moving process is that I'm a hit in freight
elevators. Seriously, a hit. I can walk down the streets of New York attracting no attention whatsoever
all week, but hop into a freight elevator to move a few boxes in Greenwich Village and I'm Jessica Alba. I've yet
to step into one of those bad boys and not be met by a flattering remark. Some people are scared of
elevators but I'm going to make a point of being in them more often.

One place I'm going to make a point NOT to be: in Subway with John (that's Subway the sandwich shop as
opposed to "the Subway"). A few weeks back (when Sanja was still with us...I know you all miss Sanja) John
threw a tantrum because they put pickles on his sandwich (and I can only assume he didn't want
pickles, based on his tantrum). He actually went back into Subway to scream at the "sandwich artist" (that's
what they're called at Subway, no joke). And when he came back from his fit he said to me: "I hate to be a
prick, but..." On a later occasion, after some bad behavior, John informed me that "I hate to be a
prick" is actually his mantra. And I would like to recommend a substitute mantra, which is "I WON'T be a
prick!" Now isn't that nicer?

Lately John has been tipping me. Like a doorman, or a busboy. After working all day on a Saturday, at 7:00
pm, just as I think I'm about to leave, John dismisses Bill but says "I'm going to need Liz a
bit longer." Oh good! So he proceeds to send me out to pick him up some chilled, dry Pinot Grigio, which
I'm sure he needed after such a long day of bossing us around senselessly. When I returned with the wine, I
was told to "keep the change". Then the next morning when he had me fetch him a coffee, he made a point to
give me an actual tip. Huh. This is new to me, as an intern. I am not so much learning things, or being
paid an actual salary, but at least I'm making tips.

Before I wrap this up, I have to mention two stories featuring the bathroom. There is a bathroom in the
laundry room in the basement of the Greenwich Village apartment, which is what we all have to use when we are working
there, because the actual bathrooms in John's apartments are filled to the brim with junk. So last
week John told me my services were no longer needed, and I said my goodbyes. Unbeknownst to John I headed
to the basement to use the facilities. Unfortunately for me, John headed to the basement for some unknown
reason as well, coinciding with my entry into a freight elevator that was to take me from the basement
back to the lobby. Now, mind you, I should have left the entire building some time ago, and it was awkward
to be lurking in the basement, darting into freight elevators. John saw me and called out my name, and
instead of just stopping to say hi and tell him that I was only using the bathroom, I panicked, pretended not
to hear him, shut the elevator door as quickly as possible, and fled the scene.

And finally, this gem: Last week John and I wrapped up the nightmare of "the receipts" back at the main
studio (side note: for those that were curious, John never screened out the Cica Cica Boom receipts, so
they were sent off to the accountant. Oops!) Anyway, John wanted to check over my work (again) and at one
point determined that he did not have enough light in the studio to properly examine my handiwork. So,
naturally, he decided that we would finish up this task IN THE BATHROOM, where, presumably, there is
nicer lighting. I am not making this up. And in between checking my math and telling me how I messed
up the receipts, John would get distracted and re-fill the toilet paper roll.

Hope everyone is making tips!

Liz

p.s.

There was an ad on the subway today for Cottonelle toilet paper, and the slogan was "Too much bran?" Huh.
A little more graphic than I'm used to from my toilet paper vendors.

And finally, while the nation focuses on Spitzer's sex life and Obama's speech on race, a headline that
caught MY attention: "Gilligan's Mary Ann Caught with Dope." How can you not love that?