Why you ask? Well, I’m in NYC, probably the most fascinating city in the US if not the whole darn world, AAAAAAND I got one of the first copies of the eagerly awaited tome LAME ADVENTURES: UNGLAMOROUS TALES FROM MANHATTAN by my newest pal, Virginia Antonelli. Now, I haven’t had the chance to read it yet, but I will when I finish the current book I’m reading.
I cannot wait.
You wanna know the best part?
I got to hang with the author last night in the city. I had a lovely time. She showed me some cool places, and we had a great time hanging out, laughing, boozing it up and chatting.
I am so happy to have a new friend.
So, my three readers, I highly recommend you check this book out.
I apologize for the bad quality of the pic, but I’m using my iPad to post this, and well, let’s just say the marriage between WordPress and the iPad tis a rocky one.
NONETHELESS, read this book! You can get it from Amazon.com
On Thursday, 49-year old Slayer guitarist, Jeff Hanneman died of liver failure at a Los Angeles hospital.
Now, liver failure is not all that unusual–especially for a hard-livin’ rock star–but in this particular case it is. Some in the medical field are saying that a spider bite Hanneman received 2 years ago was the catalyst.
You read that correctly: A SPIDER BITE.
(courtesy Billboard.com)
Here’s how the story goes: Apparently, whilst Hanneman was partaking in the ancient art of hot-tubbing, he got hisself bit by an arachnid. The owie healed–sort of–but Hanneman didn’t get medical help and soon necrotizing fasciitis set in.
Don’t know what that is? Well, I was about to post a pix of folks who had this ick, but the pix I found even made me wanna hurl, so I nixed it.
You’re welcome.
While I am not a huge Slayer fan (their music is too damn mellow for McCrabass), and I initially half-ignored the news of Hanneman’s death until I heard about the spider bite.
Some of the worst pain I’ve ever felt was when I got nipped by a Black Widow years ago, which is why this death-by-spider-bite-two-years-later angle has me flummoxed.
Spider bite deaths are rare in this day and age, which is why I am intrigued by what allegedly happened to Hanneman. I’ve heard of people almost losing body parts due to the toxic Brown Recluse bite.
But dying? There’s gotta be more to the this tale.
Until more is discovered, here’s a sweet, little slide show about the most toxic spiders on the planet. Hat-tip to the Daily Beast.
Why am I surprised when an infamous person’s 15 minutes of fame is extended thanks to the brilliant idea of making a sex tape?
I keep hoping that humanity will man-up and put the kibosh on this phenom and actually heap huge rewards upon those of us who worked out asses off and played by the rules. But, as long as there’s a buck or two–or a million–to be made, Z-list celebs and their penchant for recording every fucking move for their half-wit fan base will continue until the sun explodes and kills us all.
Let this sink in and we’ll discuss it.
From The Daily Beast.
Report: ‘Teen Mom’ Signs $1M Porn Deal
“Looks like Farrah Abraham’s “sex tape” is being made into a porno after all. The Teen Mom star reportedly inked a nearly $1 million deal with Vivid Entertainment for the release of her tape, after initially claiming it was for private use only. The porno with James Deen allegedly comes with a classy title, too: “Farrah Superstar: Backdoor Teen Mom.” While most suspected the tape was good old-fashioned porn, Abraham and even Vivid founder and co-chair Steven Hirsch ran with the “sex tape” ruse for a while. Deen, meanwhile, tried to set the record straight that no one would believe it was for private use. “I said I’m like the worst person for this job because, not to be arrogant, but people are gonna know me,” he told The Daily Beast.“
For those of you who don’t know who Farrah Abraham is, she is one of the stars of MTV’s reality series “Teen Mom.” Like all of the participants on that show, Farrah realized that as soon as her water broke, being a teen mom just plain sucks wang because not only does she have to deal with the trials and tribulations of being a teenager, she’s also a new mom! From what I’ve heard, being a new mom at any age is the toughest gig around. From time to time I would watch the season which featured Farrah, but had to stop due to the chronic laryngitis I got from yelling at the tee vee.
Admittedly, Farrah was different from most teen moms featured because her baby daddy died in a car crash prior to the birth of their daughter, Sophia, so she didn’t have worry about which baseball cap the baby daddy would be wearing when he picked up their kid for a play date with his new girlfriend’s kid. Or whether or not his facial hair was properly cared for.
the sage advice of the King of All Snake Oil Salesmen, Dr. Phil, and we can use an egg timer to tell us exactly when she’ll be spit out of the ass-end of the porn industry. Well, that and the fact that she’s about as bright as a dove bar.
Am I completely surprised by this? Nah, but what this tells me is I need to have a teen mom, make a sex tape and collect a sub-mental fan base.
I’m fried. Burned out. Toast. Beat to a pulp. Dead behind the eyes. Numb.
And I haven’t done anything physically taxing. It doesn’t make sense.
I’m suffering from knowing that I have no purpose, nothing to offer and nothing to show for my roughly four decades on this rock.
I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: Being unemployed blows fucking donk.
It has zapped my energy, my will to create as well as my will to be out among the living. Sure, teeny, tiny freelance gigs trickle in from time to time, but that ain’t enough to put the thoughts of tri-state crime sprees out of my noggin. I listen to my friends bitch, whine and moan about their jobs, and I have to turn off all of my impulses to fucking throttle them with my she-woman strength.
There are times when I feel like this character from Game of Thrones, is hiding in the surprisingly under-utilized section of my soul–she’s a loyal, badass who will fuck you up if you cross her.
Brienne of Tarth (courtesy of pandawhale.com)
A bit maudlin, I know, but I’m allowed. I still scroll through shitloads of job leads every day. Some I apply to, others get trashed.
Then, there are those job leads that cause me to utter aloud WHAT THE ENTIRE FUCK??
Don’t believe me? Here, check out this gem from a Houston all news-all the time-radio station.
Enjoy.
The actual requirements for the job–news editor/managing editor–were much shorter, see. And, they were typical news editor/ME duties like solid news judgment, assignment desk duties, AP Style knowledge, etc. When I read this list of “requirements” my first thought was, “Huh, yeaaaahhh…aren’t these requirements for being a well-adjusted adult?”
Not so fast.
So, as the news editor/ME, I wouldn’t be allowed to do my job–which entails being direct, sometimes demanding and expecting professionalism at all costs–but I’m not really allowed to express what I want for fear of hurting feelings or putting someone off.
I did send them a resume/cover letter combo platter and here’s a snippet of what I wrote, but nicer.
I’m a seasoned professional who is capable of working with others under stressful situations, and I expect that out of my colleagues as well. I’m tough, but fair because I realize that the news business is not always so. As for ‘evolving self-awareness’ — if you can explain what that is exactly, you’ll be able to hire whomever you choose.”
Of course, they called me.
Turns out, they have no clue about anything, and want tons of experience for roughly 9 bucks/hour and no (surprise!) relocation expenses paid even though this was advertised on a NATIONAL journo jobs website. A friend pointed out to me that the previous news editor/ME probably either got fired, or quit because he/she was doing their job, and not playing wet nurse to a bunch of fucking over-sensitive, pants-wetting, maladjusted dipshits.
Yeaaah … I’m gonna have to give you a big, fat NO.
The bigger picture here is this is what I am (and the millions of other US citizens who are unemployed) up against: These wish lists of skills put together by completely clueless hiring managers and HR departments who don’t know what they hell they’re talking about. I was recently asked to take geometry/algebra test for an editing job.
Yep, I shit you not.
I said no, then told the hiring manager that if I was going to be eliminated from consideration, is should be on a level playing field. I told her that testing me on something I haven’t done in almost 30 years is grossly unfair. She agreed and I didn’t have to take the test. I interviewed, and we’ll see if I get a call back.
Back to Houston, care to wager that they have an incredibly high turnover rate?
PS–I’ll be in NYC next week, so I’m sure I’ll have plenty to say. So, watch this space.
One of the hidden joys of being unemployed is the amount of craptastic tee vee watching I get in on a daily basis. I’m not just talking about the political shows, but shows from the days of yore like “Bewitched”, “Murder She Wrote” and my personal fave “Emergency!”
When my sisters and I weren’t putting on our version of “Godspell” for our patient parents and our slew of household pets, we watched shows like “Emergency!” Hey, what can I say? We were kids growing up in the ‘burbs of Chicago, and there wasn’t a lot to do at night except chase fireflies and spy on the neighbors. Even after a while, the spying became tiresome. I mean, how many times can one watch the neighbor across the street get drunk and pass out on the steps?
“Emergency!” was special because it introduced me to my first tee vee boyfriend, Randolph Mantooth. He was tall, dark and handsome. And for some reason, he never combed his hair and that made him all the more foxy.
Also, the show introduced me to that dynamic duo of Bobby Troup and his wife, Julie London. You may know him better as the guy who wrote the classic song “Route 66″, and she was a fine lady crooner in her day.
Then, there was Kevin Tighe (Roy DeSoto) who went onto portray, according to Weebs, “some of the meanest, mother fuckers ever.”
Of course, the supporting cast was just as memorable as the stars. And, they sported the best sideburns and porn star staches ever.
Above is the official version, but the following is what I saw.
The episode starts out with the station treating some burned-up cop in an elevator shaft of an old building, which anyone with a trained eye can tell is a building on the backlot at Universal Studios. Guess someone started a fire via Molotov Cocktail which is causing all sorts of drama. God damn militants! Stay tuned…
So, there’s a fella from the other side of the pond visiting Station 51. He’s sportin’ a big-sexy, 70s style ‘stache. Who knows what he’s up to, guv’nuh. Jason (his name), the Brit, is only staying with Station 51 for a few days, then he’s off to Miami to check out another program and hopefully chillax with some ex-pat Cubans. I’m not sure about the ex-pat Cubans part, I just made that up since this particular scene was cut with an axe–it’s that bad.
Meanwhile, a lovely lady who appears to be some sort of rock star, is passed out in the ER. Dixie thinks she’ remembers her, and is certain she has seen her somewhere before. Cue ominous music…
Gage and DeSoto then go out on yet another call to some sort of Wild West Show gunslingin’ has-been, Homer, who has retired in the north Valley (why there is anyone’s guess). Homer’s wife, Martha, has some sort of cut and is quite scared. He was the best, Martha opined whilst DeSoto worked on her. Then, Homer fired his wee gun at an ugly flower-pot in the beige living room, and the boys skidaddled outta there before they too were covered in beige plaid and bullet fragments. Good riddance, was my reaction.
Back at the hospital, there is dissention in the ranks as Dixie dresses down a nurse who has been defiant with Doc Early. See, there have been complaints against this one particular nurse and she has to realize that she works for Dixie now and that’s that. No if, ands or buts about it! You see, folks, Dixie, is the only one who gets to have ‘tude around Rampart and don’t YOU forget it.
Patsy, the comatose rock star, has diabeetus, the flu and is exhausted and Doc Brackett AND his sideburns are seeing to it that she gets the proper care. So, he’s never going to leave her side which should be, well, interesting …
Now, a dude with something that resembles a JewFro is wondering why his client –Patsy– is still so sick. He thinks it was the militants, Brackett thinks that maybe she was doing some illegal pharma ingesting and maybe took too much brown acid, or it could the myriad of health problems mentioned above. Who knows, but we’ll find out in the 3rd act. I just want Brackett and this guy to get into a whole “My hair is foxier than your hair” type duel.
Update on the policemen.. Doc Early and Dix are discussing him, now Dixie is whining about the nurse with the ‘issues’, but I really wish they’d break into a version of “route 66″–that would make the scene so much more enjoyable.
If the catheter passed through the tourniquet, it could float in his lungs..” something no one wants to hear EVER. So it’s off to the cath lab to retrieve that sucker. Side note here: you know a scene is uber-dramatical when you hear the swelling of the strings section over the rest of the orchestra.
Oh no, Patsy is circling the drain, but dammit! Doc Brackett is gonna do everything in his power to save her! He said something like “I WANT YOU TO LIVE! I WANT YOU TO LIVE!” while holding her face and probably dislocating her jaw.
Back to the wayward nurse, Sheila. She blames herself for the tourniquet oops and now Dixie is trying to calm her–not through song, but through reason and a comforting tone. So hot–I hope they go at it later.
Uh oh, Jason is hitting on the nurses which ain’t cool since that’s Gage’s MO. See, Johnny Gage is hot–everyone thinks so, and the running joke of the show is how many nurses he can bang. However, since this show was on in the 70s, ‘bang’ was not a euphemism used to describe ‘screwing,’ and come to think of it, ‘screwing’ wasn’t used on the tee vee then either. Hmm. I’m perplexed — I don’t know what term they used.
Next rescue: A major truck accident on the WB backlot–er, I mean in the “North Valley”. The boys had to use some version of the jaws of life to pry the demin-clad Waylon Jennings lookalike from his rig. They had to be careful considering he was wearing some rather rad bell bottoms, and no one in their right mind would want to harm that fashion goodness. Poor dude has a busted ankle and Johnny ain’t feeling too great.
You know why?
Because the truck is loaded with HOOCH! MOTHER NATURE’S HAIR! MARY JANE! POT! All of the fireman instantly ran to the truck to “help” while Vince the ever-present LAPD motorcycle cop looked on with a creepy smile on his face. Yeaaah…it was alll so….niiice…
I bet those folks never figured that the pot would be legal today in California. My oh my have the times changed.
Back to the rock star– Doc Brackett thinks she’s burned out with being all sick and shit. She’s not responding to treatment, and “she may die.” Dumbass Manager JewFro doesn’t quite get it because “you gotta hit it while it’s hot.” Just as Doc Brackett is finishing up his lecture, Patsy crashes! It doesn’t look good folks, but they made sure they covered up her lady bits before saving her life, and kept them covered.
“If we don’t kill this infection, this infection may kill her!”
The finale emergency involves a mishap at a gravel pit. Wait..did LA ever have gravel pits? Really?
So, Jason gets to join Gage and DeSoto on this particular rescue, much to Gage’s chagrin. Hmm..I think something nefarious is about to happen to our guest. Back to the initial rescue, turns out this dumbass guy is trapped in a rock grinder. I mean really, so much for being careful. And just as the rescue was happening, Gage goes and slips and Jason saves his sweet ass from plummeting to his death, and Gage ends up getting a nice wedgie in the process.
“Pull man, PULL!”
Meanwhile that other guy’s legs are dead I bet.
No, no–of course they aren’t! This isn’t “ER”! He ends up getting rescued–of course–and his tuchas is shipped to Rampart for further treatment probably by .
And speaking of Rampart, Patsy is out of the woods, for now. Dixie has re-applied her nude lipstick, and Doc Brackett’s sideburns are still all kinds of awesome. Jason cock-blocked Gage from getting that hot nurse up in orthopaedics AND we learned that our English visitor is a real, live genuine hero. Tally ho, pip pip and all that then, guv’nuh.
Iggy Pop and the Stooges Ready New Album for April Release
‘Ready to Die’ features guitarist James Williamson, drummer Scott Asheton
Now, this makes me smile.
See, my three readers, 2013 was starting to look like yet another shitty year for McCrabass until I heard this news. I saw Iggy a long time ago in LA and it was quite the show–he was loud, crude-as-fuck and just plain out of control. It was one of the best times I’ve ever experienced standing up. I mean, I almost tossed my granny knickers at him, but was afraid he’d put them on and they’d be too big. He’s alluring in an ugly-sexy kinda way–if that makes any sense.
So, when I heard my favorite skanky, blue-eyed boy & the Stooges were releasing an album–some 40 years after the last one with James Williamson and Scott Asheton–I did a slow nod and muttered to my empty living room “Niiiice.” Yeah, very un-Iggy-esque but I gave up heroin before I even started and my leathers are being repaired.
Iggy Pop and the Stooges are ready with a new record, Ready to Die, which will mark the first time Pop has worked with guitarist James Williamson and drummer Scott Asheton on a full album since their 1973 classic Raw Power. As he’s done since the Stooges’ 2003 reunion, Mike Watt will fill in for the late Ron Asheton on bass. It’ll be Iggy and the Stooges’ first album since 2007′s The Weirdness, which was the last to feature Ron Asheton. Ready to Die is due April 30th on Fat Possum Records.
I don’t like to wish my life away, but April 30th can’t come soon enough. That’s kind of sad–I’m sliding down Crap Mountain again and I’m looking forward to an album release like I’m some sort of love-struck teenie bopper.
I love America. I was born and raised here. My mom’s side of the family arrived around the same time as the pilgrims. (My dad’s side will be discussed in a later post.) However, I have a feeling that my ancestors weren’t has homely looking, or as poorly dressed as John Smith and his pasty ilk were. Also, I’m quite certain that my female ancestors weren’t afraid to show a little leg or cleavage whilst plowing the fields or milking the cows.
Hey, it’s how us McCrabass broads are wired–we like to show off our lovely, freckle-y skin.
America’s a great place, but it also sucks. Especially these days.
Over the past couple of years, America has become the Land of the Stupid. I could cite example after example of American stupidity, but I don’t want to depress everyone AND I’m sure that most of y’all know exactly which examples are bouncing around in my noggin. What’s truly vexing is that stupidity is applauded and encouraged by some of my fellow Americans–this action is egged-on by the mouth-breathers of our humble society.
However, these two stories that showed up in my news feed are worth mentioning because they are the apex of stupid.
The first example is from Buzzfeed:
Missouri Lawmaker Introduces Bill To Make It A Felony To Propose Gun Control Legislation
“I filed HB 633 as a matter of principle and as a statement in defense of the Second Amendment rights of all Missourians.”
“A Missouri state lawmaker wants to make it a crime to propose any gun control legislation. Mike Leara, a Republican who represents suburban St. Louis, introduced a bill making it a class D felony for any member of the Missouri legislator to introduced a bill to that effect.
“Any member of the general assembly who proposes a piece of legislation that further restricts the right of an individual to bear arms, as set forth under the second amendment of the Constitution of the United States, shall be guilty of a class D felony,” the bills reads.
But the state lawmaker doesn’t expect the bill to go anywhere, saying he submitted it as a matter of principle.
“I filed HB 633 as a matter of principle and as a statement in defense of the Second Amendment rights of all Missourians,” Leara said in a statement provided to BuzzFeed. “I have no illusions about the bill making it through the legislative process, but I want it to be clear that the Missouri House will stand in defense of the people’s Constitutional right to keep and bear arms.”
I don’t know about y’all, and I’ve talked about this before on here and elsewhere, but it’s exhausting living in a God-fearin’ country where guns have more rights than humans. It’s bullshit. But this latest act by Misery State Rep. Mike Leara, just shows how far we as a society have fallen on the Stupid Scale.
I know, I know, I’m asking a lot from the state that unleashed rape’s champion Todd Akin on the rest of the country.
I had just enough time to catch my breath from the above story, when this story showed up in my feed.
I.. I… just… cannot …
Mary Sue McClurkin, Alabama GOP Lawmaker, Claims A Baby Is The ‘Largest Organ In A Body’
From HuffPo.
I’m at a loss. This is a prime example of American intelligence being wiped out right before our eyes.
Read, please:
“Alabama state Rep. Mary Sue McClurkin (R) is pushing legislation that would impose restrictions on abortion clinics — a move that she argues is necessary because the procedure is a major surgery that removes the largest “organ” in a woman’s body.
“When a physician removes a child from a woman, that is the largest organ in a body,” McClurkin told the Montgomery Advertiser on Thursday. “That’s a big thing. That’s a big surgery. You don’t have any other organs in your body that are bigger than that.”
Even my friends who are anti-choice have got to agree with me that considering a baby to be an organ in a woman’s body is one of the stupidest ideas ever. So, this got me thinking–what about other organs? If you have your intestine removed, is that considered murder? Is Lasik eye surgery consider an assault? What’s really frightening is the person who introduced this bill has the same lady parts that I have and supposedly considers herself a woman. Biology considers her a woman too. Huh. Interesting. The big difference between the two of us is I took a bunch of biology/science classes in school and have parents who aren’t morons. Ms. McClurkin probably learned about S-E-X via her parents and Sunday school teachers who used euphemisms for the female and male body parts: flower or wee-wee instead of vajay, pee-pee for peen, etc. You get the idea. She probably learned that babies were put in mommy’s tumtum by God or by the Jesus. Or by some type of schooling not based in reality.
How Ms. McClurkin learned about the birds & the bees is just a smidgen of the what the real problem is–the dumbing down of America when it comes to, well, everything.
What’s even more depressing is, things are gonna get stupider all up in here.
There’s a new movement afoot to get women to love their labias.
Why? Huh?
Because we women are supposed to feel like shit about our physical selves–even when we don’t–so some twink somewhere (probably a plastic surgeon) makes up a new neuroses for us gals to glom onto. Of course we do this since we women are also major people pleasers AND this society is allllll about promoting beauty over brains and brawn. What happens next? Our self-esteem takes a major hit, and we’re looking for the next beauty miracle to make us perfect instead of, oh I don’t know, maybe reading a good book that will make us a scosch smarter/wiser. Help us, Judy Blume!
Now, I was taken aback by this new love thyself no matter what proclamation because I had no idea that some women hate their labias.
Wait..clarification desperately needed here–90% of men don’t know what the LABIA is (no, it’s not the latest Italian sportscar, although most men ride it like it was –HEY O!), so I will do the honors of explaining to the menfolk just what AND where the labia is.
3 the folds of skin at the opening of the vagina. labial, adj.
Here’s the perfect graphic for show n’ tell: And to the dudes who read this blog–commit this image to memory–with particular attention paid to where the clitoris is. *AHEM*
(Courtesy of The Mayo Foundation)
Apparently, the hot trend these days–labiaplasty–is for women whose twats have had quite the workout birthing humans, riding horses, doing the splits during their Nadia Comaneci phase, and well, just by being a modern woman. That shit gets stretched out, see, and some women are uber-self conscious about their labias looking like elephant ears.
Huh?
Really?
This is where we get into trouble.
Ok, let’s walk through this one, mmkay? So, some woman, who has done her fair share of living (see above graf), suddenly feels like CRAP because she’s seen what the porn goddesses have and decide that them gals are the new high standard in pussy perfection.
(Side note: I’m sure most of this myth is perpetrated by men who never leave their parents’ basements.)
Yes, even though the only folks who will actually feast their peepers on her vajay, are her doc (hey, she/he has seen ‘em all & they don’t care), her significant other, her lover, her mistress, and perhaps her waxologist–but she’s still quite self-conscious. Let’s be honest–any dude who is THAT LUCKY to get close to a labia–would be wise to shut his yap-yap about what it looks like or he’ll find that he is no longer welcome in that fleshy, magical, wonderful kingdom.
Apparently, and thanks to the world of social media, there are blogs, blogs and tumblrs & moretumblersand whatnot dedicated to celebrating the labia–no matter the size. Bravo to those broads who are all about putting puss pix out there for all the world to see. <golf clap>
This is what has me flummoxed: Women do the crux of the living and breathing in this society, and our bodies are the physical evidence. We’re the ones who keep this world from sliding deeper into the shitter. However, even though we are the ones made of sterner stuff, we’re still made to feel like shit if we don’t look absolutely fucking perfect all the live-long day.
To that nonsense I say “What the entire fuck??!”
In short, there is nothing wrong with you–you’re perfect.
During my unemployment tenure, I’ve been playing past job interviews on a loop in my head, and I’ve come to one main conclusion: They were all an amalgam of this infamous one from Monty Python:
Obviously, I am doing something wrong. Yes? I think so.
I’m too formal and stiff in my interviews. I wear interview clothes. I speak interview speak. I glop on interview makeup. I style my hair into interview goodness (read: I hide the purple highlights). I research the shit out of any position I’m up for as well as the company and the people with whom I’ll be meeting.
Yeaaaah….that tactic ain’t workin’ no mo’. So it’s time I change things up a scosch.
I’ve even perused all of the drab “How to Ace An Interview Without Shitting Yourself and Smacking the Crap Out of the Clueless Interviewer” vidyas the Internets. None of them are helpful and I swear a few of the ‘actors’ featured are ‘stars’ of some of the low-rent porn I’ve seen lurking around the web as of late.
I’ve found a few examples in my travels and could use some help. That’s where my three readers come in–I need y’all to help me figure out which example displayed below would work for me. Well, maybe not exactly the same as what I’m offering here, but perhaps a combo platter of several, or maybe you know of others I haven’t thought of yet.
Here’s Bachelor #1–from one of my fave movies “Trainspotting”. One caveat here–I won’t get stoned before an interview–not my style anymore. I mean, I’m not in Hollywood anymore. That’s a non-negotiable at this point. However, the accent is a possibility. I can do just about any accent too–but my personal faves are South Asian (Dot Head is NOT the preferred nomenclature I’ve been told) and Little Asian Girl.
This one is good too, but I don’t look good in a wife beater unless it’s wet and I’m dancing on a bar in Waco. But, I do like Gettin’ Jiggy Wif It’s attitude here. Works for me
This one is just too smarmy for the most part. Topsiders? Nope. But, Ben Affleck is wicked hawt all the time so that’s something to consider.
I actually called an interviewer Pam in an interview when her name was really Pan. True story. So, this scene flashed through my mind during that 2 hour-long snoozefest of an interview at California Psychics.
Don’t know if I’m as clever as Sacha Baron Coen. I’d never be able to keep a straight face or wear that type of Jewfro.
Arthur Spooner is a folk hero. He was deftly portrayed by Jerry Stiller, and when Stiller first joined the cast of “King of Queens”, I was half-expecting a Frank Costanza Redux, but Arthur Spooner quickly became his own character. He was the best part of “King of Queens.” So, in this episode where he offers Spence Olchin (Patton Oswalt), job interviewing advice, it almost made me wet my Costco knickers.
and this one because it’s funny ..
Then, there’s this one. It’s not exactly a job interview, I just love Red’s “Yeah, fuck you” attitude in this scene. To me, it’s the best scene in film that’s loaded with best scenes. Also, I’m not into using swears during a job interview. I think that sets a bad precedent because I believe if hired, I’d be expected to swear all the time. While that’s very easy for me to do (I’m fluent in Salty Language), I don’t think I’d be long for that job, you know what I mean? Anyhoo, I do like Red’s attitude. He has nothing to lose and I’d like to be more like that in my next interview.
So, folks. There you have ‘em. If you have nothing better to do, please feel free to drop me some advice. The winner will get a pony.
Insomnia sucks for the most part, but what it doesn’t suck at is getting me to gaze into the deep, dark crevasses that make up what’s left of my soul. Some nights I think of fluff — like fuzzy kittens, soap scum and sweaters made out of love, merino wool and sunshine.
Then, there are the nights when I can’t get the frightening images of acid wash jeans, people who insist on wearing PJs out in public, post-WW1 German porn and the Dave Matthews Band out of my noggin.
Tonight is no exception and here’s what’s rattling around in what’s left of my once-semi-brilliant mind.
1) When the first-time writer of a hit movie tells an interviewer that he/she just simply sat down with a “How To Write A Screenplay In One Weekend” book, and wrote that semi-literate–but funny celluloid sensation–they’re lying to you.
Here’s what really happened: The studio wanted to work with this person because they’re popular and funny. So, these clueless execs buttered them up, then asked them for an idea and maybe a rough draft of a script. Upon first the reading, the must-hire D-girl who’s fucking the junior exec, quickly learned that this particular popular person is much better at doing late-night sketch comedy. Ahem–mum’s the word, see. So, the studio then hires a team of script doctors (at about $200k a pop) et voila–hit movie!
2) While I’m on the Hollywood trip, here’s another tidbit: When an actor/actress/singer thanks their assistant in their Oscar/Golden Globes/Emmy/Grammy acceptance speech, they’re really thanking their drug dealer. True story.
3) Bulimia never, ever goes away–it just manifests itself in other forms–like the urge to dye one’s hair purple, or start a blog, or build the original Roman Empire out of unused tampons.
4) Naming your children the correct name is vital to their future. Adorning them with monikers like Brittany, Tiff’ny, Zephyr, Madison, Schylur/Skylar, or Savannah, well, they’re bound to grow up to be total assholes, and will either yank their puds for money or spend a lot of time spinning nekkid around a steel pole at a dank truckstop bar on the interstate. I can’t believe that unimaginative parents in this country feel the need to sully the awesome reputations of two of my favorite cities by naming their sub-mental spawn “Madison/Madysun” or “Savannah” because both names are “unusual.” Get over yourselves because you’re only doing your kids a disservice by bestowing them with awful names. Stick with the classics.
5) If you insist on naming one of your kids Marquis, at least have the fucking sense to pronounce it correctly–it’s “Markee” not “Markwiss.”
6) The more I think about it, the more I believe that Stalin was just misunderstood.
7) Write Yiddish and cast British. Never fails. Ever.
8) Once I deem you to be a douchebag, there’s no way to recover. It’s just best to move on and realize that me calling you a douchebag is actually a gift–a kick in the ass of sorts–to get you to fix your douchebagness. Trust me on this–I’m a damn good judge of character.
9) OJ did it.
10) I’ve said this before, but there is no such thing as a social media/content management guru. If you introduce yourself to me as a social media/content management guru–and say it with a straight face–well, you’re about to be called a word that rhymes with schmoucheschmag. Gurus can only be found in ashrams in India, by the way.
11) My god–I love peonies.
12) You know, that rug really DID pull the room together.
13) I can really see a future with this gentleman. He’s all sorts of secksy in his thong, and not to mention his pathway to adventure, which has me a-quivering by the way.
Is that a cat?
14) There’s nothing wrong with nom-nomming on chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting for breakfast, lunch and dindin. But you must realize that stuffing your face with all that chocolate goodness will cause you to resemble a mutant hamhock after about a day of this diet. Never fear monkehs–that’s why god invented eating disorders.
15) Everyone should own this album.
For those of you who have difficulty reading the above image, it’s Ben Harper’s “Fight For Your Mind.” It’s haunting, sensual and beautifully produced.
One of my fave songs ever–
You’re welcome.
16) Elvis is king–Costello, not Presley. Puh-leeze–I’ve never cared for that drug-addled twat.
