By Charles Lam
By R. Scott Moxley
By Taylor Hamby
By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By LP Hastings
By Taylor Hamby
Photo by John GilhooleyOkay, so I wasn't at my best at the bright, shiny hour of pre-9 Saturday morning when I made it to Huntington Beach to audition for TheApprentice. After all, I'd been out with LongTallGinathe night before, at a Newport Beach wine bar and then at LeQuaion the Peninsula, and while the first place was a nightmare (including but not limited to the bar manager, who, in a misguided and wholly unprofessional attempt to sidle up to us, mocked for our benefit other patrons and then told us he'd "tap" me before he "tapped" Gina, because he'd sooner "tap" a Jewish girl "with big boobs" than a French woman, and who padded the bill with an extra snifter of Sauterneswhile he was at it, at $60 per warmed shot, and who should be fired? Heshould be fired) and the second place was lovely—an incredible Modernist, indoor/outdoor-hybrid restaurant, all wood and concrete right on the marina—but everyone spoke only French while I smiled pleasantly and drowned myself in champagne for going on three hours, picking out the occasional word (mostly fromageand, I think, syphilis), and finally, about five minutes before we left, I started answering everybody in German, which I thought was hilarious but Gina said was outrageously rude (which is ridiculous), and we got in a big fight (our first!), and I accused her of always making it TheGinaShowand I'm sure she accused me of something or other as well (oh, that's right: outrageous rudeness), and then I think she felt bad but we're still totally friends—it was just a squabble!—and we didn't get home till going on two, and then in the morning my head, she hurt!, and I was dry—how dry I was!—but I still made it out of the damn house in my swell and sorta-maybe-kind-of-could-be-pulled-off-as-"professional" black polyester '80s shirt-dress that didn't breathe in the pits but even at all!, and got there, indeed, pre-9, and then schmoozed for a while after I cut in line (just to show off that requisite "businessperson" cut-throatedness) with some former Weeklyfolks, and telling them about my fight, and they totally agreed with me, or at least claimed to, maybe so I wouldn't start fighting with them instead. So maybe I wasn't at my best, and I was getting steadily jacked on coffee too.
But I was still better than the rest of those Apprentice-auditioning motherfuckers, unless the casting people were looking for any kind of eloquence, drama, charisma or winning personality. Then probably not.
Goddamn, I hated those people.
* * *
Sure, I was just auditioning for The Apprenticefor work—you know, "Hey, here's what it's like to audition for TheApprenticeblah blah blibbity blah." But here's a dirty little secret for you: I would freaking loveto be on The Apprentice! I would! I mean, it's not like I would accept the job redecorating Trump's office once I won (and make no mistake, fool, about who would triumph!), but it'd be fun to turn it down. Nicely, and politely, of course, because I'm totally like that.
OfcourseI should be on television! Hell, FrankMickadeitfrom the Registergets to be on newspaper boxes and shit, and TimGrobatyfrom the Press-Telegramhad a billboardI had to look at every time I visited CommieMomin San Pedro. OCWeekly, what have you done for me lately?
* * *
So we're in our "group interviews," where eight of us in suits (or polyester '80s shirt-dresses, as the case may be) try to show off our wit, shark-like-ness, can-do attitudes and shiny teeth while expounding on such topics as "Should a Business Be Able to Dictate Its Workers' Personal Lives?" (In a breathtakingly beautiful pander to Mr. Trump, I say "yes.")
You know what I would have liked to expound upon? "WhatExactly Is Wrong With the New Pope." I got that one down pat.
And we're a relatively interesting group—I mean, there's me, for one. And then there's a pretty New York public defender who turns out to be a snotty ice cube, and a gorgeous six-foot recent Stanfordgrad with pillowy lips and a shy sweetness that led everybody to immediately label herthe threat instead of me.
And there's a smart lawyerish kind of guy who can take a topic and hold forth in a commanding manner so nobody else tries to interrupt, and a fat middle-aged guy with mean eyes, oily and sleek like a baby seal, who works "in sports." Then there are some boring, ugly people no one cares about. See? Interesting!
So the topic turns to "Which of You Would You Kick Off the Island," and two of those fuckers point to me: the mean-eyed sebaceous gland because I cuss—I didn't in the interview, by the way, but on my application I said I do—and Mr.FuckingPerfect(-lyPretentious)hems and haws, with his nostrils flared in a fit of moral disgust, that "there's no room for a person with a foul mouth in a professional setting," and, by the way, fuck off!,while the silent bitch next to me says it's because I'm "not a good listener" and "just want to talk."
I hate you, every one.
So I don't think I'm going to make it onto the next cast of TheApprentice.(And the fake Parisand Trumpwandering lonely 'round the parking lot probably won't either.) But those of you who do (apparently, the consensus is that I'm looking at you, Stanford), can I give you a tip?
For fuck's sake, don't keep "marketing" your retarded projects by having your thuggiest guy stand outside with shitty fliers; bring a bottle of champagne to RichardJohnsonat PageSixand tell him where your ass (and those TV cameras!) will be!
Also? E-mail Gawker.comwith your whereabouts, like, allthetime.Media, people! Love it! Use it! Bribe it within an inch of its life!
Also again? Why not make one of your more efficient teammates the "troubleshooter," going between the various delegations and bringing them sandwiches and helping their shit!
I think I really just want an intern. You know: and a billboard.