No, not you… you.
Guess where I am?
The Fi-poonan-cial District.
After a grueling two month move (we’re still not done) my office has taken its leave of the gilded streets of the high-fasion and zero taste area known as the Meatpacking district.
Oh how I’ll miss you MPD! How the once rancid smell of beef on summer days slowly transformed into that unmistakeable new upper lip injection funk when the Hotel Gansevoort went up. How our neighbors could finally breath a long sigh of relief when Filter 14 became a Baby Scoop, because everyone deserves a kid that dresses as much like a cunt as you do.
I’ll miss the idiot waif models who would knock on our door asking about castings, telling them they were two floors off and snickering amongst the office with innuendos involving casting couches. That NEVER gets old! Ha ha, ha ha…. wait for it: lol.
I’ll miss Nick’s City Kitchen, or wait, “The Diner” as it’s called now, because apparently the more words you take off your name during a refurbishment is directly tied to the amount you’re allowed to multiply your base cost for a limp, greasy hamburger.
Ah, the memories.
A few months ago we seized the opportunity on our lease ending to find more a accommodating space. By accommodating I of course mean anything that would cost less than $40 a square foot.
They’re practically giving away space down here in the FDiss, we found a space that was three times the size at nearly 75% of the price. It’s in a giant office building, which is a little weird, but weird in that “getting to know you” stage of a relationship where you hope your lover gets turned on by watching Mannix reruns sort of way, but you know she won’t.
Before moving down here I could have counted the times I’d hung out in the FizzleDizzle on two hands. Most were either after parties, or party parties or drunken gutter nights when I’d fallen asleep on the train and just decided to slum it at the mission.
Happy Belated Mother’s Day, Mom!
It’s a whole new animal, The District, people act differently, they look different, Coach is hanging out walking around, it’s all just so strange and alien. There are new customs to learn, new idiots to meet, new ways to get annoyed.
I’m sure you’re as excited as I am when I say that I’m starting a multiweek multipart essay series on coming to grips with the Dirty South of New York. Errbody ready?
Dave’s Guide to the Fi-poonan-cial District: Part 1
Remember how I used to bitch and complain about having to take three trains, two buses and one piggy-back ride from an ex-linebacker from UC San Diego who’d contracted syphilis during a tour of duty in Iraq and was making ends meet by carrying the well-to-do? Well all that’s a thing of the past, now I take one train to work.
The J train.
That’s pretty fucking sweet. Why? You may ask. Well, the J train hates Manhattan. It comes from Brooklyn, has an accent, it spends like four stops in downtown then decides it likes it better out in BK, says, “Fugghedaboudit” and heads out to get some sauce and a track suit or some shit.
I’m just glad to be away from the F train and its snobbish, classist cousin the V train. Fuck those orange bastards and anyone who lives near the 2nd Avenue stop.
Midtown has all the fresh faced, just out of college MBA’s who strut around in their new suits and suit-dresses. They’re happy to be on their own, they’re secure in the fact that their supreme management of some hedge fund is going to make this world a better place. Or they’re certain that hungry children will get fed because of their awesome new Heineken Light ad campaign pitch. Soma enemas are handed out at the GCT 4,5,6 stop.
Not down here. The Financial District is where careers and souls go to die.
Never in my life have I seen such a large collection of gray faced peons moving in lockstep with each other, trudging through a mind numbing routine, all wearing the same death mask that’s counting down the minutes to 5:00pm begging for an extra personal day so they renew their prespcription for Xanax or pick a high cliff for their ultimate swan dive into a parked car.
They’re all really friendly though, it’s like Children of the fucking Corn.
Our building is filled with those service companies that do all those jobs that you’d think are just completely pointless, but someone’s got to do them. But how could anyone enjoy being an insurance company’s fraud investigation management office? Or an accountants’ filing service company? Traffic lawyer? Public notary? The smell of TPS reports fills the hallway.
We’re not sure how we’re going to fit in down here. We don’t work very regular hours, lots of late mornings, late nights and loud weekends. We tie up the freight elevator, play loud music whenever something needs lifting and we shout in the hallways, either at each other, or just at the hallway.
So far, things are looking up, being in the Nancial. I mean, we’ve got security badges and rules and regulations out the wazoo and in a few years we’ll be in the shade of that idiot Freedumb Tower. But for now, it’s all an awesome new adventure. Next week I’m going explore the awesome tradition that is the “Happy Hour.”