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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Thursday, January 15   >>


"...great, we'll expect you at 11AM. Looking forward to meeting you, Hugo, I'll forward you to our secretary right now so you can get directions."

"Likewise, see you at 11."


"Hugo? We're on X Ave. and Y Blvd., right off the freeway. Dress 'business-casual.' We'll validate your parking after your interview."

Heh? What? What is "business casual?" Whatever it is, it's on. It's on like fucking Donkey Kong. Wow, I just said that in my head.


Two days later

I haven't woken up this early since early December.

If I leave in 15 minutes, I'll get there at 10, maybe 10:15. Don't want to get in early, or else I'll look too anxious, or even pushy. What to wear, what to wear... business casual? I hate when people say that. It's an oxymoron. They nearly cancel themselves out. New boot cut jeans with a Sunday sweater covering a nice button-up... with blazer? Fuck it, with blazer. Chuck Taylors? Clearly a choice decision to fit in with these web culture 20/30somethings. I'll look hip, but not... too hip. Like, on the fence of fashion-aware but artistically-restrained. I love this shaving cream. Hm. Man, I'm so full of sex I could convert Portia DeRossi. I smell like God's vagina.

I feel more confident in what I'm going to say as opposed to how I look. Is that vain? It'd be more vain if it were the opposite, no? I wonder how many people on this lane are thinking what I'm thinking. To get a speeding ticket on THIS day would be a fucking nightmare, wouldn't it? Having a morning radio show is a very unglamorous job, but seemingly very life-fulfilling. I couldn't do it, though. 3AM is a very hard time to wake up. Actually, 3AM is a hard time to sleep by.

Alright, is that the... yes, that's the parking structure. Holy fuck, this building is huge. A line? For a parking structure? It's only 10:0--Oh shit.

Oh shit.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

Where's my wallet? Please, for the love of god, let my wallet be here. Oh shit. OH shit. OH SHIT I LEFT MY WALLET AT HOME. How am I going to pay for the parking exit? Does "validated parking" mean a discount on my parking fee, or full coverage of that fee? Why is everything in office culture so ambiguous?

Alright. First interview since January of 2008. Turn off car. Maintain your cool. You know your shit. Cue your soundbytes. Especially about your hair, you know they're going to say something. "How do you keep it up, Hugo!?!??" "Depends on the product, depends on the day!" Everyone laughs. Har-har. What about your position? "I took the risk of diverting from a conventional means of education by proposing a new media journalism academic route, the first of its kind at my school. I wanted my time at university to coincide with the realities of a rapidly changing press." Fuck, that's good. Remember that "pop web applications" stuff and how "savvy" you are to "reporting news and the internet as a whole, both technical and, more importantly, social."

Did I just give my ambition a boner? I think I just did.

This elevator is nice. Do they put cameras inside elevators? I'd think that'd be a little invasive, despite how much information we all put about ourselves for everyone to see on the internet. I always imagine elevator surveillance to be an overhead shot, black and white, of two people doing it in a corner. I think there's an episode of Friends tha--



E-flat. That was definitely an E-flat. I can always pinpoint E-flat like nobody's business. Ironically, can't pinpoint E-natural all that well. Is my cologne wearing off? Did I sweat it out? I only used 3 dots worth. I hate getting used to the smell of my own cologne so fast. It makes me wonder if the other parties are even going to have a faint smell of it. It's not like we're going to hug or anything. Why am I thinking of this? You're stupid, Hugo. Stupid. Fucking get your shit together.

Oh god, a metal doorknob. This is like that scene in Office Space where what's-his-face fears touching the knob because of electric shock. They could deter this with spraying detergent on their carpet. No one seems to know this secret. Works like a charm. Here goes nothing.


This seat is very cushion-y. No receptionist. No one seems to be here. Hm. Maybe they took a very early lunch break. Breakfast break? 20 minutes ahead of time isn't too pressing, hm? Nah. That just shows an effort to be prompt. Fuckin' pro-fe-shun-AL. Get money get PAID, son. Mr. Chi-city, mothaFUCKA. Man, that guy is HILARIOUS.

There he is. My left shoe feels a little loose in knot than my right shoe. To have them unbalanced would leave me in an unbalanced mental state. There, fixed. Shake hands firmly, Hugo. No hands in pockets. Look at them straight in the eye. Flaunt your nerd skills. Talk about local culture. More importantly, let's charm the hell out of this place and rock this shit in 5/4 time, a la Geddy Lee. Fucking RUSH, man.



Schooled. I should teach a class in this shit. Had them in the palm. Of. My. Hands. SUPASTAR.



"I have my parking validated."

"That'll be one dollar."

"I don't have --"

Four quarters. Where? In my ashtray. This is the first time in my life that I'm proud to be a non-smoker. I. Am. Invincible.

Repeat 3 more times.