McCrabass speaks!

A friend, Matthew Aaron, from Chicago has decided to take pity on me and let me be a guest on his Internet radio show. Fortunately, my parole officer has allowed this and will be here soon to take the anklette off to make participating just that much easier.

So, if you’re around a computer at noon PT, please tune in. I have NO idea what’s going to happen. Matt said we’re gonna wing it and one of us will either end up in traction or in a Magdalene laundry. Whatever happens, it will be fun — that I can guarantee.

Here’s the page for the show — I believe you have to subscribe in order to get access to the podcast.

http://www.thematthewaaronshow.com/

Please be gentle with the criticisms — it’s my first time.

Just call me Sweaty McPitstains

Today was a big, fat, farmer adventure in the Bikram world for I attended my first hot yoga class in Southern California. Also, it’s been my first yoga class in about two weeks and my body let me know how just how pissed it is at me for taking so long to get back to the studio.

In short, it was brutal, and yours truly over here is to blame. My mind was swimming when I traipsed up the stairs to the small studio in South Pasadena. I couldn’t settle my thoughts — so much crap is racing through my mind and soul right now that concentration is a fucking luxury. This is one of the many drawbacks about being so damn cerebral (I know … I know … http://www.whitewhine.com..).

It’s a nice studio — for the most part — except I’m used to a much larger space like at my home studio, Bikram Yoga Andersonville. My sizest attitude quelled once I got situated in the room. The teacher, Satchi, had a very thick Japanese accent which was tough to decipher at times, but I liked her style — she knew her stuff and got after me (and rightly so) for my fidgeting between poses. I’m a major league fidgeter —  I don’t do “still” very well. My new pal, Indira, told me today that as soon as she stopped with the fidgeting, her mind cleared and her practice improved exponentially. Oh how I hope that works for me too. I think it will once I learn to leave the bullshit cerebral crap at the front door but in my defense, turning off my brain ain’t one of my strengths.

I held my own for the most part, but I still can’t do Standing Head to Knee because my core is weak.

Time to crank out planks a couple times a day and stop eating, you know, food, and I’ll have the posture under my control by the end of February.

My choice of wardrobe didn’t help my mood either — my lovely threads made me look like a pitted-out Newt Gingrich in an auburn wig <shudder>. So, it’s off to Target to purchase some yoga clothes that don’t make me look like a blowhard twink from Georgia.

You know, more like a McCrabass.

 

 

I don’t know why sometimes I get frightened ….

For those of you who are into music from the days of yore, why yes, I am quoting a Split Enz song. Can’t help it — it’s one of my fave songs from back in the day, and I’ve heard it on the radio at least 5 times since arriving in LA. However, there is a reason why I’m referencing this tune and it has to do with where my life is at this very moment. Even though the song is about obsessive love, most of the lyrics are quite pertinent to my situation.

Let’s have a look, shall we?

“I got you – that’s all I want
I won’t forget – that’s a whole lot
I don’t go out – now that you’re in
Sometimes we shout – but that’s no problem”

I shout all right, but not at anyone in particular. Well, maybe me. Whilst looking at myself in the bathroom mirror.

“I don’t know why sometimes I get frightened
You can see my eyes, you can tell that I’m not lyin’

Look at you – you’re a pageant
You’re everything – that I’ve imagined
Something’s wrong – I feel uneasy
You show me – tell me you’re not teasin’ “

The “I don’t know why sometimes I get frightened …” That’s a no-brainer, if you ask me. Here I am, at a major crossroads in my life with a murky future ahead of me. It could go either way. What I’m doing out here could be a complete disaster of Michael Dukakis presidential campaign proportions. Or I could succeed beyond my wildest expectations. I doubt either will happen — it’ll likely be something in between.

The first two lines of the second verse are heaven. I wonder what it’s like to be told “You’re everything that I’ve imagined.” Simply put, hearing those words by someone I adore would take my breath away. Total sweetness.

Enough with the romantic crap and back to the issue at hand.

Something’s wrong — no shit — but I’ve covered this already. It’s being remedied I hope and it’s just gonna take some time. I’m tattooing that on my forehead in the morning.

Until then, enjoy the video.

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Notes on the news

SOPA and Keystone XL pipeline have been covered ad nauseam lately so I won’t be weighing in on either. But, I will say this … the fact that knickers were all twisted up because folks couldn’t access Wikipedia today is just plain sad. Wikipedia? Really? Where folks can add their own facts, make up crap and post it as truth without any repercussions for passing on false information?

Wait … what am I talking about here? The press?

I need a nap.

Plus, both subjects are not as fun and fucked up as the following stories.

Perhaps he should’ve tripped in an entirely different manner. I mean, he sure is rambling on and on like he’s taken one too many hits of window pane. The wreckage of the Costa Concordia is tragic and what makes the tragedy even worse is Capt. Francesco Schettino’s big, fat yap.

Case in point when asked why/how he ended up in a lifeboat with his passengers.

From The Inquistr.

“I was helping some passengers put the life boat to sea. At a certain point the mechanism for lowering it, blocked. We had to force it. Suddenly the system unblocked itself and I tripped and I found myself inside the life boat with a number of passengers.”

Oh really? I hear the Colosseum in Rome is for sale too.

Too bad he’s married because he’s a keeper.

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I’m anti-death penalty for reasons I’m not going to get into right now.

Maybe murdering people isn’t such a good idea — ever. If you do end up offing a few folks and end up with shitty legal representation, you could end up with a bag over your head and dirt nap time drugs coursing through your veins.

This is messed up, folks.

From The Inquistr.

Supreme Court Agrees To Rare Appeal After Deadline Filing Missed For Death Row Inmate

“Alabama death row inmate Cory Maples is being given a new hearing after the U.S. Supreme Court issued a rare exception. Attorney’s for the death row inmate failed to file an appeals deadline because of a weird chain of events, an appeal the court believes may have helped his case.

In 1997 Maples was convicted of murdering two people, at the time two lawyers for big name New York Law firm Sullivan & Cromwell volunteered to work on his appeal.

After filing an initial appeal both attorney’s left the law firm as the case began to proceed through Alabama’s court system. When letters were sent to the lawyer’s at Sullivan & Cromwell after they had left their posts they were sent back to their sender, causing the deadline to be missed.

Years after the incident Maples realized what had occurred and petitioned the state court system, unfortunately they shot down his claim at which point his lawyers petitioned the US Supreme Court.”

Ahhh … the South. You know the section of the United States that the rest of the country turns a blind eye to when folks below the Mason-Dixon say and do stupid shit. It’s quite gauche these days to say “Oh it’s the South –what do you expect?” As a nation, we gotta stop with that shoulder-shrugging ‘whatever’ attitude whenever residents of the southern states acts out in an archaic manner.

“In her majority opinion Ruth Bader Ginsburg wrote that Cory Maples was the victim of  ”extraordinary circumstances quite beyond his control.”

Gosh, ya think?

This is an interesting ruling though. Let’s hope the SCOTUS starts to look at all death penalty appeals cases with a sharper eye in the future… maybe start paying attention to that wacky thing called DNA evidence. Just a thought.

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Finally, if Marky Mark looked like this if he had been on one of the hijacked planes, perhaps he could’ve delayed the horrible inevitable by about … oh … five minutes.

If he had treated the hijackers like he treated Jack Horner and his crew, he probably would’ve staved off the horrible inevitable for another minute.

Take it from about 2 minutes in.

“My cock is ready … “

Oy, the jokes are too many but the real question is, is it too soon?

Good thing he coughed up an apology.

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Finally 2.0, I’m a huge Frederick Wiseman fan and desire a white equine-esque tail to wear with my buttless chaps so I’ll be seeing this film. 

Pay it forward? Not. So. Fast.

Pay it forward.

You’ve heard the saying before, and you’ve probably even seen the insipid movie of the same title starring the tone-on-tone Helen Hunt, that kid who saw dead people and someone who eerily resembles Kevin Spacey on a bad day. The basic tenets of the film are do good shit for others and your good deeds will prompt them to go do crap for other folks. And so on. It’s a good message, a scosch cheesy, but worth watching a pock-marked Spacey who’s the love interest of Helen Hunt’s character, become her lover. Talk about a piece of awkward pie. He musta been channelling a jacked-up-with-AIDS Rock Hudson when he had to swap spit with Linda Evans on “Dallas.” Of course, Spacey is healthy, I’m just poking the obvious here.

I get the whole “pay it forward” bit. It makes total sense, and I do help others in as many ways as possible. However, it is easier to do small good deeds than larger ones — such as helping a friend with a story, or passing on a job lead to someone else, taking a friend to the ER — all deeds I’ve done several times minus the quid pro quo expectation.

Until now.

I’m not talking about small favors that are prerequisites for any serious friendship — like feeding my cats, maybe picking up a few things at the store, or buying Russian porn when in Moscow. Those favors are appreciated, natch.

What I find troubling are the folks whose meaty paws are on the pulse of the job scene but refuse to help out those in need. Yeah yeah yeah … I know the economy is in the shitter. I get that. Duh. But, things are getting better. Things are looking up — even in my chosen field of journalism slash communications. What I find even more troubling are the folks I know who just aren’t into helping those of us who are without the great connections. What really chaps my hide is that those folks who refuse to help, got to where they are today with help.

They did. And lots of it.

No way they did it on their own. Doesn’t work that way — even if you are the spawn of a fat, farmer high-falutin’ family or attended a prestigious higher learning institution.

So what’s with the reason behind this miser shit? I’m hoping someone will be brave enough to weigh in and essplain why not helping those who are perfectly capable is so NOT their thang. It’s not like I’m going to contact a contact and demand that they give me a job (so not my style) — I just want a chance to sell myself — in a non-hooor way of course. I promise to keep the nose-picking down to a minimum, and the raunchy jokes at bay. Then, while you’re yammering away sans eye contact about how I might embarrass you or how you don’t help anyone, I’ll do everything in my power to keep from verbally ripping you a new asshole sans lube. Then, post-lashing, I’ll gently remind you that there’s an extremely good chance you’ll be in my shoes someday very soon. And, how I might be as stingy with helping you, as you were with me. Then, I’ll turn off my inner-bitch and realize that I’m all about ‘paying it forward.’

I doubt I could be anything BUT that way. Thank dog.

QUESTION

When do we get to pee on Dana Loesch?

Seriously. Ms. Loesch may be attractive but she’s a dolt. A little unsolicited advice from McCrabass here — urinating on corpses is not what America is about. We’re not sore winners. Your horrible attitude will set this country back about 50 years — we don’t need that right now.

Show a little compassion — even for those you know so little about.

One down …

It’s been a while since I’ve woken up to 70 degree weather — in January. Am I complaining? Hell no — especially since I know what kind of atmospheric fuckery is going on back home. This morning was spent contemplating my next few moves for ye olde career and getting used to the quirks of the apartment. I do think it’s haunted — I just hope my little apparition doesn’t turn into a wraith and drink all of my wine and eat my Trader Joe’s Molasses Chews.

Last night, I dined with my dearest friend, David at Casa Bianca Pizza in lovely Eagle Rock after he dropped off a box of my supplies I sent to myself — really, it’s not as masturbatory-fabulous as it sounds — my box was filled with droopy sweaters, tampons and various other sundries. The pizza was excellent, even better was the conversation — it was almost as if I had never left California lo those many years ago. But I did leave and the friendship changed, but there are some common threads left that are still quite strong. We’re different people from when we were roommates with Kimmie Kim at the Palazzo on Beverly Glen and Olympic, which is a good thing the more I think about it. Also, I don’t think any of us could survive the Lump again.

I drove in circles today — it’s safe to say I haven’t found my bearings quite yet. York Blvd. goes in all sorts of wacky directions and I’ve yet to find a news stand. The Trader Joe’s in my old hood is still hopping — so much so that a local lesbian hit on me in the cheese section. Yeaaahhh … you’re nice — mom-nice — but there will be no tapping of that. Wait … I’m in LA …. maybe I should consider it since things are different out here, it’s the land of fruits and nuts, dykes, trannies, d-girls, clowns and the Kardashians. They’re people too! C’mon! Hmm.. hmm.. NO. I love women, but I don’t LOVE women.

And on that note, time to worship St. Mattress.

Cheesy title about taking chances goes here

On Wednesday, I’ll be winging it out to Los Angeles for about 2 months to look for journalism/media work. I’ll be subletting a place from a young actor who will be setting up shop for 6 months in NYC to star as Happy in “Death of a Salesman” opposite Philip Seymour Hoffman on Broadway. Mike Nichols will be directing. After a few starts and stops with dealing with sublets on Craigslist, I found Finn and Sarah’s place, had it checked out by one of my dearest, most trusted friends, and after getting his thumb’s up, I went for it.

To me, at this stage in my life, subletting an apartment is a big chance. Yes, it seems small to someone who’s had an easy go of it, but for me, right here-right now, it’s HUGE.

However, in the past, I have taken huge chances — and — surprise, surprise — risk taking has worked out well for me. Hard to believe, eh? Yeah, it’s hard for me to believe at this point in time too. I do this thing, see, this thing where I look back on my past experiences and remember them as being purely awful and disastrous. Funny I think that way considering they weren’t … maybe it’s the fear and gnawing anguish I felt that made them seem tantamount to drinking hemlock. The fear of miserable failure perhaps. The worst is remembered — not the joy felt by someone who eventually succeeds. And succeeds BIG.

So, here’s an edited list of the chances I took. The successful ones. Wait, all of the big chances I took were successes. Imagine that…they really were. I’m still getting used to the concept of McCrabass succeeding.

1) Sweet 16 in the land of Jerry Lewis worshippers- It was scary but oh so fun, and I learned to worship Reblechon cheese and the French language. Yep. Look it up. That summer I was introduced to Flaubert and Beckett. Need I say more? Oh, and I learned the French reallllly love Barbra Streisand. (thanks to my little sister, Catherine Shandler, for reminding me of this time — she inspired me to write this post.)

2) Westward, ho! Hey, when your parents say you MUST GO TO COLLEGE BUT WE’LL PAY FOR IT, you take advantage of it and go to the unfamiliar, the distant, the strange. Well, LA wasn’t that unfamiliar: Older sister Liza and two of my cousins, Jane and Caroline, were out at Occidental College so I had ventured out there a few times. I didn’t decide on Oxy though, I wound up at USC. Turned out to be a big mistake, which takes us to chance #3.

3) Left USC for UW/Madison — mid-year — mind you. Transferring mid-year just isn’t done, young turks.  Yeah, I was desperate to get the hell outta LA and far away from the ultra-conservative, ultra-Greek USC. Gag. So not a good fit for the tough-to-mold McCrabass. So, I took a huge leap of faith and ended up at a school I had never even visited.

Hot damn, I got lucky because I fell in love with Madison. How could one NOT get the warmies for Madtown?

Or my personal fave …

Who knew that once I set foot on campus that I would have to study? Something that wasn’t exactly encouraged at USC at the time. At Wisconsin, I studied Film, African languages and politics, and psychology. My first love was film, and what happened with that love affair is explained next.

4) Westward, ho part deux. Shit howdy — talk about wingin’ it. I had maybe one contact out there, but I worked that contact over like an old French whore. I was the networking queen and that skill kept me employed in the business for about 11 years plus another 2 or so back in Chicago. But, before we get back to Chicago (you knew it was coming), let’s chat about McCrabass in LA. I worked on movies. Lots of them. I made lots of friends — many of whom I’m still in contact with today. I had some serious relationships — one ended up in an engagement which eventually went south, one ended up with my friend Lisa dumping my recent ex’s CD player on the floor of his condo whilst helping me move out, then mimicking “Roseanne”: “I hate myself for that.”

Then there’s the Lump (affectionately nicknamed by David B), and a couple of decent fellas I managed to run off or who managed to turn out to be choads. In short, the LA-based McCrabass Man Pile is quite large.

5) Sweet Home Chicago. The last few years in LA, Ursula kitteh and I were fearless but that made us weary so we packed up the Honda and headed east — to the wilds of west suburban Illinois then into Chicago — where I dove into film teaching, improv training, marriage, journalism graduate school, journalism employment, then soul-sucking unemployment and other, tawdry various forms of humiliation which I have discussed here previously. I’ve been here for about 11 years, and most of my professional tenure here has been a right pig fuck of a disaster. The upside of this chance was I got to be with my family and that has been wonderful — worth the humiliations. They’re my rock, part of my soul and I wouldn’t be splayed on the floor in the middle of the night, banging out this post if it weren’t for them and their unending love and support.

Now, these days, things are different. A new chance has to be taken because Chicago is dead to inexperienced, but older than the normal newbie journos like me. No one wants to hire the older, way smart broad with tons of life experience. They want to hire young and clueless. Fine. Go for it. I just don’t need to witness the bad crap while freezing my tits off. I’ll do that in LA, thankyouverymuch.

6) Everything old is new again. On the 11th around 2pm, I’ll be cruising down the freeway heading toward my sublet, and with each minute I’m in LA taking in my new life there, something from my past LA life will come creeping into my mental Rolodex. It’ll be up to me to decide whether or not to file it or trash it. I’ll probably end up using some of it to enhance this chance I’ve been given. I’ll treat them as blessings, a lesson but one thing I’ve already realized–I’ll never go home again.

What’s in a name?

So, these little suckers need a name seeing that they’ve just been “discovered.” What humankind fails to realize is that these crabs have been around for eons — we humans have just been too worried about jacked-up politics, iPhones and global warming to notice.

Cuddly crabs!

Here’s a closer look ..

So cuddly.

I have a name for them. Duh. Y’all know which name I’m thinking of if you ruminate enough.

C’mon ….

Think, Pooh Bear, THINK ….

DO I HAVE TO SPELL IT OUT FOR YOU?

First one to comment with the name I’m thinking of wins a prize.