A few reasons an ass like me could never work in politics...

I was always a strange child. At 10 years old I locked myself in my father’s basement for the latter part of the summer watching news coverage leading up to and during the 1992 political conventions. My father would burst through the lock door expecting to find a mischievous child watching MTV, eating raw cookie dough, or picking my nose. Instead he found me glued to the old television dancing to the Clinton Campaign theme song, Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop.” He would shake his head and close the door.
Years later, I would work for a Democratic Junior Senator. He’s an ethical and balanced man who graduated from West Point, served in the military, then continued his education at the Kennedy School of Government. If there were no televisions, this man would be president. I absolutely loved working for him, and took my few responsibilities very seriously. Eventually, my attention to detail, enthusiasm and writing skills afforded me additional opportunities that I relished. I, being the neurotic mess I have ever been, in turn found ways to make a mockery of each of them. Hold onto your britches, here come more classic Maggie stories….

My Debut on CSpan

During my first year interning, my first major “assignment” (aka bitch duty) was to attend the Congressional Tobacco Hearings, take notes, and prepare memos on developments. This was incredibly boring. I would, however, be remiss if I didn’t also note how profound, and fulfilling it was to at least be present. But, seriously, boring. After two weeks of proceedings I had begun to believe in a total lack of new information, each session being merely a re-hashing of previous testimony and a chronology of events already entered into record. As I awaited the smoking gun that would cause the sort of dramatic courtroom gasps normally reserved for Perry Mason episodes, I occupied my mind with thoughts of the day’s lunch and which CD I would listen to on my drive home. (Yes, that really is the contents of my inactive brain – food and music) I usually spent a good portion of the hearings entirely blacked out. They began, members thanked each other, prepared and watered down testimony was read, a gavel was banged and then I would leave. On one day in particular I returned to my cubicle to a ringing phone. It was my mother. “God dammit Maggie Cameron! The entire world just saw you sleeping on national television!” Yes, ladies and gentleman, my grand debut…

What NOT To Do When You Meet Your Hero

My second year interning I had begun taking on duties of greater importance and prestige. Well, for an intern at least. I had staked my claim in the press department and had begun refusing to enter phone answering and mail opening shifts with the other interns. Varsity bitches. In the press office I worked with strong women who cursed, threw things, hung up on people and threw coffee at television sets. They were also phenomenal writers, and the best at what they do. One of them had a lisp, and she was my favorite. On one day in particular, the Senator called me in his office and asked for a favor. [if you make an intern joke here, I will slap you*] He asked that I deliver a document to an office inside a private residence on the other side of town. Looking forward to milking an hour out of the office, I agreed. I slowly found my way to a grand brownstone in Northwest DC. I entered the lower level door the Senator had distinguished as the office door. Inside were the workings of a normal bustling command center. 3 desks filled the small room and stacks of paper were carelessly arranged in corners. The staff couldn’t have been much older than I, and they all bustled around with great haste and frazzled looks on their faces. One of them stopped in front of me and panted “Yes?” I bumbled something mostly incoherent about my document and its sender, and the young man shuffled me to a shut door in the back of the room. Before I could speak, he ran back to his rounds about the room, papers flying. I opened the door and stepped partially in. I hear a loud voice from behind the desk chair in an unmistakable Louisiana accent. Holy shit, the Ragin Cajun. He spun around in his chair and looked me up and down in two seconds. “Well get on in here now and give me what you got, now I’m on a call and don’t all day for you be lingerin around in my doorway.” I muttered something of total and complete uselessness equivalent to Baby “I carried a watermelon” Houseman. I shuffled forward, dropped the document and then did the worst thing imaginable. Just stood there. And stared at him. The bad kind of stare. The wide-eyed, mouth open, stare where a monotone noise involuntarily escapes your mouth. He shooed me out with one wave of his hand and I backed out, bumped into the door, turned, and then shut it behind me with the back resting against it. A young girl stopped in front of me, “Intense, I know,” and went right back to her paper shuffling.

Who is Maggie London?

Yeah so here's a little background on my neurotic hot mess of a boss *****. This woman is FRAZZLED. ALL. THE. TIME. She is a woman living on the edge. Thank god for pot, or I'd be right out there with her.

So she goes out of town for a week to Dublin and I'm PUMPED cause that means I get to clean my desk and complete the millions of projects she's given me.

So one day I needed to get an email to ***** while she was out of town, but her blackberry was down. Why? I dunno, she probably turned it off on accident or something stupid. In any case, I decide just to call her voicemail and leave her a message. Swear to god, this is the message:

"Hi, I'm out of the office until Friday. Until then please contact my assistant Maggie London with any questions. Thank you."

1 - She never says her name
2 - Who the hell is Maggie London?
3 - There is no contact information for Maggie London, how the hell are people supposed to contact her?

The next question would be, "So did people call your office looking for Maggie London?"
I have no idea, but I'll tell you that they didn't make it through to me. Why? CAUSE I'M NOT FUCKING MAGGIE LONDON!
oh man.
I love my job.

Sundance Stories Part III

Every morning I wake up to a cup of double strong. There is some issue in the kitchen about a turkey burger. The conversation goes like this:

Clayton: I didn't eat the turkey burger.
Margaret: I know you didn't. The turkey burger is still there, the box is just open. Like someone wanted a turkey burger and then changed their minds…
Maggie: Oh shit. I think I tried to eat the turkey burger last night.
Margaret: Well, what happened? Why didn't you eat the turkey burger?
Maggie: I got confused. And what the hell is a turkey burger? Can we quit calling it that?
Clayton: Why? What's wrong with turkey burger?
Maggie: It sounds weird.
Margaret: So what happened?
Clayton: Why's it sound weird?
Maggie: I dunno, turkey's are funny. Turkey burger sounds funny. It does not sound…appetizing…at all.
Margaret: What happened to the damn turkey burger?!
Maggie: I was confused.
Margaret: What's so confusing about a turkey burger?
Maggie: Gross.
Clayton: I still don't understand why you can't call it a turkey burger. You can't laugh at your food?Maggie: The instructions were all complicated. And yeah, I laugh at my food, but only when its DOING something funny…like flying across the lunchroom.
Margaret: Complicated?
Maggie: Yeah the directions were nuts. Hold on, listen to this: (I then pull out the turkey burger) "Open box. Remove turkey burger. Open turkey burger bag. Remove sauce packet. Place turkey burger still in openbag back in open box. Add water to sauce packet and microwave on medium power for 50 seconds. Place turkey burger in open bag in open box into the microwave. Microwave on high power for 4 minutes. Remove box from microwave. Remove turkey burger from bag. Place sauce packet onto turkey burger. Place turkey burger back in bag. Place bag back in box. Place box back in microwave and heat for 1 minute. Let stand in microwave for…" Oh fuck it. Do you see what I'm saying? This shit is ridiculous. So I said fuck the turkey burger and I ate the cheesy enchiladas instead.
Margaret: Oh honey, that one was a Lean Cuisine meal.
Maggie: Awww shit.

Sundance Stories Part II

My first night in town I had dinner with Lisa and Margaret. We discussed things of my generation: politicks, music, emo and, of course, myspace. Lisa then asked me to help her run the podcast project, a joint venture between Stella Artois and Park City Television. I was excited because doing Internet fun things like this is right up my alley. Let me be clear, at no point was me being on camera discussed as an option. I woke up the day after the screech incident at 7:30 and came downstairs to get some coffee. It is worth mentioning that Margaret (remember, she is the awesome lady I'm staying with) only makes coffee that is extra strong. So strong in fact that Lisa has been known to water her down. One cup of Margaret's coffee has me bouncing off the walls off 4 hours of sleep. Clayton and I drop the ladies off at various places and head to the tent. Clayton drops me, and heads off on a swag hunt…he cracked me up with this endless pursuit of freebies. At the tent I do a couple things, there was always lots to do, and wait for the sprint camera crew to arrive as they were doing interviews at the tent during the late morning and early afternoon. While standing outside smoking a cigarette and talking to Dingo the door guy (no Jaime, he didn't eat my baby) I see a very familiar face on the sidewalk. I can't place him so I walk back inside. Clayton returns from an unsuccessful attempt to break into the Fred Segal lounge. Classic.
Shortly after, the PCTV marketing boss Stacey and her assistant Emily show up at the tent. We discuss plans for each of the podcast and set up a time for the camera crew to be there, 4pm. The ladies leave and we go back to setting up. I eat by grazing…basically. I continually steal bites from the backroom where the hors d'oeuvres are being made.
Blah, blah, blah until the crew shows up. We head to the streets to celebri-stalk for people to be in our podcasts, but we're also looking for cool people. We get two cute snowboarders from Hawaii, the "U-pick" superhero from Nickelodeon, and Schuyler Fisk (of Snow Day, Orange County and The Baby Sitters Club), plus some other people on the street. Then I see the guy from the tent again. Clayton erupts in hysterics. "Get him! It's Donkey Lips!" I run across the busy Main Street and up to Donkey Lips and his friends. "Excuse me, do you want to be in our podcast?" After I explain to him who I am and what we're doing, he agrees. We go back across the street and he shoots the podcast. It's basically an elaboration on the Sundance mantra for this year "Focus on Film." Do I feel like a hypocrite preaching no swag, while at the same time accepting it? NO. But that's because I don't make millions of dollars a year and whore myself out for free IPOD's. Besides, I gave away all the free stuff. After we're done shooting Clayton and I start talking to Mike, his real name, and his buddies. We invite them to the Stella Artois patio to drink and offer to put them on the list for the next day, they accept. We head back to the tent. Unfortunately, being 19, Clayton can't come in the tent with me. I drink two beers and eat hors d'oeuvres. The regular portion of the tent closes at 7. Clayton, Lisa, Margaret and I stick around while Simon Townshend performs to a packed tent. He's Pete Townshend's brother and now tours with The Who. His son, Ben (who is a super hottie) performs with him. They do an amazing job and the music is really good. After the show, Julie (Simon's publicist, whom Clayton had struck a conversation with earlier) gets us in to see Simon and we thank him and take pictures with him. People stay and drink another hour or so. I meet Chris Mulkey (look him up on http://www.imdb.com/, he's been in everything) who is there promoting the documentary Nanking. He gives me his card, which is pretty cool looking, and we take a picture. The conversation goes like this:

Chris: So now I live in Louisiana and play my music.
Me: You should make a myspace page.
Chris: Oh yeah? I've heard about that. I have a friend whose page has all kinds of stuff on it.
Me: Yeah, mine is like that too. I have a slideshow and a background.
Chris: When you email me the picture, you should email me the name of your Webmaster.
Me: Um, I'M my Webmaster.
Chris: Well then you should set it up for me.
Me: Yeah ok

Man myspace is funny. Emily calls and says that the footage from the entire podcast is blurry and unusable. She promises to get man on the street shots of people saying focus on film and get it to us for the podcast. As I'm walking out Julie stops me. She thanks me for my enthusiasm and tells me to keep an eye out for Simon stuff. I tell her to make him a myspace page. We talk about it for a while. Ok, so yeah, I'm pretty much always pushing myspace on people that don't have it. So what? It's a great way to get things done. Besides, the more non-perverts or skanky 14 year olds there are, the more legitimate myspace becomes. She gives me her card and tells me to call her when I come to LA. I thank her and say good-bye. At this point, I'm thinking "Yeah right I'll ever come to LA."
Clayton and I go back to the house, drink and eat.

I know this one is a little short, but this was a relatively short day.

Sundance Stories Part 1

Sundance my first FULL day:Ok, as most of you know I was at Sundance Film Festival this past week working for Stella Artois. I got this amazing gig b/c Mindy (aka the coolest mom ever) is good friends with Margaret Nathan, who runs PR for Stella and is based out of Park City, UT (where the festival is held). I had a lot of responsibilities, most of them fun, some of them tedious. It wasn't all fun and games; I did a lot of running around and got little to no sleep. But I also had the most ridiculous time ever. So outrageous in fact, that the days and nights blur together, so retelling the story is going to be slightly difficult. But I'll try.
My first day there I arrived from the airport and then I basically ran around and met everyone I would be working with over the next week. There were tent guys, audio guys, bouncers, assistants, executives, everyone. Late this night my little buddy Clayton arrived from Canada. He is the son of Lisa, who works with Margaret, so he and I were in this thing together. I went to bed around 1 and woke up the next day at 7:30. I spent all day running around and doing things for the first podcast that we shot.
This is the time of the infamous "Screech Incident". Basically, it went like this: I'm standing out front of the patio smoking a cig. Dustin Diamond is walking by and Clayton goes "Oh my god, say something to him." So I shout "Hey Dustin! I'll buy a shirt to save your house." Burn. He stops and comes over to us...with his camera crew. Turns out he is filming his attempt to "out-swag" Gary Coleman. He hit us up for some Stella stuff, so we gave him just about everything we could find. We gave him glassware, bottle openers, a fleece, and... a Stella Artois red carpet. We then laid the red carpet out, linked arms and walked the red carpet while people in the tent clapped. I made an ass out of myself on his "documentary". Then the cameras shut off and he lingered around the patio talking to me for WAAAAY to long. Finally I said I had to go. I needed a drink.
The drinking started at 4 when the Stella Artois Patio opened. Now, the patio was a thing of wonder. It was a larger L-shaped structure that was erected on the patio of the "Sundance House" in the Kimball Arts Center. It was heated, decorated, had 2 bars and 3 flat screen TVs. There was a back area that had curtains and one of the TVs (plus couches, tables, etc) that we often used for interviews, etc. I drank about 3 beers there and then Clayton and I went back to the house to change our clothes. This was our first night out on the town, so we didn't really have the lay of the land yet. We went to the "New Frontier Lounge". New Frontier is the new pet project of Robert Redford. Its purpose is to restore the "indie vibe" back to Sundance. It features new, experimental art that is often technology based. This is where I met Xxaviar, the Frenchman. If you've heard this story, don't ruin it for the other kids. This guy Xxaviar was crazy. I'm standing in front of the hors d'oeuvre table and stuffing my face (you'll come to realize I do relatively little eating so I take all the food I can get). The exchange goes something like this: (the weird spelling is his weird accent)
Xxaviar: I see you like the skrimp.
Me: I'm sorry, what?
Xxaviar: Skrimp, the skrimp. I cannot eat 'zis. I am, how you say, allergzick to meat, it happen two days ago, tragjic. I prefer 'ze carrot.
Me: Word.
Xxaviar: I am Xxaviar. And you? (He does not wait for me to answer; he simply lifts my Sundance pass as close to his face as possible.) Ah Maggie. (He has that French “g” if you know what I mean, it makes my name sound like phlegm clearing)
Me: Xaviar? X-A-V-I-A-R?
Xxaviar: No. Two X’s. (I think he is joking but his face is dead serious).
Me: Why two x’s?
Xxaviar: An old girlfriend gave to me, I like.
Me: Yeah ok.
Xxaviar: You drink? You have bracelet?
Me: Yep, got my three-drink bracelet.
Xxaviar: No, no, you have my bracelet, I have two.
Me: Thanks man.
Xxaviar: You smoke? We smoke. (He then takes both of our drinks, puts them in his pockets and we walk out front to smoke a cigarette.) I am Mobi Opera.
Me: Say that one more time.
Xxaviar: Mobi Opera. I come with Mobi Opera.
Me: Oh, you're a New Frontier artist?
Xxaviar: I say I am Mobi Opera. (At this point he's shouting as if voice volume is the reason I can't understand him. I decide to let this go.)
Me: And what is Mobi Opera? (He then rambles for 20 minutes explaining it, later I found out from someone else that Mobi Opera is a technology and reality based love story where ordinary people tell their love stories through technology.... yeah ok, so we'll move on...at this point a tall, also French, bald man in - I swear to god- a floor length fur coat, and it looked like a women's coat. The bald man hugs Xxaviar and almost kisses him on the mouth, he then gives me the Euro-double kiss)
Xxaviar: (incoherent Franglish)
Baldy: (incoherent Franglish)
Xxaviar: This is Roxy Lady. (I then realize he is talking about me...yeah ok)
Baldy: Oooo Roxy Lady. (I get the Euro double kiss again and fur coat baldy waltzes inside).
Xxaviar: We cheers! (He removes our drinks from his pocket as Park City Police drive by...close call) Look into my eyes as we cheers roxy lady, I want to see your green eyes.
Me: My eyes are blue.
Xxaviar: No? Those are green.
Me: Um, yeah ok.
Xxaviar: Is cold, inside? (We walk back inside) Let us to the carrots. (Yeah, seriously, he means, lets go back to the carrots...nut job)
I finally shake the weird French guy like an hour later. Clayton and I talk to some of the artists including one guy who had this "memory camera" hooked up to a flat screen. Then there are cameras all over the lounge and the images are put together onto the flat screen...awesome. Whatever it is stores the images for 8 years...nuts. And I look like an asshole in mine. Then Clayton and I talk to a wire image photog named Randall, he's awesome. He gives us some names we can drop to get in places.
Clayton and I then leave and decide we're going to the Airborne party at Sideways bar. We get to the bouncer and people are being turned away left and right, then I drop this little jewel...
Bouncer: Name.
Me: We're with Randall Michelson.
Bouncer: Who's that?
Me: The wire image photographer.
Bouncer: He already left.
Me: No he didn't.
Bouncer: We already have a wire image guy inside.
Me: yeah, but you don't have Randall. He asked us to come and check out the lighting in the venue so he knows which lens to bring.
Bouncer: Wow, I haven't heard that before so it must be true.
Score. We go inside and immediately chat it up with the bar stuff, they're out of alcohol, but the bartender is going to serve us from his personal bottle of whiskey. Gross, but at this point I got a good buzz going, and I ain't picky. I sit down at the bar and start smoking. I almost burn the guy next to me, I apologize, he turns around...its Jake Busey. We take shots of shitty whiskey and pictures and he's awesome. I make Clayton try on the "Airborne Germ Costume" and laugh hysterically. We walk out front to leave. I light a cig. I make it 2 blocks before I need to sit down (cig + altitude + big hill = fuck no). We sit on a park bench and start to laugh at... whatever. Guess who walks up to us, jumps on us and bear hugs us...SCREECH. It takes me 20 more min to shake screech. Then Clayton and I go home, eat food and pass out.