A medium time ago I spent most of my time freelancing as a hack journo. I used it supplement my schooling (boozing) and to justify avoiding what I thought to be real "writing," which were books, essays, poetry, and dream journals. I now realize of course that all writing is pretty much the same.
The best part about journalism is that to enter the hallowed ranks of the field all you have to do is say you are a journalist. That's it, that is the key to unlock any door anywhere in the world. Everything else is simply a matter of scope. Show up appropriately dressed, and say you work there. I now realize that this trick works for pretty much any job plus or minus a lie here or there. But at the time I learned it, Wow! What a trick!
At the start of the week I would troll for political or entertainment events through local entertainment magazines and newspapers. Then I would call an organizer and say "Hi! I'm ___ from ____ magazine and I would like to cover your event!" Then I would show up to the event in a plaid button up shirt, black pencil tie, tape recorder and journal, skinny leg jeans, and pointy toe dress shoes, or green Adidas, depending on the event. It never did not work.
The lanyard they would give me when I showed up unlocked the backstage area, where the key was to never make direct eye contact with anyone or anything you did not personally know, this meant you were busy. And if you did know anyone or anything back there make a really big deal about it. This meant you were big deal that knew big deals.
It was easy to get interviews after learning a simple trick. Everybody back there is lying, with the person or persons on the marquee being the biggest and boldest liars of all. And in that shared lie that grandiose illusion they cast was shattered. I was just another fish swimming in the sea.
I showed up to a show at 4th and B one night to get an video game tie in interview with a girl from a hip hop group that had recently blown up, and she was on the cusp of a solo album. So I did my prestidigitation and appeared in the green room right after soundcheck. I glad handed my way toward her and told her that I was a fan of her music and would like ten minutes for an interview about her involvement in the voice work of a recent video game.
She asked me if I smoked, I said yes, so we went to the back patio. We sat down at an open air gazzebo, I pulled out my tape recorder and placed it on the table, she pulled out her brand of choice and lit up, as did I. I did the requisite greeting and asked her how she enjoyed her experience working on a video game. I got the canned answer of loving games since mario brothers, the mocap was awesome, long hours, etc...
The whole time the interview was going on, there was a gaggle of local females of a very large and very ratchet variety spewing insults at her through the metal fence separating the gazeebo from the public sidewalk. There had to be about thirty staff in the gazeebo, but no one was willing to be first to recognize their existence. The subject of my interview made penetrating eye contact with me at all times, smiling and speaking excitedly with her hands.
The ratchet team were getting progressively and disturbingly descriptive in their attacks. They began with her "ugly ass face," worked down to her "flappy ass underarms," then to her "skinny ass thighs." Nothing was hitting. They then moved onto "I fucked your man," then onto I fucked that n!@#$a right there. I think that was me. We didn't have sex, but I was flattered none the less.
Their voices were beginning to flag and they had almost given up, when all of the sudden, paydirt. "Bitch, you can't sing, you only in the group as a joke, and nobody likes you." The singer jumped up bridged the gap to their faces in less than a second. There was all types of finger pointing, "bitches I'm gonna's," "Bitch I wish you would's" and "Try me bitches," thrown around. The singer had to be dragged away, the ratchet gaggle escorted away by security. The interview was over, all good though, I got what I had come for. A real answer.
The singer and I went back into the green room and imbibed a few relaxation aids. She apologized for what happened out there said that isn't her. I told her even if that was her out there, that would be fine as well. She smiled.
I turned off the recorder and we ended up talking about games for a while, and it turns out she really knew her shit. The conversation became all mega drives and final fantasy's and DEL lyrics. I had just picked up Elite Beat Agents and brought it with to kill time. I handed it to her and that was it. She was there until showtime. I never ended up writing the story, didn't have enough material. Next time I saw her, she was peeing on stage.
I hope information recovers from the loss of the biggest, funniest, saltiest, and best of us. There is nothing more I can say. Oh yeah, and Jerbz.
The Protoculture Mixtape v.166 Issue : People : Esteem
