july 21 2000
so i come into work yesterday, sit down, get coffee, check my email, then get an call from eric, my ace boon and the dj/producer/all around logistical mastermind behind atmos. as it turns out, mo'wax, the preeminent hip-hop/abstract label in the uk, officially agreed to fully license our entire upcoming ep for european distribution. say word. come on, say it. it's what we do in hip-hop--say word. so it'll hopefully lead to some overseas shows and more press, but we still own all rights for u.s.distribution. plus a little dosh up front and royalties forthcoming. basically, we're "signed," though the contract still has to be signed. that's good thing number one.
clock hands swing, as they're known to do, and it's time for my interview with guru--for an upcoming feature on his new compilation record. i met the cat about a year and a half ago at a club in one of those passing things; someone introduced us, i gave him a pound, thanked him for everything he'd given to hip-hop over the years, and that was it. it's happened too many times to count for me, so i can't even imagine how many hundreds of times these cats meet fans once and that's it. so i walk into the studio conference room, and he's sitting on the couch watching tv. looks up, and his face breaks into a smile. "oh, shit, i didn't know it was you who was coming!" my brain, unsurprisingly, says "what the fuck?!" i mean, how is he supposed to remember he met me, let alone be able to pick me out? i look at the publicist, she looks at me, i look at guru, i look at the publicist again, and i finally realize i should say something, and it shouldn't be "what the fuck?!" so i say to him, "damn, that was two years ago." "i'm good with faces," he says, and he gives me a big pound. and then, an interview that couldn't have gone better. we sit on the couch, we lounge, we watch tv, we build. natural as that; of course, it wasn't that natrual, because every two minutes i'd have to pick up the tape recorder to make sure it was getting everything. then, icing on the cake style, he gave me some name drops for the next atmos release, answering-machine style. "yeah yeah, this is guru, baldhead slick, with my man proven self, representin' the atmos crew, gangstarr, jazzmatazz, 2000. blah blah miscellaneous hip-hop cliche etc. etc." for real, couldn't be happier. troop back to the office on some serious cloud nine shit, then, as had to happen as per the law of vicissitudes discussed recently, my exact place on the conde nast totem pole became clear.
i mean, it's not like i have any illusions about it. i may have illusions about my talents and my purpose in this world, about my chances for a macarthur genius grant and my general attractivness, about how good i smell and how people actually care what i have to say, but not about my status at conde nast. i'm 25, i have a shaved head and earrings, and i've been known to wear baggy cargos and a kangol to work. this does not = senior editor material. that may change in time, because i can disguise myself as halfway presentable, but when you see me you don't think "fast-track." you should, but you don't. you might think "he's gonna take my shoes!" or "what's he thinking doing the sunday times puzzle in pen?" or even "that is one part-thug-part-nerd-lookin' bald-ass-head-havin' raggedy-ass-clothes-wearin' tofu-stir-fry-cookin' long-winded-screed-writin' uncle-proven's-olde-tyme-snack-washin'-juicy-juice-drankin' kid," but you don't think "fast-track."
that was a good rambler. but anyway. so in the gq offices there's what's commonly known as the "free table": old issues of magazines, promotional copies of books and cds, the rare screener videotape. basically, the bulk of my cultural intake, seeing as how it's free and i spend all my money on hookers. and i'm looking through the free table, and don't i find some treats. the new issue of harper's, the new grand street, and some jeopardy book to sate the nerd half of the genotype. so i stack them up real nice and pretty, and i'm looking at some other stuff, and one of our big-shot writers come over and starts perusing my stack. klaxons go off, my territorial instinct kicks in, but due to my relative serfdom the resultant objection is more of a girlish "hey! that's my pile!" he laughs heartily, throws a fatted-calf arm around my shoulder, and says something about the pathos of the situation. poor proven self and his free-table booty; he is but a eunuch in the court of portly men, emasculated by his own formidable masculinity.
to recap: he's gonna take my shoes! starring proven self as a eunuch in the court of portly men. thank you.
p.
and yo. my full-on venture kneejerk.net is up and running, though not nearly full. go and getcha read on. for me.
props to darkcounter.com
and sitemeter