I've always hated searching for jobs. It's the total power disparity between the employer and the applicant that gets me irritated. HR managers write totally narrow, impossible job descriptions and then bitch to the WSJ that there is just a total lack of qualified candidates out there. They are apparently all looking for that one kid who graduated college in molecular physics at 15, went on to design the first all-electric car battery, spent two years in Budapest as a concert pianist, speaks five languages, and founded seven charities, all before he could legally drink alcohol. Oh, and they want him to not be a total smug asshole. Only a person with such impeccable credentials could possibly be trained to manage our fine selection of Colombian and Brazilian roast coffees.
So you dress your resume and cover letter up to make it look like you're something resembling that non-asshole, only to have some robot set fire to your lovingly crafted documents before any human lays eyes on them because you didn't combine key words in the right sequence.
Everything about making the career change from government affairs to business has gone pretty swimmingly up to this point. I guess this is just a new part of the game I'm having to learn, mostly on my own. I'm experiencing a fair bit of frustration and burnout right now. I know the positions are out there. Just a matter of getting myself in front of actual people who can make actual decisions.
Occasionally I like a certain kind of dimwit. They amuse me, usually without intending to. They do this by embracing a confounding blend of overwrought group aesthetic conformance with a total lack of self-awareness. The subjects of today's tale communicate in a vulgar pidgin English. They dress in the modern equivalent of burlap sacks. They exhibit devotion to some sort of pseudo-mythology that could only have been dreamed up in a trailer park. In so doing, they are entitled to membership in this cult of pop culture backwash. One-on-one, there's nothing extraordinarily interesting about them. But when they reach critical mass and begin to exhibit their group behaviors, it can be highly amusing.
At the end of this post, I'll present you with a little gift of the video that led to my writing about this group. I hope you'll be as amused with it as I was. First, let's explore the Dark Carnival and the slack-jawed scions that gave us this mad crazy knowledge in a little more detail. Grab some Faygo and listen up, yo. It's 'bout to get real deep on y'all. Knowledge dropping today comes from Insane Clown Posse, or ICP, as in-the-know juggalos call them.
Have I just lost you? Are you feeling disoriented by that last bit of lingo I threw at you? Well allow me to open your minds to a whole new universe you'll wish didn't really exist.
This dandy pairing of lyrical expectorate is called "Violent J" and "Shaggy 2 Dope", and together they form ICP.
BFF necklaces, bro.
According to Wikipedia, ICP is a rap group out of Detroit that performs a type of rap called "horrorcore". You may remember some of their songs. Carnival of Carnage? Night of the Ax? Murder-Go-Round? We Gives No F***? Bugz on My Nugz? I Stab People?
These ringing a bell for anyone? No? Well don't let the juggalos hear you disrespectin' like that.
'Juggalos' is what you're supposed to call ICP fans. They prefer that to jughead, imbecile, or cretin. Even if you don't recognize any of those songs, you likely have seen the Mark of the Beast Juggalo, the hatchet man, in your everyday life. Anywhere hatchet man is, there too are juggalos.
You can see him in lots of places if you look:
On T-shirts
On Cars
On Necklaces
On Tattoos
And of course, On Caskets
And if that last picture isn't sad enough for you, here's something to bring a tear of indignation to your eye: ICP has sold over 6.5 million albums, putting them among America's 1-percenters. Sigh.
Early on in the band's history, the fat one, Violent J, had a dream about some crazy carnies. The band decided to use the dream to spin some elaborate mythology about evil jokers involving what seems to be some modified version of a Tarot card deck. They call it the Dark Carnival. It would all be kind of adorable if it had come from a couple of 9-year olds like it sounds. But it didn't. It's just regular growed-up imbecility. And the juggalos eat that stuff up, yo. 'Cause that stuff is like, deep. And dark, you know what I'm sayin'?
They had been spinning this mythology since their 1992 debut album, Carnival of Carnage. Each album explained a new card in the deck, or something like that. It all built toward a final card explanation on their 2002 album, The Wraith: Shangri-La. The BIG REVEAL was that the Dark Carnival is nothing more than an allegory for the awesomeness of God, heaven and hell. The album, by the way, included tracks like Murder Rap, Get Ya Wicked On, and Cotton Candy & Popsicles. And fans were like, "Huh? Well, I guess as long as y'all still rap about killin' and sexin' and gettin' drank, I can get down with Posse Jesus."
ICP continue to make music, including the song Miracles. As described by Violent J hisself on their website [completely sic'd]:
"This song points out some of every day's biggest and best miracles and suggests that you take the time to peep some of them out and re-evaluate what your seeing here. Because the truth is right here on this earth, in every day life there is some pretty f***in' fantastic s*** poppin' off...We understand if your not feeling it though. We know it's way different and all that. But if you can open your mind enough to see a miracle out of a lightning bug, than maybe you can open your mind enough to dig this song."
Without any further ado, let's take a look at the video (language is a bit rough, so make sure the boss or kids aren't walking by).
Graduation. I won't lie, it felt pretty good. I flipped that tassel on my mortar board, they showered me with balloons, and I finally managed to eat--truly eat-- all I could at the Sweet Tomatoes buffet. I've settled in to begin the execrable process of rebuilding my job search. Unlike many students, I really do want to get back to work.
Unfortunately, I lost most of last week to the process of moving out of my apartment. My lease was up at the end of May and I didn't want to sign on for another year, because I have no desire to stay here in Phoenix. No offense to the natives who love and call this place home. It's just not a good fit for me. One of the good things about Thunderbird is that its students are constantly coming and going all over the world and need people to sublease their apartments. So I have moved into just such a temporary situation. But to do so required that I put most of my stuff in storage.
Moving is always a difficult thing, but this one was rougher than most. I've been carrying a lot of items with me for years that I've grown pretty sentimental about, packing memories from place to place. My situation at this point is very temporary (more so than is normal, even for me). A man in a more permanent station might be able to sustain his collection of indulgent sentiment, but a mobile man can ill afford to remain attached to such knick knacks and shelf stuffers. So I determined to maintain the memories in my mind and offload much of my stuff. One of the most difficult items to part with was my Elvis Presley jumpsuit. I managed to place it in a good home, but it was hard to let go. I have so many fond memories in that suit. First time I wore it was in college. It was just a sparkly black jumpsuit at that point, no cape or belt or even shoes. Just a shaggy-haired college kid with a pair of sunglasses. Every donning thereafter--including at least three Halloweens that I can remember--I added a new piece until it was complete. In honor of its passing, I present a brief photo montage of some of my favorite moments in the suit:
We can't go on together with suspicious minds
There was Elvis Presley's birthday party at Dremo's bar in Clarendon, at which I got to karaoke in the suit, as well as sing some Elvis favorites with Dirty Harry.
For some reason, these guys came to the birthday party dressed as hare krishnas
Then there was the time that J-Dem asked me to perform at her birthday party, which, through the creative brainstorming of friends, morphed into jumping out of a cardboard cake before performing. And I'm not one to turn down a request from a friend.
Viva Las Vegas
Feelin' the music
And then there was the final outing, when the T-bird rugby team threw a Halloween party for the student body. We danced until the bar closed.
It was a worthy send off for a suit that has brought me so much thrill over the years. I came alive in that suit. But the legend will have to live on with another. I'll miss you, old friend.
