Category Archives: La Vida Loca

Saor Alba

Full Disclosure:  I am, on my Poor Ol’ Dad’s side, a bloody Jacobite — as Scarlett O’Hara said, “run out of Scotland with Bonnie Prince Charlie…”

Of course you KNOW I’m watching “Outlander” — #1, I’m a huge history nerd and #2, I read the books back when they came out (and am reading them again).

Leaving aside my personal name for the series: “Everyone in the Known World Wants to Fuck Jamie Fraser” (if you’ve read the books, you get it, and if not… well, I give you this:)

Lord, that lad is FOINE!

Lord, that lad is FOINE!

… so at least you’ll understand why I gladly count myself among the “Everyone” — GREAT casting, by the way!

But anyhoo, I can’t help but find it hysterically coincidental that this series came out just as Scotland is voting on independence.  So, Dear Sweet Mama being just as much a geek as I am, we found ourselves transfixed as all get out at the idea.  So we got to talking about it at the Bob Evans.

What?  Where do YOU discuss global politics?

So far, we’ve been able to discern 3 major points of contention in the matter – these being what the rest of the world (i.e., not Scotland) seems to think ought to matter:

  1. WHO GETS ENGLAND’S NUKES???  Um, England does.  They’re England’s nukes.  But they WILL need to be makin’ an arrangement about the back rent…
  2. WHAT KIND OF MONEY WILL THEY HAVE?  I’d guess whatever money they want, euros, pounds, whatever.  Although I do have to come down as strongly against going back to the Live Pig Currency Standard.
  3. THE DEBT??? WHAT PORTION OF BRITAIN’S DEBT SHOULD SCOTLAND HAVE TO TAKE ON???  This one I’m quite clear on.  NONE.  That debt was paid at (and after) Blar Chuil Lodair.

So, for what it’s worth, I say saor Alba.  And while we’re at it, tabhair Eire ar ais go dti na hEireann.  And am ddim Cymru, if they like.  The time has come.

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Stone Tablets, Aisle 10

MISSED CONNECTIONS

To the crazy bitch behind me in line at the self-checkout:  You know who you are.  You were standing so close to me I feel like we’re dating now.  Seriously, you were all up in my bubble, man.  Don’t act like you don’t know what you did, who raised you?

Oh, and I guess your mom must be coming over for dinner – I noticed you got that wheat-grass-gluten-free-organic-locally-sourced bullshit pasta she likes.

My parents were right.  I never should have married you.

But seriously, it’s obviously time for some new Commandments up in here.  I mean, no offense to Ol’ Mo’, but the Patriarch just never had to deal with shit like this, so I present to you:

THE COMMANDMENTS OF SELF-CHECKOUT

1.  THOU SHALT NOT STAND TOO CLOSE TO OTHER PATRONS

Really, I think that woman got me pregnant, that’s how close she was.  We’re all grown folk, we all know the rules about personal space – every culture has its own, you know yours, FUCKING OBEY THAT SHIT.

And recent immigrants?  You get 6 months to learn the rules in your new country.  After that, you’re just being a dick like everyone else.

And to top it all off, Standy McTooClose starts scanning her shit before I had even picked up my shit!  Which brings us to…

2.  THOU SHALT WAIT THY GODDAMN TURN, THOU HEATHEN

Yes, I know self-checkout is intended for the speediness, but jeez Louise.  I shouldn’t be ripping off my receipt in mortal terror as you start slinging soy milk in my general direction.  Let me clear the bagging area, for fuck’s sake!  It’s like the water slide – I have to get out of the pool before they can let anyone else come down.  Otherwise, someone’s gonna get hurt.  AND IT AIN’T GONNA BE ME.

And while we’re on the subject…

3.  THOU SHALT NOT BRING FULL CARTS THROUGH THE SELF-CHECKOUT

I’d say, 15 things.  15 things is how many you can reasonably have.  Maybe 20 if you have someone with you who can bag while you scan, but you’re fucking pushing it, Janine.  15 THINGS IS PLENTY.

Oh, and every 5 coupons takes 1 thing off your allowance.  Because you know why?

4.  THOU SHALT NOT HOLD UP THE LINE

Speediness, remember?  I’m not talking about someone’s ol’ Pop-Pop who’s baffled by the newfangled machinery – although I do think that’s what regular checkout clerks are for, but then, how would he learn?  But when you think you’re gonna roll your ass up to the self-checkout with an entire Amazon Rainforest-worth of coupons, um, 2 things: 1) You have clearly exceeded your 15-thing allowance; 2) I WILL END YOU.

C’mon, man, you KNOW at least one of those motherfuckers is gonna jam up the slot and then the girl is gonna have to come over here.  NO ONE WANTS THE GIRL TO COME OVER HERE.

This is also why…

5.  PRODUCE IS FOR ADVANCED CUSTOMERS ONLY

Anything you have to weigh and/or look up is GOING TO SLOW DOWN THE LINE.  That happens even when the actual checkout clerk does it, it’s adding an extra step to the process so it naturally takes longer.  So, if you’re at all overwhelmed by the Brave New World of Self-Checkoutery, play it safe and take that shit to a human clerk.

And if you DO deem yourself ready to look up your own veggies, be advised.  You get TWO.  That basket full of 10 different things for your famous Arugula and Assholes Lima Bean Salad?  NO.  You put that nonsense back and you buy salad in a bag like decent people.

 

 

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Filed under I Rule You, Jesus and Pals, La Vida Loca, SCIENCE!, Weep for Humanity, WTF???

Anatomy of Finding Something on the Floor

  1. See unidentified thing on floor.
  2. Look at it.
  3. Look at it.
  4. What IS it? Look harder at it.
  5. Look at it while tilting head.
  6. WHAT IS IT?
  7. Bend over to look at it.
  8. Look at it lookatitLOOKATIT
  9. Poke it.
  10. Poke it again.
  11. WHATISITWHATISITWHATISIT?
  12. Pick it up.
  13. Drop it.
  14. Look for it.
  15. Look for it lookforitLOOKFORIT
  16. WHERE IS IT???
  17. IS IT ON ME???
  18. Flail uncontrollably.
  19. See second unidentifiable thing on floor.
  20. Repeat from Step 2.

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Bar Lessons – Stone Pony Edition

Last Friday, Dear Sweet Mama and I ventured to the legendary Stone Pony to see one of her favorite bands, Black 47.  And Bar Lessons ensued.

STONE. PONY. BITCHES.

STONE. PONY. BITCHES.

1.  These kids today, they don’t dance, they don’t even sway… they just stand.

2.  Drunk white chickies don’t know from an Irish jig.

3.  When you do a jig in their general direction, they become frightened.

4.  The lead singer of Black 47 may in fact be a leprechaun (he’s SO WEE!)

5.  Whoever it was that reviewed the Pony online and raved about the food was VERY. FUCKING. DRUNK.

6.  DSM is hilarious when hammered (of course, this is not news).

7.  There are jobs out there worse than mine – one of them is Bathroom Attendant at the Pony.

8.  Even while asleep in the car on the way home, Hoody will still keep her finger on the station scan button and play DJ.

9.  3 hours of sleep looks like PLENTY from the front side.  From the back side, not so much.

10.  Last night’s eyeliner looks like hammered fuck at work the next day.

 

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The Wonderful World of Broadcasting, Episode II

As promised, here is “the rest of the story,” when it comes to the truth behind my ostensibly-glamorous career path.  Let’s see, where were we…

5.  I am essentially slave labor.

Yes, I do get paid (the aforementioned no money)… for my regular job.  But as anyone who has ever been referred to as “talent” can tell you, it don’t stop there.  For example, when I was a TV producer (NOT an on-air job, mind you), I was frequently dragooned into “voicing” in-house commercials and PSAs… for no additional money.  Which translates into “fo’ free.”

All the ads you hear on the radio?  The DJs did them… fo’ free.  Voiceover work is a PAYING job, yo.  But once The Man owns you, sure ain’t he gonna use you.  FO’ FREE.

6.  I have almost no goddamned privacy.

Like it or not, once strangers know your name (even if it’s fake, as mine is and most are), you’re at least a quasi-public figure.  This means your every move – even in your so-called “real” life – can be subject to public scrutiny.  Case in point, I myself have been arrested.  For a nonviolent, victimless misdemeanor that, while infinitely stupid, most of YOU could chalk up as a lesson learned.  But MY mugshot was on the motherfucking teevee… because I was a “public figure.”

Further point, the infamous Chuckweasel and I were once at a baseball game in another fucking state, when someone recognized him by voice alone.  My day-to-day “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” quotient is ABNORMALLY high, mostly just from my voice.  Of course, it gets much worse for my brothers and sisters who are actually on TV – I’ve had friends harassed and even stalked, one to the point where the cops had to come walk her to her car every night.  And you wonder why my avi is a fucking cartoon???

7.  I am consistently undateable.

Yes, yes, part of that is my charming personality.  Bite me.  But a fairly large part of it is the horrible hours I work – part of the appeal of goddamned Chuckweasel was that we had the same butt-crack of dawn shift.

Another part is what the job – the news part – does to you.  I’m fairly callous and unfeeling about just about everything now, and apparently potential partners like someone who at least PRETENDS to have human emotions (huh.  Pussies.).  Fine, Sonny Jim, you watch live Ground Zero feeds all by yourself in the middle of the night for over a week straight and tell me you have fuck one left to give about people’s petty fucking problems.

But I do have some, emotions, that is – which generally come pouring out in an awful cathartic flood when some major can’t-take-this disaster becomes the lead story.  The only way I’ve found to deal with this is to date people who are also in the industry (See Gilbert, the Evil Ogre, and CW).  But this produces its own problems, in that A) You both work ridiculous hours and never see each other; B) You end up in competition for the same jobs and/or C) Your general self-protective disdain for all of humanity extends to each other.

Or you’re just a total bastard who bolts when shit gets real, like someone this blog used to know very well… but I digress.

So, E-Harmony, Match.com… um… J-Date? (note: not Jewish but fascinated by the whole Orthodox thing).  Huddle up, you guys.

I’m a 37 year old news professional who will never work normal hours, make any goddamned money, or give more than half a fuck about #FirstWorldProblems.

A life with me will mean an endless cavalcade of “real” FB pages versus “professional” ones, and even so, strangers will masturbate to the sound of my voice.

Get used to being alone (again) at important family gatherings, and embrace the fact that, while I will seldom shed a tear in relation to our own crises, I am extremely likely to start hysterically bawling over a mine disaster or similar.

I will know the names of our state and local lawmakers better than your family’s.  And I’ll have their cell phone numbers.

 

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The Wonderful World of Broadcasting

Y’all know what I do for a living – I do the news on the motherfuckin’ radio, bitches.  Before that, I worked as a TV news producer, and before that, I was a high school/college drama geek who was all up in plays and shit.  And that’s not even counting my brief stint as a weather girl.

Yes, I do what I went to college for.  Yes, plenty of complete strangers know who I am (and occasionally recognize me in public, we’ll get to that later), which I guess makes me some facet of famous.  And yes, all those cunts I went to high school with are FUCKING. SORRY. NOW. – as are their fat car-salesman husbands who didn’t hit this back when they were dreamy quarterbacks who wouldn’t give me the time of day.

But it ain’t all chocolate cake and porno, Hooligans.  For instance:

1.  I get shocked in the ears on a fairly regular basis.

By which I mean, pretty much every time I go to work.  Broadcasting is all about 2 things – electronic equipment and making money.  And because of the second, almost none of the first is ever properly installed or – and this is important – properly grounded.  So if I make the mistake of, say, touching the microphone while my headset is plugged in (something that is pretty much integral to my job), I get a jolt straight to the tympanic membranes.  Which hurts like a motherfucker and probably causes brain dam– LOOK, A SQUIRREL!

2.  I have literally been on fire.

And I don’t mean literally as in figuratively, the way some people (wrong people) use the word.  I mean literally as in, “What’s that smell?  Is it bacon?  No, just me.”  As in actual, no-shit-for-real flames.

Admittedly, my own experience with bodily fire came during a community theatre performance when my microphone’s wireless battery pack overheated.  But the equipment is all pretty much the same, and it happens a LOT more than you know.  You think Anderson Cooper looks like he smelled a fart?  No, what he smells is a palm-sized lump of plastic melting into his lower back.

Yes, I have scars.  No, you may not see them.

Unless you buy me dinner.

3.  I work hours that would make a Chinese sweatshop worker call his non-existent union rep.

I currently get to work at 4am to prepare for my first newscast at 6am.  Yes, the 2-and-a-half minutes of news you half-assed listen to on your drive to work takes some poor schmuck like me about 2 HOURS to lovingly craft.  And that’s just radio – when I first started in TV, I produced a 5am to 7am morning news show… for which I reported to work at 11PM.  Yeah, the night before.  My anchors came in around 3am.  Those “Today Show” fuckers who seem so giddy?  That’s because they’ve been awake and working since before your ass went to bed.

4.  I work those hellacious hours for no money.

When I first started working in TV news, I was making the princely sum of $22,000 a year.  This was 2001 (mid-August of 2001, which will become important later), and I was straight out of college, so at the time I was like, “SCORE!”  Yeah, not so much.  By the time I moved to radio, 5 years later, I was making $28,000 a year.  And when everything went to hell and I left WBGV, I was up to $32,000 — but that included “extras” like calling football and basketball.

It’s pretty much a cliche in the industry that – with a few notable exceptions – you will never make any goddamned money… but everyone will THINK you do.

Stay tuned, there’s more truth-telling to come!  Tune in again, same Bat-time, same Bat-station!

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Best of Bad Choices

So, the office today was full of Cub Scouts on a tour or something (“Explore the exciting world of radio, kids!  Now, quick, tell Mommy you’ve decided to go to medical school after all!”).  At least, I assume they were Cub Scouts – either that or a pack of midgets in creepy outfits… Cub Scouts is a better option.

As if I hadn’t already been exposed to more children than is clearly outlined in my contract, I was then confronted by a confusing situation at the Tar-jay.  Not being a parent myself, I’ll throw the question open to all of y’all:

Question:  You are teaching your tiny child how to walk.  Do you do this:

A.  At home.  Your nice, safe home.

B.  In a park or other lovely outdoor setting filled with soft, cushiony grass to fall on.

or C.  Back and forth across the aisles of a busy Target filled with self-absorbed Saturday shoppers wielding carts at dangerous speeds, not to mention one Hoody on a mission for Lobster Bites.

You can probably guess, today I was confronted by C.  And I almost ran the little fucker precious snowflake down, because I am operating on about 2 total hours of sleep. And it’s not even good sleep, it’s sleep filled with dreams about The Evil Troll, whom I’ve probably conjured up by writing about him, and who is interfering with my regularly-scheduled dreams of a certain Viper pilot.

So I wake myself up thrashing every hour or so (and NOT in the good way), which sucks… and double-sucks when you get up for work at 3am.  TIRED, yo!

Still staying up watching “Charmed” instead of sleeping, though.  Priorities, Hoody haz them.

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