“She’s with the band”

Last week I worked three jobs. This is the last requirement to fulfill my Jamaican citizenship criteria. But it wasn’t like a job, job. It was a side hustle job. I know what you’re thinking; no I didn’t sell crack rocks on the corner. Instead I sold merchandise at a concert for an artist I was actually a fan of.

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Day 1:

After I drove from Santa Monica to downtown LA in rush hour traffic, I was standing outside of the venue looking like “one of those girls”. The ones on the phone dialing and redialing the promoter to get them in. Turns out I was at the wrong venue, classic Kiana. When I walked one door down to the right venue I was greeted by the English tour manager, Barton (not his actual name but close enough). Anyway Barton gave me a cash box (no cards like the olden days), an inventory list, and left me to it. I couldn’t help thinking how trusting he was; I could have stolen merchandise, sold the merchandise for more and pocketed the profits. Lucky for him all I wanted was a beer to hide under the booth while I eased the social awkwardness of being posted directly in front of the entrance. I had a front row seat to all the hipsters who walked in. I thought about how much time and effort were put into those cut offs, clever novelty tees, and hats that had no business being worn indoors. Although I wasn’t able to see the whole show, it sounded awesome. I made friends with one of the guards so they let me take a peek while they watched the booth. At the end of the night Barton and I took inventory while I prayed I didn’t miscount sales. Luckily everything came up Millhouse. I was paid my $50 bucks and out the door before midnight.

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Day 2:

I arrived to the venue much earlier this time around. So early that I was able to see the sound check! I found Barton and he escorted me backstage where I saw how the artists were living:  Bottles of Jack, IPA’s, cheese and crackers, premium spreads like chipotle hummus, you know, the good stuff.  I quickly made my small plate of shit I shouldn’t be eating for fear of seeming ungrateful for being offered such luxuries. I made no eye contact with the group of guys (artists and tour crew) in the room who were probably all 17*.  I didn’t get to meet the headliner artist I was working for. I did however get asked “how much two of everything would be at a 75% discount” by one of the openers. Because I had no idea who he was, I actually did this calculation for him. Only for him to say “I’m just kidding I just wanted to introduce myself I’m (inanimate object rap name). He was also 17.  After the show I decided to take Barton up on his offer and head to the after party where I would finally get to see the rooftop of the Ace Hotel. Moral of the story: take random jobs because they give you random experiences.

*Everyone 25 and under is 17 to me.

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Improv For What?!

I dated a comedian once. And I’ll never do that again. They’re always ‘on’. Always acting like they are on stage delivering jokes. Always testing out new material. And always fu*king improving! With that being said I took an improv class this past weekend. Not because I’ve decided I want to become an actress or become really annoying.  I’ve just been feeling like I’ve hit the Great Wall of Kiana when it comes to creativity. And I heard improv can help with creativity and make you a better writer. But for someone with closeted social anxiety, taking an improv class was right above death on my list of fears.
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The class turned out to be really fun! It was like having a play date with a bunch of adult strangers. But not as creepy as that sounded. We did exercises that forced us to rely on the other person in the scene, mimed doing open heart surgery, and walked around in a circle making weird noises. I thought about the brick wall in the room and how much weird shit that wall has witnessed. Then I thought wait, why is there a brick wall in the classroom in the first place? What year was Second City built? The early 1900s?
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Anyway, I’m not sure how this class will help me in the long run but I do know that today I feel a little less anxious in front of people; a little less socially awkward, and a little more confident that I can make chicken clucking noises in front of a small group of people.

Things Ronnie Says

So, I’m at that point in my life again where I have no idea what’s going to happen!! Well isn’t that the point I’m always at? Currently I’m in a temporary position at a cable network. The permanent receptionist refuses to give a definitive date of when she’s returning (that is if she returns). Unfortunately, there haven’t been any open positions for me to apply to here- which  leaves me in limbo land. Luckily, the past year of my life has been spent in limbo land, so I know just what to do during these times- distract myself with other shit. Shit like: planning my Halloween costume; starting a potential book; pinning things I can’t afford; and of course, stress eating myself to death.
While I man, or should I say woman the front desk, I have some company. I am assisted by 3 guards. These guys have been super helpful and have made me feel super comfortable from day one. One guard in particular is absolutely hilarious and he doesn’t even try. His name is Ronnie (not his real name but close enough). He’s Mexican, or an Ese as he would describe himself, from Pasadena. Ronnie says the best things. Things that deserve to be used in a script, a book, be tweeted, or at the very least shared on a blog with minimal readership. So without further adieu, here are some of things Ronnie says:
How do you become a civil rights activist? I want to be one…
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So Jewish people are like the KKK because only white people can be in it?
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Hey I got bit by birds a lot when I was little; I think I have rabies.
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Why do smart people have the smartest ideas?
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Ronnie: Whoa you got a lot of bites on you, you think it’s Ebola?
Me: No, it’s mosquito bites
Ronnie: Yeah right! It’s Ebola! I’m gonna call you Ki-Bola now! 
* laughs hysterically *
Ronnie: (Whispers) This is my new voice 
me: What?
Ronnie: (Whispers) I sound like a ninja huh?
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Ronnie: (To another male employee) Nice hair cut. Who did it?
Male Employee: This girl at my barbershop. 
Ronnie: Was she Black?
Male Employee: Yeah…
Ronnie: How come she didn’t braid it?  *laughs hysterically*
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