Happy birthday mom!

Well, it isn't today. It was yesterday. But I wanted to start a post with happy birthday wishes to my mother.

Yesterday was... emotionally charged. To cut to the quick, I visited the New Yorker again. This time to pick up my portfolio. I trek back down to Times Square and weave my way through the tourists and busy New York pedestrians, heading straight to the Conde Nast building. Since the guy I talked to in the mail room gave me the impression that I should go back there to pick it up, that's what I did. I poke my head in into the small room and I'm happy to see the guy I spoke with on Wednesday. And, lucky me, he recognizes me and remembers what I'm there for. I start to feel hopeful. The feeling quickly fades as he can't find my portfolio anywhere. He calls upstairs for the person I dropped it off for (he half-remembered her name too, I was impressed by this guy) but got her voicemail. Drats. He leaves a message and I tell him I'll come back a little later to check on things. I decide I'll also give the art director a call - not because I didn't trust the guy in the mail room, but because I'm a control freak.

So... now what? I'm in a bad mood and I'm anxious. I can't get the idea that these people loose portfolios out of my head. So sight-seeing isn't high on my list of priorities. But, I'm in Times Square, so I feel a powerful need to walk around to just check things out. I walk through a massive Toys "R" Us and I think my breath was actually taken away. Aside from ferris wheel that greets you inside the door, there are at least four stories to this place. I say at least because I didn't want to explore too much, for fear of spending money. But there were people doing demonstrations of toys and a group of girls doing dance routines. It was crazy! OH! and there was a animatronic tyrannasaurus rex... it was probably about half of "actual size" but it was intense. Now, I'm a reasonable grown man, but I was slightly more than mildly terrified of it. It was scary!

I leave with no purchases in hand (the Star Wars and Lego sections were intensely difficult to pass up. They had the Mace Windu might mugg too!) So I wander back out onto the street and walk further up the street. I see the Naked Cowboy and resist the urge to take pictures of this iconic New York figure. Eventually I find a place to sit and I just watch the world go by. It got annoying walking behind tourists anyway. After about an hour total I make my way back to the mail room. "My guy" is there and he calls upstairs again. This time he gets a hold of the woman and she gives him her extension and tells him to send me up. I almost pass out. I walk up to the desk and get cleared through security (the art director corrected the guard on the pronunciation of my name, which pleased me greatly) and push the button for the elevator.

I can't begin to describe how I felt at this point. It took a short eternity for the elevator to come, and the trip to the 20th floor took a slightly longer eternity. My stomach bottomed out and my pulse quickened. I took off my hat and started to try to preen myself in the reflection of the elevator doors. Oh yeah, I was a mess. I step out of the elevator and tell the man at the desk who I'm there to see. Unfortunately this is where I stop feeling so good . He asked if I was there to pick up my portfolio and then points to it in a stack on his desk. Hey, at least I was at the top of the pile, right? Good news is I got my book back and it's in one piece AND all of the cards I put in it are gone. Bad news is the leave behind is still there. Oh well.

I had mixed feelings as I got back on the Subway, I was still in a bad mood, but I wasn't anxious anymore. (I was about to write that there wasn't a love note in my book from the people who looked at it, but then I realized I actually hadn't looked through the whole book. I just checked the first page to make sure it was mine and the last page to see what was still there. There WAS a love note, of sorts!) All I wanted to do was come back to the apartment and work on painting something in my sketchbook. That's what I did. First, I spent the rest of the afternoon making phone calls, looking for more people to leave my book with. I had some moderately good responses to this and felt a little better about the world. A little after 5 pm I called it quits, figuring most people would be leaving for the day pretty soon, what with it being Friday and all. I settle in and paint for a little while until Brian got home.

We whittle away the evening and watch the first episode of the new Star Wars Clone Wars cartoon on Cartoon Network. Eventually we hop up and head out into the night. Rusty was having a show at a small shop out in Brooklyn, so we were heading over there to hang out. We get there kind of late in the game, but are able to enjoy the work - and the store. It was like the most awesome kitsch store in the world. Only, it was the most awesome kitsch store in the world. When things wind down we start to head back. Ugh. It was a two hour ride back to Harlem from Brooklyn on the trains running after midnight. We get back and both promptly pass out.

We both slept until past noon. And, we have no plans for the day. I think we're going to be taking it easy today.

The picture is from a Halloween store that Brian and I visited on Wednesday. I think it's the best table ever. She's so squishy and pinch-able. How could I resist taking a picture?

Back to business

Yesterday, not a lot got done, but I definitely feel accomplished. I feel... better. I decided I wanted to go exploring a little bit, so that's what I set out to do. But, no more than a few steps out of my front door, I feel the itch to call Rusty. I end up going out to his place where we talk shop. He shows me a couple things that I didn't know about that he thought I should know about, and most importantly, there were twenty-five cent chicken wings. I was in hog heaven. Also, his dog Magnus, which apparently has a natural aversion to tall thin people, fell in love with me. Rusty thinks it's because I'm a living cartoon. Which could very well be, in all honesty. He also read me the riot act for not having " 'strations" on the 'Stration Station. Now is not the time, but soon. Very soon.

I walked away with a renewed sense of purpose and came back to waste the rest of my evening.

Today, however, was a little bit exciting. It was the portfolio drop off day at the New Yorker, so I headed out into the world with all my facts in order. Or so I thought. Brian and I get out there and to begin with, we have trouble finding the building. But, silly me, I was looking for the front door and street number on the street the address was listed on. Eventually I spy the doors and street number on a side street, so I head on in. Then things get interesting.

The security crew informs me that I need to have a contact to get a pass to get into the building. This is after the series of "who are you here to see" questions, to none of which the answers were derivative of "the illustration department". I made a few phone calls, and eventually got a contact name. Apparently the security guard couldn't find her in the system and as she was getting ready to make me a temporary pass by hand, the other guard chimes in by asking me what I'm doing there, for the umpteenth time. (Oh yes, he was a part of the initial questioning where I outline the purpose for my visit.) I tell him that I'm there to drop off my portfolio. All of a sudden he has an answer for me; to go around to the other side of the lobby to the internal mail room. Awesome.

I walk up and when asked if someone can help me, I reply that I'm here to drop off my portfolio for review by the good people at the New Yorker. He pulls the most interesting face for all but a moment then tells me that they've informed him last week that all submissions must be done online but he'll call to double-check for me. New Yorkers are fantastic. At this point I'm thinking they get a bad rap for being impatient and rude. (Though the receptionist I spoke with on Monday apparently gave me false information.) He hops onto the line and calls up to the 20th floor. The woman asks him some questions which he promptly relays to me and he gives her my reply. This game of telephone (woah) goes on for a brief minute and the woman he's talking to decides to come down to the lobby to check this out for herself.

Another person, another riveting series of questions. She wants to know who I'm looking for. Demanding, would be more appropriate, actually. She was very insistent to know their name and extension. Now would be a good time to point out that the name I had, she didn't recognize either. Joy. I explain that I spoke with a receptionist on Monday (she wanted to know his name too) and I was told that portfolio drop offs were Wednesday from 10 am until 6 pm. Her explaination for wanting so much information is they've had problems with portfolios in the past. They've lost some, it would seem. She didn't want me to drop mine off without a contact, have it get lost, and then come back with attitude. Oh, attitude I would have in spades, but I tell her I understand her concern (even though I can feel fear creeping up my leg and spine) and ask what information I need. She promptly invites me to collect all of the pertinent facts (name and extension) and then come back to try it again. I walk off to the other side of the lobby, retracting my previous thought about New Yorkers to myself, and start trying to call up to the 20th floor again.

This time I get a receptionist, which I thought was fantastic, maybe my luck is beginning to turn. Why? Why do I even bother thinking things like that? I explain again who I am and what I'm trying to do, and further the explanation saying I need the proper name of the art director and their extension. The name he gives up easy enough, so I'm stoked on that, furiously scribbling into my sketchbook perched on my knee. I ask for her extension and apparently I asked too much. He repeats her name, and I point out that I was instructed to get an extension. He gives me their main line's extension. Bundling up all of the "pertinent facts" I walk back to the mail room and approached the woman I had just dealt with. Handing the facts over to her she pokes her head back into the mail room and asks for a Conde Nast sticker.

They don't have any; instead they hand her a blank label for me to address myself and place on the front of my portfolio. Yeah, somehow I didn't see myself placing a very sticky label onto the front of my professional portfolio. I ask for a bag or manilla envelope to place my book in to which I can place the sticker on the outside. I get a plastic retail shopping bag to put the accumulation of my skills to date in. Worry hits me upside the back of my head and nearly knocks me to the floor. Tentatively I place my book in the bag and put the label on the bag and hand it to the guy in the mailroom. He tells me that it should be where it needs to be by 2 pm (it was 1:35 pm at that particular moment) and asks if I have anything he needs to sign. My face goes blank and, even though I don't much care to do it, I answered his question with a question, knowing full well he probably didn't have an answer. I asked where I should go to pick up my book. He assumes the person I addressed it to will come down with it, and that I should probably just come back to the mailroom. Fantastic.

Honestly, I'm more than a little worried. Losing it wouldn't be the end of the world, but I would prefer not to lose it if I can avoid it. Especially after the woman who came down to talk to me put some fear in me. I plan on calling the contact I got tomorrow and checking in on my book and trying to find out when it is I can expect to show up to get it. Hopefully that goes smoothly. Anyway, after that ordeal and some sketching outside of the Conde Nast building Brian and I head out into the city. Our travels saw us further south where we geeked out in a brand new art store then decided to head up towards Central Park and the Met .

Upon exiting the subway we began walking, like you do, and my thoughts start to wander. About a block from the park I'm violently wrenched from my flights of fancy. I find myself staring into a window across the street at paintings. Beautiful, beautiful paintings. Suddenly I'm gripped by deja vu. I've been here before, and I know what I'm looking at; the American Illustrators Gallery. We head on in and guess who has a bunch of working hanging on the wall? Only my favorite artist ever! Joseph Christian Leyendecker . Oh yeah, you heard me. We spent about half an hour staring at the works of beauty, and I plan on going back tomorrow. Oh, coincidentally, the curator of the gallery is the guy who just wrote the new book on Leyendecker that's going to be coming out. click My copy has already been purchased, but I felt delightful being able to look through it before the public at large. I'm so excited.

When we leave it starts raining, so the plan for people watching and drawing were killed. Instead we decide to walk back to the apartment. We were on 77th street, and we needed to get to 118th street. We walked. According to google, it's a distance of 3.2 miles. Which, I'm going to say, feels like a lot more when you've been walking for most of the day already, and you're carrying a moderately heavy bag over your shoulder. Nice.

And that's where it pretty much ends. We got back and kind of just fell out. I layed down on the couch and didn't really get up. Then I started blogging, and here you are.

Tomorrow, it sounds like we're going to visit some museums. And I, of course, am going to try to get my book back. I'll probably make some business phone calls too. Fun and exciting, right? Yeah, that's what I thought.