So Meta. Or, Top Two.

A priest, a rabbi and a Zen monk walk into a bar. The bartender goes, "What is this--a joke?"

Babe in Jobland: Pot, Kettle. Both Black. Live in Glass House.

"Babe in Jobland" is yet another intermittent series detailing my search for a job in the shittiest economy imaginable. Updates will appear any time I actually get an interview.


Company: Dial House, self-described "media think tank"
Position: Cultural Research Analyst

The Dial House in San Francisco was the first company to find my resume appealing enough to ask me to come in for an interview. I found their ad on Craigslist, in which they asked applicants to list their favorite authors, artists, musicians, et cetera. EASY CAKE. I thought I had it so in the bag, and I did for a little while.

Dial House's offices are in a rather cracked out area of SF, you know, for street cred. The interior is like any other converted warehouse/loft taken over by some art snobs, complete with gaudy oversized couches and bookshelves filled with the most pretentious reading material imaginable. High art mags, cultural theory tomes and the like. Of course, I immediately fell in love.

Above one of the couches hangs a poster explaining the origins of the company's name. Dial House is named after an anarchist-pacifist commune in England that was staunchly opposed to war, violence, religious hypocrisy and blind consumerism. I thought it was a bold move for a company that specializes in marketing and branding to take on such a loaded name. Maybe I'm just not subversive enough to understand the logic.

Anyway, I first met with some twentysomething gate-keepers whose job was to size me up, feel me out, whatever. Hipsters, all. To make sure I knew what I might be getting myself into, one of them admitted that my would-be boss actually made her cry once. Awkward.

They explained to me that "cultural research" involves obsessively reading about the habits, worldviews and cultural products of obscure (and not-so-obscure) populations in the States and beyond to help certain brands better position themselves. Most people call this market research.

It must have gone well because I got called in for a second interview. I met with this new guy who was in charge of Account Planning. Or something. Anyway, it was going along rather swimmingly. He was impressed and intrigued by my profile, which did absolute fucking wonders for my narcissism. And then they brought in someone else to grill me. This is when it all started to fall apart.

Down the stairs came a guy, all piercings and tattoos and exceptional displays of high-horsery. The edgy one in the boy band. He took a copy of my resume and skimmed it in front of me. He reached the very bottom where I listed an article that I had published (in a student journal, but hey, I'm just starting out). The title of the article is Culture Jamming and the Formation of Counterpublics: Pranking the Megaspectacle. He asked me what the fuck the Megaspectacle is. So I started on my usual explanation which begins with an overview of Guy Debord and the Situationists, then moves on to avant-garde art and ends with how art and activism blended together to form culture jamming.

I didn't even make it past Guy Debord before he interrupted me and said "Stop, you're already smarter than me." That type of shit makes my blood boil. So, I seethed quietly while he moved on to ask me if I had ever myself pranked any spectacles, mega or otherwise. The answer is no. Before I could explain my reasons for not participating in culture jamming (I think it is counterproductive and ultimately backfires, making culture jammers look like foolish pranksters), he called me an armchair revolutionary.

Surprisingly, I kept it together. What I really wanted to say to the Pot was that this Kettle was onto him and his fucking hypocritical Dial House cohorts. A "media think tank"? REALLY? Peddling propaganda for brands while associating your company with a commune that stands in direct opposition to such tomfoolery is the ultimate form of deception. Marketing while proclaiming that you hate marketing. You've built such a lovely glass house.

The One Where I Tell a Dim-Witted "Music Critic" What's What

So, my friend Sean McArdle made a record called Northern Charms. It's elegant and earnest. Needless to say, it is a success.

Earlier today, I came across some mindless drivel produced by a "music critic" over at Muzik Reviews. Read it here.

Of course, I couldn't resist snarking back. My response is below:

Dear Mr. Hannaleck,

I came across Christen LaFond's review of Northern Charms on your website. I normally respect the opinions of critics, even if I don't necessarily agree with them. However, LaFond's remarks displayed such thoughtlessness and egregious flaws in logic that I can't help but comment.

Judging by the opening sentence, LaFond clearly read up on the artist. One would assume she understands that Sean McArdle, being a self-described "punk recluse waxing melancholy", is a man who has experienced loss, heartbreak and disappointment and whose worldview has been shaped by those things. Fittingly, Northern Charms is a record that explores such existential anguish and each song expresses it in an exquisitely simple way. For her to say that there is no creativity in simplicity shows her undeniable ignorance regarding the difficulty in unambiguously expressing complex emotions. In her trite analysis of "Joy", LaFond fails to see that the song is indeed about joy. Not the possession of joy, but the loss one feels seeing it slip away. The honey was snatched from the bee. That's the point.

Throughout the review, LaFond seems to be wishing that Sean McArdle was an entirely different musician. The job of a reviewer is to possess an understanding of the point of view of the artist, then form a critique based on the artist's success or failure in expressing that particular view. LaFond's review is unabashedly colored by her personal musical preferences for "blissful and energetic" tunes. She does not possess the critical distance required to produce a serious and worthwhile commentary.

Asking someone like Sean McArdle to write songs about "sunshine and lollipops" would undeniably result in a record deserving of a dismal 1.5 star review. It would be like asking Ernest Hemingway to write like Dan Brown. Or asking Gloria Steinem to see the world through the eyes of Carrie Bradshaw. Better yet, it would be like asking Christen LaFond to write a thoughtfully considered critique.

Sincerely yours,
Alexandra Gibson

Outside Looking In: Alpine Edition

"Outside Looking In" is an occasional series chronicling my persistent inability to remember my keys when leaving my apartments, past and present.

Year: 2002
Location: Annecy, France

During my second summer in Annecy, I found a studio downtown on Rue Jean Jaurès. It was on the third floor of a relatively modern building equipped with an elevator(!). The apartment itself was kind of a shithole, but it had a balcony with sliding glass doors, which made up for the peeling walls in the bathroom, mysteriously stained rugs, threadbare mattress and broken bedframe. Another plus, or so I thought, was that the door was self-locking. Initially, it made me feel more secure. In the end, this door fucked me. Repeatedly.

The keys to said studio were attached to an obnoxiously large plush cow named Elvis. Elvis doubled as a change purse. He, along with my keys, infrequently made it out of the apartment.

The first time I realized I had abandoned my keys inside my place, I was hysterical. It is such a helpless, awful feeling the first time you realize that you cannot get into your own apartment. I called my landlord to explain the situation in my pitiful French. He asked if I left any widows open. I developed the habit of leaving the sliding glass door leading to the balcony unlocked and open at all times. Any rational person would realize that this negates the safety provided by a self-locking door. This insight was lost on me. And thank god it was! Because all my landlord needed to do was strap an enormous ladder to his Peugeot, scale the building, and let me in. The whole process was relatively short and painless. For me, anyway. He was not amused.

I wish I could say that I stopped locking myself out from then on. But, sadly that's not the case. I must have done it on at least two other occasions that very summer. Luckily I befriended my neighbor, a charming old woman who was intrigued by my unabashed American-ness. Out of the goodness of her heart, she would let me go out onto her balcony, climb across her flower bed, and jump the gap between my balcony and hers.

This was the beginning of a very long (and still ongoing) career in locking myself out of nearly every apartment I've lived in thus far.

We Must Plunge Into Experience and Then Reflect on the Meaning of It

Goethe said that. He was nothing if not a truth-talker. All reflection, and we go mad; all plunging and no reflection, we are mere brutes.

Lately, I've been seeing myself as more in the latter category. In a recent rare moment of reflection, I realized that I have lived in four cities in the past six years and I haven't been able to commit to a job for an all-too extended period. I've become somewhat of a gypsy, a rootless rolling stone. A brute chasing after experience without slowing for a moment to figure out what exactly it is I'm doing.

And I was cool with that until I found myself in need of a steady paycheck. There's nothing like a job interview to get me to consider how unstable and flighty I must seem to most, if not all, employers. I'd never been asked point-blank why I can't seem to connect to places, jobs, people, until today. I dodged the bullet by saying something about how I wanted to soak up experiences during my early twenties and now I'm ready to settle down. I felt uncomfortable as I heard the words coming out of my mouth. Not that I feel I was being disingenuous, because I really do think it's about time to consider the possibility of staying somewhere for a fucking second. I felt a little sad because I realized now is the time when I have to embark on the (probably painful) process of reflection, of letting things sink in, and of understanding what all these experiences could mean.

Of Cultural Differences and Electro-Pop

When people find out I spent some time in France, they almost always ask me the following:

"So what's the difference between Frenchies and Americans?"

This question irks me not only because I consider myself a "c'mon guys, everyone's pretty much the same on the inside" kinda gal. It also bothers me because I know full well there are differences, I've just never been able to adequately put them into words until now.

It all came together when I was jamming to some Yelle in my roommate's car on the way to Target to buy a vase. I never really reflected on how indefatigably positive that girl is. Mainly because I refused to listen to her until about a month ago because she had some beef with Cuizinier from TTC. And me, being ever so loyal to mysoginists, banned the spindly girl from my iPod. But, I digress...

What struck me was not her positivity in and of itself, but that said positivity was eminating from a French person. I realized I had just found the answer to the question that has plagued me for two years. Americans, despite our cut-throat, dog-eat-dog professional culture, are pretty much the most positive "can do" people on the planet (that I have come across thus far). French people, on the other hand, are not.

Obama's "Yes We Can!" slogan did not fall from the sky. It's an expression of latent (now active) aspects of our collective psychology. Americans have always believed that "everything will be alright" because "we can do anything we put our minds to"." Not so, in my opinion, for French people.

Simple test. Go to a bank, post office, grocery store, Metro station, restaurant or any other place where there are French people and ask them to do something that is both entirely within their power and entirely within their job description. You will most likely be met with the following phrase: "Ce n'est pas possible", or its cousin "C'est impossible."

I will bet you money on this. Why am I so sure? Because French people have a completely opposite disposition to that of Americans. While we are almost too happy to help you, French people are gleefully eager to deny you. This is because they are inherently contrarian. Why this is, I may never fully understand. But I certainly heard more non than oui during my time there. This includes personal, professional and daily anonymous interactions.

This is why I was so surprised when I actually took the time to listen to Yelle's lyrics. I don't mean to over-generalize and contend that because a French girl is capable of penning some happy lyrics that she has a more American temperament. What I want to say is that when it comes down to it, we may all very well be the same on the inside.

And so it begins...

..welcome to my blog. This may or may not be a short-lived foray into self-aggrandizement via the Internet.