Being a citizen of the United States, in this particular era of the Trump administration, has forced me– and you– to face some uncomfortable truths.
Those truths are a laundry list of socio-economic-political issues. Immigration, abortion, gay marriage, healthcare, military, taxes, populism/nationalism, race relations, the police… all are up for heated, contentious, dangerous debate, because we’re not really agreeing on them as a country, while most citizens believe legislative change should be implemented in these areas.
I’ve interviewed a couple of women from the dawn of the industry here in the United States (you’ll find out who when the articles publish, promise!) They’re fiercely intelligent, inspiring, and have been incredibly generous with their stories. And they both said something that really shocked me.
Before I extol the virtues of this profession, I wanted to reiterate a few things, to cull the truly faint-of-heart from proceeding any further down this career path. There are a lot of terrible facets to working in social media. Go read my original post if you think I’m kidding. From 24/7 availability, to the overemphasis on numbers, to having very little room for errors, social media is stressful af.
Yes, this is another post about the orange chowderhead who somehow, by the grace of some 70,000 votes, is now the leader of the free world.
My pal Jeff Kowalski hosted yours truly (and the lovely, hilarious Cassie Kingsbury) on CREEPYPODSTA: THE CREEPYPASTA PODCAST, and it’s NOW STREAMING for your pleasure!
You know, I went to elementary school in the South. Like Deep South, south. 50 miles south of Atlanta south. And as a kid, teachers would refer to the Civil War as “The War Of Northern Aggression” during our history lessons.
No doubt you heard or read about the “sexist Google memo” this weekend. You know, the one written by a software engineer that basically states women can’t do tech. Because of biological differences between the sexes, of course.
A new kind of rainbow connection lives in the Museum of the Moving Image, in the form of a permanent exhibit of Jim Henson’s legacy as an innovator, of puppetry, television, film, as a voice artist, as a designer, as an illustrator, and an all-around creative.
Enter Museum Hack. The rebellious love child of team-building exercises and traditional docent-led jaunts gone delightfully awry, their “renegade tours” are the ideal antidote for jaded New Yorkers looking for a new perspective on one of our city’s premier educational institutions/essential tourist destinations/mandatory family fun outings.
I was on the New York City subway the other day, around 1 PM, which is a supremely odd time to be on the subway, because all of the office workers, one of whom I used to be, aren’t on the train then. They’re at work, or probably on their lunch breaks, and I sincerely hope they’re taking that time for themselves. But I digress.
Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Pinterest. These are the candy-colored social networks upon which brands are forced to build their empires. And swelling the ranks of marketing departments everywhere are social media managers, answering the clarion call of the 21st century, here to build the new empires their #brands so desperately crave. Hailed as technologically savvy, pop culturally relevant, and the saviors of customer acquisition, social media managers have a big job to do.
I did everything millennials were instructed to do, in the name of attaining the American Dream and Everlasting Happiness. I went to college. I got my degree. I even landed some stellar internships at major networks. I thought I’d be good to go when I left school, and entered the real world with student loan debt — bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to Have It All.
A year ago, I’d never seen roller derby. Said boyfriend brings me to a game, and I’m blown away. Derby skaters are badass women who know how to give and take a hit. They work together quickly, flawlessly, violently, blocking their opponents while their scoring players rack up points. The passion these women feel for their sport is matched by hundreds of supporters in attendance. I’m smitten. I’m not doing anything outside of work, and work is increasingly soul-crushing. I decide right there and then. I would skate, even if it killed me.
My feet were bathed in moonlight as I sat on the edge of my bed, having a full-on panic attack.
I knew, with full certainty, that I was about to die.