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.

Superstar Smorgasbord

The adrenaline and energy surging between stars and reporters during red carpet interviews is amazing. To a red carpet virgin such as myself, I could only imagine that photo and interview ops like the Wrigley’s Spearmint Press Conference are akin to feeding chum to a school of ravenous Great White sharks. Reporters, lured by the scent of expensive cologne, circle the carpet with their tape recorders in hopes of getting a juicy bite for their publication. Here, Blackbook offers you the chum of the day—a succulent stew of Chris Brown, Ne-Yo, and Julianne Hough. Bon Appetit!

Ne-Yo: The perfect gentleman gives a shout-out to Lindsey Lohan. RR: You're looking so rat pack these days. Can you tell me about what you're wearing? Ne-Yo: button down, red shirt, tie, nice fedora. This is my thing--the year of the gentleman.

RR: How did you come up with this concept?
Ne-Yo: Basically, it's me making an assessment of the business and seeing that the essence of what it means to be a gentleman is lacking nowadays. For example, the guy that will pull a woman's chair out for her when they sit down to eat, the guy that will open a car door for a lady, the guy that takes the time to make sure he looks his best when he walks out of the house, that guy is far and few in between. So I'm basically leading by example, trying to show cats what it means to be a gentleman again.

RR: Would you ever consider doing your own fashion line?

Ne-Yo: I don't really have a lot of free time but maybe once I slow down on my artistry.

RR: I know you're working with John Legend, Lindsay Lohan. Are you planning on changing or adding to their respective sounds?

Ne-Yo: John Legend is John Legend. There's no changing that guy--he is who he is. Lindsay Lohan—I didn't really know what to do with her. It was a shot in the dark with that one. We did something a little dancy and tried to bring a little energy to her and she loved it. She cut it and it was fantastic.

Chris Brown: Matchy-matchy in blue and yellow from his flat-billed cap to his Nike sneaks, CB talks shop.

RR: I hear that you're doing your own reality dance series. How is that working out?

CB: My dance series is still in the works right now. It's not gonna be like America's Best Dance Crew even though that's an incredible show. But it’s gonna be different from the more cliché dance shows.

RR: How are they cliché?

CB: Because all of them are based on the same thing: Judges. You know what I'm saying? They get certain people to judge for ratings. This won't be about big judges. No offense to JC Chasez or Lil Mama or none of them. Lil Mama dances to a degree but she's not a trained dancer. JC, he danced in a boy band, so he was taught everything he danced. You know what I'm saying? They need to get the old Gods of Breaking. They need to get legendary dancers that people might not know of, but who are hands on, that do real choreography. Right now, we're thinking it might be called Break Nation. It's grittier, more street, showing the urban elements of hip-hop and b-boy. It's not a bubblegum-type show. I'm just included because I believe in it.

Julianne Hough: Two-time Dancing with the Stars champ trades glittery heels for cowboy boots.

RR: How is your tour with Brad Paisley going?

JH: Oh my gosh, it's unbelievable. He's such an amazing artist, writer and I just think he's a great guy. He's really generous. He lets his opening acts--me, Jewel, Chuck Wicks--we all get to use the stage.

RR: Do you get to do much dancing on the stage?

JH: Not too much. I'm not breaking out into a waltz, or a tango, or a pasodoble, but I'm definitely moving around the stage, having a good time, and getting the crowd involved.

RR: I know you're remaking the gum jingle, but if you were to remake a country song, what would it be?

JH: Re-do a country song?! Oh my gosh, there's so many. Dolly Parton! Nine-to-Five, that would be so fun. Pam Tillis, anything by her, that would be great. I'm just such a big country fan that I would want to collaborate with any of them and maybe do a duet. That would be cool.

RR: If you could two-step with anybody, who would it be?

JH: I would probably say George Strait. He's probably the hottest older man ever.

Saul Williams aka Niggy Tardust

Sorry for the poor photos. They were taken with my Blackberry and I was in the very, very back.

You're on a spaceship that's hurtling through outer space at the speed of light. Stars, moons, comets, time itself--whiz by. But you're calm because you have absolute faith in the captain commandeering the ship. His ebony skin is covered in war paint and a crown of feathers
jaunt out of his fauxhawk. Perhaps he descended from the bloodlines of an indian war chief or he’s of a fierce aborigine from the jungles of Peru. His name is Niggy Tardust.

An homage to David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust, Niggy Tardust is Saul Williams’s alterego; although onstage at S.O.B.'s, Williams claims that Tardust is Barack Obama. Is he though? When asked who Tardust was during a recent interview with Blackbook Magazine's Ben Barna, he told the reporter that Tardust was "you." Who is it then? The presidential hopeful or a twenty-something writer? Is he you? Am I, him?

From what I gathered at Wednesday night's show, Tardust is a spirit that's embodied by those who are fearless and commanding. Those possessed strut the line between hate and love; ugliness and beauty. They crow loudly, sound the alarm, and demand peace. They fight under a banner portraying an eagle clutching both an olive branch and arrows in its talons. In order to lessen suffering, one must "question, demand, and fight," Williams/Tardust said before launching into his rendition of U2's Bloody Sunday, a crowd favorite.

There aren’t that many Tardusts in this world, but the ones we have make their presence known.

For Blackbook's take on the show: http://www.blackbookmag.com/article/saul-williams-as-niggy-tardust-sobs/3493

A Hamptons Alternative

For those living on a grad school budget, a weekend getaway to milder climes is as feasible as… well, I can't even complete the simile. I think the scorching temps have fried whatever brain cells I had left. Picture the sunny-side up egg in the "This is your brain on drugs" public service announcement starring Rachel Leigh Cook and you'll understand my state of mind. The effects of heat and humidity on the noggin are comparable to that of a narcotic's: NYC inhabitants walk around dazed, confused, and suffering from cotton-mouth. But what's a broke journalism grad student to do when Sallie Mae refuses to fund a trip to the Hamptons?

Yesterday afternoon, I took the 1 train to South Ferry and boarded the prison-orange Staten Island ferry for a cool, breezy jaunt on the Hudson River.

My friends and I raced to the top deck and waved goodbye to sweltering Manhattan and said hello open water. We were lucky enough to be on the starboard side so we had a fantastic view of Lady Liberty. When we got thirsty, we made our way down for $3 beers—cans, no bottles. The bar is sparsely decorated with gleaming stainless steel instead of campy, nautical décor I expected. It's not Babette's, but there's fresh popcorn, pretzels, and hot dogs to snack on. And most importantly, if one popped too many tabs of domestic beverages, one doesn't have to wait in a long line to use the sparkling clean facilities. While the ferry isn't a yacht bobbing on the Atlantic, it beats sweating on the city's sidewalks and in the subways.

Trips to and from Staten Island run every half-hour. Admission is free. My only other tip is to resist the temptation of sitting on the railing, no matter how debonair you may look or what an awesome facebook pic it would make. Have fun and bon voyage!

Departure (leg 2)

After six hours of waiting, I finally got on the fifth flight to LAX: Flight 1605, seat 14 C, flying 1,576 miles over west Texas, our nation’s desert, and the Rockies before making its descent into the City of Angels.

However, I was happy to be marooned on the island of IAH—George Bush International Airport. The airport covers hundreds, maybe even thousands of Houston’s acres. It’s designed like an old airplane hanger—wide open with terminals as big football fields and walls of windows with views of clear blue skies, flat green fields, and navy blue airplanes taking off without me on them. Continental’s corridor spans terminals C through E. Within this corridor, notable eateries include members of the Pappas Corp such as Pappasitos, Pappadeux, and Pappas barbecue. I’ve walked by a Panda Express, Café Famiglia, Auntie Anne’s pretzels, There are two watering alcoholic watering holes for those looking to ease their flight anxieties and standby frustrations. There are two Starbucks servicing Continental fliers. One can also unload wallet contents in the retail stores that hearken to passengers with their enticing window displays. My favorite? The Bass Pro Shop. Just in case you forget to pack the camo or you decide to stock up on fishing lures for the weekend camping trip in the Yukons, you can duck in and stock up on all your outdoorsman needs.

Los Angeles: Departure (leg 1)

I don’t know if this cross-country journey is starting off on the right foot. After I finished packing, I laid down on my bed and promptly fell asleep. But not to worry, I woke up from my brief cat nap in time to haul ass to the street corner so that I could hail a cab because I thought it would be cheaper than ordering a car from Dial 7, which is what I normally do. Hailing a cab in Harlem during rush hour is hard. Since NOBODY wanted to go to La Guardia, I decided to risk it and take a gypsy cab, a beat up Lincoln sedan driven by a Maverick cabbie who charges unsuspecting tourists and desperate New Yorkers exorbitant fees. I could have used public transportation but it’s my first time to fly standby as a travel companion and so I wanted to get there extra early. Plus, I’m spoiled.

So right now, I’m sitting in Gate A2 in New York’s La Guardia Airport hoping and praying that Continental grants me a seat. While I dressed according to first class regulations, I would gladly sit in coach next to a loquacious 500-lb man as long as I get to Houston in time to hop on the connecting flight that would take me to Los Angeles. Yep…coincidentally, my layover is in my home state.

Well, I couldn’t get on the first flight and was rolled over to the next flight to Houston which landed in George Bush International one hour late. On my flight to Houston, I sat between a man whose breath smelled like he had just dined on Jamaican Jerk chicken, and a man who had his volume to his headphone at a decibel level loud enough for me to hear Owen Wilson deliver his mind-blowing lines in Drillbit Taylor. I didn’t watch the movie but from the chuckles and snorts emitting from my fellow passengers, I’m guessing that it was hilarious in a lets-watch-three-kids-get-the-snot-beat-out-of-them-by-two-bullies-for-two-hours kind of way. After landing at 11:16 pm CST, I headed down to baggage claim and saw La Quinta’s ad hanging over the carousel. Being bereft of bed and lodging, I promptly booked a reservation for the night ($146.25, tax included) with Yasmeen who with her smiles and generosity with free toiletries* restored my faith in humanity.

After a hot shower, I crawled into my double bed, read half a chapter of Mitchell’s southern epic, and didn’t stir until the phone rang to wake me up call at 5:15 am. I dressed in yesterday’s attire and made my way down to the lobby to break the night’s fast. A formidable spread lay before me: rock hard-boiled eggs, muffins, bagels, cereals, instant oatmeal and grits (it is Texas), do-it-yourself Belgian waffles, kolaches, and eggrolls—continental indeed! I ate a bagel and schmear and grabbed a banana and coffee for the road.

* As of this moment, my teal suitcase containing my clothes, four pairs of shoes, and my toiletries is waiting for me in LAX airport in the City of Angels. As my mommy pointed out, my luggage made it to LA while its owner did not. All I had with me at check-in was my wallet, chapstick, and Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind.

July 1st (three days before America's birthday and four days before mine!--I know, shameless plug)

It’s Canada Day which means that we should take shots of maple syrup and watch lots of old school hockey (pre- helmet regulations) on ESPN to celebrate our friendly neighbors north of the border. We should also take some time to listen to schmaltzy Celine Dion power ballad her way to our soft sides and eardrums. Our hearts will go on, Celine, for Canada. Stereotypes aside, I’ve enjoyed really getting to know the Canucks I’ve met in the past year since moving from Texas to New York. Very few Canadians make it to Tejas—I think they’re afraid of the sun. Seriously, Canadians are just like us albeit some minor differences: They say “aboot”, we say “about” properly; they have Timmy Hortons, we have Dunkin’ Donuts; they smoke pot in Ontario, we smoke pot undercover. See! We’re all one big North American family. There is one thing, however, I never understood. What’s up with Canadian bacon?

One of my favorite Celine Dion songs. Yes, I am a fan--Filipino's LOVE la chanteuse extraordinaire.