I Have Nothing to Wear… By Whitney Farmer – Un Pop Culture | @MDWorld

February 29, 2012 Whitney Farmer 8 Comments

Whitney runs a rock music venue on the beach in L.A.. She has an M.B.A, and is due to be subpoenaed on Friday.

Tomorrow I meet with a group of investors who are interested in the club. On a practical level, I will give them an understanding of what’s involved in running a show and how to adjust to being a vampire. On an unspoken level, I am possibly re-interviewing for my job.

The first time I met them, I had just arrived for a ‘broken hip-ster’ show, as Victor the Phoenician calls them, meaning music for an older audience. I had bags of lightbulbs and batteries from the 99cent Store and freshly washed black stage towels for the bands in my arms.  The next time I saw them, I was dressed as the Beat Girl of English Beat’s logo for their show, complete with white mini skirt and a backcombing. Both times I was completely comfortable because I was in my element. And also I was assuming it was a foregone conclusion that I would be replaced if a new team comes in.  My position is visible and has direct contact with the bands, so it’s coveted.  So my posture in meeting them was completely relaxed because I didn’t think I had a snowball’s chance in L.A.. I had that freedom that Janis sang of that comes from having nothin’ left to lose.

But now they want to meet me to discuss business, and they want to meet me during daylight hours.

More than what I will say and what I will do, I have no idea what I will wear.

The last serious business meeting I had was a branding meeting in NYC. Black on black. Chignon. Pearls. Simple. But if I wore that to this meeting at a beach house in O.C., I would provoke an unspoken, ‘What are you, new?’  And in the bright light of day, exactly how not new I am will be evident.  In my closet, I scan through options: Blue velvet, black sequins, strapless floor length tribal rasta-ish, zhongshan suits and cheongsam dresses, band merch cut-to-fit, baggy cuffed dungarees for punk shows, hot pants, 2X security shirts (smallest we have) that I knot up and tie up to make girly, long and black with slits eons before Angelina, neons for 80s nights, sateen for disco nights…

I have nothing to wear.

As in love, job aspirants hope that their true value will shine through despite their imperfections. As in love, it isn’t true this side of heaven. I interviewed a woman once who came in drunk. She told me that she had had a bottle of red wine by herself because she was nervous and wanted to be more herself.  I didn’t hire her. It is possible that she cared more about that job that anyone else in the history of the world. But she wrecked herself and her opportunity as she walked in the door.

Job satisfaction and career choices are luxurious inventions of economically mature cultures. As our economies face increasing constraints, civilized behaviors and courtesies that are only a veneer and aren’t grounded in what is true and strong will be shaken and perhaps uprooted. Like love. To quote Billy Kwan in The Year of Living Dangerously, “This is a soul like a flickering flame that needs care to burn bright. Without it, she can plunge into the hopelessness and promiscuity of the failed romantic.” Like job hunting.

It’s been awhile since I felt any anxiety about a job because I have become better than the past at casting my cares on the water. Being cast off or cast away forces us into situations where more skills are learned through taking more chances than before. Like love.

And maybe it’s good to come under scrutiny occasionally to see if I am someone that someone wants to be with. From this come jobs. And love.

I feel peaceful and okay and – whatever the outcome –  I have been glad for this time and atypical place I have had. I am curious and excited if it goes further into the future, same situation but with new feats of strength required.

But I still have no idea what to wear tomorrow.

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Quote of the Blog, from Björk: “I always wanted to be a farmer. There is a tradition of that in my family.”