Kind of a dramatic title, I know. But I spent the last 48 hours with 11,000 emo kids, and dramatic is exactly what that is.
To put it in the words of my boss at the Immortal tent yesterday, in 107degree heat with the sweat pouring down my back:
"What's a girl like you, on her way to a degree from Emory University, doing working at a record label? And more importantly, why do you want to be a merch girl?"
Details later when I have rehydrated, slept, and washed. Probably not in that order.
Live from the pit,
Your favorite merch girl.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Perfect Fan...
"It sucks to grow up..."
~Ben Folds
This is why I love my parents:
Blair, in France in April, approximately midnight Greenwich Mean Time: "Oh my gosh, you'll never believe what happened tonight! I met the bassist from Jimmy Eat World! The concert was soooo amazing!"
Mom: "Oh, good, you've found yourself a new man... you're coming back to the US to have my grandchildren, but their last name is going to be Eatworld..."
or this:
My dad: "Hey, do you think you could send me some Incubus CDs to give away with our anti-drug campaign?"
Blair, from a bus somewhere in Santa Monica: "Umm... I could, but in all their interviews they credit marijuana with giving them the creativity they need to write songs, so they may not be the best bet. Also they have a song called Psychopsilocybin."
or this:
From an email I got last week:
"MIKE EINZIGER's birthday is today! He's turning 31! In case you didn't know, he's in Incubus... Love from your mother."
or this:
My mom, after seeing a picture of one of the bands I work for: "Oh, he would be ok for a son-in-law if you erased those pictures on his arms, cut off that hair, wiped off that makeup and got those things out of his ears."
or this:
My dad, on the phone, after my insistence (insistance?) that he wouldn't like the bands I promote: "I like emo."
To put it in the words of the immortal DJ Jazzy Jeff,
Parents just don't understand,
The Fresh Princ(ess) Buh-lair
~Ben Folds
This is why I love my parents:
Blair, in France in April, approximately midnight Greenwich Mean Time: "Oh my gosh, you'll never believe what happened tonight! I met the bassist from Jimmy Eat World! The concert was soooo amazing!"
Mom: "Oh, good, you've found yourself a new man... you're coming back to the US to have my grandchildren, but their last name is going to be Eatworld..."
or this:
My dad: "Hey, do you think you could send me some Incubus CDs to give away with our anti-drug campaign?"
Blair, from a bus somewhere in Santa Monica: "Umm... I could, but in all their interviews they credit marijuana with giving them the creativity they need to write songs, so they may not be the best bet. Also they have a song called Psychopsilocybin."
or this:
From an email I got last week:
"MIKE EINZIGER's birthday is today! He's turning 31! In case you didn't know, he's in Incubus... Love from your mother."
or this:
My mom, after seeing a picture of one of the bands I work for: "Oh, he would be ok for a son-in-law if you erased those pictures on his arms, cut off that hair, wiped off that makeup and got those things out of his ears."
or this:
My dad, on the phone, after my insistence (insistance?) that he wouldn't like the bands I promote: "I like emo."
To put it in the words of the immortal DJ Jazzy Jeff,
Parents just don't understand,
The Fresh Princ(ess) Buh-lair
Monday, June 25, 2007
Every summer has one of those days...
"Hollywood hills and suburban thrills...
~The Academy Is...
The most important thing I left out of last night's concert review was that The Academy Is... has been singing the soundtrack of my life since I discovered them almost two years ago. I love their music, but more importantly, it seems every phase of my life for the past two years can be summed up to the tune of one of their songs... Attention, The Phrase That Pays, Slow Down, Checkmarks, We've Got A Real Big Mess On Our Hands...
Anyway, every summer has one of those days... my first college summer it was the day of the maelstrom and pool party in Wildwood, New Jersey; probably the most underappreciated I had ever felt in my life. Last summer it was the day I broke the Slush Puppie machine and then tried to mop up the mess with a mop coated in floor wax. This summer it was... today.
I walked into work this morning feeling extra-glam. I was channeling retro Bon Jovi videos, with my hair in my eyes,oversize sunglasses, vintage-looking band tee, homemade cut off jean skirt with leggings underneath, and Chuck Taylors. I feel, in outfits like that, like I belong at a record label...
But I walked in this morning, and immediately all hell broke loose.
BLAIR! My real boss said, "make a street team for Adema!"
BLAIR! My unofficial boss (who I generally take direction from) said, "Find out where I can buy 400 sheets of gloss text 80lb. paper!"
BLAIR! The head of the label (who never bothers messing with the intern) said, "Price out 300 standard shot glasses with a band logo, then find out how much 300 cans of Red Bull would be to go with it.
BLAIR! The OWNER of the label (of whom I am terrified) said, "I need ten vintage metal lunchboxes by tomorrow morning. And I needed to find out where to buy them an hour ago."
Immediately the lunchboxes went to the top of the pile, even though he was the last to ask. As I am on the phone with every toy, school supply, and general merchandise store in Southern California, those same people walked past my desk again...
"Have you finished the street team?"
"Can you fill these merchandise orders?"
"The receptionist is going to lunch, cover phones for a minute."
"Did you get back to that journalist about the Hot Rod Circuit promotion?"
So I kept calling for the lunchboxes, knowing that project would never be satisfactory, forgot to fill in account numbers on the orders I sent out, never finished making a street team, found all the information I could for 300 custom made shot glasses to be delivered by Friday, and got in touch with the wholesale distributor of Red Bull.
I was thanked by the label head, who insists on calling me Sexy Lips after hearing last week's story of being hit on by Adema's lead singer.
I was consoled by my unofficial boss, who understood the getting distracted by the label owner's whims.
I was shot down by the label owner, the pictures I had printed shoved back into my hand and told they were useless, despite the fact that I stayed an hour after I was scheduled to in order to finish the lunchbox project.
And then I was scolded by the woman who was supposed to be doing the lunchbox project, told that I hadn't done a good enough job.
I, for the record, called every "toy" listed in the greater Los Angeles phone book, most of whom are NAMED Toy and thus don't speak good English-- I was hung up on more times this afternoon than ever before in my life. I spent an hour and a half making calls, another hour checking things online.
I can live with the thanklessness... I just wish they would at least realize I am not JUST an intern. My boss gets it, the guys I usually work with don't treat me like just another intern... but to the label owner and the management woman-- I'm just "take-a-tern," the latest in free help technology.
Fine, I realize that's really all an intern ever is. But it makes me an awful lot more grateful for my favorite pretend boss, the one that teaches me to read sales sheets, use distribution networks, publicize bands, and all around be cool.
Hold your head high,
B
~The Academy Is...
The most important thing I left out of last night's concert review was that The Academy Is... has been singing the soundtrack of my life since I discovered them almost two years ago. I love their music, but more importantly, it seems every phase of my life for the past two years can be summed up to the tune of one of their songs... Attention, The Phrase That Pays, Slow Down, Checkmarks, We've Got A Real Big Mess On Our Hands...
Anyway, every summer has one of those days... my first college summer it was the day of the maelstrom and pool party in Wildwood, New Jersey; probably the most underappreciated I had ever felt in my life. Last summer it was the day I broke the Slush Puppie machine and then tried to mop up the mess with a mop coated in floor wax. This summer it was... today.
I walked into work this morning feeling extra-glam. I was channeling retro Bon Jovi videos, with my hair in my eyes,oversize sunglasses, vintage-looking band tee, homemade cut off jean skirt with leggings underneath, and Chuck Taylors. I feel, in outfits like that, like I belong at a record label...
But I walked in this morning, and immediately all hell broke loose.
BLAIR! My real boss said, "make a street team for Adema!"
BLAIR! My unofficial boss (who I generally take direction from) said, "Find out where I can buy 400 sheets of gloss text 80lb. paper!"
BLAIR! The head of the label (who never bothers messing with the intern) said, "Price out 300 standard shot glasses with a band logo, then find out how much 300 cans of Red Bull would be to go with it.
BLAIR! The OWNER of the label (of whom I am terrified) said, "I need ten vintage metal lunchboxes by tomorrow morning. And I needed to find out where to buy them an hour ago."
Immediately the lunchboxes went to the top of the pile, even though he was the last to ask. As I am on the phone with every toy, school supply, and general merchandise store in Southern California, those same people walked past my desk again...
"Have you finished the street team?"
"Can you fill these merchandise orders?"
"The receptionist is going to lunch, cover phones for a minute."
"Did you get back to that journalist about the Hot Rod Circuit promotion?"
So I kept calling for the lunchboxes, knowing that project would never be satisfactory, forgot to fill in account numbers on the orders I sent out, never finished making a street team, found all the information I could for 300 custom made shot glasses to be delivered by Friday, and got in touch with the wholesale distributor of Red Bull.
I was thanked by the label head, who insists on calling me Sexy Lips after hearing last week's story of being hit on by Adema's lead singer.
I was consoled by my unofficial boss, who understood the getting distracted by the label owner's whims.
I was shot down by the label owner, the pictures I had printed shoved back into my hand and told they were useless, despite the fact that I stayed an hour after I was scheduled to in order to finish the lunchbox project.
And then I was scolded by the woman who was supposed to be doing the lunchbox project, told that I hadn't done a good enough job.
I, for the record, called every "toy" listed in the greater Los Angeles phone book, most of whom are NAMED Toy and thus don't speak good English-- I was hung up on more times this afternoon than ever before in my life. I spent an hour and a half making calls, another hour checking things online.
I can live with the thanklessness... I just wish they would at least realize I am not JUST an intern. My boss gets it, the guys I usually work with don't treat me like just another intern... but to the label owner and the management woman-- I'm just "take-a-tern," the latest in free help technology.
Fine, I realize that's really all an intern ever is. But it makes me an awful lot more grateful for my favorite pretend boss, the one that teaches me to read sales sheets, use distribution networks, publicize bands, and all around be cool.
Hold your head high,
B
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Hi, My Name Is Blair...
...And I’m a music snob.
"Drop a heart, break a name..."
~Fall Out Boy
Last night was the Honda Civic Tour at the LA Forum, which is not in Los Angeles at all, but in Inglewood, which is only approximately half a step above Compton.
I went by myself, kind of at the last minute, but I still managed to end up with a second row ticket directly next to the stage, which means I didn’t get a full-on view, but I had the best view of anyone there except those kids in the pit getting smashed. Cobra Starship opened, and though I tend to disapprove of any emo/rock bands with girls in them, they rocked. Not only do they have their own hand gesture ("Get your fangs up!"), but the girl in the band plays the keytar. All the time. And the lead singer, though not gorgeous, was the most fun performer I have seen since Motion City Soundtrack.
Following them was Paul Wall– I purposely waited to go check out the merch table until he hit the stage. I mean, first of all, he’s a rapper. (Note to Paul Wall’s record label: there is nothing an emo kid hates more than a rapper, except perhaps a carnivore.) And more importantly, he’s a no-good rapper. Not to mention the fact that rap went out when tight pants came in. Enough said.
And then The Academy Is... hit the stage, which is really the reason I was there. I saw them live a couple years ago, and they were amazing, but even now that they are more famous, they are still amazing in concert. I think the lead, William Beckett, has gained weight since the last time I saw them (which is good– I think I could have broken him in half with one hand last time I saw them). Their new album came out two months ago, and they’re not headlining for it, which is pretty awesome. Not to mention the fact that the lead singer is probably going to be the next candidate for a Blair haircut AND he sang all the instrumental parts from the album, which pretty much kicked.
The lead singer is the one in the middle. I couldn't find a decent shot that would fully define his skinniness, but look at those legs in the middle... It's kind of unfair.
+44 came out after that... not because they are any good, but because when any band is composed of exactly two thirds of Blink-182, you let them do whatever they want. When Blink broke up, the lead singer/bassist and drummer stayed together, found two more guys, and became +44. They kept the immaturity of Blink-182, and apparently some of the music rights, since they performed my all time favorite Blink song, Girl At the Rock Show. The mature, less prone to playing music in nothing but a tube sock remainder of Blink (Angels and Airwaves’ Tom DeLonge) moved more away from their roots, which is awesome, and the reason why Angels and Airwaves has always been my preferred piece of Blink. But nevertheless, +44 put on a good set– I know I have never seen a drummer as amazing or as entertaining as Travis Barker... he came out with a mohawk and jeans and nothing else, covered in tattoos from the waist up. As soon as he played the opening solo for the opening song, the mohawk was limp from the headbanging. I noticed a woman in the wings of the stage, carrying a sleeping baby girl in a white dress with HUGE headphones on– the kind that block out all noise. The woman stayed there with the baby for the whole set, and I knew it must belong to one of the guys in the band, but I didn’t know who until they left the stage, Travis climbed down from the drum riser, walked past the woman, and took the baby from her arms. (All of which makes sense since the whole band is from LA. Of COURSE their families were there.) But then I started thinking about it– I mean, honestly, how crazy for that little girl... can you imagine growing up with a dad covered with tattoos (and a mohawk) known for having played on top of the Radio City Music Hall marquee naked?
"Drop a heart, break a name..."
~Fall Out Boy
Last night was the Honda Civic Tour at the LA Forum, which is not in Los Angeles at all, but in Inglewood, which is only approximately half a step above Compton.
I went by myself, kind of at the last minute, but I still managed to end up with a second row ticket directly next to the stage, which means I didn’t get a full-on view, but I had the best view of anyone there except those kids in the pit getting smashed. Cobra Starship opened, and though I tend to disapprove of any emo/rock bands with girls in them, they rocked. Not only do they have their own hand gesture ("Get your fangs up!"), but the girl in the band plays the keytar. All the time. And the lead singer, though not gorgeous, was the most fun performer I have seen since Motion City Soundtrack.
Following them was Paul Wall– I purposely waited to go check out the merch table until he hit the stage. I mean, first of all, he’s a rapper. (Note to Paul Wall’s record label: there is nothing an emo kid hates more than a rapper, except perhaps a carnivore.) And more importantly, he’s a no-good rapper. Not to mention the fact that rap went out when tight pants came in. Enough said.
And then The Academy Is... hit the stage, which is really the reason I was there. I saw them live a couple years ago, and they were amazing, but even now that they are more famous, they are still amazing in concert. I think the lead, William Beckett, has gained weight since the last time I saw them (which is good– I think I could have broken him in half with one hand last time I saw them). Their new album came out two months ago, and they’re not headlining for it, which is pretty awesome. Not to mention the fact that the lead singer is probably going to be the next candidate for a Blair haircut AND he sang all the instrumental parts from the album, which pretty much kicked.
The lead singer is the one in the middle. I couldn't find a decent shot that would fully define his skinniness, but look at those legs in the middle... It's kind of unfair.+44 came out after that... not because they are any good, but because when any band is composed of exactly two thirds of Blink-182, you let them do whatever they want. When Blink broke up, the lead singer/bassist and drummer stayed together, found two more guys, and became +44. They kept the immaturity of Blink-182, and apparently some of the music rights, since they performed my all time favorite Blink song, Girl At the Rock Show. The mature, less prone to playing music in nothing but a tube sock remainder of Blink (Angels and Airwaves’ Tom DeLonge) moved more away from their roots, which is awesome, and the reason why Angels and Airwaves has always been my preferred piece of Blink. But nevertheless, +44 put on a good set– I know I have never seen a drummer as amazing or as entertaining as Travis Barker... he came out with a mohawk and jeans and nothing else, covered in tattoos from the waist up. As soon as he played the opening solo for the opening song, the mohawk was limp from the headbanging. I noticed a woman in the wings of the stage, carrying a sleeping baby girl in a white dress with HUGE headphones on– the kind that block out all noise. The woman stayed there with the baby for the whole set, and I knew it must belong to one of the guys in the band, but I didn’t know who until they left the stage, Travis climbed down from the drum riser, walked past the woman, and took the baby from her arms. (All of which makes sense since the whole band is from LA. Of COURSE their families were there.) But then I started thinking about it– I mean, honestly, how crazy for that little girl... can you imagine growing up with a dad covered with tattoos (and a mohawk) known for having played on top of the Radio City Music Hall marquee naked?
But it was clear he loved the baby, so I've gotta hand it to him. Plus his clothing line is amazing.
Fall Out Boy was the headlining act, and even though I had seen them before (in Atlanta a year and a half ago), they were still amazing. The dynamic between Pete Wentz (the bassist but not the singer) and the rest of the band is odd– he writes the songs, but just because he happens to be the most attractive one in the band, he is always the one that Mcs between songs, and the one everyone loves to love (or loves to hate, depending on your level of emo-ness). Anyway, this was the first set I had seen involving a change of clothes since the last time I saw the Backstreet Boys, which may or may not have been on their last major tour...
A little too much pyrotechnic activity, but they played all the good songs (and some of the bad ones– WHY does ANYONE like "Where Is Your Boy Tonight?" I’ll tell you where your boy is: he’s hiding in the green room until you finish this song). Plus, I would give anything for a shiny black bass with a red bat on it.
All in all, the show was amazing... despite the fact that the cab ride I took home from it cost me as much as another ticket (thanks, Dodgers game that got out the same time as Fall Out Boy concert. Thanks).
This is Pete Wentz, the mouthpiece of Fall Out Boy and one of those few people that I think looks better making this face than he does normally. His clothing line is also amazing.
Man, it turns out I really am a groupie of the highest order.
~B
P.S. Guys with legitimately good music taste who understand the reason WHY music is good and know how to explain themselves are a rare find, even in Los Angeles. Guys who get drunk and then want to drive you somewhere are much more common.
And so, in closing, always remember shoes are for dancing, not just for gazing.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
You know it's been a good night when...
...you roll off of someone else's couch 15 minutes before you need to leave, then spend all day at work covered in someone ELSE's sweat from the night before.
Last night one of the bands signed to my label played a show at The Viper Room in West Hollywood. The Viper Room is this club/bar owned by Johnny Depp and is touted as the most exclusive club on the Sunset Strip. It only holds a couple hundred, and all the coolest bands and DJs play there. I knew the place was small, so I assumed it would be, you know, cozy, with black velvet stools and purple neon lights, or a red floor and a shiny black bar...
No.
What I got was a hole-in-the-wall sandwiched between an office building and a condo with a black plywood front, the smallest stage I have ever seen shoved in the corner, and waitresses in cutoff Jack Daniels t-shirts. Kind of disappointing, Johnny. And here I was, thinking we were buddies because of the whole Kentucky/Paris/Los Angeles thing. You're killing me, Depp.
Anyway, the headlining band, Adema, is the one signed to my label. They're a metal group, pretty hardcore, and actually quite famous. They've released five albums and are about to go on tour for their sixth, which drops in August. I've done their SoundScan reports, analyzing their top 20 markets and things like that, so despite the fact that the music is not really my style, I was excited to see them live. I've also spent many an afternoon burning copies of their unreleased album to send as promotion to radio stations. Which means I have heard the unreleased album over and over. So when they played their "new" songs, I already knew them. Rock on.
But that's not the good part. First of all, because I work for Immortal, I was on the list. The guestlist. Oh yeah, that's right. The same girl that has probably never been on the list for a frat party at Emory is suddenly on the list for a midweek concert at the hottest venue in Southern California. Being on the list, however, means that you have to [literally, I couldn't make this up] go to the bouncer at the door and tell him THE SECRET PASSWORD before he lets you in. So I get there with one of the other Immortal interns, and, true to hipster form, the bouncer acts like we have to be approved or something before he lets us in. So he takes my ID and gives me a fierce look. "We're on the list," I say, "we work for Immortal." He keeps inspecting my ID, which, due to some stupid loophole in North Carolina government, will continue to say "under 21" until I am 26. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW ANNOYING THAT IS? In HUGE letters right over the photo on my license it says "UNDER 21!" which I have not been since last autumn, and despite the fact that my birthday is right on there, it always creates unnecessary delays.
So anyway, back to the story:
"We're on the list," I say.
"What list?" he asks fiercely, in typical bouncer style (intimidating even though he was in a tux).
I look furtively from side to side, then "Kill the headlights."
A chin up nod from the bouncer, and we're in.
"Right this way, ladies..."
HOW HARDCORE IS THAT? Kill the headlights? Can you THINK of a better password? There might as well have been a spinning bookshelf, I mean honestly.
So we go upstairs, catch the last of the opening act, then grab a seat at a table marked "RESERVED." We sit through the Adema set and toward the end the boyfriend of the other intern and his roommate arrive... both of whom are on the list at Spider Club for later on in the night. We had planned on heading to Spider after the Adema set with them.
The band put on a good performance, including a lead guitarist who came out in a Guy Fawkes mask, which almost made me pee my pants out of fright. Oh, and the other guitarist looks like a tree. So there's that.
Ok. Set over. We stand up to get ready to leave, and lead singer (Bobby) walks by us on his way to the Green Room at the back of the place. He had performed the whole set without a shirt on, and all of a sudden there is a sweaty rock star stopping at our table. I don't know if he thought we were cool, or if maybe he was just attracted by the mystery of the reserved table, but he stopped at our table, gave us high fives, and then walked into the green room. I remained unfazed. (I work for this band, I can handle it. Had it been, like, AFI, on the other hand, I'd have been flipping out.) Then he came back out from the green room, walked up to me and said (I wish I could insert audio here so you would know what it sounded like):
"YOU. are beautiful."
"Thanks," I said.
"OH MY GOD, AND YOUR LIPS!? Your LIPS! You have such gorgeous lips!"
"Thanks," I said, pushing my hair back, as though I am hit on by half-naked rock stars everyday.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Blair!" I yell back because it's still so loud, "I WORK FOR IMMORTAL!"
"Yeah!? That's awesome!"
Just then a European-looking man with a huge camera walked over and asked the lead singer in a thick accent "May I take your picture for my magazine?"
He grabbed my waist.
"Only if we can include some hotness in the picture!"
"Sure, sure," said the photographer. Wanting to befriend the European, I asked what magazine he was with.
"Dutch Esquire."
"WHAT?!"
"Yeah, I am photographer for Esquire in Holland. This is for travel section."
Which means that, in a month or so, I am probably going to be in the travel section of a magazine in HOLLAND, photographed on the arm of a rockstar in downtown Hollywood.
Just then someone tapped me on the shoulder. I whirled around to see the bass player (who looks like he could be part of Hell's Angels) standing behind me trying to get to the lead singer. Bobby, the lead singer, saw the bassist at the same moment I did, and immediately said,
"LOOK WHAT I FOUND! These LIPS!"
"Ahh, yeah, nice," said bassist, not as impressed as the lead singer.
"Well, it was nice to meet you, have a fabulous night, I think we are going to leave," I said all in one breath, trying to pull away the people I came with.
"Wait!" said the lead singer, grabbing my arm, "Where are you and your friends going?"
"Spider Club. You want to come?" I asked.
"No, I can't. I mean, I really can't. We have to go to Rainbow Room... it's like our thing. But look," he says, reaching into his pocket, "I have all this cash that they gave us to go out tonight... it's late enough now that the cover is cheap and we won't need it all. Here, take this and go to Rainbow Room-- we'll meet you there," he explains, pushing a bill into my hand. As the most rational person in the group, I looked down to see a fifty dollar bill in my hand.
Rainbow Room was about a block away, and we still had a couple hours before everything closed, and now we had enough money to pay cover... so...
Spider Club forgotten, we headed to the Rainbow Room, sitting down in a round booth in the back corner, between two other tables of metalheads, at which point I realized I had never eaten dinner.
"GRILLED CHEESE," I blurted, suddenly starving.
"CHEESE FRIES!" says the guy next to me.
We order our food, sit munching on each other's plates, and waiting for our rock star friends to arrive. The band showed up soon, fully dressed by now, and greeted us excitedly, as though we were good friends.
I don't know how this happened. I don't. I mean, I am the girl that tried every trick in the book to get backstage at the Panic! show in Paris last fall, then again at 30 Seconds To Mars in the winter (that time kind of worked), and then again at the Give It A Name festival in the spring. Arguably that time was a success, given that I met a couple drummers, a bassist, and a lead guitarist, but I never had a conversation at a show with anyone where THEY were the ones who initiated it, and then gave me $50 to meet them afterward?
All I have to say is that if this is what it is to work for a record label, then ROCK, my friends.
Love,
B
P.S. A quick note to the guy that lives on the corner outside my place: It may not LOOK like I speak Spanish, but I DO, and I understand every word you say every time I walk by, and it's not going to make me stop and talk to you if you keep saying it.
Last night one of the bands signed to my label played a show at The Viper Room in West Hollywood. The Viper Room is this club/bar owned by Johnny Depp and is touted as the most exclusive club on the Sunset Strip. It only holds a couple hundred, and all the coolest bands and DJs play there. I knew the place was small, so I assumed it would be, you know, cozy, with black velvet stools and purple neon lights, or a red floor and a shiny black bar...
No.
What I got was a hole-in-the-wall sandwiched between an office building and a condo with a black plywood front, the smallest stage I have ever seen shoved in the corner, and waitresses in cutoff Jack Daniels t-shirts. Kind of disappointing, Johnny. And here I was, thinking we were buddies because of the whole Kentucky/Paris/Los Angeles thing. You're killing me, Depp.
Anyway, the headlining band, Adema, is the one signed to my label. They're a metal group, pretty hardcore, and actually quite famous. They've released five albums and are about to go on tour for their sixth, which drops in August. I've done their SoundScan reports, analyzing their top 20 markets and things like that, so despite the fact that the music is not really my style, I was excited to see them live. I've also spent many an afternoon burning copies of their unreleased album to send as promotion to radio stations. Which means I have heard the unreleased album over and over. So when they played their "new" songs, I already knew them. Rock on.
I also proofread the liner notes for their newest album... So go buy it, and then know that it was edited (sort of) by me.
But that's not the good part. First of all, because I work for Immortal, I was on the list. The guestlist. Oh yeah, that's right. The same girl that has probably never been on the list for a frat party at Emory is suddenly on the list for a midweek concert at the hottest venue in Southern California. Being on the list, however, means that you have to [literally, I couldn't make this up] go to the bouncer at the door and tell him THE SECRET PASSWORD before he lets you in. So I get there with one of the other Immortal interns, and, true to hipster form, the bouncer acts like we have to be approved or something before he lets us in. So he takes my ID and gives me a fierce look. "We're on the list," I say, "we work for Immortal." He keeps inspecting my ID, which, due to some stupid loophole in North Carolina government, will continue to say "under 21" until I am 26. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW ANNOYING THAT IS? In HUGE letters right over the photo on my license it says "UNDER 21!" which I have not been since last autumn, and despite the fact that my birthday is right on there, it always creates unnecessary delays.
So anyway, back to the story:
"We're on the list," I say.
"What list?" he asks fiercely, in typical bouncer style (intimidating even though he was in a tux).
I look furtively from side to side, then "Kill the headlights."
A chin up nod from the bouncer, and we're in.
"Right this way, ladies..."
HOW HARDCORE IS THAT? Kill the headlights? Can you THINK of a better password? There might as well have been a spinning bookshelf, I mean honestly.
So we go upstairs, catch the last of the opening act, then grab a seat at a table marked "RESERVED." We sit through the Adema set and toward the end the boyfriend of the other intern and his roommate arrive... both of whom are on the list at Spider Club for later on in the night. We had planned on heading to Spider after the Adema set with them.
The band put on a good performance, including a lead guitarist who came out in a Guy Fawkes mask, which almost made me pee my pants out of fright. Oh, and the other guitarist looks like a tree. So there's that.
Ok. Set over. We stand up to get ready to leave, and lead singer (Bobby) walks by us on his way to the Green Room at the back of the place. He had performed the whole set without a shirt on, and all of a sudden there is a sweaty rock star stopping at our table. I don't know if he thought we were cool, or if maybe he was just attracted by the mystery of the reserved table, but he stopped at our table, gave us high fives, and then walked into the green room. I remained unfazed. (I work for this band, I can handle it. Had it been, like, AFI, on the other hand, I'd have been flipping out.) Then he came back out from the green room, walked up to me and said (I wish I could insert audio here so you would know what it sounded like):
"YOU. are beautiful."
"Thanks," I said.
"OH MY GOD, AND YOUR LIPS!? Your LIPS! You have such gorgeous lips!"
"Thanks," I said, pushing my hair back, as though I am hit on by half-naked rock stars everyday.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Blair!" I yell back because it's still so loud, "I WORK FOR IMMORTAL!"
"Yeah!? That's awesome!"
Just then a European-looking man with a huge camera walked over and asked the lead singer in a thick accent "May I take your picture for my magazine?"
He grabbed my waist.
"Only if we can include some hotness in the picture!"
"Sure, sure," said the photographer. Wanting to befriend the European, I asked what magazine he was with.
"Dutch Esquire."
"WHAT?!"
"Yeah, I am photographer for Esquire in Holland. This is for travel section."
Which means that, in a month or so, I am probably going to be in the travel section of a magazine in HOLLAND, photographed on the arm of a rockstar in downtown Hollywood.
Just then someone tapped me on the shoulder. I whirled around to see the bass player (who looks like he could be part of Hell's Angels) standing behind me trying to get to the lead singer. Bobby, the lead singer, saw the bassist at the same moment I did, and immediately said,
"LOOK WHAT I FOUND! These LIPS!"
"Ahh, yeah, nice," said bassist, not as impressed as the lead singer.
"Well, it was nice to meet you, have a fabulous night, I think we are going to leave," I said all in one breath, trying to pull away the people I came with.
"Wait!" said the lead singer, grabbing my arm, "Where are you and your friends going?"
"Spider Club. You want to come?" I asked.
"No, I can't. I mean, I really can't. We have to go to Rainbow Room... it's like our thing. But look," he says, reaching into his pocket, "I have all this cash that they gave us to go out tonight... it's late enough now that the cover is cheap and we won't need it all. Here, take this and go to Rainbow Room-- we'll meet you there," he explains, pushing a bill into my hand. As the most rational person in the group, I looked down to see a fifty dollar bill in my hand.
Rainbow Room was about a block away, and we still had a couple hours before everything closed, and now we had enough money to pay cover... so...
Spider Club forgotten, we headed to the Rainbow Room, sitting down in a round booth in the back corner, between two other tables of metalheads, at which point I realized I had never eaten dinner.
"GRILLED CHEESE," I blurted, suddenly starving.
"CHEESE FRIES!" says the guy next to me.
We order our food, sit munching on each other's plates, and waiting for our rock star friends to arrive. The band showed up soon, fully dressed by now, and greeted us excitedly, as though we were good friends.
I don't know how this happened. I don't. I mean, I am the girl that tried every trick in the book to get backstage at the Panic! show in Paris last fall, then again at 30 Seconds To Mars in the winter (that time kind of worked), and then again at the Give It A Name festival in the spring. Arguably that time was a success, given that I met a couple drummers, a bassist, and a lead guitarist, but I never had a conversation at a show with anyone where THEY were the ones who initiated it, and then gave me $50 to meet them afterward?
All I have to say is that if this is what it is to work for a record label, then ROCK, my friends.
Love,
B
P.S. A quick note to the guy that lives on the corner outside my place: It may not LOOK like I speak Spanish, but I DO, and I understand every word you say every time I walk by, and it's not going to make me stop and talk to you if you keep saying it.
Monday, June 18, 2007
10 Items Or Less...
Notes on the single life:
It seems rather sad to me that, in the course of two generations, we've gone from dance cards to MySpace.
MySpace.
Yeah, I got one. I won't front. But the thing is that the hipster crowd today doesn't do cell numbers, or pagers, or even email addresses. Nope, we go straight for the least committal form of communication possible... MySpace.
And the worst part is that it leaves the ball, generally speaking, completely in the chick's court. So, where once we had the option of giving a fake phone number, or just not answering the phone, now WE are given someone's MySpace and WE have to do the friending.
And worse? All they have to do is check off that little "private" box, and then it's impossible to even check them out without them knowing.
So there you go. The devolution and degeneration of romance in a 21st century generation.
I mean, I don't know, maybe it's not even a scene thing, maybe it just is a Southern California thing (likely. I mean, the culture here is as different from the rest of the US as... like, London). But either way, it's kind of disconcerting.
~The single B
It seems rather sad to me that, in the course of two generations, we've gone from dance cards to MySpace.
MySpace.
Yeah, I got one. I won't front. But the thing is that the hipster crowd today doesn't do cell numbers, or pagers, or even email addresses. Nope, we go straight for the least committal form of communication possible... MySpace.
And the worst part is that it leaves the ball, generally speaking, completely in the chick's court. So, where once we had the option of giving a fake phone number, or just not answering the phone, now WE are given someone's MySpace and WE have to do the friending.
And worse? All they have to do is check off that little "private" box, and then it's impossible to even check them out without them knowing.
So there you go. The devolution and degeneration of romance in a 21st century generation.
I mean, I don't know, maybe it's not even a scene thing, maybe it just is a Southern California thing (likely. I mean, the culture here is as different from the rest of the US as... like, London). But either way, it's kind of disconcerting.
~The single B
Saturday, June 16, 2007
That's bass... like ball, not fish.
"So don't let the world bring you down, not everyone here is that... cold."
~Incubus, The Warmth.
The problem is that the things that happen to me in Los Angeles that I think are interesting are not the things that anyone else would think are interesting because they are all indie/emo rock stories.
So I'll do my best to keep you amused anyway.
I was sitting on the bus home from work yesterday when a really old man got on and sat down next to me. I had my headphones on, but as mentioned when I still lived in France (americangypsyinparis.blogspot.com), this never seems to stop old people. So he pretty much immediately pipes up with "You in school?"
In general, I like old people. But after my incident with the crazy old man on the bus last week, I have become more reticent to talk to them on buses, especially when Jared is not around to rescue me from them if things go awry. Nevertheless, I left the headphones on and said I was working. (Not a lie, I thought he was asking whether I was in school for the summer.)
"Doin' what?"
"I'm in music." I said, and apparently that statement, combined with the headphones and the concert tee made him think I was a musician.
"What kinda music?" he asked, "You ain't a rapper, is you? Nahh, that's not even music. And you don't look like a rapper. You like you into some jaaaaaaazz."
"Ahh, yeah, jazz." I said, not willing to explain at this point.
"Tony Bennett?"
"I love Tony," I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. Then he pipes up after a pause with this:
"You know that one, oh, I can't remember the name... eins... Einstein! You favor that Einstein singer, that's how I knowed you was into jaaaaaazz."
What?
Like as in Albert? If you have any idea what that means, let me know. I am curious. Because obviously I look like a jazz singer with my emo hair, minimal makeup, and messenger bag?
In other news... I've been "rewarded" at work and they've given me some shifts at reception, which I hate doing because it is boring menial office work, but doing reception pays, while being a record label groupie mailing CDs and writing press releases in the office with the guys does not, so I take the shifts I can get, even though my boss hates giving them to me because it means I don't get anything musical done.
Furthermore, I have seen several of the same people on the bus multiple times now, which means, logically, it's only a matter of time until I run into Jared again, right? Ha. It's been a long week full of sending resumes to everywhere I can think of and getting no responses...
Which is rough, but I am getting to be good friends with the guys at work, so that is cool.
More to come... when I have the energy to keep typing.
~B
P.S. I woke up late on Thursday, still had to iron the dress I was going to wear to work, so I didn't shower in the morning. I mean, come on, my hair is that kind of bedhead messy where it looks better the second day anyway, so it's really not a big deal. I walk into work and one of the guy interns comes over to my cubicle to borrow scissors. He leans over me to get them and says, I kid you not, "Ooh, what are you wearing? You smell wonderful!"
All I could think was "Thanks, it's called eau-de-I-didn't-shower."
~Incubus, The Warmth.
The problem is that the things that happen to me in Los Angeles that I think are interesting are not the things that anyone else would think are interesting because they are all indie/emo rock stories.
So I'll do my best to keep you amused anyway.
I was sitting on the bus home from work yesterday when a really old man got on and sat down next to me. I had my headphones on, but as mentioned when I still lived in France (americangypsyinparis.blogspot.com), this never seems to stop old people. So he pretty much immediately pipes up with "You in school?"
In general, I like old people. But after my incident with the crazy old man on the bus last week, I have become more reticent to talk to them on buses, especially when Jared is not around to rescue me from them if things go awry. Nevertheless, I left the headphones on and said I was working. (Not a lie, I thought he was asking whether I was in school for the summer.)
"Doin' what?"
"I'm in music." I said, and apparently that statement, combined with the headphones and the concert tee made him think I was a musician.
"What kinda music?" he asked, "You ain't a rapper, is you? Nahh, that's not even music. And you don't look like a rapper. You like you into some jaaaaaaazz."
"Ahh, yeah, jazz." I said, not willing to explain at this point.
"Tony Bennett?"
"I love Tony," I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. Then he pipes up after a pause with this:
"You know that one, oh, I can't remember the name... eins... Einstein! You favor that Einstein singer, that's how I knowed you was into jaaaaaazz."
What?
Like as in Albert? If you have any idea what that means, let me know. I am curious. Because obviously I look like a jazz singer with my emo hair, minimal makeup, and messenger bag?
In other news... I've been "rewarded" at work and they've given me some shifts at reception, which I hate doing because it is boring menial office work, but doing reception pays, while being a record label groupie mailing CDs and writing press releases in the office with the guys does not, so I take the shifts I can get, even though my boss hates giving them to me because it means I don't get anything musical done.
Furthermore, I have seen several of the same people on the bus multiple times now, which means, logically, it's only a matter of time until I run into Jared again, right? Ha. It's been a long week full of sending resumes to everywhere I can think of and getting no responses...
Which is rough, but I am getting to be good friends with the guys at work, so that is cool.
More to come... when I have the energy to keep typing.
~B
P.S. I woke up late on Thursday, still had to iron the dress I was going to wear to work, so I didn't shower in the morning. I mean, come on, my hair is that kind of bedhead messy where it looks better the second day anyway, so it's really not a big deal. I walk into work and one of the guy interns comes over to my cubicle to borrow scissors. He leans over me to get them and says, I kid you not, "Ooh, what are you wearing? You smell wonderful!"
All I could think was "Thanks, it's called eau-de-I-didn't-shower."
Between Attack and The Kill you'll find...
Because my job revolves around publicizing indie bands (some of whom shall remain nameless but are comprised completely of people younger than me) at a very grassroots level (which means I read other people's blogs all day and then email them to pet their ego and try to convince them to feature MY band on their site), it is looking more and more likely that after my return to the world of the normal (as in, other 21yearolds who actually go to school in a US city and don't think they are rockstars) this will turn into an indie rock blog.
Yeek, what's wrong with me?
"I must be emo!"
So yeah. Also there is the problem this summer that I spend all day long on a computer, so why in the world do I want to get on one at night to write anything else?
Nevertheless, expect an update this weekend, a real one, in which it becomes progressively more evident just how much I have become convinced that I am, in fact, a rockstar.
Or at least some really great top 5 lists.
How's that for honest,
B
P.S. Considering how non-American I like to consider myself, it has recently come to my attention that it is thus ironic that so many of my favorite bands include the adjective "American" in their title. I can think of at least three off the top of my head, plus another who sings two songs about BEING American. Maybe it's because they all use the term ironically?
Yeek, what's wrong with me?
"I must be emo!"
So yeah. Also there is the problem this summer that I spend all day long on a computer, so why in the world do I want to get on one at night to write anything else?
Nevertheless, expect an update this weekend, a real one, in which it becomes progressively more evident just how much I have become convinced that I am, in fact, a rockstar.
Or at least some really great top 5 lists.
How's that for honest,
B
P.S. Considering how non-American I like to consider myself, it has recently come to my attention that it is thus ironic that so many of my favorite bands include the adjective "American" in their title. I can think of at least three off the top of my head, plus another who sings two songs about BEING American. Maybe it's because they all use the term ironically?
Monday, June 11, 2007
The wheels on the bus...
Every single person has a Bus (single as in unattached, not as in each). I'm giving you a pop culture lesson, you should pay attention. Now, it's not called The Bus because it IS a bus... it's just a name. The Bus is the place you take members of the opposite sex who are cool. Not necessarily ones you are interested in, but just ones who are of the opposite gender. In Atlanta my bus was The Majestic-- the coolest cafe in the entire world, open and never closed since 1929. I don't know how that came to be my bus, except that one day I realized that I had, at some point, been there with every guy I had ever met, usually to study. In California, I think my bus is rapidly becoming... well... the bus. Line 20.
First I meet my Jared Leto 3rd Street lookalike who saved me from a barking homeless man, then tonight I am sitting on Bus 20 when a woman comes in and there is no place for her. So I jump up and give her my seat, making me and one other guy my age the only two people standing in the bus. And I happen to be reading "A History Of The World In Nine Guitars," which is a book by a French author designed for one sole purpose: for girls to read in front of guys to impress them. Orrrrr for girls who miss France and have a raging music passion to read because they are stuck on the bus for two hours a day. So I am reading it when I look up and accidentally catch this guy's eye, and he says "That book looks amazing." And I am stuck trying to explain it to him. And suddenly the only word that comes into my head is "vignette." My amazing ex-roommate used to make fun of me all the time for using big words. I wouldn't call 8 letters big, but how else do you explain the concept? It was the only thing that came into my head. Anyway, it turns out this guy was from Kentucky (from the city though) BUT he was ultra-impressed that I knew Red River Gorge (I say that as though I spend all my free time there. Yeah right, but I can navigate my way through the Nada Tunnel and back again-- and I know how to pronounce it), and as it turns out, he's been camping at Miguel's, which is my all-time absolute favorite restaurant in the history of the world. That's what you get when you live in the US-- you MEET people and you always have something in common.
And then you realize that the only other thing you have in common is the fact that you are both ghetto enough to be 21 years old and taking the bus through downtown Los Angeles.
Nevertheless. After a mediocre weekend, it was a good day. I'm doing "real" work at the label-- I spent today ordering Immortal banners for the Warped Tour and then updating sales sheets for the latest album by Hot Rod Circuit, which is awesome, because I am actually LEARNING things about, you know, everything. And to put it in the words of Yuri, the guy that's been teaching it all to me, "I'm the only one that's gonna teach you anything, so follow what I say and you'll be great." He is awesome.
Highs/Lows of the weekend:
High: Finding Thank You Mart-- an awesome vintage store in Westwood Village, where everything costs $3.99 Purchases: two t-shirts and a belt buckle shaped like a roulette wheel.
Low: Getting shrieked at by a homeless dude on the Bus on the way home from Thank You Mart.
High: Jared Leto and Will Smith coming to my rescue.
Low: Getting sick on Saturday night.
High: The Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica-- I found a store that sells only cupcakes and another that sold REAL FRENCH CREPES AND REAL French coffee. I almost peed my pants out of excitement.
Low: Still not finding a job, finding out the other intern at the label applied for and got the job I told her I was applying for at a place on Sunset. I didn't bother turning in my app after that.
High: Discovering a sushi place only a couple blocks from my place.
Sidenote: I'm going to Warped tour with wristbands, which means umm... backstage access?
ROCK.ON.
Oh, and then I applied for a job today at a place that looks just like the cafes I just abandoned in France, and while applying, a pirate brought me a limeade, so that was cool.
Ciao,
B
First I meet my Jared Leto 3rd Street lookalike who saved me from a barking homeless man, then tonight I am sitting on Bus 20 when a woman comes in and there is no place for her. So I jump up and give her my seat, making me and one other guy my age the only two people standing in the bus. And I happen to be reading "A History Of The World In Nine Guitars," which is a book by a French author designed for one sole purpose: for girls to read in front of guys to impress them. Orrrrr for girls who miss France and have a raging music passion to read because they are stuck on the bus for two hours a day. So I am reading it when I look up and accidentally catch this guy's eye, and he says "That book looks amazing." And I am stuck trying to explain it to him. And suddenly the only word that comes into my head is "vignette." My amazing ex-roommate used to make fun of me all the time for using big words. I wouldn't call 8 letters big, but how else do you explain the concept? It was the only thing that came into my head. Anyway, it turns out this guy was from Kentucky (from the city though) BUT he was ultra-impressed that I knew Red River Gorge (I say that as though I spend all my free time there. Yeah right, but I can navigate my way through the Nada Tunnel and back again-- and I know how to pronounce it), and as it turns out, he's been camping at Miguel's, which is my all-time absolute favorite restaurant in the history of the world. That's what you get when you live in the US-- you MEET people and you always have something in common.
And then you realize that the only other thing you have in common is the fact that you are both ghetto enough to be 21 years old and taking the bus through downtown Los Angeles.
Nevertheless. After a mediocre weekend, it was a good day. I'm doing "real" work at the label-- I spent today ordering Immortal banners for the Warped Tour and then updating sales sheets for the latest album by Hot Rod Circuit, which is awesome, because I am actually LEARNING things about, you know, everything. And to put it in the words of Yuri, the guy that's been teaching it all to me, "I'm the only one that's gonna teach you anything, so follow what I say and you'll be great." He is awesome.
Highs/Lows of the weekend:
High: Finding Thank You Mart-- an awesome vintage store in Westwood Village, where everything costs $3.99 Purchases: two t-shirts and a belt buckle shaped like a roulette wheel.
Low: Getting shrieked at by a homeless dude on the Bus on the way home from Thank You Mart.
High: Jared Leto and Will Smith coming to my rescue.
Low: Getting sick on Saturday night.
High: The Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica-- I found a store that sells only cupcakes and another that sold REAL FRENCH CREPES AND REAL French coffee. I almost peed my pants out of excitement.
Low: Still not finding a job, finding out the other intern at the label applied for and got the job I told her I was applying for at a place on Sunset. I didn't bother turning in my app after that.
High: Discovering a sushi place only a couple blocks from my place.
Sidenote: I'm going to Warped tour with wristbands, which means umm... backstage access?
ROCK.ON.
Oh, and then I applied for a job today at a place that looks just like the cafes I just abandoned in France, and while applying, a pirate brought me a limeade, so that was cool.
Ciao,
B
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Rock.On.
"Since when do you surf?"
"Since I moved to the beach and realized there are hot surfer chicks out there! If I lived next to Jellystone Park, I’d own a bear suit and a pic-a-nic basket!"
~Charlie Sheen
This city is mine, at least in the same way that Paris was. Despite the fact that I feel like the two and a half months I have here is not going to be nearly enough to see this place (from the windows of a bus), I realized I fit here (or at least in Santa Monica and Beverly Hills)...
Why?
Because the guys wear tight girl rock star pants...
I passed two tour buses on my way to work yesterday...
And there is Mexican food on every corner.
And I have realized something important about myself: wherever I go, there I am. I think that comes from a Led Zeppelin song or something, and I’ve always known that I throw myself completely into the place where I happen to be... (voila the reason that my friends are always complaining because I am so hard to get in touch with). But besides that, I’ve learned since coming to California that I can meld like a chameleon to fit into the places that I am. I don’t change the way I dress or the way I act, and it would appear that I am incapable of changing the way I talk, no matter where I go. But other things... general things... in France I ate croissants, crepes, and quiche. In Los Angeles, I find myself eating yogurt for breakfast, salads for lunch, and buying frozen edamame to steam for dinner. This is getting a little ridiculous.
Four years ago, I spent a summer working as a page in the Circuit Court Clerk’s Office in Beattyville, Kentucky. One of my responsibilities was to call jurors and let them know when to report for jury duty. I was given the responsibility primarily, I think, because there was no risk of the jurors knowing me, so the phone calls would go much quicker. But I don’t sound like a Kentucky native (if you’ve never noticed, call my cell, I probably won’t pick up, you can listen to my voicemail and see for yourself). I have never really understood where I picked up this Valley Girl voice from– it’s not something I pride myself on, but I am aware of it and I don’t know how to make it go away. I am originally from Florida, I’ve lived in Georgia, North Carolina, Kentucky, France, and now California (as of the last week). So why do I sound like someone off the cast of 90210? Anyway, when calling the jurors in Kentucky, I once had someone hang up on me because they thought I was prank-calling because they didn’t recognize my voice. But the best was when I called the owner of the grocery store in town and he said to me, and I quote, "Honey, where did you say you was from?"
"Ahh, I’m calling the Lee County Circuit Clerk’s office?"
"In Lee County Kentucky?" he asked.
"Yes sir...?"
"Well, sugah, I’da thought you was from California, the way you was talkin’!"
Which means that after a year of keeping my mouth shut for as long as possible to look like a native, I find myself opening it as soon as possible to make it seem like I know where I’m going, what I am trying to do, the bus route I am looking for, the store I need to find, or the radio station person I need to talk to.
So, like, totally rock on, man.
~B
P.S. I am not totally sure it is actually LA that I am living in– I think I may have accidentally flown to, like, Peoria or something: there is absolutely no traffic here, it’s been below 70 every day since I arrived, and everywhere I go it smells wonderful. No, really. There’s jasmine and eucalyptus and all kinds of lilies everywhere, and the blocks I walk through Beverly Hills to get to work smell delicious... it’s awesome.
"Since I moved to the beach and realized there are hot surfer chicks out there! If I lived next to Jellystone Park, I’d own a bear suit and a pic-a-nic basket!"
~Charlie Sheen
This city is mine, at least in the same way that Paris was. Despite the fact that I feel like the two and a half months I have here is not going to be nearly enough to see this place (from the windows of a bus), I realized I fit here (or at least in Santa Monica and Beverly Hills)...
Why?
Because the guys wear tight girl rock star pants...
I passed two tour buses on my way to work yesterday...
And there is Mexican food on every corner.
And I have realized something important about myself: wherever I go, there I am. I think that comes from a Led Zeppelin song or something, and I’ve always known that I throw myself completely into the place where I happen to be... (voila the reason that my friends are always complaining because I am so hard to get in touch with). But besides that, I’ve learned since coming to California that I can meld like a chameleon to fit into the places that I am. I don’t change the way I dress or the way I act, and it would appear that I am incapable of changing the way I talk, no matter where I go. But other things... general things... in France I ate croissants, crepes, and quiche. In Los Angeles, I find myself eating yogurt for breakfast, salads for lunch, and buying frozen edamame to steam for dinner. This is getting a little ridiculous.
Four years ago, I spent a summer working as a page in the Circuit Court Clerk’s Office in Beattyville, Kentucky. One of my responsibilities was to call jurors and let them know when to report for jury duty. I was given the responsibility primarily, I think, because there was no risk of the jurors knowing me, so the phone calls would go much quicker. But I don’t sound like a Kentucky native (if you’ve never noticed, call my cell, I probably won’t pick up, you can listen to my voicemail and see for yourself). I have never really understood where I picked up this Valley Girl voice from– it’s not something I pride myself on, but I am aware of it and I don’t know how to make it go away. I am originally from Florida, I’ve lived in Georgia, North Carolina, Kentucky, France, and now California (as of the last week). So why do I sound like someone off the cast of 90210? Anyway, when calling the jurors in Kentucky, I once had someone hang up on me because they thought I was prank-calling because they didn’t recognize my voice. But the best was when I called the owner of the grocery store in town and he said to me, and I quote, "Honey, where did you say you was from?"
"Ahh, I’m calling the Lee County Circuit Clerk’s office?"
"In Lee County Kentucky?" he asked.
"Yes sir...?"
"Well, sugah, I’da thought you was from California, the way you was talkin’!"
Which means that after a year of keeping my mouth shut for as long as possible to look like a native, I find myself opening it as soon as possible to make it seem like I know where I’m going, what I am trying to do, the bus route I am looking for, the store I need to find, or the radio station person I need to talk to.
So, like, totally rock on, man.
~B
P.S. I am not totally sure it is actually LA that I am living in– I think I may have accidentally flown to, like, Peoria or something: there is absolutely no traffic here, it’s been below 70 every day since I arrived, and everywhere I go it smells wonderful. No, really. There’s jasmine and eucalyptus and all kinds of lilies everywhere, and the blocks I walk through Beverly Hills to get to work smell delicious... it’s awesome.
Friday, June 8, 2007
So the other one was fake, but...
This open letter is completely real:
To the two guys in the back of the Los Angeles Metro Bus line 20, tonight, Friday, around 7pm:
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
You have no idea how thankful I am for both of you. One of you looked just like Jared Leto, the other was reading an article about 50 Cent and got off somewhere between Alvarado and Lucas, and together you proved to one very lonely and completely terrified East-Coaster that chivalry is NOT dead, that gentlemen DO exist, and that, at least this one time, I would be ok.
I'm the girl in the obnoxious Euro-trash looking glasses with the bags from Ralph's and the band t-shirt. I am so sorry I didn't say thank you to either of you properly or actually introduce myself, but my name is Blair, I only moved here 5 days ago, and although I think you both missed the beginning of the encounter, I swear I didn't do ANYTHING but get on the bus and sit down. I have no idea what happened or who that homeless man was, but you two saved the day for me. All I know about you is that one of you lives on Third Street and the other was ready to go to blows with the homeless guy, despite the fact that neither of you had ever met me.
I don't flip out easily. Ever. And I am sorry if you thought I was macking on you. But honestly I was just scared. I know how to ride public transportation. I know how to overcome sketchiness. But I have never had to deal with anything like that man on the bus tonight. Don't think I am a pansy or a diva... I only wish I could have thanked you properly. Please don't think what you did went unnoticed. I had no idea what to do, and I thank you, so much, for being amazing.
Thank you.
Thank you.
You said to the homeless man, "By treating women like this, you are giving all of us men a bad name." But just so you know, by RESPONDING to him like that, you just gave Southern Californian men a much better name in my book. And if I ever see you on the bus again, I am going to be the one asking YOU out to coffee.
I don't know what I could ever offer you in return, but if either of you are in bands and ever want to be signed... look me up.
I'll be in the yellow pages under G for Grateful Gypsy Girl.
From the bottom of my heart,
Blair
P.S. I have always had this idea that one day I would get on the bus and meet a prince. Up until tonight, all I had met was a lot of smelly people covered in paint and some cute kids who didn't speak English. Today, I got two princes, just when I needed them most.
Thanks.
To the two guys in the back of the Los Angeles Metro Bus line 20, tonight, Friday, around 7pm:
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
You have no idea how thankful I am for both of you. One of you looked just like Jared Leto, the other was reading an article about 50 Cent and got off somewhere between Alvarado and Lucas, and together you proved to one very lonely and completely terrified East-Coaster that chivalry is NOT dead, that gentlemen DO exist, and that, at least this one time, I would be ok.
I'm the girl in the obnoxious Euro-trash looking glasses with the bags from Ralph's and the band t-shirt. I am so sorry I didn't say thank you to either of you properly or actually introduce myself, but my name is Blair, I only moved here 5 days ago, and although I think you both missed the beginning of the encounter, I swear I didn't do ANYTHING but get on the bus and sit down. I have no idea what happened or who that homeless man was, but you two saved the day for me. All I know about you is that one of you lives on Third Street and the other was ready to go to blows with the homeless guy, despite the fact that neither of you had ever met me.
I don't flip out easily. Ever. And I am sorry if you thought I was macking on you. But honestly I was just scared. I know how to ride public transportation. I know how to overcome sketchiness. But I have never had to deal with anything like that man on the bus tonight. Don't think I am a pansy or a diva... I only wish I could have thanked you properly. Please don't think what you did went unnoticed. I had no idea what to do, and I thank you, so much, for being amazing.
Thank you.
Thank you.
You said to the homeless man, "By treating women like this, you are giving all of us men a bad name." But just so you know, by RESPONDING to him like that, you just gave Southern Californian men a much better name in my book. And if I ever see you on the bus again, I am going to be the one asking YOU out to coffee.
I don't know what I could ever offer you in return, but if either of you are in bands and ever want to be signed... look me up.
I'll be in the yellow pages under G for Grateful Gypsy Girl.
From the bottom of my heart,
Blair
P.S. I have always had this idea that one day I would get on the bus and meet a prince. Up until tonight, all I had met was a lot of smelly people covered in paint and some cute kids who didn't speak English. Today, I got two princes, just when I needed them most.
Thanks.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Always In Handy
"Nothing I can translate..."
~Anberlin, Foreign Language
So yesterday (my third day at work) I was the only intern who worked at the label. I came in dressed up to the max because I had an interview (that went exceptionally badly), so I felt like a tool in my flared H&M Paris skirt with the square-neck cap-sleeve black top in an "office" full of 20something guys in band hoodies and tight jeans or baggy cords. But whatever, I had the interview at 3, so I was planning on taking late lunch for it and I brought some steamed edamame and a peach yogurt to eat for lunch at my desk. I am sitting there taking my first bite of edamame as I search through the catalogue of college radio markets I hadn’t cold-called yet when the owner of the label walks in from lunch.
Now, I only know he is the owner because I asked another intern. He walks past my desk all the time, and he had nodded at me before, but he never actually said, "Hello, new intern, what’s your name?" or anything like that, so, given that he, you know, founded and owns Immortal Records, I assumed he had no idea who I was and frankly, that he didn’t care.
So I am lifting my forkful of shelled edamame (which is the name for soybeans when you are just eating them straight up), when he comes into the office, points at me, and says, "you speak French, don’t you?"
My jaw dropped. Luckily the fork did not.
"Ahh..." I stuttered, and I think at this point I may have even turned around to make sure he was talking to ME. He was.
"Yes?" I squeaked, completely intimidated, and slightly afraid to admit it (what if he had wanted me to act as his interpreter for a press conference or an interview or something?).
"Come with me. I want you to make a phone call."
My eyes widened, I shot up from my desk and realized I was barefoot because my shoes were giving me such blisters. I sat back down, slid the shoes on, and went teetering down the hallway after him.
"Here’s the number," he said, then left me with a couch and a phone, and no idea of the following:
1. How to dial out of the building (I have already made phone calls out of the building, but you have to have a special code for whatever band the call is in regard to, and since this was a personal one, I had no idea what to put in).
2. What I was calling this Parisian hotel FOR.
3. His credit card number.
I finally got through to the hotel, wrangled his credit card off of him, made the reservation and confirmed the arrival time, and hung up, feeling very sophisticated and terribly useful, because the conversation had lasted, in typical French form, at least 5 minutes. I went back to my desk and tried to act normal, and just then one of the other full-time employees who I had never been introduced to comes out of his office and says, very slowly, "Hey, you’re from France, right?" I grinned and told him that no, alas, I am American but just moved back to the US. He was disappointed, I think, had wanted to talk French football (soccer, as it were).
I remained proud of myself.
Why? Because... well, ok, so he might not know my name (because I can’t remember if he ever actually said it), BUT the owner of the label not only knew who I am but also enough about me that he knew that I speak French/had lived there. (!!) I don’t know how that happened– he obviously wasn’t the one I interviewed with OR the one that hired me, I never actually thought I’d even meet him.
But then summer jobs never go the way I plan– my first year I ended up on a first-name basis with the founder of PFR Youth Ministries... my second year I ended up on a first-name basis with the Bishop of the diocese of Lexington... And now, I guess it’s time for the founder of the label to be added to the list.
But I mean, this guy is a big musical deal. He signed Incubus, for crying out loud.
I’m just saying. Kind of a big deal. People KNOW him. (I’ve also heard rumors that Adam Sandler was his best man.)
And I made a phone call for him. In another language.
~B
~Anberlin, Foreign Language
So yesterday (my third day at work) I was the only intern who worked at the label. I came in dressed up to the max because I had an interview (that went exceptionally badly), so I felt like a tool in my flared H&M Paris skirt with the square-neck cap-sleeve black top in an "office" full of 20something guys in band hoodies and tight jeans or baggy cords. But whatever, I had the interview at 3, so I was planning on taking late lunch for it and I brought some steamed edamame and a peach yogurt to eat for lunch at my desk. I am sitting there taking my first bite of edamame as I search through the catalogue of college radio markets I hadn’t cold-called yet when the owner of the label walks in from lunch.
Now, I only know he is the owner because I asked another intern. He walks past my desk all the time, and he had nodded at me before, but he never actually said, "Hello, new intern, what’s your name?" or anything like that, so, given that he, you know, founded and owns Immortal Records, I assumed he had no idea who I was and frankly, that he didn’t care.
So I am lifting my forkful of shelled edamame (which is the name for soybeans when you are just eating them straight up), when he comes into the office, points at me, and says, "you speak French, don’t you?"
My jaw dropped. Luckily the fork did not.
"Ahh..." I stuttered, and I think at this point I may have even turned around to make sure he was talking to ME. He was.
"Yes?" I squeaked, completely intimidated, and slightly afraid to admit it (what if he had wanted me to act as his interpreter for a press conference or an interview or something?).
"Come with me. I want you to make a phone call."
My eyes widened, I shot up from my desk and realized I was barefoot because my shoes were giving me such blisters. I sat back down, slid the shoes on, and went teetering down the hallway after him.
"Here’s the number," he said, then left me with a couch and a phone, and no idea of the following:
1. How to dial out of the building (I have already made phone calls out of the building, but you have to have a special code for whatever band the call is in regard to, and since this was a personal one, I had no idea what to put in).
2. What I was calling this Parisian hotel FOR.
3. His credit card number.
I finally got through to the hotel, wrangled his credit card off of him, made the reservation and confirmed the arrival time, and hung up, feeling very sophisticated and terribly useful, because the conversation had lasted, in typical French form, at least 5 minutes. I went back to my desk and tried to act normal, and just then one of the other full-time employees who I had never been introduced to comes out of his office and says, very slowly, "Hey, you’re from France, right?" I grinned and told him that no, alas, I am American but just moved back to the US. He was disappointed, I think, had wanted to talk French football (soccer, as it were).
I remained proud of myself.
Why? Because... well, ok, so he might not know my name (because I can’t remember if he ever actually said it), BUT the owner of the label not only knew who I am but also enough about me that he knew that I speak French/had lived there. (!!) I don’t know how that happened– he obviously wasn’t the one I interviewed with OR the one that hired me, I never actually thought I’d even meet him.
But then summer jobs never go the way I plan– my first year I ended up on a first-name basis with the founder of PFR Youth Ministries... my second year I ended up on a first-name basis with the Bishop of the diocese of Lexington... And now, I guess it’s time for the founder of the label to be added to the list.
But I mean, this guy is a big musical deal. He signed Incubus, for crying out loud.
I’m just saying. Kind of a big deal. People KNOW him. (I’ve also heard rumors that Adam Sandler was his best man.)
And I made a phone call for him. In another language.
~B
Open Letter
"As common as a cold day in LA..."
~Incubus
To Jared Leto, Brandon Boyd, and all other filthy rich, unbelievably gorgeous and ridiculously glamourous rock stars ever signed to Immortal Records,
I am the newest intern at your label. It would make my job so much easier (and thus make YOUR job flow better) if I had a mode of transportation that was not the bus OR just a place to live in Beverly Hills. Thus, I am now accepting cars (new or used) or drivers (personal or rented). Alternatively, if you would prefer to not have to worry about polluting the environment, I am also willing to relocate into your guest bedroom (or guest house) in Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, Westwood, or even Hollywood.
Sincerely yours,
Blair from New Media.
In other news, it is FREEZING here. No, really– it’s as cold in SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA IN JUNE as it was in NORTHERN FRANCE IN APRIL. (I was told legit SoCalians call this weather "June Gloom." They do an awful good job of hiding its existence from the rest of the world, that is all I have to say.)
~Incubus
To Jared Leto, Brandon Boyd, and all other filthy rich, unbelievably gorgeous and ridiculously glamourous rock stars ever signed to Immortal Records,
I am the newest intern at your label. It would make my job so much easier (and thus make YOUR job flow better) if I had a mode of transportation that was not the bus OR just a place to live in Beverly Hills. Thus, I am now accepting cars (new or used) or drivers (personal or rented). Alternatively, if you would prefer to not have to worry about polluting the environment, I am also willing to relocate into your guest bedroom (or guest house) in Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, Westwood, or even Hollywood.
Sincerely yours,
Blair from New Media.
In other news, it is FREEZING here. No, really– it’s as cold in SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA IN JUNE as it was in NORTHERN FRANCE IN APRIL. (I was told legit SoCalians call this weather "June Gloom." They do an awful good job of hiding its existence from the rest of the world, that is all I have to say.)
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Glam vs. Hardcore
"La Cienega just smiles..."
~Ryan Adams
After a grand deliberation and a sojourn in Los Angeles that has lasted 72 hours, I have come to a very important conclusion. Residents of Southern California, take note: there are only two kinds of people in Los Angeles– homeless ones and rock stars.
I live in a hotel, but I work at a record label, so I don't know exactly where exactly that puts me.
My new life in Los Angeles vacillates all day long between straight glamour and plain hardcore:
I wake up (late for a summer job) at an antique hotel in downtown Los Angeles, fill my hair with wax, put on black jeans and a concert tee, and head out the door for work.
Verdict: Glam.
I walk two blocks to the bus stop, getting called "senorita, over here," at least once, wait for the 720 Rapid toward Santa Monica, and get ready for my 45-minute commute.
Verdict: Hardcore.
I walk into the Warner Chappell building on Santa Monica Blvd in Beverly Hills, California, to my own desk, which came pre-decorated with band stickers and a stack of demo and unmastered CDs.
Verdict: Glam.
Lunch time comes-- I leave the office and walk three blocks down Santa Monica to the Mexican restaurant painted orange, where I order a veggie burrito and chill for my hour lunch break.
Verdict: Hardcore.
I go back to the office, ask my boss what album is playing and he tells me it's the new album from the label's top band, not in stores till July. The owner of the label walks by and signals me to the merch room, telling me he doesn't know what size I wear, but I can pick out as many shirts as I want.
Verdict: Glam.
I spend the afternoon on the phone with college radio stations, giving them my own extension number to try to set up on-air spots for one of the band's on tour now.
Verdict: Jury's still out, depends on who calls me back tomorrow.
Today at lunch I went to an interview for a job down the street from the label, at a shopping center in Century City. On my way into the interview, I walked past Doris Roberts-- the grandmother from Everybody Loves Raymond. First famous person sighting down... and from there it can only go up, right?
Oh, and one of the label's bands stopped by today, so that was cool too.
The crazy thing about being in Los Angeles (specifically right after living in Paris) is that in Paris, it's impossible to go anywhere without seeing something historic-- the place where Baudelaire used to live, a site mentioned in The Phantom Of The Opera, or the place where Resistance soldiers used to hide out. In Los Angeles, though, it is impossible to go anywhere without seeing something that I've seen in a movie or on TV, or read about in Rolling Stone or heard about in a Ryan Adams song.
On the way to work I pass the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, I cross La Cienega Blvd, Avenue of the Stars, Rodeo Drive and the MGM building, and I only take two streets to get to work. I can see the Staples Center (where the Oscars are held) from my bedroom window... Quite a change from my last room with a view.
All in all, living in the middle of Chinatown or not, this place rocks, literally?
Still a sucker for those famous faces,
B
~Ryan Adams
After a grand deliberation and a sojourn in Los Angeles that has lasted 72 hours, I have come to a very important conclusion. Residents of Southern California, take note: there are only two kinds of people in Los Angeles– homeless ones and rock stars.
I live in a hotel, but I work at a record label, so I don't know exactly where exactly that puts me.
My new life in Los Angeles vacillates all day long between straight glamour and plain hardcore:
I wake up (late for a summer job) at an antique hotel in downtown Los Angeles, fill my hair with wax, put on black jeans and a concert tee, and head out the door for work.
Verdict: Glam.
I walk two blocks to the bus stop, getting called "senorita, over here," at least once, wait for the 720 Rapid toward Santa Monica, and get ready for my 45-minute commute.
Verdict: Hardcore.
I walk into the Warner Chappell building on Santa Monica Blvd in Beverly Hills, California, to my own desk, which came pre-decorated with band stickers and a stack of demo and unmastered CDs.
Verdict: Glam.
Lunch time comes-- I leave the office and walk three blocks down Santa Monica to the Mexican restaurant painted orange, where I order a veggie burrito and chill for my hour lunch break.
Verdict: Hardcore.
I go back to the office, ask my boss what album is playing and he tells me it's the new album from the label's top band, not in stores till July. The owner of the label walks by and signals me to the merch room, telling me he doesn't know what size I wear, but I can pick out as many shirts as I want.
Verdict: Glam.
I spend the afternoon on the phone with college radio stations, giving them my own extension number to try to set up on-air spots for one of the band's on tour now.
Verdict: Jury's still out, depends on who calls me back tomorrow.
Today at lunch I went to an interview for a job down the street from the label, at a shopping center in Century City. On my way into the interview, I walked past Doris Roberts-- the grandmother from Everybody Loves Raymond. First famous person sighting down... and from there it can only go up, right?
Oh, and one of the label's bands stopped by today, so that was cool too.
The crazy thing about being in Los Angeles (specifically right after living in Paris) is that in Paris, it's impossible to go anywhere without seeing something historic-- the place where Baudelaire used to live, a site mentioned in The Phantom Of The Opera, or the place where Resistance soldiers used to hide out. In Los Angeles, though, it is impossible to go anywhere without seeing something that I've seen in a movie or on TV, or read about in Rolling Stone or heard about in a Ryan Adams song.
On the way to work I pass the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, I cross La Cienega Blvd, Avenue of the Stars, Rodeo Drive and the MGM building, and I only take two streets to get to work. I can see the Staples Center (where the Oscars are held) from my bedroom window... Quite a change from my last room with a view.
All in all, living in the middle of Chinatown or not, this place rocks, literally?
Still a sucker for those famous faces,
B
Sunday, June 3, 2007
And so it begins... again.
"I was thinking to myself, ‘this could be heaven or this could be hell,’"
~The Eagles, Hotel California
I made it to Los Angeles! Here are the deets, in case you’re just tuning in: I am in LA for the summer because I have an internship at Immortal Records... I am living at a hotel downtown, which makes me feel extremely glam and more than a little like Eloise. (Sidenote: if I am living in a HOTEL... in CALIFORNIA... does that mean it’s THE hotel California? I mean, I did check in but I can’t ever leave– at least not for the next two months.) After I arrived yesterday morning, I dropped off my stuff in my room, danced around the room like Orlando Bloom, and hit the pavement.First impressions of Los Angeles: Perhaps I just have a really good imagination, but it seems that wherever I travel always looks exactly as it is "supposed to" in my head. There are palm trees, tall buildings, lots of Spanish music playing, and lots of Mexican food. What I didn’t expect was that this is THE flattest place I have ever seen in my life (and I was raised in Central Florida, elevation +.2meters above sea level). And, adding to the flat appearance of this place is the fact that southern Californians are, apparently without exception, extremely short. No, really. Like, UNBELIEVABLY short. I mean, we are talking, like, my shoulder is AVERAGE for the women AND the men I’ve seen thus far. (I, for the record, am only 5'9".) Hopefully in Beverly Hills, where I am working, there will be taller people, because I don’t know what I’ll do otherwise, considering almost all the shoes I brought are heels.
I had never, before yesterday, been to California. Perhaps later in life I will think about that and consider myself brave, but right now it is just a fact of my life. I also know NOBODY in Los Angeles. I did not view that as a problem as I was packing my bags and getting ready to come– I didn’t know anyone at Emory when I started there; I didn’t know anyone in Paris, and look what happened both places. I’ll make friends, I am not worried about that... But the thing about moving somewhere where you don’t know ANYONE is that you don’t have anyone to answer your simple but pressing questions, such as:Where is the closest Metro station and why is there no office inside where I can buy a ticket?How does the bus system work?Where should I look for another job?Do people in this city EAT?
"A Publix, a Publix, my kingdom for a Publix..."
This last one is perhaps the most important– I arrived yesterday and was so jetlagged I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I needed to make a visit to a grocery store to get dish soap, dishes to use said soap on, and, oh yeah, food. And though there are donut shops and Mexican food stands on every corner, I CAN’T FIND A GROCERY STORE TO SAVE MY LIFE. Which is slightly discouraging, but the thing is that I just need someone to ask "hey, what is your version of Publix in this state?" the other questions I can ask the concierge at my hotel (I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when I walked in yesterday, slightly sweaty and with two huge suitcases), but I can’t figure out a NORMAL way to ask about a grocery store. (I asked where a close one was and they directed me to an alimentation-type place next door. It had most of the groceries I needed, but a box of cereal was $5, and I thought I had left those prices in France.) So I bought the necessities, and I won’t tell you what they are because they would depress you– heck, it depresses me that a week ago I was eating magret de canard aux ananas and drinking bordeaux, and now I am here, eating take-out cashew chicken from the Rene Café next door. I was so tired by the time I sat down to eat that I didn’t even bother with the fortune cookie, which I found this morning on the desk.
"[Keep going] West, Young [Wo]man!"
I got directions to the closest Metro station (I’m actually only about a ten-minute walk from THE central Metro stop of LA, which is nice... though I keep having to push thoughts from my mind of the Metro stop that was less than 100 yards from my door when I lived in Paris), walked there, and got on the red line. There are no validation machines, so I’m not entirely sure what the point of having a ticket at all is. I am also not sure what the point of existing in So Cal is if you don’t speak Spanish. Both times I got on the Metro, I was the only person in my car speaking English. This doesn’t bother me, because I came directly from a place where every time I got on a Metro car I was the only person who spoke English fluently, but it’s still a little weird. I feel like I went from being one linguistic minority to another, but the thing is that on the PARIS Metro (my only other real experience with the dreaded institution of public transportation), everyone is so used to it that we have all perfected our tough faces and no one in Paris makes eye contact on the Metro– it’s considered extremely bad etiquette and it just doesn’t happen. Here, every time I looked up while waiting for the train someone was walking past and staring at me from under the edge of their hoodie, giving off their best "I’m-going-to-intimidate-the-heck-out-of-this-French-speaking-emo-looking-chick" face. But what they didn’t realize is who they are messing with: I didn’t live in Paris for a year for nothing; I didn’t survive night bus rides home at 330am alone and learn nothing; I didn’t go clubbing at MONTMARTRE (the worst neighborhood in Paris) and come out stupid. I can handle your stupid intimidating faces, and if that is all you’ve got, Los Angeles, then BRING IT. (Plus, as previously mentioned, I wouldn’t even break a sweat stepping on you. I GOT this one.)
I got on the Metro and then the bus in the general direction of the office where I’ll be working. (I credit Paris 100% with my ability to get around in a brand-new city at all.) The Metro here is kind of laid out like London’s– the map actually looks a lot like London’s system. But once I got to Santa Monica Blvd, I realized I was still MILES away from the office. So I boarded a bus that I didn’t know the route of and just paid attention to where it was going (luckily it stayed on Santa Monica Blvd for miles), but taking that route took me over an hour to get to the office. I have to figure out something more practical. After figuring out where I would be going on Monday, I started walking back... passed a tourist info place, got all excited, until I realized it was closed (which makes sense, I mean obviously what tourists need info on a SATURDAY AFTERNOON?).
On the way to the label office, I crossed Rodeo Drive, Wilshire Blvd (which I live off of), and the place where the big farmer’s market is. Down the street from the Farmer’s Market is Santa Monica, which is where Pride Weekend is taking place next weekend, meaning not only is the metro closed for the weekend, but it’s also at the same time as the "piesta," which is something that seems like it belongs in Kentucky and not So Cal. (It’s a pie bake-off. I mean, what?)
In other news, remember how I always say that I can’t do anything Simple? Yeah, think about this: I flew out of Paris the day before or after that TB guy flew through CDG. I flew through Phoenix the day they found that other TB guy there. I flew into LAX the day that terrorist plot was foiled at JFK (meaning security is now madness). And the day AFTER I flew into LA, a Southwest jet’s (the airline I flew in on) landing gear failed and it nearly wrecked on the runway. Not only can I not do anything Simple, but it would also appear that my luck is better than... well, I don’t know, some kind of leprechaun.
I’ve been in Los Angeles for 30 hours now, and I haven’t seen a rockstar yet. That had better change soon.
~B
~The Eagles, Hotel California
I made it to Los Angeles! Here are the deets, in case you’re just tuning in: I am in LA for the summer because I have an internship at Immortal Records... I am living at a hotel downtown, which makes me feel extremely glam and more than a little like Eloise. (Sidenote: if I am living in a HOTEL... in CALIFORNIA... does that mean it’s THE hotel California? I mean, I did check in but I can’t ever leave– at least not for the next two months.) After I arrived yesterday morning, I dropped off my stuff in my room, danced around the room like Orlando Bloom, and hit the pavement.First impressions of Los Angeles: Perhaps I just have a really good imagination, but it seems that wherever I travel always looks exactly as it is "supposed to" in my head. There are palm trees, tall buildings, lots of Spanish music playing, and lots of Mexican food. What I didn’t expect was that this is THE flattest place I have ever seen in my life (and I was raised in Central Florida, elevation +.2meters above sea level). And, adding to the flat appearance of this place is the fact that southern Californians are, apparently without exception, extremely short. No, really. Like, UNBELIEVABLY short. I mean, we are talking, like, my shoulder is AVERAGE for the women AND the men I’ve seen thus far. (I, for the record, am only 5'9".) Hopefully in Beverly Hills, where I am working, there will be taller people, because I don’t know what I’ll do otherwise, considering almost all the shoes I brought are heels.
I had never, before yesterday, been to California. Perhaps later in life I will think about that and consider myself brave, but right now it is just a fact of my life. I also know NOBODY in Los Angeles. I did not view that as a problem as I was packing my bags and getting ready to come– I didn’t know anyone at Emory when I started there; I didn’t know anyone in Paris, and look what happened both places. I’ll make friends, I am not worried about that... But the thing about moving somewhere where you don’t know ANYONE is that you don’t have anyone to answer your simple but pressing questions, such as:Where is the closest Metro station and why is there no office inside where I can buy a ticket?How does the bus system work?Where should I look for another job?Do people in this city EAT?
"A Publix, a Publix, my kingdom for a Publix..."
This last one is perhaps the most important– I arrived yesterday and was so jetlagged I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I needed to make a visit to a grocery store to get dish soap, dishes to use said soap on, and, oh yeah, food. And though there are donut shops and Mexican food stands on every corner, I CAN’T FIND A GROCERY STORE TO SAVE MY LIFE. Which is slightly discouraging, but the thing is that I just need someone to ask "hey, what is your version of Publix in this state?" the other questions I can ask the concierge at my hotel (I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when I walked in yesterday, slightly sweaty and with two huge suitcases), but I can’t figure out a NORMAL way to ask about a grocery store. (I asked where a close one was and they directed me to an alimentation-type place next door. It had most of the groceries I needed, but a box of cereal was $5, and I thought I had left those prices in France.) So I bought the necessities, and I won’t tell you what they are because they would depress you– heck, it depresses me that a week ago I was eating magret de canard aux ananas and drinking bordeaux, and now I am here, eating take-out cashew chicken from the Rene Café next door. I was so tired by the time I sat down to eat that I didn’t even bother with the fortune cookie, which I found this morning on the desk.
"[Keep going] West, Young [Wo]man!"
I got directions to the closest Metro station (I’m actually only about a ten-minute walk from THE central Metro stop of LA, which is nice... though I keep having to push thoughts from my mind of the Metro stop that was less than 100 yards from my door when I lived in Paris), walked there, and got on the red line. There are no validation machines, so I’m not entirely sure what the point of having a ticket at all is. I am also not sure what the point of existing in So Cal is if you don’t speak Spanish. Both times I got on the Metro, I was the only person in my car speaking English. This doesn’t bother me, because I came directly from a place where every time I got on a Metro car I was the only person who spoke English fluently, but it’s still a little weird. I feel like I went from being one linguistic minority to another, but the thing is that on the PARIS Metro (my only other real experience with the dreaded institution of public transportation), everyone is so used to it that we have all perfected our tough faces and no one in Paris makes eye contact on the Metro– it’s considered extremely bad etiquette and it just doesn’t happen. Here, every time I looked up while waiting for the train someone was walking past and staring at me from under the edge of their hoodie, giving off their best "I’m-going-to-intimidate-the-heck-out-of-this-French-speaking-emo-looking-chick" face. But what they didn’t realize is who they are messing with: I didn’t live in Paris for a year for nothing; I didn’t survive night bus rides home at 330am alone and learn nothing; I didn’t go clubbing at MONTMARTRE (the worst neighborhood in Paris) and come out stupid. I can handle your stupid intimidating faces, and if that is all you’ve got, Los Angeles, then BRING IT. (Plus, as previously mentioned, I wouldn’t even break a sweat stepping on you. I GOT this one.)
I got on the Metro and then the bus in the general direction of the office where I’ll be working. (I credit Paris 100% with my ability to get around in a brand-new city at all.) The Metro here is kind of laid out like London’s– the map actually looks a lot like London’s system. But once I got to Santa Monica Blvd, I realized I was still MILES away from the office. So I boarded a bus that I didn’t know the route of and just paid attention to where it was going (luckily it stayed on Santa Monica Blvd for miles), but taking that route took me over an hour to get to the office. I have to figure out something more practical. After figuring out where I would be going on Monday, I started walking back... passed a tourist info place, got all excited, until I realized it was closed (which makes sense, I mean obviously what tourists need info on a SATURDAY AFTERNOON?).
On the way to the label office, I crossed Rodeo Drive, Wilshire Blvd (which I live off of), and the place where the big farmer’s market is. Down the street from the Farmer’s Market is Santa Monica, which is where Pride Weekend is taking place next weekend, meaning not only is the metro closed for the weekend, but it’s also at the same time as the "piesta," which is something that seems like it belongs in Kentucky and not So Cal. (It’s a pie bake-off. I mean, what?)
In other news, remember how I always say that I can’t do anything Simple? Yeah, think about this: I flew out of Paris the day before or after that TB guy flew through CDG. I flew through Phoenix the day they found that other TB guy there. I flew into LAX the day that terrorist plot was foiled at JFK (meaning security is now madness). And the day AFTER I flew into LA, a Southwest jet’s (the airline I flew in on) landing gear failed and it nearly wrecked on the runway. Not only can I not do anything Simple, but it would also appear that my luck is better than... well, I don’t know, some kind of leprechaun.
I’ve been in Los Angeles for 30 hours now, and I haven’t seen a rockstar yet. That had better change soon.
~B
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