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buyer and seller. Mutual arrangements are for companionship and time spent only.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
HOOK, LINE AND STINKER!
In the unforgettable words of one of my all time heroes Bugs Bunny..."What a maroon! What a gulli-bull!!" That would be The Editor of a certain local giveaway. The story goes like this:
The owner of the paper (I cannot say which because the Editor has already threatened with legal action if I tell this story) is a reader of this blog. Upon discovering that I sell adult advertising (he accepts ads of that genre in his publication), said entrepreneur e-mailed me requesting that I sell my clients into his paper. I've been aware of the mag's existence and actually enjoy reading it...so I responded in the affirmative...got a decent commission, and sold a few ads.
Perusing the columns in the publication, I soon realized that my style of dog shit prose was a perfect fit for their paper and soooo I asked if I might write a weekly column for them. The owner shut me down summarily. Oh well! I figured I'd keep selling ads - paying the salaries in some small part - and check back later. So I sold more ads...and checked back again two months hence. This time he responded that the decision was up to his Editor, and he would bring the blog to his attention. Not to be passive, I requested the e-mail address of his employee so I could pitch the guy directly. And here's what I wrote with the subject line $ AND SENSE:
Hey XXXXX -
This is William XXXXX - aka Dollar Bill. (How original! I'm not the first - and I won't be the last.) Your homey XXXXX is a follower of my blog. And having discovered that I sell "escort" ads for a living, he e-mailed me requesting that I sell for XXXXXX. In response, I've convinced 4 houses of "chill" repute to advertise in the paper. If I'm not his hero yet...I may be on the way.
Anyway... I'm communicating today so you can check out my deadly prose and include me in your most excellent rag. I've written for the lowest - The New York Times, Daily News, New York Newsday (I know - they're dead and gone), and New York Fagazine, - to the loftiest - Juggs, Gallery, and Screw! And I'm now ready for prime time! XXXXXXXX...here I come! But that all depends on you. You have my future in your hands, dude! So hook a wiggah (or is it wizzle) up! You da man!
To this overture I got zero response. No paid political announcement about how my style wasn't right for the paper....or they had no room for another columnist....or no money for another employee. Just silence. I'm not the world's brightest guy....but I got it. NO COLUMN FOR YOU! Just be our ad whore. Know your place!
Fast forward a month and with nothing to lose, I figured maybe he didn't get the original e-mail (not likely but what the hell). So I e-mailed him again from a different address. But this time I added a new wrinkle! Here's THAT e-mail with the subject line I LOVE YOUR COLUMN AND I'M A HOT GIRL!:
You're a great writer. I wish I could be as talented as you! I'd like to meet you and maybe talk about writing a column for your magazine. I'm a stripper and a sometimes escort and could be a source of enlightenment for your readers. Here's my pic. Let me know. Thanks.
And I sent him an old photo of one of my hot-bodied clients with the face blurred. So how do you think I did as a hot female who really hadn't demonstrated any ability as a writer save groupieing-up for two lines without a typo? I got a response less than an hour later! In it, The Editor quipped "Sure your name isn't David Gold?" Oops! I forgot that the phony name on THAT e-mail address was of a male. So I hit him back "Quite sure! It's what I call my favorite strap-on. You know...like you guys call your boats Sweet Kitty?"
Five minutes later I got the response: "Call and leave me a messsage lol" So now I got a little dialogue going with this dude. A lot better than I did as Dollar Bill! But he didn't leave a number so I figured "This guy isn't that stupid that he doesn't smell a rat." I e-mailed him back "#?" and this time got no response. Ah! He knew it was bull shit and has moved on.
In a last ditch effort, I sent a writing sample - the "Fripple Dipping" piece I posted on this blog a couple of weeks ago. To refresh your memories, it's a first-person female confessional ghostwritten for one of my old clients. And though I know I suck out loud as a writer....it's a very good piece regardless.
Now the guy's body is at full attention! I get not one...not two...but three e-mails in the next two days all of which say (more or less) "Call me. Here's my number. Maybe we can get together!" In the meantime, everybody I tell this story to is lovin' it. Wanda at The Voice looked at me shaking her head "Men are so stupid." Chris the phone girl at New Heaven is like "Let me call him. I'll pretend I'm the girl who wrote the story!" Alexis who runs the DR erotic vacation says "He's a trick! I know tricks. I deal with them all day. I was a gigolo when I was young."
I'm thinking maybe I should send him a really passable tranny and totally punk the son-of-a-bitch for ignoring me as a male - and then turning wide open when he thought I was a female. Whatever...I don't figure this is going to have any happy endings. If I were in this guy's position, I'd give me a job. I don't take myself that seriously. But I don't know this individual...don't know a lot about him...and don't know if he's one of those legends in his own mind or a grounded guy who can laugh at himself.
Well...here's what I finally wrote him:
I meant what I said when I said I think you are an excellent writer. But I'm not an escort - or a girl for that matter. I ghostwrote that confessional for an old client who wanted to impress a publisher trick with a talent she clearly did not have. I e-mailed you a month ago about writing a column for XXXXXX but got no response, and was curious to see if I posed as a stripper/escort whether you might be more interested. I got my answer. In a perfect world, you'd acknowledge my industry and reward me for my persistence and ingenuity. But I don't live in a perfect world - and I'm not expecting any happy endings here. Whatever...at least I have something excellent to blog about. My readers are gonna love this - as does everybody to whom I've related the story!
Hope there are no hard feelings.
And here was his response 2 minutes later:
Jackass... Your name comes up. I know who you are. Be careful, I sue.
Nice! Here's what I wrote back, a communication which ended the exchanges:
Ya know...I wasn't even gonna fuck with you. It was more about affirmative action for girls with big tits - or phat booties or whatever. It's not really about you. A million guys in a position of power would have ignored one job applicant in favor of another less qualified individual who just happened to have an attractive body part. You set yourself up by not even having the decency to respond to my original e-mail.
Dude! Ya got punked. WTF? Have a sense of humor. If I sent a super passable tranny to fake being the author and you took her home to discover the unabridged truth...I could see you being angry. But this? Come on!
I got an idea. Let's do a point/counterpoint. I'll talk about what a dick you are...and you can return the favor. Ya know...I'm still gonna read your columns because I like them. But your reaction is way out of left field. You know who I am? Be careful? Who's setting whom up for litigation?
And now to the theme: I've always observed that girls with big tits - or phat asses - or pretty faces - have a much better chance in the arts than guys - if they have ANY talent. I've seen it too many times! About the same time the world was applauding Madonna's work ethic for taking her own record to all the NY program directors on Radio Promotion Day...I was doing the same fucking thing. But I got nowhere because all the program directors were straight men. Madonna got over because she has big tits and a silver throat which she was allegedly willing to use to further her career.
My father's second wife was a tall blonde with 38 DD's! She camped out at Holland, Dozier and Holland's hotel door, shoved her big tits in their face when they emerged, and got a staff songwriting gig at Motown. Trust me...she wasn't a genius. She was much more proficient at fucking around on my father and beating up my mother than she was at say...writing a song! Yet she had several gold records!
And the final humiliation? Years ago, I negotiated a crappy record deal with a Columbia Records affiliate called Zoo York Records. I gave them a B-side as an A-side free-of-charge...and they gave me a phone and a Pitney-Bowes mailing machine to promote my record. With no budget for payola, I persevered and actually got my crappy B-side on the disco chart with a bullet! In the process, I befriended several people at Black Rock (the big CBS building on 51st Street) and was under consideration for a job in promotions at the label.
I'd done a lot in the music business. I'd written several songs...produced records...arranged for the orchestra and basically, had all kinds of valuable experience. I even typed up a business plan which met with everybody's approval. The ultimate decision as to who got the job lay in the lap of a guy whose name (as best I can recall) was Arma, a silver-spoon blue blood executive at the label. A few days later, I got the word. He gave the job to a blonde bimbo with big tits. My friends at CBS threw up their hands when I asked them WTF?
Whatever...I had a feeling about this editor who was ignoring me. So I devised a plan to see if my suspicions were well-founded. Obviously they were. Taken out of context his e-mail threatening to sue me says "I know who you are. Be careful." I should call my lawyer and tell him "let's go after this prick and shove David Gold up his ass. It's about what the numbskull deserves!"
I got his paper in my mailbox this morning and as I sat down to take a crap, I still opened it up to read. A bad experience isn't gonna stop me from crapping to his rag. But I don't know. His column wasn't very good and the other writers' pieces were riddled with grammatical errors and typos! Maybe I was viewing the publication through rose-colored glasses before today. Or maybe everybody was on vacation and didn't have the time or interest to clean up the errors.
All in all, it doesn't really matter. I'll still check out the paper. I'll still sell ads for them. And I'll still write my blog. And chicks with big tits will still get the jobs that I should when the boss is a trick with a dick! What are ya gonna do?