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
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.
I’m back.. sort of. I’ve been in a funk for the past few weeks–job rejections and weird personal stuff–good, bad and sad–have sidelined me for a bit.
Y’all ain’t rid of me yet, though. You’ll see soon enough.
First, some fun. Ahem.
Feast yer peepers at this impressive hunk of man-meat, then check out Mickey Rourke.
Question: When did he start looking like my dead great-grandmother?
Then, I found this.
I think the meaning of life is in this photo. I’ve figure it out, now let’s see what you can conjure up.
In the meantime, I’m in the early stages of developing a podcast of sorts with a few of my pals here in the Windy City, and well, beyond too. Since there ain’t shit in this town for work for a fab gal like myself, I gotta find other ways to fill my days that don’t entail booze, men, hooch and free Internet porn. I’ve got a damn fine brain and wicked sense of humor, I might as well put the two to good use. I also have smart, witty friends who I know would love to join in the fun.
So, please feel free to send me topic ideas and if you want to be a guest, well, we can discuss that too.
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.
Well, February did blow but not in the way we all know and love.
I got nothing out of it except that I got to celebrate the 18th anniversary of my 29th birthday with some friends/family (got an iPad out of it–SCORE), learned that I’m a reporter/writer/editor and NOT a research editor. and was provided with even more evidence that I need to live in warmer climes and take bets on hermit crab races.
While I was reeling after the latest shit sandwich of a temp job that ended up with me ‘not being a good fit’ (whatever the fuck that means), a few awesome stories almost got past my radar.
The first is my fave. I don’t know how else to describe this particular yarn except, well, to wonder why I am not a drug addict after reading such a tale.
Apparently, some loyal constituent in the world’s largest democracy, decided it would be neato to pay homage to his fab fave politico by sculpting a bust of said pol. Nice and not that unheard of in this day and age. However, busts of this sort are normally sculpted out fo marble, or stone or clay. Maybe even shit if certain materials are not abundant.
But, this particular bust was made out of … wait for it … BLOOD. (Thank god my gag reflex has calmed considerably after my years of being bulimic because my computer would be covered in puke right now)
Read on…
“An Indian man known only as Hussaini has recently unveiled a shocking work of art – a bust of J. Jayalalitha, Chief Minister of the Tamil Nadu state, made from 11 litres of frozen human blood, donated by him and 32 of his students.
Apparently, nothing shows admiration for a person like making a creepy sculpture of them from human blood. At least that’s what Hussaini, a sculptor and archery teacher from Chennai, must have thought when he got the idea to create a bust of Chief Minister J. Jayalalitha out of his own frozen blood, for her 65th birthday. The noted artist wanted to thank the politician for being the “most sports loving CM of India” and for her support to his archery association, and since he had a few liters of his own blood stored for special occasions, he decided to put it to good use. You see, Hussaini has had his blood drawn at three-month intervals, over the last eight years, waiting for an opportunity to use it as a medium for his sculpture. But he only had 6.5 liters of blood, and this special project required 11. Luckily, his 32 archery students were more than willing to donate the extra 4.5 liters needed to complete the project.”
Oh no, not just Hussaini’s blood is in this masterpiece, but the blood of his archery students too. There are so many jokes there that my mind can’t handle the overflow, and my stomach is starting to churn, so the need to down Maalox by the gallon starts NOW.
I know you’re all probably wondering how the entire fuck he did this, so grab a pen and paper and write it down. Or, to really get in the mood, you may want to write in your own blood.
“To create his blood sculpture, the artist first created a made one from clay. He then prepared a silicone mold, encased it in a hard outer shell and filled it with the 11 liters of blood. The mold was finally frozen at -27 degrees Celsius, for two months. On the day of the unveiling, Hussaini revealed the other big idea behind his plasma artwork – blood donation. “If I can organize 11 liters of blood, then every other citizen can follow suit and save many lives,” he said.”
I hope Hussaini realizes that donating blood to make art is not the same as donating blood to, you know, save lives.
(Courtesy of New India Express)
I hope the recipient has proper storage for this since India is not exactly known for its mild climate and low humidities. Ahem. Craaaap–can’t get that image out of my noggin. Fuuuuck.
On a somewhat happy note, the Chief Minister was none too pleased with this tribute and advised Hussaini to never do this again.
I hope he heeds her advice.
The parade of weird continues in the south Pacific.
Apparently, whilst mum was prepping her darling son for his circumcision, she said “Fuck it, I’ll just kill him because his peen is so wee, he’s in for a lifetime of hell because of it.”
And she did.
Nothing else can be said about it by your’s truly here.
According to one of my fave websites, The Sartorialist, these are the penny loafers to own. Of course, they can’t be bought stateside, so you have to wing on over to Milan to purchase them.
(Courtesty of The Sartorialist)
Not your style, eh? Well shit howdy, at least they ain’t made out of blood–that’s enough to get me to buy ‘em and I don’t even wear penny loafers.
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.
One of the amazing things about employment–mainly the people I know who have jobs–is how easy they seem to not only get jobs–but how they seem to move effortlessly from one high paying job to the next.
I guess most of these folks are deserving of these jobs and I’m happy for them (well not really), but what is glaringly obvious in this city is employers keep pulling from the same talent pool.
What creases me is these employers around these parts are not real keen on taking chances on folks who may have the drive, the will to work their asses off and the smarts to do a good job, but not the honor of having a name or an ‘in’, or comparable experience but not the exact experience.
This isn’t working for me. I find the media world in Chicago to be impenetrable, unless timing is on your side and you have a pocketful of great connections. It reminds me of the nepotism that permeates Hollywood, but with people who need to know something about all subjects, not just about making movies.
Call me crazy, but that myopic attitude doesn’t bode well for the future of media in this town.
Let’s take a gander at what has been polluting my RSS feed lately. There has been so much good stuff, but this one really caught my attention.
Man’s Hair Shaved Off And Stolen At Party, Dreadlock Thefts Rise In South Africa
Now, I understand that there are women in India who sell their beautiful, jet-black locks so that broads here in the US can have secksy long hair, but dreadlocks? I mean, aren’t hard-core dreads made out of shit, dirt (hair, natch) and other glue-like substances that cause the follicles to stick together?
Maybe it’s a ‘black thing’? I dunno. Perhaps this article from News One can explain it best, because White Girl Pearl here is at a loss.
Man’s Hair Shaved Off And Stolen At Party, Dreadlock Thefts Rise In South Africa
“Zimbabwean Mutsa Modonko experienced the epitome of a bad hair day when he was partying at a Johannesburg, South Africa, nightclub. After 10 years of growing his dreadlocks, friends at the party found him passed out with his head cleanly shaven, and according to Johannesburg’s Times Live, stealing dreadlocks is becoming a growing trend.”
Zimbabwean.. Zimbabwean.. say that word 10 times fast whilst drunk and speaking with a Cockney drawl. Then, do it again but this time in Pig Latin. It’s super fun!
“Natural hair and dreadlocks are huge business in South Africa. The locks can be sold as hair extensions and can typically go for as much as $275, depending on the length. As a matter of fact, the demand for the matted locks is so high that patrons often will not even question where the hair came from.”
Oh no, why would anyone want to question a product that is about to be sewn into their noggin? Hmm..this is kinda like a Brazilian waxologist who uses recycled muslin strips that are filled with a week’s worth of pubes. You’re welcome for that image, by the way.
“Hairstylist John Wushe, who owns a Johannesburg salon told Times Live, “They are becoming very popular. On a busy day we get about 10 people [wanting] to extend their hair.”
The stolen hair can be weaved on to the head of a male or female, whereas before, synthetic hair had been used for eons. The typical weaving-in process can take up to two hours and can be woven on to the head using a crochet hook or needle and thread. A stylist can charge up to about $170 to weave in the dreadlocks.
(courtesy of BlackPlanetNext.com)
Although there appears to be numerous dreadlocks thefts, according to Johannesburg police, they have thus far received only one such report that came through last year. Johannesburg police spokesman Captain John Maluleka told Times Live his department encourages residents to file police reports over such hair thefts, but he thinks their hesitation can be attributed to just sheer embarrassment.
In most of the cases, dreadlock thieves are zeroing in on the fairer sex, and according to Randburg hairstylist Lebo Masimong, he says, it is because women appear to be easier targets, “You are an easy target if you walk around the CBD (central business district) and your hair is loose. They don’t care about your money or fancy phone. They are only after your hair.”
What this story fails to tell us is how these thieves get the dreads–do they knock victims down then start shaving? Do they drug them then start shaving away? What kind of equipment do they use? Is there a middleman? Are they incorporated? What other bennies do they get? What are the hours? Are there promotions? Exactly what IS a promotion in this particular field?
I gotta know because I need a job and this might be a whole new thing for me.
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.
Now that the one-balled, lying, scheming, former hide-the-sausage-partner of Sheryl Crow’s, and infamous doper–AKA Lance Armstrong–has managed to sully not only hard-working, non-doped-up athletes everywhere, he’s also championed turning the drug dump that is known as the Tour de France into an event that’s on par with the Summer Redneck Games.
Sports analysts have been griping and whining about how Armstrong has ruined everything EVER, and have also pondered if the once-prestigious sporting event can ever be saved. (Side note: A possible solution? Allow doping, but add a wrinkle & make the event tougher and more dangerous as a test to see whose dope is dope, yo.)
Here’s my thought–make allll of the participants wear one of these–even if they win a stage. Fuck that maillot jaune prentious horse hockey.
Can’t quite place the outfit?
This may help:
The competitors should also wear white Bucs, be shorn like this and ride bikes just like PW’s, but only if they want to. But, they should style their fancy bikes to look like his bike.
What I would give to see this, but spinning along the lavender fields of Provence:
This week marks a frustrating and sad anniversary for me: Two years ago–January 21, 2011–was my last day at my editing gig at a trade/B2B publication here in Chicago.
First, allow me to back it up a titch and regale you about how the fun began two weeks earlier.
I arrived at work on that crappy cold-as-fuck morning, had just enough time to put my stuff down on my desk, take off my coat, and say hello to my co-workers before the Editor-in-Chief asked me to take a walk with him. I found this a bit odd since he never paid me much attention, unless it was to gripe about something, or if he needed me to order some sort of pen.
So, when we rounded the corner that separated the newsroom from sales, and into a small conference room where the resident HR drone was waiting, my stomach flip-flopped. My mouth went dry and my chest felt like it was going to resemble Kane’s in “Alien”–but with my heart bursting out & smacking both the EIC and HR right in their mugs instead of a parasite that would eventually kill the entire fucking masthead. A wry smile crossed my lips for a brief second at that thought, but it quickly vanished when I heard the following:
“Um, yeah. Julia. We’re going to lay you off–it’s nothing personal of course–we’re just eliminating your position so we can add more to the sales team.”
What happened next few minutes was a blur. I do, however, remember giving the EIC a look that would kill a planet, tightening my jaw until it ached and feeling the tears starting to build up. Sadly, the death glare didn’t land because he wouldn’t look me in the face, but he did manage to set the land speed record for waddling out of the conference room so he could alert my colleagues of my fate.
You know, to save face and look like a fucking hero.
“Gosh, we really like Julia, but tight budgets are preventing us from keeping her on. So, I know she’s looking for work, so please help her out if you can.”
My immediate boss was absent that day so when she got my tearful phonecall an hour later, needless to say, she was furious. The next couple of weeks were a blur of phonecalls to friends slash possible employers, resume prep, buckets of tears, lashing out at everyone, allowing my shocked soon-to-be-former co-workers take me out for lunches and post-work drinks, and trying my damndest to not kick both the EIC and ME in the balls. It took alll of my god-given strength to NOT throw my ass in the shitastic Chicago River when I learned that an intern would be doing my job.
Not personal, eh? Go fuck yourself.
The last couple of years hurled all sorts of puke/jiz-filled crappy crap at me. I don’t know which moments were the most fucked-in-the-head: Was it the the snow storm that hit the area about a week after I was canned? Or was it the pubic-hair freezing cold that pounded Chicago in the ass afterwards? Or, was it going out to LA to look for work and have many jobs dangled in front of me only to have them taken away just as I was making arrangements to move my life west? Maybe it was three interviews I had with a certain Chicago media outlet that always hired someone too young and inexperienced over me, only to have that person leave a few months later because the work was “too hard.” This happened three times.
It coulda been the publisher in Florida who flat-out asked me my age during a phone interview, and when I gently reminded him that what he was asking me was, gosh, ILLEGAL, he proclaimed he didn’t care. I ended the interview soon after.
Perhaps it was the approximately 500 carefully crafted resumes with the appropriate key words and phrases I sent out that were probably mocked, laughed at and tossed in digital circular files–I have no idea which one of these events have helped push me down Crap Mountain the fastest, but I do know this much–
THE LAST TWO YEARS HAVE BEEN A MAJOR PIG FUCK.
Somedays, I can’t move. I don’t leave the apartment. I read my New York Times, the New Yorker, maybe watch my stories on the tee vee, watch porn on the computer–anything to distract me from the fact that I am a miserable failure. While I am well aware that there are many in my situation–and in worse situations–I can’t worry about them. Does that make me cold & heartless? Naah, it makes me realistic because I highly doubt they give a red rat’s ass about me.
Other days, I work on my book that no one will ever read, do Bikram yoga and consider cooking meth in my kitchen. I help other friends find work, read reports and a thesis or two for a pittance. I cheer when my friends find work, and am sad for them when they lose their jobs. My happiness for their successes is genuine, but so is my anger and resentment. It’s difficult to be around friends who are successful and have jobs, so I don’t go out much. Plus, this city is expensive.
I’m thankful for my health (knock on wood), and the facts that I’m well-educated, and don’t have a mortgage or kids to worry about. I don’t want to think about where I’d be if either of those were a factor.
I felt some cold-comfort upon learning that both the EIC and ME were canned under new management. Since it’s not my style to revel in someone else’s misfortunes, my happiness immediately turned to concern because they both have families and mortgages. But then again, they’ll probably find work before I do, so fuck ‘em.
So, what am I to do? Keep getting out of bed every day. Keep on with the writing because my book is turning out to be a gem.
And most of all, not listen to those folks who tell me I can’t succeed. One of ‘those folks’ happens to be me, but that voice is getting fainter and fainter with each passing moment.
