Corey Hart will haunt my dreams

For some reason, I heard this song on the way to Bikram this morning, and on the way home. This worries me — makes me wonder that maybe there’s some sort of disconnect in the universe. Who knows. However, knowing how things are with me lately, I’m sure I’ll have some sort of Ambien-induced, weird dream about Corey Hart, a bucket of fried chicken, a sear-sucker suit, pine needles and some dude named Hoke. Great — now I’m not gonna be able to sleep tonight.

Class was off today. I couldn’t get it right, wasn’t feelin’ it. Half Moon really hurts the bejeebus out of my shoulder. I didn’t push as hard as usual because the pain was causing me to wince which, in turn, was causing me to hold my breath. It didn’t help seeing my “Hi Janes” in the mirror. Fortunately, neither my arms nor my hair look as bad as what’s featured in the picture, but you get the idea. Plus, that necklace is U.G.L.Y. If I’m not careful, this is gonna be me in about 5 years.

A young women directly in front of me had THE best tat on her lower back. It was of Shakespeare all hip-hopped up. I can’t find any images to do it justice. Wait, I could, but I’m too damn lazy. Tats are de rigueur in Bikram. I feel so out-of-place because I don’t have an “Om” or something else written in Sanskrit splayed on my inner-thigh, or winding up my spinal column (because you know that felt fucking good — I just hope those broads were drunk/passed out when they were getting stamped). Actually, I’ve considered getting a tat for a long time now. I go back and forth on it, but I don’t think my family would appreciate their likeness inked across my ass. That wouldn’t be good for anyone.

And, now that I’ve added a tattooed image of yours truly to your mental Rolodex, I will sign off for the day. Ciao, Monkehs.

A hiatus from Bikram + odd food choices = A combo platter of crap

“Have mercy baby” — the opening lyrics from the song “Descender” by the Black Crowes were rolling through my noggin this morning as I prepped for my first Bikram class in about a month. I was looking for mercy from the Bikram gods because I had a feeling my return was gonna be a bumpy one. Why it took me so long to get back into it isn’t much of a mystery. But the main reason is laziness, and perhaps the brutal heat that enveloped this city the last few weeks. I just wasn’t in the mood to voluntarily go bend, stretch and pull in a 110-degree room when all I had to do was just walk outside. Why bother? It was easier to sit in the AC and read.

Only one of the regulars was in the morning class. The rest were strangers and it makes me wonder if the regulars are taking the summer off. There was a new teacher too. Some dude named Alan. He was good, a little lacking in the yap-yap area, but he proved he was paying attention when he said my Standing Bow was “awesome.” That made my awareness of the crap leaching from my pores less nauseating. Yes, I could feel all of the bad food choices I made over the past month leaving from my system in a very ugly manner. Also, a quick glance in the mirror showed that my face was a titch puffier than the last time I was in class, but knowing how my body works, that puffiness will be no more in about a week. My cheekbones will be jutting out again soon. Too bad my ass is already jutting out — and not in a good way. It’s not quite like hers, yet, but it could be if I don’t do something about it soon. I have no desire to have a shelf-butt. Sure, I’d be popular at parties, but, is having a shelf-butt a McCrabass trait?

Don’t answer that.

Post-class I noticed both my balance and flexibility were still intact. I breathed a huge sigh of relief because it took so damn long to get them thar traits back on track.

‘Tis the little things, really.

A weekend of longing ends

‘Twas a stormy weekend, which made the air smell like ass after each downpour. I don’t get it — it’s summer, yet the air doesn’t smell all that fresh and clean like it’s supposed to, at least that’s what I gleaned from those commercials about summertime fun. Also, I find these monsoon-esque, daily storms unsettling as do many others I know. Ambien kept me from enjoying the one that rolled through here late-Friday/early Saturday. There’s nothing like sleeping better through chemistry.

The rest of the weekend consisted of reading, writing and watching the tee vee. I couldn’t watch the goings-on between our fearless leaders because it’s the biggest farce so far this decade. Get over it folks, we have a black president. Quit being doooooshes and solve this thing already. The one piece of political news that made me smile was this. Looks like the tea bagger fuckery is imploding. Good thing too, their racism veiled as progress is embarrassing and counterproductive. That’s all I’m going to say about politics. If someone wants to pay me to write about politics, I’ll do their bidding. Until then, meh. I’d rather bitch, gripe and reflect on other stuff I observe.

Like this for example: It’s deja vu all over again. Yes, those shoes that are the staple of the preppy look are gracing the feet of folks who weren’t even alive during the first go-around with this once desired fashion staple. I had many a-pair because I was quite the prepster. But, I never owned that insipid
Preppy Handbook that many of my friends studied back in the day in order to live a more preppy lifestyle. What killed me about their dedication was that they didn’t realize the book was a joke. I didn’t have the heart or the guts to tell them either.

When I first spied these shoes, I thought they were called “Vajayjay.” I told you I need glasses.

I dig these haunting images. And, I feel better knowing this too. Where in the hell IS Montenegro? Feh — don’t bother telling me I need to learn more about countries ‘over there’ or sending the me the link — I don’t particularly care. I’m sure Montenegro is a lovely place filled with marshmallows and vodka.

We need more propaganda art like in the good ol days. This church is so eerie, I wanna see it up close & personal. Keep scrolling for ideas about what to do with that ship you’ve been looking to ditch.

Looks like I’ll be mapping my way to the St. Lawrence Seaway tomorrow.

The new normal

Before I get into today’s post, I’m sad about this. I love her music … her sound. Sure, she was a train wreck, a hot mess or whatever phrase is used to describe a messed-up soul these days, and hard drug use is so fucking gauche, but this is a huge loss. Not nearly as huge as her death, but still there will be a significant hole left in the music world by Ms. Winehouse’s early departure. Rest in peace.

It’s been six months since I was set free from my part-time copy editing gig at well-known health care business/policy magazine here in Chicago. Since that time, I’ve survived a horrible winter (along with the rest of the Chicago area), gotten back into Bikram yoga full-force, made huge strides in writing my book, spent some time below the Mason-Dixon, picked my nose, kept my couch down, dyed my hair, read a lot, watched the political cavalcade gearing up for 2012, saw & avoided my family, contemplated my future, and did a little of this and a little of that. Big whup. Oh, and I looked for work. In the past 6 months, approximately 75 resumes have been sent from this computer. Each one was carefully crafted — mirroring the job descriptions and some good came out of my efforts. I had several phone interviews with publications in south Florida and a few other places. Odd. But, I figure I’m not going to find anything decent in town since the competition here is very stiff. I’m up against much more seasoned journos who used to write for the Chicago Tribune, the Sun-Times, Crain’s, etc. I heard recently that one gig I applied for — over 50 locals applied for it. My contact didn’t divulge the total number of applicants from parts unknown though, and I am grateful for her silence, because I’m sure it’s well over 100. She probably didn’t want me to add to my stress.

It’s all part of the new normal: 100s of applicants for one job.

A friend was kind enough to hire me to help her out on her pub’s copy desk. The money’s decent and the material, interesting. She’s a life-saver. However, I’ve realized that what my life is now is the new normal. I’m probably never going to get that elusive benefits-laden full-time gig in a newsroom, and I’ll be freelancing for the rest of my life. Soon, my days will be spent hearing about how some youngin’ got a job I should have landed but because of my age and, um, *experience*, I was never even in the running. Doesn’t matter that I’m just starting out too, my *experience* is my age and while it’s completely unfair, it’s also a huge shitbag of wrong.

But, what can I do, really? Throw a hissy fit? Ugh, that’s so passe and so NOT me. Plus, it only feels good for a nanosecond and as soon as it’s over, you feel like you’ve slid head-first down Crap Mountain, naked with your mouth wide open. I’ll just keep it in the back of mind to remember to gently talk any woman in her late-30s who’s considering going back to school, to never get a master’s degree in journalism, or any type of liberal arts degree for that matter. It’s a waste of money — especially if you want to work as a reporter at a daily or weekly. No one will hire you! They want young and inexperienced (read: clueless). Ha. So much for not looking my true age.

‘Tis sad but true, and I have the battle scars to prove it.

My dream is that my book sells and I’ll be rewarded with a huge dose of motivation, which will then enable me to say “piss off” to the journo world. I’ll write all day, but there will actually be a bona fide future in this whole write-the-whole-damn-day dream.

This is one dream I truly hope comes true.

We all know that today could’ve turned out a lot worse.

July is the cruelest month

Hot damn, Summer in the city

After last winter, I made a promise to myself NOT to bitch about the hot Chicago summers. February through late-May almost turned me into a meth addict because of the weather–it was depressing as fuck. Also, I’ve been in a less-than-pleasant mood because of my still dire financial situation, frustrating personal challenges and the fact that I haven’t been motivated to get me arse back into the Bikram yoga studio since my return from below the Mason-Dixon. The main reason for no Bikram is I’ve been working as a temp copy editor here, and it’s taking up all of my time, dammit. I mean, really! How dare a temp job that pays me well occupy every dark, sweaty corner of my life?!?

I kid! I kid, of course! I’m grateful for the gig.

But, I digress.

It is hotter than dragon snot outside.
But, I love how sticky and lush it is this time of year–even though it does feel like I’m breathing through a sweaty jockstrap–I’ll take this freckle-searing heat any day over the sub-zero crap we had in February. The downsides are the twice-daily showers, the runny make-up and not having clothing that adjusts from the scorching heat to the sub-zero AC in a nanosecond. Now, there’s an invention I’d like to see. This weather has released some questionable clothing choices from their hiding places. Now, these images aren’t ones I’ve snapped, but they’re very similar to what I’ve witnessed out and about on Michigan Avenue recently. Oy. Stop. My eyes. *Shakes head* Really? Finally, looks like two pigs fightin’ under a blanket.
I can’t look anymore–my eyes are starting to rebel.

I’m riveted by this story. It’s because I’m a journalist and my profession has taken a lot of necessary hits lately because of bad behavior, by not just desperate reporters but by their bosses. It’s also taken a lot of unnecessary hits by sub-mental choads like these fine folks. But, that’s a discussion for another time. Now, I’m not going to delve too deeply into this because there are others out there who’ve already spoken for me. Plus, I’m too damn tired and am in need of some bad tee vee. Our profession ain’t perfect–it’s riddled with bad behavior that’s been chastised vehemently. Good. It should be. What’s going on with Murdoch & his minions is embarrassing and reprehensible. Due to their incessant greed and callous attitudes, they’ve knocked journalism down a few more levels and that makes all of us look bad.

We don’t need that jive–not in this heat.

Doctor My Eyes

This is me, in about a month.

I’m getting old.

Yes. Old. Ancient. Elderly.

Soon, I’ll be an old fart with lots of thick, dark hair on my chin and along my jawline. Soon, I’ll be drawing in my eyebrows and having birthday parties for my cats. Soon, I’ll start growing things in the dirt a la Ouiser, and making wise-ass comments about everyone and everyth–wait a sec. I already do that.

I'm pleasant, dammit!

What event landed me at this conclusion? Today, it finally hit me that I need glasses. As I was moseying across Michigan Avenue toward the Cave to grab some lunch, I could barely make out the label on my gin bottle I was swigging from. I wasn’t sure if it was the 7-11 brand or the stuff I made in my bathtub. That’s a problem. Now, a few years ago, I had no problem differentiating between my homemade gin and the top-shelf stuff from 7-11. Life was good. ‘Twas a simpler time. I could spot the difference between a regular Oreo and a Double Stuf at ten paces. I didn’t have to squint like Mr. Magoo to drive down the street.

But, when a gal can’t read her scribbles on her fancy, computer-generated label on her musty gin bottle or can’t tell the difference between fake and real boobs in her fave porno, it’s time to face the enemy and get specs.

I just felt the Earth shift on its axis.

Now, where is that truss catalog?

We’re balls-deep in summer, folks …

Not much to report these days. Still off Facebook, and I’m having a few withdrawal symptoms but nothing to alert the media about.

Got no sand in my shoes.

Since I’m in the doldrums  at the moment for various reasons, I’m posting a few stories here that have caught my jaded-eye and caused both eyebrows to raise up to my hairline in mock surprise.

This is why cousins should never marry and reproduce. Also, keep your grubby little self-righteous mitts off my porn, you asshats.

Oh, this is a must see.

Whenever I hear this song, I wanna shake my ass & dance so hard, I’ll have to pack my hips in ice for about a week. It’s such a fun, wonderful love song. So appropo.

My friends know I’m not a baseball fan at all, but this is pretty fucking cool. I’m impressed and it’s not easy to impress McCrabass. Then, I read stories like this one and I realize one of the many reasons why I don’t care for the sport.

What. The. Fuck. Is. The. Matter. With. People?

What’s with the ski boots?

And, finally, Welcome back.

 

There’s desperate, then there’s DESPERATE. I’m the former, natch.

A friend of mine sent me this job idea the other day with the following challenge: I dare you to apply for this job.

Before I read the content, I started getting my knickers in a twist–is Samantha really daring me to do something? Does she NOT know me very well? Obviously not–she’s a new friend, so that reasoning is out. So, before I continued with the should I or shouldn’t I, I took a wee gander at the listing. Then, all laughter and McCrabass mayhem broke out.

Freedom Magazine is looking for experienced investigative reporters for short and long-range freelance assignments.  Freedom, published by the Church of Scientology since 1968, covers human rights and social betterment issues and does investigative reporting in the public interest.  Current assignments are based in Los Angeles, New York and Southeastern Texas.

I ‘bolded’ out CHURCH OF SCIENTOLOGY for obvious reasons. And, for a nanosecond, I thought about applying for the job. Then I landed back on Earth with the rest of the humans and realized Sea Org will have to lure some other sucker in with their billion year contract. This Thetan would prefer to work for a legitimate news organization–whatever that is in this day and age.

But could you imagine the stories you’d have, if you could circumnavigate the confidentiality agreement you know those loons would have you sign? Serious fun, but it would be short-lived.

Working there would pretty much kill a future, serious journalism career.

This is what happens when you don't believe in psychiatry or the real world.

Icks-Nay Acebook-Fay

Trying to quell the Facebook voices in me noggin.

It’s been two days since I’ve dumped Facebook and two days since I moved over to WordPress from Blogger. I’m still in the process of setting this blog up and getting the old blog over this-a-way, so please be patient. Balancing Twit will soon be incorporated into McCrabass. I’ll still focus on Bikram yoga, but I’ll add a few new tidbits as I see fit.

I loved Facebook. I loved the possibilities of Facebook. I loved the whole community feel. However, a few things have transpired on Facebook in the past few months that made me start to loathe it, and more importantly, loathe myself. Those who know me are well aware that I’m not into self-loathing. Self-deprecating humor, yes. Of course. But self-loathing? Not my M.O. It’s destructive.  What happened on the 4th of July was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and I was starting to hate myself. Hey, I’m unemployed with very few possibilities on the horizon–I don’t need to be brought down by a part of social media I used to find enjoyable. It’s just not worth it.

My close friends know what happened, as for the rest of you, well it’s not that important. At first, a few friends were concerned with how folks would be able to contact me without Facebook. Easy, is my response. If they’re my true friends, they’ll find me. It’s not that tough. More importantly, if they’ve been paying attention and want to continue with a friendship, they’ll know what to do.

I’m always around for my pals and they know that.

Now, back to making this blog all pretty n’ stuff. Hope you enjoy it and I promise, McCrabass will be back in action once I get settled in these new digs.

Until then, don’t shit where you eat.