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January 19, 2004 #
 Photo: CBGB's, 1977 Music: The Jam - "Smithers-Jones" It's role-reversal time as I interview the original architect of LasagnaFarm, Mike Spinelli, who gave me my start in the Young Manhattanite series. He's now smithers-jonesing in the 'burbs. Interview With a New Rochellian Who Left a Manhattan Job to Accept One in White Plains for Reasons Known Only to Him TOP: Why did you leave? Not finding any dates? Network too big? MS: My career was deader than TheGlobe.com's foosball league. The dot-com consultancy I worked for had expanded and contracted more spectacularly than Renee Zellweger's peaches-and-cream haunches. It was like waking up three days after a party in the host's closet, covered in body paint, with an imprint of George Whipple's eyebrows on my inner thigh. It was time to purge the embarrassment by fleeing the scene. TOP: What are the major differences between office culture in Manhattan and the 'WP'? MS: The differences are mainly demographic. Whereas my coworkers in Manhattan were mostly in their 20s and 30s, in the WP, the average age is somewhere between split-level ranch in Hartsdale and pine box at Mt. Calvary. Among the few younger ones, the hierarchies of urban hipness, which most city folk presuppose to the point of nausea, are entirely absent. Here, being in fashion involves coordinating a Healthy Choice entrée with a Talbot's pantsuit, at least for the ladies; for the men it’s all just mismatched Brooks Brothers outfits. Wearing leather Pro Keds feels more subversive than telling the SVP of marketing to stick his dick in a light socket. Carrying an iPod is like trying to unionize the admins. The best descriptor I can come up with is "extreme adequacy." TOP: What's the go-to lunch spot these days to see major insurance players making the big deals? Any celeb sightings in a food court perhaps? MS: One time, I thought I saw the guy from the old "Time to Make the Doughnuts" commercials sweeping up behind the Nathan's counter, but then I heard someone call him "Miguel," so I guess it wasn't him. Everyone in my office has restraining orders out against carbs (yes, here too), so most people go to the Ranch 1 in the food court of the Galleria mall. It has a fine grilled chicken salad (no croutons, you cretin), and its own tables, relieving titans of market research from the rabble of Hot Stylez and Auntie Anne's Pretzels. Since I am a breeater (that’s "bread eater"), I claimed the unfortunately named "Cheese Pit," a tiny deli across the street that's owned by Turkish immigrants. It's my kind of place: cheap coffee and sandwiches like your mother would make, if your mother were descended from ghazi fighters and her left eye had rotated ceilingward like a morning glory near a sunny window. Once in a while, I hear shouts of, "fock you!" coming from a back room. Fock you, indeed, my friends. TOP: Cross-county traffic must be a bitch. What kinda wheels are you driving these days? MS: I am inconsequentially pimpin' in my Toyota Corolla sedan. Forest green. But every night, I see the headlights of Westchester County's conformity-enforcement shock troops in my rear view. If I don’t stay alert, they'll force me at gunpoint into a Volvo X60 with William and Mary collegiate stickers on the rear window. The horrors keep me up some nights. TOP: Are they any reverse commuters from the city working in your office and if so, is it possible to describe the misery on their faces? MS: There's one guy who, rumor has it, lives in the East Village. According to legend, he's part mushroom and carries a briefcase made of burlap and knotted sheets. No one knows where his office is, but we know when he's in there because the smell of Fishermen's Friend cough drops pours out of the vents like tear gas. TOP: Honestly, do you think you'll ever return? MS: Once I have served my penance and the black mark of career suicide has been burnished from my heart, I hope to make a triumphant return. Possibly on the back of a fine steed, with an acceptance letter from Vanity Fair in my clammy fist and the head of Graydon Carter on the end of a jeweled staff. More likely in an air-conditioned Metro North car with a G&T in my hand and a trick or two up my seersucker'd sleeve. I'll keep you posted. TOP: Please do. Thanks. Archives "The Other Page" powered by Removable Hype. RSS. Copyright © 2003 La Otra Página, Inc. All nights observed. Feel free to email "info(at)krucoff.com" for questions, comments, stock tips, and family gossip. |
