Growing up, I swore that I would never give into the Man. You know, the Man who controls every aspect of our lives – from the government to the workplace to, the central part of my life, music. With their conniving money-snatching schemes and their mass-marketed entertainment, the music industry had no appeal for me. I wanted something real, something that wasn’t shoved down my throat, something that was, literally, all about the music.

I guess nine year-old me would be disappointed once she found out that 19 year-old me now works for Columbia Records, the oldest name in recorded sound and URB Magazine, an up-and-coming magazine mainly about the genres I swore that I would never like: hip-hop, electronica, and Indie rock. But I can’t help it - the industry has sucked me in.

Now before you get all hypocritical and maniacal on me, I still like the music I like because it appeals to me, not because it’s popular. Granted, I’ll like a few popular songs here and there – Akon’s “Smack That” anyone? – but for the majority of the time, it’s the steady flow of ska, psychobilly, and punk that gets, what seems like these days, only me going. I’m not here to convince you that I haven’t sold out, and I especially don’t want to convince you to embrace the industry wholeheartedly.

What I am here to tell you about is the lavish intern lifestyle. Because when I say “work” for Columbia Records and URB, I really mean bitch-work-for-no-pay. I’ve realized that if I want to go anywhere in the arts and entertainment world and be able to afford food and shelter, then I’m going to have to put in my years of slave labor. You know, the Devil Wears Prada-type tasks of getting coffee and making the impossible happen. It’s not only in the movies - it’s real life.

I actually got the internship in Columbia Records in a peculiar way. I was sitting in my friend’s dorm room, just talking, when a man walked into the room asking for another dorm building. I gave him directions, and he promptly asked me if I listened to new music. I told him that I wrote for my college newspaper, a website called Suburban Horror, and a small So Cal magazine called “No Cover.” He then asked for my email, put it in his PDA, sent me an email to confirm, handed me his card and told me he was an A&R manager for Columbia Records. I asked him if he had any internships available, and right then and there he hired me as his intern, without seeing my resume. Bing, bang, boom – you know, a typical L.A. interaction. I had to admit that I was scared to go to Columbia Records on the first day, for my overactive imagination had already assumed that he was a axe-wielding rapist with a penchant for feet, and I brought a can of mace and a Swiss Army knife to my first day of work. As usual, I was wrong, he was actually normal, and on my first day, I had the monumental task of making sure his bamboo plant had enough water.

Things with him didn’t last long however, when in true industry fashion, he was fired the next day, and I was outsourced to the Publicity department, where I am serving out the duration of my sentence. Actually, I’m being quite unfair when I act like it is a punishment. The publicists for Columbia and everyone else in the department are genuinely nice people - they even give me money to buy my own Starbucks when I do their coffee runs. I’ve become quite proficient in making copies, mailing letters and have graduated to answering the phones during the one or two--minute bathroom breaks that the assistant takes.

But, without the time I put in at Columbia, I wouldn’t be able to get the internship with URB, my first real look into the world of magazines. I got hired as a Editorial and Advertising Intern because of my experience in the music industry. I expected a lot of coffee runs and copies at URB and had mentally prepared myself for the experience.

What I got instead was crazy deadlines, panicked copy editing, and working stressful magazine events into the wee hours of the night. Take Friday for example. I copy edited from 11AM to 3PM, looked for certain bands in old issues from 3PM to 5PM, got a quick dinner, and worked the magazine’s Grammy pre-party from 9:30PM to 2AM. I guess you could call it fun stuff, except for the fact that the Grammy party filled to capacity at around 11:45PM, and I spent the rest of the night hearing, “Don’t you know who I am?” No, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care.

So, why do I do all this unpaid work? Because underneath it all, I love hearing new campaigns for artists and wondering if the public will buy it. I love discovering new talent. I love writing about bands, even if it is a small clip. I love listening to the ridiculous excuses that celebrities think that they can give. I love being consumed by the music world. I love being able to say I was there and sharing that experience with everyone who couldn’t be. But most of all, I love the fact that eventually I can look back and laugh, knowing that I did it all on my own and put in all the work that will bring me to the point where it will be all worth it.