Wednesday, April 20, 2005


You know those glossy magazines whose headlines taunt you from the kioskin the subway platform to read their juicy celebrity gossip? You know, like,"Is This It For Nick and Jessica?" and "Britney: The Child She Wants" and"Reese Witherspoon, Verging on the edge of Psychopathy?", the ones that everyonein New York secretly wishes they worked for but that everyone who works theresecretly wishes would fold? I work at one of those places, and trust me,you wouldn't "kill for this job."

It's at one of those magazinesthat I hold the lowly title of Assistant. Assistant is actually a more pathetictitle than Intern because Interns actually have potential. They may somedaybe somebody. Or, not.

Because it is in this world of uber-important"Top Editors" and jetsetting "Publicists", where coffee is made by a gaggleof frumpy, misfit women with chipping nailpolish and Chinatown-made "designer"handbags at their cubicles, that the careers of many are unmade. Becauseit's all political in the fight for a promotion, and those overlooked despitetheir 7-year experience making coffee, faxing and messengering things "rightaway", even though their first novel is being published, will never be recognizedfor their writing skills, skills which have even sometimes been touted inTime Out New York.

In fact, one intern, who eavesdropped on my conversationwith another assistant today outside of a restaurant on our lunch break,came to me afterwards to whine, "This talk is scaring me."

Of course it's scaring you! You suck, just like the rest of us, ASS-istant!


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