A few years ago, right before Baltimore’s Dan Deacon hit his post-prime, he called for an intern to do his bitch work because he was touring ever so much.

A few years ago, right before Baltimore’s Dan Deacon hit his post-prime, he called for an intern to do his bitch work because he was touring ever so much. The gig was nothing fancy, just making copies of his shitty fliers, helping with merch, maybe screening tees if you had the know-how. When this news broke in town, I was a wide-eyed, barely legal young’n with trademark Deacon glasses and a beer gut to boot. Thinking it would provide the ultimate platform for upping my street cred, I applied. I sent him a dumb looking multicolored resume stating my case. I included my likes and dislikes and made wingdings into calculus for assessing how fucking cool and smart I thought I was because I thought Dan Deacon was also cool and smart.

He responded with a short e-mail and told me to meet him at his next Butt Stomach show to start interning.

I showed up and he seemed to know who I was, even though I wasn’t the only 19 year old, not-so-balding version of him in the room. We’d actually met a bunch of times because I was a BIG FAT pretend fan-Deacon, even though I thought his music was dumb and uninteresting. But it was the cool thing to do, so I sought him out to be a hero.

When I got there I reintroduced myself and he told me he’d catch up with me a bit later. It took him a long time to show his face, so me and other dumb girls were stoned in the corner of some wrecked hipster compound for awhile. I caught him pacing around backstage, and since he wouldn’t acknowledge my existence, I eagerly reminded him that I was there to serve his every need.

After standing around and watching him pace for a half hour or so, he finally stopped abruptly, and handed me a pen. He stared me down as if, god forbid, I had done something to offend his immortal hipster vendetta. Finally he came out with (at 800mph no less):

“OKOKOKOKOK — I’m gonna get high and you’re gonna follow me and write down all my thoughts — write my thoughts, yeah. Write my thoughts, OK? OK?”

“OK.”

“You start … NOW. GO! I’m going over THERE.” And he pointed his whole arm to some wall and scurried away.

I didn’t have any paper on me to give it a try and for such a stout guy, he was pacing too quickly to keep up with. After about 10 minutes of staring at Dan Deacon pacing, I resigned. It was kind of a total
bust. But like any good fame-whore, I am still putting it on my resume.

-LB

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