While I was enjoying Thanksgiving in Colonial Williamsburg, surrounded by families i
n my own demographic and quickly becoming accustom to the lifestyle to which I use to be accustom, there was a fight at school. And I missed it! I still don't have the whole story, but it had something to do with a roller set. And the thing of it is, the fight was between two of the women I really like and have thought of as
sort of in the same clique. Turns out the white girl is C-R-A-Z-Y. I had no idea. I should have known something was up with her when I learned she went to one of the prestigious Catholic girls' schools here in town, graduated in May and is now going to this beauty school (instead of OSU or Xavier or for heaven's sake the Aveda school in Hyde Park!). The other one was my most respected, Miss Monique -- whom I think of as freakin' mother of the year, most amazing, strong, brilliant, funny and totally-has-her-shit-together 36-year-old mother of two college students and two (extremely successful) teenagers. Girl, that female has her head on straighter than anyone I know; straighter than I do. (Ha!) I can not believe she got into it with that crazy 18 year old. What. Ev. Er.
Almost every day I wish the beginning of class were like a focus group where we'd have the participants introduce themselves "tell who you live with, if you have kids, what you do for a job, etc." But we don't, so I have to glean all this information over time. But I digress... I'm suppose to be talking about fights.
I only remember two fights in advertising. Once, at a shoot in Vancouver between a Director and an Art Director.... Screaming at each other over a child's wardrobe. The client and I ran from video village to see what was the matter. When we saw what was going on, we looked at each other and he said "let's get out of here." "Good idea" I replied. The Gulf War broke out a few hours later and then we were all focused on how we'd get home. (Fly to Toronto and drive down to NY.) The second fight was between myself and an ACD. I don't remember what it was about; but there was a lot of yelling -- in a hallway. And it must have been bad because everyone shut their doors and then later people sneaked into my office, closed my door and wanted to "talk." I remember this ACD and I didn't talk for a long, long time (although we have been very close). Weeks went by (but maybe it was really more like four days, or maybe two); then the big black out of 2003 happened. 777 Third Avenue was being evacuated. We literally ran into each other in the fire escape stairwell on the 22nd floor -- hugged, cried and then walked to Chelsea to find an open bar.