Slut Gets Good Head(hunter)

Or

Raw is Good Only When Talkin' 'Bout Sushi

Or

Prurient Sexual Innuendo’s Rule!

Friday, September 18, 1998 - A note to my faithful fans and patient editor. Sorry for the delay of CS. I have been rather busy with life and how to live it. I won’t waste your time with excuses regarding my absenteeism, yet I will say that it has to do with a torrid fling between that hirsute slut, Lewinski, and…oh, must I even complete this sentence? I want ya’ll to formulate your own excuse, and submit them to me. I will pick the best and use it gratuitously to my own benefit.

Guess what I got? An agent. Well, not really. I got the cheaper and more vocationally dedicated alternative. If you are a creative- say an actor or a singer, you get an agent. When corporate Americana has got it’s hand around your nuts, you get a head hunter. If anyone out there in my colossal audience is uncomfortable with my three references to genitalia in the first four sentences, then perhaps the heat is too hot in the proverbial vagina…oh, I mean kitchen. Having just watched Neil Labute’s "My friends and Neighbors" I’ve got that: Mormon-rebel, makes misogynist-film-while-imitating-Woody-Allen vibe. Are ya jiggy with it? Ok, now the colloquia shall stop. Word.

So, I’m sitting in this hipster downtown loft, pitching myself to Jackie, my headhunter. I am doing the song and dance as I flip through the pages of my writers portfolio. She has seen this kind of stuff a bazillion times.

"And this is one I wrote for a special widget that makes you go fast." I explained to her.

"So, I came up with the tag line: ‘When going really fast is your main objective…do it in the new Speedy 8000D."

Where is the gong? It all sounded so trite. Was this it? My career was squished into the confines of an 11x17 black book. This was me in the pages of this…this…animal. A living, breathing representation of my work and sweat. Oh, stop. I’ll take overstatements and the Daily Double for $100, Alex.

My book was really just a collection of crap that looks heavily produced, by my graphic designer counterparts . All for the singular purpose of selling a cavalcade of wares and products to consumptive mall rats from Des Moines. Oh, yeah, I think to myself as I pitch the widgets- you definitely need this.

When I began to explain my past days to Jackie, I described my gig in public relations. I was just a PR hack, and I had to swallow the pride lozenge gingerly as I wound up explaining "me", the boy genius at the L.A. medical PR firm that came up with the slogan, "Breast implants for men? Welcome to the latest medical breakthrough for the sagging male."

Gong.

Never had I felt so pathetically linked to Darren Stevens. School of schlock, here I come!

Jackie sat back in her chair and interlocked her fingers about the back of her head. Quick…think back to interpersonal motion semantics 101.

What could this type of body language mean? Oh, yeah, I think it means, "You Suck." She opened her mouth. Closed it again and then began to speak.

"You’re raw talent. And I think that’s how I’m gonna pitch you." She said.

This can’t be good. In this profession, "raw" is never good. It’s like meat. Fresh is desirable, but raw is only choice when eating sushi, or creating campaigns for some young, upstart company named "Fusion Inc.". Jackie was plotting her next Stratego move. Was I just a patsy in the vocational hunt-and-fill world? Should I give up on a good thing for less security and stability? Who knows ? According to Jackie, a prominent ad agency in town was looking for some raw talent. I was the proverbial new kid on the block, and hey…I was raw! Ya’ know like Eddie Murphy, and meat and sushi and other stuff that is good when un-edited. This is just like the Larry Flint story. If I slur and gain 4000 lbs, and talk about "cooze" turn off my computer and shut this racket down!

A week transpired and then the call came. "Slut?"

"Yeah, it’s me. What’s the word?" I inquired.

Jackie divulged that the big ad cats wanted a senior level writer with some proven ad campaign experience. That ruled me, and my whole "raw" thang out of the picture. Now the race is on. What race? I dunno.

When that big creative dynamo out there calls for some head-huntin’ and succumbs to leading me away from THEM Industries, I will pack up my pencils and assorted office detritus and shove off. Until then, it’s me and my computer and words that sell stuff. Ok, now I gotta go, wipe my tears and steal more post-it’s. I would write more, but my resume needs touching up and I only plan to do it on company time. More later, gotta go, the boss is comin’.

Past CS Installments: