Sorry I haven’t written in the past couple of weeks - there are people out sick, there are people with babies, there are people with leprosy or something and the office is basically falling apart at the seams. Awesome.
In fact, it’s the fault of one of the sick people and one of the baby people (one of the people with a baby, not an adult-sized-baby, which would be terrifying) that I had my latest painful interview.
See, when you think of the staff of a magazine - a fairly prominent one, anyway - you’d think that there would be a lot of writers. Not a lot lot, but enough that if two people in the same department weren’t able to work for a few days, that department wouldn’t threaten to crumple into a ball a die a pathetic, disgusting death.
This is not true. For each “department,” it’s at most two people. Well, maybe three, if they have an intern. And the word “department” is used in the loosest sense of the word, because it’s not like each department has their own wing of office, or their own floor. The music department doesn’t have their own studio. The movie writers don’t have a personal movie theatre. You don’t need to make an appointment to talk to senior television editor. You look over your cubicle wall and say, “Hey, Janice, Lost last night was fucked up,” and then she has to stand up to say, “Don’t even get me started on Lost.“
So… two people were gone from the music department this week. One has been gone for about a month and will continue to be gone for quite a while, what with the small human that came out of her vagina a short while ago. The other one has… the flu? Something? It doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that I had to help pick up the slack.
Specifically, I had to interview Tokio Hotel.
This is a band, I am told.
“They’re super huge in Germany and they’re pretty big here now,” my Carrie Underwood-loving cubicle mate told me. She sent me a YouTube link to one of their videos.
First, it is beyond disturbing that someone who loves Carrie Underwood knows about Tokio Hotel. Second, she then spent a long time convincing me that the lead singer is, in fact, a dude.
“No, it’s not.”
“It is!”
“No.”
“He and the guy with the dreadlocks are twins.”
“That’s a guy?”
“Yes!”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“…How sure?”
“It’s a GUY.”
“Are you telling me this as a goof so that when I interview them, it’ll turn out that it is a girl and I look like an asshole?”
“It’s a guy.”
“It fucking better be.”
“…You know how I feel about cursing at work.”
This is all made much worse by the fact that I am not a music journalist. I like music and, I think, I have pretty good taste in music, but I find it very difficult to put into words why I like or dislike a particular song or band. I’m more of a “You have to hear the song to really get it” kind of girl.
Actually, scratch that. I can explain pretty well when I hate a band.
My boss knows this.
She sent me to interview Tokio Hotel.
Seriously. This happened.
I was given strict instructions not to upset them, which is really difficult when lead singer guy (just Googled him - Bill, apparently) has hair that DEFIES THE LAWS OF GRAVITY AND COMMON SENSE. I wanted to ask him why - WHY - he would want hair that endangers everyone else’s eyes but I was so entranced by refusal to obey the laws of physics. How the hell does it do that? How long does it take? Is that his actual hair?
Now that I think of it, he might have the hair just so people like me don’t have the presence of mind to ask any hard-hitting questions. Not that I’d be allowed to anyway, but still.
His twin brother is a little shit who took every opportunity to talk about how many chicks he bangs on a regular basis. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me not to say, “Are they all imaginary?” I think I strained a muscle.
Oh, yeah. Did I mention that our entire conversation was done through a translator? This guy was talking about banging tons of chicks and then WAITED FOR THE TRANSLATOR TO RELAY HIS MESSAGE TO ME. Yeah, I wouldn’t want to miss a gem like that.
Well, actually, I live for gems like that, but the fact that he actually took the time to make sure I had that quote for print was pretty ridiculous.
I got back to work and immediately called the sick music guy at home and told him that I was going to pee in his soup once he got back to work. He laughed, which dissolved into a massive coughing fit, which made me feel a little bit better.
When I got to work the next day, the label had sent over a press kit - which usually we should be getting one or two days before the interview, but whatever - which included a Tokio Hotel photograph. Which my cubicle mate fished out of the garbage and hung up in our cubicle. She finds this hilarious. I think I’m going to have to start hoarding my pee for all the soup I’ll have to put urine into.
Until the sequel, anyway. Which will probably come out in, like, two weeks.
Did you guys watch it? Did you? Did you squeal at the Jonas brothers doing… nothing of particular importance?
Let me make it clear that even though I hate the Jonas brothers and their shitty music, I was completely prepared to like Camp Rock. I like cheesy stuff when I have a healthy buffer of vodka in my system.
But seriously, how the fuck did four different people write Camp Rock? How did one person write something, show it to three different people, and each of those people said, “Nice! No need for a second draft of THIS baby”?!
I actually ended up watching Camp Rock again when it aired. With my sister and brother-in-law. It was actually pretty great watching it with them, because things would happen in the movie and one of them would say, “Oh, that’s obviously a set-up for later,” and I’d say, “Actually… no. That never comes up again.”
First off, Demi Lovato needs to stop smiling. For serious. It hurts.
Anyway, she plays Mitchie, this girl who is poor but yet IS SOMEHOW STILL TALENTED (I know). I love how she makes this big deal about how she only has one friend at school, yet she is undeniably pretty and doesn’t appear to have any problems talking to new people. The movie starts off with the world’s lamest wardrobe montage - really, there are two different outfits, one of which is shown twice - and with her singing and trying on different pairs of sunglasses and… I guess she’s just a really fun girl who loves life. Except that she has no friends. Yes, because so many unpopular 14-year-olds are totally thrilled about everything.
So Demi really wants to go to Camp Rock, but her parents can’t afford it, except WAIT THEY TOTALLY CAN if her mom becomes the camp cook and forces her daughter to perform menial labor for no pay. THANKS, MOM!
Then we see - from a conveniently-placed news report, like, way to use intelligent plot devices, guys - that some guy (played by Joe Jonas, and his character has a name, but please, we all called him Joe Jonas) has pissed off his band members by storming off a music video set, so the rest of the band… cancels their tour? And forces Joe Jonas to go teach at Camp Rock? Are they allowed to do that? I don’t think their music label would be like, “Yes, we fully support not earning millions of dollars while Joe Jonas spends several weeks not really doing anything.”
Mitchie arrives at Camp Rock and while she initially makes friends with the sassy, independent Caitlyn, Mitchie instead tries to fit in with the cool-girl group. Except the cool girls only like girls from rich parents, so Mitchie LIES and says that her mom is the president of some music company. Yes, the same mom who is EMPLOYED AT CAMP ROCK AS THE COOK. Yeah, I can’t see that biting her in the ass. At one point, Caitlyn says, “Well, my parents are - ” and then is cut off by one of the cool girls.
Brother-in-law: Oh, so it turns out Caitlyn’s parents do something really cool?
Me: No.
Brother-in-law: What do they do?
Me: We never find out. This never comes up again.
Brother-in-law: I think you’re wrong. You just forgot.
Me: I will bet you a billion dollars that I’m right.
Brother-in-law: …No.
I think the funniest parts of Camp Rock are the songs, because I can’t figure out if their tactics were smart or stupid. The only time anybody sings in the movie is when they’re actually performing for other campers, which means that, sometimes, people are singing songs that have nothing to do with the plot. I honestly have no idea whether this works for or against the movie. I do like that every song comes complete with back-up dancers. At a CAMP for ROCK.
Joe Jonas finally shows up to teach his class, which is… hip-hop dancing? The fuck? Isn’t he a guitarist/singer? I have no idea what’s going on. He shows up and just says, “Everybody grab a hat and a mic,” because there are randomly boxes of trucker hats and microphones just standing by. And then comes the wonderfully intricate dance number, because all these kids already know how to dance in sync. Wow, Joe Jonas is a good teacher.
Oh, but there’s a drummer guy in the dance class - we know he’s a drummer because he has his drumsticks with him all the time, EVEN IN DANCE CLASS - who is a bad dancer. So Joe Jonas, even though he was a jerk five minutes ago, is all, “I’ll help you get the rhythm from your sticks and into your feet, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.” And you know what? WE NEVER VISIT THIS PART OF THE STORY AGAIN. We never see drummer guy dance - or, if we do, it’s in the background with all the other kids as part of a different storyline.
Now, even though they make a big deal about how shy Mitchie is onstage (except we don’t really ever see any evidence of this beyond her saying “oh, I’m nervous” and then doing it anyway, LIKE EVERYBODY DOES), she apparently has absolutely no problem flirting with Joe Jonas. At all. She’s all stammering in front of the cool girls and then Joe Jonas shows up and she’s like, “HEY BABY GRAB MY BOOBS.”
Also, am I wrong, or is Joe Jonas an INSTRUCTOR AT THE CAMP and yet still FORMING A ROMANCE WITH A CAMPER? I don’t care how close in age they are - there has to be some kind of rule against that. Well, there would in normal life.
Oh, yeah, so earlier, Joe Jonas was hiding in some bushes (go with me on this) and he hears Mitchie playing her shitty song on a piano, but by the time he gets inside the building, she’s gone (which makes even less sense since he was literally hiding RIGHT BESIDE THE DOOR - in fact, if he had simply TURNED AROUND he could have seen her through the window). So he spends the movie trying to find “the girl with the voice,” like, maybe you want to be a little more specific, there, Kojak.
Eventually, one of the cool girls finds out Mitchie’s secret and forces Mitchie to tell everyone that her mom is just a cook. So Mitchie learned an important lesson about lying - DON’T LET ANYONE FIND OUT. Joe Jonas gets all mad at her for some reason and her life is ruined. RUINED.
Then, when Joe Jonas is by himself, he’s playing Mitchie’s stupid song, and the cool girl hears him and recognizes it as Mitchie’s. So cool girl goes and steals Mitchie’s song book. AND THEN THIS PLOT POINT IS NEVER MENTIONED AGAIN. I’m not kidding. You think she’s going to steal Mitchie’s songs? No. No she doesn’t. Instead she frames Mitchie for stealing her bracelet. Yeah, I have no idea.
At the Camp Rock press junket, I was talking to one of the producers about this part, and he was like, “Nooo, you just misunderstood. She wasn’t stealing the songs, but when she saw that Mitchie had written the song that Joe liked so much, the cool girl didn’t want Mitchie to be able to perform the song, so she framed Mitchie in order to get her kicked out of the final performance.”
Oh. THAT IS SO MUCH CLEARER, THANK YOU. (Also, every single other person I talked to about this was like, “Oh, no, I thought they had just screwed up the storyline, too.”)
Anyway, when the cool girl performs, her rock star mom is in the audience, but then her mom takes a phone call in the middle of the song, so cool girl trips and cries and thus is totally redeemed. Actually, she doesn’t cry so much as do the most amazing fake crying you will ever see in your life. Even with the horror that is the rest of the movie, Camp Rock is almost worth the whole thing just for the fake crying. She apologizes to her lackeys for being so mean, and then she’s like, “Hey, Mitchie, I told the camp director you didn’t really take my bracelet.”
Gosh, that certainly sounds like something WE WOULD HAVE LIKED TO SEE.
Yeah, anyway, Mitchie performs her stupid song, Joe Jonas realizes that SHE’S THE GIRL, and then they all dance together and don’t kiss.
Did they just write this script when they were high on shrooms? After all that and THEY DON’T EVEN KISS?! What the fuck, Disney channel? WHAT THE FUCK?
Oh, wait, I forgot my favorite part of the story. The reason that Joe Jonas is such a jerk? It’s because his label wants him to play this lame, cookie-cutter music that will sell. But now that he’s at CAMP ROCK he can finally make the music HE wants to make. So he comes up with the LAME, COOKIE-CUTTER MUSIC OF THE CAMP ROCK SOUNDTRACK. And he’s all, “Oh man, this music is SO RAD! But the label will NEVER go for anything THIS edgy! CURSE MY AWESOME EDGINESS.”
And, of course, the label does go for it. It’s not even an issue.
So, in conclusion, I thought Camp Rock would be cheesy but entertaining, but it was cheesy and DIDN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE. Every time you thought they were setting up a hackneyed plot device, it turns out that if they were, they completely forgot about it later. AND THEN THEY FILMED THE ENTIRE THING.
Come on, guys! Just show the drummer guy dancing a solo at the final performance! Have the mean girl perform Mitchie’s song and have Joe Jonas all disappointed because he doesn’t actually like her! Then have Mitchie get over her stage fright (and actually have her have stage fright to begin with) to sing her song properly and Joe Jonas realizes that she’s really the girl of his dreams. Then have Caitlyn’s parents show up, and it turns out THEY ARE THE PRESIDENT OF EVERY MUSIC LABEL OF ALL TIME and they’re all, “We’d like to make Mitchie super famous and rich, while Cool Girl will be blacklisted for the rest of her life.” Then Mitchie and Joe Jonas kiss and girls all over the world faint.
Seriously. I just wrote that in two minutes. Good lord, Camp Rock. Two minutes of rewrites! Could you really not postpone your daily 2 p.m. trip to the bar for TWO MINUTES?
…Okay, I can kind of sympathize with that. But STILL. Camp Rock serves as proof that if you’re desperately trying to recapture the success of something else, slow down a little bit to make sure you’re not screwing the whole thing up. Or, failing that, throw a bunch of money at a subpar boy band and hope that people don’t notice your crappy script.
…is interviewing celebrities I like. Because in addition to my regular interview jitters, I also get the “please don’t let me act like a jerk in front of one of my idols” jitters.
And then I act like an asshole.
This happened to me a few weeks ago when I had to interview a comedian who I love. I’m not going tell you who it is (I do not need you guys to seek that interview out, thank you), but for the purposes of this entry, I’ll pretend that I interviewed someone slightly similar: Patton Oswalt.
Not only do I think “Patton Oswalt” is one of the funniest people alive (I think this about the real Patton Oswalt, too), but he’s also clearly a brilliant guy who does not put up with bullshit or idiots. I am a writer of bullshit who acts like an idiot during interviews. I was terrified.
So, of course, the difficulty I usually have when trying to come up with questions was made so very much worse, because every minute that I couldn’t think of a question added another level of “Oh, dear God, Patton Oswalt is going to think I’m an asshole” terror to my psyche.
Oh, and have I mentioned that I’ve actually met Patton Oswalt before? I acted like an asshole then, too. I gushed and giggled and my body actually shook – bad enough that Patton was like, “Why are you shaking?” – and then I ran away like a freak.
No, that didn’t help, either.
On the bright side, this was a phone interview, and when I met Patton Oswalt, it was years ago before I even had this job, so the odds of him connecting my voice to my ridiculous-but-brief encounter with him were slim.
But that didn’t stop my brain from being an asshole.
You cannot act like an asshole when you talk to him this time.
Yeah, I know.
No, seriously. Do you have any idea how stupid you looked last time?
He’s not going to be looking at me this time.
You’re missing the point.
No, I am willfully ignoring the point.
You mean the point that if you act like an asshole this time, you stop being the dorky, overexcited fan and begin being the incompetent journalist who can barely function yet is somehow still employed?
Yes. I am willfully ignoring that point.
So I tried to prepare as best I could.
Or, at least, I had planned to prepare as best I could.
And then his publicist called me half an hour early.
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
Now, I’d love to tell you that when finally faced with the sink-or-swim situation, I overcame my fears and pulled it off and that Patton Oswalt will now always think of me as the sassy, capable journalist who was a delight to talk to.
God, how I’d love to tell you guys that.
I blanked.
Horribly.
At least twice, I actually lost my train of thought and there was about 30 seconds of silence.
And, also, it was clear that Patton was more interested in talking about his comedy tour and his CD release, but because I was panicking, I kept asking about a TV show he was recently on.
He was on it once.
For about three minutes.
I kept asking him about details of the show that he had no knowledge of.
I kept looking at the timer on my voice recorder and I hadn’t even passed five minutes yet.
Also, I stuttered and stammered throughout the whole thing.
This is not an exaggeration. It really went this badly.
I finally made it to about ten minutes and decided to just cut my losses and get off of the phone. But it doesn’t end there.
I still had to listen to the recording again so I could type up a transcript.
Now, I didn’t notice this when it was happening because I was too busy FREAKING THE FUCK OUT, but you can actually hear Patton get more and more annoyed with me, mixed in with a bit of bafflement that I could actually be this bad. When I say, “OK, thanks for talking to me, bye” you can hear his surprise-slash-relief that the interview was over so quickly.
My Carrie Underwood-loving cubicle mate was witness to me hitting my head against my desk over and over again for about five minutes.
It was bad, people. It was BAD.
Like, bad enough that I have no doubt that the second Patton Oswalt hung up the phone, the first thing he said was, “What a fucking asshole.”
But there was a slightly happy ending. As usual, even though I am terrible with people, I was able to perform my writing magic with flair, and the article does not reveal just how badly I bungled the interview itself. While it’s not remotely Pulitzer-worthy (you know, as opposed to all the OTHER articles I write as a celebrity gossip writer), it was good enough to help me remember that there is a reason I don’t get fired.
Because I’m fucking my boss.
I kid, I kid.
No, the article turned out well enough that while I wouldn’t put the whole experience in the “win” pile, it had escaped the “huge, huge loss” pile, too.
So that was nice.
Then, after work, I went out and got spectacularly smashed, so the next day when I woke up, I was so focused on not throwing up at work that I didn’t have time to think about my Patton Oswalt humiliation. And now enough time has passed that I think it’s kind of funny.
Yes, I was in New York City this past week - for about 36 hours. In that time, I met one of my idols, one of my former idols, a group of teen idols who make me sad for the future, and watched a terribly cheesy movie that somehow needed four people to write it.
I’m not going to go into any detail of the Camp Rock plot in this entry - I’m going to wait until its television premiere next weekend. If any company would send out hitmen to kill people who spoil the secrets of a mediocre TV movie, it would be Disney.
I got into New York around noon on Wednesday, and already the street outside my hotel was filled with camera crews and press tents and scores of screaming girls. None of the “stars” of Camp Rock were even showing up until about 4, but that didn’t stop the girls from screaming. Oh, no. That would be smart. Instead, they strained their vocal chords for hours - I could hear them from my hotel room, on the 29th floor, with the windows closed. For the frickin’ Jonas Brothers. I was tempted to ask some of the girls if they’d ever heard of Hanson, but I knew that was unlikely.
It was also hot as balls in New York City, so I was very happy I wasn’t one of the journalists who would be working on the red carpet (or white carpet or whatever stupid color they had) for an hour before the movie started. I had an assigned seat for the Camp Rock screening, so I didn’t bother to get in line until about 15 minutes before it started - and the line to get in wrapped around the block. I was again surrounded by young screaming girls. Most of them were with their parents who, judging by their insane jewelry and Louis Vuitton handbags, had paid a pretty penny to get their beloved Muffy or Cookie or Priscilla into the screening.
In the theater, once again, the girls would NOT. STOP. SCREAMING. I mean, really, do you think any of the Jonas brothers is going to be like, “Heyyyyy, that girl is crying simply because I am a hundred feet away! I should invite her out for a milkshake”? I don’t even think Kevin, the ugly one, would do that.
I know I said I would save my comments about the actual Camp Rock movie until a later post, but I will say one thing about it, something I never, ever thought I would say: High School Musical is a much better movie. And HSM only took one person to write it, while Camp Rock took four. FOUR. I could have written Camp Rock while sitting on the toilet, and what ended up in the toilet would still have smelled better.
I will admit that the soundtrack is cheesy fun, though. I have been listening to it nonstop since I got back. I hate myself.
At the Camp Rock afterparty - which required special passes, for reasons I don’t really understand - I was expecting a dance floor filled with hyperactive 12-year-olds who were high on Haiwaiian Punch. Imagine my delight when I saw that there was an open bar for the grownups. Hello, Jack and Coke, how are you two doing? I haven’t seen you in a while, and I think tonight is the perfect night for us to become reacquainted. “Heyyy, after shix or sheven of theesh drinksh, thish mushic ishn’t nearly sho bad. Yesh, Miley Shyrush, you shertainly could be a rock shtar! HOLD ON TO YER DREAMSH!”
The party also featured a performance by the Camp Rock female lead, Demi Lovato. It was… a performance. Of music, I guess.
I met Stephen Baldwin at the Camp Rock afterparty, because that’s how he entertains himself these days. If this were 12 or 13 years ago, when The Usual Suspects had come out, I would have been well chuffed, but instead I desperately searched for something to say other than, “What the fuck happened to you, man?” I went with, “Nice to meet you. Where’s the s’mores stand? Don’t lie, I can tell you’ve spent a good chunk of time there tonight.” (There really was a s’mores stand. It was a bigger highlight for me than meeting Stephen Baldwin was.)
I was incredibly excited when I met Julie Brown, who is completely awesome for one reason: Earth Girls Are Easy. Case in point:
Of course, Julie Brown is not only in Camp Rock, but she’s one its four writers, but the goodwill she earned with Earth Girls far outways one little mistake.
When I left the party, there was a big group of girls at the entrance, begging people who were leaving to give them their pass to the party.
Me: Here you go.
Girl: OH MY GOD!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!! EEEEE!!!!
She hugs me.
Me: I’m going to take it back if you don’t stop doing that.
Thursday was the press junket, so I headed over to the hotel and enjoyed the delicious (and free!) buffet, including these wonderful mini-bagels, of which I had about twelve. Food always tastes better when someone else makes it and you don’t have to pay for it. The print interviews didn’t take place until after all the other interviews happened, so there was a lot of time spent waiting around, shooting the shit with the other journalists. We heard that one of the television reporters made the mistake of asking Nick Jonas about his breakup with Miley Cyrus - apparently, there was about 30 seconds of silence, and then Nick said, “I’m not here to talk about that.”
Awkward.
Now, because the Jonas brothers are such a big fuckin’ deal (kill me, please), there were no one-on-one interviews with them. Instead, there were about 6 or 7 tables with a few journalists at each, and each “star” of the movie would spend about 10 minutes with each table. But the Jonas brothers are a package deal, apparently, so we had to talk to all of them at once.
That’s right. I MET THE JONAS BROTHERS. You may all kneel at my feet and offer me presents.
First of all, why are Joe and Kevin Jonas trying to bring back the Miami Vice look? It was a stupid look on Don Johnson and it’s even worse now that it’s 20 years later. I realize that they weren’t alive when it was on and, therefore, think they’re coming up with a look that’s fresh and hip, but Jesus, if you don’t want anything covering your forearms, wear a short-sleeved shirt instead of pushing your suit jacket sleeves up.
Also, Nick Jonas: a combination of Danny Zuko and Fonzie. A little sad, but actually pretty amusing when you lack a heart. So: hee hee hee.
I apparently made a bit of a faux pas when I asked the brothers about their purity rings. See, they wear the rings in Camp Rock even though they’re not playing themselves, so I asked if that was a conscious decision to have their characters also be waiting until marriage for sex.
Joe: No, it’s more like if I’d worn my favourite watch in a scene.
Me: But that means it’s also your character’s favourite watch. Or at least a watch your character would wear. Pause. Joe: I didn’t really put that much thought into it.
Me thinking: Having seen Camp Rock, I can believe that.
After they left the table, one of the other journalists at my table (who was from Malaysia) complimented me for having the guts to ask them about the purity rings, since she’d been told not to bring it up.
Oops.
Me: We weren’t supposed to talk about the purity rings?
Malaysian Journalist: Well, my boss told me not to mention it, since so many American teenagers wear the rings anyway and it’s not a big deal.
The journalists from Germany and the UK and I all burst out laughing before telling her that no, most American teenagers do not wear purity rings. The Malaysian journalist blushed and swore and we all enjoyed a hearty laugh at her expense. Mockery: bringing people together.
As for Demi Lovato, she’s a very pretty girl and is clearly trying to appear more “edgy” than she does in the movie. LOADS of black eye makeup, black nail polish, an ACDC T-shirt, and a bomber jacket with the sleeves pushed up. Way to leave Barney and Friends in the past!
I did hear a rumor about her at the press junket that she was in an elevator with her Disney handler and some of the other journalists, except she didn’t realize they were press, and she made a comment about how annoying it was to have to share the elevator with regular people and tourists. I have absolutely no proof that this happened, but it’s kinda funny, and I like talking shit about people, so GOOD ENOUGH.
I also ended up interviewing Julie Brown, and the look on her face when she realized that the crazy fan from the night before was an actual member of the press was priceless. You will be happy to know that I didn’t even have the sense to act ashamed. Instead, I was like, “Ha, you have to act like you like me so I won’t write bad things about you. Sucka!”
One of the other actresses in the movie, Alyson Stoner, was both lovely to talk to and incredibly depressing. She told us that she’d just graduated high school and was looking to start college in the near future. SHE IS FOURTEEN YEARS OLD. If you are ever looking to feel bad about how little you have accomplished in your life, spend five minutes talking to her. However, she won a lot of points by admitting the clothes she had to wear in Camp Rock were ridiculous and she was a little embarrassed about it. I was like, “This is on the record! Disney is going to send hitmen after you!”
In the lobby of the hotel, I met BRADLEY COOPER of Alias fame, and good lord, he is a gorgeous man. I was very, very suave, and said something like, “HEY! YOU’RE BRADLEY COOPER!” and then I blushed furiously, shook his hand, and ran away.
Every once in a while, I’d go down to the street to have a cigarette, and there were about 10 girls waiting on the sidewalk for the off chance the Jonas brothers would come down and say hi. They were there at 10 a.m. and were still there when I left at 5. Everytime I went down, they would hound me for information.
Girls: What are they doing? What’s going on? Are they done soon?
Me: I don’t know. We just had lunch.
Girls: What did they eat?!
Me: I didn’t eat lunch with them. I just get to interview them later.
Girls: OMG WTF YOU ARE SOOOOOO LUCKY.
Me: Sure.
Girls: So what do they do after?
Me: Listen. I sit in a room. The Jonas brothers come in, I talk to them, and they leave. If they’re not in the room, I have absolutely no idea what they’re doing.
Girls: If we give you a note, will you give it to them?
Me: No.
Girls: Why not?!
Me: That’s really, really unprofessional.
Girls: Why?
Me: Maybe if you weren’t skipping school, you’d learn why.
When I left, though, I did give the girls my bag o’ swag (minus the Camp Rock hoodie, because it was crazy comfortable). However, I only gave it to them on one condition.
Me: I will give this to you if you stop skipping school to follow shitty bands.
Girls: THE JONAS BROTHERS ARE NOT SHITTY.
Me: Fine, I’ll take my bag with me, then.
Girls: NOOOOOO OKAY FINE.
Me: I don’t believe you.
Girls: NO REALLY!
Me: I still don’t believe you, but lucky for you, I don’t want to take this on the plane with me.
Girls: WOOO HOOOO EEEEEE!!!
Me: Seriously, though, what is it about the Jonas brothers that makes it worth your time to spend hours upon hours waiting on the sidewalk on the off chance they will come down and talk to you?
Girls: They’re so sweet and their music is great and it speaks to us and they’re really nice and we know they’re going to come down and talk to us because they’re soooo good to their fans.
Me: But they’re probably just going to shake your hand and sign a few autographs. You’ll be happy with that, after standing around for seven hours?
Girls: YESSSSS!
Me: …Jesus. Good luck, guys.
And with that, I left to go cram as much sight-seeing as I could into my remaining two hours in New York City. I made it to the Central Park zoo, Time Square, and MoMA, all of which managed to get rid of most of the bad taste in my mouth left by all the Jonas brothers ass-kissing I witnessed.
I did have a fantastic time in New York - including seeing Camp Rock and talking to the Jonas brothers - and as bitchy and sarcastic as I was about the whole press experience, I was pretty jazzed that my job still allowed me to go to New York for free. Hell, I’d spend a week spooning with the Jonas brothers if it meant I got to go to New York for free. And then I’d probably make a few bucks letting their 14-year-old fans touch the parts of my body that touched the Jonas brothers.
Only for two days, and… it’s for the Camp Rock premiere. I will be meeting the Jonas brothers and watching this God-awful movie. But still, free trip to New York! Score!
The streets below are filled with screaming girls. I don’t remember ever having this much pep or lung power when I was that age. The best part? None of the stars have even ARRIVED yet. They’re just screaming because they can.
I’ll have plenty of tales to tell when I return, I’m sure, so you should definitely hold your breath.
Now, lest I give off the impression that celebrity gossip is all glamour and hangovers, I should make it clear that, most of the time, I am interviewing people I know next to nothing about.
I know, I know, it’s my job to do this, and it’s also my job to do research beforehand so I know what the hell I’m talking about. I do this. But my knowledge of many of my interview subjects is still far, far less than my knowledge of, say, cake. Because I love cake. I will go out of my way to get cake when I want some. It is delicious and I want it in my life as much as possible.
The guy from the new Knight Rider show? I couldn’t care less if he were in my life. So when it came to doing research about him, I wasn’t exactly going to spend a weekend researching his life, calling up his high school sweethearts, his bank, the kid who mows his lawn, etc. I will Google his name, I will watch the god-awful Knight Rider TV movie from a few months ago, and then I will go interview him. This is a 300-word article. This is how it works.
The worst part, though, is that I want to care about the new Knight Rider show. I love Knight Rider. I love KITT. I love the Hoff. It was a horrible - and therefore great - show.
But the TV movie that served as backdoor pilot for the reimagined series? Oh, god, it’s fucking terrible. First of all, the fact that Will Arnett had to back out of doing the voice of KITT is a travesty. Because KITT is supposed to have a little air of mischief to him. Well, okay, in the original, it was more an air of gay, but Arnett’s vocal talents would have been comparable. Both voices were a subtle wink to the audience that the show was ridiculous, but that it was all right to enjoy it anyway.
Instead, the voice of KITT is Val Kilmer. One of the most humorless buttheads in all of show business. Sure, his serious, no-funny-business voice is more like what an actual car company would make their robot car sound like, but guess what? I’m not watching a show about a FRICKIN’ ROBOT CAR for realism.
Anyway.
So the TV movie sucked, but I have to go interview the guy who is playing the lead in the new show. I know hardly anything about this guy but I have some questions and can probably fake it a little.
Except that when I get in there, I cannot for the life of me remember the guy’s name.
So I’m shaking his hand, all, “Hi, great to meet you, how’s it going?” You know, common curtesy bullshit.
His name is not coming to me. For some reason, my brain thinks:
Walter Koenig!
No, brain. I am not interviewing Chekov from Star Trek.
Are you suuuuuure?
Yes, I’m sure.
Wouldn’t that be cool if you were, though?
Yes. But I’m not. I’m interviewing this guy.
This guy is much cuter than he looked on TV.
Well, he’s over 5′7″, so already he’s got an advantage over most other actors.
Ask him if he’s ever met Walter Koenig.
No.
Come on.
I’m done talking to you now.
So I managed to do the entire interview with the guy without ever once using his name - without even having to awkwardly segue out of a sentence that needed to use his name. But then the guy hasn’t really been in anything other than this new Knight Rider show. So… What was your life like growing up? When did you know you wanted to be an actor? What was auditioning for the show like? How is the new show different from the old one? (Hint: the new one sucks.) Is it weird acting opposite a car? Why is the new KITT so much less gay than the old one?
…Shit.
Did I just ask why KITT is less gay now?
Yeah. You did. It was awesome.
Shit. Maybe I forgot to turn my recorder on and there will be no proof I ever said it.
Oh, you turned it on.
Crap. Look at whatshisface. What’s he doing?
Laughing.
Seriously?
Yeah, he’s talking about how he never noticed KITT’s gay voice until someone else pointed it out to him and now that’s all he can hear whenever he watches the old show.
Huh. This guy’s not that bad.
You should hit on him.
No.
Lame.
I’ll tell you what I will do: I’m going to go back to the office and look him up on IMDB so I’ll remember his name.
I am going to reveal something that will surely make you think I am very super awesome.
Are you ready? Are you?
I have interviewed Lauren Conrad.
In person.
Admit it: you want to fuck me.
I hated every minute of it, but not for the obvious reason that she’s a no-talent poo-bag.
Okay, not entirely because of that.
No, I pretty much hate doing interviews in general because I am not a person who can think on my feet. I am very bad at articulating my thoughts on the spur of the moment. This is fine for writing, but when it comes to asking someone a question about something I just thought of, it usually comes out something like this:
“So, uh, you know how you did that thing… With the… um… dogs? Yeah, dogs. There were dogs. So how, um… I mean, doing stuff is hard… But with DOGS… It’s gotta be, um… harder to deal with… You know, when the dogs are doing their dog things. I mean, they’re doing the things while you’re trying to do things, but you can do your things when the dog is doing dog things. So, um, how did you do that?”
You think I’m exaggerating. I have actually edited the previous paragraph to make myself sound less like concussed mental patient.
Also, I am always very freaked out that I will not have enough questions to fill the time. I mean, sure, if every time I watched The Hills and I had some question, like, “Jason? Really? The guy who thinks a chinstrap is a good substitution for a jawline?” and I wrote that down in a special “IN CASE YOU INTERVIEW LAUREN CONRAD ONE DAY” notebook, then yes, I would have hours and hours of questions to ask her. But when the interview is set up and I have to spend some time simply coming up with questions, then I just stare at my empty notebook for what seems like hours. It’s the opposite of the “Don’t think of pink elephants” conundrum. “Think of some questions!” “Uh… I like unicorns.”
So I wasn’t really looking forward to my interview with Lauren Conrad anyway, but then combine that with the fact that I, you know, hate her and I knew she’d show up looking skinny and impeccably dressed and sober and basically everything that I am not. The only thing I thought I had over her is that I am taller than she is and I don’t have a fake tan that makes me look dirty.
Well, it turns out that Lauren is not only taller than I am, but she also likes wearing 6″ stilettos that thrust her so high I was worried she was going to keel over.
Also, her tan is not nearly offensive in person.
So, basically: fuck her.
And it shouldn’t really have come as a surprise, since I knew it already, but she really is the most media-prepped person in the world. Everything had a rehearsed response and was said with this calm, relaxed smile. It was like talking to HAL if HAL was a no-talent poo-bag in a cute skirt.
And again, I knew she would be like this, but I was still unprepared for how impossible it would be to get her to say anything interesting. She’d obviously be coached to keep her answers short, so anything she said the basic information needed to answer my question and nothing more.
Remember how I worry that I won’t have enough questions to fill the interview time? Yeah. LC didn’t really help. THIS WAS A TEN-MINUTE INTERVIEW.
Now, very luckily for me, I think my incompetent question-asking ability actually confused her a little bit, because she eventually slipped up and said something a little bit stupid. I mean, not monumentally stupid, but stupid enough that I was able to focus my article on it.
Because while I suck during interviews, I am completely, completely great at turning the shitty interview into a great article. That is not to say that I manipulate what they say or present their quotations in a way that changes the meaning of what they say. But once I type up the transcript of everything my interview subject has said, I’m like Little Man Tate all of a sudden. I’m seeing patterns, I’m seeing angles nobody’s ever thought of, and bam! Off to the races.
And, in case you were wondering, yes, this is one of the parts of my job that makes me happy. Or, at least, it counteracts how bad I feel about myself after spending fifteen minutes sputtering and stammering in front of a celebrity, so it evens out.
There’s even a brief feeling of triumph when my scathing article comes out - TAKE THAT, LAUREN, WITH YOUR STUPID PRETTY HAIR - but then I remember that she gets to shove that pain down deep inside and cover it in new shoes.
You’ve won this round, LC. But we’ll see who’s really laughing when I yell insults at my TV during the fourth season premiere of The Hills. Oh, yes. We’ll see.
So some of you may be wondering, how does one become a celebrity gossip reporter when you don’t really like celebrities? How do you stop yourself from stabbing your cubicle mate? How do you sleep at night?
Well, I’m here to answer those questions… AND MORE!
First, get a bachelor’s degree in English literature. But don’t go to class very often - make sure your grades are good enough to graduate, but bad enough to ensure you couldn’t possibly get into grad school. Not even Hollywood Upstairs Medical College.
Next, entertain your delusion that could you will write the next Pulitzer-winning novel. Write about ten pages before you realize you barely have 5,000 words in you, let alone a couple hundred thousand.
Consider going to journalism school before you realize that it will probably be harder than your English degree was, and fuck that shit.
Waitress for four months before realizing that the next time someone makes a fuss about how extra dipping sauce is fifty cents, you are going to stab them. With a spoon.
Spend a few of weeks sleeping in so late that you now wake up at 6 p.m. and go to sleep at 9 a.m. You don’t have anything productive to do, so you end up reading every celebrity gossip site you possibly can. Oh, you read them before, but now you start doing it in earnest because you honestly have no other responsibilities. You feel very guilty for it, but you CAN’T STOP. It’s like heroin. Who cares if you’re unemployed living in a basement, studio apartment that has wood panelling? LINDSAY LOHAN ISN’T WEARING UNDERPANTS.
In a stroke of “luck,” a friend of yours who actually went on to become a serious journalist puts you in touch with an editor at a gossip mag. Hide your hideous self-loathing well enough that you appear genuinely interested in writing about celebrities instead of just spending your day talking about what horrible people they are. Make the editor like you with your Powerpuff Girls messenger bag. (This was a few years ago, so update that to Hannah Montana bag or whatever is hip with the kiddies these days.)
The first few times you write a bit of celebrity news, write it out as though you were allowed to tear these people to shreds. Don’t hold back. If you hope Paris Hilton gets cancer of the AIDS and fucking dies, write it down.
Then, delete all the mean parts and submit it to your editor.
Bring headphones to work so you can tune out your cubicle mate playing Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” on repeat.
Remember a better time when you never had to listen to Carrie Underwood.
“I dug my keys into the side of his pretty little souped-up, four-wheel - OH FUCKING GODDAMMIT.”
When your first paycheque comes, be sad that it’s not enough to forget how dirty you feel, but hey! It’s enough to buy a lot of vodka!
Become a regular at your local liquor store. Try some new recipes. Begin to spend your paycheque on setting up a truly rad bar. No, you don’t invite people over - you live in a wood-panelled basement studio apartment, remember? - but at least this way, you can pretend you do. It becomes a lot easier to pretend the more alcohol you drink.
Realize that even though you are part of the most hated group of journalists, you can no longer go one day without checking celebrity gossip sites. Or the news wire. Or - dear God - Access Hollywood.
Resolve to quit.
Resolve to quit after your next paycheque.
Get your next paycheque and realize you’re very close to affording a Wii.
Resolve to quit after you’ve bought a Wii. And GTA IV. And Rock Band. And Mario Kart.
Ooh, and all those DVDs that are on your Amazon wish list. Oh, and the two books on there, too.
An iPhone would be nice.
Realize you’re going to stay at your job until you find an easier way to make more money.
Sigh. Repeatedly.
Open up a bottle of vodka and a bag of Cheetos while you sit and watch Billy Bush jabber about Tom Cruise.
Pass out on your bean bag chair, covered in Cheeto dust, until the dawn comes and the vicious cycle begins anew.
When I complained yesterday about slow days and how I eagerly grab up any big celebrity event just so I’ll have something to do, I never expected this fucking thing. Really, Us Weekly? Heidi Fucking Montag is on the cover of your magazine again because she got engaged again to the same guy again? You are only encouraging her! You are preventing this girl from learning valuable life lessons about being a contributing member of society!
Come on, there is not one person in the world who truly gives a fuck about what goes on in Heidi and Spencer’s relationship because they have made it perfectly clear that their main priority is to stay famous. Even if they do get married, it is absolutely not because they are in love with each other, it’s because they get more camera time when they’re together. And if they’re “permanently” together, well, that’s a lot more attention for them. Just think how much the magazines will pay for the exclusive rights to their divorce photos in a few years? Scratch that: months. If not weeks.
It’s to the point that there’s no point in watching their segments on The Hills. (Insert “there’s no point to watching The Hills, period” joke here.) Who cares if they’re broken up on the show when we’re forced to look at their annoying-as-fuck “Oh, my God, I can’t believe there are photographers here while we go on a spontaneous Easter Egg Hunt while wearing bunny ears, which we would totally be doing even if there weren’t any cameras” photos.
So I had to write about Heidi asking Spencer to propose again. Note to self: liquor store by apartment has a sale on vodka.
You know how on every “mainstream” celebrity news website or in those magazines, everything is written with such eagerness and optimism, as if everything that happens to these people is seriously the best thing that has ever happened and we should all just be so happy and excited that we even get to know about it?
The person who wrote that hates herself.
We are perfectly aware of how ridiculous and “golly gee willikers” it sounds. We know how stupid it is to even pretend to care about whether or not Heidi gets married. We all sit at our small desks (which are all about two feet away from each other) and we all trash talk every single celebrity we’re currently praising on our website and in our magazine. The filthiest, most inappropriate comments you can think of can barely approach what we say about Scarlett Johansson, Jessica Simpson, Ashton Kutcher, Zac Efron, etc. etc. In the safe haven of our “offices,” we are the most deplorable human beings to walk the earth.
But if we’re mean to a celebrity in print, they might refuse to talk to us or pose for photos ever again. If they’re a particularly popular celebrity whose photos help us sell issues or attract visitors, this is Bad For Business. Trust us, nothing would make us happier than to put our true opinions out into the world, but sadly, those kind of moves will eventually (or quickly) get you fired.
Yes, that would free up more time for Guitar Hero, but when the electricity finally gets shut off in your apartment, having a free schedule suddenly gets a lot more boring.
So, instead, we write things like, “Heidi summed of the courage to swallow her pride and admit to herself that she and her on-again-off-again beau, Spencer Pratt, were meant to be together.”
I feel dirty. I feel gross and dirty and it’s horrible. But it’s not completely without its rewards. I mean, at least I’m getting that sweet, journalism paycheck, right? That should pay for 3% of my outrageous VISA bill and leave enough left over for some Pop Tarts.
Sometimes, I sit at my desk, praying for somebody famous to OD.
I don’t want them to die. I’m not a monster. Not that I think me praying for someone’s death has any real effect on whether or not they die, but even I have to admit that explicitly wishing for someone’s heart to stop beating is a little harsh. Actually, amend that: it’d almost be understandable to wish someone dead if they someone who had hurt or angered me in a serious way, like if they punched my mom ortried to make me watch Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas when I’d already made it very clear that I just didn’t like the fucking movie (are you listening, Gary?). But if I haven’t actually interacted with someone in any real way, shape, or form, even I can admit that hoping they’ll die is a little extreme.
But entertainment news, like anything else, experiences fast days and slow days. And when it’s slow, it’s fucking slow. On slow days, you eagerly accept a story about Ali Sims walking her dog. Or the Jonas Brothers still being virgins. Some child star complains about Hollywood being unfair. I jump at these stories just so I’ll have something to do. There are only so many Scrabble games I can play at a time on Facebook.
So, on the painfully, painfully slow days, I scour the entertainment news wires, hoping that an Olsen took too many Trimspa or that Lindsay Lohan put on too many pairs of leggings at once and has been rushed to a nearby hospital where whoever is expected to make a full recovery but will probably be entering 30-day treatment program to deal with their addiction.
When that happens, I have hours upon hours of work to finally fill my day. I write about shocking - SHOCKING - drug/booze/leggings binge that led to this tragic event, the history of the celebrity’s addiction, and the maximum jail sentence that such a crime may warrant. I find out what other celebrities have to say about it. I find photographs of other celebrities during their low points and I write about those times. I update the article - and all related articles - several times throughout the day. It gives my day a sense of purpose, even if the news itself doesn’t matter by the next day, which it usually doesn’t.
The goal is to get to 5 o’clock as quickly as possible. If a celebrity on the edge of death helps speed things up a little, then that’s what I want.
Well. That’s not entirely true. I pray for a celebrity to OD when it is convenient for me. If it’s 4:45 p.m. and someone shoots up with a little too much heroin, I am fucking pissed. I was 15 minutes away from going home, opening one to seven bottles of beer, sitting down on the floor between my couch and my coffee table and getting drunk while watching Facts of Life reruns. So if something big happens soon before I’m going home for the day, that celebrity can rest assured that I am going to put as little effort as possible into my story about them. I don’t care if you were caught fellating a monkey while Britney Spears herself was cooking meth in your kitchen. I will do my job and write about how much of a fuckup you are, but I will get no joy out of it. Which means you have effectively ruined my day.
Granted, this isn’t hard to do, but there’s a difference between a day that sucked all by itself and a day that was ruined by somebody ODing right before I was going to get beer.
