Friday morning, as we waited for the Georgia Diversity Council's Most Powerful and Influential Women Breakfast keynote speaker, Ninfa Saunders, to begin, our table talked excitedly about the sessions planned for the day. There was so much good ground to cover and not nearly enough time to cover it.
We began to wonder about the "Fast Track to the Corner Office" session, and its facilitator, who was also sitting at our table, said, "You know, I'm not sure that a 'fast track' to the corner office is a good thing. If you get there too fast, you won't have the experience to do the right job." His suggestion gave me an idea: perhaps successful people take the Goldilocks Track. Perhaps truly successful people don't take the fast track or the slow track.
Perhaps they take the track that's just right. For them.
Fixating on the "fast track" leads to two fundamental fallacies: 1. the faster it happens, the more "successy" success is, and 2. there is just one, probably secret, path that gets you there. The notion of a fast track to success is outdated, chained to the career ladder model of yesterday's business. Titles, skills, careers were focused and sequential. C was obviously far down the straight line from A, and it was a reward for smart, hard work and company loyalty.
But here's the thing: that world has passed. There's no longer (was there ever, really?) just one secret path to success. In fact, dare I say, there isn't one "success." The culture of business has shifted to appreciate individualized paths with scenic detours that lead to discovery, innovation, and an uncharted success destination. In this new culture, Business Administration student double major in Theater. Top students join the Peace Corps before taking their first entry-level jobs. Accountants moonlight as novelists. Lawyers leave their firms to start food carts.
Modern successful individuals give themselves permission to try new experiences and adventures, even if those attempts may end up somewhere they never expected or anticipated, even if they end up in failure. They accept that there
may be many ways to succeed that may make them content and may be the
best use of their passions and skills.
And so they explore and
consider. They try out the hard bed, the cold porridge, and the small chair until they find the path and success that are just. right.
The idea of the Goldilocks Track in our one-size-fits-all society intrigues me, and I'm excited to explore further its possibilities for growth, diversity, and creativity in the modern business world.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
Why We Should Raise the Minimum Wage: A Lesson in Empathy
So, this happened: "Anytime I hear anything about 'the living wage' or 'this is what we need to live,' it says to me that you don't have faith in the American people."
That quotation is my favorite piece of uninformed rhetoric in the CNBC piece about the recent push to raise the minimum wage--for fast food employees in particular. It beautifully demonstrates the blatant disregard for facts and evidence that dominates political discussion of late.
These pundits' assumption is shared by many of their ideology: only kids work minimum wage jobs, and why don't they just make something of themselves if they want to make more money. That's what I did! I mean, this is America! Everyone has the same opportunities. We all attend the same public schools, have access to the same resources. I just tried hard and cared. That's all anyone has to do. It's a fact!
Except, it's not.
Let's take two kids--one wealthier, upper middle-class and one poorer, lower middle-class--who attend the exact same school. In reality, these two kids very different opportunities and resources even though they live in the same community. The poorer kid most likely won't have adequate time to study because she has to work to help feed her family. She may not have access to a car or other "staples" because her family can't afford to provide them. She may fall asleep in class because she had to work until midnight the day before.
The poorer student is statistically more likely to come from a home where abuse is present, which handicaps her mental and emotional abilities. This combined with her schedule means that she is actually less likely to excel alongside the wealthier student and will probably not be in advanced classes. (If she were, she would be an absolute superhero for overcoming her severe circumstances.)
Fast forward to graduation for this young lady: when it comes to competing with the wealthier kid who had ample time for academic achievement and resources for extracurricular activities (clubs, sports, etc.), the poorer kid, who may be just as, if not more, intelligent, will be ill-equipped to compete into for college entry with the kid with the filled-out resume, much less prepared to afford the rising cost of tuition and living that comes with it. This means she's less likely to choose college, even if she has the opportunity to choose it.
Where is the place for this young woman, who has made rational decisions for her circumstances and is now ill positioned in our "capitalist" economy.
And let's take a look at two kids with learning disabilities: one whose parents are wealthy and the other whose parents are not. The wealthy kid's parents have the means to hire tutors or send their child to private schools with smaller class sizes and specially trained teachers. Or if we want to get really honest and dirty about it, make sure the right people are influenced so his disability limits has a disproportionately low influence on his achievement. The poor kid's parents, on the other hand, must rely just on the resources available through the local public school. And they probably still need him to work and help in the ways that our student above does. So our already-disadvantaged student looses ground ground with every day, month, and year to his wealthy, better-resourced counterpart.
Where is the place for this young man who never had access to the resources to overcome his disability so he could compete on a basic level with his peers?
Or here's the one we really don't want to talk about: the poor kid in a poor school district who deals with a deficit of resources at home and at school. This child is more likely to deal with abuse and violence of all kinds inside and outside of the home. She is more likely to not know where her next meal will come from, not to mention how she'll get clothes to wear to school next year. How is she expected to stay in school much less excel and succeed in this inflexible and rigid economic system that only believes certain kinds of jobs should merit a living wage. (Oops. There I go using that term again.)
I haven't even broached mental and emotional illness and how they correlate and perpetuate poverty. Or how the US's education system is internationally notorious due to the great inequality of resources and quality based purely on the wealth (or lack thereof) of the school's community.
Somehow, according to these conservative algorithms that are based entirely on theory, these kids' position are"equal" to any other kid's and they just have to get some gumption and education to get a good paying job of the right kind, right?
But there's no just about it.
Studies upon studies (by people who know things... these people who have earned the higher education that these supposedly worthless people lack) have shown that intelligent children whose abilities aren't nurtured are more likely to be demotivated and apathetic, even when compared with the kid with average or below-average intelligence. And children with learning disabilities and no resources or attention are likely to give up on education altogether. It takes little imagination or work to see how fewer resources early on stunt an individual's intellectual and economic success.
That quotation is my favorite piece of uninformed rhetoric in the CNBC piece about the recent push to raise the minimum wage--for fast food employees in particular. It beautifully demonstrates the blatant disregard for facts and evidence that dominates political discussion of late.
These pundits' assumption is shared by many of their ideology: only kids work minimum wage jobs, and why don't they just make something of themselves if they want to make more money. That's what I did! I mean, this is America! Everyone has the same opportunities. We all attend the same public schools, have access to the same resources. I just tried hard and cared. That's all anyone has to do. It's a fact!
Except, it's not.
Let's take two kids--one wealthier, upper middle-class and one poorer, lower middle-class--who attend the exact same school. In reality, these two kids very different opportunities and resources even though they live in the same community. The poorer kid most likely won't have adequate time to study because she has to work to help feed her family. She may not have access to a car or other "staples" because her family can't afford to provide them. She may fall asleep in class because she had to work until midnight the day before.
The poorer student is statistically more likely to come from a home where abuse is present, which handicaps her mental and emotional abilities. This combined with her schedule means that she is actually less likely to excel alongside the wealthier student and will probably not be in advanced classes. (If she were, she would be an absolute superhero for overcoming her severe circumstances.)
Fast forward to graduation for this young lady: when it comes to competing with the wealthier kid who had ample time for academic achievement and resources for extracurricular activities (clubs, sports, etc.), the poorer kid, who may be just as, if not more, intelligent, will be ill-equipped to compete into for college entry with the kid with the filled-out resume, much less prepared to afford the rising cost of tuition and living that comes with it. This means she's less likely to choose college, even if she has the opportunity to choose it.
Where is the place for this young woman, who has made rational decisions for her circumstances and is now ill positioned in our "capitalist" economy.
And let's take a look at two kids with learning disabilities: one whose parents are wealthy and the other whose parents are not. The wealthy kid's parents have the means to hire tutors or send their child to private schools with smaller class sizes and specially trained teachers. Or if we want to get really honest and dirty about it, make sure the right people are influenced so his disability limits has a disproportionately low influence on his achievement. The poor kid's parents, on the other hand, must rely just on the resources available through the local public school. And they probably still need him to work and help in the ways that our student above does. So our already-disadvantaged student looses ground ground with every day, month, and year to his wealthy, better-resourced counterpart.
Where is the place for this young man who never had access to the resources to overcome his disability so he could compete on a basic level with his peers?
Or here's the one we really don't want to talk about: the poor kid in a poor school district who deals with a deficit of resources at home and at school. This child is more likely to deal with abuse and violence of all kinds inside and outside of the home. She is more likely to not know where her next meal will come from, not to mention how she'll get clothes to wear to school next year. How is she expected to stay in school much less excel and succeed in this inflexible and rigid economic system that only believes certain kinds of jobs should merit a living wage. (Oops. There I go using that term again.)
I haven't even broached mental and emotional illness and how they correlate and perpetuate poverty. Or how the US's education system is internationally notorious due to the great inequality of resources and quality based purely on the wealth (or lack thereof) of the school's community.
Somehow, according to these conservative algorithms that are based entirely on theory, these kids' position are"equal" to any other kid's and they just have to get some gumption and education to get a good paying job of the right kind, right?
But there's no just about it.
Studies upon studies (by people who know things... these people who have earned the higher education that these supposedly worthless people lack) have shown that intelligent children whose abilities aren't nurtured are more likely to be demotivated and apathetic, even when compared with the kid with average or below-average intelligence. And children with learning disabilities and no resources or attention are likely to give up on education altogether. It takes little imagination or work to see how fewer resources early on stunt an individual's intellectual and economic success.
There's plenty of evidence out there that reflect the correlation
between poverty and all of the mitigating factors that limit opportunity and
stagnate economic and educational growth. Here is a recent one to consider: How Money Worries Can Scramble Your Thinking and the study report itself.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Merry Ugly Christmas Sweaters for All and to All a Good Night!
I used to wear puffed-paint sweatshirts as a child. No, let me correct that. I used to make
puffed-paint sweatershirts. I particularly enjoyed wearing them long,
over my favorite lavender, blue, and green flowered leggings. All of
mankind breathed a relieved sigh when I eventually learned decorated
clothing isn’t actually acceptable fashion. But then my husband, Nick,
reintroduced scenic wear one Christmas with a dazzlingly ugly Christmas
sweater ensemble.
And so ugly Christmas sweaters became a part of our life together, and each year, we hunted for just the right ones to don with Yuletide pride. It was in the spirit of this holiday hunt that I contacted Claire, the earnest 50-something mom selling her Christmas sweater collection on CraigsList.
Just $7 each! Want to buy two or more? They’re yours for just $5 a piece!
That’s when I knew. No irony-addicted hipster would part with a Christmas sweater for less than $20. This woman earnestly, honestly, deeply loved her sweaters.
Venturing deep into the suburbs felt like a holiday quest for our Christmas holy grail. Her house sat squarely in a row of identical brick and vinyl two-stories, but inside, it was hardly ordinary.
After we entered her home and made awkward small talk about city mice, country mice, and the hazards of young coupledom, the tiny lady disappeared. While she was gone, we slowly took in the giant exotic plants that lined the walls from the dining room to the living room, cream and mauve wallpaper peaking through their leaves.
She quickly returned, huffing and puffing like she was carrying the toy bag of the jolly man himself. “The sweaters are in these tubs,” she pried open a lid. “And then there are these!” She held up a few prized specimens hung from satin hangers, beaming, and laid them lovingly on the back of a kitchen chair. She clearly adored every single one in the collection of 30 some-odd sweaters that she had tenderly and carefully curated and stored away.
“So just look through them!" "Take your time!" Claire twittered on as the sweaters carried her away. "Don’t you just love this one! I remember when I wore it to a wonderful Christmas party in 1987!”She pulled them out, one by one, describing all they had to offer. There were red ones and green ones, blue ones and white ones. There were black ones with neon patchwork and cream ones with purple Christmas bows. There were winter scenes, glittery snowfall, beaded starshine and giant teddy bears patched in among wrapped gifts and glowing fires.
“Ooh!” “Aah!” “Wow!” I managed just enough interest to encourage her on.
“Just look at the beadwork!” she squealed, holding up an elaborate white sweater with a golden horn wrapped front to back, around the padded shoulders.
I smiled and took the sweater from Claire, admiring it as she had urged. Then I held it up and turned to Nick, who was so afraid of what he might say that he said nothing at all.
“Honey, just look at this beadwork! This sweater is just AMAZING!”
He smiled largely enough to contain his laugh and agreed, but his eyes begged me to just decide already!
After sifting through the huge pile of "maybe" and "almost definitely" sweaters, I chose four, yes four, of my own, parted with $20, and thanked Claire for everything.
“You’re just such nice young people," she smiled. "You know, you can never be too careful with these CraigsList things. Me? I always keep this ready just in case. I’m here all alone, you know.” She pulled a small chrome revolver out from behind a scattered stack of mail.
“You know, one time, this man came to buy some jewelry from me and I wouldn’t even let him in. No sirree, I wouldn’t let him cross the threshold. He was Russian, I think. Up to no good, I’m sure about that much. He was a bad man . . . You kids are just so nice. But you can never be too careful!”
“Wow, that’s amazing!” Nick offered as we backed toward the door. “You really can never be too careful!”
“Thank you so much for everything!” We quickly walked through the garage.
“You have a Merry Christmas!” I locked the car doors and waved goodbye.
We had found our Christmas grail and then we claimed our Christmas miracle, too. Shortly after surviving Claire’s suburban shoot-or-be-shot jungle, Nick took the prize for Best Sweater at the annual Ugly Christmas Sweater party for his finely crafted choice, complete with plaid bows and brass bells in the shape of a Christmas tree.
“And the beadwork!” everyone said, “Oh, just look at the beadwork! It’s AMAZING.”
And so ugly Christmas sweaters became a part of our life together, and each year, we hunted for just the right ones to don with Yuletide pride. It was in the spirit of this holiday hunt that I contacted Claire, the earnest 50-something mom selling her Christmas sweater collection on CraigsList.
Just $7 each! Want to buy two or more? They’re yours for just $5 a piece!
That’s when I knew. No irony-addicted hipster would part with a Christmas sweater for less than $20. This woman earnestly, honestly, deeply loved her sweaters.
Venturing deep into the suburbs felt like a holiday quest for our Christmas holy grail. Her house sat squarely in a row of identical brick and vinyl two-stories, but inside, it was hardly ordinary.
After we entered her home and made awkward small talk about city mice, country mice, and the hazards of young coupledom, the tiny lady disappeared. While she was gone, we slowly took in the giant exotic plants that lined the walls from the dining room to the living room, cream and mauve wallpaper peaking through their leaves.
She quickly returned, huffing and puffing like she was carrying the toy bag of the jolly man himself. “The sweaters are in these tubs,” she pried open a lid. “And then there are these!” She held up a few prized specimens hung from satin hangers, beaming, and laid them lovingly on the back of a kitchen chair. She clearly adored every single one in the collection of 30 some-odd sweaters that she had tenderly and carefully curated and stored away.
“So just look through them!" "Take your time!" Claire twittered on as the sweaters carried her away. "Don’t you just love this one! I remember when I wore it to a wonderful Christmas party in 1987!”She pulled them out, one by one, describing all they had to offer. There were red ones and green ones, blue ones and white ones. There were black ones with neon patchwork and cream ones with purple Christmas bows. There were winter scenes, glittery snowfall, beaded starshine and giant teddy bears patched in among wrapped gifts and glowing fires.
“Ooh!” “Aah!” “Wow!” I managed just enough interest to encourage her on.
“Just look at the beadwork!” she squealed, holding up an elaborate white sweater with a golden horn wrapped front to back, around the padded shoulders.
I smiled and took the sweater from Claire, admiring it as she had urged. Then I held it up and turned to Nick, who was so afraid of what he might say that he said nothing at all.
“Honey, just look at this beadwork! This sweater is just AMAZING!”
He smiled largely enough to contain his laugh and agreed, but his eyes begged me to just decide already!
After sifting through the huge pile of "maybe" and "almost definitely" sweaters, I chose four, yes four, of my own, parted with $20, and thanked Claire for everything.
“You’re just such nice young people," she smiled. "You know, you can never be too careful with these CraigsList things. Me? I always keep this ready just in case. I’m here all alone, you know.” She pulled a small chrome revolver out from behind a scattered stack of mail.
“You know, one time, this man came to buy some jewelry from me and I wouldn’t even let him in. No sirree, I wouldn’t let him cross the threshold. He was Russian, I think. Up to no good, I’m sure about that much. He was a bad man . . . You kids are just so nice. But you can never be too careful!”
“Wow, that’s amazing!” Nick offered as we backed toward the door. “You really can never be too careful!”
“Thank you so much for everything!” We quickly walked through the garage.
“You have a Merry Christmas!” I locked the car doors and waved goodbye.
We had found our Christmas grail and then we claimed our Christmas miracle, too. Shortly after surviving Claire’s suburban shoot-or-be-shot jungle, Nick took the prize for Best Sweater at the annual Ugly Christmas Sweater party for his finely crafted choice, complete with plaid bows and brass bells in the shape of a Christmas tree.
“And the beadwork!” everyone said, “Oh, just look at the beadwork! It’s AMAZING.”
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
A Case for Adoption
Some people adopt children. Some adopt cats. Some adopt dogs.
I aspire to adopt houses.
Just think of poor, abandoned mid-century modern beauties with their textured fireplaces, paneled ceilings, and windowed walls! I want to scoop these bedraggled homes up and grant them a second life.
I would be such a proud mother.
Abandoned Mid-Century Modern Homes on Lushpad.
I aspire to adopt houses.
Just think of poor, abandoned mid-century modern beauties with their textured fireplaces, paneled ceilings, and windowed walls! I want to scoop these bedraggled homes up and grant them a second life.
I would be such a proud mother.
Abandoned Mid-Century Modern Homes on Lushpad.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
An Epiphany for Democracy
Freedom is a peculiar thing. We claim to value it. We claim it as a virtue, one uniquely or particularly American. But those who are truly free, truly without encumbrances and truly committed to being and doing precisely as they are convinced they ought are pariahs in our society.
So we also believe in containment, fences, boundaries, demarcations, and after all, lines in the sand. We want to know for certain that you are or are not one of us. We want to hold you and our moral and ethical definitions up to the light in search of a match.
The phrase "Don't tread on me," and its kin, is not about freedom in any sort of real sense. Don't tread on me, but do tread on someone else, preferably the person whom I disrespect and devalue. Don't tell me what to do; I've got this. But him, he's doing it differently, wrong. So make him stop and help him see the (my) light.
And democracy? We only believe in it, it seems, if the vote goes our way. Otherwise, it's a sham, a fraud, a conspiracy. We believe that WE are educated and informed voters, but everyone else? They're dupes, deceived, evil, self-interested, greedy, and foolish. And if we're honest, we wish they would, or could, just never vote at all.
This past Tuesday, as I stood in line to cast my vote, I struggled with these fears and prejudices. At first, I looked around at my fellow citizens with suspicion and willed those who disagreed with me to grow impatient with the long line and go home. But then something strange happened. For the first time in the 12 years since I've been a voter, I looked around at people completing their information sheets, casting their ballots, and leaving with the "I'm a Georgia Voter" sticker boldly affixed to their lapels, and I was overwhelmed.
I stood among men and women who cared enough to take an hour out of their day to be a citizen. I was grateful that my one vote counted exactly as much as their one vote counted. After all of the gesturing and opining, the strong arming and chest puffing that marks election season, it comes down to this: you and I, doing our duty and doing our best to make the right decision for ourselves, our families, our communities, and our country. This past Tuesday, I finally saw how democracy not only protects equality but is also, in the end, a great equalizer. I was so proud.
So often in this country, we are defined by our lowest points and our most selfish drives. We're no more than our craving for prestige, power, and wealth. And so often, these definitions are fair. But on (or before) November 6, we were the greatest version of ourselves, no matter what guy we voted for. The polling place was by far the most prestigious and powerful place to be.
So we also believe in containment, fences, boundaries, demarcations, and after all, lines in the sand. We want to know for certain that you are or are not one of us. We want to hold you and our moral and ethical definitions up to the light in search of a match.
The phrase "Don't tread on me," and its kin, is not about freedom in any sort of real sense. Don't tread on me, but do tread on someone else, preferably the person whom I disrespect and devalue. Don't tell me what to do; I've got this. But him, he's doing it differently, wrong. So make him stop and help him see the (my) light.
And democracy? We only believe in it, it seems, if the vote goes our way. Otherwise, it's a sham, a fraud, a conspiracy. We believe that WE are educated and informed voters, but everyone else? They're dupes, deceived, evil, self-interested, greedy, and foolish. And if we're honest, we wish they would, or could, just never vote at all.
This past Tuesday, as I stood in line to cast my vote, I struggled with these fears and prejudices. At first, I looked around at my fellow citizens with suspicion and willed those who disagreed with me to grow impatient with the long line and go home. But then something strange happened. For the first time in the 12 years since I've been a voter, I looked around at people completing their information sheets, casting their ballots, and leaving with the "I'm a Georgia Voter" sticker boldly affixed to their lapels, and I was overwhelmed.
I stood among men and women who cared enough to take an hour out of their day to be a citizen. I was grateful that my one vote counted exactly as much as their one vote counted. After all of the gesturing and opining, the strong arming and chest puffing that marks election season, it comes down to this: you and I, doing our duty and doing our best to make the right decision for ourselves, our families, our communities, and our country. This past Tuesday, I finally saw how democracy not only protects equality but is also, in the end, a great equalizer. I was so proud.
So often in this country, we are defined by our lowest points and our most selfish drives. We're no more than our craving for prestige, power, and wealth. And so often, these definitions are fair. But on (or before) November 6, we were the greatest version of ourselves, no matter what guy we voted for. The polling place was by far the most prestigious and powerful place to be.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Terminal West aka The Bait Shop
My suspicion is that I'm dating myself when I make a "The O.C." reference.
I'm dating myself as much as when, say, I compared a client to Jimmy Stewart and my 18-year-old intern stared at me blankly before asking, "Who's that?"
But still, kids these days probably don't know the prime time melodrama that sought to define the much-coveted, over-privileged existence of Newport Beach teen-somethings. And this is why I felt particularly old when I first walked into Terminal West, a new-comer venue in the trendy King Plow Arts Center on the west side of Atlanta. The soaring ceiling with exposed beams, the recovered wood bars, and most of all, the small balcony gave me a rush of teen angst and confusion. I immediately began searching the room for the jealous make-out sessions and the alcoholic, drug-addicted rich girl.
In true O.C. fashion, Terminal West has become something of a hang out for us recently. We've seen three shows there in the past few weeks, and we've quickly made our home the front row of the balcony. For one recent concert, I sat on the floor during the headliner (I was there to see the opener, after all) and just made myself at home. It was a great time; if only Seth Cohen had made an impromptu appearance, the night would've been perfect.
Terminal West seems to be one of the few venues in Atlanta where the artists truly determine the crowd. No matter the show, more legendary spots like The Tabernacle and The Fox Theatre, which are overrun by corporate sponsors and branding, attract season-ticket holders or middle-aged and pre-teen suburbanites uncertain of how to be cool. The Masquerade holds court for the teenaged rebellious set, and The Earl, of course, is a haven for "hipsters," or as my husband likes to say, "those trendy people who can't be named."
But Terminal West, for the time being, is a blank slate for those who are truly fans of the artist playing. Take, for instance, the wonderful Damien Jurado set we caught the other evening. The crowd was so enraptured and quiet during his solo acoustic set that the bartender was vigorously shushed when he tried to make a shaken martini. Only a few nights later, at the always-entertaining Features show, the crowd was a bit less low-key, chatting, dancing, and singing along.
I'm excited about our new hang out with fancy train pictures and largest cans of Miller High Life I've ever seen. As long as it continues to get great artists, I'm excited to make Terminal West my Bait Shop. Here's hoping it's not my foray into a teen life only possible on a Newport Beach pier.
I'm dating myself as much as when, say, I compared a client to Jimmy Stewart and my 18-year-old intern stared at me blankly before asking, "Who's that?"
But still, kids these days probably don't know the prime time melodrama that sought to define the much-coveted, over-privileged existence of Newport Beach teen-somethings. And this is why I felt particularly old when I first walked into Terminal West, a new-comer venue in the trendy King Plow Arts Center on the west side of Atlanta. The soaring ceiling with exposed beams, the recovered wood bars, and most of all, the small balcony gave me a rush of teen angst and confusion. I immediately began searching the room for the jealous make-out sessions and the alcoholic, drug-addicted rich girl.
In true O.C. fashion, Terminal West has become something of a hang out for us recently. We've seen three shows there in the past few weeks, and we've quickly made our home the front row of the balcony. For one recent concert, I sat on the floor during the headliner (I was there to see the opener, after all) and just made myself at home. It was a great time; if only Seth Cohen had made an impromptu appearance, the night would've been perfect.
Terminal West seems to be one of the few venues in Atlanta where the artists truly determine the crowd. No matter the show, more legendary spots like The Tabernacle and The Fox Theatre, which are overrun by corporate sponsors and branding, attract season-ticket holders or middle-aged and pre-teen suburbanites uncertain of how to be cool. The Masquerade holds court for the teenaged rebellious set, and The Earl, of course, is a haven for "hipsters," or as my husband likes to say, "those trendy people who can't be named."
But Terminal West, for the time being, is a blank slate for those who are truly fans of the artist playing. Take, for instance, the wonderful Damien Jurado set we caught the other evening. The crowd was so enraptured and quiet during his solo acoustic set that the bartender was vigorously shushed when he tried to make a shaken martini. Only a few nights later, at the always-entertaining Features show, the crowd was a bit less low-key, chatting, dancing, and singing along.
I'm excited about our new hang out with fancy train pictures and largest cans of Miller High Life I've ever seen. As long as it continues to get great artists, I'm excited to make Terminal West my Bait Shop. Here's hoping it's not my foray into a teen life only possible on a Newport Beach pier.
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