Give a Damn About Financing Your Education

When I was applying to colleges in the late 1990s, it seemed like the world was my oyster. Bill Clinton was president, and we were still living in a dot-com bubble. Credit flowed freely, and the nation's biggest problem was where Clinton stored his cigars. Everything seemed limitless.

Fast-forward through nearly a decade of George W. Bush, risky investments, and my first-ever unemployment stint, and I have to say that you college-aged kids out there shouldn't worry about attending a school that isn't your first choice.

As a spendthrift by nature, I didn't worry too much about going into debt for college. My mother warned me that it was a lot of money to pay back when I graduated, but it didn't bother me. The economy was great—surely the rising tide would lift the boat of even the most poor writers, and I'd manage.

I did attend a state school for a year (thanks again for losing my financial aid paperwork, Emerson!), and I hated it. I loathed seeing everyone I ever knew in high school. The writing program at URI was horrible. I knew I wasn't going to get the education I needed there, so I transferred to Emerson my sophomore year.

I don't regret my decision to attend Emerson, largely because Sallie Mae has yet to develop the technology to repossess the education and experience I got there if I can't make the payments. But if I could have seen the financial landscape that awaited me in my late 20s, I might have chosen the University of Maine or another institution far enough away from home, but with a more affordable program.

So don't worry, young folks. If you've got the talent and the ambition to do something with your life, it doesn't matter if your degree says Harvard College or the University of Massachusetts, especially as you enter college during a recession. Just work your ass off where ever you end up, and it'll be just fine.

Unless, of course, things get worse. In which case, we can burn our degrees for warmth.

The Economic Downturn Hits Matt Amorello

Dear Matt Amorello,

Dude. I feel ya.

Today's Herald reports that your estranged wife and a judge say you need to get a job. Your Missus reports that you haven't brought home a paycheck since May. You're deep in credit card debt. You might even lose your Wenham home. So now you're under a court order to apply for 15 jobs a week.

Are there even 15 jobs to be filled in the Boston area? We have been in a recession since December 2007, after all.

But Matt, I know you've been trying. You joined Facebook last month to start networking with old contacts. It's hard for any Republican in Massachusetts to get a gig right now, nevermind one with a history like yours. It may come down to the accepting the position the Herald's designers helpfully suggest—slinging fries at a fast food joint. (Though I'm thinking I'd take a job at Dunkin' Donuts first. I'm afraid I'd scald myself with burning oil at McDonald's.)

Keep fighting the good fight, Matt. I'll see you on the bread lines.

Best,
Amy Derjue

Red Sox Fandom Springs Eternal

According to this year's Turnkey (mmm, turkey) Team Brand Index, the Green Bay Packers have the most rabid fan base of any pro football, baseball, hockey, or basketball franchise in America. Our beloved Red Sox came in second.

While I'm not doubting the amount of passion an adult must feel to be willing to wear a block of styrofoam cheese on his or her head, this doesn't seem quite right. Let's review the methodology.

The online survey measured such things as team popularity, fan loyalty and assessments of owners. It asked participants about their perceptions of teams — How entertaining it is to attend games? Is the organization’s appreciation of fans genuine? Does the team have likable players?

I'm guessing the company didn't ask fans whether or not they had the opportunity to be buried in a coffin bearing their favorite team's logo, because otherwise the Red Sox would have ranked higher.

In yet another disclaimer-free Red Sox culture story, the Globe reports that the MLB has allowed a coffin company to use the Red Sox logo (and other MLB team logos) on its products. Green Bay Packers fans have to spiff up their own coffins, since Google doesn't turn up any companies that have the right to use an NFL franchise's logo on its urns.

To me, the fact that the MLB allowed this proves that Red Sox Nation is clearly more passionate about its team than are Packers fans. Although I choose not to dwell too long on the fact that the same company that makes the Sox coffins also makes caskets for Trekkies and urns for cat ashes. We're enthusiastic—not socially awkward fanatics like nerds and cat ladies. Right?!

The Economy Changes Its Facebook Status to 'In a Recession'

Well shoot. Looks like I am fortunate that I kept my job as long as I did.

The U.S. economy has been in a recession since December 2007, the National Bureau of Economic Research said Monday.

Man. Time flies when you're in the midst of a recession, doesn't it?

Emerson Still Hates Club Kids

While I may have graduated from Emerson College five years ago, I'm glad to see that some things haven't changed.

"Well, we're complaining about assholes blocking the street, getting drunk and [getting] in fights," said junior theatre studies major Brian Tweedy as he stood in front of the Gypsy Bar's doorway. "[Emerson] should give us somewhere that's convenient to smoke."

The entitlement of the Emerson community remains intact. As does its ingrained disdain for the clubs that occupy that space. Back in my day, my classmates and I would openly scoff at the eurotrash club kids who'd line up outside Pravda on weekend nights. But we also didn't smoke in front of their doorway. That's what the Little Building entrance is for.

D.C. or Bust

If you're not willing to sleep on someone's sofa, then you clearly don't want to attend the inauguration of Barack Obama as badly as you claim. Today's Globe is filled with stories about the scads of blue-state Bostonians who want to be in D.C. for the big day, but may settle for a Hub-based party.

My motto? No sleep till Washington.

There's no reason not to head to the nation's capital for this historic event. Amtrak links Boston and D.C., so you need not even fly. And it's not like you'll need a place to sleep.

Here's what you do: Get to Washington on Monday night. Head to one of the bars or raging house parties that will doubtlessly be going until all hours of Tuesday morning. Grab a cup of coffee and stake out a place along the motorcade route early on January 20 and enjoy the spectacle. Hit another party that night, and catch some sleep on the first train back to Boston on Wednesday morning.

Sure, it makes for an exhausting couple of days. But with the terror attacks in India and an economy that refuses to stop sinking, it won't be anything like the sleepless nights that await President Obama.

Rhode Island Treasurer Caprio Woos Massachusetts Shoppers

Greetings from the state of Rhode Island! Since I've spent the past few days camped out at my mother's house, I've been watching our local news. Amid the stories of the latest record-setting blood alcohol content (kudos for not dying, dude!) is this interesting item.

Rumored gubernatorial hopeful and current Rhode Island State Treasurer Frank Caprio has installed billboards near the border of Massachusetts telling Bay Staters to spend, spend, spend on clothes in the Ocean State, since there is no sales tax on clothing here. He's even spent some of his campaign funds to create a website, which features a video of the too-tan Caprio giving potential out-of-state visitors the hard sell.

But Caprio is really reaching with this. Massachusetts doesn't have a sales tax on clothes for the first $175. After that, the Bay State only taxes on the amount over $175. So if you spend $300 on some astoundingly expensive specialty item, you pay only $6.25 in tax. Unless you live in Attleboro or drive a hybrid, you'll spend more on gas to get here than you'd save.

Also: Why aren't Rhode Islanders really angry that their treasurer is using this opportunity to raise some extra money to better his political career? Rhode Island is facing a budget deficit of at least $357 million in FY2009, and perhaps as much as $486 million for FY2010. Legislators on Smith Hill are preaching the same breathless rhetoric about needing new revenue as their cohorts on Beacon Hill. Why not start taxing luxury items in the Ocean State to make a few extra bucks instead of cutting services for those who can't afford a mink coat?

Caprio will argue that Rhode Island will collect the various meal and lodging taxes from shoppers who come to enjoy a break from the tyranny of Taxachusetts. But maybe he should stop playing governor and start acting like a treasurer. Most Rhode Island voters will be happy to watch the state get some revenue from those who aren't as white-knuckled as they are during this economic meltdown.

Ethics, Schmetics

In an attempt to wipe the tarnish off its reputation, the Legislature has several competing plans to improve the ethical behavior of its members. Some ideas, like six-year term limits for the position of House Speaker, seem wise. Others, like ethics training every two years, are a complete waste of time.

(Can't you just imagine the retro film strip now? It will be titled "Ethics and you!" And just like the classrooms of yore, nobody would care.)

But none of the plans seem to address the major issue that's kept people like House Majority Leader John Rogers in place, even in the face of serious allegations.

There's no one agency or person who's responsible for investigating and prosecuting all the ethical violators on Beacon Hill.

Secretary of State Bill Galvin keeps track of the lobbyists, but does not have the power to compel them to talk. That's the responsibility of the Attorney General. Martha Coakley has asked a grand jury to look into the dealings of Cognos "strategist" and friend of Sal DiMasi, Richard Vitale. Galvin has also asked her to investigate the work Joe Lally did for the software giant.

For campaign finance violations, the Office of Campaign and Political Finance investigates and refers any criminal activity to the Attorney General. The FBI apparently keeps tabs on those who would use their position to help secure a liquor license. All this inter-agency volleying seems like it would lead to a lot of dropped balls. Perhaps we need one agency to keep tabs on all the players on Beacon Hill, be they lobbyists, friends of politicians with business before the Legislature, or just a good old-fashioned crooked salon?

I'm sure Gov. Deval Patrick's 12-member ethics task force will figure it out at one of their closed-door meetings.

The Derjue-Turner Disadvantage

For single people in their twenties, Thanksgiving Eve is the time when they go out to their local townie bar with the few people they've remained in touch with during high school and get drunk. The thought occurred to me last night as I was emailing my former colleague, Joe Keohane, last night.

I was sitting in my Mom's house on Thanksgiving Eve, alone. Stone-cold sober. The people I still talk to from high school were out of town, and I feared to brave the dive bar alone. The only person lamer than me was Keohane, who was emailing while on vacation.

"Do a post about who's worse off, you or Chuck [Turner]," Keohane suggested. Hmm. The embattled Boston City Councilor and I both had a pretty tough week. It seems like a worthwhile experiment as I rest my stomach between Thanksgiving meals.

• Chuck Turner has the FBI meddling in his affairs.
• I had to deal with the less than cheerful staff at the Unemployment Insurance TeleClaim Center. Did everyone get laid off two days before the holiday? Because I was on the phone for an hour.

Disadvantage: Turner

• Chuck Turner spent the day before Thanksgiving handing out meals at a Goodwill in Roxbury with City Council President Maureen Feeney, who's looking to oust him. Awkward.
  
• I spent my day before Thanksgiving explaining to a classmate from high school that I'd just lost my job. At least Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen were bringing sexy to Goodwill.

Disadvantage: Derjue

• Chuck Turner was caught with his fly down. Literally.
• ::Checks zipper:: I'm good to go!

Disadvantage: Turner

• Chuck Turner is viewed as a raving lunatic, except by his army of sign-toting supporters.
• Nobody has come forward to say as much about me.

Disadvantage: Turner

• Chuck Turner still has a job.
• Me? Not so much. (Email's on the sidebar!)

Disadvantage: Derjue

So there we have it. In a squeaker, Chuck Turner has had a worse week than I have. While I may not have an income for the time being, at least I didn't have to pony up a $50,000 bond. Just another thing to be grateful for on this day of thanks.

Giving Thanks. Yes, Really.

Well. That happened.

I'd like to thank everyone for the kind emails, calls, text messages, and riotous comments left on Boston Daily. I haven't responded to everyone yet, but know that I really appreciate it.

And yes, I'm fine. Really. That's not to say this doesn't suck mightily, nor that I'm not really disappointed. But I can't be angry with my colleagues over at BoMag. They took a big gamble in giving a girl with a writing degree and a Blogger account a job with a major city magazine. That kind of thing usually only happens in movies or chick lit novels. I think it worked out better than they thought it would. As I've been writing for the past year and a half, the media business is horrible right now, and I'm the one they chose to let go. That's baseball.

It's funny how losing a job is like a breakup. I'm in Rhode Island for the holiday, and I went out to get some last-minute Thanksgiving fixings by myself. I must have heard that Leona Lewis song that says "It'll all get better with time" about four times. And it will.

I also heard the song "Amy." You know, the one with the chorus that says "Amy, what you wanna do?" That one, I'm not so sure about. I'm thinking about it, obviously. I'd love to keep writing and snarking for my pay, for sure.

But I can't freak out over how that will happen this weekend. I'm going to drown my unemployment sorrows in turkey and wine, enjoy the one holiday I'll have with my paternal grandparents this season, and start making some calls on Monday.

But, since this is Thanksgiving, let's run down the list of things I'm thankful for. Obviously, the first item from last year's list will be a little different.

• I'm thankful that Boston gave me the opportunity to work for them.
• I'm thankful for the nice blogging on the part of Adams Gaffin and Reilly, and Paul Flannery.
  
• I'm thankful for all the great people I met while I worked at BoMag.
• I'm thankful for my excellent friends and family who have offered me their couches, their booze, and their efforts to get me a new gig ASAP.
• I'm thankful for the family I babysit for, who've already offered me my a room if I need it. And it's a bigger room than the last time they housed my broke ass!
  
• I'm thankful that I'm healthy.
• I'm thankful the election worked out the way I wanted it to.
• I'm thankful as always to my vices of coffee and alcohol.
• I'm thankful that Tina Fey is working.
• I'm thankful that I finally found a pair of skinny jeans that doesn't make my butt look weird. Now I can wear boots AND pants at the same time!
• I'm thankful for Facebook. Seriously, I have a problem.
• I'm thankful in advance for the person who gives me my next job.
  

Until I get a new gig, you'll find me back here, at long-neglected pasquinade. It's all the snark you loved (or hated) at Boston Daily, but with more first-person profanity and interaction in the comments. Hopefully I'll spruce this place up a little bit in the coming days. And if you'd like to feed me, buy me some booze, or give me a job (hey, it's either shameless self-promotion or the bread lines), hit me up at the email in the sidebar.

More NewsQuiz Goodness

I need a haircut. But they still let me on the TV!



Round two:



And the final question:

Stranded in Singleville

I've recently become sick of being single. Usually, I can deal with it, especially when I watch couples who clearly hate each other bicker on the street. I have been that couple; I do not wish to do it again. But lately, the couples who are all schmoopy and hold hands and do things together in Red Sox hats on Sunday afternoons are resonating with me.

So, I've been trying to put myself out there. I'm casually seeing someone, but I'm not sure if it will work, so I'm trying to make an effort to be open to new people. I'm smiling back at men on the train. And last night, I decided to chat up a dude who'd been ogling me at the bar.

He was cute—maybe in his late 30s, with glasses and a touch of gray in his hair. Things started out well enough. He was asked about what I do, talked about his job in marketing, and chatted a little with my friends.

Then, the ass-grabbing began. And apparently, when I left to hit the ladies, he described himself as "a prick" to my friends. He used the fishing dance move only semi-ironically. He was bombed. The situation was fast deteriorating, so I started to ignore him.

"You're mad," he said, his breath reeking of gin. "You're ignoring me."

Um, yes. I am ignoring you. Which I might not have done had you not fondled my butt two seconds after we started talking. I might have given you the benefit if you didn't advertise your douchebagginess to my friends, then backed up your claim by not once offering to buy any of us a drink. And I was 100 percent confident in my choice when I looked back and saw you feeling up yet another girl once you caught the hint that I was not going to go home with you.

"There are a lot of jerks out there," my mother told me this afternoon. And my ass is apparently their catnip.

Recollections of Election Night

I didn't get to experience CNN calling the election for Barack Obama first-hand. Some friends and I had just left the Sonia Chang-Diaz celebration at the Alchemist Lounge (read the work blog here) to head to the MassEquality party at Club Cafe. We were fervently hailing a cab on South Huntington when a huge, boisterous cheer went up inside the bar.

Just then, a cab pulled up. As we piled in, we heard the muted voices of NPR, and asked our driver if Obama had won.

"Yes," he said. My friends cheered, and our Ethiopian cabbie joined in.

As we sped through the South End, the NPR broadcast continued, with several cheers audible from the studio. As one of my friends, who volunteered for Obama during the primaries, called her parents and cried happily, I thought about what we'd just experienced.

When I was a kid, I was told that anyone could become president, even a person of color or a woman. But it always seemed remote and impossible, like hovercrafts or the idea most people would one day own cellular phones.

Last night, I saw a man be elected not because of the color of his skin, but in spite of it. There was plenty of ugly race baiting throughout this nearly two-year campaign, but most Americans didn't fall for it. Instead, they voted because they think this awkward-looking guy will be the one to pull the country out of its many problems.

I've never experienced the mind-blowing elation that many Obama supporters exhibit, largely because I'm the hard-hearted cynical type that the president-elect railed against in his speech last night. But I hope that he can make good on the promises he's made to help the little people and make the presidency something other than the world's punchline.

Civic Doodie

Everyone from Brian Williams to your Mom has told you to get out and vote. If you'd indulge me for a moment, I'd like to add my voice to the chorus. Vote. I don't care what or whom you vote for, as long as it's not yes on Question 1. Because that shit is crazy.

Now if you need me, I'm going to finish watching SNL's pre-election show, go to bed, and crawl into a bottle of tequila until we've got a new president. But, hey, free coffee!

Denis Leary Is An Assh*le About Autism

When I get pleas to donate to my alma mater, Emerson College, my typical reaction is a deep guffaw and a profanity-laden tirade about how they'll get a donation from me once my student loan balances dip below five figures. I hate to be deny my artsy brethren, but a girl's got to eat.

That was the reaction I had when I got a fundraising letter from Denis Leary, a fellow Emerson alum. But some other recipients are angry that the college tapped Leary to ask for money because he's since made some controversial remarks about autism.

Let's all calm down a little, please.

In his forthcoming book, "Why We Suck: A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid," Leary, in a chapter titled "Autism Schmautism," wrote: "There is a huge boom in autism right now because inattentive mothers and competitive dads want an explanation for why their [expletive] kids can't compete academically, so they throw money into the happy laps of shrinks."

People. It's Denis Leary. The guy who wrote a song about how proud he is to be an asshole. It's probably best to take this with a grain of salt.

As an alum, I'm more upset that my college continues to cultivate a relationship with a man who got his career started by flagrantly plagiarizing Bill Hicks. In fact, has anyone checked to see if Hicks made any comments about autism before his death? Because odds are, Leary stole this from him too.

A Weekend of Autumnal Fun

As much as I hate what fall means (the precious few hours of daylight; six months of trudging through snow), I do love fall weekends. Yesterday, I took the kids I babysit to Salem for the day. It's a much different experience when you have the under-12 set with you. There are many trips back to the car for supplies. Making sure everyone has used the bathroom that needs to. And walking the fine line between boring and terrifying.

After taking in the pumpkin festival on Salem Common, I took my charges to see Cry Innocent, a neat mock witch trial. I figured it would give the kids some history, but wouldn't scare the crap out of the baby like the Witch Museum would have.

The actors presented their testimony, and then asked the audience if they had any questions. Eldest raised her hand, squirming she was so eager to be heard. After a guy in a Darth Vader costume had questioned the witch, Eldest got to say her piece.

"How come everybody believes these people? All the things they're talking about happened at night while they were asleep. Maybe they were just dreaming." She said it in a tone that screamed What the hell is wrong with you people? which caused the room erupted in applause, and eldest sat back in her seat, face bright red, but smiling.

At the end of the play, she said to me, "These people are crazy." Ah, history.

Today I spent the day cooking and cleaning. At long last, I trudged to the laundromat and washed my comforter cover. I swear that when I wash this thing, the colors become way more vibrant. I need to be more diligent in this regard.

I finally made some pumpkin bread, and also some roasted butternut squash with blue cheese and pecans. It's been weeks since I last ate a vegetable, so I shoveled the bright orange goodness down at a fast pace. Now I'm working on the chicken and rosemary I made. Healthy!

And on Friday night, I was on NECN again for the ever-popular NewsQuiz. Jim Braude wasn't there, but Chet Curtis made a fine substitute. Here are the clips. (And if you haven't seen me in a while, yes, my hair is very short. I love it, because I am too lazy to style it when it's long.)





So that's what's up with me. How are things with you? Oh, and Go Sox!

Oh Hai

Wow. Two months fly by, eh?

I know it's been a while since I posted, and for that I apologize. Boston Daily is keeping me pretty busy, and when I get home I'm usually not tempted to fire up Blogger and lay forth some more.

But life goes on, even if I don't blog it. I still have zits. I'm still in dire financial straits. Still single. You know, the same shit that's been happening since I started blogging a few years back.

Here's an anecdote for you. The other day, I was heading out to Brookline to babysit after work. I'm sitting on the train, reading my book, when a woman gets on a Coolidge Corner with a gigantic Trader Joe's bag she half-parks on my lap. I glare at her, but she only slightly shifted it off me. Then she opens a plastic bag and the strong smell of chocolate comes out.

And she starts to eat ice cream. And, hey, I understand the power of a craving for chocolate ice cream. But she was eating it with a soup spoon, and it was kind of melty.

Sluuuuurp. Slurp. Sip. SLUUUUURP.

It's not like she was eating anything stinky or repulsive, but it was a disturbing sound to hear while commuting. I thought it was just me, but the people sitting around the ice cream slurper were also shooting daggers at her.

So, commuters, do us a favor. Don't eat ice cream while riding.

I Can't See the Destiny You Sold

I was making the rounds last night, and I started chatting up this cute Northwestern guy. He was considerably older than me (late 30s? early 40s?) but was cute in a slightly paunchy silver-haired way. I checked his hands—no ring.

The silver fox was visiting from out of town, and asked me if I knew of any restaurants. I figured he'd want some company, but played it cool. Then, it happened.

"I can't be out too late tonight," he said. "My wife will be mad if I come home exhausted."

What is it with guys who don't wear a wedding band? Not only is it disappointing for me, but after I find out I've been digging on a guy with a Mrs. at home, I feel like a whore. I believe that married men should have some kind of identifying mark on them at all times. It's hard enough being single without getting into fights with a wife we didn't know existed.

The Trouble With Social Networking

In these days of Facebook and MySpace, it's hard to get excited for a high school reunion.

Last night, I logged on to Facebook and found that I'd been invited to join a group for my high school graduating class. We're coming up on our ten year reunion (?!) and one of my super-organized classmates wants to get a head start on gathering information and planning the event.

The whole fun of a high school reunion is "catching up," which is a euphemism for "finding out who got fat." But when I check the group page for my reunion, there are the slightly aged faces of the people with whom I spent my hate-filled adolescence. If they don't have private profiles, I can read all about where they're working and what their kids look like. What's the point of losing five pounds and hiring a male escort finding a date now?

Don't get me wrong—I'm still going. It just would have been more fun to show up skinnier and less miserable without people already knowing that's what's happened to me in the past decade.

We're Not Little Children, And We Know What We Want

Sometimes, I wish I could have a birthday likes the ones I had when I was a kid.

You know, the parties where there was a Slip-n-Slide and a cake with a unicorn on it off of which your little brother had already stolen a smidge of frosting when your mother wasn't looking. Waterballoon fights, noisemakers, all of the fun without any of the self-doubt.

Not that I didn't have a good birthday weekend. A and S came down to Rhode Island for a day at the beach. It was perfect on Saturday, aside from the surf that was so strong the lifeguards were dashing into the waves every few minutes to save someone who'd gotten sucked out on a rip current. Then we went out in Newport, where actual straight men checked us out.

Which would have been fine, but my partying spirit had left me shortly after our delicious dinner. Just hours away from officially entering my late 20s, it hit me. Late 20s.

For a woman in her late 20s, I'm kind of a fuck-up.

Yes, I have a good job. But I've also got more debt than some third world countries. I've got more acne than I did when I was a teenager. I'm so chronically single, even my great grandbaby-hungry grandmother has stopped nagging me about bringing a man home to meet the family. While I never had a detailed plan for my life as a kid, I figured I'd have my shit a little more together by 27.

But at least I have good peeps, a good job, and beer to get me by until I pull myself together.