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