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.
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.
Now, if you’ve been reading my blogs through the years AND if you pay any attention to politics in this country, you understand that Illinois politics–especially Chicago and Cook County politics–are a blood sport. We currently have two former-governors in prison, and if you’re an Illinois pol and aren’t either under investigation at some point in your career OR haven’t spent time in the pokey for something you did whilst in office, well, YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG. You’re a disappointment to the rich history that is the Illinois political carnival.
Freak show is more like it, come to think of it.
Back to Beavers, I interviewed him years ago after the whole John Stroger/Forrest Claypool Democratic primary showdown for the Cook County President election in 2006. See, Stroger stroked-out during the last days of the campaign and it’s alleged that his campaign kept it secret until the last possible second. Of course they did. Duh. That’s the Chicago way.
So, when Stroger was declared non-compis mentis, many felt that the runner-up, Claypool, should’ve been handed the wheel to go head-to-head with the Republican challenger, Tony Peraica. Even though Claypool lost to Stroger in the primary, the Cook County Democratic Party endorsed Stroger’s spawn, Todd Stroger, to run against Peraica.
Forrest Claypool
Seriously–that’s like handing the casinos over to Fredo Corleone and telling him to have at it.
Anyhoo, I was in grad school during this whole Cook County President kerfuffle and had the dubious honor of interviewing Commissioner Beavers–who also happened to sucking the teat of the Stroger clan–about what was going on. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Commissioner Beavers–Now that John Stroger is basically circling the drain, doesn’t it seem fair to put the second place finisher–Claypool–up against Peraica?
Beavers: Huh? What’s that now? The second place finisher? Fair?? You kiddin’ me?? Well, lemme tell you something honey, SECOND DON’T COUNT!
There endeth the interview.
The Toddler won, which made for some fun times in Cook County. Seriously. A roasting pan would have done a better job at running Cook County than Todd did.
Starting tomorrow, check out gapersblock.com for my tales from the crypt that is the Dirksen Federal Court Building.
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.
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.
2012 will be noted in the record books as one of the choadiest years ever. Why oh why would you make such a proclamation, Julia? Not only did we have one of the oddestyears in human behavior, but the election shenanigans put the ‘crap’ in craptastic choadiness.
2012 was ugly from day one and it just got uglier and uglier as the year progressed– especially in the political arena. Needless to say, the folks on the following list not only embarrassed us the world over, but they sure did a bang-up job of making the human race look like a big pile of chunk-filled dung. (Note: John Boehner, Rush Limbaugh, Eric Cantor, Mitch McConnell, Bill O’Reilly, Hannity, Newt and the NRA are already in the Choad Hall of Fame, so mentioning them here would be redundant.) The vetting process was brutal and I know I’m missing some choads, but I’m sure they’ll be on my 2013 list.
So, without further adieu and in no particular order, I present to you–my loyal three readers–Your Year in Choads.
The Donald.
(courtesy of examiner.com)
The thrice-married Trump never ceases to amaze me. He inherited millions from his father, then felt the need to continue to dumb down society with his tee vee shows and tomes. He has even sullied my city with a multi-floor steel phallus with great views, and overpriced units. That was a Trump I could live with–out of my league financially and matrimonily–but I never bought into his bullshit so ignoring him wasn’t a chore at all. However, he had to go and ruin it for me and everyone else by opening his fat yap about how the President isn’t a citizen and how the country was robbed during the election (even though Obama won the popular vote) with a series of ill-timed and uber-choady Tweets–which he promptly deleted. Oh and early in the campaign, he was actually a candidate. But, never fear, Trump will be back in 2013, and will be a bigger choad than Donald Trump. Notice how I didn’t even mention his hair?
Sheldon Adelson.
If Citizens United had a dick, Sheldon Adelson should be giving it blowies all the live long day as a thank-you gift. Yeah, I know. I have that image in my mental Rolodex too and I have no idea how to get it out of there. A brain transplant may turn out to be the way to go, and I’d be happy with an Abby Normal-esque brain at this point. The good thing is, Adelson’s attempts to buy the election failed the way the uterus supposedly does when raped legitimately. Ahem. Imagine the good Adelson coulda done with that money had he done something useful, like for instance, help his beloved Israel build a better defense system.
And speaking of legitimate rape, there’s Todd Akin.
I’ll let the magical combo of video and the Internets speak for Mr. Akin (who lost in November–big time–by the way). Akin’s advisers, the “doctors” who told him about how the female body “works”, anyone who has ever hung out with or believed in Akin, well, y’all are choads too.
Nikki Haley
Choads are not limited to men, my friends. Nooo…never. Not only did Gov. Haley NOT consider Stephen Colbert for Jim DeMint’s now-vacate Senate seat, she doesn’t want nuthin’ to do with Obamacare even though her state, South Carolina, is desperate for the help. Like Haley’s fellow GOP governors, she’d prefer to pout and eat worms in the garden because the smart, black guy won AGAIN, and now his monumental, life-saving legislation is truly the law of the land. Basically, she’d rather fuck over her constituents to make a point than help them. That horrid attitude makes her one of the Choads of the Year.
Richard Mourdock.
“Even if life begins in that horrible situation of rape, that is something that God intended to happen.”
What’s even more amazing is some woman finds him fuckable.
Personhood Amendments/He-Man Woman Hater’s Club.
It’s safe to say the today’s GOP don’t like us ladyfolk very much. That hatred was evident in the candidatestheynominated and the legislation/ballot initiatives that so many states tried to pass, or get on the ballots. Then, there was the kerfuffle over the transnatch ultrasound bill requiring all women in Virginia who wanted an abortion to have this lubed-up wand stuck up their hoo-hahs so they can see what’s dancing on their bladders. The best part? Women have to pay for this humiliation out of their own pockets because Lord knows the GOP doesn’t want to pay for it–hell, they’d rather protect guns than people, see. There are so many anti-woman stories that happened this year that writing about them would cause me to start biting my face again.
But, this vidya demonstrates just how choad-a-rrific this man of god really is.
Jan Brewer
(courtesy ABC News)
The weathered, ridden-hard-and-put-away-wet governor of Arizona is the greatest of all lady choads. She loathes people of color, has a pointy-anointy claw that she likes to point at the POTUS; loves guns; probably has nudie pix of Sheriff Joe Arpaio; allegedly shits Coppertone; kicks puppies; has a law that says all bleeding women are pregnant; is considering running for a third term; more than likely believes in Henrietta Pussycat but not climate change; and finally, contrary to popular belief, did NOT star in “There’s Something About Mary.”
I’ve been pondering lately why I am a writer slash journalist. Is it because my great-grandfather was a writer slash journalist? Is it because I love it? Is it because I’m allll about telling stories, making up characters and whatnot? Is it because I looooove digging through public records, getting irascible sources to talk to me? Is it because I adore composing FOIAs in my sleep? NOOO! It’s because I knew that someday I would compose something pithy enough to capture the attention of one Jon Erickson.
Why…yes..YES that IS the reason.
Erickson, a fellow Chicagoan who is now an Ohioan who blogs, has a birthday today–a big one too–the big 5-0.
Happy, happy to the only man over 20 who uses emoticons more than a 13-year-old girl. Keep on keepin’ on!
I had to absorb this tome a titch before I wrote about it. Let it soak into my pores, my being..
From NBC5 Chicago.
CTA Passenger Attacked With Sock Filled With Human Feces
I live in Chicago and I’ve seen a lot of strange, ahem, shit. I have a love/hate relationship with this city–always have, always will. Somedays, this is a stellar city with its magnificent skyline, vibrant neighborhoods, cul-cha, colorfulpols,and so-so sports teams.
Best. Skyline. Ever. (courtesy of blog.chicagodetours.com)
However, like any major city, Chicago is rife with issues and odd people. Very odd, and oddly enough, most of those folks use the Chicago Transit Authority as way to get around and well, do stupid, um, shit. One of the more livelyl El lines is the Blue Line, which goes to O’Hare and out to Forest Park. I’ve ridden it many times, and have experienced/witnessed many gross things–a dude get a blowie across from me (mid-day on the Red Line), sitting in a pee-soaked seat (the Purple Line north, a Loop-bound Brown Line), saw someone shoot Vitamin H & ask if I had a spoon on me (Red Line), being asked if I thought a besotted gentleman’s wedding tackle was ‘doable’ (It wasn’t. Again, the Red Line) and so on.
But, I have never had someone fling a SOCK OF POO in my face.
“A woman riding the Chicago Transit Authority’s Blue Line in Oak Park told police she was last week attacked by another passenger wielding a sock filled with human feces.
The victim, requesting anonymity, said she screamed and tried to follow her attacker, but he escaped up the Austin Boulevard exit and ran northbound on Austin.”
We’ve all stepped in shit, maybe even slipped & fell into it (shut UP), chucked it at someone in a drunken rage (shhh) and MAYBE served it to an ex-beau after it turned out he was a major fuckweasel (ummmm, not I), but having a sockful of it slapped in your face is certainly a first for, well, everyone EVER.
No wonder the victim wanted to remain anonymous.
“It was like the biggest degradation I’ve ever [experienced]. I wish he had just hit me,” she said, because she thinks that would have been less traumatic.”
Yeah, no shit.
On a related note, I’m sure this photo has been ‘shopped, but so what–it’s a HOOT.
I think the meaning of life is in this photo. I’ve figure it out, now let’s see what you can conjure up.
