Blog Shog: Job Hunting

Well, kids, I finally got pushed that extra bit that sent me over the edge. I am seriously looking for employment. I can't cope with the stupidity and pettiness any longer.

So, if anyone knows of someone/somewhere looking for a highly competent bookkeeper, purchasing agent, writer, editor, producer, publicist, historian, Shakespearean scholar, librarian (without MLS), acting coach, assistant, cook, whatever, let me know. I require health insurance and enough salary to cover my bills (which aren't high). Early mornings undesirable unless they are a part of long nights.

What Are We Going to Do Tonight, Empress?

The same thing we do EVERY night, blurkers... try to take over the world!

(With apologies to one of the greatest animated series ever, The Animaniacs.)

I spent two plus hours on the phone last night with one of my oldest friends, Ferd. Ferd is a God among friends--that poor bastard has put up with me for almost thirty years. (We met not long after birth... YEAH, RIGHT!) We became friends our frosh year at St. Clements by virtue of being stuck in a lot of the same classes together, including the misery of Mr. Lynch's French class. I went into that class enthusiastic, eager, DYING to learn the lovely French language. By the end of the year, it was my favorite blow-off class. I actually stop studying for vocabulary quizzes and did a challenge to see if I could get him to catch me cheating. (He did, eventually, but it took him two months. I laughed, took the zero, and didn't give a shit. I proved my point and still got an A in the class.) Mr. Lynch was a sad creature. I mean, you know you're in trouble when even the freshmen give you shit. And showing up to teach in plaid pants in 1981... not the smartest sartorial choice on the planet. We had a good time in that class--didn't learn a lot of French, mind you, but some of my favorite memories of high school come from that class... Talking Cheese, Steve G.'s Great Leap to Freedom... and I became a crackshot with a rubber band thanks to a lot of practice.

Ferd is the only one of my old high school chums that I've stayed in regular, constant contact. We've done a lot of theatre together, something for which he forgave me a long time ago. If all goes well, I hope we're going to be able to revive the radio theatre company. Tangents Radio Theatre was a hoot and a half. I wish we still had video from the Bump in the Night show--it was brilliant. Would have given a cup size to have seen the mayhem Ken and Kevin got up to, destroying a chair as part of the sound effects for "The Fall of the House of Usher." (There was a 2" shard of wood embedded in the wall when they were through. AWESOME!)

Anyway, the Ferdinator and I have been talking for almost a year about my website. I own a domain--madmadameriz.com--it's been mine since 2003--but I never got around to building a website because I really didn't have a reason to. For real. I mean, if I'm going to spend money to have a web site out there, I want it to be there for a reason besides just existing, y'know?

Well, Broom Closet and the Kinsale Chronicles have given me a reason to finally get my arse in gear, and Ferd offered to build a super-duper ultra-awesome website because that's what he does as his sideline. He'd like it to be his main line, and honestly, I hope that between my website and the one he's building for another friend (that one is going to be INSANELY amazing, but I can't say who, what or where until it goes live and then will promote the fuck out of it!) he'll be on his way towards that.

We've had periodic discussions over the past seven months about what's going to be on there--last summer, he introduced me to the concept of podcasting as a way to do readings and promotions, and considering that some of the consistent feedback I got about the first draft was the question of whether or not people will get my rather dry and sarcastic sense of humor, I really began to see the value in the idea. Sooo... hopefully, by the end of February, my website is going to be live with my sexy black and pink logo, a writing-specific blog (this one will not go away; this is my space to talk about WTF I want to without worrying about being censored or censured. Taking shit is a different story), merchandise (because who doesn't love merch?), news, podcasts, performances, freebies (in terms of snippets), and other marketing opportunities.

Yes, I said "other marketing opportunities." That's the purpose of the website--marketing the work. Because honestly, I have to get the hell out of my current sitch before I go postal.

Well, not totally postal--I'm against violence and guns, for one thing--but I am ready to just scream. Part of me wants to investigate working for the Evil Empire; part of me wants to set up shop reading Tarot and working Voodoo part-time and being a barista part-time. It has to be less stressful.

So, there you have it. BTW, Ferd is the guy kneeling down next to his sexy blue Fender. Dennis is the other guy. Two damn good friends. :-)

Celebricrush - Cashing a Reality Check

Written 13 January 2011

Greetings from my aching head and back. I really hate storms; some people find them fun and fascinating and cool. I find them a trial. I’m a bit sensitive to the weather; aside from the fact that I can predict any change in it by the pain in my head, I’ve always been a bit of a “weather witch”—can’t control the shit, but I can feel it when things are malevolent.

I haven’t been sleeping well, either, partly because I have someone in the house who watches far too much true crime TV—the shit gives me nightmares. For real. I don’t want to hear about the ugly, horrible things the serial rapist/murderer did to all those girls in Westofnowhere, Middle America. I REALLY don’t, ESPECIALLY as I’m trying to get to sleep. On a work night. I don’t need dreams about Greek gods, floods, magic German Shepherds, underground Somerville (which looks a lot like a cement marble run big enough for Indiana Jones-sized boulders), rain, angry mechanics trying to get a date, broken cars, convenience stores (a lot of convenience stores, for some reason), trying to find pizza, and generally being on the run from bad guys and trying to save people who can’t protect themselves. And partly, my sleep has been fucked up because of stress.

Last week… last week was not fun. I’m still trying to put my head together. I managed not to have a fight with St. Teresa until Monday night; of course, get in the car, start heading out to go shopping, and the shit hits the fan, and I end up angry, yelling, and crying. I finally told her that an offer had been made; I also told her that it wasn’t happening, but that the offer was made because my friends are tired of seeing me so stressed out because I’m getting it from all sides—home AND the job. I also told her that once the house was dealt with, we would find her a decent elder housing place, and I was going out on my own.

I have so many decisions to make in the next six months (which is the projected time line from the cleaners for getting this place under control). I am going to pull out my resume and start retooling it. I think I’m done with the library game for a while. I love what I do, but I’m toast, and honestly, this is not what I trained for and where my passion lies. I think I have enough producing experience to make a go at event planning; fuck knows, I’ve done enough of it; possibly even promotion. I need to be working with people and being social.

And there’s the book and the performing thing.

One of the things that was said to me that really upset me was the accusation—and it was an accusation—that I am in love with Jim Jefferies. I actually got offended by the remark and refuted it fairly effectively (considering I was utterly fucked up on tequila). It was followed by the comment that if this person came along to the NJ gig, they were going to damn well make sure I ended up fucking him.

I was horrified. Honestly. Horrified.

Not at the idea of sex with Mr. Celebricrush, but at the way that it was put to me and the idea that someone who knows me so well could get something so wrong. For one thing, for all the shit I talk on here, I actually have a fair bit of respect for men (usually more than I have for most women, honestly). I have never—EVER—had a sexual liaison of any level with someone I didn’t actually feel a connection with and some measure of respect. Sex is PERSONAL for me—we are discussing the most sacred and secret part of my body and my favorite team sport on the planet. We’re also talking about someone whose work has had an amazing affect on my life, and whom I respect for that reason.

And being misjudged like that by one of my closest friends REALLY upset me. While I will readily admit I need to get laid worse than a priest in a whorehouse, I am so not into just putting it out there. I mean, right now… Folks, I am so fucking sick of being misjudged. I get that I am a very judgmental person. I know that. There’s a reason for it—I feel like I’m on trial most of the time, like 95% of my life, so it’s my way of fighting back. The situation at home has me on edge completely, especially after overhearing all the bullshit Idiot was telling the cleaners last week, and knowing that these lies have been perpetuated not only to them, but also to Elder Services. I’m tired of dealing on a daily basis with the weak little bullies, stupid, little people who never, EVER think outside of their tiny little mental cages, because to do that would mean they’d have to leave their comfort zone. I’m tired, weary to the soul, with people looking only at the surface and not getting that the rage, the sarcasm, the lack of tolerance for hypocrisy and stupidity comes from having a very gentle, compassionate and deeply, deeply loving and caring heart that has witnessed far, far too much pain, both for myself and for the people I love. Think about that the next time you try to pass judgment on someone—think about why they’re angry and what has pushed them to that point. I don’t talk about the things I do for other people—and there’s a fair bit—because honestly, that’s between them and me. The only applause I want for an act of kindness is a sincere thank you; I don’t want public lauds. That kinda shit annoys the piss out of me.

So excuse the fuck out of me if I have a serious comedy hard-on for a kindred spirit.

HOWEVER… just to be sure I wasn’t in denial—because I KNOW how I can get—I did a quick reality check with the Fabulous Alicia because if anyone is going to be straight with my ass, it’s her. Now, the Fabulous A knows quite a bit about Celebricrushes—she has a couple of singers that she refers to as her “celebrity husbands,” as she is quite happily married. Her husband is aware of them; he even encourages them as he accompanies her to the concerts whenever they’re in town. So, if anyone could empathize, it’s the Fabulous Alicia.

Well, Leesh responded thusly: “No, he’s your distraction right now. And you need it.”

Christ, I was relieved. I mean, this blog is a piece of my reality—but only a piece. There’s a lot of fuckery on here. It’s my public persona, the stuff I don’t mind people knowing, the shit I will stand by and take whatever lumps come from it. As open as I’ve been about my views on sex and politics and my own issues, there is so much I keep off of here because it doesn’t belong here. I can talk all I like about myself; however, I have a trust to keep with my intimates. This is my story I’m telling, and when I have to tell someone else’s as a part of it, I make sure that what I’m saying won’t hurt them or upset them (unless they’ve put themselves in the position to be in the firing line; e.g. Captain Strapon and St. Teresa) and if it isn’t harmless, I file off the serial numbers and keep them as anonymous as possible. The bitching I’ve done about my job here has not gone into specifics because honestly, I have people there who would love to see me fired. I’m not giving them any ammo (although that last sentence probably just did).

I’m still horrified that I made a pass at Jim in NYC. I mean, a) I have never been a starfucker—I have never been one of those chicks willing to blow her way backstage for a chance to fuck the singer or the band or what have you. The idea offends me on so many levels because 1) there is an art to a good blow job; and 2) I enjoy giving them too much to just bestow one on just anyone. Point b) is that I’m not a one night stand kinda person, especially not with someone I have genuine admiration and respect for. I may talk shit on here about finding him hot (and I do, have no doubt about that, he fits my definition of WOW! for a lot of reasons), but… I mean, c’mon! Aside from the fact that he’s an internationally known comedian, I’m ten years older than him, at a very different place in my life, and quite frankly, it’s silly. Would I say no if the opportunity presented itself? Hell, no—I may be loco in the cabesas, but I am NOT stupid. And c) well, honestly, I am incredibly shy that way. Seriously. And a bit old fashioned—I prefer a man to make the first move.

The reality of the situation is that I came across his comedy at the right time—at a time when I really needed to hear someone taking no prisoners on stage. I don’t agree with everything he says, nor do I take everything he says seriously. But I love his honesty—the fact that he’s totally willing to use his own life and experiences, and just doesn’t give a fuck. There’s a price you pay for that, I know it, been through it, and I respect it when someone else has the balls to do it. Too many fucking people in this world care too much about what others think, rather than calling them on their shit, and it’s the cause of a lot of pain and misery. (Hello, Catholic Church, let’s let the jackals loose amongst the lambs and cover it up! Hello, lace curtain Irish let’s not talk about all the terrible things in the family so the cycle can keep on going!) I hate hypocrisy, can’t abide it, and I love that Jim lambastes the hypocrites—and himself—in his comedy. In short, I love his work. That I can deal with. It’s no different from my love of Shakespeare or Terry Pratchett—love the work.

That’s what matters.

As for being in love… For fuckssake, BE SERIOUS. Aside from the fact that I don’t know the man personally, shit, I don’t know if I’m even capable of ever being in love again. I don’t know if I even want to ever fall in love again. I don’t know if my heart can take it. The last couple of times almost killed me, literally. I’m dealing with the one year anniversary of Brit Boy #5 and missing him terribly. And love is something that takes contact—regular, serious contact. Plus, I’ve been taking care of other people for so long, I want some time to take care of me. Considering my age, I don’t know if that means I will be able to have a family, as desperately as I want one. I’m trying to accept this, and it’s so damn hard.

And honestly, I don’t know if there’s anyone out there who can accept me for who I am, as is. I mean, I can improve my body, no problem, but I’m still going to be me. My Imperial Self with all my flaws and fabulousness… that won’t change. And I’m hoping to make a complete life change over the next year—I don’t even know where the fuck I’m going to be living—never mind what city, state or country—in the next year.

So someone let Jim know he’s safe—I’m not stalking him, and I have no plans to EVER make another pass at him. But I still have a serious artistic hard-on for his work.