|
A lot of writers hate their editors, but no one
hates their editor the way I hate mine. Editors think they
write better than the actual writers they hire. They tend
to make changes, give notes and make suggestions for columns.
That might work on those high-paying, high-profile magazines
and on all those TV shows set in those fashionable offices
where tyrannical editors order around the cute but dimwitted
writer until she finally succumbs to his advances and there's
a special wedding cliffhanger at the end of season 4, when
things start to get boring. But here at BFA things are different.
It's not Vogue, It's not GQ. And it's not the set of "Suddenly
Susan" where I'm some washed up former model who wears
nice clothes and has an expense account. It's not even Mary
Tyler Moore. Remember when Lou Grant finally kissed Mary?
YUCK! That's how I feel on a daily basis.
After months of complaining, my editor has agreed not to
touch this column. He said I can write whatever the hell I
want and he won't touch it. No suggestions, no tweaking, no
punch-up and no rewrite. Just my words. Well, here they are,
totally unedited:
Here at BFA HQ, my boss is a psychotic control freak. Plus,
he’s a total pervert. No one believes me because he has
everyone convinced he's this happy, clever, successful writer
on the cusp of Hollywood stardom. Don’t be fooled. He’s
not happy, he's not clever, and he is definitely not easy
going. Did I mention he's a huge pervert? Here, I am sexually
harassed not just because I'm called Media Whore but because
"this is just a humor website," (as he always says)
my editor seems to feel that he is above the fray of a lawsuit.
He calls me almost every day and leaves these phony, desperate
messages so I’ll call him back, and then he keeps me
on the phone for hours at a time. He calls my cell and depletes
all my precious monthly nighttime minutes. I really don’t
need to spend $150 a month to listen to him pretend he’s
not masturbating on the other end of the line. He tells me
he’s breathing heavy because he's "moving around
furniture" but I know the truth. And why is he so concerned
with what I’m wearing? Every time I return his calls
that’s the first thing he asks. That’s when the
breathing starts.
And what the fuck is with my title? I might be slightly promiscuous
when it's necessary to get interviews in this town but I'm
not doing it for me -- I'm doing it for the readers. Only
a sick-o would create a position called Media Whore. I’ve
never seen an ad asking for secretarial whores. No one would
take a job with the word "whore" in the description.
Except probably for actual whores but I highly doubt that
pimps are advertising for their street bitches in the Sunday
newspaper. That seems like more of a word of mouth kind of
thing.
Anyway, the point is that I am NOT a whore as my editor would
have over a million readers a month believe, or at least,
I wasn't until he turned me into one. Truthfully, my dream
was to be a consummate professional covering the entertainment
beat with class and dignity. I bust my ass every week –
or at least every other week, OK, whenever it occurs to me–
to scrape up all the dirt and details that I can on what’s
hot in Hollywood. Then I carefully craft article after perfectly
written article just to hear that maniacal slave driver tell
me my writing sucks. Night after friggin night its “This
is crap, Annie" (heavy breathing) “You’re a
no talent hack, Annie" (heavy breathing) “I suddenly
feel sleepy, Annie."
But all of this crap aside, the real reason I hate my editor
so much is because he changes every single one of my articles
- like the one I wrote a couple of months ago on the SAG awards.
The whole piece was a tribute to my one of my favorite actors,
Richard Gere, who I’ve been stalking – I mean, admiring
– ever since I watched him carry Debra Winger out of
that shithole paper processing plant at the end of “An
Officer and a Gentleman."
Richard is undoubtedly the most talented, masculine, heterosexual
actor of our generation (except for Tim Matheson). So I wrote
this kick ass article that was sure to make Richard (finally)
leave his wife and carry ME out of the shit hole paper processing
plant that I have to work at to make ends meet since Mr. Big
Shit Ezine Editor pays me in fucking t-shirts and gift certificates
for Brazilian waxings. But when the article was posted, all
of my ass kissing was edited out and the piece was suddenly
about kicking Richard Gere’s “gerbil loving ass”
and other references to his supposed gayness. I was crushed.
Richard, if you’re reading this, I totally don’t
think you're a homo even if the rest of the world is sure
you are. I don’t believe that gerbil story for a minute.
And even if it is true, you were probably just experimenting
or it was some kind of freak accident in the pet store --and
that's perfectly normal and I would never judge you. I swear
I didn't write those mean things--
--wait, there's the phone …
"Yeah, my fucking article is done, check your fucking
email. No, I don't need a waxing. Thanks anyway. Why do you
sound out of breath?"
"Oh, you're moving a piano?"
God I hate that guy.
|
|
Above:
Scooter and I are just like Mary and Lou. I'm beautiful and
talented and he's crusty and mean.
SEND THIS ARTICLE TO A FRIEND!
|
|
