BEAUTY QUEENS

For the Telegraph, I covered the Miss You Can Do It Pageant: "No Tantrums, Just Tiaras." The terrific portraits are by Tealia Ellis Ritter. I had a great time traveling to Kewanee, Illinois, to meet the girls and get to know them backstage at the pageant. 

"Pete Santee, who works at a casino in Rock Island, Illinois ('When you hit a jackpot, I’m the guy who comes over and pays you'), is back for the third time with Shya Hughes, 18, the daughter of a friend, Dina Severtsgaard. He is gay and Shya is autistic, and when they first met eight years ago they clicked, he says.

'Shya recognised a difference. She knew, "Pete’s different, and I’m different," and we just connected right away, and it’s been a father-daughter love story ever since. We’re like the Will & Grace of Iowa,' he adds. 'Straight mom. Gay best friend. And Shya’s the autistic daughter.'"

GLAMOUR

The November 2013 issue of Glamour UK has a piece I wrote in it. It's part of a series of opinions by women on porn, ranging from a female porn director to an anti-porn activist. Check it out.  

I GET EMAIL

"Hi, how are you?  Was it hard to write that article?  It blows my mind..  What a difficult niche of media to follow and make since out of.  One would think that maintaining the position as porn star would be impossible..  Mr. Deen must have been charismatic and able to handle the interview well.  I am curious if it was like projected thoughts over emptiness when he was in the room or if you really felt strong and 'as self' or empowered when he was there or if that came after... Regardless, I wanted to thank you for helping me notice that in business or social situations depending on what your leaving, its wise for a male to be the last to enter/leave the room.  Though the article, upon my second reading, doesn't mention it.. it seems convied somehow.  Powerful peace.  Anyway.  thanx."

SMOKING, DRINKING, STRIPPING

The strip club was my favorite part. The conversation with the bouncer looking for love. The plumes of dollars stuffed in garters. The weird intimacy of sitting with a group of people watching a girl take off her clothes. 

"DC Is the Real Sin City"

The club is narrow, like a Louisiana shotgun house. There’s a half-moon stage and a naked woman dancing on it. Upstairs, there are two men sitting at the bar. The backs of their blue jackets spell P-O-L-I-C-E.

WILL WRITE FOR FOOD

Today, I arrived in Washington, DC. I wasn't sure where to go. In a way, I'm not sure why I'm here. 

I found myself at the Newseum. I thought it was a museum about journalism but it's not. It's a museum about news.

That's fine. It makes you realize how important the media is. That it's what matters. That it's the vessel through which the national conversation is conducted. 

After, I wondered if the media or the news is more important. I don't know the answer to that question. 

There was a section on the third floor where kids could pretend to be journalists. Well, not journalists, really. They could pretend to be a news reporter. Which is sort of the glamorous version of a reporter. There was a gaggle of kids running around, and they stood on sets in front of projected images of the White House, and they read scripts, and then they watched videos of themselves telling the news to America.  

I spent some time in the Pulitzer-winning photographs section. The photos were arresting; although, the presentation was very weak. The smaller photos were so small you couldn't see them very well, and the bigger photos were not every well printed. I liked that the cameras that had taken some of the most memorable images of the time had been donated, so you could see the camera that took this famous shot. An artifact. The thing that created the thing was the prize. 

I didn't even see everything. I have to go back tomorrow. 

Out front, a young man was pretending to be a newsboy at a newsstand. He said the news was bad. I asked him what he meant. He said the President had been killed. He was talking about JFK. It wasn't until later that I realized the newsboy and his newsstand were a promotional tool for a movie that's coming out soon. In a way, it was confusing. Was the news happening or had it happened already? For a minute, I wasn't sure. 

THE GUN SHOW

In January, I'll be covering the SHOT Show in Las Vegas. Prior to the start of the event, there's a Media Day at the Range. The video gives you a feel for it.

HOW TO PITCH A MAGAZINE ARTICLE

Go to the magazine store 

Yesterday, I went to the magazine store. There's usually either one guy working or two guys working. It was a Sunday, so two guys were working. There was a couple looking at magazines, and there were some random guys looking at magazines. I picked up The New Yorker, Playboy, Harper's Bazaar, Los Angeles, GQ, Forbes, Vanity Fair, Details, Cosmo, GQ UK, Esquire, Esquire UK, Lui, ESPN, The Atlantic, Rolling Stone. I asked the tall older guy behind the counter if they had a copy of Marie Claire UK, because I have a piece in it, but they didn't. There were too many magazines to carry around the store, so I left a stack of them at the register while I got more. I wondered why the Playboy was wrapped in plastic, but then I thought maybe it was better not to know. I spent about $100.

Have a story idea

I usually have a dozen story ideas in my head at any given time. Some of them are stupid but can be sold to dumb magazines for good money. Some of them are weird, and no one will publish them. Some of them are short. Some of them are long. Some of them are not fully formed.

Remember, you're the boss

One mistake amateurs make is that they pitch one idea to one editor and then wait. You will be waiting a long time. Most of the time, editors never respond if the answer is no, so you have to hustle a lot of things at the same time. As a freelance journalist, I've found around one in every 10 pitches turns into a story. Throw a lot of balls.

Figure out what they want

Usually, I throw all the magazines on the floor. One by one, I pick them up, I flip through them, and I think about how they organize the magazine, what stories they publish, which writers they publish, who advertises on their pages, and what I can concluded about their editors by flipping through their glossy pages. If you can't figure that out by looking at the magazine, you should do something else. Like work at Burger King. (Obviously, you can do the digital version of this. It's all the same.)

Take aim at your target

Twenty-somethings who are new to journalism, who are armed with degrees but no experience, stumble at this part. Locate who the appropriate editor is in the masthead and figure out what their email is. To do that, play around with their name in Google until you figure it out. Maybe it's John.Smith@fancypants.com, or maybe it's jsmith@lowbrow.com. It's easy. Unless you are dumb. In which case it's hard.

Pitch, son

A pitch is an email. Write something catchy in the subject header, like, "Ladykillers, Inc." In the body of the email, put the editor's name first, so they don't think you're spamming them. Write one to three paragraphs about your story idea. It's a good idea if the first paragraph is written like journalism, not like someone writing a pitch. That's more likely to grab them by the balls and make them want to do something, like respond.

Forget about it

Click send, and move on to the next one. Try not to think too much. These people don't know you. Therefore, it doesn't matter what they think about you. Besides, you shouldn't be pitching. You should be self-publishing. You're wasting your time letting someone else decide if your story is worthy of being told.

TAKE A BITE

Last Friday afternoon, I went to Kuma's Corner to try their Ghost burger. If you haven't heard about it yet, it's a burger with an unconsecrated communion wafer and a red wine reduction on top.  You can read about the burger and the debate on my Forbes blog: "A Supposedly Sinful Burger Stirs Up Controversy."

"An unsmiling hostess in a Rob Zombie T-shirt took me to a table on the back patio. The menu noted, 'THERE ARE NO VEGAN OPTIONS ON KUMA’S MENU.' The burger options included the Black Sabbath, the Iron Maiden, and the Plague Bringer. Beers ranged from the Cane & Ebel to the Greenbush Anger to the Flying Dog Raging Bitch."

I really enjoy doing these stories. The eating part is fun -- I still haven't figured out how to not eat the whole thing when you're eating for work -- and I like trying new things that are of interest to other people.  

One challenge, I've found, is: How do you write about the way something tasted? That's very complex. It makes me have more respect for food writers.  

The Ghost burger really is terrific. I want to go back and eat another one. I guess I'll have to watch out for the protestors.  

I TRIED THE MAC ATTACK

In the not-really-shadow of Wrigley Field, across the street from a beer billboard under which a blonde in running shorts jogged like a gazelle, you'll find Rockit Burger Bar, a sports bar serving the Mac Attack, a hamburger with a bun made of fried macaroni and cheese.

This 100% comfort food alternative to the wildly popular ramen burger features two macaroni and cheese buns, a leaf of lettuce, a slice of tomato, and an 8-ounce Black Angus beef patty with Sriracha ketchup drizzled on top.

It costs $13. 

When I arrived, the place had just opened. A cluster of servers mingled near the rear of the bar. Sports shows played on the TVs.

I took a seat outside and surveyed the menu. The burgers and sandwiches had names like The Hottie, The Motherclucker, and The Gridiron. The guys had spiked hair. The girls, I suspected, were wearing Victoria's Secret underwear.

The Mac Attack wasn't on the menu. The brunette, blue-eyed waitress guessed for what I had come. 

"The Mac Attack?" 

"Yes," I said. 

She smiled. 

As the place filled up, the scenario repeated. Everyone was here for the stunt food.  

Eventually, the waitress reappeared and placed the Mac Attack before me. It came with a side salad. Why? I wondered.

In reality, it didn't look like this.

I picked up the burger; already, it was leaving a puddle of grease behind itself. I took a bite, and it fell apart in my hands. It was like eating a casserole of macaroni and cheese that happened to have a burger in it with your hands.  

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The Mac Attack after, Chicago, IL / Photo credit: Susannah Breslin

The mac 'n' cheese was treacly. Maybe because it has four cups of heavy whipping cream in it. The burger was very thin. Taste-wise, it didn't hold together. Its inventiveness was in its assemblage, not its consequence.

Nearby, a guy bit into his Mac Attack. The burger dissembled. Some landed in his beard. 

"Ha-ha," his friend across the table said. "I was kind of waiting to see how things turned out for you." The friend picked up his Mac Attack. The same thing happened. 

Looking around, I realized everyone who had ordered a Mac Attack was a man. Perhaps this was some sort of competition in which the man who ate the most absurd food item won. But were we winners?

I got up to leave the men to their Mac Attacks. The friend had given up and was eating his with a knife and fork. No one would be dissuaded.

Whatever the Mac Attack was intended to do, it's working. It was supposed to be available through Oct. 6. It's proved so popular they've extended its run.  

HOW IMPROV CAN HELP YOUR CAREER

A few weeks ago, I did a reading. Not many people showed up. Some people can't stand doing readings when hardly anyone is in the audience. It doesn't matter that much to me. One time, years ago, I did a reading, and there were two people in the audience. Generally, I think of every reading as a dress rehearsal for something else. 

Earlier this year, I took an improv class at Second City. If you're going to do improv, this is the place to do it. I wasn't even sure what improv was. I figured I'd stand in a room with other people, and eventually I would stand in front of the group and do something wacky, and everyone would laugh.

We started out in a small theater with a tiny stage, but after that, we split into groups, and we sat in a classroom. It was like being in school again. Maybe there were a dozen people in the class. The teacher was middle-aged, very skinny, and unshaven. He looked like he hadn't eaten in a long time. He wore long sleeves every day. I tried not to draw conclusions. 

It was an intensive workshop, so we went all day for three days in a row. One guy was from somewhere like Tennessee, and he hypnotized kids in classrooms as part of some sort of education. I think it had to do with teaching children what being susceptible is. There were other random people there. A young woman who was spunky, pretty. One of those burly guys who's funnier than you'll ever be, no matter what. 

We learned how to do space work, which is basically interacting with an object that isn't there, which is harder than you'd think. And we got into pairs and acted out stories without saying no. And we stood in a circle and played games that had to do with words and not thinking.

By the last day, I found myself lying on the floor on my back. There was another guy who was sort of above me in a chair, and he was pretending we were on a rocket ship heading into outer space. I went with it. I didn't have a problem going where he wanted to go. I held on and played along, and for all I know we got there. 

So, the reading I did a few weeks ago was the first time I had a chance to use my improvisational skills since I did the improv class. Basically, I didn't move as I read the story, except for once. It was when the wife who is telling the story describes a time that the husband in the story drew an imaginary circle around them and told her that they live together in this safety bubble. At that point in the story, I spun my hands through the air, showing the small crowd what the bubble was like.

Later, that was the part that people mentioned. They liked that. I don't know if they liked it because I flailed my arms in the air, or because they knew what I meant when I showed them that space where it's two people in a bubble together and everyone else is in another universe.

I WANT TO BE A MALE PORN STAR

One of the most popular pieces I've ever written is a post I wrote for Forbes: "The Hardest Thing About Being A Male Porn Star."  

I wrote it one way at first, and then my editor said I should rewrite it in another way, so I did that, and I thought she was wrong, but she wasn't wrong -- she was right. 

At this moment, the post has 945,210 views, and it gets over 1,000 more views every day. Most of its readers come from search. I'm not sure what they're Googling, but my guess is it's some combination of "male" and "porn" and "star."

I took the photo you see here of a guy who was at a porn convention in the Midwest. A lot of guys were wearing T-shirts with racy slogans on them. Another guy's read, "I WOULD CUDDLE YOU SO HARD." I don't know who the men are that like my post on male porn stars so much, but I imagine they are guys like these. Average guys. Guys who like porn. Fans of superheroes, cuddling, and women.

Since I wrote the original post, I've gotten over 100 emails from guys who want to be male porn stars. They email me from across the country and around the world: Florida, Pakistan, Suriname. They have this idea that I can help them break into the adult movie business. That's not what I do, and it's a tough thing to do. These days, especially. Unless you ride in on a girl's coattails, and that's another story altogether.

Sometimes, I email them back. I only write one thing: "Why do you want to be a male porn star?" Sometimes, they reply. Mostly, they say the same thing. They never really explain it. Not in way that I can understand it, anyway. I'm a woman. They're a man. The lack of understanding is the difference between us.

A few days ago, a guy emailed me about becoming a male porn star. "I need to talk to you!" he wrote. "You seem like you have a lot of info that will help me. Send me an email when you have time please." I emailed him back, asking why he wants to be a male porn star. "I like it," he replied. "I want to make money." Not long after, he emailed again. "I find myself into it," he told me. I didn't respond. "Did I mention something wrong?" he wanted to know. He emailed me again. "Are you still there?" he asked. He kept emailing. "Can you please get back with me?" he pleaded. I didn't know what to tell him.