Reports From the Field: A Very Spitch-y Internship

OK, so here’s the deal: I have the distinct privilege, as a part of the 1% (people who like a very specific butterfat-concentration in their milk), to be working an internship in New York City, while simultaneously living in an apartment there. Few people survive living in NYC, according to old people in every small town ever. As such, my summer should be littered with speak-easies, rock ‘n’ roll music, and fraternizing with minorities (read: a lot of naps, John Mayer, and anything I write for this third one is going to come across as racist). Hopefully the following few anecdotes will be enough to convince you that living at home with your parents and your “up-and-coming” online company are going to be just plenty.

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“Yeah, no, for real, Mom—like, six people visited ‘funny_pictures_of_my_step_dads_dog.biz.ly’ this month!”

So I can’t exactly tell you where I’m working—for fear of some rule that I’m sure I’m ignorant to—but I can give you this helpful hint: Go watch the movie Mean Girls. Done? OK, what happened to Lindsay Lohan? She was hot, talented, and even seemingly tolerable as a human being—she’s really gone off the deep end since then. Ok, sorry, now go watch Season 1 of Mad Men.

1:
You’re welcome.
2: My internship experience is basically scene-for-scene the development of Peggy Olson.

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I even got [spoiler:] pregnant. It’s been a crazy first week.

I got home from the west coast with little time to spare before my first day, and I still had to move into my apartment (details to come), so when I checked out my inventory of “business” clothes, I didn’t really have time to care that it was scarce, I just grabbed a couple shirts, my one decent pair of dress pants and then stole a few of my Dad’s ties.

I get up at 3:30am every morning for work, because I have to be in the office by 5am. All that means, aside from the fact that my first thought every morning is, “I hate myself,” is that I get off work everyday at 1:30pm. Time is on my side. So I’m on the subway, headed back downtown from Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce (that’s a Mad Men joke you uncultured buffoons), and I think to myself, “I wonder if Bonobos has a store here.”

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"No wonder he made that 1% joke earlier."

Bonobos, for those of you who don’t know (read: women, and men who don’t care about what they wear), is a men’s clothing website. It’s not worth trying to describe what’s appealing about their stuff aside from the fact that they sell good-looking, professional clothing for men, and I had a need. So I googled them on my Steve Jobs phone (oh, the irony), and it turns out that they do not have a store, which makes sense because they are an online company (not like yours, though). They do, however, have an office, and their website has this to say:

"CAN I STOP BY THE OFFICE? Sure! We’d love to schedule some time for you to drop by. We don’t keep our full inventory in the office, but we’ve got plenty of samples for you to get sized, try some clothes on, and feel fabrics in person. To visit the HQ, schedule an appointment with our Bonobos Guides or call 877-294-7737.”

Boom. I’m there. I set up an appointment—because what better things do I have to do besides nap, for like six hours?

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OK, quick nap, then I’ll set up an appointment.

So I set one up for the next day after work, and I went. It’s located in what looks to be any other office building with a tiny little elevator. I use my deductive skills and find that they’re located on the fifth floor, hit the big “5” button inside the elevator and I’m off. I expect to find a hallway with several offices, but the doors open and BAM I’m inside Bonobos HQ. I start in, mouth slightly ajar, and the two carefree receptionists fumble over who will ask me, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I, uh, have an appointment, Peter Swanson.” It’s now occurring to me that I’ve gotten myself into a bit of an ordeal here.

“Oh, yeah, just take a seat over there and we’ll be with you in a minute. Would you like something to drink while you wait?”

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Oh. Well, maybe I’ll just play into this whole high-roller business. And I do.

I’m introduced to a nice young blonde woman who will be personally assisting me with sizing, selecting styles, and otherwise kissing my ass. I think she thought I had some money. In fairness, when I told her where I worked, I did my best to leave out the fact that I was an unpaid intern.

So basically I got to tour Bonobos, try on a handful of clothes, and get treated like an artist-formerly-known-as Prince, all for free. For some reason I ended up spending money I didn’t have on something called “Weekday Warriors”

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They have “Monday” embroidered into the waist, I couldn’t help myself.

Aside from the fact that I’m working at an ad agency in 1960’s, (it’s another Mad Men joke, come on) there isn’t much to report on my actual job, but keep your eye out for weekly reports on the life of a lowly intern living in New York City. In the mean time, you really might want to consider subscribing, donating to, or at least just reading our blog on a semi-regular basis. We promise to post unintelligible words onto the interwebs all summer long.

Sincerely Yours,

Peter

Yes, Single, and Desperately Ready to Mingle.

Being home for three weeks now after a nine-month stint in Lala Land, I have just one serious complaint. It’s not even about an issue that’s isolated to the (203), my loneliness has just compounded to the point of such frustration that I have to be a spitch about it…

I think that I would rather watch Judy Moody and the NOT Bummer Summer 400,563,291.5 times instead of being on the outside of a dating circle. There’s more irony in that statement than I know what to do with.

Oh come on, at least Awesome Aunt Opal's hot.

Oh come on, at least Awesome Aunt Opal’s hot.

It’s gotten to the point where a core chunk of my friends are all dating each other, and be that I am single, I am on the outs. It’s not a matter of whether or not they like me, it’s a matter of my being 78% less valuable because I’m the single guy in the group. We don’t really hang out as much as we once did. We hang on occasion, but it’s either when I make a desperate effort, or they’re bored/not with each other. Probably should have taken more advice from those rom-coms.

Give him some time. It'll all pan out.

Give him some time. It’ll all pan out.

I know I’m a little dramatic, I guess all I’m saying is I shouldn’t have to have a girlfriend to be social, but I do. Most people do. There’s some weird mandate that says you have to “have someone” in your life for things to be OK in your life. Add that on top of the fact that I’m a solid twenty-minute drive away from anyone that would call me an acquaintance and BAM. Lonely.

So here’s what I’m getting at—before getting too close to home: If you’re on the inside of something like what I’m describing, you’re a self-unaware dick. That to say you’re not inherently a jerk, you’re not even necessarily trying to be, but you are. You have chosen to subscribe to a lifestyle that’s pretty, I don’t know, discriminative? Cliquey? Asshole-y? Oh, and it leaves people like me blogging at 12:18 on a Thursday night.

Shoot, you mean this isn’t cool?!

There are ways around getting sucked into that lifestyle, and I’d implore you to explore what that means. That also to say, if any ladies in the South-Western Connecticut area are reading this and thinking I’m a nice, dateable young bachelor, well A) You have terrible taste, and are probably a poor judge of character. B) Hit me up.

-Peter    

Three Spitches Walk into a Movie Theater…

Have you ever looked perfection dead in the eyes? Have you ever seen something so beautiful, so flawless, so meticulously crafted that tears can’t help but evacuate from every orifice? I have.

Three words, one number: Kung Fu Panda 2.

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Pixar ain’t got sh*t on this.

No. No, that’s ridiculous. Like, I hope you’re still reading, but I get why you wouldn’t be. I’m talking about a movie called The Tree of Life.

Writer/director, Terrence Malick is choosier than Moms who choose Jiff. After Days of Heaven in ‘78, he sat on his hands for twenty years before taking on another movie project (The Thin Red Line). Thirteen years later, he gives birth to the freaking Sistine Chapel.

Eh, maybe not that plain.

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"You sure have a lot to learn about art, boy. Actually, wait. Let’s not continue this conversation until the sun is setting right behind my head."

I have to admit right off the bat that some of my favorite movies are just awful (see: anything with Ben Affleck or Matthew McConaughey. I’m a chump, I know.), but this movie is different. It’s as artsy as Indie music thinks itself to be, and as clever as Arrested Development and Seinfeld's love-child. Arnold would have loved to be in on that action.

I wont spoil the plot line, mainly because I can’t—there is no plot line. You watch some people’s lives unfold unchronologically for 2.5 hours, intermittent with cinematography more glorious than Disney’s “Soarin’ over California” ride. I have no idea where Malick stands on how the universe came to be—not that he does either—but watching him try to explain it in pictures made me want to go home and hug my dumbass Bichon Frise. His name is Fred, and I now appreciate the significance of his life, so BACK OFF.

I could spend a lot longer than is culturally acceptable going into an analysis of what went on in the course of the film’s run, but you’d probably get a more succinct answer out of Sean Penn.

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He’s pretty sociable.

I guess you could also throw down in the “ask” section after you see it in theaters July 8th. That’s right, we saw it before you can. That’s the kind of clout this blog gives us. Hope you like it. 

—Peter