44 posts tagged “intern”
You going for the moustache, John? Since about tenth grade, I've heard that question on a semi-weekly basis. I'm always quick to say no, but my response isn't worth much. Because even if the questioner means to ask if I was growing out a moustache on purpose, the question reminds me that -intended or not-there is sinus fur above my upper lip.
Let's get a couple of things straight. Five-o-clock shadows are not the problem here; full-blown facial hair isn't either. Heck, when I was eight, I wanted sideburns so badly that I grew them using the hairs on my head; they were my only available resources at the time.
It's not even the sub-set, the mustachioed community, that upsets me. I think moustache-growth is a wise choice for a lot of people, but just not for everybody. Pilots? They thrive at mustach-ing. Male flight attendants, too, even though we're talking a totally different style. I'm a 20-year-old sophomore who hasn't fully filled out yet; my facial hair grows in three shades darker than the stuff atop my head, and that's when the beard area grows in at all.
I wasn't necessarily looking for a holiday theme within this developmental dilemma, but one struck me the night before I flew home from college. I had been invited to a themed party, and the theme happened to be moustaches. By late afternoon that day, many of my friends were drawing, painting, and even transplanting hair to the space beneath their noses. Coincidentally, I hadn't the time to partake in my usual 8:00 A.M. electric razor session that morning, and had some thick material of my own to flaunt. For once, I was proud to show up at a party with the moustache-in-training that had been unwanted at all parties prior.
When people asked if I was going for the moustache that night, I proudly nodded in affirmation. Oftentimes, we are quick to take things for granted that don't always come in handy. Maybe it's because I only found reason to be thankful for my moustache this close to Thanksgiving-but it certainly exemplified a whole class of sometimes-useful things that we should keep in mind during the holiday season. Like the bedroom I only sleep in during vacations from school; or the steel envelope opener in my drawer, which I only bother to use when there are onlookers to impress as I open letters.
Even if the occasions when they're useful are far and few, appreciate the many great things in your life this Thanksgiving. But enough about me - and you have yourself a Happy Thanksgiving!
Peace, Love, and Personalized Media,
- John the Intern
There's a unique newspaper published in my hometown called The Happy Herald. Its underlying concept is noble as can be: give South Florida all the news that's fit to print, as long as it's positive and perky. The result is a weekly, fourteen-page digest that includes everything from human interest pieces, to human interest pieces about pets. To boot, it's also known for celebrity interviews, and other hallmarks of an optimistic entertainment section (I infer there are no in-house movie critics.) It's easy for the cynicism-seeking reader to take stabs at optimistic journalism, but I shouldn't be complaining; distributed for free at local restaurants, The Happy Herald is meant to supplement rather than deprive its readers of the grisly stuff.
But I still can't respect the journalists behind Herald like I do staffs of other publications. They just have it so much easier when it comes to prioritizing articles! See, normally, the editorial task is two-fold: a New York Times desk editor might first rank the day's articles by "importance" and "relevance," then decide—of those deemed equally important—which type of story deserves the top headline spot. You know, sniff out whether readers want the tragic articles or the uplifting ones with their morning coffee. There are a host of other emotions that articles can evoke from readers, and deciding which tonal genre deserves page prominence is as subjective a task as any. The job is infinitely simpler when all news is good news, though—so Happy Herald offers one solution.
This reconciling of a mixed audience's favorite emotions has always been a problem for news services. It's only worth bringing up now because DailyMe found a better way to make it work! It's called Meme It, a feature that just went live on the site this past month. Like "Digg It" and "Stumble It," it's a way for readers to mark the online news articles that they think other people should see. Only this time, users must also indicate how the article makes them feel. The available emoticons include "uplifting," "tragic," "enlightening," and even "weird," but the choice is all yours. And I bet you can guess what happens when enough users submit their opinions: you'll will be able to reorganize recent articles by emoticon! Great for all the Grumpy Gus's and Negative Nancy's seeking the most tragic stories atop their online digest. I dare say, a great editorial obstacle overcome.
For the frigid, emotionless type who won't be able to take advantage of our new feature — I'm sorry.
Peace, Love, and Personalized Media,
- John the Intern
http://DailyMe.com
If I could do it all over again, I wouldn’t have had more than five birthday parties throughout childhood. That’s about how many it takes before the responsibility starts to outweigh the honor. Now don’t get me wrong, the first couple times were great—the birthday boy’s only duty was to celebrate good times--and leave the rest to Mom. But that’s before I learned how to talk. And write. All of a sudden I was turning six, and realizing that my annual celebration of life had become a burden. The decisions to make were now many (the theme? invitees? goodie bag contents? the thank-you notes—wearying; and the trick candles?) No longer surprising.
Having abstained from birthday hosting for the past decade, I was noticeably ambivalent when Mrs. Boss asked me to assist in planning DailyMe’s Launch party. She offered to share some of the responsibilities once she saw the look on my face, but it didn’t really matter. Because it was me who placed the first phone calls to the venue, the caterer, the cupcake store, cameraman, and virtually everyone else involved. If you have ever planned a party before, you know how this works: the guy who places the initial call to a party service becomes the “contact,” and it’s very difficult to transfer the role.
Now a couple weeks into the planning, the event is almost there. Not that the process hasn’t been without its headaches. To name one, the cupcake people! I don’t know about you, but I would have thought cupcake-makers formed a humble industry. But I guess that doesn’t hold for stores that deem themselves “cupcake designers;” they can be downright arrogant. Needless to say, I expect their product to be delicious.
Other than that, the party is coming along nicely, and I don’t really have any more complaints. Well, besides the fact that I wasn’t invited. Ironic, I know. I was so angry when I found out that I cursed the person who made the guest list…until I remembered that it was me. Turns out I would have been invited, only the venue is a club on South Beach that does not allow guests under 21 years of age. Very sad turn of events.
I don’t want to be a complete party pooper though; this party is going to be awesome. It’s on Saturday, August 2nd at 7:00 p.m. Fun guaranteed. Plus, you never know who’s going to hide inside the DailyMe cake to sneak past the bouncers…
Happy 4th of July everyone – Be safe!
Peace, Love, and Personalized Media,
- John the Intern
If I could do it all over again, I wouldn’t have had more than five birthday parties throughout childhood. That’s about how many it takes before the responsibility starts to outweigh the honor. Now don’t get me wrong, the first couple times were great—the birthday boy’s only duty was to celebrate good times--and leave the rest to Mom. But that’s before I learned how to talk. And write. All of a sudden I was turning six, and realizing that my annual celebration of life had become a burden. The decisions to make were now many (the theme? invitees? goodie bag contents? the thank-you notes—wearying; and the trick candles?) No longer surprising.
Having abstained from birthday hosting for the past decade, I was noticeably ambivalent when Mrs. Boss asked me to assist in planning DailyMe’s Launch party. She offered to share some of the responsibilities once she saw the look on my face, but it didn’t really matter. Because it was me who placed the first phone calls to the venue, the caterer, the cupcake store, cameraman, and virtually everyone else involved. If you have ever planned a party before, you know how this works: the guy who places the initial call to a party service becomes the “contact,” and it’s very difficult to transfer the role.
Now a couple weeks into the planning, the event is almost there. Not that the process hasn’t been without its headaches. To name one, the cupcake people! I don’t know about you, but I would have thought cupcake-makers formed a humble industry. But I guess that doesn’t hold for stores that deem themselves “cupcake designers;” they can be downright arrogant. Needless to say, I expect their product to be delicious.
Other than that, the party is coming along nicely, and I don’t really have any more complaints. Well, besides the fact that I wasn’t invited. Ironic, I know. I was so angry when I found out that I cursed the person who made the guest list…until I remembered that it was me. Turns out I would have been invited, only the venue is a club on South Beach that does not allow guests under 21 years of age. Very sad turn of events.
I don’t want to be a complete party pooper though; this party is going to be awesome. It’s on Saturday, August 2nd at 7:00 p.m. Fun guaranteed. Plus, you never know who’s going to hide inside the DailyMe cake to sneak past the bouncers…
Happy 4th of July everyone – Be safe!
Peace, Love, and Personalized Media,
- John the Intern
I just finished my freshman year of college, but—I must say—the occasion felt less momentous than anticipated. This is probably because, unlike other years, it wasn’t really defined by a discreet, culminating moment. You know, the one you come to expect after the first twelve transitions from academic year to summer: a bell rings, papers start flying, kids start rejoicing, and—although it’s optional—the song “School’s Out Forever” should begin playing somewhere in the background.
By those standards, 13th grade ended in somewhat disappointing fashion. Everyone finished their exams at different points in the week, and I was one of the stragglers. And even once all the academic obligations were out of the way, it was still no occasion to deck the halls with reams of loose-leaf. Quite the opposite, actually: dorm rooms had to be spic, span, and thoroughly emptied of our possessions by move-out day. The worst part is that I couldn’t even play “School’s Out Forever” because I had already sent my speakers to storage. Somewhere, Alice Cooper was wincing.
But “all’s well that ends well” isn’t a saying I always ascribe to. On the whole, freshman year was good to me. Maybe it was me who wasn’t good enough to it. I could have flossed more, slept less, checked my mailbox more, spent fewer monies. But what am I saying? “Self-improvement” is something to think about at the end of the real year, not the academic one. I’m just happy to be back within 30 miles of DailyMe’s Florida office again.
I'll be working part-time for my favorite personalized news service this summer, and can't wait to be back. Expect to read about some intern adventures that are twice as funny, twice as wacky, and twice as office-y as last year's.
As Always - Peace, Love & Personalized Media,
- John the Intern
It’s always relieving to hear that an event will occur “as sure as the seasons turn,” but I think the figure of speech itself is misleading. After all, the transition from winter to spring is hardly a sure thing: we leave it up to a groundhog—not a discreet turn of the calendar—to tell us when we need trade snow for pollen. We have historically put our seasonal fates in the hands of a burrowing buck-toothed mammal, and it turns out those aren’t good hands at all; they’re paws, and chancy ones at that. I call for a new annual reference point to mark the turning of these seasons—one that is consistent, and unlikely to be pushed back six weeks just because some varmint can’t see his shadow.
So what are our other contenders? We could do the ole’ first day of the month—get “springy” on March 1st. I don’t think, though, that many things are in bloom by then in certain parts of the country. The first day of spring is supposed to be representative of spring, and it defeats the purpose of picking a new day if that day still carries the burdens of winter.
Then what about ‘dem “Ides of March,” which falls right on the 15th each time. It sounds like the first approximation of a good seasonal marker—consistent year by year, appropriate weather-wise—but I fear Shakespeare gave it too much of a bad rap. It would be silly to pick an important new date that stands stigmatized from the start.
Bottom line: we need a marker with a good reputation, and few events fit the criteria as neatly as March Madness (formally known as the NCAA Men’s Division 1 Basketball Championship. It is inarguably the best play-off tournament set-up of any spectator sport, and it makes sunshine a requirement of yesterday. That is, even if its March 20something starting date isn’t late enough to guarantee good weather, most people are satisfied enough with the light emanating from their television screens to not notice. Late enough, reputable enough, and not contingent on the weather outside—I think we’ve found the perfect occasion for a Back to Spring celebration.
I guess only one question remains: is March Madness popular enough for this new significance to work its way into collective memory? I’d vote yes, and for a reason. The Tournament involves only single-elimination games, so viewers are always watching two teams with everything on the line. The mere suspense behind such a reckoning is bound to get anyone excited, regardless of his/her level of fanhood prior to the game. Also, it provides conversation fodder for weeks on end. This is important, because the departure of winter means no more generic comments about the weather.
In sum, I call for the abolition of Groundhog Day followed by the inauguration of March Madness’s play-in game into the Season Turner Hall of Fame. C’mon people, lets lend some credence and constancy to the old saying.
Go Stanford & UNC!!!
Peace, Love & Personalized Media,
-John the Intern
It’s mid-February, a time of year typically characterized by chilly weather and the red glint of St. Valentines Day. On a college campus in the wake of the 2008 Presidential Primaries, though, these are negligible conditions. The political climate here is hot, and I’ve only seen red when it’s accompanied by white and blue. All I’m trying to say is that my school, presumably like all others, has gotten really into this election. And like anywhere else, no two students are very like-minded on the matter.
Walk through the campus plaza on a given afternoon and you’ll be given a million different sides of the story: vote for him, vote for her, vote for the other him, vote for the old guy. At least Ron Paul’s people tried not to impose less than the others, asking only that I YouTube their candidate. Considerate, except I still use a 56K Modem; that’s still asking a lot of me.
As an impressionable freshman just shy of 230 months old, I feel pressure from all sides. People more verbally affrontive but not necessarily more informed than me are trying to push my hand in all sorts of directions. It’s a time that calls for self-inquiry. Who do I want to lead my country? Should I even belong to a major party? My generation has been raised on the “none of the above” option, so it’s not my nature to feel satisfied with choice A or choice B. That is, until I found out that only members of a major parties can vote in primaries.
So I ultimately compromised my round views to fit into a square party’s peg, but I wasn’t very enthusiastic about it. Without enthusiasm, it seemed a feat to brave the long line at my polling station. Fortunately the mail-in-ballot I had acquired earlier allowed me to bypass the queue. I was surprised that most of the other people turned out the old-fashioned way, waiting for hours on end to cast their vote on the spot. We’ve all heard about poorly informed political decisions, but these were poorly informed methods of getting the piece of paper on which they could make these political decisions.
It is important to note that the ballot wasn’t all about choosing a new president; in fact, there were three additional legislative propositions for my state to vote on. I answered “no” to all of them without reading descriptions, because my parents didn’t raise me to be a “yes man.” And isn’t that the sort of logic that has driven the system for years? Not a rhetorical question, I seriously want too know if my reasoning seems too faulty.
Peace, Love, and Personalized Media.
-John the Intern
I know it’s been awhile since I last wore my blogging shoes, but allow me to promptly quell the rumors: I did not get caught-up in Hollywood’s much-publicized Writers’ strike. And shame on anyone who jumped to such conclusions! To accuse me of being a union man would be to imply that I am any sort of man, and any DailyMe superior will tell you that isn’t the case. My internship was in part an educational experience and education is what confines one to boyhood. (It’s also important to note that, of the many valuable lessons taught throughout my internship, none dealt with wage or royalty negotiation in the least. At this point, I still accept pay in the form of arcade tokens and free meals.)
This isn’t to say, however, that the SWG walk-out didn’t take a toll on me. Like most of you, I consume about a million more words than I provide in this world—and that’s including my bathroom stall limericks. Television once offered the meat and potatoes of this entertainment consumption, but the strike has reduced my favorite shows to nothing. Bottom line: without a plotline, a prime time hit is nothing more than some pretty faces with nothing to say; without a team of writers, the late night pundit is only as funny as his chin looks; and without jokes, a sitcom’s canned laughter just sounds inappropriate. The only good news is that, perhaps for the first time, reality shows truly are unscripted.
To manage this crisis, I’ve turned more and more to the internet’s bountiful supply of visual media – which I myself have proudly contributed to with my own vid - DailyMe Intern Digital Shorts Part 1, and the yet to be released Digital Shorts Part 2 - John the Intern RAW & UNEDITED. So where the amateur efforts of YouTube were once mere entertainment snacks in my diet, they’ve lately taken on the role of supersized entrées.
Nowadays, I get my laughs from a college comedy troupe’s no-budget video shorts; I find drama on the argumentative discussion threads below each presidential candidate’s new uploads; even when I’m looking for sappy romance, I can rely on thousands of desperate, misleading personal ads from craigslist to make my heart swell.
As to the age-old question of how much (or little) television stimulates the developing brain, I’m not sure the answer for internet videos is any different. I can argue, though, that my new favored medium offers way more choice to its viewers than even the most premium of cable plans. Like never before, it depends what you’re looking for.
Those are my thoughts on filling your entertainment voids for now, and together let’s keep the faith that the sets of Mad Men & The Office return soon.
Peace, Love, and Personalized Media,
-John the Intern
My college touts a wide array of academic opportunities, but I wish this emphasis on variety carried over to campus dining. Sure, the cafeteria staff provides plenty of options at each mealtime—it’s just that they all taste the same. No exaggeration: I know what my favorite dish looks like, but it’s at different times been labeled both “calzone” and “cupcake”.
But my main criticism isn’t of the cooks or their laxative-charged foodstuffs; it’s of my own finicky tendencies. I’ve felt these same sentiments build up many times before, and I fear it says something about me…maybe about everyone. It says that if I eat anywhere for four months I’m going to get tired of it. In a sense, it’s only a matter of time with any steady food provider before the romaine lettuce starts to look greener on the other side.
Not to say mass dining is all bad news. As a matter of fact, it offers some commodities that home cooking never did. Just ask any cereal fan: diverse selection (sugary and granola), and someone gets paid to sniff out the stale boxes. Plus, we all know that spaghetti tastes best with black hairs from someone you don’t know (Mom’s were always so blonde and flavorless).
As for finding recourse elsewhere on campus, the pickings are pretty slim. To make matters worse, the few existing alternatives do everything they can to sell themselves short. Seriously, not one of the available eateries will take the plunge and call itself a restaurant. Instead, we have cafes, snack shops, and smoothie joints—not one of which sounds likely to fill a belly. When I arrived in September, I may have freely associated coffee shops with the word “hip”; now, it’s more like “hungry”.
So where do I go from here? There’s always the option of buying property in the middle of campus, building a strip mall, and making sure to include a couple Chicken Kitchens. Or else I’ll just swallow my pride. How long would that tide me over for? And as far as the so-called freshman 15 plague when you go away to school – IMPOSSIBLE I say.
At any rate, I wish the blogosphere a “Happy, Merry whatever you’re celebrating”, and I’ll see you all in the New Year.
Peace, Love, and as always Personalized Media,
-John the Intern
The pilgrims were thought to have an astounding sense of foresight, and I can understand why: their Mayflower Compact greatly influenced our nation’s founding documents, and Cape Cod real estate is as valuable as ever. But their greatest preemption of all—the timing of Thanksgiving—generally goes unmentioned. This is because only students can appreciate it in purest form: to us, it’s the vacation that breaks-up fall semester at just the right moment.
I’m not sure if it was the atmospheres around campus, but something made it feel very appropriate to pack my bags and fly home last weekend. This was even easier done than said: I just printed my boarding pass, dumped some dirty laundry into an empty duffel, and was off. Even though I was leaving a campus that I had called home for the past two months, it was to remain at the front of my mind for the coming week…because old high school friends are only interested in comparing college stories.
In discussing various elements of our new lives, my friends and I found both common ground and whatever the opposite of “common ground” would be. We are all enrolled in classes, but only some of us attend these classes; we all have roommates, but only some of us have smelly roommates; the only truly unifying fact—we all have at least ten friends who play the acoustic guitar.
Getting re-acquainted with my house involved much less give-and-take. The process, however, served as a constant reminder of the creature comforts I passed up for higher education. For instance, sandals in the shower are not needed in the bathrooms here. And the kitchen is both open all the time and exponentially more comfortable to eat in than the school dining hall; I guess that’s why they say, “home is where the sneeze-guard glass isn’t.”
At the end of the day, though, I think my two different spheres (home and school) complement each other well. If you were the holiday-appropriate type, you could even say I’m thankful for them. But that would sound a little too Hallmark, and I’d prefer if no one put words in my mouth.
Happy Turkey Day.
-John the Intern
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