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Phew! Still Workin’ It

November 24th, 2008 | 0 comments | Posted by Diana


For those of you as worried as I was about the financial stability and respective career futures of Gwen Stefani’s Harajuku Girls during the No Doubt-revival-world-tour/vomitous-Gwen Stefani-solo-career-interim, have no fear!

Jen just informed me that the Girls are booked solid with future events–Gwen would never leave them high and dry!

They’ll be busy peddling Gwen’s Harajuku Lovers perfume. Handing out samples and stuff.

Like, while riding a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade.

And probably not speaking.



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Job Creasian

September 30th, 2008 | 0 comments | Posted by Diana

Growing up SoCal style in Orange County, one is forced to at all times have an acute awareness and even physical proximity to the Haven of All Happiness, Disneyland. Tucked in between the baseball stadium, orange groves, train tracks, and strip malls of Anaheim, Disneyland may be just another fun amusement park to the average tourist–but for local teens, the place is (or was, in my day) the stuff of dreams: you could actually work at the Happiest Place On Earth! And if you did, you could actually make more than minimum wage, see inside Minnie Mouse’s suit, walk the secret tunnels from Tomorrowland to Frontierland, or lose your virginity in the People Mover. Good stuff!

Some of these jobs, however, were not so happy. Back in the day, I knew an unfortunate few whose not-so-happy duties included following the Main Street horses around the park (see photo, above), all the live-long afternoon, waiting, just waiting in case of a CODE BROWN.

What’s CODE BROWN, you ask?

Why, a pile of horse shit (the real stuff, not just what Dana Perino barfs up every day):

In response to a CODE BROWN, a group of young workers must circle the…er…brown, mask their behavior, collect and dispose of it without ruining a child’s day/fantasy vacation/photo-op with Daffy or allowing an angry, obese lady with an unusually loud voice to step in anything that has been evacuated from horse bowels.

It’s a–pardon the pun–shit job. And I’ve always kinda thought that following a bunch of sad, trained, slow-moving horses (on the hottest of days, at the most saccharine of Main streets, surrounded by the loudest of kids and smelliest of tourists), just walking alongside and waiting for them to defecate all day just so one can clean all of the shit up…sounded like, basically, the worst possible job (well-digging, Nike factory labor, and prostitution notwithstanding).

Until, of course, I realized that somebody has to impersonate a monkey pest for a living. Imprimate, I mean.

What a weird, fucked-up, monkey job.


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