BlackBook Intern Talk!

Fader time?

I don’t know what fader time is. I don’t really care, either. All I know is it just saved me from eternal self-loathing and loss of journalistic integrity.

I was supposed to interview the Kills at eleven this morning. I fucking love them. I fought for this interview. Kinda. I didn’t have any competition, but I made it clear that I would fight for it if need be.

At 10:57 my espressos finally kicked in and I ran screaming to my editor, who had also apparently forgotten. He called the PR lady who set this whole thing up, and—

it’s at eleven FADER TIME. AKA noon. Maybe fader time means the next time zone over. That would make sense. Maybe it means rock-stars-tend-to-be-faded-and-operate-behind-schedule. One thing is clear, though: I have fifty-seven minutes to collect myself and organize my thoughts before talking to (in my opinion) the greatest rock duo of the new millenium. —AG

In case you are poor in NYC...

What could be more exciting than a 4 hour trip to IKEA in Brooklyn with 3 other interns to pick up 10 folding chairs for the office?

How about the fact that IKEA sells all 3, breakfast, lunch, and dinner for under $5 in their food court. NOT even joking. 2 hot dogs, chips, and a soda for $2.50… people, you can’t find that anywhere these days. $1 for a nice hot cinn-a-bon. $1 for a soft pretzel.

The best part- as I walked off the water taxi with my 3 folding chairs in hand on to Wall Street, I asked the street vendor politely “Sir, how much are your soft pretzels?”

“Two dolla” he replied. A triumphant smile spread accross my face. Thank you IKEA.

-B. Bek!

presents!!

I just got my fanfriggintastic intern-of-the-week gifts:

NARS Super orgasm blush

Sephora electro glitter eye pencil (set of five.) (i wanted to buy this anyway!!!)

cute silver clutch-style Sephora bag

napoleon perdis lip primer

napoleon perdis skin primer

and apparently i had four nominations. which is delightfully mysterious, since i can think of maybe two people who i would have expected that from!

Thanks guys!! —AG

Sound Advice

Because it’s my last week with BlackBook, I sat down with editors B and N to discuss my performance this summer and any advice they have for my future as a struggling writer/editor.

Since this blog is supposed to offer guidance to other starry-eyed young hopefuls, I thought I’d share these inspirational gems:

• Stop. Go into finance or something.
• Get cooler friends, particularly ones who sleep with famous people.
• …but don’t write about it. Unless you work for Star or something.
• Get the hell out of wherever-you’re-from-that-isn’t-NY-LA-or-Chicago.
• Know people in the business. Facebook message them begging for work.
• Don’t be obsessed with Mary-Kate.
• Or at least don’t mention it until you’re too essential to be fired. Namely, when you’re an actual member of the payroll.

Good, now that you’re feeling motivated and inspired, the other tidbits:

• Freelance, freelance, freelance. That is, unless you have a penchant for cramped studios and ramen noodles.
• Pare stuff down, especially for web writing. Short=sweet.
  
• Find good sources to help you stay on top of pop culture. Don’t write about old news, and don’t write what everyone else is writing. Find your own stories, and if you can’t do that, find your own angle.
• Cater to the publication at hand. Pay attention to their slant and work with it.
• When you’re already interning, never turn down a request. If they ask, “Would you mind going to the trash dump and interviewing disgruntled employees?” the answer is, “Not at all!” and then do it as well as you can. You’re never gonna get to hang out with Mary-Kate if you turn down the bum jobs. (Or ever, as I’ve discovered, but whatever. Not bitter. Nooope. Have fun at your stupid party on Friday, N.)
• Check out websites like mediabistro.com.
• Read a variety of publications. Serious magazines, light-hearted magazines, blogs, newspapers. Don’t be a one-trick pony.
• Avoid cliches.

—AG

The 7th Thing I Hate the Most about the Itunes' Top Songs

The Itunes Music Store’s Top Songs list, has started to become, to me, similar in nature to having a large train smash into my upper thighs, over and over again. Today, The Jonas Brothers, have finally reached peak position, (no pun intended towards the pristine and boning-free gentleman) with their rousing number, “Tonight.” This brilliant piece of music simply repeats, “we’re not gonna work this out tonight/we’re not gonna make this right,” over and over again, as the boys whine their virginal little hearts out. Katy Perry follows them with, “I Kissed a Girl.” Um, good for you, Katy? You are the only girl to ever have kissed another girl, and it is crucial, if not entirely essential, that you let us all know about it in that teeth-grinding, reminiscent of a cat on acid voice. At least Miley’s “7 Things,” has drowned, in a slow and painful death, to the bottom of the top 10 list. The Jonas Brothers get one more song, and The Pussycat Dolls make an appearance, with, “When I Grow Up.” Yes, when will that be? I’m pretty sure we’re all wondering. The one sparkle on the list, is, perhaps, Rihanna’s “Disturbia.” The rhythm is a menacing pounding in your head that is both terrifying and intoxicating. When Rihanna hits her on and off high notes, you go up with her. The beat is almost danceable, but one is so busy relating to the lyrics that the movements don’t quite produce themselves. “Disturbia” stands out in a very stereotyped and compartmentalized genre, so hats off to Jay-Z’s talented mistress. “Viva la Vida” by Coldplay is okay, too. It basically sounds like all of their other songs. The fuss about that album is a little extreme, don’t you think? I tried to listen to it, but then I fell asleep. I could do with a little less easy listening in the modern music world, and a little more creativity. I say that Katy Perry should kiss less girls, and the Jonas Brothers should kiss more, and we’ll call it a day.

-N.G.

Lesson Learned

I’m just an intern. I do mass mailings. I unpack boxes. I offer to get lattes in the hopes that coffee runs will garner a good rec at the end of my four-month stint. But I’m lucky enough to intern for a publication that gives me editorial assignments instead of typical admin bullshit expected of bottom-rung feeders. And when prized opportunities arise, like doing red carpet interviews with Chris Brown, Ne-Yo, and Julianne Hough at the Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum Press Conference, I’m smart enough to take them. (Plus, I like totally heart Chris Brown and Ne-Yo). Yesterday afternoon will forever be one of the most exciting, educational, and humiliating afternoons of my life.  It was exciting because I had the undivided attention of a certified-platinum superstar for 1.3 minutes before PR reps/refs blew the whistle, educational because new experiences always are, and humiliating because I let someone delete photos of Brown I took during his performance.

After the press conference, I wandered around the theatre waiting for the concert to begin; and somehow, I made it backstage. I, a lowly intern, was backstage eating a homemade sandwich and watching Brown gyrate his hips for his screaming fans. I, a nobody, was in the wings, directly across a female R&B sensation with a pixie haircut, and was watching her sing along to the ballad, “No Air.” Perhaps she felt a deeper connection to the high-flown romantic lyrics. “This is what it’s like to have access,” I thought as I started to take pictures. I’ve made it.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. “What are you doing? How did you get here?” a woman asked me. She demanded that I give her my camera. Unknowingly, I had apparently done a very, very bad thing and Chris’s “people” were very, very upset.

So I, being just an intern—and one ignorant of her rights—delivered the goods.  I was then asked to leave the area by a different PR rep who, again, asked how I managed to breach security.  We were met in the lobby by yet another PR rep who also asked the question du jour. Then the second rep provided the icing on my humiliation cake when she confiscated my press conference pass.

After finding the nearest exit, I rushed downtown to relate my experience to my editor. He explained that while they couldn’t legally steal my camera, they could have had me arrested for trespassing if I chose to be uncooperative. But what did I know? I’m just an intern.

—Resalin

MGMT pool party in the rain

It started off like any other free summer concert in the city. I showed up two hours before the gates opened, got scorched in line, people cut and I swore under my breath that blood would be shed before I cut in line myself, and had to piss so bad but tried to “wait it out” for fear that for some miraculous reason the line would start to move any faster than 0.000013 MPH (phew that has to be considered a run-on sentence, but shit it gets the point of my anxiety across). Luckily, my anxiety was shed once I pulled a Forrest Gump and hauled ass to a dingy park bathroom and back in time to see that the line had still only moved 1/25th of a millimeter. Then the rain set in, but I was in a swimsuit and didn’t care. Besides, it was MGMT and like any other devoted fan Hurricane Katrina couldn’t even make me want to leave this line. Finally, me and my fellow interns Ashley and Chris weaseled our way in. And, well, I present to you my photo essay of the days events:

First, Chris and I were dead set on the slip and slide. I mean, I haven’t seen a pool all summer, how could I not be? 

Then we observed hippy dancing. Like any other true hippy dancing these girls didn’t care they didn’t have shoes on and probably contracted foot fungus. 

This one contracted Herpes. P.S.: How messed up do you have to be to sit down in a puddle at McCarren Park Pool in Brooklyn? This is my anti-drug. 

Then MGMT came on and life was good:

Yes, those are panties.

Just another day in the life of being a BlackBook Intern. Here Chris and I smile pretty for the camera.

— KATIE PARKER

tres tres

Other than the free food, free booze, and free entry to places I wouldn’t bother trying to go otherwise, my favorite part of representing BlackBook at events is the VIP treatment.

There’s just something about having PR reps, too-cool-for-school people, and product pushers falling all over themselves to make sure you’re accommodated.

And those beautiful words, “Oh, you’re with the press!”

Why yes, yes I am. Sure, I’m not on the payroll, and I haven’t finished my college degree, and I don’t even live in this city. But for the rest of the week (and the past two months) I AM the press, and I will happily let doormen highlight my name and hotel reps seek me out as though I matter for as long as they’d like. —AG

My First Errand

This afternoon, Abby, Katie, Chris and I went on nice summer stroll to the Madison Square post office. It was a gorgeous day—the sun was shining, the pigeons were aloft, and the Chrysler building thrust upwards into the clear blue sky like a sharp needle in a concrete haystack—and I was lucky enough to leave the dim office to mail bags and bags and bags of Blackbook mags to lucky recipients. It was my first time to do mail duty and I was psyched. My internship experience would be incomplete if I left the office without ever participating in the hullabaloo that is mail call.

Before leaving the office, we overloaded shopping bags with manila envelopes until each bag weighed about 53.2 lbs. Chris’s bag was so full that the woven handles tore off. We tried to mooch a new bag from Manhattan Kitchen and Bath Center for him but they claimed to not possess shopping bags. Oh well—Chris is man enough to handle the load. (har, har, har).

I had never been to the post office before so I was glad that Chris, a seasoned mail boy, decided to take the lead. Two blocks into our midday trek, we all ditched the handles and began to carry our load using both arms, the bags clutched to our chests like swaddled infants. So there we were, four Blackbook interns on an important errand, dodging lost tourists, yellow taxis, and crazed dogs, as we zig-zagged up the city streets.

I was worried when I saw the long line at the post office. I thought we would have to wait with the crowd (don’t people work anymore?) but Chris sped right past them and headed to the back where the slots labeled “All Mail” and “Overstuffed Mail” are located. “Watch out for the sticky things on the front,” Chris said. “Those are international mailings and we don’t want to get them mixed up.”

We were all intently stuffing slots with manila envelopes, pausing only to let others shuffle in their mail, when we heard a tiny, high-pitched voice say: “What magazine do you work for?” (I mean…who else would be at the post office doing mass mailings but interns working for renowned publications)?

A young, blond girl in linen shorts and a white tank was addressing me.
“Blackbook,” I replied.
“Oh, Ok. I recognized the bag. I intern at Cosmo and we get those bags all the time.”

My battered arms couldn’t help but notice the bright blue laundry cart holding the teeny package she was delivering.

“She gets a cart,” I said.

“Oh, Cosmo didn’t give this to me. This is mine. I’m mailing stuff home because I don’t want to hassle with airport security,” she replied.

We finished our mailing and filed out, the heavy metal doors shutting quietly behind us.

—Resalin