This is the true story of the time I was asked to give my opinion about a screenplay written by a very scary person, who would then have access to my full name and where I worked. Awesome.
"Coverage" is when a Reader- intern (usually an unpaid volunteer blindly groping in the dark at a falsely whispered promise of paying work) reads a script, then writes a small 2-page book report about the script. These interns can be highly qualified, or, not.
In addition to the 2-page synopsis of the script, a Reader is also expected to write 1 or2 pages of professional opinion about the commercial potential of the script.
Finally, the Reader is asked to either "pass" on a script or recommend it. A Reader can pass or recommend just the script itself, just the writer, or the entire package. For example, you can love the concept of a screenplay but hate the way it was written. Or, you can love the writing of a really stupid concept. Or, it can rock or suck out loud all the way through. Either way, you have to form a strong opinion, back it up intellectually, then stand by it as your name and opinion travel up the ladder and eventually get back to the screenwriter's literary agent, who submitted this project in the first place.
On the second day of my Culver City internship, my mentor-intern, the girl who'd trained me the previous day, approached me with a script in her hand. She lowered her voice.
"Hey, you like horror, right?"
I nodded enthusiastically, eager to prove my expertise in my favorite genre.
She weighed the heavy screenplay in her palm.
"Listen- I'm leaving in two days, so I can't take on any additional scripts- I've been hanging on to this one for a while, because I really wanted to do it, but I won't have time now because they put me on another project- I like you. Do you want it?"
"What's so special about it," I asked.
"This guy- the writer- he was an established horror writer- I know you've seen his stuff. Anyway, a few years back he had a really horrific personal tragedy, and this is his first screenplay since that. I just know it's gonna be good, and if you're the one to identify a good screenplay, then, you know."
"It's good for me."
"Right."
She handed me the screenplay gently, almost reluctantly.
"I know it's gonna be so twisted and great," she said, a twinge of jealousy in her voice.
"Thank you for this," I said.
A few hours later, I was relieved of my front desk shift and allowed to go read. Reverently, I peeled back the title page, and delved into what I thought, at first, was a joke.
This can't be right, I thought.
The characters were so one-dimensional, I thought for sure I was reading the next Scary Movie VI- I kept waiting for the Wayans brothers to appear.
There was some gore, sure, but it was unimaginative and nothing I hadn't already seen in "Ghost Ship" and "The Exorcist."
Really? REALLY?
Thinking my trainer was playing some sort of hazing prank, I googled the writer. "Horrific Personal Tragedy," I thought. Sheyah, right.
...Holy Shit- here is the TRUE STORY of what the writer did:
In 2001, shortly following the massive success from a huge blockbuster remake he wrote, writer X was driving his Cadillac Escalade. At an intersection in Santa Monica, X approached a red light and caused a tiny fender-bender with the smaller car in front of it. The driver of the smaller car and his girlfriend were OK, but the driver got out of his car to see if X was OK.
The driver approached X's Cadillac, and saw X slumped over the steering wheel, with bright red eyes. When the driver asked if X was OK, X responded by pressing his foot down on the accelerator pedal. The driver yelled at X to stop, but X continued to accelerate, pushing the tiny car (with the screaming girlfriend inside it) into oncoming traffic.
A few other cars slammed into the tiny car, killing the girlfriend instantly, and forming a massive pile-up of twisted metal at the intersection. X continued to accelerate, and eventually the plastic bumpers of the wreckage gave way and his Cadillac shot from 0mph to 55mph, rocketing through a crowded glass bus-stop where pedestrians were gathered to gawk at the accident scene.
X drove through the crowd, maiming a few more people, before driving across the sidewalk and through the plate glass window of a crowded bar. His joyride came to a stop at a marble countertop with two dead people pinned against it, crushed from the chest down.
But wait, there's more!
X calmly gets out of his car, completely unscathed, and takes a survey of all the destruction he's caused. He then approaches the shattered glass window, picks up a large shard of broken glass and SLASHES HIS OWN THROAT.
Paramedics arrived shortly afterward, and were able to get writer X to the hospital in time to save his life. However, he refused to tell the doctors his real name, insisting instead that he be registered as "Akin Roam."
X had never used a pseudonym before, but people were later chilled to discover that "Akin Roam" is an anagram for the phrase, "I ran amok."
Wowwwww...
So I finished this piece of crap screenplay, and found myself between a rock and a hard place, which, granted, is better than a Cadillac and a countertop. X never went to jail. X went to rehab and got a slap on the wrist. X was still out there...
This was his first screenplay since this "accident," and I was sad to see that none of the real-life horror found its way into the script. It was awful, awful, awful. And stupid, predictable, ridiculous and boring to boot.
However, he is a known "name" writer. So if I trash it, I run the risk of looking like a fool. If I recommend it, thought, and they read what utter garbage it is, I also look like a fool.
Bottom line is, I had to be honest. So I tactfully, carefully, delicately passed on it, citing reasonably stated concerns with the material.
When I passed on it, my company notified X's agent, who then told X that it had been rejected.
To this day I expect a Cadillac Escalade to come crashing through my windows, with a demon-eyed coked-up X behind the wheel.
He may hate me. But his screenplay totally sucked.
Showing posts with label internships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label internships. Show all posts
Monday, February 8, 2010
L.A. Stories- Jaime vs. Konica
I was peacefully settled at my favorite Intern desk at my CulverCity Internship. It's a large wooden desk, with lots of drawers and a super-comfortable over-upholstered armchair which squeaks like a Kraken. Whenever a portion of a script is awful, I like to swivel the chair in a violent circle and inflict the pain on every intern within earshot. Once I have their attention, I'll read the offending passage and we'll all groan together.
It goes something like this:
In the script, a grizzled lawyer skis down a slope, whooshing though the icy night air, then walks into his ramshackle office and discovers a message from his secretary, who quit because he wouldn't pay her. He takes a swig of alcohol, stares at his dissheveled, grizzled (yet somehow also ruggedly handsome) face in a broken mirror and utters the worst phrase I've ever read as an intern: "The defense rests."
-swivelSKREEEEEEEE!!!!!
And we all fall down.
I was enjoying some reading, and had just about found my groove when I was called into the other room.
Mark, my boss, looks at me and says,
"I'm trying to print out these color graphic novel pages but they won't come out of the coper."
I look at the copier. It has some crypic "error 55-11" message on it. I relay that to Mark and he tells me, "I know. It's done this before and we have to have the guy come out. I need you to fix it."
Crap. Stupid me, I have a degree in screenwriting, not copier repair.
After trying all the usual copier-jostling and finnegling, nothing is working. I call Konica's help line and they tell me that since it's Friday at 3PM, they can't get anyone out to fix the machine until Monday morning. I explain that it's copying things for very important people. They are not impressed and stand their ground. Crap.
I relay this information to Mark, and offer to run to Kinko's if he can put his images on a zip drive. I can have them printed and on his desk in 20 minutes.
"No!" Mark turns cherry red and blows up. "I called you in here because I want you to fix it. I want YOU to dix it. I want to see how you handle this- this is a challenge. So fix it!!!"
Totally taken aback, I retreat to the Konica and stare it down... Did I just get yelled at?
This Konica is massive- it's the kind of copier which has twin turbine engines and a coach and first class sections. It collates. It hole punches. It has Hadron Collider applications. It's epic and scary. Which is why it takes trained technicians to fix it.
Not easily daunted, I start prying open drawers and eventually find SEVEN instruction manuals. They're all for different portions of the machine. I go online to a Konica site and I'm looking for a support chat room or something where I can troubleshoot it with a Konica representative, and I have the office assistant calling to set up the monday appointment.
A few minutes go by as I frantically leaf through the self-help books. Finally, I see a section on error codes.
As I'm flipping to the right page, Mark rounds the corner and says, "It's taking too long. This is ridiculous."
I'm literally on my knees on the floor leafing through these books.
"Do you want me to-"
"No!" He cuts me off. "20 minutes is too long. That's failure. This was a challenge and you failed!"
He walked away as I begin to work my eyelids like a fiend, blinking back hot stupid girl tears.
Don't cry don't cry don't cry.
He asked me to tilt at a windmill then yelled at me when I couldn't do it fast enough. And it sucked.
So I went back to the desk and sulked for a few hours.
Later, Mark found me and appologized, explaining that he was sorry he blew up at me- that he was mad about something else.
Gee-ya think?
Still- his words are so deliciously over-the-top punitive, I will cherish them always.
"This was a challenge, and you failed."
swivel-SKREEEEEE!!!!
You win this round, Konica.
It goes something like this:
In the script, a grizzled lawyer skis down a slope, whooshing though the icy night air, then walks into his ramshackle office and discovers a message from his secretary, who quit because he wouldn't pay her. He takes a swig of alcohol, stares at his dissheveled, grizzled (yet somehow also ruggedly handsome) face in a broken mirror and utters the worst phrase I've ever read as an intern: "The defense rests."
-swivelSKREEEEEEEE!!!!!
And we all fall down.
I was enjoying some reading, and had just about found my groove when I was called into the other room.
Mark, my boss, looks at me and says,
"I'm trying to print out these color graphic novel pages but they won't come out of the coper."
I look at the copier. It has some crypic "error 55-11" message on it. I relay that to Mark and he tells me, "I know. It's done this before and we have to have the guy come out. I need you to fix it."
Crap. Stupid me, I have a degree in screenwriting, not copier repair.
After trying all the usual copier-jostling and finnegling, nothing is working. I call Konica's help line and they tell me that since it's Friday at 3PM, they can't get anyone out to fix the machine until Monday morning. I explain that it's copying things for very important people. They are not impressed and stand their ground. Crap.
I relay this information to Mark, and offer to run to Kinko's if he can put his images on a zip drive. I can have them printed and on his desk in 20 minutes.
"No!" Mark turns cherry red and blows up. "I called you in here because I want you to fix it. I want YOU to dix it. I want to see how you handle this- this is a challenge. So fix it!!!"
Totally taken aback, I retreat to the Konica and stare it down... Did I just get yelled at?
This Konica is massive- it's the kind of copier which has twin turbine engines and a coach and first class sections. It collates. It hole punches. It has Hadron Collider applications. It's epic and scary. Which is why it takes trained technicians to fix it.
A few minutes go by as I frantically leaf through the self-help books. Finally, I see a section on error codes.
As I'm flipping to the right page, Mark rounds the corner and says, "It's taking too long. This is ridiculous."
I'm literally on my knees on the floor leafing through these books.
"Do you want me to-"
"No!" He cuts me off. "20 minutes is too long. That's failure. This was a challenge and you failed!"
He walked away as I begin to work my eyelids like a fiend, blinking back hot stupid girl tears.
Don't cry don't cry don't cry.
He asked me to tilt at a windmill then yelled at me when I couldn't do it fast enough. And it sucked.
So I went back to the desk and sulked for a few hours.
Later, Mark found me and appologized, explaining that he was sorry he blew up at me- that he was mad about something else.
Gee-ya think?
Still- his words are so deliciously over-the-top punitive, I will cherish them always.
"This was a challenge, and you failed."
swivel-SKREEEEEE!!!!
You win this round, Konica.
L.A. Stories- Treachery and the UTA Joblist
By now, any one following these notes should understand that the UTA Joblist is a cruel hoax perpetrated against newcomers and people who can read. However, in my early days as a Los Angelean, I fell prey to it time and time again, because it never occurred to me that people outside of themeparks would advertise for a job that was already filled.
So, once again, the joke was on me when I received a response to my cover letter and resume. I'd applied for the PAYING job of "Executive Assistant" at a "Boutique Talent Agency" in "Beverly Hills." The job required a college degree, some experience within the industry, and a working car. Perfect!
A man named X called me back, and told me that he'd like to interview me for the Executive Assistant position, but first I needed to submit some samples of my writing to his agency. Not a problem. He also emailed me a 12-page long criminal background check form, and asked me to fill it out. He explained that he was the "executive," and that boutique agency" in this case meant working out of his house. Which was not exactly in Beverly Hills, but, whatever, right? A job's a job. And a PAYING job in this town, when everyone else wants me to intern for free? Well! I will gladly submit to a criminal background check...
Hey. Wait a minute- why does he need my mom's maiden name, every school I ever went to, my SSN, my DL#, every job I've ever worked EVER... My employer's addresses? What the Eff???
I smelled a rat, and asked him why he needed such personal information- I felt that a professional criminal background check would see if I had a jail record, not analyze my DNA.
I called him and said that I was uncomfortable faxing over such personal information, and he said, "hey, d'ya want the job or don't you?" Hmm. Now I'm not so sure. A red flag went up when I googled this guy and couldn't find a THING. Jay tried to find him online and also met with no sucess- all we found was a vague business listing- even I leave a bigger web trail than this- it's weird and spooky.
I asked Jay's Aunt and Uncle and they got a friend who works for Sony to do a little digging, and she emailed me a list of X's clients, and vetting him as "legit."
I IMDB'd each and every client, and found the most successful of them to be one of the 15 writers who worked on "Kung Fu Panda." Hmm.
Well, I did indeed need a job, and I had no other options, so I (per his request) faxed him the 17 pages of criminal background check and samples. It cost me $24 I really didn't have, but I did it anyway.
A couple of days after the fax, he called me on a Saturday night and asked to set up a meeting on Monday for the interview in his basement. Ugh. Another red flag- I pictured the interview being him lowering a questionaire down to me in a basket while I threaten to hurt his dog if he doesn't hire me. Off to a great start already. He reminded me not to be late; that his time was important. Yeah. Got it. This ain't my first rodeo- remember, I'd already been burned by Celebrity X.
The next day was Sunday, and I was surprised when he called me again. I was anticipating that he wanted to change the time, but instead he asked if we could set the interview u at 10AM.
"Um, sure- didn't we already set it up for 10AM?"
"Hunh?"
"I thought you'd called me yesterday and asked for a 10AM interview..."
There's this long pause- then he says:
"My stupid assistant forgot to take it off the call sheet! Fine 10AM. Don't be late."
Click.
Awesome. This guy blames his own mistakes on his assistants. Yikes.
So, fully anticipating some sort of weirdness, I asked Jay to come with me. We both get up earrrrly and fight horrific traffic from Long Beach to Hollywood, (read: NOT BEVERLY HILLS) where I ring the man's doorbell and a woman answers carrying I SHIT YOU NOT the dog from "The Silence of the Lambs."
I am so ready for this interview.
She's confused; why am I there? Oh! X! JXxxxx!!! Would I go down and wait in the basement?
I certainly would.
A good 25 minutes later, (LATE,) X finds his way to the basement and seems utterly surprised that we have an interview set up. His basement is full of dusty art his children drew years ago. There is a cold metal desk which looks somewhat functional, and on the other side of a wall is an "Executive Assistant" desk. It is really crappy and possibly assembled by the same children who created the macaroni art.
X starts out the interview by going into great detail about what a loser he is- a surprising gambit!
He talked AT me for a good 10 minutes, making no efforts to conceal the constant lowering of his gaze to my cleavage.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, I am a B-cup. There's nothing special here. Yet somehow, he could not keep his eyes away from them- it was weird- I've never encountered this before in my life- not at Mardi Gras, not at liquor promos, not at Halloween Horror Nights- this guy has to be some sort of world-class boob-obsessor if he can't match my gaze for a full 20 seconds. I was pretty uncomfortable at this point, but I was bewildered and fascinated as to why he kept talking about himself during my interview. In fact, he didn't ask me one thing. And he hadn't bothered to look at either my resume or the criminal background form. $24 well spent. Sigh.
He talked for 10 minutes, explaining why he got "let go" from William Morris and why the office he'd been renting asked him to leave. He explained that he needed me to fill in for his current assistant who was beginning to need to take days off. I would work 3 days a week, 9-7 in his basement. And any other days he needed. And a few weekends.
When I asked what kind of compensation I could expect, he explained that since I'd never worked for an office before I wasn't qualified to be paid, but if I worked well for him, in three months he would write me a nice letter of recommendation.
I was a little surprised, since the position was advertised as paid, and since I'd worked for EFFING SESAME STREET. I asked if he'd "had the opportunity" to look at my resume, and he said no. I showed him that I'd worked at numerous offices. He said, "yes, but he's used to having 150 assistants at his beck and call, trained to cater to him specifically." And maybe he was, at William Morris. But I couldn't afford to work for free. So I asked him if I could instead serve as a reader, and in my spare time do coverage on his scripts for him. This way I could get more experience as a reader and it would free up his assistant. He said yes, that would be fine. But he said it while staring at my boobs. Weird!
On my way out, I asked him if he was interested in reimbursing me for the $24 I'd spent faxing him paperwork. He seemed genuinely panicked and said, "No! NO! I can't do that! Do you know how expensive that would be?"
I told him, "Yes. Twenty-five dollars."
I requested that he relinquish the faxes to me since I wouldn't be working in his home, and I left, expecting to never hear from him again.
Two weeks later he randomly called to tell me that he wanted to keep his precious script submissions "in house," (meaning, in this case, his basement) and that he couldn't have me read unless I was there physically reading them. I said no thank you and hung up. Surely that was the last of him, right?
No!
At my fully legitimate unpaid internship in the legitimate basement of a legitimate company later, I would hear stories of multiple interns who get suckered in by this guy- they always fax, and then he'll eventually tell them that they're not qualified to be his PAID intern, but they could assist and get a letter.
Bastard.
I wonder how may cumulative hours of jobhunting he's usurped from Los Angeles' unemployed.
I still get the UTA Joblist sent to me. Friends with good intentions will send it my way once a week. And every week, there it is: PAID EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT AT BOUTIQUE AGENCY IN BEVERLY HILLS. CONTACT X
Don't do it. Or if you do, be prepared to grab his dog and hold on tight while he stares at your boobs.
So, once again, the joke was on me when I received a response to my cover letter and resume. I'd applied for the PAYING job of "Executive Assistant" at a "Boutique Talent Agency" in "Beverly Hills." The job required a college degree, some experience within the industry, and a working car. Perfect!
A man named X called me back, and told me that he'd like to interview me for the Executive Assistant position, but first I needed to submit some samples of my writing to his agency. Not a problem. He also emailed me a 12-page long criminal background check form, and asked me to fill it out. He explained that he was the "executive," and that boutique agency" in this case meant working out of his house. Which was not exactly in Beverly Hills, but, whatever, right? A job's a job. And a PAYING job in this town, when everyone else wants me to intern for free? Well! I will gladly submit to a criminal background check...
Hey. Wait a minute- why does he need my mom's maiden name, every school I ever went to, my SSN, my DL#, every job I've ever worked EVER... My employer's addresses? What the Eff???
I smelled a rat, and asked him why he needed such personal information- I felt that a professional criminal background check would see if I had a jail record, not analyze my DNA.
I called him and said that I was uncomfortable faxing over such personal information, and he said, "hey, d'ya want the job or don't you?" Hmm. Now I'm not so sure. A red flag went up when I googled this guy and couldn't find a THING. Jay tried to find him online and also met with no sucess- all we found was a vague business listing- even I leave a bigger web trail than this- it's weird and spooky.
I asked Jay's Aunt and Uncle and they got a friend who works for Sony to do a little digging, and she emailed me a list of X's clients, and vetting him as "legit."
I IMDB'd each and every client, and found the most successful of them to be one of the 15 writers who worked on "Kung Fu Panda." Hmm.
Well, I did indeed need a job, and I had no other options, so I (per his request) faxed him the 17 pages of criminal background check and samples. It cost me $24 I really didn't have, but I did it anyway.
A couple of days after the fax, he called me on a Saturday night and asked to set up a meeting on Monday for the interview in his basement. Ugh. Another red flag- I pictured the interview being him lowering a questionaire down to me in a basket while I threaten to hurt his dog if he doesn't hire me. Off to a great start already. He reminded me not to be late; that his time was important. Yeah. Got it. This ain't my first rodeo- remember, I'd already been burned by Celebrity X.
The next day was Sunday, and I was surprised when he called me again. I was anticipating that he wanted to change the time, but instead he asked if we could set the interview u at 10AM.
"Um, sure- didn't we already set it up for 10AM?"
"Hunh?"
"I thought you'd called me yesterday and asked for a 10AM interview..."
There's this long pause- then he says:
"My stupid assistant forgot to take it off the call sheet! Fine 10AM. Don't be late."
Click.
Awesome. This guy blames his own mistakes on his assistants. Yikes.
So, fully anticipating some sort of weirdness, I asked Jay to come with me. We both get up earrrrly and fight horrific traffic from Long Beach to Hollywood, (read: NOT BEVERLY HILLS) where I ring the man's doorbell and a woman answers carrying I SHIT YOU NOT the dog from "The Silence of the Lambs."
I am so ready for this interview.
She's confused; why am I there? Oh! X! JXxxxx!!! Would I go down and wait in the basement?
I certainly would.
A good 25 minutes later, (LATE,) X finds his way to the basement and seems utterly surprised that we have an interview set up. His basement is full of dusty art his children drew years ago. There is a cold metal desk which looks somewhat functional, and on the other side of a wall is an "Executive Assistant" desk. It is really crappy and possibly assembled by the same children who created the macaroni art.
X starts out the interview by going into great detail about what a loser he is- a surprising gambit!
He talked AT me for a good 10 minutes, making no efforts to conceal the constant lowering of his gaze to my cleavage.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, I am a B-cup. There's nothing special here. Yet somehow, he could not keep his eyes away from them- it was weird- I've never encountered this before in my life- not at Mardi Gras, not at liquor promos, not at Halloween Horror Nights- this guy has to be some sort of world-class boob-obsessor if he can't match my gaze for a full 20 seconds. I was pretty uncomfortable at this point, but I was bewildered and fascinated as to why he kept talking about himself during my interview. In fact, he didn't ask me one thing. And he hadn't bothered to look at either my resume or the criminal background form. $24 well spent. Sigh.
He talked for 10 minutes, explaining why he got "let go" from William Morris and why the office he'd been renting asked him to leave. He explained that he needed me to fill in for his current assistant who was beginning to need to take days off. I would work 3 days a week, 9-7 in his basement. And any other days he needed. And a few weekends.
When I asked what kind of compensation I could expect, he explained that since I'd never worked for an office before I wasn't qualified to be paid, but if I worked well for him, in three months he would write me a nice letter of recommendation.
I was a little surprised, since the position was advertised as paid, and since I'd worked for EFFING SESAME STREET. I asked if he'd "had the opportunity" to look at my resume, and he said no. I showed him that I'd worked at numerous offices. He said, "yes, but he's used to having 150 assistants at his beck and call, trained to cater to him specifically." And maybe he was, at William Morris. But I couldn't afford to work for free. So I asked him if I could instead serve as a reader, and in my spare time do coverage on his scripts for him. This way I could get more experience as a reader and it would free up his assistant. He said yes, that would be fine. But he said it while staring at my boobs. Weird!
On my way out, I asked him if he was interested in reimbursing me for the $24 I'd spent faxing him paperwork. He seemed genuinely panicked and said, "No! NO! I can't do that! Do you know how expensive that would be?"
I told him, "Yes. Twenty-five dollars."
I requested that he relinquish the faxes to me since I wouldn't be working in his home, and I left, expecting to never hear from him again.
Two weeks later he randomly called to tell me that he wanted to keep his precious script submissions "in house," (meaning, in this case, his basement) and that he couldn't have me read unless I was there physically reading them. I said no thank you and hung up. Surely that was the last of him, right?
No!
At my fully legitimate unpaid internship in the legitimate basement of a legitimate company later, I would hear stories of multiple interns who get suckered in by this guy- they always fax, and then he'll eventually tell them that they're not qualified to be his PAID intern, but they could assist and get a letter.
Bastard.
I wonder how may cumulative hours of jobhunting he's usurped from Los Angeles' unemployed.
I still get the UTA Joblist sent to me. Friends with good intentions will send it my way once a week. And every week, there it is: PAID EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT AT BOUTIQUE AGENCY IN BEVERLY HILLS. CONTACT X
Don't do it. Or if you do, be prepared to grab his dog and hold on tight while he stares at your boobs.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
LA Stories: How the Known "Zombieland" Rules Apply to L.A. Internships
1) Cardio
Everyone here works out. Up the stairs, down the stairs, to the copier, to the Starbucks, out for the boss' lunch. If you're not running for it, you're slacking.
2) Beware of Bathrooms
As an unpaid intern, generally, bathroom breaks are frowned upon. But, if you absolutely can't hold it for 11 hours, go ahead- use the fancy shmancy bathroom- but beware: if ANYTHING goes wrong with the plumbing, you have to be the one to deal with it... or slink off and let the next guy deal.
3) Seatbelts
Uh-duh...
4) Double-Tap
Most of the time an intern is at the computer "doing coverage" is actually spent looking for jobs online. Didn't get the job you applied for? Surprise Surprise- but hit 'em up again later. Make sure that the guy that DID get the job stuck around.
8) Get a kick-ass partner
Then make sure they don't take a contract in Syracuse. Also, trust your fellow interns- they'll get your back and expect you to get theirs. On the other hand, there's the famous Gore Vidal quote: "Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little."
15) Know your way out
Keep that GPS handy. Everything you've ever heard about South Central is true.
17) Don't Be a Hero
When your boss at your unpaid internship is furious because "someone" (read: you) forgot to move his cereal bowls from the upstairs dishwasher back to the downstairs pantry and he demands to know who was in charge of dishes, plead ignorance. He may suspect you're covering for someone, but chances are he might not think it's you.
18) Limber Up
It's easy to lapse into a vegetative state while doing coverage in a dark cold basement for hours on end, or sitting like an Automaton at the reception desk, but you need to be ready to run at a moment's notice. If the downstairs copier magically springs to life, collate and book it upstairs, brads in place- or else. Also, 30 seconds on hold is years in Hollywood time. Run, run, RUN. See Rule #1.
21) Avoid Strip Clubs
They're really a last resort for employment.
23) God Bless Rednecks
Not a lot of these out here, but odds are if you're lucky enough to meet one, they won't treat you as bad as the LA douchebags do.
31) Check the backseat
Especially if your errands take you to any bad parts of LA. (read: any part not in Beverly Hills.)
32) Enjoy the Little Things
Free Cup 'o Noodles and pilfered snacks = free lunch and dinner.
Any errands = time to phone loved ones.
Reception Duty = face time with clients.
Boss in a Meeting = basement party
Everyone here works out. Up the stairs, down the stairs, to the copier, to the Starbucks, out for the boss' lunch. If you're not running for it, you're slacking.
2) Beware of Bathrooms
As an unpaid intern, generally, bathroom breaks are frowned upon. But, if you absolutely can't hold it for 11 hours, go ahead- use the fancy shmancy bathroom- but beware: if ANYTHING goes wrong with the plumbing, you have to be the one to deal with it... or slink off and let the next guy deal.
3) Seatbelts
Uh-duh...
4) Double-Tap
Most of the time an intern is at the computer "doing coverage" is actually spent looking for jobs online. Didn't get the job you applied for? Surprise Surprise- but hit 'em up again later. Make sure that the guy that DID get the job stuck around.
8) Get a kick-ass partner
Then make sure they don't take a contract in Syracuse. Also, trust your fellow interns- they'll get your back and expect you to get theirs. On the other hand, there's the famous Gore Vidal quote: "Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little."
15) Know your way out
Keep that GPS handy. Everything you've ever heard about South Central is true.
17) Don't Be a Hero
When your boss at your unpaid internship is furious because "someone" (read: you) forgot to move his cereal bowls from the upstairs dishwasher back to the downstairs pantry and he demands to know who was in charge of dishes, plead ignorance. He may suspect you're covering for someone, but chances are he might not think it's you.
18) Limber Up
It's easy to lapse into a vegetative state while doing coverage in a dark cold basement for hours on end, or sitting like an Automaton at the reception desk, but you need to be ready to run at a moment's notice. If the downstairs copier magically springs to life, collate and book it upstairs, brads in place- or else. Also, 30 seconds on hold is years in Hollywood time. Run, run, RUN. See Rule #1.
21) Avoid Strip Clubs
They're really a last resort for employment.
23) God Bless Rednecks
Not a lot of these out here, but odds are if you're lucky enough to meet one, they won't treat you as bad as the LA douchebags do.
31) Check the backseat
Especially if your errands take you to any bad parts of LA. (read: any part not in Beverly Hills.)
32) Enjoy the Little Things
Free Cup 'o Noodles and pilfered snacks = free lunch and dinner.
Any errands = time to phone loved ones.
Reception Duty = face time with clients.
Boss in a Meeting = basement party
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)