"No jobs! Freelance! Best thing in the world for a kid your age!" - Editor J. Jonah Jameson in "Spiderman"

Re: Freelance Reporter for The Battery Park City Broadsheet

Hello Nicole,

Thanks for your email and resume.

We would love to see a clip or two.

Have you seen the Broadsheet?
I will attach the most recent issue.
We publish every two weeks on the new and full moon.


Thanks
Happy New Year.

*******
The Battery Park City Broadsheet

Ack!
Enter: a sudden onslaught of nerves. Which clips?! (The journalistic equivalent of "What shoes do I wear with this dress that will make me look sexy, not slutty?")

A Season of Thanks - this one's for you, Big Apple

I pushed myself away from the plate full of leftover eggplant parm and let out a contented sigh as I relaxed in the broken chair at Katie Farmer's kitchen table. Rocking out on Long Island is not quite the same as rocking out in New York City, but I have to admit that leftovers from Christmas taste pretty good in either setting. Certainly better than ramen, at any rate.

Katie was also being generous with the leftover alcohol from Christmas Eve, and I was entertaining a green apple martini and an Irish coffee with equal enthusiasm.

High-school bud Katie had a handful of friends visiting from New Hampshire, where she is completing a master's at Dartmouth, and had invited the Long Island crew over to show them what Long Island girls were like. On hearing this, I shook hands around with the handsome, visiting friends, and apologized for what they were probably about to witness. They laughed, these friends. These German friends. Real Germans, that is, with honest-to-God accents that were just as funny as (some of our) Long Island ones, and who needed us to explain the occasional odd turn of American slang (such as why I kept saying everything was "hot.")

So, in sipping drinks, eating leftovers and diving into the cheesecake, Katie asked a handful of us Lawng-Guylanders what she and her visitors should do the rest of the week. Olivia and I tried to convince them that the new skating rink in Bryant Park would be much better than the one in Central Park, while Stacey listed some of LI's best bars for those nights when they didn't feel like going Manhattan-side.

One of the Germans said, "I want to go to, where do you say it ... ah, Harlem. "

Of course, my ears perked up - because, what with my four months of experience living in East Harlem, I considered myself qualified to be the table's reigning Harlem Expert.

"Oh, it's great!" I said.

One girl (who shall remain nameless) snorted, "Oh, Gawd. Stay away from there. In fact, stay away from the city. It's too scary."

Now, I stuck up for Harlem. It's not necessarily paradise, true, but it has been going through a great degree of gentrification. My advice was to visit East Harlem, Central Harlem, all that jazz, check out the museums, do what you like, but then head downtown for the drinking and dining before it got too late.

"Is it safe?" asked one German, and I said it was probably no more or less safe than any other urban area. You had to keep your wits about you wherever you went, I supposed. Especially as a visitor, I said, as I appraised them - I pictured one of these friendly fellows asking for directions in their heavy accents, and getting hit over the head with a lead pipe.

Yes, wits. Careful.

Again, the Girl spoke up, "I would never live there. I'd be like 'Daddy! Come get me!'"

I tactfully took a sip from my martini, and thought before I spoke, for a change (it had been on my lips to say, "Ladies and Gentlemen - Long Island in the flesh!"):

"Well, I mean, it's not perfect - my apartment is five flights of stairs up, but it's good exercise!" The Germans nodded approvingly. "And the subway is right nearby. And I mean, there are creatures and such on the STREETS but not inside the building." Uh-oh, I'm sure that wasn't winning me any points. Moving right along... "Or, not in our apartment, anyway. And anyway, it's funny!" I laughed. "Every day is like an adventure! Like hearing conversations in Spanish coming through the walls, or having to bang our broom against the ceiling when the kids upstairs run around too much. It's an experience."

"Well," the girl said. "I couldn't live in the city. It's disgusting."

"No way," I countered. "The city is fantastic."

"I don't want to offend anyone who lives there," she said, obviously referring to moi.

"Oh, of course not," I said, obviously offended. (Ladies and Gents, welcome to Girl World.)

"But it's crowded and it's expensive and it is dirty, and you can't even DRIVE - "

"Nah, you get up in the morning, grab your paper, and take the subway! So much better."

"How long does it take to get to your university by subway?" interjected a German.

"Oh 25 minutes - just enough time to sip my coffee, read the paper, do my homework at the last minute-"

Girl, interrupting: "Ew, the subways are GROSS and the people on them are horrible I would never ride them-"

Pesce, anger rising: "Nah! It's great, it's hilarious! All these different people - one trying to convert you to Islam, another dressed in feathers playing the drums for spare change, or the construction workers rubbing elbows with the girls in Fendi - such diversity!"

"Look, maybe it's for some people, but it's not for me." Closing argument.

"I think every woman should try living on her own in the city once-" I am quoting my grandmother verbatim, at this. Grandma used to work in the Chrysler Building.

But, some stones cannot be moved. And I'll easily admit that I can often be one of them.

Girl: "Well, I see no reason to go there. I have a job."

ouch! Sip of martini. Tactful silence.

"And a boyfriend."

ouch! Repeat.

"And I am perfectly happy living at home with my parents-"

I leaned back in my chair, relaxed. Point. Score.

It took every ounce of will that I had not to smirk.

I didn't even really listen to the rest of her argument, which listed the car and the insurance that daddy pays for, as well as the free use of a washer and dryer (as opposed to we plebians who hit the laundromat around the corner, where there are always at least four machines out of service and a couple of bored kids pushing each other around in the dented laundry carts and getting in everyone's way) and the fact that the fridge is ALWAYS FULL and the chores are already done and it is safe and comfortable to be in the same neighborhood where she has spent the past 15 years of her life. No paying rent either, by the way.

I drained the martini, smiled, and simply dropped it as "Agree to disagree." I don't know if she realized it, but after her last line of reasoning, I had nothing left to say.

Clearly, I win.

I have independence. (Now true, all I need is the job to back that up, haha)

I *have* lived at home, and there is nothing wrong with it at all - we've all fallen into circumstances where we needed help, and we are truly blessed if we have family more than willing to lend a hand.

But - there is more outside of that easy, little box where everything is handed to you. If you eventually get that opportunity to spread your wings, why wouldn't you take off?

New York City may be dirty sometimes, and a little lonely and rough around the edges, and yeah, it is a world where you have to learn to share. The rats - suck! Occasional bug - worse! Cab fares and transit strikes - pain in the ass! Other people - hilarious, but can grate on your nerves, for sure. Lugging groceries up a walkup or sometimes having to stand during the entire 25-minute morning commute to work - harsh!

But looking up at the Empire State Building looming RIGHT THERE, only 10 blocks away, as I'm ducking into The Observer in the morning -

Or the Coffee Cart Guys in the morning, both before the J-school on Washington Place and the entrance to Observer HQ, who know my order before I even give it -

Snow falling on Spanish Harlem -

St. Mark's Place -

The shopping out in the fresh air, so much more liberating than the Mall -

Or the fact that I can get Chinese food, pizza, sushi, falafel, coffee, booze AT ANY TIME OF THE NIGHT, that sometimes we don't even make PLANS until 11 p.m., that all the kitschy and alternative art shows and movies and festivals are RIGHT THERE, that you can easily bump into an Olsen or a DiCaprio (or Howard Dean!) if you manage to get into Crobar -

To quote my mother, who had to listen to the verbal twin of this rant earlier today -

I wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world.



... Well except for, maybe, a job.

;)

Clooney Picture (courtesy of Andrew Nynka)

Here he is shaking hands with students after the discussion. Check out the hot intrepid reporter standing behind them, trying not to smirk, heh heh.

as an added bonus, here's the Livewire article:

George Clooney Goes Back to J-School

George Clooney entered the hall of 19 University Place, stomped his feet, rubbed his hands together briskly, and barked, “What is it, 12 degrees out? How do you people live here?” with a mixture of humor and gravity that colored his discussion with a select assembly of New York University journalism students Dec. 15.

The actor, repeatedly voted one of People magazine’s sexiest men, was dressed impeccably in black dress pants and a matching blazer over a black mock-turtleneck. He was thinner than his onscreen personas in his recent films “Syriana” and “Good Night, and Good Luck” — the latter the subject of his visit to NYU. Along with surprise appearances by co-writer, Grant Heslov, and David Strathairn, the actor who played broadcast journalist Edward R. Murrow, Clooney spoke about his film that Salon.com praised for making “a passionate argument for a revitalized press.”

The university had originally requested permission to show “Good Night, and Good Luck” on campus as an educational tool. The studio declined, but offered a tantalizing consolation prize: What if Clooney spoke directly to students about Murrow, McCarthysim and his take on the issues facing journalism?

Clooney spoke from a solid background in journalism. His father, Nick Clooney, was a TV newscaster and frequently brought his son onto the set.

“I grew up on the floor of a newsroom in Cincinnati, Ohio,” he said. “My father wasn’t making a lot of money, and in the summer, we had no babysitter.” He hung around the studio into his adolescence, becoming a floor director and working on “Dialing for Dollars.” He also ran the teleprompter for his dad and watched as his father fought the endless struggle between reporting entertainment and reporting hard news.

“He used to say it was a battle that was waged. It was never ‘won,’” Clooney said.

“Everyone respected my father and always has. I was able very quickly to get a mic in my hand.”

He studied journalism at Northern Kentucky University and briefly hosted a cable-access show. “I only lacked the talent and the skill,” he joked, and the crowd of cub reporters laughed easily with him.

The intimate gathering was scheduled for a 120-seat auditorium at 19 University Place, with an overflow room that could house an extra 70. When the news broke last month that Clooney was speaking at the school, however, almost 300 e-mail requests flooded the graduate director’s inbox the first two days, with more streaming in over the next couple of weeks. Eager students name-dropped, pleaded and jokingly offered bribes. One even wrote a haiku. In the end, a lottery for tickets had to be conducted to assign students and faculty seating.

Clooney, Heslov and Strathairn sat with Marcia Rock, the university’s broadcast director responsible for the noteworthy event, in an auditorium where students and teachers filled the seats and lined the walls. Rock led the discussion, and the three guests bandied humorously with each other and the audience in between serious assertions on the current need for journalism, the fourth estate, to watchdog the government and ask the tough questions, even as their film features Murrow confronting Senator Joseph McCarthy in 1954.

“Power unchecked corrupts,” said Clooney in an interview backstage. “That has historically been the responsibility of the fourth estate — whoever was in power at the time, you went after him because you have to.”

Clooney told his audience that as a young journalist, he was the sort of interviewer who would read robotically off his list of questions, whereas his father would actually listen to people, engage them and adjust the interview in kind.

Comfortable before the camera, however, Clooney took a small role a cousin got him in a feature film and moved to Los Angeles in 1982 to pursue a career in acting. He still remembers his journalism roots, however, which can be seen in “Syriana” and “Good Night, and Good Luck” — movies that encourage the audience to contemplate the issues at hand, from the war in Iraq to the state of the press.

In fact, Clooney and Heslov approached “Good Night, and Good Luck” as any reporter would approach a story. They conducted extensive research, calling people who were there for Murrow’s infamous broadcast against McCarthy, including Joseph and Shirley Wershba. “They knew all the players and all the little stories,” Clooney said. They watched archival footage of Murrow’s weekly newscast “See It Now” as well as the fluffier “Person to Person.”

“We double-sourced every scene in this film,” said Clooney. “There is a small but loud group of people out there who think Murrow was a traitor.” He scratched his eyebrow, and advised the young journalists to double-source their own research and reporting. “This is a good trick. My father used to say, ‘Take the gun out of the other guy’s hand.’”

They wanted to do an honest and accurate reproduction of those tense couple of weeks at CBS when Murrow’s team took on McCarthy, rather than a biopic or an interpretation.

“We weren’t doing the ‘Ray’ version of Murrow,” Clooney said to applause. “We wanted to talk about the issues and the questions.”

On set, the actors were given papers from the 1950s to read, and even practiced writing lede sentences. Many of Strathairn’s lines were taken directly from transcripts of Murrow’s speeches and broadcasts.

“When I first walked on the set, I didn’t know much at all about Murrow,” Strathairn said, “but the actor playing Joseph R. McCarthy was pretty well cast.” The audience laughed because Clooney and Heslov had chosen to use live footage of the infamous senator, even as Murrow did on that legendary broadcast, rather than cast an actor.

“If we had an actor play McCarthy ... his behavior was just so bizarre that no one would believe an actor was not making this up,” Strathairn said. “Murrow decided to use McCarthy’s own words against him, and that, I think, was a brilliant choice.”

When asked if he thought he had done Murrow justice, Strathairn turned decidedly more serious.

“I certainly hope so,” he said. “I was 5 years old when this event happened. I learned about him in school.” He studied archival footage and read biographies, speeches and transcripts to nail down the character and walked away with a deepened respect for a journalist that was once “the most trusted man in America.”

“I have this cockamamie image of him as the cigarette,” said Strathairn of the reporter’s most famous prop (Murrow often smoked onscreen). “People see him as this elegant thing, poised and straight, and at the tip of it, something is burning.” The room was dead silent, hanging upon his words. “Inside this man, something is burning, and it eventually burned him from the inside out.” Murrow later died of lung cancer.

“He was the package,” Strathairn said with reverence. “He was very, very amazing. Speaking with his words was quite a privilege.”

The three speakers worked well off one another, telling jokes and keeping the audience enthralled and amused.

On why this movie is performing so well: “The girls are showing up to see David,” said Clooney with a straight face, gesturing toward Strathairn.

“Also because of the black-and-white film,” Heslov laughed.

“And the car crashes,” Strathairn added.

When the floor was opened to questions and answers from students, the tone became more serious again.

“I like good entertainment as much as anybody,” Clooney said, explaining that he sees entertaining as his leverage for creating more serious pieces. He noted that Murrow had had to host “Person to Person” — which he abhorred — to continue his more serious subject matter on “See It Now.” “There are deals that you guys are going to have to make to get the stories you want out,” he said. “It’s going to make you sick sometimes. It’s what you have to do. That’s the deal everybody makes.”

Clooney brought up the Patriot Act and compared its threat to civil liberties to McCarthy’s manipulation of Americans’ fear after World War II.

“We lose our minds every 30 or 40 years,” he began before his microphone cut out with a squeak of static. “And we lose our speaker systems, ” he cracked, before continuing. “After Pearl Harbor, we had the detainment camps, but later we figure it out. ‘Oh, that wasn’t very sporting of us.’ Eventually, we get it right.”

But this temporary insanity “usually comes out of fear. McCarthy capitalized on fear.”

That is why it is the job of the press to keep the public’s head straight. Yet today’s press, he worried, is too hesitant to take the kind of risks and make the kind of stand that Murrow made in the 1950s. “They lack curiosity, and they lack the fortitude to go and ask the tough questions,” Clooney said. “It’s a dangerous plan. Power unchallenged corrupts. It is your job,” he addressed the students, “to challenge whoever is in power. At the very least, all of these issues ... since the 1950s, I realized, nothing is different. It’s cyclical.”

Strathairn said: “We throw it back to you. The front line you guys are packing up for, hedged on all sides by what? Competition from other people, money, the time you’re allowed to a story, and that’s just the surface.” It is becoming “A world of bytes, undigested. It’s really a very slippery slope.”

Clooney wrapped it up, “Journalists ask me, ‘Well, how do we fix it?’ I’m like, ‘Well, I’m an actor. It’s up to you. Fix it! Goddammit, help us!’”

At the conclusion of the talk, the three guests stood up as the room broke into applause. Camera phones flashed, to the chagrin of event planners who had specifically prohibited cameras and autographs. “Well, good night everybody!” said Clooney, waving cheerfully.

“And good luck?” cracked a student sitting in the front row. Clooney gave a little groan, shook his head and chuckled.

“Yeah,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “Good night, and good luck.”

Final Three Livewire Stories

OK - so I didn't write the "eight" that I had scammed about all semester, but seriously, I'm grateful to have met the bare minimum of six and to have gotten out of this class - and the others - ALIVE.

So here we have:

George Clooney Goes Back to J-School
George Clooney, Grant Heslov and David Strathairn from their film "Good Night, and Good Luck" visited New York University's School of Journalism Dec. 15 for a discussion on Murrow, McCarthy and the state of the press.

Give That Dog a Bone! (Or a Cashmere Sweater)
New Yorkers open their hearts — and wallets — to their pets this holiday season.

Seasonal Smarts
Thieves love the holidays, too, so while doing that last-minute holiday shopping, beware those who may be picking your pockets.

Cheers :/

One Year Cheer

Oh shucks, I *just* realized I've been blogging for a year and a week as of today. Happy Anniversary! This thing got a bit more addictive than I'd expected, ey?

My Clooney Story, at long last

This made it into The Observer yesterday; I wrote a longer, funnier, more colorful piece for Livewire, which, alas, has not posted this week; infuriating me that I got in so much trouble for missing Sunday night's 6:00 p.m. deadline and was threatened with an incomplete.

Well, we live and we learn. Here's to graduating! Now I have to pack to go hooooommmmeee.

(If Livewire never publishes, then I will post up my other version. Cheers!)

Deals to Make

New York University had originally requested permission to show Good Night, and Good Luck to J-schoolers on campus, but the studio declined. Instead, they offered a tantalizing consolation prize: What if the film’s director, George Clooney, came on down to offer his take on the issues facing journalism himself?

So last Thursday, Dec. 15, Mr. Clooney entered the hall of 19 University Place, stomped his feet and rubbed his hands together briskly, then barked, “What is it, 12 degrees out? How do you people live here?”

He’d brought along company, too; his co-writer, Grant Heslov, and David Strathairn, the actor who played broadcast journalist Edward R. Murrow in the film.

The intimate gathering was scheduled for a 120-seat auditorium, with an overflow room that could house an extra 70. When the news broke last month that Mr. Clooney was speaking at the school, however, almost 300 e-mail requests flooded the graduate director’s inbox in the first two days, with more streaming in over the next couple of weeks. Eager students name-dropped, pleaded and jokingly offered bribes. One even wrote a haiku. In the end, a lottery for tickets had to be conducted to assign students—and faculty—seating.

“I grew up on the floor of a newsroom in Cincinnati, Ohio,” Mr. Clooney said to the throng. “My father wasn’t making a lot of money, and in the summer we had no baby-sitter.” He hung around the studio into his adolescence, becoming a floor director and working on Dialing for Dollars. He also ran the teleprompter for his dad.

He studied journalism at Northern Kentucky University and briefly hosted a cable-access show. “I only lacked the talent and the skill,” Mr. Clooney said.

Mr. Strathairn talked about his preparations to play Murrow. “I have this cockamamie image of him as the cigarette,” said Mr. Strathairn of the reporter’s most famous prop. “People see him as this elegant thing, poised and straight, and at the tip of it, something is burning. Inside this man, something is burning, and it eventually burned him from the inside out.” Murrow later died of lung cancer.

Why, the moderator wondered, was the film doing so well? “The girls are showing up to see David,” said Mr. Clooney.

“Also because of the black-and-white film,” said Mr. Heslov.

“And the car crashes,” said Mr. Strathairn.

“I like good entertainment as much as anybody,” Mr. Clooney said, explaining that he sees entertaining as his own leverage for creating more serious pieces. He noted that Murrow had had to host the show "Person to Person" — which he abhorred—in order to continue his more serious subject matter on "See It Now." “There are deals that you guys are going to have to make to get the stories you want out,” he said. “It’s going to make you sick sometimes. It’s what you have to do. That’s the deal everybody makes.”

At the conclusion of the talk, the three guests stood up as the room broke into applause. Camera phones clicked and whirred, to the chagrin of the event planners, who had specifically prohibited cameras and autographs.

“Power, unchecked, corrupts,” said Mr. Clooney in an interview backstage. “That has historically been the responsibility of the fourth estate. Whoever was in power at the time, you went after him—because you have to.”

—Nicole Pesce

STRIKE!

While New York City transit was grinding to a halt late Monday/early Tuesday, I was hunched over my keyboard in a panic, pounding out the final 2500-word story standing in my way to a master’s degree. Well, there's that, and these two overdue N.Y.U. library books. With their "fines."

The imminent strike had worried the back of my mind for the past week or so, but only on the periphery. Final papers needed to be written, various brave and boozy outings were to made with classmates before everyone left the city to pursue Christmas and their careers, and besides, this transit walk-out kept getting postponed ... first it was Friday, then it was Monday, then Tuesday in the early a.m. ... seriously, these guys were worse than my friends and I deciding what time we should meet at Lit.

I decided that by the time the subways stopped, I would either be home on Long Island already, or too drunk and celebratory about finishing grad school to care.

So step back to Monday-night-into-Tuesday-morning, and I'm a mite peeved that I'm forced to work in my room because Monica and Martha brought home one of their co-waiters from Outback. He lives in the Bronx, and feared he would be unable to get to work at Outback (in the East 50s) if there was a strike the next day. He ended up being correct, of course, and in retrospect I'm glad we could help the guy out, but he was getting on my last nerve at the time. I had my work station all set up: on the couch, with a pillow comfortable enough to prop my back (but not comfortable enough to fall asleep on), with a cup of joe at my elbow, a movie ("The Princess Bride") playing in the background for noise and the occasional laugh, and, best of all, I was in the GROOVE. I was pounding out words like The Spirit had filled me, and deciding I *could* pass grad school, after all. (I hadn't realized how behind The Observer and extracurriculars had actually made me.)

Then the roomies returned with our guest. Whether I'm just unnaturally charismatic (especially with that wild-eyed, all-night-paper-writing stare, combined with wrinkled pajamas) or he, like some cats, was just drawn to the one person at the party who DIDN'T want his attention - he plopped next to me on the couch and proceeded to talk my ear off. I politely mentioned I was writing a paper - big one - due in the a.m. He wished me luck, turned to "Princess Bride" ... and kept turning BACK and asking me if such-and-such part was my favorite, or had I seen Harry Potter (pfft - had I "seen" it, I read all the books FIRST before this craze swept everyone up, dammit), and then inevitably, what was I writing this paper for and when was it due (yesterday!) and where did I work - and finally, with a sigh, I pulled the plug on my operations and retired to my room - which HAS no room, is the problem. This is why I prefer working on the couch. I was struggling to remain upright on my full-size bed, which encompasses almost the entire space. Lord knows I have no desk or anything. Ah, New York tenements.

There was a knock on my door, and there was Nosey McGiggles.

"Hi!"

I very suavely refrained from tackling him.

"I have to smoke outside, right?"

Ug. Yes.

"Will you be able to let me back in?" Martha was sleeping and Monica was just finishing up her packing. She was taking a very early flight in the morning, and, fearing the strike making most cabs unattainable, was leaving at 4:30 a.m.

It was now 2 a.m.

I let the boy out, and was now hit with writer's block. Dammit! Where had that train of thought gone ...

Found it, type THREE WORDS, and I hear him knocking at the door. Gritting my teeth, I get up, let him in ... aw, he bought chips. I *needed* fuel. That was nice. I take the chips, escort him back to the couch, go in my room, and shut the door.

A knock two hours later ushers in Monica, on her way out.

"It happened!" she said, referring to the strike. I get no wireless Internet signal in my room (another reason I'd been pissed about being relocated) so I had had no idea. Monica very generously offered up her computer (a desktop, with a desk, AND unwavering Internet) and I wished her good-bye and a merry Christmas, tip-toed past the sleeping chatterbox on our couch (he still had his shoes on ... and his shoes were ON the couch ... blech) and sat before Mon's computer and actually got my work done ... ish. I still wanted to read over one paper and add an intro and a conclusion to another, but otherwise ...

Oh - it was 7 a.m. already. Geez!

Ducked in and out of the shower, emailed my professor about the papers - and, due to the strike, he told me to hold off on handing them in that day. He was swamped as is.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I accepted. This gave me an opp to read over the last-minute papers; because who writes their *best* at the last minute? I'm sure there were glaring errors.

But, with the schoolwork done at last, I decided to tackle my next big venture: getting downtown sans subways. Getting to Observer HQ on 20th and Broadway from East 103rd is not exactly a hop, skip and a jump.

I had no idea what a tangled snarl traffic would be because I never journey by car around this fair city. I know it's generally about a $15, 15-to-20-minute cab ride from here to the Village, so I figured a twenty in my pocket and leaving 45 minutes early would suffice just fine. I didn't even wear a hat or gloves, figuring I'd be cruising in a cab. A leather jacket, a sweater, some sneakers (because it was an Observer Tuesday) and some slacks, and I was set-

Stepped outside, and saw a sight I had never seen this far north of Times Square - traffic was completely gridlocked.

Wow.

Once the frenzy of finishing school and my own selfish problems dissipated, it suddenly occurred to me that this strike could be A Big Deal.

I stood uncertainly on the corner of Lexington Avenue. Manager-Jake had mentioned The Observer would reimburse our cab fare, and that was nice; the last thing I was psyched about doing was PAYING an arm and a leg to get to and from my UNPAID internship that technically ENDED last week. Problem was, finding a cab with vacant seats.

Then, I saw one.

"Oh!" I said, teeth chattering, and waved my New York Times enthusiastically at it. The driver waved me over, and I found myself sinking into the smelly and cracked leather seat with relief. He already had two fares, and there was just enough room for me as his third. I rubbed my hands together, restoring the circulation.

"Where you going?" the cabbie asked me.

"Twentieth and Broadway," I said with a smile. There was no way I was getting to work on time at this rate, but at least I would be warm.

He cleared his throat, and looked at me in his rearview mirror. "You are aware how this works?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know what the deal is today?"

Sadly, I did not. I listened as he explained that it cost $10 just to sit in the cab, and then another $5 for each zone after the first. I was four zones away from where I needed to go, so my ride was going to cost me $30. According to his reasoning, which I would later find suspect.

I stiffly opened the door, thanked him, and got out of the cab. This took all of five minutes, and in that five, we hadn't moved a centimeter.

I returned to my corner, unsure of what to do, and then decided to walk partway, at least until I got to a less expensive fare zone. Damn, I didn't even HAVE $30 on me. I decided to make for the 86th Street and Lexington ATM. It was 17 blocks away - so I'd get some exercise, get some money, and maybe get a cheaper cab. I called The Observer and warned them I was walking partway, and might be a little late, and then I set off on my Adventure To Work with my pink messenger bag bouncing on my hip, my frost-bitten fingers shoved into my unsatisfying leather-jacket-pockets, and a steady stream of steam coming from my mouth and nostrils as I puffed along. The temperature was in the 20s.

A stereotypically-kind city cop stopped me. "Whatsamatter, miss? The cab wouldn't take you?"

"It was going to cost $30!" I exclaimed. "I'm walking until my legs get tired, and then I'll get a cab. Cheaper."

"Well take care, dear," he said, and I kept on my way. I was not the only one who had chosen to walk, by far. A mass of folks in suits and skirts were swaddled in their warmest clothes and hurrying along Lexington to make their way to their Upper East Side and Midtown offices - or so I suspected, gaging from their clothes. I shuffled along with them, taking in the fresh air and the sunshine. I hadn't been outside during daylight for DAYS, so I actually enjoyed the experience. I was definitely tired, from not having gotten a wink of sleep since 9 a.m. the day before, but the brisk air and the exercise were even more refreshing than a hot cup of coffee. I reached the ATM all-too-soon, withdrew my money, and went back outside. The traffic was much lighter here - there must have been a turnoff somewhere along the line while I wasn't paying attention. I saw plenty of cabs with their lights on ... but thought, ah, the hell with it. Let's see how far I can walk.

So I set off down Lexington, with a myriad of others on bikes and skates. One young man zipped by on a skateboard (hotttt) and another jovial fellow walked past singing "New York, New York" in a cheery baritone. I loved it! This was great. Another 10 blocks slipped easily by. The more I walked, the warmer I got. I had fortunately worn comfortable sneakers. Similar to Dave Barry's brilliant column yesterday, I saw all sorts of wonderful sights. And, best of all, I was making good time. Here I was already passing Hunter College at 68th Street, and I'd only been on the road less than half an hour. That was already 35 blocks!

That's when I decided that I was walking the whole way - 82 blocks, and two avenues; about five miles. I could totally do this. I was in no *huge* rush to get to work, anyway - I was going to be in a dark cubicle fact-checking all day. Here, I was outside, in the sun, watching history.

I called my grandmother.

"I'm walking to work! I'm just passing 53rd Street! Fifty blocks down, 30 more to go!"

"It's all over the news."

"Yeah, it's craz--" I suddenly cut off to swear at a woman who pushed me. Yes, 50 blocks in, and the novelty was already wearing off. My feet were getting tired, my back hurt, and remember, I hadn't slept in over 24 hours - I was very tired.

"What's the matter Nikki? You bump into someone?"

"She pushed ME, Grandma! And I apologized and she gave me lip!" I swear again, and realize this is my grandmother I'm talking to. "Oh Jesus, I'm sorry-"

She keeps me company for most of the remainder of the walk, and I redeem myself (somewhat) for not having called her since my birthday, which was a good two weeks and change, ago.

Now at last I'm down to the East 30s. I realize I had also forgotten to eat breakfast, and I'm thirsty. I opt to wait until I get by Observer HQ before grabbing a bagel and some joe.

No longer looking up at the sunlight glinting off the skyscrapers, or the wreaths and Christmas lights in store windows and strung on traffic lights, I now just stare at my feet as I plod along the last couple of blocks. I think about "The Long Walk," a short story written by Stephen King under the pseudonym Richard Bachman. In the future (or maybe our own troubled present) Americans watch this athletic competition called The Long Walk, where 100 strapping young lads start out in Maine, and they walk along the Interstate ... and if they fall below a certain speed, they get a warning. And after three warnings, they get shot. It's the top-ranked show in the nation. It's really sick.

I couldn't help wondering whether I was keeping pace or not.

Oh, by Jove! I look up, and I'm at 23rd Street. I turn, pass Madison, and three cheers! I'm at Broadway. I start texting people in jubilation. I buy a cup of joe and a bagel. It's only slightly after ten. Taking into account my dawdling with the cab, hitting the ATM, and then stopping for breakfast, and it only took me an hour to walk down here. And I'm actually only half an hour late for work, which, all things considered, is brilliant.

I plop down in my cube with my face flushed with exercise, my appetite for my bagel well-earned, and I'm the first intern in, and it's pretty great. As reporters and editors trickle in for the next few hours, we all compare How I Got Here stories, and hold pissing contests on who walked the farthest, who met the strangest people, yadda yadda yadda ... and it's the last Tuesday before Christmas, and everyone gets a bottle of wine and Godiva chocolates from The Big Cheese, and the atmosphere is very festive.

Two hours later, I wake up. I literally fell asleep at my desk while fact-checking but, similar to the time I got sick in the bathroom, I don't think that anybody noticed. I find myself nodding off and on all day. This is better than the hangover after my birthday, but still - no more all-nighters before Observer Tuesdays! Though I only have one such Tuesday left, after New Year's, which I'm really doing as a favor. And I won't have any more school assignments, ever, unless I someday go for my Ph.D.

The day dragged on, and as the hours slipped by, it occurred to me - to all of us - that getting here by foot and skate and bike by daylight was one thing, but what about the return home? In the dark, when temperatures were dipping below the 20s, and even more people were going to be competing for cabs?

Suddenly, the strike wasn't so funny anymore. And, it wasn't. Getting home was rough, but I did manage to hail a cab, and got home relatively quickly, all things considered.

At least my papers are pretty much done.

Now I just have to figure out how the hell I'm getting to Penn Station today - which is not only downtown, but ACROSS town - so that I can get home to the fam for Christmas.

WAIT: BREAKING NEWS!

The Transit Peeps are going back to work. Like, tomorrow.

Well thanks fellas, this certainly helps me out today! Me and the #$%@#$% million others. Ah well - Adventure! Fresh air! Blisters! The five-mile walk downtown to meet with Morgan, Nynka and Professor Serrin for a drink will only help keep off the holiday pounds I intend to gain when I go home and EAT AGAIN! BWA HA HA.

A word to the wise:

During Finals Week of your Final Semester of Grad School, do not put yourself in charge of creating the List of students to get tickets to George Clooney gracing your school with an intimate, under-the-radar visit.

Whereas NYU has had speakers come to campus all semester, attendance by the student body has often been sporatic, at best. Part of this has been because these speakers orate during from noon until 1 p.m. weekdays at the J-school (they're called Brown Bag speakers, as in you should bring a brown bag lunch and listen tight) and many students miss out due to class or work/internships. But there certainly have been plenty who did not show up due to hangovers, lack of interest, etc., and this has frustrated department planners struggling to host such events to build a sense of community in our sometimes estranged department. You know - print kids stick with print, broadcast sticks with broadcast, that sort of thing.

But hey now -

Word gets out that George Clooney is coming to campus, and BAM! - 200 emails hit Professor Serrin's mailbox lickety-split, surprise surprise.

He needed help sorting through them; I needed to ensure that I could attend this "intimate gathering" with extremely limited seating so that I could cover it for Livewire and The Observer ... and so, cut to today, and I'm hunched over his computer upstairs, clutching a thermos of coffee and staring at the screen with bloodshot eyes, trying to make sure that broadcast student attendees do not overwhelm print, and that undergrads do not overwhelm grads, and vice versa, and screening The Ridiculous from The Sincere.

At first it was funny. Last week, fellow Social-Justice-Leaguer Vanessa made the tickets, I started making a spreadsheet/contact list, and together we pored over Serrin's emails. There were only 80. ...?

Then we realized half the emails had been inadvertantly dumped by Serrin's AOL account, so I had to email the undergrad and grad listservs (out of a sense of duty and fairness) and request that everyone re-send their requests so that I was sure I wasn't forgetting anybody. And this time, I had them sent directly to ME.

Less than 24 hours later - 130 emails. Ah, popularity!

And some of them were HILARIOUS - I've never seen a celebrity; once I thought I saw Samuel L. Jackson posing for pictures, but it was actually a wax figure in a window - some were borderline pathetic - please, I could use a jolt of Clooney - and some just scary. We were offered half-kidding monetary bribes, sob stories - and one Crazy wrote me a HAIKU. A dreadful one, at that.

So yes, the past week of handling this has been utterly ridiculous, and I spent five hours at Serrin's office or downstairs in the computer lab today creating a FINAL list of who was definitely set to come, and then physically drawing a bunch of other names out of a hat to dole out the (few) remaining tickets. Then I emailed the 200 or so people who are coming, to set up where they can pick up the tickets before Clooney's visit, which is TOMORROW already. And I have to hurry down very early in the AM tomorrow to give Serrin the tickets so he can hand them to students and teachers, and also because I forgot to mark on his Master List who gets what tickets to which sections.

Insanity.

Recognize, I have crazy-work to still do this week, and yet have very unwisely made Clooney a priority.

What am I getting out of it, though, you ask?

*A reserved seat up front (HELL yeah.)

*As well as a 10-minute exclusive interview with him (along with five other reporters, alas) backstage before he goes on.

*And, hopefully, some added respect and appreciation from Serrin, who has become one of my endeared professors/mentors.

But Jesus-God. I am WIPED.

..............

I came home, whipped up some quick French toast, and put up my feet,thinking the worst was over - I mean, the lottery is done, the list is set, the tickets are made, the 'winners' have been contacted - I can do some HW and go to bed. Right?

Wrong.

Now my inbox is being absolutely flooded with ridiculous questions.

Here's the email I had originally sent out:

Hey everyone -

I *just* finished the raffle, and you guys have been picked for seats at the Clooney shindig.

Professor Serrin will be in his office on the FIFTH FLOOR after 10 a.m. TOMORROW, THURSDAY. In the afternoon, however, he will be either in his office or in ROOM 101 of the J-School. You are receiving YELLOW[in some cases, blue]TICKETS. If there is some problem, email me at nlp226@nyu.edu or for some emergency tomorrow call *** *** ****.

We are starting at 5 PM SHARP on Thursday, so make sure you get there early. You will need to bring your TICKET and your STUDENT ID to check off the list of people who have been drawn to attend. I'm sorry, but friends husbands and moms cannot be scootched in with you; there is extremely limited space.

Thanks for your patience, guys. I repeat Serrin's plea that we've done the best we could.

Sincerely,

Nicole Pesce

Pretty clear, I thought. Yet I get these:

"Do I have to pick up my ticket before the event?"

"Can I get there late?"

"How late can I get mine?"

And my personal favorite, after all of the hullabaloo -

"So, do we each only get one ticket?"

Sigh.

Sigh.

On the brightside, tonight is Midnight Breakfast. I need to have some bacon and some laughs, I think.

Snow Falls on Spanish Harlem - Add 2

Crossing Lexington


Subway Stop


106th Street


Some comforting bar lights


Park Avenue

Snow Falls on Spanish Harlem - Add 1

Schoolyard basketball court on 106th


Playground on Park Avenue


"Our Barrio" on a wall on 104th


Heavy snowfall under one of the trains
(one of my favorites)


106th and Park

Snow Falls on Spanish Harlem

Upon the alarm going off early this morning, Nicole Pesce yawns, stretches, looks out the window, and realizes that the city is blanketed in "eyeball-sized" snowflakes.

Without even pausing to change out of her PJs or brew a cup of joe, the intrepid journalist grabs her camera and runs around Spanish Harlem to catch the snow before it stops.



Welcome to El Barrio - There is a rose - STILL

103rd Street, with the Metro North train rushing past in the distance

Early 20s ... those lives are very difficult to make interesting, even when they seemed interesting to those living them at the time. - Dave Eggers

I rent a room and I fill the spaces with
Wood in places to make it feel like home
But all I feel's alone
It might be a quarter life crisis
Or just the stirring in my soul

Either way I wonder sometimes
About the outcome
Of a still verdictless life

Am I living it right?
Am I living it right?

For a change, I was getting ahead of the game, sitting in my cube yesterday, a stack of stories fully fact-checked at my elbow with no other assignments in sight. I delved into an article for Livewire. My draft isn't due to Professor Ogintz until Sunday, but I have a lot to do this weekend. Veering from my haphazard work ethic of this semester, I actually did most of the research and wrote a draft for my piece on shoplifting during the holidays yesterday afternoon, as opposed to the last-minute Sunday, and emailed it in to her. All I need are some quotes from the cops, some stats from the NYC Criminal Justice Department, and, of course, personal anecdotes - which I intend to get and fill in today.

I felt productive, I felt good, until I looked up and realized the managing editor was standing by and wanted me to follow him to talk for a few minutes.

And I realized that, finally, he was giving me the State of the Internship Address.

Gulp.

I stood up, leaving my pen and notebook behind, and followed him into P. Stevenson's office completely unarmed.

It went really well.

In fact, I left feeling more comfortable and at ease with my internship than I have in the three months since I started there on September 2nd. Which leads me to my one, really huge complaint about the internship - that I had never really felt comfortable enough to talk with anybody, and that I had never been quite sure where I stood; was I doing a good job, a horrible job, and did the other reporters and editors like me and my work?

The bitter irony is of course, now that I *am* getting much more comfortable there, and I feel much more at ease talking with and joking with the other staffers - alas, it is time to go.

I was informed - but with sincere apology - that they are in no position to hire anybody. I had no complaint with this - one thing I will definitely give to these guys cred for is they were honest from the get-go. Getting a job straight out of the internship relies on a opportunistic cocktail composed of a number of factors - none of which really fell into place. They've got a solid newsroom now, with no glaring holes to fill. Therefore, the interns will go on their way. We've already spied them interviewing our replacements, which is ever-disconcerting. But hey, such is life.

I was told I do good work, that I put in the hours and I always look for extra work, and that I received a good review to be sent to NYU(so I *should* get an "A" in this internship-course, so HEY - that's ONE A in my grad school career, bully!) and that I can always use them as a reference. I sincerely appreciate that.

Furthermore, we are all encouraged to keep in touch and to pitch and freelance to them - which is an opportunity that I relish taking. One of my top five goals for the next few months, now, is pitching and putting a "real" story into The Observer on my own - and for money, no less, haha. Although even just the exposure is appreciated.

And I was given a chance to vent my own critique of the internship, so finally, I spoke up about having taken on too many hours and falling behind in school, and about really feeling out-of-place in the newsroom and not sure whom I could communicate with, and about always feeling uncertain with whether or not I was performing well, and about being broke.

To my surprise, this was no surprise to Jake, haha. In fact, his biggest critique toward me had been that there were times when I was obviously frustrated or unhappy with things, and that I didn't just speak up. In the future, I need to be more assertive about my needs and concerns. If I need time off to do my schoolwork the next few weeks, I can have it. In fact, I *always* could have had it.

I felt like such an idiot.

It's just so easy to subvert myself in an environment where I'm trying to be as amicable as possible. On the street, I will elbow my way around enough to make J. Miller blush, but in the newsroom, in front of superiors and seasoned vets, I just want to "get along" - which is a dangerous mindset in some ways, because it leads complacency and to young staffers being taken advantage of - but alas, I'm getting ahead of myself; that's my story for Serrin, ha.

So I walked out of the room feeling really - BUMMED. About leaving the internship I had had so many mixed feelings about. This is an invaluable lesson learned though - because I know future jobs are going to be even more harried; daily newsrooms are going to be even less homey and inviting; and I now know it takes a few months to get comfortable and to get into a groove, so I need to give each place a grace period before making up my mind. I wish I had a few more months with The Observer, now that I have more time since school is wrapping up, where I could really get to know people, and sit in on meetings and pitch ideas, and to stay late until the paper actually closes at 11 p.m. or midnight or 1 on a Tuesday night.

TIME. I just wish I had more TIME.

As we all wish. Because ye gods, school is done in a handful of weeks, and none of us is quite sure what is going to happen next.

Along the lines of things getting comfortable just as soon as it's time to leave them -

my apartment.

Last Sunday, Monica pulled a dusty cardboard box down from the top of her wardrobe, opened it, and lo and behold, inside was a miniature faux Christmas tree and a bunch of her family's old decorations.

So, for a good half hour, Monica and Martha and I, as well as Martha's visiting friend, strung white lights on the little tree, and placed Monica's eclectic array of Ohio-made ornaments - angels from Sunday School, crazy little sleds and even an ornamental pig. Then we wrapped one of our red fleece blankets around the base - very "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown" (see: Linus' blankie) and turned off all the lights and stood back to check it out.

This is my first Christmas tree that is all mine, as a young adult, separate from my family's tree. I took a dozen pictures to send to my grandmother.

Then the girls and I sat around and talked. And we've been doing this a lot lately. Which sounds typical of girls that live together, but see, I've always been out of the loop. I came into this apartment late, and I missed the bonding experience that was dealing with the roommate whose shoes I filled, who was on coke and didn't pay bills. And my schedule is completely contradictory to theirs - these two mostly work afternoons and nights; I'm gone all day and am home at night. I only saw my roommates in the evenings over the kitchen sink, as we wove a complicated dance around each other in the small space as I made coffee, Martha made chicken, and Monica brewed some tea.

The last few weeks, however, Martha and I have talked a lot more; Monica and I are obsessed with watching 24 when it gets delivered by Netflix, and I have suddenly realized that, despite the rats in the alley, the ever-present sound of the Metro North rushing by our window, the shrieks and pounding feet of the family upstairs, my newspaper always being stolen off the stoop and the water that is always either too hot or too cold in the shower - I am liking living in Spanish Harlem, I am liking living with these girls, AND they like me back. I'm welcome to stay on after February, when they renew their lease, and since I've proven myself a competent roommate (note - not a crackhead) my rent will actually be knocked down a hundred bucks.

If I don't find a job, though, I have to leave.

So now here's the dilemma, again - now that I sincerely like and am comfortable in my pad, I may very well have to pull up my roots and move on; as I am doing with my internship; as I may be doing with "life, the universe, everything" in general.

I turn 25 on Monday and am hoping to have a low-key yet grand gathering with my J-school friends and a select few rugby teammates and sorority sisters who live in the nearby area. I figure on a fun night at McSorley's and some wandering around before going to bed and pulling a long day at work on Tuesday.

But tonight I am meeting up with LI friends Katt and Steve, Ron and Grant, because 1 - they cannot come out on Monday, and 2 - not only is it my bday, but Grant is moving to Buffalo this week. This has Katt, Ron and I devestated.

Ron and Grant were my two absolute best buds in college, outside Katy. Katy has already moved to Albany (and gotten married!), Chris has gone MIA, Katt and Steve have bought a house, and I've moved to New York City. Grant's going upstate seems like the final piece in the Breaking of the Fellowship, and it has us all really reflective. Tonight proves to be a lot of fun, but insantly bittersweet. I'm sure there will be plenty of those moments of tears brimming, glasses clinking, and reminescing. I need batteries for my camera.

I know this is a rather personal bit of nonsense to spew on my Journalism Blog, but this stage of life is pretty interesting, I know it's shared experience. I have no idea what is going to happen over the next few weeks, and how these weeks will define the next few months and the next few years. Friendships moving on, and leases coming to a close and internships wrapping up all need to be readjusted, reviewed and, sometimes, replaced. It's a heavy bundle of thoughts to have while there are still papers to write and assignments to complete, so these reflections will largely go on the backburner. But they're still there. And I am looking at some of the choices I've made this semester, and those things that I have achieved and failed at, and it makes me really thoughtful about the choices I have yet to make. I want I do a good job, and I want to do the smart thing(s), and want to succeed. I just hope I will still have a lot of these crazy characters by my side when the time is up and the ink has dried.

Til then - the Birthday, I suppose. And finishing grad school. Cheers!

So what, so I've got a smile on
But it's hiding the quiet superstitions in my head
Don't believe me
When I say I've got it down

Everybody is just a stranger but
That's the danger in going my own way
I guess it's the price I have to pay
Still "everything happens for a reason"
Is no reason not to ask myself-

If I am living it right
Am I living it right?
Am I living it right?

lyrics by the delectable John Mayer