APA Heart Bitch

Four years ago, Ashley Parker Angel was off to an amazing start as a performer. He and his blindingly white smile were the key ingredient in a half-assed, over-produced collection of pop wannabes - none of whom, ironically enough, had even an eighth of an ounce of pure pop in their blood - that, miraculously, worked for about five minutes.

I've often wondered if any of the members sold their soul(s) to Satan for that favor. In retrospect, the phenomenon is even more baffling than it was then. But, whatever. Good for them.

Startlingly and unseemingly feasible or not, the five-pack was a national sensation in the summer of 2001. They were unoriginal, to say the least - NKOTB re-visited, even. Regardless, they were introducing millions of previously innocent pre-teen girls, and maybe even a few 20-somethings with a weird fetish for spiky hair and good hand-crotch coordination, to multitudes of liquid dreams.

They were O-Town!



And then, a few short months later...they weren't.

And then, we kind of forgot about them and went, "Ooooh, who's this Nelly guy, and why is he singing about CoCoa Puffs?"

And then, one day, we turned on MTV and went, "Whoa. Is that...?"

And, yes! Yes, it was, indeed, Damien Fahey.

But then, somewhere in between Road Rules/Real World Challenge XXVIII and that weird hour-long block of MTV programming around 3:30 a.m. where they actually play music videos, we noticed this familiar-looking guy. We thought he was unnaturally attractive, and we kind of wondered why on earth he was passing out flyers in front of a fast food restaurant when, clearly, all he wanted to do was sing his little heart out.

And then, we went, "Holy crap, that's Ashley Parker Angel."

And then, he said, "Damn straight, I'm Ashley Parker Angel, and you're ALL going to know it!"

And then, to prove his point, he went on a radio tour to promote his forthcoming CD. In this:



I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that, surely, Ashley Parker Angel wouldn't dare tool around the country in a tour bus that has a 12-foot picture of his face on the side of it.

But, yes. He would. He did. He is.

Intern Alana and I stood mutely, watching the monstrosity as it chugged indiscreetly up Not-So-Incognito Avenue. "That's his face," she whispered, as the bus circled our block.

"That is his face," I agreed.

"That's a big face, Mysti. I'm scared of it. Do you think HE'S that big in person?!"

I shook my head. "He can't be. If his head were actually that large, he'd never get the rest of his body into the bus."

"That is true," Alana conceded. "Oh my GOD!" she screeched suddenly, grasping my arm. "What if the inside is like the outside?"

My eyes widened at the notion. "What if he has pictures of himself all over the walls?"

"What if in his shower, each individual shower tile is a different picture of him?!"

"What if his shower DOOR is like a naked lady cup!" I exclaimed. Alana eyed me quizzically. "You know, a naked lady cup! Like, he's there on the door in a towel, but when he takes a shower and it gets all steamy in there, the towel disappears, and he's NAKED!"

We both whipped our heads around to undress Ashley with our eyes as he stepped down from the big, face-adorned bus of shame, and shyly studied his surroundings. "We have got to get a tour of that bus," I hissed.

"YES, WE DO."

I quickly approached Ashley before any of the "official" people could get to him, and said, "Hi! I'm Mysti! I'm going to be interviewing you in a bit, but it's necessary that I get a tour of the bus first." He gave me an odd smile. "You know, they make me do that. Otherwise, I wouldn't ask." Ashley cocked an eyebrow. "It's...prototype."

"ProtoCOL," Alana inserted.

"Yes, that."

He eyed us up for a moment before moving aside to let us onto the bus. Alana and I scurried up the steps, anxious to see what wondrous Ashley Parker Angel adorned wonders lay inside, and were disappointed to see that it looked just like a regular old tour bus. A few fast food bags lying around. Television playing. Some iPod-listening idiot half-hanging out of a bunk, unaware that he had company.

There were a few notable oddities, though. Usually, tour buses smell like a combination of beer and pot. This one smelled more like vanilla and...applesauce, maybe? There was also an impressive stack of Little Golden Books on the shelf. I realize that musicians aren't often all that bright, but even with that in mind, I was taken aback.

"Um, hi?" came a voice from behind us.

Alana and I whirled around to find her standing there.

Tiffany.



So pretty.



So happy.



So fashionable.

And such. A. BITCH.

"Who are you two?"

She looked the two of us up and down, side to side, forwards and backwards, then propped her hand up on her hip and looked to Ashley for some explanation.

"She's doing the interview, babe," he said, in a rather exhausted sort of way. Apparently, he's used to dealing with her rigid inquiry.

We smiled at Tiffany and politely extended our hands. She gaped at the gesture, and then recoiled as though we had offered her a steaming pile of dog poop.

"Right," I said, withdrawing my hand.

"So, what do you think of the bus?" Ashley asked cheerfully, holding his arms out in a grand gesture.

Bless his heart. He was actually proud of it.

"It's nice," I said. "I especially like the reading material."

"Oh, the Little Golden Books? They're for Lyric."

"Lyric? Like, song lyrics?"

"Like, our child!" Tiffany snapped.

Ashley, Alana and I stared numbly at one another, and the tension mounted at an unbearably fast pace. Seriously, though, how I was supposed to know that they'd given their kid some weird, hippy name?

"So..." I started, just to break the silence. "Shall we go in, now?"

"Yes!" Ashley and Alana said simultaneously, making a break for the door.

When we got upstairs to the studio, and everyone was settled into their appropriate places, I watched Tiffany wrinkle her nose at each and every person in the room, as though we were unfit to breathe the same air that she was breathing, when the truth was that the air was unfit for any of us to breathe, thanks to her designer imposter body spray.

I wanted to hit her. Hard. And maybe kick her skinny ass up and down the hallway a few times. I wasn't sure that Ashley would concede to interview with me if I did that, though, so I just took a deep breath and launched in.

I brought the tour bus up almost immediately, and the former boy-bander laughed about it. "Yeah, it's a little hard to creep up someone in that thing," he chuckled.

I grinned knowingly. "Intern Alana and I had a few decorating tips for the inside of the bus."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?"

So, I proceeded to tell him about my Ashley Parker Angel "naked lady cup" idea. He blinked at me, clearly stunned. Then, a slow smile spread across his angelic little face, and a hearty chortle bubbled up. It was a matter of seconds before he was amused by the idea in a very visible and audible way.

"Hahaha! Oh my God, that is - "

He turned, mid-sentence, to glance at Tiffany, and her death rays struck him from the side. Ashley was propelled from his seat by the sheer force of the hatred. Everyone in the room ducked as she reloaded and aimed the murderous gaze at me. I held my hands up in front of my face, but it wasn't enough. The beams singed my palms, and I could only scream in pain and fall to my knees while my skin melted and ran down my arms.

Her point made, Tiffany stood up, flipped her hair, and stalked out of the room.

Everyone in the room gasped in horror as Ashley and I both stood slowly. He shrugged apologetically at me while I stared forlornly at my burns. Nobody said anything for a few minutes. Alana sprinted from the room and returned with a first aid kit, then set about bandaging my hands.

"Go too far with the shower comment, did I?" I asked finally.

"Maybe," he answered.

"She's crazy, Ashley."

"Yeah, she is."

"I can't believe you're going to marry her."

"I can't believe she's going to marry me," he replied. Alana and I exchanged befuddled glances. He just raised his eyebrows at us. "I was in O-Town, man. I take what I can get."



He does have a point...


Still. What a bitch.

4-F***ing-Ever!

Holy crap, I really DID go and break Coldplay up!

...reports deferred to rumors that the other three members of Coldplay were unhappy about the amount of attention directed at Martin...

Of course, "...and the fact that Chris Martin runs his mouth in solo interviews and then doesn't tell the other guys what he said, thus forcing Guy Berryman to be totally stumped when talking to Mysti" is the unspoken part, here.

Seriously, I'm like a curse. Are you really going to try and tell me that there's no connection to my raving about Love Monkey and its cancellation? I simply don't believe it.

At least there's something we can try and do about the show. I'm afraid the fate of Coldplay, however, will be subject to Chris Martin's whims. (When you consider that the man was crazy enough to name his child "Apple," though, it certainly doesn't inspire confidence.)

Okay, moving on.

I've been haunting The Veronicas for several months now in an effort to get them in-studio for the show. It's amazing just how far the annoyance factor will actually go these days. Nine times out of ten, if someone thinks they can shut me up for a consecutive five-minute stretch, they'll cater to me. Note the number of Click Five interviews on the PCC iPod page. Proof enough. And my tactics worked just as well on the Aussie twins, as I suspected they would. They dropped by, stayed for an entire show, and we had a gay old time. Hanging out with those two is always an adventure.

The Veronicas were at my radio station this past summer, a couple of months before anyone would know who they were, but because of my on-air hours, I was unable to meet them. I did, however, manage to catch a snippet of the broadcast where they performed live on the air, and I was blown away, to say the least - especially once I heard from the morning show that both were under five feet tall and maybe pushing 85 lbs. To think of such huge voices coming from the mouths of such tiny little creatures was fairly unfathomable.

It also occurred to me that my co-workers just might be exaggerating. Embellishment runs in wide rivers through my building. The people I work with are all full of...somethin'.

The first time that I came face to face with The Veronicas, though, I have a feeling that I might have ogled a little more than is socially acceptable. They were indeed miniscule. Gorgeous, but itty bitty. And not only were they aesthetically bewitching little pygmies, but holy hell, the mouths on these girls (which is what I attribute most of my gaping to)! Not that I've never heard curse words before - indeed, I even endorse the use of the harsher adjectives at times - but you, too, would be nonplussed to hear f-bombs being dropped right and left from these two innocent-looking sprites:



Look at them! Those are two of the sweetest little faces that you will ever in your life see, and the same sweet little faces that these two use to get in the door before they lay the verbal smackdown on your unsuspecting ass.

I was in Chicago at the time of our initial encounter, and the second that I entered their dressing room, I heard, "Oh my God, I am so f---ing hungry!"

I blinked, looked around the corner, and saw Veronica #1 - and more power to you if you can actually tell them apart - grinning at me. She extended one hand and covered her mouth with the other. "Hi! I'm sorry! My mouth is full!"

"No problem," I replied, wondering if what I'd heard before was more a figment of my imagination than anything.

"Oh, man, this chicken is so f---ing good," I heard from the other end of the room. I turned to find Veronica #2 standing there with a plateful of food. She laughed and gave me a friendly grin, identical to the one I'd received from her sister. "Oh, s--t, I'm sorry! I didn't realize anyone was in here! Hi!"

I was almost positive, then, that I'd stumbled into an alternate universe of some sort. For not only were these two miniature, child-like beings cursing up a storm, they were also eating enough food to sustain a small Third World country for several months. In the real world, metabolisms are just not that kind.

Do keep in mind that the information I'm giving you about The Veronicas should not distract from the fact that Lisa and Jess Origlasso are two of the loveliest human beings that you'll ever come across. They're genuinely kind-hearted girls, they have a beautiful and unfailing twin-ly affection for one another, and I have yet to hear them say anything remotely unkind about anyone.

It just so happens that all of that saccharine goodness is delivered with a multitude of s--ts and f--ks. This is what makes them additionally amusing.

From that first meeting on, I looked forward to interviewing them with a ridiculous amount of glee and anticipation. When my co-worker and I were shipped off to the Radio Music Awards, I was giddy in a rather hysterical sort of way when I saw their names on our interview list.

"Look!" I said, shaking him violently. "The Veronicas."

"You've met them before. What's the big deal?"

"They're so FUN."

"The Veronicas?!" he asked incredulously. I remembered then that the only time he'd been around the two girls was at our station's Christmas show, which they were forced to pull out of when Jess fell ill. They'd still shown at the venue, determined to do the meet and greets and sound check party appearances that they were scheduled for so as not to let down the fans, but obviously, they weren't anywhere close to their normal insane selves. It was all Jess could do to hold her head up, and Lisa had gone into protective sister mode, sticking by her laryngitis-stricken twin's side the entire night. "They seem sort of quiet."

I chuckled. "Brace yourself, naive boy," I whispered as Lisa and Jess approached our table.

At the RMAs, every interview table has a gimmick of some sort. It's how you coerce artists to come talk to your station. The gimmick doesn't have to be all that flashy or expensive, either. You would be surprised how far a few jolly ranchers will go at an event like that. So, we took it one further than the stations around us and provided a bucket full of an array of chocolate wonders - Reese's, Kit Kats, Tollhouse Brownie Bars, etc.

And condoms.

Yes, condoms.

Because, it's Vegas. Why not?

The Veronicas sat down and immediately dug in, plucking pieces of candy from the container, ripping the wrappers off with the kind of urgency an Ethiopian might display. My colleague looked at the two of them, slightly bewildered, which is about the time that the girls found the condoms.

"Trojans!" Jess shouted, extracting one of the packets and tearing into it.

"Mmmmmmmm," Lisa said with a prolonged sniff. "Smell that lubrication!" She spotted her boyfriend, Ryan Cabrera, a couple of tables over, and she began flinging rubbers at him with surprising accuracy. One hit him square in the over-styled head, and he whirled around to see where the offending item had come from.

My co-worker shook his head and leaned over. "Holy s--t," he whispered, "they're f---ing scary."

I patted him on the back, knowing full well from his sailor's response that he and the girls were kindred, and that we would all get along fantastically while writhing about in a completely non-sexual, but sloppy nonetheless, foul-mouthed love fest.

And we did.



Man, I f--king love those crazy girls.

Teddy Geiger is My Love Monkey

My "industry friends" (translation: fellow radio geeks) and I are totally obsessed with the new CBS show, Love Monkey. We mourn the fact that corporate radio outsiders will never fully understand just how funny the show is.

You will simply have to trust me when I saw that it's beyond accurate. Tom Cavanaugh is a record rep in that show, in every sense of the word. From the sport blazer and trendy knapsack to the duplicitous exchange with celebrities (especially the duplicitous exchange with celebrities)...well, it all flat-out reeks of real record industry game. It is for this reason that I imagine many living rooms look like mine on Tuesday evenings: intimate groups of radio colleagues congregating in rowdy huddles, laughing boisterously - not at the overt witticism, but because we're all thinking, "Man, he's just like that dude at Reprise/Columbia/Warner Brothers/Other Major Record Label!"

And then, there are those of us who are glued to the screen because of Teddy Geiger, who portrays the young, talented, independent label lovin' "Wayne." Liken Tom Cavanaugh's character to Crazy Tom Cruise's character in Jerry Maguire. Teddy is, essentially, his Cuba Gooding, Jr.

(That analogy, of course, was totally unnecessary, but it gave me an excuse to say "Crazy Tom Cruise," which I love to do.)

Anyone who's known me for more than five minutes can immediately spot my musical weakness. There are fewer things that I have more affection for than sensitive, acoustic-guitar-toting types with soft, vulnerable-sounding voices. I fell in love with John Mayer long before I ever laid eyes on him. Jason Mraz and I were married in my mind the second I heard "You and I Both." (Granted, that was before I insulted him. Needless to say, that relationship never quite took off following my unfortunate foot-in-mouth incident.)

Tyler Hilton's terrible taste in women turns me off, so we didn't stay together in my sordid little fantasy world for very long. His music and I are still very much an item, though.

Matt Wertz? Yes, please. Josh Kelley? I'll take seconds!

Naturally, when I heard Teddy Geiger for the first time, I got all googly-eyed, and promptly fell into a catatonic, love-stricken stupor in front of the radio. You can imagine my extreme disappointment to learn that the kid is jailbait. I cried a little bit.

Okay, a lot.

But then, it dawned on me that he has to turn 18 some time. Specifically, September 16th.

Not that I'm keeping one of those sick countdown-to-legality clocks, or anything.

It's more of an involved chart, really.



See?

Never mind.

Age issues aside, I wanted to secure a Pop Culture Countdown interview with Teddy. He seemed like an intelligent kid, and the wealth of talent within him wasn't exactly discreet. So, I emailed his rep (who, surprisingly enough, is nothing like Tom Cavanaugh) to set things up. I received my confirmation within a couple of hours, sent a gracious reply, and as I was marking the date that Teddy was to call me down in my planner, another email from the rep popped up in my in-box.

The subject was, "One more thing..."

Great, I thought agitatedly. There's going to be some weird thing I'm not supposed to ask him about, and then I'm going to be super curious about why I can't ask him about this particular thing, and then I'll end up asking him, and Teddy Geiger will hang up on me and I'll be despondent for the rest of my days.

(I can be slightly dramatic at times, but those who are close to me will say that it's endearing - possibly only because they know I'll kick their asses if they don't, but I prefer to think it's a sincere affection.)

I double-clicked and read, "You do know that he's not legal yet, correct?"

That certainly gave me pause. I knew that my affinity for musicians was well-known in my building, but it never dawned on me that my reputation had preceded me to the point where record reps were finding it necessary to take protective measures on the occasions that I happened to be dealing with their artists.

"I know that he's seventeen," I shot back. "Why?"

The reply was swift. "Just checking. I know how you get."

Well.

I was miffed, but I let it go.

A few days later, I passed my boss in the hallway. "Yo!" he called out in his ultra laid back I'm-cool-you're-cool-we're-all-cool-hey-I-need-you-to-do-something-for-me voice. "Can you work this weekend?"

"No."

"Cool. Hey, are we good on the Teddy Geiger interview? Did you get that set up?"

"Yep. He's calling tomorrow."

The boss-man nodded, then cleared his throat and moved a little closer. His eyes darted up and down the hall, and when he was certain that there was no one within earshot, he spoke again. "You do know that he's a kid, right?" he whispered. "Like, a kid kid. Of the not legal variety."

I stamped my foot and glared. "YES. Why is this even coming up?"

"Because," he said through clenched teeth, "I know how you get."

You would think that it would take a lot more than two utterances to make one loathe a phrase beyond comprehension. But it doesn't.

"How do I get?"

"You know..."

"I don't know, or I wouldn't be asking."

My boss shrugged. "You just get all...you know..."

"Thanks. That clears it up."

Ever the trooper, I rolled my eyes and kept going.

The day of, my phone rang right on time. I'm comfortable admitting that I giggled a little when I heard Teddy's voice.

"Hey, Mysti."

I gathered my bearings and greeted him warmly.

"Oh, hey, before we get started..."

His voice trailed off uncertainly, and I froze, sensing some foreboding in the air. "Yes?"

"I've, uh...been told...that, um-"

"What?"

"Ummm..."

"What, Teddy?" I snapped. "What have you been told?"

"This is really awkward," he sighed. "You seem perfectly nice, but it was suggested to me that I might want to, uh, gently remind you that I'm only seventeen years old."

I glowered at the phone. "Because of 'how I get?'"

"Yeah."

I slammed my planner open angrily, flipped to September, and grabbed a pen. "Let's just get this over with, then. What are you doing September 17th?"

Silence.

"Come on, Teddy, look at your damn schedule! What are you doing on September 17th?"

"I don't know. Nothing, I guess."

"Perfect. Want to go out on a date? You'll be 18, then."

More silence.

"It's a yes or no question, Teddy!"

"Sure," he answered feebly, though it came out as more of a question than a definitive statement.

I scribbled his name down in the September 17th square and closed the planner. "Cool. Where shall I pick you up?"

"My mom's house, I guess."

"Awesome. I promise not to hit on you between now and then. Now, may we get on with the interview?"

Teddy sniffled on the other end of the line. "Actually, now...I'm a little afraid of you."

A searing anger started boiling deep within, but before it could rise to the top, it was curbed by comprehension. I sat up straight, rigid and wide-eyed at the foot of this great epiphany that young, gentle-but-able-bodied, beautiful little Teddy Geiger had paved my way to:

THAT'S HOW I GET!

Wow. Who knew?

"You've changed me, Teddy," I murmured. "Thank you."

He sat in stupefied silence on the other end of the line for a painfully long while before answering, "You're...welcome?"

"I love you."

"Can I please hang up now?"

"Sure."

(Click.)

I've since received a restraining order, but the good news is that it expires exactly two days before my date with Teddy.



My pretty little love monkey...

College Day at the RMAs

I've always been frank with you, haven't I? I don't lie.

Okay, well, I rarely lie.

Shut up. Exagerrating is not lying.

Leave me alone.

In any case, I've debunked several radio theories thus far - that VIP passes make you cool, that radio DJs are always guaranteed the backstage rite of passage, that boy band members are as sweet and docile as their syrupy ballads, and, most importantly, that you have to be cool to be in the business (I disprove that every time I open my mouth, as a matter of fact) - and I certainly don't plan to stop now.

I will soften this next blow, though, by first revealing that Santa Claus isn't real. Nor is the Easter Bunny. (The Tooth Fairy is questionable.)

When your favorite radio station goes to "hang out" at some big, prestigious "awards show" because they've received an "exclusive invite" from said "awards show," they are lying. LYING. Right through their teeth. I kid you not! They essentially look you straight in the eye and tell you something that isn't even remotely truthful, half-hoping, half-assuming that you are too stupid to figure out what's really going on.

The ugly truth is that they are one of many stations invited to participate in the event. The awards promoter invites your station, and if your station accepts, they are then expected to run a ridiculous number of commercials promoting that show. In return, your station gets to go to the event and pretend that they're friends with famous people. The whole affair is barely legal.

Radio stations that attend will claim that they're hanging out "backstage," or at an "all access party," but that is also a bold-faced lie. The area that they're talking about resembles college day at a high school.



It's a large, open area with 50+ tables for artists' perusing pleasure, and only the worthy will get the opportunity to recruit. Think of larger markets as Ivy League, and small-market stations as junior schools. Tillamook Bay Community College may be pulling out all of the stops - fancy brochures, gift bags and hors d'oeuvres - but you know damn well that the kids will congregate around the Dartmouth table.

You can gauge where your station falls by the interviews they get. If you hear them chatting up people like Kato Kaelin, Debbie Gibson, or any of the Baldwin brothers whose name doesn't begin with "Alec," then sadly, your favorite station is Tillamook Bay Community College.

(I'll equate my station with my alma mater, Sam Houston State University. We ain't exactly Harvard, but you can put in your four years and little to no effort, and still leave with a fairly respectable degree.)

You can also gauge a musician or actor's status by what colleges they apply to. If someone actually aspires to attend Tillamook Bay, then that person is well aware that their career GPA is embarrassingly low.

There are actors like Jorge Garcia, Kevin Sorbo and Cheryl Hines, who, while they would prefer a Big 10 school, will still settle for an establishment that has a decent football team and passable degree plans.

There are musicians like Eminem and Beyonce, who wait for Yale to offer them full scholarships.

Then, there are people like Jason Dohring. He applies to every single college in the room, hoping against hope that someone - hell, anyone - will accept him so that maybe his mother will stop calling him a lazy, freeloading loser with zero potential and no future.

I don't know that his mother actually says that, mind you. I'm just assuming, here.

My co-worker and I were sitting comfortably at our little table in the back of the room, attempting to enjoy the cold fish and dressing-drenched salad that the Radio Music Awards had so graciously provided for us, when one of the RMA runners (AKA the orientation volunteers) approached us and begged us to interview Jason. "Nobody wants to talk to him and he's about to lose it," she said with a pleading expression. We looked at one another, shrugged, and agreed. We were waiting on an interview with Ryan Cabrera, and figured we had about five minutes to kill before Ashlee Simpson's spiky-headed ex meandered our way.

"C, we're going live with Jason Dohring," my interview partner said into the mic as the actor approached us. He beamed, completely unaware that "C" was not a nickname for the person back at the station, but our code for C-list, and that the board op had been instructed not to even push record for anything lower than B-list. (We may not be Ivy League, but we're high enough up that we can demand a certain level of accomplishment.) It broke my heart a little to see the rekindled hope brewing in his eyes. He was like a cute stray puppy - I desperately wanted to take him in, but unfortunately, I live in an apartment complex with a strict no-pet policy. What can I do, except set a plate of food out for him, pat him on the head, and pray that he eventually finds a good, warm home?

My co-worker, on the other hand, took him in for the night and got caught red-handed.

"Sooooooooooo, here we sit with..."

Jason waited for someone to fill in the awkward pause. I had already forgotten his name, so it certainly wasn't going to be me. "Jason Dohring," he finally answered, visibly miffed.

"Yes! Of the WB's Veronica Mars."

"It's a UPN show."

"Oh." The two death rays being shot in my direction were uncomfortable for everyone at the table, but what could I do? I, not being much of a television person, hadn't seen so much as a preview for the show. Thus, I could not help bail my colleague out. I could, however, keep my own little lifeboat afloat by not saying a word, which is exactly what I did.

I could see that my co-worker was feeling the sting of the day's first interview defeat, but he quickly scanned the interview cheat-sheet (also graciously provided by the RMAs), picked a few key words out, and bravely kept going. "And you play Duncan?"

"Logan."

"What is it like working with Kirsten Ball?"

"Her name is actually Kristen Bell."

"Do you enjoy working on a sitcom?"

"It's more of a drama."

"The show is in its third season, right?"

"Second."

Sinking like a stone, he was.

"You're no stranger to the WB, either. You've been on some other really successful shows, like Roswell and Boston Public."

Jason looked as though he wanted to both bang his head against the table and strangle my workmate, but couldn't figure out which he should do first. "Again, the show I'm currently on is a UPN show, and Boston Public aired on Fox, not The WB."

Silence.

"You want to leave our table, don't you?"

"Very much so."

"Okay. Well...thanks for stopping by, Jared."

"JASON."

"Right."

Needless to say, Jason Dohring withdrew his application. A stellar meal plan couldn't have gotten him on board at that point. In fact, he preferred Tillamook Bay to us. They're small, but I hear the professors there are much more attentive.

Plus, they had hors d'oeuvres. Really, you can't compete with that.

What Happens In Vegas Winds Up On This Blog

Did you think that I had abandoned you? Did you think that I was never ever coming back to write about my sad little syndication efforts?

Did you even notice that I was gone?

You totally didn't, did you?

Whatever.

Well, I have been. I've been gone for a while, now! But it's only because I've been busy stalking down the likes of The Click Five, The Veronicas, Clay Aiken, Howie Day, Ryan Cabrera, Ashlee Simpson, and more. I'm doing it all for you.

Or, at least that's what I tell myself. The truth is that I shamelessly use this show to get next to people far cooler than I'll ever be, in hopes that their suave existence might rub off on me a little. So far, it hasn't. I'll keep you posted on that, though.

Also, you'll notice that just to the right and down the column a bit, I have added interview downloads. There are also friends-only downloads available at MySpace. I thought it might be a nice audible reference point for the entries. They may or may not have been heavily edited so that I don't sound like a dumbass.

(I'm just sayin'.)

I hope your holidays were fantastic! I spent mine in Houston, being a well-behaved young lady around my family. However, in the days just before Christmas, I was in Las Vegas at the Radio Music Awards. Talk about drunken debauchery galore! If there is one single awards event where celebrities congregate, liquor themselves into either a manic frenzy or catatonic stupor, and perform erratic displays of substance-influenced idiocy - the likes of which tabloids would maim and kill to get photographic evidence of - the RMAs are it.

Or, so I hear.

Buzz Craven, one of my favorite people in the entire world (despite the fact that I see him roughly once every five years), jetted into Vegas from L.A. to experience the madness with me. The whole ordeal is not only celebrity-laden, but also a congregation of radio and label types from all corners of the country, and it's a feeding ground for those of us who like easy targets to sharpen our jaded, sardonic tongues on. It just so happens that Buzz and I are both jaded and sardonic. We also lack what some might say is absolutely necessary to survive in an industry like this: an ego the size of North America. We aren't the type to show up at the RMAs, check in, immediately consider ourselves to be celebrity by association, and head out to the casinos to saunter around with our obnoxious, bright red VIP passes (which serve no purpose other than getting the DJs into RMA-related events, and aren't even necessary for that, as Buzz had absolutely no credentials and walked into everything without receiving so much as a cocked eyebrow) hanging around our necks. There are many, many people who do that, though, and the two of us really enjoyed making fun of those people. Some wore more than one VIP pass, as a matter of fact, to signify their great importance.



We quickly struck up a game of "find the industry folk!" It was almost an unfair undertaking, for the "industry folk" were so easy to find.

On our second day in Vegas (which felt like our second year), Buzz and I stumbled into the Aladdin Starbucks, desperate for a caffeine kick to counteract the effects of our previous late-night casino adventures, where I'm told that I not only assaulted Bryce from Lifehouse, but also made plans to cut some studio tracks with Trick Trick, hit on Ne-Yo, and told Natasha Bedingfield that I had a girl-crush on her. We were waiting in line when I grinned, nudged Buzz, and said, "I spy a label person." I was referring to a small man clad in black at the counter. He was spouting off specific instructions for his nonfat, double-shot, triple-foam mocha something-or-other, and as he did so, he ran his hands through his platinum blonde hair. Repeatedly. He looked around, nodding and beaming at those in line behind him, shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, straightened his shirt, and played with his cell phone. The entire self-important performance smacked of a New York corner office at a major record label.

Buzz blinked at me and shook his head. "Please tell me you recognize him."

I studied the man again. "No. I do not."

"That's K.K."

(K.K. is the nickname I am assigning, simply to avoid being sued when the residual embarrassment from the forthcoming story sets in. I'll give you a clue, though. It starts with Kato, and ends with Kaelin.)

"Who?"

"K.K.!"

"Seriously?"

"YES!"

"Oh."

I found out mere hours later that K.K. was making the undignified RMA rounds to promote his upcoming last-shot reality show. After that, I didn't give him a second thought. It never occurred to me that I would be unfortunate enough to encounter him again.

Alas, I did at the Aladdin elevators, post-party the night of the ceremony. I hadn't actually attended the party, mind you. I'd skimmed the D-list celebrity selection, surveyed the appetizer spread, found them both to be unsatisfactory, and headed to New York, New York to lose the better portion of my savings account before returning to the hotel.

K.K., however, had attended the party. Lingered at the party, even. Hell, by all indication, he'd been perched on a bar stool for its entirety. He had the swagger of someone who'd been drinking excessively for several hours (or days) and the malicious personal odor to match.

"How do I know you?" he slurred in lieu of an actual greeting.

"You don't," I replied, punching the "up" button.

"But I do know you!" K.K. insisted.

"You don't."

"I do!"

"Oh, but you don't!"

I argued with him while the elevator crept downward, repeatedly assuring him that I'd never exchanged words with him before that very moment, only to be disputed every time. When the doors finally opened, I stepped on and pushed the button for my floor, hoping against hope that this unstable little man would take the next one. He didn't, so I scooted against the back wall in an attempt to put as much physical distance as possible between us and prayed that the elevator ascend more quickly than it had descended.

The doors closed, and K.K. fell forward, pressing his face against the crack between them until a bright, red line ran down his cheek. As we headed up, he resumed something that resembled human posture, turned around, and beamed at me as though he'd not spoken to me moments before. "Well, hey!" he exclaimed.

"Hi," I answered dully, wondering what on earth I'd done to deserve such an elevator ride.

"Whereareyougoing?"

"My floor," I snapped, pointing at the panel of buttons. "That's why that little number right there is all lit up."

He glanced at the panel, then whipped his head back around at me, throwing his inebriated body out of whack again. Once he'd succumbed to, and then recovered from the lack of equilibrium, he smiled at me.

"Well...whereamIgoing?"

"I have no idea. I'm pretty sure that you and I are not on the same floor."

K.K.'s face fell as the elevator stopped. "Oh."

I stepped around him and into the hallway, giving a backwards wave when I heard him say goodbye. To the best of my knowledge, he rode the elevator right back down since he never bothered to push a button. I briefly worried that he might not find his way, but then decided that the bellboys get paid the big bucks for a reason.

I also briefly worried that maybe that was part of his reality show. Perhaps his show is centered around his drunken elevator mishaps. Maybe there was a hidden camera that I was unaware of.

Or, maybe I'm such a big deal now that Ashton Kutcher was punking me! That must be it.

Haha! Good one, Ash! Call me! We'll do lunch!

I'm Here!

Please don't abandon me. I have much to say. I really do! And I promise that I will get back to blogging as soon as the world stops spinning so fast. I'm having trouble keeping up at the moment.

But I love you.

Lots.

I wanna have, like, ten thousand of your babies.

Going Barefoot is Dangerous

One of the best things about doing a show like the Pop Culture Countdown is getting to know bands and individual musicians while they're still on the up and up. In the beginning, their eyes are wide and bright, they're endlessly optimistic, and they are amazed by something new with every passing second.

They're like little rock star babies.

The transformation into the terrible twos seems to happen almost overnight, though. They suddenly realize that they have the power to compose multi-page concert riders, with absurd requests like "5 lbs. of green M&Ms," "a keg of Courvoisier," or "6 boxes of condoms." (Yes, those very things have been demanded by a wide variety of strange, far-removed little artists, and the requests are documented in black and white somewhere deep in my radio station's archive dungeon.) I like to catch 'em while they're fresh, friendly, and too naive to doubt me when I say, "I swear I'm not stalking you. Seriously, I was just in the area and thought I'd drop by to interview you."

I had the privilege of meeting Papa Joe Records' (that's Jessica and Ashlee's daddy's label, in case you're wondering) first signed band, Barefoot, recently. They are fellow Texans, which, hello! - deserves a mighty big yee-haw.

(Great. Now, I'm just perpetuating that Texas stereotype that I hate so much. NO, we do not all say "yee-haw" on a regular basis. "Fixin' to" and "y'all," yes, but never "yee-haw."

Okay, well, sometimes "yee-haw." But typically, rodeos are involved, and those only happen once a year.

There was a brief discussion of the Texas-isms that Barefoot and I share, which, coincidentally, you can download when you befriend the Pop Culture Countdown on MySpace.

Pluggity plug.

I know, I know, I'm shameless.)

Back to the Barefoot story, though. There are actually five guys in the band, and two of them are named Chris. I'm easily enough confused when everyone has different names. You can't expect me to keep things straight under same-name conditions. It just won't happen.

Barefoot must have been warned about me ahead of time. They left the lead singer, Chris P., behind when they came to the studio. I was told he was ill, but I think they were really just trying to help me out. I loved them for that immediately.

So, in waltzed Chris M., Clay, Jason and Matt. Greetings were exchanged, hands were shook, and then my stupidity set in.

See, anytime I have a full band sitting in front of me, I write down the individual members' names so that I won't address someone incorrectly. But despite the fact that I had been introduced to the boys mere seconds beforehand, and despite the fact that I had performed that little remembrance tip where you repeat the person's name back to them to help store the new data in your mind, I couldn't remember who was who.

I pointed to the first guy on the right. "Clay?"

"No. I'm Jason."

"Right, right, my bad." I smiled nervously and pointed to the guy next to him. "You're Clay," I proclaimed confidently.

"Chris Munselle."

"And I'm Matt, before you ask."

That left one lone, smiling boy on the far left. "You're Clay."

"I would have to be, wouldn't I?" he joked, tilting his chair back and propping his feet up on the console.

(Why anyone agrees to interview with me is beyond my comprehension. There are times that I think that the reps schedule these for their own amusement.)

I began the process of attempting to recover from my first faux pas, while simultaneously bracing myself for the others that I knew where just around the corner, when I heard a strange sound. I glanced up from my papers to find Clay beaming at me and shaking a small box of metallic pellets.

"Where is it?!" he asked.

"Where is what?"

"The gun!"

"Oh, no," Matt murmured.

Or maybe it was Jason. Or Chris. Pick a favorite and go with it.

One might find it odd that there would be metallic pellets just lying around the studio. You would have to see this room to fully understand it, though. By all indications, it's where movie props go to die. We have half of a mannequin in the window, a headless bobble-head of some sort on a file cabinet off to the side, the largest horse shoe I have ever in my life seen, and yes, a pellet gun (among other things). I don't know that anyone in the building even uses these bizarre things. But they're here, should we ever need them.

"It's over here," I answered absently, motioning behind me. I continued to set up the recording equipment and didn't notice that Clay had darted around to my side of the room until I heard someone say, "Clay, don't!" I turned around to find that he was standing there with an impish grin, methodically loading pellets into the gun.

"What are you doing?"

He ignored me and kept loading. "Is anyone down in that hallway?"

"What hallway? More importantly, why are you asking?"

Clay smiled at me and crept to the door. "Good, it's clear."

"Clay!" everyone yelled simultaneously, just as the gun fired. The loud pop echoed through the (fortunately) empty foyer. I watched, terrified, as he pumped and fired again. The other three boys exploded into laughter.

"What is he doing?! Someone stop him!"

"Hey," Chris said with a shrug, "you were the one who told him where the gun was."

Clay, who had wandered into the hallway to see what damage, if any, had been done, re-emerged. "It's no good. I need something to shoot at."

"No you don't!" I screeched. "Put the gun down!"

Unfortunately, nobody was paying attention to me at this point. To my horror, the others seemed to be just as enthralled with the gun as Clay was. They began scanning the room for potential targets, despite my protests.

"Pearson's not here. Shoot his guitar."

(Chris P., I swear, I tried to stop them.)

(And, just for your information, the mannequin, bobble-head and horseshoe didn't make it out alive, either. The file cabinet is in critical condition. I, somehow, escaped unscathed. Physically, anyway. Mentally and emotionally are other matters, entirely.)

I did finally meet the infamous and formerly absent Chris Pearson at the venue where Barefoot performed that night. He was quite soft-spoken, which surprised me. In fact, the group as a whole was strangely subdued by that point.

Of course, I don't suppose exhaustion is uncommon when you expend an outrageous amount of energy shooting radio studios up.

Still, as well as Barefoot wears mischief (they are, after all, blessed with the kind of great looks that give them license to get away with just about anything), pre-show serenity suits them well, too. Chris P. played Dave Barnes songs for me on the piano. Matt showed me his tattoos. (The tattoos on his arms. Get your mind out of the gutter!) Clay taught me all about the Cuban Revolution. And Jason and Chris M., gods among men, allowed a very thirsty me to snake all of the bottled water from their dressing room that I could hold.

Then, they went out, did the damn thing Barefoot-style, and blew everyone - me included - away.

I'll be "in their area" in a couple of days, and I fully plan on "dropping by to interview them." (If I'm lucky, it'll be a couple of months before they catch onto that one.)

I will also be "calling ahead" to make certain that there are no "guns" at the venue.