Taken in the car park of the American ApparelWorld Headquarters, AA employees are far
more religious then I had remembered. I don't
however believe that they will be winning any
spelling bees soon.
About three weeks ago Tory called me and informed me that he had pulled off what I thought to be an impossible task, he had won back for me my coveted slot with American Apparel. I had done a couple fun things during my six month leave but it was no secret that I missed the hustle, the bustle and the off-the-cuff creative flash flood that was an average weekday at the "big, pink factory". It truly was and is an unprecedented corporate experiment; Meryl Lynch on acid, in a tank-thong.
I'm wrapping up my second week. I now share an office at Sequoia with two boys. In the interest of their anonymity I will call my new(and much beloved) office mates Surfer Hulk and Maniac-Face. If you come visit me I will let you break a sweat deliberating which is which.
I remembered a poem, which I wrote merely weeks ago but which has achieved a greater level of obsolescence than the mac mini I use to type this correspondence. If you know me you would know that I believe that obsolescence should never blockade proliferation.
ode to my old job
I used to be a product developer for American Apparel, the greatest fashion label of our generation. A technical designer, really, I fit garments, calculated costing and decided between elastics with the best of them. One day, during a particularly rigorous fitting session, I pricked my middle and index fingers on a straight pin and found that I had technically designed myself out of a job. My factory issue blackberry still in my left hand, nostalgia is often delivered in alternating wafts of sheer jersey and taco truck asada.
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