Rut City, Population: Me

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.

The Balcony is Closed

It’s been a while, I know, and I was all ready to write about something I came across earlier in the week.

However, I feel the need to pay tribute to someone who’s work meant a great deal to me–Roger Ebert–who died today after a long battle with cancer.

The Eberts at an event I covered in 2007.

His death saddens me tremendously because he was a huge voice, not only in film criticism, but in life in general. His prose and wit were unmatched (except by his late-partner in crime, Gene Siskel), and there isn’t a film critic today who comes close to his abilities. He knew how to read a film, then discuss it in a way that wasn’t condescending or obnoxious.

Ebert was a writer, first and foremost, and that made him so good at his job. His love of film just added to that talent.

As most I’ve mentioned before, I grew up in the Chicago area, so watching Siskel & Ebert, and eventually just Ebert, was required of all Illinois citizens. Also, we had to read their columns to learn how to write criticism, and well, how to write in general. After Siskel died, Ebert was the only critic I paid attention to. Sure, Kenneth Turan, A.O. Scott and Manohla Dargis are fine, but…meh…their work doesn’t compare to Ebert’s.

I’ve met Ebert a few times and each meeting, he was kind, gracious and witty. The most memorable was years ago when I was a senior at the University of Wisconsin. My father had the same lawyer as Siskel and Ebert, and said lawyer had an open house at his fab, newly rehabbed greystone in one of Chicago’s tonier neighborhoods. I was an obnoxious, know-it-all film student who became quite verklempt when I heard my father say, “Oh Mr. Ebert, I’d like you to meet my darling daughter, Julia. She’s a film student at Wisconsin, and will be graduating in a few weeks. Hey, any advice you can give her would be GREAT! THANKS!”

Aaaand, my dad disappeared toward the bar.

Thanks, dad.

Great.

This guy is gonna eviscerate me, test me on my knowledge and I’m gonna, like, dieeeee. Imagine my surprise when the exact opposite happened. Ebert and I spent the next hour or so discussing Kurosawa and how important his films are to not only the film world, but to the world in general. We discussed other film makers as well, but I believe that Ebert was touched by the fact that someone so young with an odd hairstyle, dug someone like Kurosawa. Siskel eventually tagged in and the two of us discussed Truffaut for another hour or so.

Needless to say, it was one of the most memorable moments of my life.

I could go on and on about Ebert, but I won’t. I do suggest reading his past columns and his essays on contemporary American life. He had a lot to say and the world will feel this tremendous loss for years.

I leave you with two things–one of my fave Ebert’s quotes, and a Sneak Previews/Siskel & Ebert episode where the two critics discuss the disturbing trend of violence toward women in films.

“’Kindness’ covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.” —Roger Ebert

And the clips–

Plus, a bonus out-take bit with Gene. Classic.

RIP, Roger. The City of Big Shoulders won’t be the same without you.

Damn.

February Can Blow Me

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.

From Oddity Central.

Indian Sculptor Makes Creepy Bust of Favorite Politician from His Own Blood

My head hurts now.

(courtesy of FooYah.com)

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.

Indonesian mother kills son over ‘small penis’

From Raw Story.

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.

Hands Across My Labia

(WARNING: NSFW)

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.

From FreeDictionary.com:

labia

[lā′bē·ə] sing. labium

Etymology: L, lip

1 the lips.

2 the fleshy liplike edges of an organ or tissue.

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 & more tumblersand 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.

Interview THIS!

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.

Natty Dreadlocks + McCrabass = Employment?

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.

 

Nocturnal Emissions

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.

 

 

 

A Somber Anniversary

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.

I think Madonna said it best below.

McCrabass+Porn=Faith Restored

Now, you all know that I once worked in the movie biz, correct? I ain’t shittin’ you on this tasty tidbit, monkehs. It’s all that time spent in dark, dank editing rooms with mostly self-important gasbags who wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for the casting couch or nepotism, that have helped make me into the McCrabass that I am today, and for that, you should be fucking thankful.

I was involved in the great celluloid caper for a long, long time. Most of my tenure in Hollywood was fun, but sadly, the more craptacular moments tend to be in the forefront of my memory these days. Don’t know why that is, but I’m thinking it has to do with the ancient hospital bill I found the other day –I sliced the tip of my finger off with a butt splicer while working on a film directed by Adam Rifkin.

Or maybe it was the ripping good yarn I told a friend recently about getting chewed out by a very angry lesbo broad editor from Philadelphia, who hated allll straight women–especially ones who were smarter and more LIKABLE than she ever could be –even if she had the large rod removed from her anus.

(courtesy Ebay)

I don’t know what caused me to only think of the few realllly shitty times I had working in editing. It happens from time to time in life, see.

However, earlier today, my good pal Alice, alerted me to the fact that the AVN Awards took place in Vegas the other night, so I had to check out the most clever titles from last year. Wouldn’t you know it? The titles alone have not only restored my faith in filmmaking, but in humanity as well.

Take a gander, won’t you? And if these titles don’t titillate you and warm the cockles of your heart, then you have bigger problems than I ever will.

Thanks to Gawker for this list.

Clever Title of the Year
Asphyxia Heels the World, BurningAngel/Vouyer
Brooklyn Egg Cream on the Roxxx, Seymore Butts/Pure Play
Chocolate Covered Crackers, Black Magic Pictures
Chocolate Yam Yams, Black Storm/Monarchy/Vantage
Does This Dick Make My Ass Look Big?, Vouyer Media
Look Mom, My First Black Penis, Mike Hunt/Juicy
My Wife Caught Me Assfucking Her Mother, Devil’s Film
Nice Shoes, Wanna Fuck?, Electric/Hustler
Occupy My Ass, Bobbi Starr/Evil Angel
She Plays a Mean Rusty Trombone!, Lethal Hardcore/Pulse
Show Me Your Shithole, B. Pumper/Freaky Empire
Somebody Shave Me, Zero Tolerance Entertainment
The Spit and the Speculum, Mike Adriano/Evil Angel
Subtle Fragrance of Her Private Parts, Swank/Pure Play
We Vow to Bang Black Beotches, Kelly Madison/Juicy

And, the mostest cleverest title is …

Does This Dick Make My Ass Look Big?

Hmm..dunno if I agree. Personally, I’m torn between My Wife Caught Me Assfucking Her Mother (Who hasn’t had that happen? It’s totally relatable, that’s why it strikes a chord with me), and the more high-brow The Spit and the Speculum.

Talk among yourselves about which one you like the best while I figure out how in the entire fuck I’m gonna get a press pass for the AVN Awards next year.

My Uh-Duh! Moment

Remember Oprah? You know, the one-woman media magnate who revitalized Chicago’s West Loop, gave audience members cars, did Stedman and maybe Gayle, got people reading again, is responsible for unleashing the hackfests that are Drs. Phil & Oz and Suze Orman, and who empowered millions of upper-middle class women the world over? Yep, that Oprah–the one and only.

During her media tenure, Oprah had several positive, love thyself phrases that were seen as avenues her fans could travel in order to live better lives. (Nothing wrong with trying to better one’s life, of course.) One was the whole “Remembering Your Spirit” vignettes that were popular in the early aughts, and one of the last ones was “Aha! Moments.” Basically, Aha! Moments are similar to “Come to Jesus” moments or EPIPHANIES as they are known to us non-religious folks. Some person (usually a woman) figures out somewhere along the line that her life is more than a dress size, her baby-making abilities and by being a dutiful daughter/sister/niece/wife/aunt, etc.

Oprah’s magazine and tee vee show featured mainly the Aha! Moments of famous folks, who have all the money ever but decided it’s necessary to give back to us serfs. Most efforts are to be applauded because, dammit, they should be giving back. Some of these moments are just famous folks engaging in navel gazing and that’s just boring as all hell.

I’ve had a few Aha! Moments in my life. (this ain’t one, but the vid still works)

One moment urged me to go to school in Southern California, then another brought me back to finish my studies in Madison. Oh, then there was the engagement that ended badly in my 20s…then the switching of careers and moving back to the Midwest….yeah.

What else? Yes, getting a master’s degree which lead to me getting my ass kicked in a new, but fab, career. Super fun!

Most of my Aha! Moments have been good for my soul, but then there are those that kicked the ever-lovin’ crap outta me, watched me crumble, then came back and kicked me AGAIN just for shits and giggles. I’ve realized since that life is one, big, fat, steaming pile of chunk-filled Aha! Moments. The trick is learning how to handle them with grace, humor and a pair of handwraps, boxing gloves and a heavy bag.

Now that I’ve got THAT figured out, onto what Uh-Duh! Moments are. Simply, Uh-Duh! Moments are “what the hell did I just do?” moments. I’ve had a shitload of them in my life and it’s safe to say that MOST of those moments have occurred in the past couple of years. I’m not exactly proud of these “oops” either, but I figured I’d share them here so y’all can either point & mock, or nod your heads, sigh and utter ‘Yeah, I’ve done that too, Julia.”

The first one involves honey.

This particular Uh-Duh! Moment made me realize that I truly hate honey. Loathe it actually. I think it’s disgusting and tastes like what I imagine rancid bee sweat mixed with bee urine tastes like. I’ve given it my all–tried to develop a taste for it by serving it on toast, in my tea, my oatmeal, and I even used it in my hair–what the fuck for–I don’t know. Well, I thought I’d be the bigger person and give it one more shot.

This time, I used it on my face because the woman who waxes me (shut UP) said it made a great facial mask because it was all natural and has some sort of healing qualities. Ok, ok, I said to her as she was putting wax on places that don’t normally need wax (ahem), I’ll give it a try. Again.

So, a couple of nights ago, I had a couple of gals over for a semi-nude slumber party and we decided to try the honey facial mask treatment. We each put our hair in pigtails, giggled A LOT, slipped into our silk camis, Hello Kitty! tap pants, and our Uggs, and then slathered our mugs in warm honey.

Then, we left it there for about 15 minutes and during that time, chose teams for the midnight pillow fight (my team won, natch). After rinsing the golden ooze from my face and hair, I kept waiting for the healing qualities to happen. Five minutes went by–nothing. Fifteen, 20, 25–still nothing. At thirty minutes, my skin was starting to tighten and darken like the skin on one of Ed Gein’s lampshades. Feeling the anger starting to rise and my feet starting to sweat in my Uggs, I slathered my face in uber-hydrating moisturizer, and kicked my Uggs off. After a brief tickle fight with the gals, I tossed the bottle of honey in the trash.

The following morning while I was cleaning up post-semi nude slumber party, I wondered why I had given honey another chance–I hated it years ago–how was that going to change now?

Hmm…maybe it’s not only a Ah-Duh! Moment, it’s an I’m frickin’ stupid moment too.