People live, eat, and congregate in Brooklyn while I live and eat in Manhattan.

Twice in the past four days I've taken the trains to Brooklyn to spend time with people. The buildings are smaller, there's more open space, and there's a high concentration of people my age. The neighborhood I ended up in was called Williamsburg, it's not very picturesque but it's more affordable than my neighborhood in Manhattan. It's the young people you run into time and again down there, a community where there may not be enough bars to contain them.

Normally I would only go to Brooklyn to see a particular building that I read about in my New York architecture book or to go to an event of some sort. But I like to spend time with people, and after having recently gotten in touch with a guy I had met one evening in France, another American, we agreed to meet at a Karaoke bar on Thursday. When I arrived, I was worried that I wouldn't recognize him or that he wouldn't recognize me, being that we spent only one evening together several months ago on the public grass in the picturesque town of Annecy. Earlier, over the phone, he had told me to meet him in the back room of the bar, where he and his friends and co-workers would be sitting. I walked into the bar and headed to the back and saw seven guys and two girls sitting on an L-shaped bench. I looked at them all and said, "Jared?".

I quickly worried that my greek sailor's hat was preventing Jared from positively identifying me. So I rushed to take off my hat and said, "Jared?" again.

I wasn't too impressed that out of nine people in front of me I had failed to meet the one person I came to meet. But, like any rational being, I proceeded away from them and straight to the bar and ordered a Coke. The bartender said that I could have refills "no problems." While drinking my drink I watched the NBA on television, remembering that Shaq had moved back to Miami. It seemed like a good move, in 13 or so years he has come from Orlando to be in Miami. Of course, I hadn't come to the bar to watch NBA programs, I had come to meet someone, and so I looked at the clock from time to time and waited until 10:30, which was the point I would use my cell phone to call Jared and find out where he was.

10:30 came and not a minute later was I on the phone outside, only to find out, as it so often happens, that my party was also inside the bar, answering my cell phone call. These phones have saved the human race from the awkward detectivelike duty of leaning into every table at a bar and checking each face for the suspect, informant, or other detective. This unpleasant activity takes some heart, as you end up interrupting conversations and earning disapproving looks from girls.

After we met face to face, Jared introduced me to other University of Cincinnati students in the field of Graphic Design. We talked about movies and music and I was glad to hear about some exciting new movies and albums that I might enjoy in the near future. I myself spent some time explaining my job to people. It was difficult for two reasons, being that the company I work for sells music industry-specific information and that I have hardly any stake in the company whatsoever, as I am an intern who comes to work but is rarely given any work to do. What's more, the second problem makes one question unnecessarily difficult to answer: "What do you do there?"

But the business of non-sports enthused men, that of albums, travel, girls, jobs, politics, and movies, came to a tidy end because everyone had arrived at the Karaoke bar wanting to sing at least once. We all sang 80's hits. I don't know if we would have been willing or even interested in singing anything else. Jared's music made me enjoy Phil Collins again, as Phil Collins can be easily forgotten if you choose certain radio stations over others. I should note, too, that Pat tried to sing exactly like his singer of choice, a daring move only attempted by three other people in the bar, all women who had had lots of experience singing in the past.

Friday should have been a terrible day because of my late night. Instead, it was an interesting day because I tagged along with someone from work to the offices of Atlantic Records. They own a floor or two in a midtown office building not far from where I work. Perhaps I should remind you all that Atlantic's big sellers were Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, Genesis, Led Zepplin and Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. The last band was signed by David Geffen, who eventually made his own label which, twenty years later, signed Nirvana, who still charts number three in weekly spins on Alternative stations. Led Zepplin, as it stands, still fills the company's coffers while it continues to try and sign the next Britney, Coldplay, Limp Bizkit, or Jay-Z. Led Zepplin, in order to make some money of its own, started to sign acts on their own label in the mid seventies, such as Bad Company. That label, called Swan Song, no longer exists.

In talking to someone working there I found out some unsurprising information, that the record industry is about who you know, it's competitive, and there is a glut of older, more experienced, and well-connected people willing to take jobs for low pay. This is not very discouraging, though, because on Monday I met two of my father's old friends, one of whom works in what could be called investment banking. His industry, which has no free concert tickets, artist signings, or platinum records, is also very competitive. Restaurants are competitive too, I spent years working in them and never earned anyone's confidence. It's clear as crystal that luck, contacts, a sane and healthy appearance, and excellent timing with logical speech are vital in securing a job in the record industry, while experience or a neat resume will not catch anyone's eye. In fact, when I mentioned resumes to the Atlantic promotions rep I was talking to, he looked off to the side for a couple of seconds, laughed, and then launched into his own life story. One which wouldn't even look that bad on a resume.

After an uneventful Friday comes Saturday, and Saturday I spent an evening with Jared and his company which, as a nice surprise, included two girls. I was impressed that Jared, a twenty year old, could convince two attractive girls older than he to risk their Saturday night amusement with him and his company. It is probably because he lives without being secretive, which at least assures the girls that he won't bring out any unfortunate surprises on them.

We went to a gallery opening in Chinatown. Little was said about the art, save one piece out of the sixteen, which people said they liked. A couple of people emphasized the word liked. Praise, though, was given to the gallery, and many of us agreed that if it were an apartment, it would be a great place to live. The artist was present. No one in our group of people talked to him. I could only think of asking him what kind of white paint he used, which was durable enough for him to scribble on with graphite. There's probably lots of paints that would work in that situation.

During the evening we talked about roommates, unfortunate happenings, and restaurants in New York and Cincinnati because I found myself again in the thick of both present and former University of Cincinnati Graphic Design students. Eventually we went back to Brooklyn. Later that night, I returned home to Manhattan.

Today, among other things, I spent time regretting my apartment in Manhattan. While it's only twenty minutes from the door of my Brownstone to the 21st floor where I work, I am spending 47 dollars a day for rent, electricity, and the initial broker's fee I paid to get the apartment. Brooklyn's calling me, and if New York ends up being where I work, study, and amuse myself, I may have to turn my back on the sensible good looks of the Upper West Side and find an apartment in Brooklyn's Williamsburg or Clinton Hill like everyone else.

When settling in to live somewhere, it seems more truth than truism that it's the people that make the city. If that's so, then Brooklyn must be fascinating. To be generous in generality, there's alot of young professionals there. Whatever they do, they do it with interest and concern, because otherwise someone else who is more invested in his work will take the loafer's job. In talking to total strangers and people you know, you pick up a feeling that these youth are thinking at times about the arts and other fields. Opinions and musings are given out, but also people want to hear what you have to say, too. At that point you can't think about being a visitor or tourist or someone new to the area because you're just yourself out loud, which sounds good going along with a whole bar doing the same.

posted by Wellsmus @ 7:08 PM