Haute Shot

A journalist’s job is to comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.

I remember Professor Serrin feeding us that mantra all throughout our Reporting Social Justice seminar. “No one goes into journalism for the money,” he laughed. “For that, you go on to write books.”

No, in all seriousness – he had a good point when he said all of us (I hope) got into journalism because we wanted to make a difference in some way – to tell the untold story; to bring down corrupt politicians; to bring about social change; to uphold our basic rights of freedom of speech and expression; or, more succinctly, to right wrongs.

That’s why I am still so enamored with print newspapers. That’s where the action is. In New York City, anyway, the daily tabloids are what real, blue-collar people read. The New York Times may have national and international news down pat, but the Daily News and (sigh) the Post cover stories about real people and what’s really going on in the five boroughs (or at least, some of us try to) and that’s what your average Joe-subway-rider turns to when he wants to stay informed. When I wrote for The New York Observer, no one noticed if I had a clip; my big coups of being RIGHT THERE when the lights fell down on the von Furstenberg show, or sneaking backstage at the Gwen Stefani L.A.M.B. runway and interviewing Gwen, Gavin and Lenny Kravitz, went largely unnoticed. Writing where I write now, however, I get emails and text messages from friends and family all the time, because this paper is so much more relevant and accessible to them.

Yet, for all my red-blooded good intentions (with a healthy mix of ambition) I *do* write for features, and therefore, many of my stories *are* very, very fluffy.

And what eternally amuses/exasperates me is that the fluffier subject matter gets so much more play than the projects I take so seriously.

Cases-in-point:

My first news feature that I actually found worth framin’ was on the Catholic schools and parishes closing in Manhattan and the Bronx last spring – only a year after another slew of closings across Brooklyn. I put my heart and soul into that piece, and found myself running around the Bronx in the freezing cold at 8 a.m. trying to get parents, kids and teachers on the record – and while it was a well-done story with a great photo, it was tucked into the parenting section in the back of the paper. My parents and friends were proud; I was ecstatic – I was destined for great things!

Fortunately, my 19- and 20-year-old brothers kept my ego in check.

“Wow, Page 45,” they said. “WOW! It’s not even a whole page.”

And from there on out, whenever I say ANYTHING, from a comment on the weather to something funny I saw on the train, one of them will always say, “Oh wow, that’s GREAT, Nic – why don’t you write a STORY about it? Maybe it’ll get on Page 60!”
Right.

HOWEVER-

I was handed a real crowd-pleaser: the Meow Mix cat food company produced a reality show based on MTV’s “The Real World” called “The Meow Mix House” on Animal Planet. Yes, 10 cats were picked to live in a house, and had to compete in a flurry of events such as purring, chasing mice and falling asleep. Each week (in 10, 3-minute TV segments that can also be viewed online) one puss was given the boot until only the pick of the litter remained.

So I wrote about THAT little number, trying to refrain from using too many puns (“THIS cathouse welcomes peeping toms!”) and, lo and behold – not only was it on page SIX, up at the TOP of the paper, but fucking REGIS on “Regis and Kelly” held it up on his morning show and gushed about it, nearly giving my grandmother a heart attack (“OH MY GOD! Nikki’s on TV! Or well, her article!!!”)

It was so popular that I wrote three follow-ups on it. THREE! My editor joked that this was my Pulitzer-winning series.

Or, on a whim in a meeting one day, I started harping about WHAT was the BIG DEAL with Oprah and Gayle King always hanging out together? Why did they HAVE to be lesbians? Can’t two gals just be FRIENDS anymore?

Yeah – a full page came out of that. A classmate emailed me to say THAT little number had been picked up and linked everywhere. Well, “everywhere” might be a minor exaggeration, but nothing else that I wrote got linked! Except for the Meow Mix House. Sigh.

Then we have my audition to be a dancer on the New Jersey Nets Squad. Let me preface this by saying that I am a rugby player, a jock, a stereotypical tomboy (though I do enjoy skirts and bouquets of flowers for no reason, as well as softly falling snow and movies about toys.) I had never danced a lick in my life, and I felt like an asshole during the entire audition. Picture the worst of the rejects that you see on “So You Think You Can Dance” and “American Idol” – and then SQUARE it. Sigh.

Not that it wasn’t a very broadening experience, and I left with a much greater respect for dancers – the girls are much more athletic and dedicated than I had originally written them off to be. And I’m very glad I did it …

… but this was all starting to look more Bridget Jones than Woodward & Bernstein.

Now we come to the 9/11 anniversary. All the stories that I pitched up front were good ideas, I was told, but they just had SO MANY stories and angles to work with, that they couldn’t include everything. This is understood – I was really disappointed that I couldn’t be a part of the respectful, reflective package, though.

Then, however, I got my moment to shine –

This past Monday, Sept. 11, I was sent to the Fashion Week tents at Bryant Park to look for people in ridiculously high, stacked platform shoes.

I buried my face in my hands and laughed.

How should I approach the models, I asked my editor with an evil sense of (not “ha-ha” funny, but darkly funny) sense of humor – “On this day five years ago, the twin towers collapsed. But how are YOU still standing in those shoes?!” She snorted, but we both realize that this is what features are here for – sometimes, there is just so much dark and ugly stuff happening all over New York City – people hurting each other, or people just dying for no reason in freakish accidents, or people who are suffering or in need – that you need to be able to turn to a section of the paper that is fun and colorful, that shows the side of New York that keeps people coming back for more – the beautiful parks and buildings; the restaurants and clubs and bars and galleries and events that are here and only here and nowhere else; the extremely eclectic and diverse 8 million people that make up this great city; what they do; and … what kind of shoes they wear.

So I put away my pretentiousness and gamely dug a notebook into my back pocket, slung my press badge around my neck and made my way to Bryant Park. It was a beautiful day for a stakeout.

Of course, on this day of all days I’d left my cell phone at home, so I had no way of finding the photographer that I was meeting up with. I cleverly thought I would be able to pick her out in the crowd, but alas – this was Fashion Week, and the paparazzi were in full bloom. EVERYBODY had a fucking camera. So I had to resort to getting change from Pax across the street and calling the photo desk from a payphone. Although that was an adventure in itself; the first two payphones I found were out of order. I had to go around the block. The fotog met me at Starbucks, and I promised her a cup of joe later to make up for the miscommunication (we’d been looking for each other for 15 minutes already; it was getting really annoying, and it was all my fault.)

I knew she was a good egg, however, the moment she hissed, “Is that not the hottest photographer you have ever seen?” and I turned my head and came face-to-face with a blond-haired, blue-eyed Adonis.

“Oh man, do you think he’s straight?”

She shrugged. “Who cares?” And true THAT – just LOOKING at him was enough. But it was good to know that at least she and I would be having fun. We may have been staking out the best of the best-dressed in their cumbersome shoes, but she and I were in slacks and sneakers. Natch.

So we got to work. You had to go up a flight of steps to enter the Oscar de la Renta show that was starting in 10 minutes, and watching designers, publicists, models, celebs and fashionistas oh-so-carefully mince their way up the steps in their 4-inch heels was endlessly funny. We managed to convince the security at the top of the steps that we didn’t NEED to stay behind the rope with the REST of the brass, and really, we promised to be very unobtrusive if they let us just stand at the top of the rise – right before the doors – and just innocently photograph people’s feet. So, after scoring this prime real estate, we easily collected shots of over 30 pairs of shoes – including Barbara Walters and the Trumps, and Toccara from season 2 of “America’s Next Top Model.”

Oh – let me backtrack – the reason I find covering this soft news so exasperating is that aside from my failure as a professional dancer, I ALSO have no sense of style at all, so I was entirely in over my head. Every fashionista who told me she was wearing Christian Louboutin had to SPELL “Louboutin” for me, because I’d never heard of him. (To my delight, half of *them* couldn’t spell the name of the designer they were wearing, either.)

[Ha, funny story - Once, on a red carpet I was covering for the Observer last year, I stopped designer Jill Stuart (having no idea who she was) and asked her what her name was. “Jill Stuart,” she said. I asked her what she did for a living. “I’m a designer,” she said. I then asked her what she was wearing. Exasperated, she replied, “JILL STUART!”]

My Moment of Zen on Monday was when Nina Garcia approached in a stunning black 4-inch-heeled number.

I had a complete brain fart, I guess, because I had no idea who she was. And I mean, I don’t have cable, but I HAVE SEEN “Project Runway.”

After asking her if she’d mind if we shot her shoes (she was in a hurry, but pursed her lips and posed for us for a moment) I asked her what she was wearing … then asked her to spell the designer’s name (she looked at me like I was an idiot) and she spelled it out for me. Then … sigh … I asked her what her name was.

She looked at me. Hard. And then said, slowly, “Nina Garcia.”

“OK,” I said – and then, horrors:

“Can you spell that for me?”

Ten loooong seconds went by, before she said, irritably, “N. I. N. A. … “

And so on.

Not knowing who Nina Garcia is, in New York City, is like … well … it would be like me asking Angelina Jolie what her name was, and if she could please spell it for me.

Back in the newsroom later on, I was transcribing my notes from my pad onto my computer, and double-checking the spellings of the designers’ names (many were wrong) and then Googling the different women I had spoken to, making sure I got their names and titles right. Since many of them were socialites, publicists or writers, they were pretty easy to find …

So I punch in Nina Garcia’s name …

Ooof …

Not only is she on “Project Runway” … but she’s the fashion editor of ELLE MAGAZINE!

I shrieked.

Nearby reporters turned and stared. I explained (or should I say, exclaimed) “I INTERVIEWED NINA GARCIA AND HAD NO IDEA WHO SHE WAS?!”

They burst out laughing. “She’s the editor of ELLE,” said the reporter next to me.

I slapped my hand to my forehead. “Well, NOW I KNOW!”

The editor who had given me the assignment walked by just then, and I flagged her down. “You won’t believe what I did!” I said, somehow thinking that ratting myself out would contain the damage. “I stopped Nina Garcia and had no idea who she was!”

“HAHAHA” – editor laughed. “PLEASE, tell me – did you have her spell you her name????”

“Yes!”

“A HAHAHAHA – that’s perfect! I love it!” She then confided that when she was reporting for a magazine once, she’d done something similar to a designer. A nearby fashion reporter told me that once, while she worked in PR, she was working the list at the door for a party and wouldn’t let some hot-shot celeb inside because she wasn’t on the list.

So, OK – it’s NOT just me …

Over beers with Mike and Raj at McSorley’s last night, the general consensus was that these sorts of people need to be taken down a peg every now and then. Especially by an idiot.

So, there you have it – I still have a looooong way to go before I become the journalist that I want to be –

but I guess I’ve already gotten a handle on afflicting the comfortable.