I’ve turned over and over in my noggin’ the circumstances surrounding my exit from SPIN. The whole sheboggle has become a shiny nugget of memories rubbed smooth by the long fingers of time. On the one hand, I remember vividly being presented with an article I’d written that had been edited by boss-man Bob. This was not his regular role. He would read the pieces for the upcoming issue toward the end of the process once everything had been laid out with visuals, etc. The early line edits of stories were done by us other editors, then we’d pair up with the art department and put the whole layout together. In this case though, my regular editor came into my office and showed me this piece I’d written that had been red-lined within an inch of its life by Bob with comments like, “Who does she think she is to say this” and “I don’t believe this is true.” The thing was that this was a pretty run-of-the-mill story with details about a band he admittedly knew little about. At that point, staring at his scrawl, I can distinctly remember a bullhorn in my brain blasting “I want out of here.”

That moment had been seeded by other things. My soul aching to be moved by music again just as I’d been a year earlier during Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Hole, Soundgarden, Bikini Kill, and all other new sounds I’d felt stunned by in the same raw way I had when I was a teenager listening to Led Zeppelin, Heart, The Who’s Quadrophenia, etc. I hadn’t become too cynical to want another magic portal to climb through so that music could magic-carpet me into another state of being. But what I didn’t figure on or take into account was that the blockage lay in me, not the music, so that when I’d gotten the story back from Bob my internal “fuck this” ejection button got pushed and I decided it was time to move on.

Looking back, I also now realize that there were a couple of other things at play I wasn’t willing to explore. The tension of sexual innuendos in the office and in the business were taking a toll, even as I basically refused to see they were anything but just a part of being in the rock’n’roll circus. Running alongside that funny car was the fact that a coworker had just overdosed while in the company of a woman who’d recently been hired and who was about three degrees of separation from my Seattle music friends. Even though it had become increasingly clear she had a drug problem, Bob liked her and kept her on. That she then became involved with one of the young interns who was at the tail-end of his time with the magazine turned tragic when he was found by a mutual friend dead in his apartment from a heroin overdose while she and he had been together. All this accumulated to move me out the door wanting amnesia.

At this point in my career, I’d become a funny combination of confident and reckless in that I knew my way around the industry but I didn’t have any interest in the traditional trajectory of music journalism. For instance, getting another job at a music magazine or as a newspaper columnist held no interest for me. My goal, as I remember it, was to separate as fully from the scene I’d known as I could while still using some of the skills I’d honed to get a paycheck. So when a mutual friend suggested an interview for a talent producer job at the Jane Pratt show, a new Lifetime TV talk-time situation by the woman whose magazine Sassy I’d been devoted to, I thought Hell, yeah, a place to work with a little femme power and a paycheck.

So it happened that in 1993, I was hired to entice musicians and bands to come on the show to support whatever theme was being covered during the hour. The setup was one topic, a couch full of authorities and personalities on said topic, and a studio audience. Jane would bounce between the couch and the audience fielding questions and driving the conversation. Then, if the topic lent itself to some sort of musical guest, I’d be tasked with finding them, booking them, getting their rider in order (which meant having their instruments rented, delivered, set up, and making sure the green room was stocked with whatever libations and food they wanted. And while I was never tasked with removing all the brown M&M’s from the candy bowl, there were weird moments like Wu Tang Clan asking for a dozen Bic lighters). It was an adventure that flexed me in ways unexpected. I learned things like never try and move an electrical cord onstage as a band is setting up thinking you’re helping. You’re not helping. You’re instead asking for a member of IATSE to yell at you because it’s his job and if you mess it up, he will suffer for it and the union will smash you (or something like that. I was too stunned being screamed at to really listen to the reasoning. Plus I knew I’d never even try anything like it again.).

The hubris in me really felt How Hard Could This Be? And here’s what I found out: while interviewing musicians is slippery business, musicians themselves are slippery when left to their own devices in the act of waiting to perform on a TV show. When the Supersuckers were booked for a show (topic: smoking pot), they went off on foot to get coffee. The studio was in Astoria, Queens, and although there was a deli literally next door, they turned the wrong way when they stepped out. Maybe they were stoned. Then they wandered away. A half-hour later, ten minutes before they were meant to be onstage, they were still gone. This was pre-cellphone era. (Imagine such a time.) Why had I let them go out alone? Because I had a shit-ton of other things to do. Did I mention Wu Tang Clan were also on this episode? And they’d sparked up a big joint in their greenroom and the security guard had let me know that I needed to stop them from doing that. I don’t know if you’ve seen those guys, but the thought of doing that terrified me. (As it turned out, years later when I worked at Elektra, Ol’ Dirty Bastard was on the label and I promoted videos from his album Return of the 36 Chambers and he was super fantastic to work with.) As I remember it, I got someone else to go with me to tell the Wu Tang they needed to snuff the joint. It must have gone alright because I’m still alive. And the Supersucker fellas found their way back with a couple of minutes to spare. And the bands played and the people on the show talked and Jane did her thing, then I went home and couldn’t sleep because this was only my first week and what the hell?

Ween played and that was a blast because they’re goofy and fun. We did a Riot Grrl episode where Kim Gordon was the guest. I had to book and pre-interview her and even though I knew her a bit from my SPIN days, she still intimidated the hell out of me for being so cool. Evan Dando from The Lemonheads was a musical guest, and while I can’t remember the topic I do remember feeling super-extra walking down the hallway with him as the studio audience stared because many girls and boys were in love with him and look, here I was just hanging out palling around with him. Wasn’t I special? When I’m honest, it was just that kind of adjacency that often gave me a rush. I wasn’t the talent, but look at me being friends with them. (Hrm, there’s something more to explore there.) Then there were the moments when my star-struck didn’t align with the rest of the crew. For a show on Soap Operas, while most of the producers, studio audience, and Jane were fairly fixated on the hunky-hunks from One Life to Live (or whatever show they’d pulled the actors from), I was smitten by organist Eddie Layton, who’d started his career writing music for soap operas but was currently the organist for the Yankees at the stadium. (We all ended up getting some comp tickets to see the Yankees play, telling us they were going to put the show’s name up on the diamond vision board during the seventh-inning stretch. When they did, it read “The Yankees welcome Lauren Spencer and the Jane Pratt show.” Jane seemed not so happy about that. It was awkward, but not as bad as getting yelled at by an IATSE union guy.)

Just as I was getting the hang of the booking-for-tv thing, having some fun, the show was canceled. One season was all it took for the network to pull the plug. The last taped episode was on date rape (no musical guests). During a commercial break, Jane was spotted on the couch with one of the guests. She appeared to be weeping. The woman next to her seemed to be consoling her. Our executive producer, who could apparently read lips since Jane’s mic was off, hissed in our collective earpieces, “Get her away from the guest.” It appeared Jane was sad that the show had been canceled. Well sure, except the woman she was telling was sad about much larger issues so… well, again, awkward. There was a final end-of-show party at a bar in a very hip midtown hotel and as we drank (and drank), Jane looked around and spotted Johnny Depp at a table in the corner. She grabbed me to go talk to him with her. He was sitting with a guy who, when we came up to the table and she said, “Hey, Johnny” looked at us and replied, “I think it’s so rude when people only talk to the famous person.” Jane smiled and sat down next to Johnny. I said, “Hi” and sat down opposite, feeling weird. At some point the friend got up at which point Johnny looked at me and dragged his finger across his throat. What was he trying to communicate, I wondered? That I should call it quits? from the table? from life? I had no idea. Then he said, “I like your choker,” which was a piece of lace I’d tied around my neck. I almost took it off and gave it to him. This was often a response I had when someone complimented me on something, as if I must pass the thing on so as not to feel uncomfortable about having a thing someone else might want or admire. (Oh, lord, so many complicated future topics for exploration.) He did not covet my choker. I did not give it to him. When he got up to leave, Jane was convinced he wanted us to follow him to his room. I hadn’t seen any secret signals that would indicate that as true, so I begged off to the bathroom. When I came back, she was gone.

That was about the last time I saw Jane Pratt. And from that period in my life, I discovered a few things about myself: I can learn new stuff pretty quickly. People can be hard to handle and signals difficult to read no matter the business you’re in. Never. Ever. Under any circumstances, fuck with IATSE.