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.