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
Monday, June 18, 2007
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
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