ASME was shuffled into the Conde Nast building for lunch at the New Yorker on Tuesday. It was a powerhouse. I still can’t decide how uncomfortable it made me.
I got there late because Times Square sucks, and I really must be unconsciously trying to break the world record for being late to the worst things to be late to (other things on that list: work once, dinner twice, a funny movie, a Born Ruffians concert, a birthday party) I ran into the elevator wearing shoes that no swollen summer feet should be asked to fit into and watched all of Si’s babies flash past. Glamour. GQ. W. Vogue. Some tall New York Bateman looking dude, who I could tell had decided that slicked back hair was
his thing, got out at Wired and I caught a glimpse of their hallway. It was wide and empty and full of these life-size, crystal clear, backlit photographs of machines looking really sexy (oh Wired, where can we learn your savvy minimalist ways?). And when the door opened at floor 21, this woman barks “you’re ASME? Come” and escorts me to another windowless room where my fellow interns were sitting in big leather conference chairs introducing themselves (it looks like the magazine world is full of these windowless rooms – does my office defy all stereotypes? It’s downtown and see-thru) and I have to say “I’m Lilah Raptopoulos and I go to a small liberal arts school called Connecticut College and I made up a major and I’m interning at Inc.” to the DEPUTY EDITOR and she goes “Where?” and I go “Inc.” and she goes “Oh. That’s serious.” and then I plop down next to CJ who leans over and whispers, “Sweet shoes, dude”.
So that was really painless.
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