The Dull World of the Glossies

Most people who move to New York City hoping for a fulfilling job in media, or any other even semi-creative industry for that matter, wise up within their first couple of years here, when they discover that winning?i.e., being on the big glossies' lists of writers they "can count on" to crank out lobotomized features filled with the easy-to-process cliches that pass for wit?is in fact losing. As a well-known hack pal told me, "Tanya, if it wasn't for House & Garden, I wouldn't have made it through the 80s."

So every year, like daytripping migrant workers who cross the border in trunks looking for work in El Paso, or like the Vegas showgirls who smile into the lights against their better judgment and tell themselves that someday they'll be on the marquee, they come. They come as I did, shooting for a writing gig more "creative" than the one most of the glossies or dot-coms offer. Many end up leaving, as fresher pieces of meat from the liberal arts colleges take their places. Those who remain do so for the gift bags or the shitty martinis.

Speaking of shitty martinis, these days not even the words "open bar" on an invite can lure me into the city that often, where most of the finance types are living and drinking. There's only one thing more depressing than what's happening to Manhattan, and that's the state of woman-oriented media in this country. And so it was with a heavy heart that I opened the door to the bar, Hell's Kitchen.

I was greeted by the troll of a temp they'd hired to check the guest list, and told to make sure to leave my e-mail address next to my signature, at which point I wrote down the pornographically tasteless address of a young male (natch) Libertarian of my acquaintance. After procuring a drink I spoke with a rather jolly blonde in marketing or advertising or some such at Working Woman, who told me the purpose of this soiree was to create a distinctly female vibe in which women could network. Judging by the roar of chatter in the room, they must have been successful. I can say that my margarita sure tasted like pussy. For the first time since I was 21, when a boyfriend tried forcing me to drink a beer I'd left out half-full the night before, I walked away from an unfinished drink. Thus cruelly thwarted, I downshifted to my back-up plan: reporting.

And I'm glad I did, because otherwise I would never have met the two delightful Oxygen employees who eyeballed me when I approached like I was breaking caste and sitting down at the wrong lunch table at Brearley. However, when I identified myself as a member of the press, they wasted no time.

"I never thought I'd be this happy and fulfilled," one of them, who will remain nameless, assured me. "There's such a wide variety of things on Oxygen, that there's something for every woman. And as far as a working environment, it's so free and so creative. It's just amazing."

The Olsen Twins, combined with what I'd slurped of that margarita, were making me a little queasy, so I moved toward one of the couches lining the walls just as the CEO of WorkingWomanNetwork Inc. was beginning her speech. I tuned in when she mentioned that she hadn't been totally fulfilled as a glossy magazine executive editor back in the 80s.

"Then," she continued in a more solemn tone, "I kept hearing about a woman named Jane Pratt..." Etc. Just when the margaritas were looking good again, I caught the eye of a "20 Under 30" winner across the room. I asked what she thought of women's media, and ended up having my first decent conversation of the evening.

"Well, I don't really read women's? whatever it was you called it," she began, after looking around the room nervously and making me promise not to use her real name. "I mean, I have Oxygen and iVillage delivered to my inbox every day, because I feel I should. But you know, I don't even open them before I delete them. I've never read anything smart or thought-provoking when I did open them. The tone is a little too?self-helpish. I mean, who knows who's writing these things. They're just out of college, and it's probably their first job."

I was headed for the door, feeling a little better about things, when I was attacked by a publicist?the glossy journalist's silent partner. She tossed her 'do in my direction and introduced me to Jayne Wallace, a p.r. vice president, and I had my second worthwhile encounter of the evening.

"I'm partial to the business slant," she told me, referring to the Working Woman creed. "I have a 17-year-old daughter at home who reads Teen and Cosmo Girl, and I feel like in 40 years we haven't made any progress. It's still all about fashion, beauty and romance."

On my way out Jayne handed me a gift bag. A tip for gift-bag whores: The best gift bag going is from Lenny Kravitz parties. (I know what you're thinking?a great gift bag is not rock 'n' roll. Neither is Lenny.) Jayne's bag was minimalist, which I appreciated. Just a Working Woman coffee mug and a couple copies of the magazine, both of which I can use.

Later, riding the train, I reflected on a recent conversation I'd had with a friend, about her idea to move back to her hometown to try to reopen a now-moribund but once-famous alternative school there. In a way, I've succeeded here. I've beaten the odds. Normally I only work part-time, and then mostly for a publication I respect. I have time to work on a book. I live in Brooklyn, not so much for its relatively cheap rents but because, "sweet young thing ain't so sweet no more." Recently my landlord had the balls?and this while he sat in my paint-peeling kitchen with its Third World plumbing, listening to the mice stampede inside the walls?to inform me that I "had a real steal."

The sad thing is, he's right. And that's why fewer and fewer of those kids moving here hoping to be the exception will stay, and why it's possible that soon none will come at all, barring all those with parents who can pay for them to live in studios in the East Village. But my late stepfather snorted away my rather hefty inheritance, so I'm a little nervous about growing old in a city where barely scraping by as someone who writes blurbs in Elle represents "success."

And so I thought more and more about my friend, who could easily have put herself in the sort of situation that would have led to her being honored at Hell's Kitchen that night, but was ready to "chuck it all in," as a magazine writer might say. She could use my help, and I told her it sounded like a great idea.

"Why didn't you tell me about it before?" I'd asked her.

"I did! I told you about it two years ago when we moved to New York. You must not have been listening."

"I'm listening now," I answered.