Read Online But Enough About Me by Jancee Dunn - Free Book Online Page A

résumé.
    â€œSure,” she said, scribbling down her address.
    Ritchie spotted us chatting and wended his way over through a gauntlet of high-fives.
    â€œWhat’s crappenin’?” he said, slinging his arms around both of us.
    â€œI’m bothering your friend here about a job at Rolling Stone, ” I said, flashing her what I hoped was a warm, conspiratorial smile.
    Ritchie squeezed Amy’s shoulders more tightly. “She doesn’t need to work at Rolling Stone, ” he said. “My girl is doing just fine right where she is.” He gave me a loud kiss on the cheek, the kind that goes on for a full minute until everyone around you is uncomfortable.
    I smiled at her. Ignore him, I telegraphed.
    Ritchie’s brother-in-law Raymond, still in his green maintenance-worker uniform, barreled over and pulled me down next to him on a beer-stained plaid couch. He pointed at the window. “Look over there,” he said loudly. “It’s a bunch of seagulls flapping at the window, trying to get in. You should probably close your legs.”
    â€œRaymond!” I hollered, punching him. I was so loose, so free!
    â€œI’m just jokin’ with ya,” he said, enveloping me in a b.o.-scented bear hug while Amy looked on.
    I figured Amy would chuck my résumé in the trash, but a few weeks later, I was flabbergasted to receive a call from someone in the magazine’s editorial department, asking if I was interested in interviewing for a job as an editorial assistant. It wasn’t very dignified to have my mom answer the phone, but I put on my best professional, slightly nonchalant voice.
    â€œTuesday?” I said. “Let’s see…” I pretended to check a date book while my mother hovered.
    â€œWhat?” she hissed. “What are they saying?”
    â€œAh,” I said smoothly. “Yes, Tuesday works.”

How to Control the Panic When Your Subject Is Absurdly Famous
    Why, you may well ask, do I get so nervous before interviews? They are, after all, just people, right? Mostly, it’s money-related jitters: If celebrities do not supply the amusing quotes that the story requires, the story could be killed and I will not get paid. There is a realistic danger that, during the measly forty-five minutes I am allotted for our chat, a famous person will take it into their head to natter about some subject that I cannot possibly use in the story: where they were on September 11, for instance. For years afterward, famous people would steer the conversation toward the Tragic Event, and I would think, Oh no. Please, no. I can’t use this, and everybody in America has a September 11 story, and it’s very hard to interrupt you people when you get rolling. Just give me the funny on-set anecdote and let’s call it a day. There are so many conversational sand traps that could eat up a precious fifteen minutes, from new-age philosophies to complaining about paparazzi to the hands-down most dreaded topic among interviewers, My Craft. It always placates actors if you toss them a throwaway question or two about their acting process, but as it is hard to get them to stop, it is best to avoid the subject altogether.
    Then there is the familiarity factor. When someone who is weirdly familiar is cranky, it’s disconcerting. I am a shy person and acutely aware ofthe barest flicker of moods in others. I wish I could be one of those Teflon interviewers who can obliviously stick a mic in someone’s face without noticing their defensiveness, but I can’t. I can only relax once they do.
    Sometimes, if the star is of particularly high wattage, I need a little extra help. That’s when I pop a brand of pills from the health food store called Calms. They basically quiet the screaming in my head without a buzzy, druggy feeling. Who knows, maybe they’re placebos, but I find that my hands aren’t quite as Niagara Falls–like if