Things I Think I Learned This Week

Well.

It's Sunday night (in a week that I remembered I do this particular blog subject semi-regularly), so that translates to another edition of TITILTW. (That stands for "Things I Think I Learned This Week," but I have a feeling that's gonna be the last time I abbreviate it ever.)

As of this typing, there's only 85 minutes left in this week--and considering that I spent the last 32 minutes deciding what to listen to as I write (the winner is Engine Down's Demure)--I'd probably better get right to the festivities.

TITILTW: Labor Day Spectacular by Timothy James Karan

1. Rival Schools (my go-to namedrop band) are writing a new record. This is both exhilarating and mildly disconcerting to me. I love Rival Schools more than days I realize I don't have to blog (and I love those days so, so, so much). Here's the thing: I was introduced to Rival Schools about seven years ago by a friend who was growing tired of my incessant whining about whichever girl it was who had just destroyed me forever (Fun fact, kids: Whenever you think that you've just lost the love of your life, typically you meet a new love of your life about three weeks later in line at Long John Silvers, then in a few months you get destroyed again and the cycle continues until you realize that fast food restaurants aren't conducive to locating one's respective soul mate). My friend assured me that "Undercovers On" from United By Fate would solve all of my problems and for only the third time on record, he was correct.

Since Rival Schools have been relatively MIA since 2002, I've been left with an image of the band that they're just about as close to perfection as possible. However, I'm afraid that a new album could tarnish that image (like after I met Colleen--the second girl at Long John Silvers--who, for 13 days, I believed was amazing until I found out that she had a Dave Matthews Band tattoo). I want to trust you, Rival Schools. But I've been hurt before. (Refer to: Portishead's Third and the new American Gladiators).

2. Don't wear sunglasses to air shows. So my parents made the trip into luxurious Cleveland this weekend because they're pretty much 1973-style groupies for the Navy's Blue Angel flying team. Although they made me wake up at 10 a.m. on a Saturday (I don't consider anything a day off if I have to set my alarm clock for any reason), the inner Western-Pennsylvanian in me means that as much as I'd like to repress it, I have a physiological need to witness very large machines make as much noise as possible. The thing I failed to recognize, however, is that staring into the sun for six hours in the middle of a Saturday leads to third-degree burns around the bright white patches of your face that are covered by your $6 H&M sunglasses. I toyed with taking a picture just so you could see the ridiculousness, but I couldn't do that to Katie.

3. Speaking of Katie, apparently nobody wants to read anything about how we blew up a kitchen last week. I'm baffled. Whenever I told anyone the story about the whole L.A. explosion debacle, everyone said the same thing: "Well, at least you have something interesting to blog about." But the 80 percent decrease in comments for that mini-series leads me to believe that either I built up too much hype for the blog in my head or that semi-serious blogs by me are about as uncomfortable as that episode of The Fresh Prince when Carlton takes speed and dances until he passes out.



4. I actually don't blog very well to Engine Down. Somewhere around the beginning of No. 3, I switched over to Manchester Orchestra, and I think you go back, you can see a marked improvement.

Big Trip to L.A. Part 2

[And now: The conclusion to my melodramatic yet uncomfortable journey to Los Angeles, California, U.S.A., Earth.]
When last we left our hero (yeah, apparently I'm not content just to refer to myself in the third-person, I also have delusions of awesomeness), an oven had just exploded and caused part of the ceiling to collapse in what may or may not have been a failed assassination attempt by his girlfriend.)


When the dust cleared (that's the first time I've ever said that non-rhetorically) (and it feels very satisfying) after the ceiling crashed around me, Katie (I've been told that it's okay to reveal my girlfriend's name) turned off the gas and ran to grab whatever we'd need to survive a night on a street in Glendale (although a mildly hysterical Katie made me go back past the kitchen, risking my life to rescue her baby) all while there were a couple more small explosions and the sound of collapsing plaster a few feet away.

And that's pretty much where I brought you in.

For a minute, I was pretty sure that we had just blown up an entire apartment complex. And we had both pretty narrowly avoided gruesome demise for reasons not entirely clear to either of us.
I told the firemen everything that happened (they especially liked the part about kazoos at the Anthony Green show) and I took them back to the apartment where they were a pleasant combination of impressed and befuddled. There wasn't any fire lingering. There was just a huge honking hole in the ceiling.

We all just kinda stood there with our arms folded and stared at the ceiling for about 20 minutes, trying to do our best to show off everything we've learned from CSI.

If there was a gas leak, odds are that the whole apartment woulda gone up.

I quickly and triumphantly exclaimed, "Like in Fight Club!"

And they said, "That's right. Like in Fight Club," as if they don't hear that every single time an oven causes a problem.

But the whole apartment didn't go up. In fact, none of the neighbors even bothered to peek outside their doors either after the massive explosion or as firefighters in full gear stomped through their halls. (Freaking L.A...)

After much deliberation and pretty much giving up, one of the guys began looking around the oven to find a serial number. "1952 Kenmore O-L-D," he said as another studious yet oblivious firefighter wrote it down. He repeated, "Ken-more O-L... Hey! You dirty son of a bitch!" They all had a good laugh and I was like, "Okay, so can I smoke in here orrrrr..."

And then they noticed a tiny little warning label that said you have to light a match to start the oven.

I was like, "Oh snap."

Then they resisted the urge to kick me in the ear.

Afterwards, after everyone had departed, leaving a horrendous mess for us to clean up, Katie said, "I'm hungry."

I said something like, "Are you an insane person?"

And then we walked to an ultra-swank outdoor mall, got on the waiting list at the Cheesecake Factory and then proceeded to sit amidst happy consumers who probably didn't just skirt death. While infants and the elderly jiggled about to Katy Perry, Katie and I sat mostly silent and vaguely traumatized at this crazy fountain.

She said, "If I'd died tonight before I saw Radiohead tomorrow, I'd have been so pissed."



Epilogue: Radiohead was awesome, by the way. Heather Graham was like 12 rows in front of us.

My big trip to L.A.

I remember standing in the streets of Glendale, California, waving down the fire truck with a cigarette dangling from my lips and thinking, "Huh. This weekend sure has taken an odd turn."

When the truck pulled up, lights flashing, the first fireman to greet me said, "Yeah, I don't know if I'd be smoking that right now."

I said, "Hey, man. If you just went through what I did, you'd be smoking too."

My big trip to L.A. started out pretty sweet.

A day earlier, I got in just in time to meet up with my girlfriend and head to Anaheim for the Anthony Green/Person L show at Chain Reaction. The show was ridiculous. It was the night before the epic Battle Of The Network Stars with Cove Reber, but at the time, my show seemed like a pretty difficult act to follow. Lyrics were sung along to, kazoos were played in unison and mayhem ensued.

After a quick post-show meet-and-greet with Anthony Julius Green, the girlfriend and I planned to take a full day to prepare for Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl on Sunday.

If we had known how close to death we'd come 16 hours later, we probably woulda spent a little more quality time with Anthony. Or rented some scooters or something.

My girlfriend decided to cook dinner for us on Saturday. But I thought something felt ominous when we bought those frozen chicken nuggets (different from the ominous feeling I usually get when buying frozen chicken nuggets).

We walked back to the studio apartment her friend's mother had allowed us to borrow for the day (for as much as it costs to pay for a month of rent in L.A., you could instead buy one of these).

I sat down at the glass table in the tiny kitchen and my girlfriend settled in, neatly arranging the chicken nuggets in a container, boiling some water for vegetables that she and I both knew I'd never eat and then turned on the oven to pre-heat. (You know that all these mundane details have to be foreshadowing something...)

I began talking about something and she feigned casual interest as per usual, and then she said, "I'll be right back. Keep talking," then went into the hallway.

Then there was the explosion.

Look, I'm not a nuclear physicist. I had to go to Dictionary.com just to spell physicist.

But I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that this explosion was the single most powerful to stem from a dingy 1952 Kenmore oven on record.

It blew a hole in the ceiling about 5-feet around, showering heavy shards of plaster inches away from me.

My life flashed before my eyes.

And it was in that instant that I knew... that this would be a great place to leave a cliffhanger for the next blog.

(Here's a little spoiler, though: Either I survived or I'm the afterlife's most prominent pop culture blogger.)

Questioning your dedication to Sparkle Motion.

Lots of catching up to do.

If you're a faithful reader of this blog (i love you in ways I'm not prepared to deal with yet), then you've been left with a few cliffhangers.

But before we get to those, I've got one more Olympic observation I gotta make.

So everybody's up in arms about the fact that the Chinese gymnastics team is made up of a middle school Sparkle Motion squad. Apparently, you have to be 16 to be in the Olympics. The problem is, a couple of these Hannah Montana fans actually won some medals and now everyone (probably this guy) wants to take that hardware away.

Here's the thing: If you're 12 years-old, and you can beat an adult at anything that doesn't involve texting or Dance Dance Revolution, I say you deserve that medal. Actually, you should probably get a special medal made out of something better than gold.

Just sayin'.

Anyway.

To the cliffhangers.

First of all, that argument with Scott Heisel I needed your help with? Yep, I was on the side that argued that Toadies sound a little like Every Time I Die. I didn't realize that the clip I put up only had a few seconds of the ETID song (and it wasn't the time that REALLY sounds like Toadies), but I think the point got across. And I think that since nobody expressed as much doubt as Scott Theodore Heisel, I'm gonna consider this one a win.

Second cliffhanger.

That fantasy football league? Oh, it went down.

I received a zillion (53) submissions to be in the league which was crazy considering I sincerely didn't think a zillion (53) people read this blog.

So if you submitted and I didn't get back to you--I'm very, very sorry. Next season, I'll figure out a more scientific way to apply. As it stands now, I pretty much went with the people who built my ego up (every time one of you fulfills my need for affirmation from others, Jason Pettigrew gets closer and closer to doing this to me).

Anyway.

So the draft went well.

For others.

I did okay, I think. Better than Scott.

And that was really my only goal.

(Scott took the Bears kicker in something like the second round. If you know anything about fantasy football, that's like deciding to see a Sugar Ray cover band instead of going to a Rival Schools reunion show.)

But I made the league public, so if you wanna see how things are going week to week, feel free to check it out. (I'm the Dandy Van Slykes. Lemme know what you think of my team. And refer to a few lines up to see how that will affect Pettigrew.)

Okay.

So I gotta run.

I'm actually flying out to L.A. tomorrow to hang out with the girlfriend and catch a couple more Anthony Green shows. Oh, and freaking Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl.

(I know that last sentence wasn't really a sentence. I'm too excited to adhere to The Man's strict grammatical standards.)

Settle an argument.

Music editor Scott Heisel is never wrong.

(In the world that exists outside of Scott's head, however, he very often is.)

Here's a typical exchange:

Scott: "What's your favorite Weezer song?"

Anyone: "Hmm. I think it's probably 'Hash Pipe'"

Scott: Wrong! Your favorite song is 'Across The Sea!'

Anyone: "That's weird. I coulda sworn it was 'Hash Pipe.' My cousin put it on a mix CD for me when I was in the hospital and I listened to it every day."

Scott: "Nope!"

So when unwittingly entering into an argument with Scott about almost anything, you need rigid, scientific facts (or survey results) to back it up.

So, real quick: Settle this argument.

I won't tell you which side I'm on.

Yet.

Listen to these two songs.

One is by the band Toadies.

The other is by Every Time I Die.

Does the Toadies song sound a little like a less angry version of ETID?

TOADIES

EVERY TIME I DIE

It should, however, be noted that Scott had to help me upload these songs.

Things I Think I Learned This Week

Hey there.

So I gotta make this quick because it's become clear to me at some point during the past 29 hours that I've developed an unhealthy addiction to watching the Olympics.

Let's jump right into some things I think I learned this week:

1. I've developed an unhealthy addiction to watching the Olympics. I don't know what it is. Under usual circumstances, you couldn't bribe me to watch a flatwater kayak race or the quarterfinals of rhythmic gymnastics with one-of-a-kind, long-lost Brand New demos featuring Thom Yorke on guest vocals. But for some reason this summer, I'm effing captivated. I don't care what you're putting in front of me--badminton, water polo, women's tandem cross-stitching--if you throw a competitor in a snazzy, color-coded unitard, I'm gonna be unable to resume my usual routine until I see the tearful results. Although...

2. I'm phucking sick of Michael Phelps. Look. Dude's a good swimmer. We get it. Let's move on. Don't get me wrong, I'm stoked the guy broke all those records. But the extensive over saturation of all things Phelps has brought up a fundamental question that plagues me every time I watch a press conference after a football game. Why do we treat athletes like politicians?

Every six minutes, there's a break in the coverage to show me yet another interview where Michael Phelps talks about Michael Phelps "in his own words." First of all, I'd love to see him talk about himself in someone else's words: Like the late Mitch Hedberg's. Secondly, just cause kid can swim, don't mean he can talk. And he can't. All he says is, "Man, I'm at less of a loss...or is it more? I'm at more of a loss than words than I was even yesterday when I was at a loss for words." And yet Andrea Kramer sleeps outside his hotel room just to keep thrusting a microphone in his face everytime he goes for a peach Snapple. Stop making athletes talk. It's ruining my ability to believe in anything.

Also, his nipples are scaring me. His upper torso looks like a face that is very perplexed.

3. Telling people your blog is ranked last leads to a groundswell of compliments and moral support. Thank you guys for all your suggestions to bring this blog out of the gutter. But guess what? My blog is the highest rated for the month of August (so far) (!). It might have to do with the fact that every other editor has been absent for at least one week and Jason actually had a link that led to my blog on journalism, but numbers is numbers, son!

4. Sigur Ros make me cry. Here's the thing: I really do want you to finish reading this blog, but I want you to take a moment to go to iTunes and buy the new album, med sud i eyrum vid spilum endalaust. If these guys spoke English, they'd be the biggest band in the world. (In contrast, I might like Linkin Park if I couldn't understand a word they say.)

5. My cat is smarter than me. This is my cat after I attempted to give her a bath (leading to nothing but my own bloodshed and disillusionment):

She's been clawing the hell out of my couch lately, so I bought this clear, two-sided kitty tape that is supposed to deter her from clawing, since her paws will stick to the couch and freak her out. Except she saw me put it all up and knew something was up. She walked over slowly and just kind of gently tapped it with her paw and then licked it. She really liked it. So now she just licks the couch--which is only slightly less irritating.

In the meantime, every time I pass the couch in my shorts, my entire leg becomes immediately affixed to the couch, leading to (yep) my own bloodshed and disillusionment.

Let's not spin in the comfy chair.

What do these four things potentially have in common?

Maybe I should start at the beginning.

So I woke up this morning to "We Built This City" by Jefferson Starship on my clock radio.

That's the kind of day it's been.

After blowing through six-and-a-half stop signs on my way to work in order to make it to our massive staff meeting on time, I stumbled across some disturbing news.

(No. It's not that the newest Kirk Cameron movie both seems derivative of Ladder 49 and, in fact, exists.)

We found out where all of our blogs rank in regard to how many readers we get.

Mine is in dead last.

Behind Scott Heisel.

Behind guest bloggers.

Behind anyone who accidentally hits the wrong button on their Blogspot page and ends up posting to our site.

It just got me to wondering.

I usually get a ton of comments (if 7=a ton) and the response from everyone I know (my mom) is always really positive.

I feel like I've got a critically acclaimed TV show that gets demolished in the ratings by Two And A Half Men.

So what am I doing wrong?

Do you want more about music?

More swearing?

I'll do it.

Damn. Poop.

See?

Or am I doomed to be cancelled but then do really well later on DVD sales?

Is this whiny?

Undoubtedly, yes.

Yes it is.

But I sincerely wanna know what it is you guys would like to see here.

It's always tricky to figure out what might be interesting to write about.

I sincerely wanna know.

What would you guys like to know about?

I need to get my ratings up.

Have I worn out my cuteness? Should I bring in an adorable younger cousin out of nowhere?

Should I have an episode that's entirely an awkward musical?

Should I have an entire blog that turns out to be a dream?

If you've got a shark, yo, I'll jump it.

Except for you, Milhouse. You're cut.

Geez.

Guess what?

That fantasy football league I brought up yesterday in my jammies?

Flooded with submissions.

FLOOD, ED.

Considering I can only include 12 members (including myself and a few other AP celebutantes), I'm sad to say I'm not gonna be able to include everyone who asked to enter.

Who would have thought this would turn into an exclusive club?

Yeesh. I severely underestimated my popularity.

But here's the thing: I'd say about 80 percent of those submissions are from dudes.

I really wanna get a few ladies in the league for the sake of equality. (Remember, this isn't a serious league at all -- Scott Heisel's gonna be in it, for Peter's sake--so don't worry if you don't know much about football.)

e-mail me at karan@altpress.com

But I'm gonna have to make some hard cuts tonight--so get your submission in now! (It'll help if you let me know why you wanna play. Or, instead, you could just tell me how cool I am. That seems to have been working so far.)

Also, for everyone who's hoping to get in, we'll probably be doing the draft online as early as Thursday!

Are you ready for some futility?

Hey there.

Real quick.

(By the way, thank you to those who have joined the movement to get me a new blog picture. Every little contribution helps.)

But, hey.

So I was sitting here watching Day 6 of the endless, CNN-type coverage of Brett Favre's Cher-like return to the NFL and I got to thinking: Oh, how I wish I could write a blog every week about football. And then I got to thinking: You know, I have a perfectly good blog that I'm literally held at gun-point to fill up several times per week. (Okay, the gun is actually a metaphor, but I don't know if that means I can't say "literally.")

And then I got to thinking: I'm really hungry for cotton candy.

And then I got to thinking: Fantasy football.

Totally.

If I start a fantasy football league with a few dedicated readers, I can easily use that as a flimsy pretense to write a little about football every week as part of my job. Who knows. Maybe I'll be able to tie that all in to music somehow. I'm smart as eff. But I'm not smart enough to figure all that out right now.

So here's what's up.

If you're interested in being in the first ever Tim Karan Fantasy Football League (witty name to be announced at a later date), which may or may not include other staffers at AP (since, well, I haven't brought this up to any of them yet, seeing as how I'm sitting in my jammies at home), let me know. It'll bring you a little bit of quasi-fame, considering by being in the league, you'll be agreeing to let me involve you a little bit in this very blog.

And it'll also bring you closer to me (which has a cash value of $17.95).

And, the winner will receive a super-cool prize package made up of assorted AP-style swag that I'll put together throughout the season. Hell, I'll even get Jason Pettigrew to autograph something for you if you're into that sort of thing (although I'll have to trick him since he believes organized sports are the worst thing since Pearl Jam. I, however, am clearly on board with both sports AND Pearl Jam.)

Come on.

If you're anything like me, you know that make-believe football is the answer to that nagging hole where a real life is supposed to be.

E-mail me at karan@altpress.com with a convincing reason why I should count you in. I need at least seven people. And I don't care if you don't know the difference between a nickelback and Nickelback.

Somebody thinks he's Mariah Carey.

Okay.
That's freaking it.

Maybe I'm feeling a little like a prima donna.
Or maybe I'm just a little drunk.

But I'm officially requesting a new photo of me for this blog.

I can't do it anymore.
I can't be expected to work under these conditions.

Here's the thing.
As we covered in my very first blog, back during what I like the refer to as the Golden Age Of My Narcissism, I made clear my feelings about that horrible picture of me up there in the right-hand corner. True, I was half-kidding.

But when you're half-kidding, 50 percent of you is saying something in jest and the other 50 percent is dying a little inside.

Here's the thing.
The day we took those pictures, I wasn't any kinda prepared. Not that I woulda got my hair did up real nice or that I woulda worn something fancy (like that $300 pleather blazer I got from being on a Fuse TV show, but have yet to find a situation in which I can wear it without immense mocking).

But there's something inside my brain that always kicks in when I pose for pictures: I don't do anything well when I'm asked to.

It's true.
From writing a story to making toast, if you tell me to do it, a part of my brain makes it so I can't complete said task. Our art assistant Ted once told me that it's something called a "self-fulfilling prophecy," but I think it's actually that my brain hates me.

So when I'm told to pose for a picture, the results are always awful.

But since it's clear to everyone at AP that I'm both self-obsessed and potentially insane, they're not gonna bother to listen to any of the voices in my head.

So I need you.
Give me some comments that agree with the fact that I need a photo that doesn't make me look like a sophomore in high school who may or may not be pooping.

I'm gonna include a few options below, just to prove that my mom is right and that I'm far, far more attractive than anything that can be captured by man-made devices.

Maybe we could go with this one:



This was taken during my trip across the country a few months ago. As you can clearly see and in direct opposition to what my blog photo indicates, I do in fact have facial structure.

Or how about this one:



This is straight up taken from my computer at work. I think the thing that makes this far superior to my current photo is that you can tell that I'm not just rocking a bad, seventh-grade-style mustache. I'm rocking a bad, seventh-grade-style beard. Call me crazy, but I think that's something worth fighting for.

I know what you're saying: Tim, yes. Obviously you are a gorgeous human being. But what can I do? I'm only one person.

That's true.
But together, our voices can rise above and make real change possible.

Less constructive advice

So somehow my first blog entry in my Say Anything-personalized-blog-dillyhoo experiment turned into a cult favorite among aspiring journalists. 

Who knew I could spout off something quasi-useful? Certainly nobody who knows me personally or professionally.

So I think for the second reader-submitted blog subject, I'm gonna reach way back and pull this suggestion from lunarflame17 who may or may not have been serious when posting:

I think you should write about how to deal with a landlady who thinks that barn stars are devices for transmitting secret signals to the government and who drives backwards down the road for two miles to tell a random person that she's convinced that her neighbors are Nazi terrorists. Because my sister-in-law could probably use that kind of advice.

Oh, lunarflame17 (and lunarflame17's sister-in-law).

We've all been in this situation.

However, I'm not really an expert on real estate or landlord legalities. I do, however, watch a lot of HGTV. (Watching how upper-middle class yuppies laboriously decide on which type of granite counter tops define them as a couple has become like porn to me).

I guess the questions I have are these: How does the insanity of the landlord directly affect your sister-in-law? Is the landlord her neighbor? What's a barn star? (My first thought was that a barn star is probably a reality singing competition on TNN hosted by Toby Keith and a 2007 Chevy Silverado.) Turns out, they actually are these things:

So I'm not really that concerned with the landlord believing that barn stars are sending signals to the government. Because I have no idea what barn stars actually do. In a way, I kind of would prefer that they send messages to the government. That's a lot more logical to me than arbitrarily putting copper stars on barns. 

As for driving backwards down the road because she thinks her neighbors are Nazi terrorists, well...

First of all: Nazi terrorists? That's a double-whammy. That sounds as scary to me as vegan tofu.

Second of all, if you thought there were Nazi terrorists next to you, you'd totally drive your car in reverse if that's the direction that takes you quickest from the Nazi terrorists. Not to mention: You don't wanna take your eyes off those guys. 

So here's what I think your sister-in-law needs to do, lunarflame17.

Tell the landlady that, yes, the neighbors actually are Nazi terrorists. That very fact has been bringing property values down for years. However, the government is aware of their presence and they've struck a tenuous peace agreement with said Nazi terrorists. How does the government ensure that the Nazi terrorists stay in check?

You guessed it.

Barn stars.

Boom.

That's win-win, son.

I can't believe I don't work for the U.N.

Long journey to the middle.

Holy shit.
I have actual blog requests.
I was shocked, son.

If four people came back at me with four requests, I can only imagine the seas of submissions Max Bemis has gotta be swimmin' in as we speak.

But I'm a blogger of my word, and I was really into all the ideas, so I'm gonna try to get to all of them. But for right now, the lucky recipient of the very first personalized Tim Karan Blog©: Cam.

Here's what Cam wanted to know:


...I think what I'm asking for is any and all advice you might give to an aspiring (music) journalist. What was the best advice given to you? Honestly, any tips/inside information would be incredible. Also, I'm wondering how you became so insanely awesome and why it is that every man pales in comparison to your boyish and rugged good-looks.*
(* Line possibly added by me)


So here's the thing.


I'm probably not the best person to give advice on how to make it as a journalist. Mostly cause I'm pretty sure I didn't take any semblance of the route most people take.


I never took a journalism class (outside of one during my freshman year of high school in which I did an in-depth interview with Alexei, the foreign exchange student) and in college, I was a (relatively unsuccessful) film student. Everything I "learned" about writing, I just kinda put together from stuff I read.


When I got out of school, and after about a four-year career at a chain record store, I took a job writing obituaries for my local newspaper. (If it sounds morbid and depressing, you're absolutely right. Let's just say I listened to a lot of Depeche Mode.) But while I was there, I started taking every feature writing assignment that nobody else wanted (from writing about how to grow tomatoes indoors to a hard-hitting preview of the New Kensington Rotary Club's holiday decorations tour). But over time, I built up enough published clips that I was able to turn that into a real reporting job for a free weekly in upstate New York.


But this isn't about me, Cam*.
(*Apparently it is.)


It's true, getting into journalism--especially music journalism--is pretty different from the way it was even five years ago. (Thanks a ton, internet. Although I am quite a big fan of your pornography.)


Blogging (or contributing to wiki-type websites) is definitely a plausible way to get a job online. However, paying online writing jobs make up a pretty small segment of all the stuff on the web. Unless you're crazy committed to writing your own blog (I started something like 23 blogs that have all ended in a muted frenzy of apathy and heartbreak), and are as good as marketing yourself as Perez Hilton, it's rough out there. But I know that our music editor Scott took this path to superstardom (if "superstardom" consists of wearing shorts to work every day once the temperature reaches above 43 degrees.)


To get a job in print journalism, there's pretty much only one way: Get stuff printed. If that sounds like a vicious circle (I can't write until I get a job and I can't get a job until I'm already paid to write), it kinda is. But the thing is, you gotta start at the bottom. Believe me. (See: The paragraph about obituaries.) This is the step that a lot of young writers tend to overlook. You can't go from zero to AFI interviews in 3.4 seconds. Write for free pubs or even submit an editorial to your local paper. The key is that you need to have those printed clips to show to employers. Without them, it's a lot like applying for a job as a shoe designer without any shoes you designed to show . (Sorry for the metaphor. I was just looking at my shoes.)


Don't ever think it's not worth writing for even tiny newspapers. I don't know about other editors, but when I'm looking at hiring a writer, I don't even look at the name of the publication. I just read the writing. If it's good, I don't care if it's from your apartment complex bi-monthly newsletter.


What makes something good? (Aside from cream filling,) That's difficult to say. I usually want a distinct voice--I want to be able to hear the writer when I read. However, don't do what I tend to do--go the Hunter Thompson route and insert yourself into the story. If you're interviewing some local band after a show, nobody cares about how long it took for you to park and what existential crises you went through deciding on what to drink.



The best advice I've ever gotten (when it comes to writing, at least. My uncle once told me never to pee on live animals and I live by that to this day): Just type like you talk. (Or in my case, the way you want to talk.) Don't insert a zillion 50-cent phrases (unless it's "Bottle full of bub.")


(Here's something else, but this might just be me: Don't write concert reviews just for submitting to magazines. If you're getting paid to do it, that's fine. But most magazines and newspapers are geared toward promoting things that are happening in the future. We don't care about the past. If the reader was there, they probably disagree with your interpretation and if they weren't, they're probably pissed they missed it and don't wanna hear about it.)

As for marketing yourself and the changing landscape of music journalism: Well. The thing is, nobody really knows how the music journalism landscape is gonna change. Except maybe Pete Townshend. If I was just starting out right now, I'd probably wanna demonstrate that I know how to appeal to both old school print readers (with printed clips) and ADD-riddled MySpace bulletin readers (with short, concise, entertaining blurby-type stuff). How you do that is really your call .

Anyway.

This has all gone on far too long (I couldn't keep the attention of my production director with a blog half this long, so I fear he's long-since given up on this one). I hope this helped some.


The key: Write. A ton.


If you're good at it and you put it out there, someone will notice.


Just hope that someone is Jason Pettigrew.

That'll be $150, Cam.

Fax my assistant.

Buy your own Tim Karan blog!

I know, I know.

I promised that I'd fill you in on more about my rock star wheelings and dealings with Anthony Julius Green.

And I will.

But something came up.

Max Bemis--the very attractive, potentially eccentric frontman of Say Anything--revealed today that he'll be writing personalized, one-of-a-kind acoustic songs for select fans. All you have to do is send him a few paragraphs on what you'd want it to be about and within three days, Maxamillion Bemis will deliver a tune completely for you. It's supposed to be a way to offer up his viewpoint on advice you need or a different take on your situation (or as my grandfather would say: "sitch-ee-a-tion.") If he chooses you, it'll only cost $150 American.

(First of all, is he saving up for a sweet jet ski? What's the deal, Max?)

So that got me to thinking.

For $150, I'll write you a personalized blog.

I don't care what it's about. Or what you want from me.

(Keep in mind, it's likely supremely unethical for me to accept any money for this, so in actuality, the whole thing is completely free.)

Just send me a comment here with a few paragraphs on what you want me to talk about--whether it's something you're going through or something you need Timified advice on.

Please?

Let me know and if I choose you, you'll see your very own blog soon. And then you can cherish it forever.

Promise.

(Still, I actually am saving up for a sweet jet ski, so if you feel generous, I'll take whatever you got.)