I was a Facebook “early adopter” inasmuch as I created a profile in late 2004 or early 2005 so that I could do recon on the undergrads I was supposed to be spotlighting in the marketing publications that I worked on at the time.* Back then, I could see pretty much anyone’s profile, provided they attended the university where I work. Mostly, I needed to make sure that none of their profile photos included gravity bongs** and that none of their personal information said anything to the effect of “HITLER WAS RIGHT” or “Embrace Jesus as your personal savior or suffer His wrath.” If they passed on both counts, they became a Maybe. If they had academic honors or a special scholarship, they became a Yes. And if they were “diverse” in addition to that, we basically dispatched a limo to go pick them up and bring them in for an interview. Because that’s how the world works.
My own profile was entirely blank, no photo, nothing. I would periodically get friend requests from old college friends, but I’d ignore them, because that’s not what I was there for. Now I’m on Facebook every day. I do not remain in contact with too many high school or college friends. (You needn’t wonder why.) I’ve blocked a lot of people. (Look: I’m not up to anything interesting. You’re not missing out, okay?)
Friday night, I came down with a 102° fever, lower GI nastiness, muscle aches, general malaise, etc. I lay on the couch, wrapped in the amazingly warm and strange blanket my in-laws gave us for Christmas, watching Tivo’d episodes of Tabatha’s Salon Takeover. (What.) At some point, I checked my email. Work stuff, sale at Rugs USA, and a Facebook Friend Request from my first unrequited high school crush.
I was momentarily startled, but also quite delirious, so I promptly forgot about it and went back to sweating, self-pity, and concern that the salon in Palmdale was just plain unsalvageable, Tabatha or no.
This is some bullshit right here:
Planned Parenthood, a perennial protest target because of its role in providing abortions, has notified the FBI that at least 12 of its health centers were visited recently by a man purporting to be a sex trafficker but who may instead be part of an attempted ruse to entrap clinic employees.
In each case, according to Planned Parenthood, the man sought to speak privately with a clinic employee and then requested information about health services for sex workers, including some who he said were minors and in the U.S. illegally.
For reasons that are neither interesting nor important, I attended Betty White’s 89th birthday last night. It was held at Le Cirque, which surprised me, as I didn’t know it still existed.
There was a lot of food and, unlike the open bar events I’ve grown accustomed to attending, I didn’t have to elbow anyone out of the way just to get a tepid glass of “Champagne” that’s actually just a sparkling brut (what? I shouldn’t know the difference just because I’m some self-styled lumpenprole?). Nope, last night it was Champagne all the way, chilled and easy to get to, presumably because everyone in the room was from Hollywood and, as such, in recovery.
When we arrived, we found a table in the middle of the room and looked around in search of famous people. The only person I saw was Frank Whaley, who was standing over by the “risotto station.” (Disappointed that it wasn’t a “risotto fountain,” because that would be even more appallingly awesome than this.) One of my companions squealed in delight and said, “Swing Kids is my favorite movie!”
“You should go tell him that,” I said. “He looks a bit lonely.”
We drank some more, looked around some more, ate miniature crabcakes and some “sliders” that were a little too large to be rightfully considered finger food.
“Where are all the celebrities at?” the Whaley fan companion wondered. “I’m not even seeing any D-listers.”
You know that saying in poker about how if you don’t see the mark at the table, you’re the mark? I had a sudden realization.
“Man, we’re the fucking D-list. This whole room is D-list. Not even D-list! Z-list! There’s gotta be some other, better, VIP room that we’re not allowed in.”
But what can you do? And it’s true, we were Z-list. But we did get cake pretty soon after that. A little while later, Ana Gasteyer walked by. And so did that comedian with the hat and glasses thing. (Apparently Jack McBrayer was there, too?) His trucker cap was bedazzled in Braille. “I wonder what that says,” my other companion said, not really all that curious.
“Probably it says WHAT ARE YOU, BLIND? I’ll go over and ask. He’s not talking to anyone or anything, just eating something from the grilled vegetable station.”
So I went over and was like, “Sorry to bother you while you’re eating, but what does your hat say?”
And he was nice about it — “It says [something about strength or power; unsurprisingly I was not paying attention].”
And then they brought him two pieces of cake. “They hooked me up! This is good cake,” he said, eating it with the gusto of someone who really likes cake.
“It is really good, but the fondant frosting is a bit overwhelming.”
“Which is that?”
“The stuff that’s in a right angle on your plate.”
“Huh, what’s it made out of?”
“Sugar. And tile caulk.”
“Yeah, bad stuff.” He was humoring me at this point. “So what do you do?”
“Nothing related to any of this.”
“That’s cool.”
“Hey, do you know if there’s like a VIP room somewhere?”
“Nah dude, this is it.”
“I was just wondering.”
“I’m gonna go get a drink.”
“Try the risotto station while you’re over there.”
“Will do.”
As you can see, there were a number of other celebrities there. We didn’t see any of them. But my companions got hugs from Betty White. So that was nice. Also, Wendy Malick looks really good.
If you’ll recall, yesterday’s weather was fairly yucky. I would’ve preferred to show up to the party in hip waders, but instead I wore a subdued and black and gray ensemble that lacked sophistication but made up for it by its absence of grease stains. I changed out of my Doc Martens into a fancy pair of heels, though honestly, what does it really matter if you’re on the Z-list?
Speaking of fancy shoes, femininity, and other things that elude me, Lauren and I had a conversation about her Roger Vivier Pilgrim pumps, made famous by Belle de Jour and Ava Gardner. “I love them. They’re classic,” she told me. “Even though they’re so delicate, they’re still perfect for this time of year.”
“Yeah, because they’re small and you can carry them in your purse and put them on once you get to where you’re going.”
“No, I meant that they’re perfect in that you can get a man to carry you over the ice puddles.”
Y’all know that one of my bugbears is how law enforcement and the media alike routinely trivialize and downright ignore the serial murders of people — and particularly women — of color (See also. See also. See also).
Something else I dislike? The pop culture treatment of street prostitution.* Here is a list of things that are not funny: Movies and documentaries and conventions and friggin’ Halloween costumes [warning: sound] that glamorize and/or sensationalize pimping. Also not funny: That the meaning of “pimp” has somehow been distilled to mean “to lavishly adorn” or “to promote.” (I find it particularly disturbing when I hear this word used by authors or even publishing world professionals in reference to marketing newly-published books. It’s gross, and they should know better.)
With that jeremiad out of the way, I’d like to introduce you to the newest addition to my list of Self-Appointed Digital Media Gurus Who Are Also the Worst People in the World Bafflingly Clueless and Tone Deaf (But Possibly Redeemable): the author of How to Market Your Brand Like a Prostitute.**
I’ve had the Cherrysave feed in my Google Reader for a while now, long enough that I can’t recall how I first came across the blog. I think it was via this post about using web fonts in CSS3. Or via this post about the semantic web.
Here’s a question, Kurt — why did you delete those posts? Those were interesting.
More specifically, why on earth would you delete those posts and instead puke up something like How to Market Your Brand Like a Prostitute? From the intro:
Prostitutes are not just coke-addicted sex workers. They are (often) very talented marketers and entrepreneurs. Here’s how to market your brand like a prostitute.
This makes my mother’s backhanded compliments (e.g., on Barbra Streisand: She’s so brave to keep her real nose) seem positively toothless.
Reading on. I really liked Tip Number 3:
3. Get a pimp
Connect with people with connections who can promote your brand for you. Having someone to vouch for you (and discover your work) will increase leads and credibility.
See Why Using the Word Pimp to in the Context of Anything Other Than a Fucking Sociopath Who Exploits Fellow Human Beings Means You’re an Idiot, above.
Anyhow, Kurt, I don’t know why you’ve chosen to take this new direction with your writing, but since you mentioned on your About page that “every person has an amazing and rare piece of insight that would be useful to someone else,” allow me to share this insight with you:
I see that you’re a law school student and that this digital media stuff is apparently just a side interest of yours. So here’s a Feminist Protip for you: Regardless of whether you’re arguing a case or presenting at TED or even just hanging out at a neighborhood barbecue, using prostitution similes in an effort to make yourself sound clever or edgy is not going to win you fans. At best, it will win you uncomfortable laughter.
In an ideal world, I mean. Frankly, people are fucking assholes. Maybe everyone outside of my Imaginary Humorless Feminist Collective thinks shit like this is hilarious. For those people, I’ve taken the liberty of punching up Kurt’s cute little presentation — since, you know, street prostitutes are 18 times more likely to be murdered than their non-sex-working female counterparts and are also a hugely popular target for serial killers.
NOW WITH MORE EDGE: How to Market Your Brand Like a Serial Killer:
- Go to where the hookers are
Self-awareness is key. You need to understand who your audience is, and … where you can hunt them down and “pitch” to them. If you don’t, your “pitch” will surely fail to “kill”!
- Be a hot piece of a**
Package and design matter. Anyone can kill a bunch of prostitutes! It’s the ones who chop them up and dump their gutted torsos in elementary school playgrounds who make the news. [Note: It helps if they're white.]
- Get a partner in crime
Connect with people with connections who can promote your brand for you. You think Ottis Toole could’ve made it into the pantheon of American serial killers without Henry Lee Lucas? Forget it!
- Don’t try to look like a serial killer unless you are one
If you fake it, you’ll lose engagement from your audience. Remember: You need at least three kills over a period of more than 30 days if you want to be a REAL serial killer. Don’t half-ass it, buddy.
- Avoid competitive corners
Too much competition can drive down prices and make it harder for you to get noticed. Did you know that when you cross the Georgia border into Florida there’s a giant sign that reads “Welcome to the Sunshine State, Land of a Thousand Serial Killers”? That’s right — only a rank amateur would “pitch” to an already glutted “market”! Same goes for Southern California. Try someplace like New Hampshire. They haven’t had a good serial killer in like two decades.
*Please note that I’m not talking about sex work in general. I fully support sex workers’ rights, I think prostitution should be legalized, and I believe there are plenty of “normal,” well-adjusted, non-substance-abusing women and men in the trade, etc. etc. But I’m not talking about that today.
**As I was writing this, I had a change of heart once I considered the people in the field whom I wholly despise, such as Loren Feldman (of 1938Media), who is truly in the pantheon of the Worst People in the World. I don’t think Kurt qualifies for this. He’s redeemable. Unless he’s writing shit like this in an attempt to emulate Loren Feldman. Then he goes back on the Worst People list.
Where did she go?
I am lazy. If you're bored, go visit my tumblr, updated daily with other people's witticisms and erudition.Also by me
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