Mitchel Stevens Guide to President’s Day

Editor's Note: The following column is part of an anonymous weekly humor column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.

Technically, folks, today is a holiday. At least, back when I attended secondary primary school I was told that President’s Day is special because today you vote for the President!

Wait, what? Of course it’s 2008. Today’s the big day! I mean, why else is there constant, 24-hour coverage of a non-existent story? What sort of global, unstoppable corporate juggernaut would do such a th--…ah.

Anyway, I’m a bit light on content at the moment thanks to some pitches in the air and my R2-Ben Kharakh sending me some interviews. I’ll return a bit later with hilarious anecdotes and soul-crushing, gin soaked depression.

Or else, I’ll just have an AIM conversation with The Editorialiste and run that.

Until next time.

-MS

Mitchel Stevens’ Guide to Employment and CMJ!

Editor's Note: The following column is part of an anonymous weekly humor column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.

Now that I’m back on my usual schedule, one may think that I’m in fact revealing who I am. After all, I admit I was covering the College Music Journal Film and Music Marathon—or, CMJ!!!!!!!! if you’re totally in the know, like me.

So what is CMJ!!!!!!! ? It’s a five-day “marathon” of hot new bands you’ve never heard of who paid an entrance fee to be given a shitty opening slot at 3 pm or 6 pm for a bigger band that plays at midnight.

The film aspect tends to show some haphazard tie-ins with one or two actually relevant films this year like I’m Not There and Wristcutters: A Love Story. In 2006, it was the New York premiere of the Borat film.

Otherwise, they had an Anderson Cooper Q&A for his Planet in Peril special that aired last week. At the event, Cooper didn’t even realize that the work-print screened was only 40 percent complete. Oh, AC, you’re so lovable even when you’re clueless. There wasn’t much else. I loathed walking around with my badge at all visible—especially since there was a massive snafu the first day.

While the people were nice enough, it wasn’t until I got outside with my luggage and noticed that I worked for a completely different company but had my name spelled a-ok. Idolator ran into the same problem—especially when they were all “WAAAAAAAMBULANCE” about that, no free universal wi-fi and especially NO FREE SWAG ZOMGWTFBBQ.

Basically, CMJ is like any other major press event: people cry and complain when they’re not respected as BIG J JOURNALISTS. Take Idolator contrib. Ryan Catbird, who has THE OLDEST MUSIC BLOG SINCE LAST THURSDAY and you should acknowledge that. He was appalled to find NYU had no wireless for him to liveblog a bunch of panels on. Further, was he aware that there is no free wireless in all of New York City? (I know, totes shocking, amirite?)

Jess Harvel was pissed that he couldn’t get a pair of free Levis and some kicks. And the New York Times bloggers beat all.

Choice excerpts:

“And the location was especially well chosen: Mama’s Food Shop, with a free buffet near the bar. (If this entry gets posted quickly, and if you hurry, there might still be some fried chicken left.)”

“On the ceiling were notices from the afternoon’s alcohol providers, Southern Comfort (“SoCo”) and Budweiser. Another showcase was fueled by Peroni, the Italian beer. One later tonight carries the mark of Skyy vodka. And the series of afternoon events presented by the blog Brooklyn Vegan was sponsored by … I can’t remember.”

By the way, if you can’t figure it out: The New York Times bloggers officially win for best coverage of CMJ and best turn-around posting time. They must have found the OMG SUPER SECRET WIRELESS OF NEW YORK that Mr. Catbirdmanperson couldn’t connect to. Because he has the longest running music blog ever. Man.

Entertainment writers are weird, bloggers are worse. They straddle the great divide between Star Fucker and reporter. Having done my fair share of junket roundtables and red carpets, I can attest that they suck. The junkets, that is.

The writers? They suck a lot too.

Media junkets are the worst when it’s a big thing produced by a studio like Warner Bros. or a network like NBC. The call-time is horrifically early, normally 8 or 9 a.m. They offer free food and coffee, which the Internet Trolls swarm upon and don’t let up until all the sausage, powdered eggs and pastries are gone.

How does this relate to CMJ? Well, the other fun feature CMJ has is the badge system. You either need to buy a $400+ all-access badge, a $50 badge for the film festival or be press. But wait, there’s more. There are a set number of badges allowed in per show. Once that number is reached, you need to purchase a ticket—even if you work for Rolling Stone. Unless you’re a complete mooch and flash your RS ID card claiming to be Gus Wenner. That shit works everytime. IF I was Gus Wenner.

Anywho, this becomes further moot if the show is sold out. Also, remember what I said about getting there early? Kids camp out at the shows in the early afternoon to glimpse a midnight main event. It’s insane. Then there are the differing badges, as a friend of mine told me. His co-workers were given “special access” badges for secret, after-hours shows: mostly involving the hype-based, unsigned Black Kids who were this year’s “ZOMG HAVE YOU HERD THIS BAND!? IT IS TEH SEX ZOMGZOMGZOMGZOMG111.” Eight minutes later, the blogosphere imploded on Black Kids and now they’re so totally over.

And as for me, CMJ only had one bright side: the press badge mix-up. Because for the entire week, I totally worked as a New York Times staff member. So…let’s just say there’s a minor bill coming for a few bottles of gin and whiskey and Other Music.

Until next time.

-MS

Mitchel Stevens’ Guide to Employment and His Life

Editor's Note: The following column is part of an anonymous weekly humor column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.


Heya Internet!

Sorry for the late update. Your favorite pseudo-anonymous intrepid reporter was busy all last week at the world’s greatest swag-bag/performance space, featuring plenty of kids crying about how lame it is—when they don’t get free stuff. Man, I know!

You know what else sucks? Work!

You know what you were doing? Work!

You know what is lame when compared to being able to have margaritas early on a Thursday afternoon, and by margaritas I totally mean coffee because I don’t have a blender or lime juice but plenty of gin because that’s totally acceptable in your margarita since I don’t drink wussy drinks like tequila...oh I’m lying, I drink tequila...uh…question mark.

WORK! That’s right!

Oh, but I digress. I’ve been filing and working 30+ hour weeks. Man, work is hard—especially when your contracts shift and change!

Case in point: Part-time job no. 442 paid me half of the fee I was supposed to receive. What the fellow who hired me neglected to say was:

• A.) I would not be paid $X00 per month, despite saying “You’ll get $X00 per month.” (Note: The number is even, below six and higher than two.)
• B.) This person, I would find out a few days ago, in fact had no basis to tell me money since he didn’t handle it.
• C.) I actually got a check for less than $X00.
• D.) If I want $X00, I’d have to write an extra article per week for a sister site, but would have to be approved two weeks ahead of time. And whatever I optioned could be taken by a staff member before I’d be allowed to write it.

Who says online journalism isn’t awesome? I was sort of bummed out about that for a while. Not to mention my OL’ RELIABLE is in a bit of an in-between period—while having a healthy bit of change coming my way—due to ad sales, and a lack there of.

DAILY FREE NEWSPAPER isn’t returning my calls, but would love for me to pitch them for December or January.

And man, the world is a dark, dreary place. Nearly five months since I escaped one hell, and now I can’t even get into another. I looked at an ad to copy-write for some knife company the other day. Kinda tempting. I mean, what else is a poor boy to do?

Well, there is the interview I did with Gothamist’s Ben Kharakh* today. Just now as a matter of fact. Here, take a gander:

How are you?
Fine. A little cold, but whatever.

What is your name?
Mitchel Stevens. Wait, was there more? You just kinda…let it stay flat.

What is your opinion on INSERT TOPIC HERE?
Wait, what? Insert what? A topic? Uh, well, I’m a big fan of my Nintendo DS. I mean, it’s really an ingenious thing when you think about it. The whole concept they’re doing with touch is kinda cool.

How do you like New York?
New-, wait, what? Fine. I guess.

(REFERENCE TO QUESTION THREE)
…oh god, you’re…

DO YOU WANT BIG PENIS NAO TIEM11111111
A SPAM-BOT!

Yes, I have discovered that Gothamist’s own Ben Kharakh is in fact a super-sentient, beta-tested feature available on early builds of Apple’s OS X.2 Leopard. I have it on good word that Jen Chung and Jake “Kitty” Dobkin actually operate Kharakh using their iPhones. It’s apparently just like playing a Nintendo DS.

Anyway, I really shouldn’t mock Gothamist. They’ll send Dobkin’s army of kittens with adorable knives after me. Maybe if I promise to work for them, they’ll help me get a job. Besides, I bet Gothamist at least pays nickels, dimes and belly lint when they say they will.

Oh well. Sorry for the late column and sorry for it being a throw-in. I’ll be back at my regular time next week and regale you about my time spent at “OMG, WTF, WHERE IS MY FREE STUFF” festival last week.

-MS

Mitchel Stevens’ Guide to Employment and Liveblogs

Editor's Note: The following column is part of an anonymous weekly humor column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.

Hey gang. A funny thing happened on the way to the Internet today. It turns out that New York magazine ran a little feature this week on a certain lil’ snarky weblog-that-begat-all-blogs: Gawker (proper.)

Traditionally, this sort of “eye on the media” is left to The Editorialiste since this is what he goes to school for. However, we had a brief discussion and realized that this is in fact my area of expertise. You may say, “But Mitchel! How do you do media analysis, aside from poorly?”

And I say, “But reader! This revenge-feature is totally focusing on the common man affected and thus empowered by new media — eye ee, me, Mitchel Stevens. Do you see what I did there?”

And so, perhaps in homage to another great mind of our times, I have decided to liveblog my reading off New York magazine’s latest feature, “Gawker and the Rage of the Creative Underclass.”

7:00 a.m.: Wake up. Mouth tastes like gin, again. Fuck. Promised self I wouldn’t do that on a Sunday night anymore. It’s not the good gin, either, but the shitty type that comes in the same bottle as the good stuff. Fuck. Head hurts.

7:30 a.m.: Wake up again after falling back to sleep. Mouth tastes like cigarettes, gin and ass. Ugh.

8:00 a.m.: Finally get out of bed.

8:05 a.m.: Do morning online job. Open Gmail.

8:06 a.m.: Open link to New York magazine piece.

8:08 a.m.: Wait, aren’t I the “creative underclass?”

8:10 a.m.: Jesus Christ, Vanessa “GRIG” Grigoriadis is a whiny person. I once worked as a researcher for her. Like talking to an early morning stoner.

---
SAMPLE:

MS: So, what are you looking for?

VG: Ok, so I need the stuff no one else knows.

MS: Ok.

VG: Seriously, the kind of things no one checks for.

MS: Ok.

VG: Stuff on message boards, on MySpace pages. If it’s on there, I need it.

MS: Ok. So mainly the Internet stuff.

VG: Yeah.

MS: Ok, got it.

3 DAYS LATER…

VG: Why did you forward me all these MySpace pages?

MS: You wanted the MySpace stuff.

VG: I already know this. God, listen, I need stuff from the MySpace pages that people don’t know about. I need the real stuff.

MS: …like?

VG: You know, the underground.

---

Right. OK, back to liveblogging.

8:12 a.m.: This entire opening is a disclosure about how THE GRIG was burned by Gawker and had to explain to her mother-in-law what a blog was? WTF.

8:13 a.m.: Maybe she forgot about how she exploited her husband’s own weight for a story. Hm, I wonder if her mother-in-law Googled that. (Totes via Gawker).

8:15 a.m.: “Like most journalists, I tend to have a defeatist attitude about Gawker, dismissing it as the Mystery Science Theater 3000 of journalism,” in the not too distant future, about 2007 A.D., there was a shitty trend piece, about bloggers like you and me….LA LA LA.

8:20 a.m.: blah blah blah, Gawker once was written by someone else... "Sicha, a handsome ex-gallerist who spends his downtime gardening on Fire Island, is generally warm and even-tempered, but on this last point, he looks truly disgusted. ‘Not a week goes by I don’t want to quit this job,” he says, “because staring at New York this way makes me sick.’” Ooh! How daring! Next week in New York magazine, people dislike their jobs! Followed the week after by: “My Husband Isn’t Fat Anymore and DON’T YOU GOOGLE HIM!!!!!” (By Vanessa Grigoriadis).

8:21 a.m.: Make coffee.

8:34 a.m.: Page two of the online article has Emily “Hey, guise, totally edgy since I give the middle fi—LOOK AT MY BREASTS. I AM NEEDY” Gould, Choire Sicha and Julia Allison. Is it bad I mock Emily? Shit, now I really feel bad. Because she’s moody, guys. Working is hard. Fuck. I feel bad. Sorry, Emily. I mean, I don’t mean to be bitchy. Your work is tough, I know. I freelance too. And blah blah, Josh made fun of Neal Pollack’s kid. Whatever, it takes a proud iPhone clad douche to knock on a little kid. But I really feel like a prick. I know the rooftop photoshoot was probably after days of convincing by Nikola “Teh L Magazine Greatest Photog” Tamindzic. And omg, all you ever knew how to do was write! Me too! Oh, man, I think we’d totally be friends. Do you notice how THE GRIG is making you out to be the human side of OMG GAWKER because you are the soulful one, Em. You’re totes the human side.

And you know, fuck Jimmy Kimmel fo…wait.

Wait.

Hold the fuck on.

9:20 a.m.: No, wait, it’s still there. You make $55,000 a year? Seriously. You make $55,000 a year, wrote a book and are complaining that you have to work? I understand you have to pay freelancer’s taxes. I know what that is. I get receipts every time I buy a MetroCard.

But you are COMPLAINING about making that much money? What the fuck? You’re like every other punk kid I knew: oh boo hoo, life is hard—except for this shit-load amount of money I make! Oh, life is hard! I need to go have appetizers at a classy restaurant! Life is pain! I need to have a Pink Panty Dropper.

9:24 a.m.: Seriously. WTF. Why don’t you complain about your job more.

9:26 a.m.: Yeah, Denton looks like Morrissey. Speaking of, why hasn’t Gawker posted about this yet?

9:30 a.m.: I’m on page 3 of the online article. What does this article have to do with the “creative underclass?” So far, this has been about THE GRIG being pissed her mother-in-law googled her son and blames THE GRIG. Not to mention—and I skipped ahead here—that THE GRIG made friends with Emily Gould and loves Choire Sicha’s sexy underwear. Well, we all love Choire’s underwear. It’s what we see when we “apply” for work at Gawker. Whatever.

But this article? It’s a pity. This is the prime example of old media trying attack online. Especially when online outlets such as this—and especially with the reasoning that Alex Balk didn’t mean to leave for Radar magazine, but was forced to leave regarding a post me made—show that online is indeed better.

Shit, I give up on this whole “liveblogging” thing. I can’t stomach THE GRIG’s story, nor how she attempts to humanize poor Emily as the scarred, lonely little girl in a big scary man’s second life. Maybe THE GRIG forgot that most people in media make below $28 K when it comes to work. After all, how much did she make for this corporate blowjob? Maybe she cut off some cash for her tubby hubby.

It should be no surprise that Gawker has yet to comment on the article that cites some in the office are drug users or like to have sex. What a shock! At least we know one thing—Richard Blakely, one of Gawker’s videographers, doesn’t wear tight white pants. Right, Alex Goldberg?

But I digress. I tried to get in contact* with the kids at Gawker in the interest of journalism and integrity and web 2.0. Sadly, no amount of uppers, downers or gin could attract Sicha, the guy with a Serge Gainsborough tat or Lil’ Miss “I make 55 K. SO DEPRESSING. WAAAAAAAAMBULANCE.”

Sigh. Anyway, the Gawker kids haven’t even discussed the piece on their site yet. So far it was just “omg, alex pareene is here. Omg, these things are going on. Omg, we are not going to acknowledge the 500-lb pink elephant in the room. Omg, CMJ is so totally for young people!”

Oh, Gawker. You’re so adorable. Like a $55,000 worth of adorable. But not nearly as adorable as how tubby THE GRIG’s husband is.

-MS

*Note: Mitchel Stevens did not try at all to talk to the editors at Gawker. In fact, he sort of just played Bona Drag for an hour, drank some gin and then sat around refreshing his Gmail while googling himself. Mitchel Stevens really didn’t feel inspired this time. Mitchel Stevens wants breakfast.

Mitchel Stevens’ Guide to Employment and Robotics

Editor's Note: The following column is part of an anonymous weekly humor column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.

The column’s a bit late these week, kids, due to the nasty weather and all. I know, you may be thinking, “how is that possible with sun and summer-like temperatures?” Especially when the stormy weather comes after my column usually runs.

And the answer for that is located somewhere underneath Fox’s corporate headquarters and Jann Wenner’s safe where the secret to rock and roll success is kept.

(Special note: don’t bother looking for it. It’s just a napkin Jann made at the age of 22. It’s just a venn diagram, a smiley face and the number for a pizza place on Lexington Ave.)

But anyway, it is cold and I have taken to staying inside my lavish cubby hole located somewhere between the BQE and a bottle. Of course, one of my daily rituals is refreshing my Bloglines quicker than you can say, “we regret to inform you…”

The other? Reading Gothamist. Particularly the interviews, since they can range from wonderfully short and (unintentionally) hilarious to the most recent one with Red Eye host Greg Gutfeld.

It is a semi-secret that most Gothamist contributors make a majority of their money at day jobs and write/blog second, which is great. (It’s also not a secret that Gothamist is stingier than Radar Magazine when it comes to reimbursement/payment. Not to mention a tad bit of payola. See below.)

But back to the interview at hand by Ben Kharakh. Now, Gutfeld’s hilarious. It’s worth it sometimes for me to be at the bar, try desperately to pick up a girl who has cable, go to her apartment and then cite performance anxiety*—all so I can then watch Red Eye at 3 a.m.

It’s just too bad that Kharakh either couldn’t get Gutfeld on the phone, couldn’t take the B/D/F/V to Sixth Avenue or schedule a good time to do anything but an e-mail interview. How can one tell it’s an e-mail interview?

An excerpt:

[Gutfeld:] It took three months to work out the kinks, but our show is now the most refreshing, smart and fun hour on television, and that includes Reading Rainbow. More juice? It's grape.

[Kharakh:] Having done this for over half a year, what are some tricks that you've picked up to make it through the day and in what way have you improved

First, there was no punctuation and that’s fine. Normally when one transcribes an interview, you forget things like that. Lord knows this one time I even forgot to do the Q&A. But completely ignoring such a flippant opening, or editing it out? Huh.

Gutfelt goes on, treating the “exchange” as if they were in his lavish, Swinging Sixties bachelor pad and not pounding this out on his office computer. There’s nothing wrong with the e-mail interview, but Gothamist has a long history with running it as if it was conducted in person and as if keeping the reader blind to the truth is ethically all right.

Not to mention they disable all comments for interviews.

But hey, how can I be upset at Gothamist? You can’t hate them. They’re adorable little puppy bloggers with cat fetishes and who dedicate their free time to a network of city-based blogs.

I mean, I’d just like to know if an interview was in-person or via email or phone or iPhone or iChat. That’s all, guys.

Anyway, sorry for pretending to be The Editorialiste today, guys. It is cold and I am mildly cranky.

Before I go, I also must say: Gawker’s Freelancer Action Unit. Wowie Zowie. Finally, I can get paid! No longer do I have to live in fear of unresponsive editors and payments departments! Gawker is back on my side!

…

Of course, Gawker is tied to Radar Magazine, who may or may not be still publishing, New York Magazine, slightly to Time Out New York, OK Magazine…um…you know, in hind sight, maybe it’s better NOT to talk to Gawker. Then again, each editor does make $323 billion dollars per year because bloggers are rich.

Speaking of, it’s time to go fight a cat for some breakfast.

-MS

*Note: Mitchel Stevens does not really suffer performance anxiety. He is a he-man woman hater with a cock that just won’t stop a sensitive writer and nice guy.

Mitchel Stevens’ Guide to Employment and Presentation

Editor's Note: The following column is part of an anonymous weekly humor column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.

I woke up this morning with a bit of a shiver going on. If that’s not a sure-fire sign that Fall is here, then I don’t know what is! Aside from it being an acceptable time of the year to sleep in Tompkins Square again, Fall is great because there are always new jobs popping up—like that Village Voice Ad on Craigslist that mysteriously disappears and reappears.

What a lark, I say. But larks aside, the worst feeling in the world is being ill-prepared for pitching a story or going presenting yourself in the morning. I generally look like I’ve been shit-kicked from sea to shining sea most mornings. And while most journos look, act and sound like they’ve got the bubonic plague and a liver that runs on rot-gut, they also have one other special trait.

They’re employed.

And they might be robots.

All the Billy Wilder/Kirk Douglass pipe dreams I had as a young undergrad J-school kid weren’t too influenced by Bill Murray or Johnny Depp’s Hunter Thompson caricature. Hell, even Hunter Thompson’s own caricature wasn’t that appealing considering the stories of the Gonzo Godfather’s body literally breaking down. As far as I knew, to look like a journalist you had to have the bottle of bad scotch in the lower right desk drawer, a fedora near the typewriter and a pack of Lucky Strikes that magically never empties but always looks crumpled.

To be a real Big J journo you drink to kill the nerves, heighten the sense and dress like living yin-yangs in black slacks and white dress shirts. Few days worth of stubble, a cigarette dangling on your lip and a sneer for the veneer of complacency that society has with itself.

That, my friends, is a Journalist!

That also is what a Journalist isn’t.

Most journos are reformed alcoholics. Most of the films are right: the chainsmoking, the drinking, the celebration for a hard-hitting story or waiting next to the printing plant for the early edition. But now? Now the newspapermen are talking heads as much as they are writers.

You need to look clean for the camera, the Gawker Stalkers and pissed off interns who will gladly turn your hangdog hangover into blog gold. Journalists have to be at the gym when they’re not on the beat, at a desk, hammering away on ancient Power PCs—if they’re a shoddy bi-monthly—or brand new iMacs—if they’re a high-powered daily in Midtown.

Shit, even if you work for Newsday.

But journos are lazier now. They’re blogging, vlogging, podcasting, iChating, AIMing and on Skype. Well, technically, only the guys at Wired still use Skype. Even then, it gets broken out for nostalgia's sake.

The old style journo has been phased out in favor of more “stable” and “clean” writers who you can bring home to Momma and not have to worry about crazy things like alcoholism or drug dependency or completely fabricating stories and writing horrible prose because they’re unimaginative and start off most profiles still about where they’re eating with the profile subject and what the subject is eating and—

Oh, never mind. It’s happy hour at the Blarney Cove.

-MS

Mitchel Stevens’ Guide to Employment and Questions

Editor's Note: The following column is part of an anonymous weekly humor column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.

A while back I was sitting at one of those circular conference tables for an interview with the HR woman reading over my impeccable, single-spaced resume.

“I like what I see here, Mitchel,” she said.

After all, who wouldn’t? I read through all the tips. I scoured pages from Lifehacker and Mediabistro. I practice in front of a mirror. I’ve done interviews with politicians, writers, former bosses, phone calls, voice chats, telegrams and even pitches over drinks. I’ve been screamed at, shouted at and can usually turn most conversations around over 20 minutes.

“But I can’t help but notice, you’re a writer.”

Except for this. I looked across the table at HR woman and nodded. Her eyes lifted from my spectacular, god-like resume and settled on me. And we waited. To give you an idea, I just took a break from writing this. I went and got some coffee. Scratched my hand. Leafed through a few spare pages of newspaper I have laying around. Then I came back to this.

“That’s right,” I said. After all, this interview was for an assistant editorial position. The job promised plenty of opportunities for copious busywork, editing, coding, writing minor copy and cleaning up other writers’ pieces, as they’d file in. Nothing too awful for an entry-level position and exactly what I had went to college for.

HR woman sucked in her teeth and then let out a tiny sigh.

“Well, what we’re looking for is an editor. Someone who can pay strict attention to details and sentence structure. Someone who isn’t so concerned with the writing side, but who wants to work in the production side.”

I semi-followed everything she said. After all, don’t you need to start writing in order to learn how to edit? Wouldn’t you need to be concerned with how pieces flow in order to understand individual traits? C’mon, not everything can be as soul-crushingly boring as a Washington Times article.

“Well,” I said, “I was an editor at [UNNAMED COLLEGE PAPER] and I do proof my own work before sending it in, you know.”

“Oh, I do, but you need to understand. We’re looking for someone who is very detail oriented. And you? Well, Mitchel, you’re just a writer. You’re concerned with how the story is just written. We’re looking for someone to be concerned with how the story’s made.”

Mind you, one of the other provisions for this job was to come in weekends, sit at a computer and monitor weather reports. God forbid if my strict attention to detail failed me while glued to a self-refreshing screen every ten minutes.

Suffice to say, I didn’t get the job. But it’s odd, since I’ve run into this same question while interviewing with two other extremely different organizations than the first. I’m not sure if this is an HR ploy used to knock candidates on their ass, or if they’re all so mildly retarded that HR across the land use a hive mind. This is, as my father tells me, a simple get. It’s used to irk a candidate, unease them and force them into an awkward silence. To see if they can think on their feet.

It’s this same get that inspired a generation of do-it-yourselfers who got tired of being pissed on by the same question from HR or dot-coms who realized that there are thousands of writers hungry for work and they can be cannibalized for sub-minimum wage in major cities.

The commercials lie: I hate working from home.

I hate having to bow to companies that can get away with paying me $4.50 to $5 an hour for my words. I hate hearing about stringers and how to get such a position I have to intern at the Times before sending in countless e-mails to deputy editors that purposely pick and choose their favorites to see who’ll jump through the most hoops. I hate having to spend weeks begging for an invoice to pay my bills.

I hate having to be a writer sometimes. Funny enough, people can’t help but notice that about me.

-MS

Mitchel Stevens’ Guide to Employment and the Interview

Editor's Note: The following column is part of an anonymous weekly humor column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.

I was checking my Gmail for the fifteenth time in 20 minutes when it occurred to me that I should be taking more time with my interviews. Perhaps I should prepare with a list, or some similar device where all my questions and fears will be answered.

Wait, oh no, I just totally forgot the AP rules on numbers! AHHHHH!!!!

Moving on, The Editorialiste was kind enough to pass along to me an email from his alma mater about tips for networking and—wait, meeting every single editor from the New York area? Huh?

“Come meet, mingle and munch with editors, producers and others. Chat about how to pitch freelance articles, get production work (or other opportunities) at places like Metro, Time Out New York, Essence magazine, Dan Rather Reports, Brooklyn Rail, NY1 News, Manhattan Media properties, Black Enterprise, Budget Travel.com, LifetimeTV.com, Details magazine, Village Voice, Chelsea Now, Moose Productions and more.”

Oh my stars and garters, AND there’s no RSVP needed? AND I need to be a student there?

Well, a pox on that. Especially when it seems like that silly J-Dept can’t even keep up with their original class load.

Well, let me see. What are the suggestions to make an impact?

• Make One Great Contact -- Don't feel compelled to "work the room." Instead, set a goal of making one great contact -- someone new who you commit to communicating with after the event. Remember to ask for a business card.

Oh, I can do this one! I once got someone’s business card after I spent the night playing dice with them and doing a shot of Goldschläger.

• Reach Out -- Approach an individual who is standing alone. They may appreciate your reaching out to them. Also, it's hard to break into a group unless you're invited.

Okay, be nice to the freak. Got it. So this means AM NY, Metro and The L Magazine, or Dan Rather’s company?

• Use a Neutral Ice-Breaker -- Begin each conversation with a smile, eye contact and an outstretched hand. Break the ice by asking a neutral open-ended question such as "Why did you decide to come to this event?"

“Do you like liquor? I have a flask.”

This is the true way into any journalist’s heart. Don’t ever forget it.

• Give First -- Focus your conversation on learning about the person you are meeting -- who they are, where they work, what their responsibilities include -- and how you can help them (not how they can help you).

…well, this is a bold-faced lie. And in bold in the original e-mail. Fitting.

• Follow-up -- Use the 48-hour rule. Within 48 hours of a networking event, follow-up with anyone you met who you'd like to stay in touch with. Send an email letting the other person know you enjoyed meeting them and hope you will meet again. In the same email, share any other information you think may be of help to them (for example your resume and clips or more details about a story idea you mentioned.)

Wow, how true! If only journalists weren’t so awful about following up to young urchins that will knife them in the back at the first chance they get in order to steal their job, get a book deal and then sleep with Nick Denton*.

Yes, thanks to these new rules, I will be rolling in more jobs than an analogy about a large number. I’ll be wearing feather boas and strutting around 30 Rock in no time. Why…oh, crap, I got to turn in by deadline. Till next time.

-MS

*Note: I mean, listen, how else do you think you work at Gawker? It’s like Mr. Show says: the world revolves around blowjobs. And mainly giving them to Nick Denton. Or Jason Calcanis. And yes, David Hauslaib, but that doesn’t mean anything. More likely, it just means you’ve met David Hauslaib.

Mitchel Stevens' Guide to Employment and Bubble Bust

Editor's Note: The following column is part of an anonymous weekly humor column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.

A funny thing happened to me on the way to the Grey Dog Café today, Internet readers. I sat down with an ice cold lemonade and waited for my scrumptious reuben sandwich when I found an odd “No Subject” email from my boss at part-time job #432.

It turns out that despite being a wonderful employee for the last two months, I was being released from my contract. The company was going to do more with the PR aspect, the site was going to be redesigned, they needed to save money for an actual web designer, it was a Tuesday, etc. You know how those things go.

But I couldn’t say that I was sad to see the job go. Sure, they were the first company I applied to that got back to me within a week. One of the countless Craigslist jobs I scoured, they seemed like good people when I interviewed. But the job itself was a bit—uh—lacking.

Okay, so maybe it was a crappy online job with barely-standard wages, little to no chance of mobility and near impossible to self-motivate.

But it promised $300 a month. And when it takes you five jobs to net in a standard triple digit sum plus other freelancing work just to buy groceries and save up for the apartment, anything looks good.

That’s the moral of the story in the Washington City Paper this week with "Wanted: Gullible Lawyers." The 34-year old author (and victim) relates how $14,000 has a funny way of making even the dumbest, most obvious scam seem like a marketable wonder.

When considering the online business, that’s basically all we have. When interviewing last week at an established newspaper, my interviewer gleefully laughed and talked about her own nephew’s foray into the online industry.

“Oh, you kids are so lucky,” she said. “You’re constantly jumping from job to job. It must be so exciting!”

Yes, having no stability, no benefits, no guarantee that I can afford the security deposit on that Bedford Avenue apartment or that my roommates will be employed next month is a great benefit to myself and my career. Why, as I wrote last week, I love juggling a number of jobs with no set pay who demand more hours constantly while taking one single job offers a real paycheck—but demands I focus solely on their work.

I don’t mind being told to focus. But like my generation, I do enjoy actually working on things productive to me. Of course I’ll write listings, but I also like to interview and write stories that will be read—not just “TODAY—LIVE MUSIC AT EVENT. FUN FOR WHOLE FAMILY. $302, A/C/E TO 126^TH ST.”

This myth is even better with the bloggers, who are worked like AP wire reporters but given the illusion that they have an easier, more fun job.

Then again, I do need a new job to replace #432. Hmm, maybe Gawker’ll fill that new position—oh, who am I kidding? It’s totes going to LOLCait.

Anyway, I’ll see you kids next week. In the mean time, I’ll reapply to that AP Editorial Assistant position for the sixth time this week, since they keep reposting it over and over. Clearly they’re not getting my résumé.

-MS

Mitchel Stevens’ Guide to Journalism and Fluff

Editor's Note: The following column is part of an anonymous weekly humor column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.


So, the other day I was relaxing at my new favorite spot to kick back and just take in life—it’s this quaint park in Midtown that should offer free wi-fi, but doesn’t, so instead of “working,” I’m working on listening to the guys next to me with duct taped hands talk about how to tap an ass—when I picked up a copy of the Washington Post.

Or, as we call it in the J-Business: WaPo. Like, Alpo, but not. Because one’s dog food and the other one belongs to the Graham dynasty.

In a rather spectacular first-person style, Heather R. Taylor’s piece Midlife Intern: Free to Follow Her Heart showcases the power of the human spirit and it shows how one must always be evolving even aft—wait, she’s how old?

Something I can’t help but running across throughout the business are unpaid internships that offer nothing more than slave labor hours and even worse benefits. Craigslist rarely offers anything that pays under their writing section. Most times—and like my 54^th part-time job—they pay $.15 above minimum wage and would crack the virtual whip more than Belladonna.

The joke there is that Belladonna doesn’t do S&M. I mean, she does rough…I have totally lost this audience.

Mediabistro and J-Jobs are better and tend to be a tad more respectful of things like actually paying entry-level participants entry-level wages. But once in a blue moon, you get a position like the one I mentioned last week. I couldn’t get over that they wanted to see my High School GPA until I was re-reading the directions to their corporate overlord compound in the heart of Devil Country.

The core requirement of the job offering $16.60 an hour, twenty hours a week with heavy chance of being called in nights and weekends at a rate of no overtime?

A High School diploma or equivalent degree.

I gagged a bit on my coffee when I read that. Here was a job that was listed between advertising managers, staff reporters and copy editors—and it was meant for anyone who had a G.E.D. There’s nothing wrong with that, but still, talk about a blow to the ego.

I may as well tell the Union Square Barnes and Noble about that the next time I reapply to them and am informed I have “too much experience to work there.”

Yeah, ghost writing and editing articles in [BANKRUPT RELAUNCHED MAGAZINE] makes it impossible to scan coupons and stock Tao Lin, Miranda July and Klosterman.

In fact, isn’t that the sort of experience one needs in order to get that big chance on the Interwebs, in publishing or if your middle name is Rocket?

But let’s go back to Mrs. Taylor’s fluff. I love fluff. It tasted great as a kid, and there’s nothing better for you than colorless, sweet gook that is equal parts delicious and awful. While I’m thrilled she found her calling, which both “enriched and freed [her],” she’s still working for free.

By the end of her moving story, I can’t figure out if she’s making money or still an unpaid figure making a “living in…a fairly youth-obsessed industry.”

She shouldn’t worry. Most of us youth are ready to work unpaid for bylines, access and stories. In fact, to do what we love—write, design, draw—we’re forced to be free while haphazard Alt Weeklies tempt us with salaries and “oh, we’re sorry, could’ve sworn payables sent that out” checks.

Maybe it’s the multi-part time jobs I’m forced to work to not make enough to live comfortably. Maybe it’s the lack of communication I encounter after months of cold calls, pitch letters and watching NY 25. But please, Mrs. Taylor, do not glorify the internship when you’re clearly being exploited.

And don’t insult the intelligence, dreams and hard work of all those who came before you and will work after you.

Man, that wasn’t funny at all.

-MS.

Mitchel Stevens’ Guide to Journalism and Time

Editor's Note: The following column is part of an anonymous weekly humor column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.

Wowie zowie, Internet, life sure is hectic. On one hand, it’s another day at the News Bar sipping my caffeinated lifeblood, on the other I’m finally employed!

In fact, I’m super employed. I’m working a combined 35 hours a week for little under minimum wage. See, this might be the downside to all those Craigslist ads promising “WORK FROM HOME” and “CAN WORK FROM ANYWHERE.”

You, in fact, are never off the clock. And even if you’re told to do a minimum of ten hours a week (Monday through Sunday), my bosses have a funny way of demanding I work more hours. In fact, why aren’t I working at least four or five hours a day. Why am I doing other things? Why don’t I answer their e-mails right away?

It’s odd, you know. I don’t want to give the opinion that I’ve stopped searching for full-time employment, but these web-based, new media jobs are so gosh-darn plentiful. Every day Craigslist is filled with these types of jobs. Everything’s easy, made to fit the writer and you have the choice to write about whatever you want!

Isn’t that just grand?

But the more of these you take on, the harder it becomes to keep track of them. I’ve sort of got it down to a science now, splitting my morning, afternoon and evening up between the ones I currently work with—but the morning site wants my time in the afternoon, then the afternoon site demands more time in the morning while evening is copasetic, and copasetic is never going to last for long.

I write three weekly invoices for all of my jobs, sending them in at different times throughout the week. You may think it’s a little annoying or confusing, but I’m finally getting the hang of it. One of the sites—the morning one—didn’t let me know that they weren’t receiving my invoices.

In fact, they didn’t let me know for four weeks. And after I wrote to ask where my checks were, they reprimanded me for not using the right email—even though someone was receiving my invoice with my social security number. But of course, I’m sure they just assumed I was working for free for the last few weeks.

And really, none of these are what you’d call “writing jobs,” since they mainly involve performing what we know as “news aggregating.” That means I cherry pick from other sites (like the New York Times, The Stranger or City Paper) and repost stories—linking back at the very end.

But I’m confident that in no time at all, I’ll be writing the book on media. In fact, I bet one day kids will be forced to buy my book in order to take the class that I’ll inevitably teach. They’ll learn all the important aspects, like how to write notes; how to watch videos; how to read books and how to ruin friendships by discussing my book outside of class with people and think they give a darn.

Man, I can’t wait. In the mean time, I need to finish ten more hours of work so I can keep making $500 a month! Yep, nothing quite like working four jobs for barely minimum wage. Man, that [INSERT COLLEGE NAME HERE] degree is coming in handy. I was almost worried I wasted that money on pointless things. Like a fake degree.

Or blogging.

-MS

Mitchel Stevens' Guide To Employment and Searching

Editor's Note: The following column is a new weekly humor column, written anonymously, chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. You may find the author's previous posts in the archives. --The Ed.

Hey Internet, Mitch Stevens here. I’m writing this “on the go” as they say in the “media industry” that I happen to be a part of. In. Apart. Wait, what did my old copy editing teacher say about ending sentences with ‘of?’ Wait, no, that’s two different types of quote marks in one sentence! Wait, that’s an exclamation point!

Oh, fiddlesticks.

Anyway, that Murray Hill blog I found on Craigslist never got back to me. Weird stuff. But it got me thinking: a lot of the people I’ve applied to never get back to me. Maybe it has to do with my résumé.

My résumé has my name, my phone number, my address, my college, my internships, my experience and is designed to make employers go, “By jove, hire this man! His name, his phone number, his address, his college, his internships, his experience…THEY ARE MAGNIFICENT. QUICKLY, THROW MONEY AT HIM! THROW MORE MONEY AT HIM!”

Sadly, that hasn’t happened yet.

Every day I wake up, stretch and then like any healthy big J journalist I spend two hours reading my RSS feeds and drinking coffee while refreshing my Gmail. No one seemed to send anything in last week. I was sort of lonely, thinking I’d be some big blog-star at the News Bar by now. But no, they still don’t even remember me or my quirky drink order (“Medium black coffee, a shot of cream and four sugars please. Or, just give me a Diet Coke.”)

I check the Big Three for jobs: Craigslist, Mediabistro and JournalismJobs. And they’re great, They’re super great. They’re totally, super great.

They can be sort of summed up as follows:

On Craigslist, this intership at TheFanzine says it best: “If you are looking for a staff writing job, I can honestly say I'd approach somewhere else. But who knows what the future could hold in store.”

And so is the beauty of most CL jobs. As long as you can work for free, not need things like money, food or clothing and can work 200-hour weeks, you are totally at the right place. Especially if you love:

• telecommuting.
• loosely defined “new media” jobs.
• OMG THE BEST JOB EVER SO LONG AS YOU…UH…don’t…ask about money. And work for free. Because Nick Sylvester may or may not work there. omg.

I wonder if I’m really a hard worker, would Nick Sylvester show me how to play The Game. And by “The Game,” I mean teach me how to be fabulist. I mean, fabulous. I mean.

Mediabistro offers the better tiered jobs: Rolling Stone, Salon, New York Times, book publishers, BBC, Niche Media, unlisted people. They seem like the best jobs in all the land. As long as you have 10+ years of experience. And if you live under a rock, since chances are these jobs are already being filled internally. Or if—in the rare case of Wenner media—your last name is Wenner. Or Springsteen. Then you’re the latest hire at RS’ rock blog.

RAWK.

But MB offers a basic service with their job listings. Of course, their courses are overrated and so is their AvantGuild Member paid service. But hey, I don’t have a multi-million dollar payout, now do I?

Finally, there’s JournalismJobs. It’s a free service you can upload your résumé to. Bunch of entry-level positions across the country. In fact, probably one of the better services. It’s just that it’s editor-crazy with only some focus on the writer.

And how does one get noticed as a writer? Well, I think it involves an elaborate straw and more of this fine caffeine drink I’m indulging in. or of. Man, my copy editing professor would be so angered with me now.

-MS

Mitchel Stevens' Guide to Employment and You

Editor's Note: The Editorialiste welcomes a new feature to the blog this week: a column chronicling the struggle of a new, young journalist out in the working world. With publications slicing inches and staff numbers, career prospects for a new journalist are rapidly changing. This humorous column will follow the effort of our young, anonymous author as the search for work unfolds. Entitled "Mitchel Stevens Guide to ...", the anonymous column will appear once a week. --The Ed.


Hey everyone, I’m Mitchel Stevens. I’m a journalist. Actually, I’m a big J journalist with a college degree. Okay, that means I’m unemployed. Actually, I’m looking for work. I have tons of experience and it’s only a matter of time until I’m employed. Any day now, I expect to hear back from this really cool blog based in Murray Hill I applied to on Craigslist.

Okay, fine, fine. I’m not that experienced. In fact, I don’t even have what you’d call an “in” to this little industry. Basically this came out when I applied to work at a low-level job in the pre-dawn hours at an early morning news show. I figured I had the right stuff to stack cans of soda, smile at talking heads and fetch coffee. Lord knows I have fetched THE SHIT out of coffee, in the past.

The days went by. I got the number of a person who worked at said early morning news show and tried to pitch myself: hard worker, right out of college, willing to wake up early, can handle stress, able to fetch coffee—

“Oh, I’m sorry,” [it] said. “We filled that position a week ago.”

But, I just applied a week ago. The listing on Mediabistro is a week old.

“Yeah, we found someone who already worked here.”

Turns out, these internal emails/Holy Grails are forwarded around from producer to producer in order to see which intern is willing to kill for actual wages and a moderate increase in title. Utterly dejected, I wondered if HR had even seen my resume.

“Uh, I’m sorry—Mitchel? Is that right? Yeah, I dunno. We only looked at current interns, staffers and some old interns.”

How old? A few semesters old. So, while I was crying my eyes out at News Bar on University Place, The Editorialiste found me in the middle of a pity party and Hazelnut blend with a shot of cream. We chatted about recently graduating college and it turns out we both were looking for work! Well, he’s not looking for work so much as attending graduate school, but the thought counts!

And he offered to let me write about my searching for jobs, the interview process and my fourth most favorite passion: kabob-making.

I’ll be back next week to let you know how the Murray Hill blog deal went. I have a good feeling about it. But they aren’t mentioning pay at all, so I’m a bit worried. But I’m a strong, young, big J journalist.

-MS

Mitchel Stevens is the pseudonym of a journalist in a major urban center on the East Coast. E-mail Mitch at: ((mitchel DOT stevens AT gmail DOT com)).