Lois Lane in Lucite Heels

Here’s a ripping good yarn for y’all.

Girl gets an MA in journalism. Girl eventually gets a job as a society reporter at The Houston Chronicle. Girl realizes that reporting about the high-class society broads in Houston doesn’t pay jack cheese. Girl then gets a gig peeling her knickers off to Nick Gilder’s “Hot Child in the City” for fat, rich oil men. Girl makes big money and starts to blog about her after hours fun fun pole time. Girl’s newspaper bosses find out and girl loses reporting job.

The word on the street is the powers-that-be at the Chronicle didn’t like the fact that Ms. Tressler had another job outside of her reporter gig since that ploy is verboten. However, I think it’s because they were embarrassed that 1) She was taking her clothes off whilst wearing lucite heels & flashing her chocha at some of Houston’s finest mens, then eating watercress sammiches on low-carb bread with some of her nightly customers wives and daughters then writing about them there lunches for the paper, and 2) She was making more money than anyone else at the Chronicle.

Ah, the flesh trade. We should all be so lucky enough to have the genetic makeup to be able to dabble in it and make two grand a night. Dog bless her! She has a great career as either a reality tee vee star OR  a White House correspondent ahead of her.

I can’t get upset about this. Why? Because in this day and age with the economy sucking a Pakistani whore’s sweaty bunghole, we all have to do whatever it takes to make ends meet. Women in my chosen profession have their cotton panties in a twist because they believe that Ms. Tressler’s actions make women journos look less-than. Um, NO. Her actions have nothing to do with women journos and our reputations. Women dumping on other women because they’re women are doing more harm than someone who gets lots of Andy Jackson’s shoved in her g-string, then writing about the Houston ladies who lunch.

Blaming Ms. Tressler, and others like her, for women journos not getting ahead in this business is a cheap shot. A very cheap shot. Style over substance has always been a bugaboo for women who are trying to make it in media and since women are only considered worthy if they have tooth-pick sized thighs, it can be rough for those of us who try to set ourselves apart in one way or another. While Ms. Tressler could’ve handled her night job with a little more decorum, her actions probably wouldn’t be ruffling a lot of feathers. If you disagree, please tell me why there are no ugly tee vee journos? Why aren’t there any lady tee vee journos who are over a size 2? I rest my case.

The best part? There’s now an opening at the Chronicle.

Knit one, pussy two

I need to learn how to knit.

Sadly, it’s a civic duty these day since some of our esteemed lawmakers are taking it upon themselves to decide what us gals can do with our breeding parts. Some liken us to farm animals, others want us to watch an abortion before we make that wrenching (read: personal) yet LEGAL DECISION to have one and finally, others want to limit our access to birth control.

(Side note: what the fuck is wrong with Arizona?) 

Apparently we’re no better than cattle and other four-legged creatures that inhabit farms n’ shit.

What does this have to do with knitting you ask? Earlier, I came across this brilliant plan.

The Snatchel Project

Let’s make a uterus or VJJ for each male rep in congress!

The idea behind this is simple and genius: Keep the government out of our lady parts, but if you feel you must play around with our uteri, why here’s one of your own! It’s soft, and kinda pretty and informative — and the one that looks like a labia can be used for practice (shudder) since I’m sure that most of these women-haters have no idea how to ‘work’ it! Also, if we do decide to use birth control, we’re not sluts, whores, strumpets, harlots, skanks, loose, etc. We have a right to make our own decisions about our lives, y’all don’t. So, piss off (that’s my editorial comment, not the owners of http://www.governmentfreevjj.com/ , or maybe it is, they’re just classier than I am, (s)natch).

The sad thing is, most of Reps won’t get it and will probably give these to their farm animals to use as chew toys.

Cheesy title about taking chances goes here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or my personal fave …

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

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

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

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

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

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